#someone get this man a clerical collar

[grahamdollton]

just wanted to say i'm real fond of the way james says this particular thing in this one part of that audiobook that he recorded . . . . .

[quona]

fires beyond the lychgate --- --- ---

prints | ko-fi | commission

May I interest you in some Beltane-themed witchy pollen magic? Revelers dancing around May Day bonfires in the woods? How about we add some lust-addled Crowley and sweaty Priest!Aziraphale to that, too? Yes? I thought so! I painted this for the Spring is Here! High Pollen Count Event in collaboration with the absolutely fantastic @tawnyontumblr. I know you know Tawny's fics. I don't need to tell you how good they are. You can and should go read the fic that inspired this painting on AO3: 🔥 All Fired Up by TawnyOwl95 🔥 (Rated Explicit, mind the tags!)

The trunk of the birch tree was smooth against Aziraphale's back. He held on to one of the branches above his head, getting bark dust in his nails as Crowley sucked on his jaw. The last of Aziraphale’s buttons came open, his shirt now only held in place by his clerical collar. Crowley's hands moved down, and Aziraphale's belt hissed as it was drawn from its loops. If Aziraphale turned his head he could still see the fire flickering through the trees, the shadows flitting back and forth. If someone came this way - Aziraphale didn't care. His mind was full of Crowley. The drums still beat in time with the blood pounding, rising up as Crowley's mouth coaxed it to the surface of Aziraphale's skin, fed on him like a starving man.

The full piece:

...and some detail shots from the high res:

@goodomensafterdark, love you goblins, hope you like my art.

[eurydia]

a self-indulgent drawing of Raphael disheveled and covered in blood

I was inspired to write a short fic to go with it, you can read it below or in AO3: [One Last Visit]

Tav finds Raphael bleeding and near-death in her room in Elfsong Tavern—or so she thinks.

One Last Visit (944 words) by Eurydia

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Blood and Injury, Drinking, Alcohol, Older Man/Younger Woman, Ficlet, Minor Spoilers, Raphael is overly protective of Tav, Hope is such a tease (and so is he)

This is also my gift for the support on "The Lover's Gambit". Thank you so much ❤️!

Tag explanations: - Minor spoilers for Wyll's background - Implied/Referenced Torture - Does not actually happen in the fic, but Raphael briefly describes doing it to someone else

      Tav went to her room in Elfsong Tavern. The rest of her party was still downstairs, drinking and celebrating for the night.

      She opened the door and found Raphael slumped against her bed, his white frilled collar stained with blood.

      “Raphael? What in the Hells happened?” she knelt beside him.

      He glanced at her weakly, managing a smirk. Tav wanted to think it was selfishness that made her start tending to his wounds: if she helped him, he would owe her a favor. But that wasn’t entirely true. She had developed a soft spot for the devil.

      “Do you know what happens when a devil is struck down on this charming plane of existence?” he began, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.       “Stop talking and hold still,” Tav muttered. Presently, she had no patience for his theatrics. She grabbed a napkin off a table and began to wipe his smarmy face with it.       He chuckled. For once, he listened and stayed still, silently watching her dab at his curled lip.

      It wasn’t long before Tav realized there wasn’t a single cut or bruise on him. Either he was concealing them—or feigning his injuries. She gave him the benefit of the doubt for now and looked him over. Bloodstains covered his normally immaculate outfit, some mere splatters while others steadily bloomed in size. He smelled strongly of the Hells, of ash, sulfur and infernal metal.

      Raphael was enjoying this. He figured he could indulge himself a little more and drag the show on.

      “I’ll get Shadowheart—“       He grabbed her wrist gently. Worry strained her fair features.       “As much as I enjoy watching you fuss over me, I’m afraid we don’t have much time,” Raphael said, solemnly. “Soon I’ll be sent back to the hells, to the very point where I last stood before I was…beaten. Potentially for good, this time. But since I’ve grown quite fond of you, I decided to pay you one last visit. For old time’s sake.”       Tav stared at his fingers still curled around her wrist. She slowly took his hand in hers.       “A question you may ask, but only one. True to my word, I shall answer, not run.”       Her gaze fell to a stain somewhere on his chest.       “What is a devil like you truly afraid of?” she decided.

      Raphael laughed. A laugh that came from deep within, unabashed and loud.

      “Oh, you mortals are so gullible! It’s adorable. Do you really think I could be beaten so easily? No need to fetch your favorite cleric,” he snapped. All the bloodstains on his clothes vanished. “It wasn’t my blood, little pup.”       Tav sighed. She shoved him away and walked to her wine cabinet.       “You’re insufferable,” she groaned, opening a Berduskan and taking a long, irritated swig.        “Don’t act so surprised. We are well-acquainted by now.”       He stood then brushed nonexistent dust off his clean clothes.       “Do I dare ask whose blood that was?”       “Let’s just say that vile, drunken creature downstairs won’t be bothering you any longer.”

      Tav set her drink down.

      “What did you do?”       “If you must know: I dismembered him,” he grinned. “Limb by limb, fingernail by fingernail. You should’ve heard his screaming, it was utterly delightful.”       Her back was to him, but he caught her shoulders bowing. He grinned.       “Are you worried about me?”       “Merely protecting my assets,” he replied. “Now, enjoy your night. If you’ll—“       “Wait. You didn’t answer me.”

      Raphael approached her. He extended a hand, brow raised in question. Eventually, she gave her his hand. He conjured up a handkerchief and began to wipe the bloodstains off her fingers.

      “I did not,” said Raphael, his eyes sharpening to a point on her palm. “My heart aches for your horned and heroic friend, Wyll Ravengard. If he’s not in the shadow of his fellow devils, he’s in the shadow of his father. I see why Mizora took pity on the poor pup. After all these years, he still hasn’t given up hope of pleasing him. Hope—such a tease.”

      Raphael said it all in his usual tone, full of melodrama and feigned pathos. At the end, however, Tav caught his gaze softening. Their eyes met, and he quickly finished his task before turning away.

      “You don’t get along with your father?” Tav asked, genuinely surprised. She found it strangely human that even a fiend like him was not immune to such predicaments.       “Unless you consider plotting each other’s downfall as a father-son bonding activity, then no. We do not. Thankfully, I have as much interest in making amends as I do in the affairs of mortalkind.”

      He would never admit it, but he hadn’t told a single soul about how he felt about his father, not even his incubus. Usually, he would’ve taken his leave by now. But the way she stared at him, with tenderness and affection, compelled him to linger a moment longer. He let her draw nearer, until he was close enough to see the scarring in her eye from the tadpole.

      Tav kissed him on the cheek.

      “Thank you, Raphael. I owe you a drink."       “A drink? I think you owe me far more than that." He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing on her lips. She felt herself rising to meet him, her eyelids fluttering shut, her heartbeat overtaking the murmurs of the Illithid—       He snapped.       “Goodnight, sweetling.”

      She watched him disappear in a vibrant flame. On the spot where he had stood, lay a neatly folded handkerchief. She picked it up and sniffed it, the scent of the Hells—of him—flooding her senses like the most intoxicating perfume.

      Tav put it in her pocket and smiled.

[ddagent]

Next Fic

So, my previous fic poll ended in a draw, so let's have another go! A few different options, this time, with some supporting evidence for each to help you make your decision!

May I present the poll:

And the supporting evidence!

Option 1:

"Uh, boss, your friend is here."

Detective Anthony Crowley looked up from his notebook and turned his golden gaze back to the crime scene tape a few feet away. Behind the white and blue tape, highlighted by the flashing lights of the police cars, was Reverend Aziraphale Fell. Clerical collar, sunny disposition, and two takeaway cups in his hand. One of those was six espresso; one was hot cocoa. Ridiculous man. Snarling, Crowley shoved his notebook into the back pocket of his trousers and stomped through sand to shoo Aziraphale back to his church.

"You can't be here."

"But—" Aziraphale began, a pout forming on those perfect lips. "—I can help. I was ever so good before—"

"—we were nine, Aziraphale. We're not making up mysteries and legging it in and out of caravans and arcades anymore." Which was a pity. The mysteries Aziraphale always dreamt up for them as children were less brutal than the one that currently laid before him. Huffing out a sigh, Crowley took the proffered coffee and gestured for a uniformed officer, Constable Honey, to escort the vicar out. "I'm sorry, Aziraphale. I'll see you on Sunday, yeah?"

"We'll see each other before then, no doubt." Sure, sure. "When you realise you do need my help."

Option 2:

Swiveling his hips, Crowley slid through the open bathroom window of AZ Fell and Co. Even though the bookshop had been broken into three times now, the proprietor, one Aziraphale Fell, still had no sense of security. No locks on the window, no alarms, no cute dogs that Crowley would have to pet and stroke in order to disarm. No, Crowley was free to move around the shop as he pleased. Maybe it was because Crowley had never actually stolen anything that Aziraphale felt safe.

Bah. Crowley didn't want him to feel safe. He wanted him to feel scared. Crowley could do anything here. Anything.

Slipping into the living room, Crowley noted that Aziraphale had fallen asleep on the sofa again. A threadbare blanket was pooled at his feet; a copy of some eighteenth century novel had fallen to the floor. Moving deftly, Crowley adjusted the blanket, placed the book upon the table, and tipped out Aziraphale's hot chocolate. There. Mental insecurity. Aziraphale would know that someone had been in there. Someone who could do anything.

As it was, Crowley committed the most heinous act of all: he left a rare book upon Aziraphale's coffee table, a product of his earlier activities. Gabriel Archer, that twat, wouldn't miss it. And it would certainly give the bookshop's profits a major boost.

Option 3:

"Excuse me, I was wondering whether you had a VHS copy of The Eastern Gate?"

From behind the counter, Crowley didn't even bother turning around to address his customer, so ridiculous was his request. Yes, Crowley had a copy of The Eastern Gate: it was one of Aziraphale Fell's early works, a black and white film focusing on an angel overseeing Eden. It had been very well-received at the time but public interest quickly waned. For years it spent time on BBC 2 on Sunday afternoons - that was where Crowley's copy came from, recorded with great care and attention onto VHS.

He had one copy. And it was not for sale.

The customer cleared his throat. "Dear boy, I do wonder if you could—"

"—in a minute. This is the best part." The Bastille had come out in the 90s, part of the interest in musketeers and the French revolution. Aziraphale looked delectable in the heavy iron chains and all those pretty frills. Just gorgeous. But, with great reluctance, Crowley pressed pause and turned to 'attend' to the customer who wanted the impossible, even in Crowley's memorabilia shop. "Listen—"

But Crowley didn't say another word. Because his customer wasn't just interested in Aziraphale Fell. He was Aziraphale Fell.

Option 4:

"Crowley, can I ask you a question about Twitter?"

Crowley immediately zoned back into the room. He had been fixated on the slight tinge of silver and white at the temples of Aziraphale's blond hair; the curve of his mouth as he indulged in dessert at The Ritz. For some time, Aziraphale had been discussing his latest project: a gripping drama for ITV featuring a gay romance between two childhood friends. It was the sort of project that Aziraphale did often - but this time he had been paired opposite BAFTA winning actor Raphael Archer.

Not that Crowley was jealous or anything. He hadn't campaigned for the role. Hadn't sent an audition tape and told he wouldn't be believable starring opposite Aziraphale in a romantic role. As if he hadn't spent thirty years yearning for this man. Oh, they had played detectives together, odd-couple roles, best friends. But never romantic leads.

And the first time a project came up that was perfect, Crowley lost to Raphael Archer. That Scottish twat. Breathe, Crowley. "What about Twitter, Angel?"

"I don't use it." No kidding. "But Raph does." Oh, Raph is it? "And a lot of his followers have started using a hashtag. Something #raphaphale?"

Crowley's glass immediately shattered. Thirty years as Aziraphale's shadow and this Scottish wanker gets a ship tag?

Option 5:

He was here again. Sitting in the front row with his delicately pressed tan trousers, neat little waistcoat with the gold buttons, and the delicate puff of blond curls. In his lap (which Crowley noted, not for the first time, was rather spacious) was his paddle, with the number 666 printed in red lettering. Since the man had started attending the auctions at Eden's Auction House, Crowley'd had fantasies about that paddle.

How the hell was he going to make it through today's auction?

Still, Crowley was a professional (allegedly). So, he took to the podium, gavel in hand, and addressed the crowd. "Lot number one is a collection of Austen, incredibly preserved from the period, featuring four books - including Pride and Prejudice and Persuasion." He swallowed a number of sarcastic remarks, bit back his need to share the crackpot biography he'd read about diamond heists and whisky smuggling. Not the crowd. Never the crowd. "Shall we start the bidding at fifteen hundred?"

The man was the first to take the bid. As it was accepted, he wiggled happily in his chair. Oh, Crowley was gone.

[defectivevillain]

make a mercy out of me

pairing: Damien Karras/Reader (can be platonic or romantic)

reader's race and gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors used.

summary: Damien shifts next to you and you open your eyes at the noise, studying him. His eyes are locked on the bedroom door, as if he’s contemplating whether he should enter once more. You swallow hard and try to find the right words. “Damien,” you eventually say. He flinches and looks over at you, a guilty expression flickering on his face. It seemed he truly intended to go back into the bedroom alone just now.

You’re the exorcist summoned by the Catholic Church to free Regan MacNeil from the demon possessing her.

word count: 4.1k | ao3 version

warnings: canon-typical violence/exorcisms; allusions to suicidal ideation, hospitals and IVs, fainting

Just as you begin to grow comfortable with the idea that you can move past exorcisms, you are summoned by the Church to perform another. You know that you don’t actually have to agree to it, but the thought of refusing to help would weigh far too heavily on your mind. So, you begrudgingly agree to exorcise a demon from a twelve year old girl named Regan MacNeil. 

This is how you find yourself standing on the porch of the MacNeil home, wearing your cassock (which you admittedly haven’t worn in a while) and shifting your balance from foot to foot restlessly. You convince yourself to ring the doorbell and, within moments, a woman answers the door. You exchange introductions and learn that she is Chris MacNeil—Regan’s mother. She has dark circles under her eyes and a gaunt look to her face—she clearly is very stressed about her daughter and her… affliction. Chris leads you through the house and offers you a drink, which you dutifully accept. Before you can take a seat on the sofa in the living room, you hear someone say your name. 

“It’s an honor to meet you.” You turn around, only to find a dark-haired man with deep brown eyes staring at you. You notice the clerical collar he’s wearing and realize he must be Damien Karras—the clerical psychiatrist who requested the exorcism. 

“Father Karras,” you say, extending a hand to him. He shakes your hand firmly. “Nice to meet you.” 

“Please, call me Damien,” he tells you. You swear his hand lingers in yours for the briefest of moments, but you’re quick to second-guess that thought. The two of you move to sit across from one another and you take a deep breath. 

After a few seconds, you decide to cut right to the chase. “What have you noticed so far?” You ask. Damien’s eyes briefly widen, as if he hadn’t expected you to bother asking. Technically, the Church views him as your glorified assistant in this situation—but you get the feeling he’ll be more helpful than that. He recounts his experience with the demon so far—how Regan seems to be housing multiple personalities (which you secretly doubt) and the supernatural feats that have occurred since he visited—doors falling shut, drawers opening on their own… He tells you that he got a recording of the demon speaking in Latin, which proved that Regan was possessed and allowed him to call for an exorcism. 

Even after he has told you everything, you get the feeling there’s something he’s hiding. You just met Damien, but you can tell his shoulders are drawn particularly tight and he looks rather tense. “You seem troubled,” you remark lightly, trying not to offend him. The man’s brows furrow and you try to glean what he’s thinking from his facial expression. He’s interacted with the demon before—maybe something it said upset him. “Did the demon say anything weird to you?”

His silence is enough of an answer. You’re reminded of your brief exchange with the Church representatives: 

“Damien Karras, psychiatrist and priest at Georgetown University,” the priest explains, elaborating on the man who called for the exorcism. “Now that I think of it, I believe his mother passed away recently…” He trails off, a regretful look on his face.   “Yes, she did,” the other designate responds. “Such a shame.”  

It doesn’t take you long to connect the dots. The death of Damien’s mother is likely still taking a toll on him. No doubt the demon tried to use his recent grief to its advantage. “It mentioned your mother, didn’t it?” You realize aloud. “It blamed you for her death.” Damien is staring at you in complete disbelief now. You blink back at him and he abandons his surprise, instead looking remorseful.

“I should’ve been there.” Damien shakes his head. The look on his face is completely tortured. You grimace, suppressing the inexplicable urge to reach out and place a hand on his shoulder. You just met the man—no doubt the gesture would fall flat, regardless of how reassuring you would wish it to be. 

“It’s alright,” you try to reassure him anyway. Again, you’re not sure how much comfort he’ll get from a near stranger like yourself, but you figure it’s worth a try anyway. More importantly, if there’s one thing you know about exorcisms, it’s that they require an absolutely sound and clear mind to be executed successfully. Damien can’t be thinking about his mother as the two of you attempt to free Regan. “It’s not your fault. You know that.” You say determinedly. 

Damien stares at you for a moment, his eye contact unwavering. You swear that, for a moment, his eyes are glassy. You push the thought aside and get to your feet, resigning yourself to your fate. Damien follows your lead and, before you move to leave the room, you look back at him. 

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” You ask once more. If you were in his position, you don’t think you’d be comfortable volunteering for more conversation with the spirit—not when it was so antagonistic before. “I can conduct the exorcism on my own, if needed.” It’s true. In fact, you conduct the majority of your exorcisms alone. You haven’t had another person with you in a while. You’ll have to adjust the process slightly—namely, adding the call-and-response bits so that Damien’s participation will increase your collective power. 

“No, I… I should be there,” Damien says resolutely, nodding quickly. His choice of words is very deliberate, you think to yourself. He didn’t say “I can do it,” but “I should be there.” He may not actually be up to the task, but he feels he is obligated to participate. You stare at him for another moment and exhale slowly. 

“Very well,” you acquiesce. Damien will know his own limits better than you will—or, at least, he should. “Shall we?” You motion for him to lead the way, since you’ve never been in the house before. Damien walks up the stairs and towards the door at the end of the hall. For a split second, he hesitates—stilling before the door. Before you can inquire after his well-being, he’s turning the doorknob and opening the door. 

You’re instantly hit with a cold, rigid breeze of air. Goosebumps run along your skin and your exhale of breath is released in a puff of visible vapor. It is absolutely freezing in the room. You’re quick to pull your cassock around yourself in a futile effort for warmth. Once Damien and you are both inside, you close the door behind you and immediately lock eyes with the girl, Regan. Your stomach turns unpleasantly. There are gashes and scratches all across her face, and her lips are incredibly chapped. You’re met with a haunting yellow-green gaze filled with maleficence and hatred—sentiments far too profound for such a young child. You take a moment to acknowledge how unsettling this entire situation is, before smoothly compartmentalizing those thoughts. You can’t pay attention to your feelings right now, because the demon will latch onto them and use them against you. You must be entirely sound of mind—clear of any emotions.  

You take a deep breath and round the bed, moving to the nightstand and hovering over it for a moment. There’s no turning back now. You remove the crucifix from your pocket, kissing it and placing it on the table. The demon hisses, tugging at the restraints around its wrists. You look to Damien behind you, who looks vaguely sickened but resolved nonetheless. 

You begin reciting your first prayer and Damien joins in at the appropriate moments. You hardly get to recite the entire thing before the demon is shuddering and shaking, turning its head and regurgitating a disgusting slime all over you. You cough and wipe your sleeve over your face, grimacing at the unwelcome feeling. You quickly forget about the foreign substance once you resume your recitations. 

By your third prayer, the bed is rattling and shaking against the ground. The restraints around Regan’s wrists are slowly ripping as you continue uttering the words to eradicate the demon. As you continue, Regan slowly rises in the air—until she’s completely levitating in midair. You’ve seen this kind of feat before, but it’s clear Damien has not—judging from the way he forgets to utter his response until you remind him moments later. Once he finishes the statement, you hold your hands out in front of you. “The power of Christ compels you.” You announce. 

The demon hisses, but continues to rise above the bed. The air around you whips at your skin and you continue. “The power of Christ compels you,” you repeat resolutely. This time, Damien joins you in repeating the statement. The demon is writhing in the air. Damien and you continue uttering the sentiment and Regan slowly descends through the air. Finally, after what feels like far too long, she’s reclined back on the mattress once more. The demon is practically writhing now, but it doesn’t appear to be significantly weakened—rather, it is only momentarily subdued. Meanwhile, Damien and you are both kneeling on the ground in exhaustion. An exorcism takes a lot of energy from those who perform it. While this isn’t anything new, you’re surprised by the sheer amount of strength of this particular demon. You’re not sure you’ve subdued one this powerful in quite some time. 

“We’ll rest for a bit and try again,” you eventually say, grabbing the bedpost for support and pushing yourself to your feet. You’re the first one standing, so you offer Damien a hand. For a moment, it looks as if he isn’t going to take your hand; then, he clasps your proffered hand and you pull him up. The demon is momentarily stunned—silent on the bed with its head pushed to the side. You take a deep breath and walk out of the bedroom on unsteady feet, before sitting on the carpet at the edge of the stairs. Damien sits himself down a few steps beneath you.

A tense silence descends in the air between you. You rub a hand over your face roughly, before reaching into your pocket and clasping your rosary. You feel your fingers moving along the beads automatically and you close your eyes for a few moments. Memories flicker before your eyes in intangible bursts of light. 

Damien shifts next to you and you open your eyes at the noise, studying him. His eyes are locked on the bedroom door, as if he’s contemplating whether he should enter once more. You swallow hard and try to find the right words. “Damien,” you eventually say. He flinches and looks over at you, a guilty expression flickering on his face. It seemed he truly intended to go back into the bedroom alone just now. 

Now that you think about it, the demon was hissing obscenities at Damien throughout your first attempt at exorcism. It was crooning at him, whispering words in a language that you didn’t understand. Damien must have understood them—and it seems that their intended meaning was disturbing. It doesn’t take you long to come up with an alternate solution. “Go rest downstairs,” you suggest, not unkindly. “I’m going to proceed alone.” 

Damien stares at you for a moment, before nodding resignedly. You shoot him an apologetic grimace before he departs; then, you step into Regan’s room and close the door behind you. You take a deep breath and repeat the process once more. You feel your conviction growing stronger as you continue reciting the prayers, and the demon begins hissing louder with each completed recitation. When you begin to channel the power of Christ, the demon is screeching and screaming—as bright red welts appear along Regan’s skin. You can only hope that she isn’t in immense pain right now. 

“The power of Christ compels you!” You state. The demon screams. “The power of Christ compels you!” You repeat the statement over and over again, until you’re practically yelling. “The power of Christ compels you!” That last recitation seems particularly impactful, as the demon writhes on the mattress and smoke rises from Regan’s form. You shove your hands forward as you repeat a prayer, and with the last word, there’s a blinding light that overtakes the room. Every object in the room seems to be shuddering and, before you can begin another invocation, you’re thrown backwards and into the wall behind you. Your head slams against the wall and stars float before your eyes as you fall to the ground. For a long moment, you’re sprawled on the ground with ringing ears. After what feels like far too long, you manage to pick yourself up and stand again. 

The air somehow feels less frigid than before. You squint at the mattress, where Regan is curled on her side. There’s no sign of the demon. “Regan?” You ask. The girl is shaking and nearly convulsing as she scrambles backwards, falling down to the ground and retreating to the corner of the room. She’s  leaning as close to the walls as possible in evident fear. It doesn’t seem like she heard you. “Regan?” You ask again. She hasn’t tried to attack you or do anything harmful, which is a good sign. 

Regan blinks as if thrown out of a trance, before clarity graces her features and she yells for her mother. You try to approach the girl with outstretched arms, but she only curls further into herself and screams. You take a few unsteady steps backwards, before the door slams against the wall as Chris rushes in and races towards her daughter without hesitation. Damien is hot on her heels, looking around the room before staring at Regan. The girl is crying now, as her mother embraces her and wipes the tears from her cheeks with a gentle touch. 

It seems the demon has been successfully exorcised. In the wake of that realization, you realize your adrenaline is fading by the second. You’re somehow standing at the edge of the bed now—you’re not entirely sure when you got there— and you’re gripping the bedpost so hard that you feel bolts of pain sliding down your fingers. 

You lock eyes with Regan as she hugs her mother and you’re relieved to see that you’re meeting a frightened brown-eyed gaze, not an eerie and malicious yellow-green gaze. Right then, something in your subconscious clicks—ensuring you that everything is alright. Your mind takes that exact moment to completely shut down, as your knees crumple from under you and your eyes roll to the back of your head. You hear a sharp, quiet intake of breath before your vision promptly fades to black. 

While you’re unconscious, you catch glimpses of what’s happening around you. For a moment, you’re slightly jostled—as someone’s hands brace your back and support you under your knees. Then you’re lifted onto a stretcher of some sort. You actually manage to open your eyes at some point, only to see stars as the fluorescent lighting above burns through your eyes. A tear rolls down your cheek at the light’s brightness (and maybe the pain, you’re not quite sure) and you feel someone grasp your hand. You weakly try to squeeze their hand back, but your body doesn’t seem to cooperate. Instead, you’re left to the overwhelming darkness once more. 

You don’t dream. Instead, you’re floating in an infinite void of nothingness. For a while, there is no one—nothing—to keep you company. No demons, no people. Just… absence and shadows. You’re not sure how long you spend drowning in this oblivion. You just know that, when you finally manage to pry your eyes open, your head aches and your skin feels tight over your bones. You run your fingers along your neck, frowning at how tight it feels. You glance to the side, only to find a glass of water being pressed into your hand. You take the proffered drink and cough several times, clearing your throat. 

The lights above burn into your vision and rip tears from your eyes. Once the shadows creeping at the edges of your vision finally fade, you find yourself to be sitting nearly upright in a hospital bed. White walls irritate your sensitive eyes and you close your eyes for a selfish moment, before opening them again to find Damien Karras sitting in a chair at your bedside. You stare at him in surprise. “Damien,” you say raspily, nearly choking. The man immediately presses a glass of water into your hand and you’re quick to take the proffered drink, coughing and clearing your throat until you regain your ability to speak uninhibitedly. “Thank you.” It doesn’t take you very long to ask what’s weighing on your mind. “What are you doing here?” 

“Praying for your recovery,” Damien answers, his gaze intent. Indeed, his left hand is holding a rosary and his fingers are paused on one of the beads. He notices you staring and seems to grow self-conscious, as he gently places the rosary back in his pocket. 

“That’s very kind of you,” you remember to remark. Your memories of the exorcism come rushing back, and you find yourself concerned about Regan. Is she alright? Did she survive the ritual in one piece? She seemed fine immediately after, but you haven’t seen her since. “How is Regan?” You ask. 

“She’s fine,” Damien says. Your shoulders relax and you feel lighter. You were so focused on banishing the demon that you nearly forgot the entire reason for the exorcism: Regan’s renewed health. “Some scratches and scrapes, but otherwise, she’s back to normal.”

“Excellent,” you breathe a sigh of relief. 

A small smile graces Damien’s lips and he looks down at his clasped hands. “She wants to see you, to thank you,” he says after a few moments of silence. “Chris does too.”

“Oh,” you remark dumbly. You don’t think you really deserve gratitude—you were just doing what was right. You like to think that anyone else in your position would’ve done the same. But, judging from what you’ve heard through the grapevine, that isn’t always the case. Moreover, exorcisms are a bit controversial these days—many religious figures will refuse to perform them. You’re glad you were trusted with undertaking this one.

“I also wanted to thank you,” Damien says, tearing your eyes from the scratchy sheets laid over you and breaking you out  of your thoughts.

“Why?” What does he have to thank you for?

“You carried out the exorcism in my absence,” Damien reminds you. “Alone.”

“Yes…?” You trail off, waiting to hear of the feat that supposedly justifies his gratitude. But that’s it, apparently—judging from the expression on the priest’s face. 

“I was determined to help, but I was only a hindrance,” Damien says, averting his eyes momentarily. You immediately feel guilty for allowing him to feel that way. You can only hope that you didn’t perpetuate that attitude. 

“You were not a hindrance,” you’re quick to argue. Damien’s eyes snap up to yours, clearly surprised that you didn’t concede the point. The IV in your arm stings, grounding you to the present moment. Your heart is hammering in your chest. “If it weren't for your assistance, I wouldn’t have succeeded at all.”

Damien is clearly unconvinced, but he doesn’t argue any further. That’s probably for the best, because you fear you don’t have the energy to make much of a compelling case. He’s still staring ahead with that strange expression on his face—the one that betrays his inner conflict. “What is it?” You ask, after a minute passes and the expression doesn’t fade. “You look like you want to say something else.”

Damien shakes his head with a disbelieving quirk to his lips, muttering something about mind-readers. “Why was the girl chosen as the vessel?” He questions. He’s clearly been grappling with the thought for some time now, if the tight pull to his lips is any indication.

You inhale slowly. “Truthfully, I stopped asking myself those questions a long time ago,” you admit. “Sometimes, it’s better not to know.” You used to devote energy to answering those types of questions, but they ultimately caused you more distress—rather than giving you a sense of resolution. Ultimately, you don’t believe there is much of a real rationale to the ordeal. Bad things can happen to good people, and that’s just the way things are. You can only hope that your efforts mitigate some of the damage. 

Damien is silent. You sigh. “You’re not satisfied with that answer,” you realize aloud. Damien’s gaze is locked on you once more with that heated intensity. You struggle with maintaining your composure, when faced with his full attention in such a manner. “The other answer might be something like: sin induces despair beyond measure. It can possess even the most good-hearted and innocent of people: in this case, Regan.”

Damien takes a shuddering breath in. “I see.” He takes a slow breath. Idly, you wonder if you shouldn’t have said anything at all. But it seems that the prospect isn’t bothering Damien as much, now that you’ve spoken about it. Before you can contemplate the conversation much further, Damien is continuing to speak. “I have something else to thank you for.” 

“I can’t imagine what that is,” you huff truthfully. Indeed, you can’t think of anything you did that warrants more gratitude from him. You were only doing what you were supposed to do. 

But what Damien says next rips the breath from your lungs. “You… saved my life,” he admits quietly. Amidst the buzzing air of the hospital room, filled with the occasional beep of a machine, the confession is nearly suffocating. 

“What?” You manage to choke out. That is news to you. And surely you’d remember doing something like that. 

“I was debating going into that bedroom and exorcising the demon, no matter what it took,” Damien reveals. “I was willing to offer myself up as a vessel, if only to free Regan of the possession.” You stare at him in disbelief, your stomach turning with unease at the thought. Damien continues, immune to just how troubled you are by the admission. “I fear I would be dead right now, if you hadn’t stopped me. I owe you a life debt.” He locks eyes with you and you nearly recoil at the intense sincerity in his gaze.

“I don’t believe in those,” you respond. The thinly-veiled look of reverence in his eyes feels like an exaggeration, but somehow, you know it to be true. And that scares you—you’re entirely undeserving of the sentiment. “You owe me nothing.” You maintain.

Damien seems like he expected that answer, but he doesn’t look any less tortured.  You take a deep breath. It doesn’t seem like he’s keen to let this go. And if it’ll placate him… 

“Fine,” you acquiesce. His eyes widen. “I have something to request of you. Something that will fulfill the boundaries of a ‘life debt’… You have to promise me something.”

“Anything,” Damien responds, with a worrying amount of sincerity. 

The words fall from your lips before you can stop them. “Come to me if you feel that way again,” you say. Damien’s brows furrow ever so slightly. “I understand you often shoulder other people’s burdens, as a psychiatrist. But you shouldn’t neglect your own feelings in the process.” 

There’s a pause that seems to drag on for far too long. Just before you can surrender to the tension, Damien breaks the silence. “That’s it?” He asks disbelievingly. You nod. “You’re strange,” he remarks, something that could be mistaken for fondness lingering in the pull to his lips. 

“So I’ve been told,” you say resignedly. Your exhaustion is beginning to catch up to you, as your eyelids burn with fatigue and your body aches. Damien must notice your sudden weariness, because he’s quick to reassure you. 

“You should rest,” he says. You’re too tired to argue or pretend to be well-rested. Taking a deep breath, you lie back against the pillows behind you and close your eyes. Even with the bright lights nearly burning into your vision and the presence of a certain handsome priest’s attentive gaze, you’re still dozing off within moments. The last thing you register before you fall asleep is the sensation of lips being gently pressed to your forehead. There’s a swipe of a thumb along your cheek and a worried, appreciative set of eyes looking down at you—but by then, you’re long gone.

endnotes: WHO HID THIS MAN FROM ME. WHOWHOWHOWHOWH GRGRRRR ARF BARK BARK

anyways... thanks for reading! <3

check out my other works, sorted by fandom.

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friendly reminder that i don't give permission for my writing to be shared to other sites, stolen, copied, translated, or used in any way. thanks!

[sniiboo]

Connections

His vision was hazy, the scent of blood and fear filled his nose, and the pounding of his heart in his ears. He heard his voice weakly giving attempts at soothing as he heard her screams through the air. Everything came into sharp focus at the sound of infant cries…

Astarion bolted upright from his trance the sounds still ringing in his ears. His undead heart would be bursting through his chest walls if it could. He could hear the sound of Karlach’s voice floating over to his tent punctuated by the sound of large amounts of liquid hitting the ground. He stumbled from his tent the smell of blood once again assaulting his senses. 

“Hey Soldier, It’s ok… Just settle down.” Astarion rounded the corner of his tent to the sound of retching. He looked around to find Karlach holding Death’s hair as the elf was on all four heaving up a copious amount of blood. 

He found himself standing by them despite his disgust he leaned down to Arendith and stroked her back. “What is going on here Darling?” the calm and care in his voice surprised him and Karlach. He looked up to the Tiefling as he took over and gently tied his lover's hair back while Karlach moved over to grab a cloth and some water handing them to Astarion. 

“I found her out by the fire digging her nails into her arms, shivering, when I tried to talk to her she bolted… She fell here and started vomiting, Should I get Shadowheart… That’s some pretty da-” Karlach crossed her arms in concern before turning to get the cleric. 

Astarion quickly cut her off “It’s ok! I’ve got this. We had quite a bit of wine tonight so I’ll keep an eye on her. Red wine hangovers can be quite intense, Darling. I’ll shout if anything…” He bent down further taking her shaking form into his arms. He wasn’t sure why he was doing this for someone he had only known for a few weeks. He’d even recently opened up to her about Cazador and some of the torture he’d endured.

“Ok, thanks Fangs. Keep me updated.” Karlach planted a gentle kiss on Arendith’s head watching as Astarion took her to his tent. 

Once inside he placed her gently on his bedroll and wrapped her in a blanket. Astarion sat in front of her and wiped down her face attempting his best to do it as softly as she had just a tenday prior. He stayed silent and poured a cup of water for her resting it beside her for when she was ready. He knew what this was right away. It had happened to him as well but he had managed to keep himself together. Astarion gently reached for her hands unfurling her clenched fists and wiping them of blood before moving to clean up her arms. 

“I’m afraid your manicure will have to wait, darling. You’ve all but destroyed your pretty nails.” he looked into the far-off look in her eyes, wishing he could summon her little beloved companion jackalope. “Where is Beans love? Should I call for her?” he wrinkled his nose taking in her appearance, bloody vomit speckling her outfit and chest. He grabbed a fresh cloth, a basin, and a soap bar. “Alright Little Death” he shuffled closer to her unsure of how to proceed. “Ah, I’m going to…” He paused and watched her lower lip tremble “Maybe I should go get Karlach” Astarion went to stand up and paused when he felt her familiar tingle in his brain, he gasped as he was assaulted with images in quick succession of each other. 

Arendith fell to her knees as a leather leash yanked her forward. A metal muzzle is attached to a metal collar as she is commanded to hunt. Arendith writhes in pain as her head is retrained by someone, a tattoo needle puncturing her lip while a man laughs in the background. Arendith is in a cell bloodied and beaten chained to a wall while a drow male screams above her. Starvation is all he feels aching at his core.

He’s brought back to himself, his skin prickling, the taste of bile in his mouth. Astarion looks up into her face and reaches to place his thumb on the lip and chin tattoo before leaning in. “Death… I…” 

Arendith shakes her head, and he sees her really for the first time as she is with no mask. Her eyes are dull, her skin is more grey than normal, and even her freckles are pale. He knows she’s starved, but even more than that she’s tired. It’s like she hasn’t been trancing or at least not well. He whispers the name unsure as to how he even knows of its existence. “Alistair…” his lips curl in a snarl which he quickly tampers as her eyes blow wide. 

Astarion finds himself floundering just sitting on his knees. He reached forward pausing as his lover flinches. “I… I’m just going to clean you up Darling…” his cool fingers gingerly swept the shoulders of her dress down. “I’m sorry, I know it’s cool, but once you’ve cleaned up we’ll warm you back up.” He wiped the cloth gently over her sweat-glistened chest his fang catching on his lip in concentration. “Alright my sweet” he patted her rump gently before standing “I’m going to fetch something, I’ll be gone but a moment.” He grabbed a spare shirt and placed it beside her watching as her eyes flared in fear again, body squirming unable to contain the panic within. 

Astarion’s pale hand grabbed her chin gently again to center her. “Arendith, you are safe here. He won’t be able to walk into this camp and get you any more than Cazador would be able to grab me. Karlach would throw them straight to the hells. Not to mention our other companions. Trust me…?” He kissed her hand and let her eyes hold his for a moment before he dropped her hand thankful that lying came so easily to him. He knew if he didn’t believe the words out of his mouth she wouldn’t but it may help her feel more secure. He stepped out of the tent careful to block anyone’s view. Everyone was stumbling about the fire wondering what the noise was about. Karlach walked over and he gave her a quick request for Gale as he handed her a jar from his stores. Astarion paused before entering “I’m coming back in Little Death. Just use your words if you aren’t decent.” 

He looked behind him to glare at anyone making fun of his softness or the use of the nickname but found them all looking at him tersely, concerned for their leader trying not to look like they were prying as Gale busied himself warming up Astarions’ meal. After not hearing her response, he pulled back the tent flap to find her standing shyly in his ruffled shirt billowing on her body. He stiffened slightly willing his body not to react. Something possessive in him screamed at seeing her in his clothing. Astarion wasn’t sure why he was so concerned over this elf, or why she was having the effects over him that she was. But he chalked it up to pulling on the threads of his trauma and nobody deserved to experience anything close to what he had. He swallowed hard and decided to file his issues under ‘to deal with later/preferably never’ and stepped into the tent, extinguishing a few candles to dim the lighting for her senses. He reached out for her hand gingerly as he sat down behind her.

As Death sat shakily between his legs, he pulled her closer as he wrapped a blanket around the two of them. Astarion’s nose was nudging up her neck as he settled into the position as Gale opened the tent flap.

“Astarion honestly I don’t know what you’re playing at asking for reheated dinner while Arend…” 

He paused as two sets of red eyes glowed in the tent and Gale took in the sight before him. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HER?”

Astarion growled lowly in his throat but before he could do much more Arendith snarled at the wizard and yelled “NOTHING, JUST LEAVE THE BLOOD AND GO BACK TO BED.” she paused. “THAT GOES FOR ALL OF YOU OUT THERE I CAN HEAR YOU ALL.” she heard Karlach snickering before her mothering instincts took over and she herded Gale back to his tent. 

“We’ll handle this all in the morning everyone, Astarion has her in check I’m on watch so don’t bother sneaking out to try to pull anything!” Karlach chided the group. “Night Soldier, Fangs… I’ll be here if need be ok?” she left and closed the tent flap on her best friend and the vampire knowing she’d be safe.

Astarion grabbed the goblet and sipped it cautiously checking the temperature he placed it aside for his snack after what he needed to do. He sat on his knees in front of the female elf “Are you still nauseated?” he looked her over for any signs of further stress noting the slow gallop of her heart as Arendith shook her head. “Ok,” he shuffled her legs into a V as he settled in between them moving his shirt from his neck “If you didn’t eat earlier you’ll need to feed now. Your body needs to recover.” he crooked his neck revealing the twin puncture wounds before he dropped his voice to barely above a whisper, shy in his words. “Please… let me repay the favour. I don’t know that I’ll taste as good as anyone, well, living… But it’ll do what you need.” He paused waiting for the feeling of her nuzzling to his neck to sus out her place, or for a bite… or for well, anything really but nothing came. He turned his head to regard her and found her eyes closed head pointed down to the ground a look of pain and shame on her face. 

Arendith’s voice left her wavering and gravely “Astarion… I… I can’t.” 

He spun around to face her his trademark flirty tone back “What do you mean you can’t? I’m right here Darling, ready, willing, and offering. Just bite…” his hand flourished.

Death curled her upper lip at him aggressively “YOU THINK I WOULDN’T LOVE TO?! I. CAN’T. BITE.” her curled lip swapped to a subtle smirk before she quickly moved her head into his space making a show of sniffing up his neck “At least I can’t bite to feed.” she nipped her fangs against Astarion’s ear. “I can bite in plenty of other ways…” 

Astarion rolled his eyes before putting his hand to grip over her face while pushing her away. “You didn’t let me get away with that. Ergo you aren’t either pet. I thought we used our words and not our body.” 

Arendith huffed against his hand “Don’t call me pet I hate it… Alistair called me that.” she paused searching his face to see if he’d drop the topic. “What do you want me to say… You have your scars… I have mine, only mine are cursed to stop me from biting anything without his permission, which obviously I cannot get.” she pointed to her chin tattoo “Not that he ever gave it if he could. Unlike the others I couldn’t be compelled so he saw fit to find ways he could control me.” she kept her eyes to the ground not wanting to see any pity in his eyes but looked up when she saw him move. 

A pale hand holding a goblet extended into her view offering the goblet. “Please, eat… I already ate, I honestly got this warmed for you…” he set it beside her before lying on his side. He watched as she eagerly drank down the blood feeling saliva pool in his mouth, again finding himself hungry for her. Astarion came back to himself to find her looking down at him with heavy glowing eyes. He reached up to wipe the trail of blood from her upper lip and sucking it off his thumb. Arendith smiled at him before leaning down to kiss his nose gently.

“I’ve already taken up a lot of your rest… I’m sorry.” She stood up and opened the tent flap “You know… I’d throw your words back at you and say you’ve given me a gift. But that isn’t quite right… Unless a person can be a gift… Then that is what you are…” 

Before he could reply she left his tent probably to join in on the cuddle puddle of Karlach, Beans, Scratch, the Owlbear, and that darn cat. How she slept in such chaos was beyond him. He blew out the remaining candles and palmed at himself trying to shift his discomfort as his mind reeled. As he settled into his bedroll to resume his trance he was brought from his daydreaming by the shuffle of his tent flap moving once again. 

“Death?” he mumbled sleepily, as he opened his eyes to scan the room he saw nothing but darkness. He sat up looking for the source of the disturbance before his eyes settled on that damned curious creature sitting at the door tail curled in on its body. He rolled his eyes “And what will you be wanting?” he laid back down hearing the creature chirp. “Well come on then.” he huffed as the Ragdoll sauntered up to nose its way under his blankets. “Oh for the love of- Why aren’t you with the damned druid and her ‘Cuddle puddle’.” he half mocked. The cat nuzzled into the crook of his arm, purring away happily under the protection of his body and the bedding. Astarion scritched the cat under its chin before wrapping his arm around its warm body. “This stays between us Kitten. Sleep well.”

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Five Fics Friday: January 26/24

Happy Friday everyone! It's been a long week, and I'm looking forward to eating up a great new fic! Check out these fics to start off your weekend, and I hope you'll come back on Sunday for a new list!!

Enjoy!

MARKED FOR LATER JOHNLOCK

The Edge of the Sea by weeesi (E, 16,659+ w., 7/12 Ch. || WiP || Pre/Post-TRF, POV John, Angst, Complicated Relationships, Pining John, Jealous John, Sherlock/Victor Trevor, Grief/Mourning, John's Trust Issues, Closeted John, Character Study, Panic Attacks) – Sherlock is dead. The next week passes in a blur. Mycroft invites John not to come to the funeral if he’d like, except for the fact that Mrs Hudson needs an escort and he’d really rather get through it than wonder forever what it would have been. He goes, and sits, and contains, and pours a cup of scalding-hot coffee down his throat which he hopes will burn down the tumble of nerves and anger and the type of sick-sadness he can’t examine too closely and the other feelings he won’t even acknowledge. He misses not missing him all the same. John spends the next two years alone. Sherlock doesn't.

The Man in the Iron Collar by Mamaorion (M, 128,771+ w., 29/? Ch. || WiP || 1800s Steampunk England Magical Realism AU || Circus, Faries, Flying, Soulmates, Murder Mystery, Prophesy, Healer John, Mind Reader Sherlock, Slow Burn, Alternating POV, Animal Transformation, Hurt/Comfort, Soulmates, Freeing Prisoner, Bullying, Kidlock) – The magical worlds of Faerie and humans have been separated by the Wall for over 1,000 years, but halfbloods, half-Faerie/half-human hybrids, continue to trickle into this magical, steampunky 19th century England. Healer Captain John Watson discovers a telepathic halfblood imprisoned in a traveling circus. While he tries to unravel his mysterious connection to this wild man, the two are pulled into London's halfblood underworld. A wave of serial murders will take them beyond the Wall and into the ancient battle between humans and Faerie.

MARKED FOR LATER GOOD OMENS

post-professional endeavours by darcylindbergh (T, 8,949 w., 3 Ch. || Comedy, Fluff, South Downs Shenanigans, POV Outsiders, Real Estate) – Red, you are the green tea latte to my hot cocoa. I can't believe we've been nearly three years in the soup together. I hope you enjoy this one!!

Mint Tea by CopperBeech (E, 23,006+ w., 8/? Ch. || WIP || Human AU || Cottager Aziraphale, Gardener Crowley, Light Dom/Sub, Dom Crowley, Sub Aziraphale, Top Crowley, Face-Fucking, Deep Throat, Consent, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Gratuitous Sex, Intercrural Sex, Quickies, Rough Sex, Baked Goods, Phone Sex, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Edging, Aziraphale in Lingerie, Nipple Play, Anal Fingering, Rimming, Cuddles, Stargazing, Picnicking) – Workaday clerical drone Aziraphale Fell unexpectedly comes into a cottage in the South Downs. But life is as drab as ever, and worse, a disastrous decision has left him with mint running rampant through all the beautiful plantings. It's clearly time someone got him- er, his garden - under control.

RECENTLY BOOKMARKED LOKIUS

more than words by unintentionallyangsty (T, 4,716 w., 1 Ch. || LOKI SERIES || Lokius, Post S2, Slow Romance, Awkward Romance, First Dates, Awkward Flirting, Attachment Issues, Abandonment Issues, Touch-Starvation, Slow Dancing, Shyness, Insecure Loki, Anxiety Attacks, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Fluff, Romantic Fluff, Fluffy Angst, Hugs, Getting Together, Future Fic) – After everything - in��spite of everything-, there are only a few words that have truly gone unspoken between Loki and Mobius. And, in spite of Loki's famed "silver tongue", none of these words ever seem to come easily. Luckily, Mobius is patient. They have all the time in the world, after all. 

[v33n4-c4rn1s]

♡︎kitty strolls♡︎

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:

damien karras x reader

(I CAVED SO BAD HE NEEDS LOVE ♡︎♡︎)

based on a comment by @ashley-slashley

It was below freezing, cold enough to send icicles down the spines of anyone who stepped foot in the snowy weather of Georgetown, it was usually this cold, a snow storm here and there but mostly..it would go away after a day or two.

Leading man, Damien karras, a priest and a psychiatrist in one, he had just finished a few papers in his office. He crept down the stairs solemnly as he watched the snow fall, worrying about his dear mother, possibly considering bringing some coffee and cake to share with his mother, he figured it would be a nice surprise for her..he loved his mother truly..Ah but what flavour of cake would he get? he made his way to the large oak doors and opened them up.

strawberry cake? banana? chocolate? did he dare slide red velvet into his mix? well.. maybe some-

"Damien!!"

his thoughts were dropped to a halt immediatly, he jumped, surprised by the voice of which he couldn't recognise. He shook himself out of his little trance.

oh thank the lords! it was just [name], his sweetheart..his mother invited them to dinner, it seemed they'd be walking together.

"ah..there you are dear-"

he let out a sigh of relief..thank god it was just them, he almost had a heart attack..but didn't they look so beautiful in the snow? the way the white spots landed softly in their hair, like an angels blessing. I mean how ironic..they were his angel after all.

"I figured to drop by, since we're walking to the station and too your mother's home yes?"

they asked poileity..it was nice to hear their voice. He smiled, nodding at their question and gently grabbing their hand, starting their journey to the station, He felt like a lucky man, being able to have someone like them, was it truly a blessing? he was a man who'd lost almost every part of his faith and even himself, he forgot long ago about god but now he felt god had sent him a gift, a gift for all his devotion..could it be a parting gift? a thank you?

as he let his mind run he didn't notice that his lover had stopped in their tracks, a gasp leaving their lips. He panicked for a moment, thinking someone had startled his beloved he took a quick turn and came into a staring contest with a little black cat with a tiny dot on its neck..like a clerical collar?

"oh my god Damien!!"

[name] was smitten, love at first sight.

"ohh how cute! she's been following you dims!!"

the cat meowed immediately, reaching itself to Damien who hesitantly took the small animal in his arms, she looked at him, big brown eyes staring right at him.

"she is cute.."

he spoke softly as not to startle her.

"can we keep her? I've already chosen a name, molly!!"

[name] insisted..but Damien stood his ground and put the cat down.

"my dear she probably has a family already.. perhaps her mother is waiting for her? just like mine is for me- we have to get to the station.."

[name] sighed in defeat, allowing him to drag them too the underground station.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

As they waited for the train to strike past not a word was spoken. [Name] was thinking about the cat while Damien thought about what kind of cake he wanted to surprise his mother with.

"oh dims..-"

Damien raised an eyebrow at [Name's] tone before turning to face them, his gaze shifting to exactly what their eyes where on.

oh no..

there she sat, Molly. the little clerical cat..meowing at him.

"oh lord.."

he muttered, he turned back to [name] who simply pleaded with their eyes.

"..no-"

he spoke but his lover just ignored him, lifting the feline into their arms. their eyes practically sparkled, gazing at the tiny kitten, absolutely smitten. Karras' heart simply melted, oh god how could he say no now?

"..fine-"

he sighed, [Name] tilted their head.

"we can keep her.."

He smiled ever so slightly at the dozens of kisses being placed on his face.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

"mama?"

he called out, waiting for a response from his mother, he wasn't sure if she was awake..

"dimmy!!"

oh, yes she was. she grabbed his face, kissing all over his face as he laughed.

"hi ma, [Name's] just setting the drinks and food down.."

But mama karras was far to focused on the kitten in her son's arms.

"baby!!"

she exclaimed happily, scooping the kitten into her arms, she smiled widely.

"oh dimmy, it's looks like you!!"

she wasn't wrong..the black fur, the white neck dot and the brown eyes..

"actually Mrs karras..she's for you, her names Molly.."

Damiens eyes widened as [Name] spoke, was this their plan all along?

"for me? oh!"

Mrs karras was beside her self, Damien helped her back to her chair as she cradled the kitten while damien scooted off into the kitchen and turned to [Name].

"was that your plan?"

he asked, a smile gracing his features opening his arms for them. [Name] shuffled over, allowing damien to wrap his arms around them, he smiled softly.

"maybe..I mean, your mamas so lonely dims..she needed someone- or well.. something? I hope Molly makes her happy.."

Damien chuckled softly, kissing the top of their head.

"I'm sure she'll make my mother the happiest, your a sweetheart.."

he heard his mother singing songs in Greek to the kitten, clearly head over heels for the small feline.

"we'll sort out the all the other things like the cat bed and a litter box tommorow.."

[Name] muttered, yawing softly as Damien lead them to the small couch in the living room, laying back and allowing his love to make themselves comfortable.

"you've got a good heart.."

he let his hands rub their back as he hummed, listening to their breathing, the following words from his lover had his face a cherry red.

"mm..and I allowed you to steal it.."

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡

good lordy alright, I caved, damien lovers come get ur food before I snatch it back ♡︎

(let me know if you spot any mistakes<3!!)

[holdmytesseract]

BLURRED LOVE (18+) ǁ CHAPTER TWELVE

Will Ransome x fem!Reader

Warnings for this Chapter: mentions of prostitution, suggestive smut

Please remember, that this story is rated 18+ !

Word Count: 1,3k

a/n: Another shout-out to @lokisgoodgirl ! 💚

TAGGING: @lokisgoodgirl @lovingchoices14 @youlightmeupfinn @jennyggggrrr @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @lulubelle814 @stupidthoughtsinwriting @wolfsmom1 @michelleleewise @kats72 @sititran @chantsdemarins @d1a2n389 @vbecker10 @huntress-artemiss @javagirl328 @kingtwhiddleston

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LINK TO SERIES MASTERLIST ǁ CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A few hours later, the sun was already setting, Will had reached London. He made his way through the city, on search for a place to stay for the night. To his luck, he found something. A small tavern. Not the best, but cheap. "Thank you." Will said, offering the black-haired servant, who had led him towards his room a smile. "No problem." She replied and left immediately again. Will settled down in his room, throwing his suitcase on the spare bed. It wasn't much, but it was enough for a few days. Therefore, that it was almost dark outside, he decided to start searching for Y/N tomorrow. It wouldn't help him to wander alone at night through a city he didn't know. It could be quite dangerous. Not that he couldn't defend himself, but he didn't want to risk it.

The next morning, as soon as the sun rose above the London sky, he begun his search. London was big, had not just one brothel, so the reverend feared that this could take a while. Although, he quickly noticed that it wasn't easy for him to set foot into such houses... It felt wrong. He still was a man of God, after all. He would never do such a dirty thing - except for the woman he loved. So, he went from one house of pleasure to the next, but no one ever heard of the woman he was looking for. Neither the pimp, nor the ladies who worked there. Will's search was unsuccessful. Frustrated, he made his way back to the tavern he stayed in, slumped into one of the old, wooden chairs and ordered a beer. This certainly wasn't going how he imagined... Will hadn't a single clue where to continue his search - and the time was ticking... He didn't know if Y/N was in danger or not. The reverend took a big swig of his beer, pinching the bridge of his nose. He had no other choice... He needed to ask someone for help. His oceanic eyes roamed the big room. Quite a few people were here. Mostly men, drinking and laughing. But then he saw the friendly black-haired woman, who led him to his room yesterday. Perhaps she was able to help him. He really didn't want to do this. It felt so wrong, but what other choice did he have? If he wanted to find Y/N, he had to do it.

"Excuse me?" Will spoke up, when the woman passed by his table. She stopped in her tracks, turning to face him. "Yes?" "Can you..." He cleared his throat. "Do you have a moment? I am afraid I need help." The black-haired beauty eyed him quite sceptical, but then nodded. "Thank you. Please..." Will gestured towards the chair opposite him. "Have a seat." She did what he asked her to do, sat down opposite him; a hint of coy suspicion in her green eyes. "What is the matter?" She asked. Will cleared his throat, felt how the nervosity and especially embarrassment rose in the pit of his stomach. "I... I'm looking for a friend... I believe she may be hosted by one of the city's more established... houses of pleasure, but alas I am unfamiliar with that world..." His gaze flickered to the servant seated across from him. Will swallowed hard; his stomach churning as he watched how a knowing smile crept across her plump lips. His clerical collar felt suddenly very tight around his neck as he felt the woman's gaze run wantonly down his body. She bit her lip; her shimmery green eyes reflected nothing but lust. Will swallowed again, raised a slightly trembling hand to tug at the white collar, hoping to get more air into his lungs. The woman sensed his nervosity, of course. Who wouldn't? It was quite obvious and not very subtle. "There's no need to be nervous, Reverend... Ransome?" She remembered his name. "We get all sorts in these parts you know." She whispered with a wink, placing her hand under her chin and leaning forward on the table. "If you're looking to do a little sinning, you don't have to seek out such dirty places, you know... I would be more than happy to join you, Reverend." She purred, giving the man a seductive smile. Will's eyes widened at the proposition. The devil really was turning up the heat in this city of temptation. "Madam, y-you misunderstand me." He said, flustered, scrambling for an explanation - or rather an excuse? "I am not here to sin. I-I am simply looking for my friend. I-I fear she might be in danger." The woman leant back, crossing her arms and lifting an eyebrow. "And you're going to save her, vicar?" She spat sarcastically as Will shifted in his seat, suddenly feeling more than just uncomfortable. "Yes, I am." Will replied, trying to sound sternly. "Fine." The woman stood up from the chair again. "The 'Regents Parlour' is where you are most likely going to find her. It's the highest attended house of pleasure in London." She said, voice laced with venom, before she walked away. "T-Thank you..." Will mumbled, more to himself. Was she offended by him, just because he turned down her... offer? Will shook his head, then downed the rest of the remaining beer of the glass in his hands. He stood up, grabbed his coat and with a last look on the watch, he left the tavern again. It wasn't too late yet. The sun only on the verge of sinking. If he hurried, he could still reach the brothel before sunset.

Will almost ran through the endless streets of London, until he saw his destination appear at the horizon. Almost there, he thought. Out of breath, he came to a halt in front of the rather big building. Lights flickered inside a lot of rooms, men entering and leaving the house. A shiver ran down the reverend's spine. He took a deep breath and crossed the street, hand lingering for a moment above the door handle, before he pushed it down and entered the building. His eyes scanned nervously and in utter discomfort the big, spacious room. Although, Will hadn't the chance to look further, when a blonde woman in a very scarce dress approached him. The reverend immediately lowered his head, avoiding any look on her body. This wasn't appropriate. He shouldn't look at her. "Hello, Sir." The woman purred and Will felt how she placed a hand on his upper chest. He continued to stare at his feet, heart hammering wildly against his ribcage. "How can I be of service?" To Will's sheer horror started the woman's hand to trail down his upper body, stopping dangerously close just above the hem of his trousers. His breath hitched in his throat - from shock. He didn't want that. Seeing no other way out, he took a step back, escaping the woman's touch. Come on, William, he thought. Get yourself together. You're here for Y/N, remember? The reverend took a deep breath and lifted his head, looking the blonde woman straight into her brown eyes. "I am looking for someone. Her name is Y/N. Is she working here?" The woman frowned, staring at him quite a bit in disbelief. "You're not here for a night of pleasure?" He quickly shook his head, gaining back a bit of his confidence. "No, madam. I-I am a man of God, not a sinner. This isn't an establishment for a man like me." He paused. "I apologise for the disturbance, but please... Would you help me?" The blonde-haired woman was still confused. Never in all her years as a prostitute happened something like this to her. "W-What was your friend's name?" "Y/N. Is she working here?" "Y/N?" She asked, starting to nod. "Yes. Y/N is working here." A relieved breath left Will's lips; a huge weight lifted off his chest. He had found her. "Can you... Can you bring me to her, please?" "I, uhm, don't know if she has a client or not, but, yes... We can go and look." A smile appeared on the vicar's face. "Oh thank you. Thank you very much."

[stickthisbig]

So! I've had longfic on the brain, so I decided to do a roundup of all my long Oxventures fic. Under the cut, you can find links and discussion to all my Oxventure stories and series that are over 10k words. There are so much more of them than I expected, but this is the fandom where I really started writing long stories as a default rather than an exception.

the deep (51076 words, Kasimir/Edvard/Zillah, Barnaby/Lilith)

Barnaby has to get married precipitously, and that's how all the trouble starts. I think this is genuinely the best thing I've ever written? I'm my own worst critic, and I'm really pleased with it.

it's just the ride of your life (44690 words, Corazon/Prudence)

After an accident with a Wish spell, Corazon ends up as a cleric of the Yellow King. I'm hugely pleased with this story; it really gets in the weeds with D&D mechanics, and it was very satisfying. Fun fact: Drash and Malachite are characters my buddy and I played in a one-shot.

my name written next to yours (40061 words, Merilwen/Egbert, Corazon/Prudence)

Merilwen makes an error in judgment, and she and Egbert have to get married. I did not mean for this story to be as long as it is, but it's all for Popular Character Ilranos. I maintain Egbert's summoning is one of the best scenes I ever wrote.

The Alien (32446 words, Kasimir/Edvard/Zillah, Kasimir/Edvard, Kasimir/Barnaby)

If the Hobbyhorses had a coin for every time someone was replaced with a younger version of themselves, they'd have three coin. These weren't originally meant to be connected, but it worked better this way. And of course, the most powerful force in all the realms is lesbian breakup drama.

high road (34273 words, Kasimir/Edvard/Zillah, Barnaby/Lilith, Barnaby/OFC)

Kasimir, Edvard, and Zillah fall backwards into a relationship, and then they go into exile. All of my heart is already on the page with this one, so I will say instead that I do think that Marjorie and Claire became best friends, and Marjorie also calls Claire her sister, just to skeeve people out.

component parts (31429 words, Kasimir/Edvard/Zillah)

Dunno what to say about this story, actually. It's the only story I've written where Kasimir is healed, and also the only one with a collaring scene. They aren't related.

the whole world hinges on your swings (21546 words, Purvis/Margot, Purvis/his DiJi girlfriend)

Margot needs stress relief, and Purvis readily volunteers. This was very cathartic to write.

no subtitle (20079 words, Kasimir/Edvard/Zillah, implied Agent 47/Diana Burnwood)

Agent Z gets handled. A crossover with a fandom I know next to nothing about, but I think it went okay.

try (not) to see it my way (18767 words, Corazon/Prudence)

It has been 0 days since Corazon was last cursed. I really love "I could make him worse" sorts of codependent romantic entanglements in my stories. Delicious.

you're only as big as your battles (18083 words, Kasimir/Edvard/Zillah et al)

Kasimir meets Edvard and Zillah at a dungeon. I rarely write modern AU in this fandom, but this was very satisfying to write. I really liked engaging with Kasimir as an old man (even though he's not old).

unembarrassed (16159 words, Kasimir/Edvard/Zillah, Barnaby/Lilith)

Man idk what to tell you, Edvard's got a huge dick and Barnaby slut shames Lilith. I think initially these were meant to be unrelated, but they work thematically, I feel.

what I believe in I'd rather not say (15968 words, Barnaby/Lilith)

Barnaby doesn't join a sex cult that worships a snake god. I had a blast writing this tbh, and I still want to make Lilith's dress.

Hell For Leather (15574 words, Prudence/Dob/Corazon)

The gang has to go undercover at that kind of party. Sometimes you write a story because you want to wallow in all the sumptuous detail. Also I still think the youtuber clothing shop is fucking hysterically funny.

flawed (19511 words, Barnaby/Lilith, Kasimir/Edvard/Zillah)

Lilith is absolutely heartless, until she isn't. I really liked playing around with the expectations of what it takes to be a dom in this one.

Deferred Maintenance (13842 words, Kasimir/Edvard/Zillah)

They come back to Volisport and have to move on with their lives. I will make all of you love Gizmo or die trying.

downtime activities (13587 words, Kasimir/Edvard/Zillah)

Kasimir, Edvard, and Zillah get stranded in a safehouse. I like this one a lot; I think I really captured the paranoia and stuffiness of being trapped inside for months. No idea why I'd be writing about that.

silver bells and shotgun shells (12575 words, Kasimir/Zillah, Kasimir/Edvard/Zillah)

Kasimir and Zillah have a big/little relationship, and Edvard joins in. The extent to which Edvard absolutely commits to the bit is so important, and I never see bigs or littles in fanfic that aren't just daddy and baby girl.

pebbles on water (12297 words, Kasimir/Edvard/Zillah)

Kasimir leaves Volisport for Skovlan, or does he? This one is just so damn sad, and I wished dearly to make everyone sad with me.

Eye Opener (11377 words, Dob/Corazon, Everyone/Everyone)

Corazon invents pornography. I really wanted to engage with Dob as an artist, because I think he has this side to him that isn't quite so over the top. Also yes this is the one the Oxbox account reblogged the art of.

they never, ever seem to fit (11366 words, Brad/Killian)

Everybody lives, and Brad decides that Killian is his boyfriend. There is so much of me in this; I love mindfuck and the trousers of time and I am still extremely angry about how Michael Sam was treated. I may have extended this to 10k just to capture this one.

Hell Raiser (11127 words, Prudence/Dob/Corazon)

Cthulhu demands that Prudence give him an heir, Prudence demands that Corazon give her his genetic material, and Dob gets everybody out of it. My first fic in the fandom! Start as you mean to go on.

they all suppose what they want to suppose (10494 words, Prudence/Corazon)

Corazon has to go to pirate court and tells everyone that the crew are his concubines. I don't think fanfic has enough of competence kink Corazon? Corazon is a peacock, but he's also incredibly good at his job. So, pirate stuff.

[costuming-earnest]

The Men's Clothing Thus Far

How fortunate we are that menswear hasn't changed too awfully much. I could send an actor outside right now in a dress shirt, double-breasted vest, and an open jacket, and you'd think he's headed to a job interview. Although the top/bowler hat might be an odd touch. Whatever.

I'm also lucky that my drama department has menswear and hoards it like gold. Although I'm letting the guys handle their own dress pants situations. Pants are pants, especially from 20 feet away.

In the interest of not making you scroll through the blog for a year and a half, I'll put pics and details under the cut.

Jack's first outfit is also his main outfit. He gets a blue vest because he falls for Gwendolin, who wears blue. Symbolism. I still gotta find a jacket that fits him.

Jack's second outfit (also on this hanger) is his mourning, for when he announces "Earnest's" "death." He gets this pinstripe suit because it fits him best. He'll get a black shirt and this black vest and black pants too, never fear.

Dr. Chausible so far just has this lovely velvet jacket. It buttons so high you can't see a vest under it, and he needs a black shirt and Anglican clerical collar anyway. Also I'll make some sort of robe for when he shows up for the Christenings.

Algernon's first outfit will be fun! My henchman is taking on the project of adding a paisley satin to the back and putting sleeves on this vest to make an oversized house coat for our Algernon. He spends the entire first act wearing it, purely out of disrespect for his visitors. Incorrigible.

Algernon's second outfit.

*Sighs.*

Listen. I'm not saying that I wanted to make a suit from scratch. This is just the thing that our director wants, and our actor wants, and I'll live with, I guess.

We have this shiny gold suit with a pink pinstripe. Very very very very tacky. And also an incredible 'fit for a city guy to pull up to your country estate in. He does an incredible job of oozing debonair energy. It's just such a visibly polyester suit. Argh.

Good news though, someone coughed up a light pink bowtie. I recruited a man to tie it, and then I cut it off my actor's neck. I'll be extending the ends and adding velcro. And I put a safety pin through the knot so that it can't be undone.

I'll be making a brighter pink vest to really make this a fit worthy of love at first sight. Except for the polyester.

Merriman is a butler. He needs a black suitcoat over this grey houndstooth vest and this white shirt.

Lane only has his black vest so far because he wasn't at rehearsal. He also needs a black suitcoat. The hunt continues....

[its-my-whump]

“You said I’d be safe here”

Ambushed | Paranoia | Being watched

TW: creepy whumper!, noncon touching (not sexual), lured into false security, religious fanaticism kind of

He had this unpleasant feeling of being watched. There was no real evidence, though. Not a constant face peaking up in a crowd of people. Not a specific car always around. Just this cool feeling in his gut and the prickling at the back of his neck. Now and then the hairs on his arms kept standing up out of nowhere. It was like his subconsciousness knew something, it wasn't willing to share.

Someday, he was suddenly and absolutly unforseeable cornered during a robbery of his local grocery store. He could see a guy holding a gun in the young cashiers face. A hand grabbed his arm from behind and signaled him to follow, to silently leave the hostile situation through the back door. "Come with me. I bring you to safety." It sounded kind of wrong, but the man had a distinct accent, he couldn't place or wanted to think about in this moment.

He felt like a coward and pretty selfish leaving that pour men behind the counter, but yet he was scared to his teeth to accidently get in front of a discharging gun. Probably this unchristian behavior of self-preservatiom was the reason for the following events, was a thought, that was occupying his mind to the end. And he didn't even know, that all of it was just a setup from the beginning, to lure him out.

The moment he stepped into fresh, safe air, hardly holding the possibility of flying bullets, the little prick of a needle in his neck took him by surprise.

...

He awoke slowly and with a hammering headache, strapped to a metal table. He felt like a drugged up hospital patient, that someone accidently mistook for a corps. It was cold, wherever he was. The dim light, cool air and especially the metal under his back made him resconsider the thought of accidently ending up in the morgue. But the ceiling was too high.

Ashamed he noticed, that he was stripped to his undies. Big leather straps were fixated over his chest and legs, pinning him down where he was. Arms and legs were bound down additionally. Panic took a hold of him, he couldn't waste another thought about his surroundings. The rising panic made it hard to breath and think. Tears summoned out of nowhere.

But one particular thing did reach his attention. The pretented white knight, that had led their way through the backdoor out of the grocery store, was standing above him. He only really realised after what felt like an eternity. The man was wearing gloves and a surgical mask.

The tied down man had to look twice, still not believing his mind not playing tricks on him. That guy was also wearing a robe and a clerical collar, for godsake.

"You'd said I'd be safe...?" His head turned away of a moment, letting it all sink in. They were in some kind of a chapel. He couldn't believe, what was happening here. This must be a joke.

"But you are safe, my disciple. I'll safe you from the misery of this world. I'll free your soul. So you'll be able to decent into the light."

The freak dressed like a priest or maybe he actually was a deranged priest of some kind? was arranging some equipment on a little table nearby, as far as his captive could hear and see around the big man's back.

After some time, the supposed cleric moved and gave way for his eyes to see, what he was doing exactly. At least 6 knifes, big and small, some other really sharp looking stabbing devices and whatnot were lined up neatly.

The air kept stuck in the young man's throat. He was frantically starting to shake his head in mental and physical defence about what was probably going to happen.

A big hand found a place on the naked skin of thrembing shoulders. "Don't be afraid. I will free your soul, my little lamb."

My whumptember2023 masterlist

[zara2148]

I shouldn’t have compared John Silver to Midnight Mass’s John Pruitt (it’s the way they do terrible things for love and are fundamentally so empty inside, seeking meaning in happenstance) because NOW I have started to ponder what a Priest!John Silver au would look like.

My first thought was Silver legitimately joining the clergy after seeing fat men and church corruption and thinking “oooh, job opportunity.” But upon further reflection, perhaps he’s simply on the same ship as the priest headed for Nassau when something happens to the man, and Silver figures well, why waste a perfectly good clerical collar? Gives him a relatively safe position to consider his next con from.

John Silver is absolutely still an atheist that punches ghosts btw. He’s just VERY good at following the party line when needed, making charismatic speeches to his congregation and skimming off their donations.

He takes the canonical preacher’s place and comes by to see Miranda, though he’s much more open to lively debate and much less interested in sleeping with her. He happens to be there when the feared Captain Flint stops by at and looks at the man with curiosity, no fear.

And as my friend put it, Flint of course sees through him almost immediately. He doesn't believe in God either but he knows this is no holy man. Silver has become somewhat accustomed to people eating out of his hands as a fake priest, so feeling so transparent to someone leaves him wrongfooted.

Perhaps he tries to turn the tables asking Flint if there’s anything he’d like to confess to God or another man, seeing how the reputation of monstrosity weighs upon Flint. He says this in a needlessly intimate way of course, because these two do not flirt normally.

Anyway, I like to imagine this ends up with Silver running away from the church to join Flint’s crew for gay sex and gold. Flint gets the rep of stealing a man from god, even though Silver would say he never had a god before Flint.

[stellarhistoria]

hold on i wanna rant about the team for a second so forgive me for this

ace lancealot cytos: aryin's adoptive brother and the only person aryin has ever known who would have ever fit the true name of the cytos' if there ever was a person. headstrong and fierce, determined and brave, always helping those in need but never sacrificing himself and his own well being to do so (though one would argue that getting constantly in danger would be self sacrificing). one time, aryin joked that, if he was born into a family, would they have been twins? cayde grimaced at the thought; zee looked as if it caused him physical damage. canonically has (had?) a psychic link with aryin prior to the player disappearing.

cayde pendraco: aryin's best friend and closest confidante, the very definition of "you've seen me at my worst; you chose to stay". one of the people who encouraged aryin to step away from the clutches of his father's desires and wishes for him during the first three years away from the rest of the group, cayde could ask aryin to do anything and aryin wouldn't blink. no hesitation. they're also both ex knights, which makes them bond more.

juliet herald: ( over at @stellafortunae ) aryin's childhood friend and girlfriend of ace. known for being headstrong and brash, juliet is ofttimes uncertain of the people who show her gentleness, believing her surroundings as unsteady as the shifting sands. aryin can't say that she's unwarranted though. he was where she was, once. before rose. before peter. daughter of the most powerful man in existence.

jetsam ryder: ( over at @constellaeinfinitum ) aryin's philosophical debate partner and someone who aryin has become quite fond of in the past few years of knowing them. an ex privateer turned pirate turned magic user turned chosen hero, jetsam is not someone who rushes headfirst into danger, often found questioning why things are the way they are, and grabbing everyone else by their collars to keep them safe. and if all else can't be done - they're usually on the frontlines with aryin, regardless of their, ah, unfortunate health pool. may or may not be questioning if what they feel for some party members is friendship or true love.

gwennen gawain: ( over at @zodiac--muses ) aryin's girlfriend and the long lost princess, and sole survivor, of the gawain family lineage. aryin has always been a hopeless romantic, but he never believed he would fall so hard and so fast for gwennen gawain, even with all that he knows about her and her family. and oh, do the history books not do her endless beauty justice. he doesn't believe he deserves her, and some days he questions how he managed to get her to fall in love with a monster like him. but if a princess can fall in love with a monster, then this monster will rend the world to keep her safe.

addam druei: aryin's new boyfriend and the recently put back together, only son of mordred druei (i know, i know, i GET IT). aryin had made a half-joke ( half serious comment ) to quell the nervous man's energy to something pleasant about being a polycule, and perhaps aryin wasn't against it. but... last time, last time... they weren't strong enough. what if they aren't, again? what if they can't protect him, OR HER? addam is determined to make that smile aryin wears a real one, because he knows it isn't.

teachers under the cut:

zee genarel: described simply as a strawberry blonde twink of a femboy, zee is aryin's magic teacher, who taught them through their days of being an uncomfortable druid and cleric, and then again as they navigated the new classwork of wizardry with absolute glee in his temperament. however, to call zee a good man would be incorrect. zee is confident, selfish, and goal - oriented. this does not make him a bad person, but he is not good at handling those who have lost everything, time and time again. aryin respects him. that is all.

vivian ashwind: ( seen only in anonymous asks ) a twin sister without her twin brother, vivian highwind is an unwitting, but not unwilling mentor for the group of keykids trying to find what they fight for in this raging war. she has been around a long time, and while she herself is a wanted woman, she is not one to go down without a fight. she is a good woman, abrasive as she may be. aryin does not know if he can call her a friend, let alone a teacher, not after...

grey ashlynn: deceased. a gunslinging spitfire of a man who went through a deep effort to keep these kids happy and safe through any means necessary, even if it meant putting himself in danger time and time again. in many aspects, he was their honorary group dad, but none of them wanted to say it. if they said it, that would mean he could leave them. turns out, they just needed to know it for him to be attacked, to be killed, to be taken from them. aryin misses him. aryin misses his dad.

[vaspider]

I’m hoping you’d be able to explain something to me as you’re much more knowledgeable on it than I am; I’m struggling to understand how pup masks and leashes/harnesses aren’t inherently sexual.

Unfortunately I’ve not been able to go to a pride event yet as I’m not out to my family and also Covid, so I’m not able to see this is a real life situation and ask people about it. I just came across your comment on the pride post (I assume you know which one, I don’t know what to name it 😅)

I’m sincerely curious and wanting to learn so I’m hoping you can help me!

... because... They're not? They're clothing.

Let me put it this way: I know people who have kinks or fetishes for/including/about the following clothing:

Wool suits

Khaki pants

Silk shirts

Cheerleader skirts

Sundresses

Clergy attire (nun habits, clerical collars)

Swimsuits

Rubber aprons

Tailored pencil skirts

High heels

Strappy sandals

Suspenders

Does that make this clothing inherently sexual? No!

I know people who wear pup masks because it's gender-affirming for them. Collars and leashes have long been a part of club/goth/raver wear, but they seem to suddenly become objectionable when the presentation is openly queer rather than "skinny white girls in faux-schoolgirl outfits and collars who are presumed cishet."

So after saying all of that, I have to ask:

What if they are inherently sexual? So what? What does that matter?

We do not censure or censor cishet displays of sexuality through clothing. Tiny bikinis, bodycon dresses -- heck, women wearing see-through dresses with pasties is a regular on the Project Runway runway, a-ok by Bravo and Lifetime viewers -- leather pants on hot women who are presumed het... clothing is, among its many other purposes, a sexual signaling device. It's such an assumed signaling device that there are entire rape defenses which hinge on the idea that clothing on women especially exists to convey sexual availability. Saying clothing is "inherently sexual" opens a door to "well look what you were dressed like," and that's not a thing we need to continue to perpetuate. Clothing is a way humans sexually signal to each other, but it's not the only thing humans do with clothing, so... clothing itself can't be deemed inherently sexual. Everything is context, and that context comes from behavior.

So that brings us back to clothing vs behavior rather neatly. Does the clothing matter or does the behavior matter? If someone is doing something to you without your consent, the clothing doesn't matter, that's wrong, but, and this is important: simply existing in public in a pup mask isn't doing something to you.

Or, more bluntly, why is this okay:

but this gets people's panties all bunched up?

(First page results for "woman in collar" and "gay man in collar".)

Both of these images show people wearing clothing which renders them decent in terms of the parts of their body which are covered. What's different in the second is that this image is read as explicitly queer. (And it IS queer, to be clear.)

And that's why people get all fucked up about it.

[skzkkun]

sinner

pairing: priest!yeonjun x reader

warnings: this fic heavily features religion (christianity) and biblical references, based on my own knowledge being raised roman catholic, as well as themes of blasphemy (i.e., church sex / priest kink)― if this would make you uncomfortable, please read with discretion. hard kinks. references to drinking alcohol / being hungover.

synopsis: when you told your friends that you had the hots for a charming stranger, the last person they expected for you to be talking about was the local priest. . . i guess that's one way to get a reckless, party-goer to attend church. (reading playlist)

word count: 3.6k

taglist: @punchmebaekhyun, @irockgyu, @boba-beom, @fav9yu, @earth-to-leiki, @bbyboychanyeol, @xcookiemonsteer, @iamthereseee, @jungwoos-world15

(unable to tag: @st4rrys00bs + @nctshow)

“Watch and pray that you may not enter into temptation. The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.” (Matthew 26:41 )

December 12th, 11:26pm

"OH MY FUCKING GOD!" You scream in delight, with your friends around the booth hollering along.

Beomgyu had done it.

The man triumphantly slams the shot glass down on the wooden table in acknowledgement that he had finally beaten your record: officially becoming the esteemed 'Most Drinks Drunk' champion of the month.

"That's my Hyung!" Kai coos, halting his clapping to wipe an imaginary tear from his eye. You all laugh as a bartender frowns at your group, causing you to all hush down. Regardless, Beomgyu continued to bask in his victory with a smile.

"I have to say, 'Gyu," You begin, "I never thought you would steal my crown, but I'm impressed!"

"Well, you―" He hiccups, "You're a worthy opponent, (Y/n)~" The new champion drunkenly sways, cueing Soobin to order some much-needed water for the group.

"He's going to regret this tomorrow morning," Taehyun whispers lowly next to you, smirking as the man in question rushes to the toilets.

"Oh, obviously," You reply, turning to your friend, "He's a dumbass."

"(Y/n), don't be a big meanie all of a sudden," Kai piped up, whining cutely from across the booth, "You started the whole competition in the first place!"

"True," You chuckle at the younger man's pout, as you stand up from your place at the sticky table, "At least I can handle my booze."

It was true, you were all too familiar with 'Vitus': the local bar that hosted a cast of embarrassingly drunk university students, incredible songs and (most importantly), cheap alcohol. After being a regular here for three years, you could safely say that there has never been a dull moment. It’s the perfect spot to drink with your friends before they go home for the holidays.

While you drunkenly reminisce about your nights spent in this bar, with your friends cheerily singing along to the song playing in the background, the bell of the bar’s front door rings. As you glance over curiously, your breath catches in your throat.

In all of your time at this bar, you had never seen this man before― surely, you would have noticed someone so stunning and out of place. He’s a tall man with raven hair and a jet black outfit to match. There was an intimidating tension to almost everything the stranger did: as if every act was performed with disdain. His veiny hands move to adjust his collar, leading your eyes to focus on the clerical collar that adorned his neck, and your eyes shifted from his fingers to his plump lips as he―

Wait. Holy shit.

Aren’t those kinds of collars the type priests wear? What the fuck was a priest doing in this bar? I mean, you’re never the type to gatekeep, but were priests even allowed in bars? I guess you had never thought about it before…

Before you had the chance to get lost in your own confusion, Soobin tapped your hand; your head shot up to meet his warm gaze. “(Y/n)! You never told us― how did your date go last night? You were so excited before you left, and then you didn’t update the group chat!”

“Ehh, the date was ok.” You reply, finding sudden interest in the melting ice cubes that swirled around your empty glass, as Beomgyu stumbles back towards your group after spending too long in the restroom. “Jake was really great, he seemed like a sweet guy! I just… I think we’re looking for different things.”

You slumped against the plush booth, your ears and cheeks aflame with a shameful blush; the implication of your reply was not lost on the boys either. Your head is warm and fuzzy from the free-flow of spirits and cocktails.

“Different things, huh?” Beomgyu laughs with the kind of genuine glee one only has while they’re blackout drunk, “Noona~ you know there’s no shame in admitting that you’re just looking for some good sex.”

The innocence of Kai’s shocked laughter and the chaos of Taehyun choking on his drink was the perfect response to Gyu’s boldness. With a grin, you just wordlessly shrug and playfully slap your friend― What could you say? The drunken bastard was, annoyingly, 100% correct. Not like there was any harm in your endeavour to try to find someone to hook-up with.

“Yeah, yeah― like you know anything about good sex, ‘Gyu.” The roar of your friends’ feral laughter continues to boom through the bar as you hop down from your seat. The sudden, dizzying blur of the bar set in as you stood up. It was the stark reminder you needed to realise how many drinks you had tonight.

December 12th, 11:51pm

After staring intensely at your drunken reflection, you rest your forehead against the grimy mirror as water flows from the sink’s faucet. You were sure it had been more than 15 minutes since you left the booth, so it wouldn’t have surprised you if the boys had already left by now. After blowing out a deep breath once, you stand up and blink once more at your reflection.

“You okay over there?”

You shriek, jumping at the sudden intrusion of the new voice. As you calm down, you immediately recognise the man behind you as the sacrosanct man with the clerical collar. Momentarily forgetting how to speak, your mouth snaps shut. The priest’s lips curl into a soft grin, closing the distance to lean around you and turn off the faucet.

“Long night?” He chuckles, his breath warm on your neck.

‘Oh fuck, he’s hot. Are priests allowed to be hot?’ You thought, swaying drunkenly in front of the tall man in black.

“Umm,” You begin, trying to muster up an interesting response as you feign relative sobriety, “Are you… a real priest?”

‘Nice one, (Y/n)’ You think.

He laughs warmly as he holds a hand out by your side to protect you from falling over, his sincerity giving you butterflies. “Yes, I am― Why? Did you have something you wanted to confess?”

“Wha-”

“I mean, you’ve been staring in the mirror for like ten minutes. Aren’t your friends waiting for you?”

“Oh, yeah. I just… It’s been an intense night. You know how it is― Well, I guess you don’t since you’re a priest… Wait, have you been watching me this whole time?” You sigh, as you realise how incoherent your alcohol induced ramblings must be, admittedly not ideal for a good first impression. “Sorry, I’m just― Sorry, Father.”

His eyebrows lifts as he smiles again, seemingly endeared by you, “Let’s get you some water, little one. I think you need it. You came with Soobin, right?”

“You know, Soobs?” You quietly ask, looking up at the priest in confusion.

“Yeah, ‘Soobs’ is one of my best friends― I just came to visit him before he leaves for Christmas.” He guides you out of the restroom, slowly helping you to a seat by the bar.

“Ohhh,” You carelessly hop onto the barstool, “Wait, I don’t think I got your name? Any friend of Soobs is a friend of mine!”

“Yeonjun, but you should really call me Father.” He snickers, turning to order two glasses of water.

“Wait, you’re Yeonjun? Soobin mentions you a lot, I’m surprised we’ve never met.” You smile up at him, your bright eyes reflecting the neon lights from behind the bar, “I’m (Y/n), by the way.”

December 13th, 9:12am

“YOU’RE KIDDING―” Soobin doubles over with laughter on the dorm’s sofa, “You wanted to find someone to have sex with, and you chose Yeonjun? A PRIEST?”

You curse Soobin and his inability to develop hangovers, as you moan and rub your temples helplessly.

“Hyun- Hyung…” Beomgyu whines from his place on the distant armchair, curled up as if to protect himself from the world. “Stop yelling, some of us are dying here.”

You unite with Gyu’s and his begging, “Yeah, Soobs have mercy. Let us recover, then you can preach to me.”

“I don’t know, (Y/n). It seems like you have a thing for people that are preachers―” The cushion you threw hits the eldest man square in the face before he can finish his sentence, as you curl up further onto the plush sofa. “Fine, fine. I’ll stop teasing and buy you fools some painkillers and orange juice; text me when Kai and Tae wake up, okay?”

“Sure thing, dad~.” You reply sarcastically, eager to recess back into your dreams: at least then you wouldn’t be plagued with this disgusting migraine.

The eldest man chuckles as he begins to leave the apartment, “Wow, I really had no idea that you were into guys that you could call ‘Father’.” Your second cushion you throw hits the door as Soobin shuts it closed behind him.

Finally, the best cure for a hangover floods the apartment.

Silence.

...

“You’re going to have sex with the priest, aren’t you (Y/n)?” Beomgyu whispers from across the room.

“Oh, absolutely I am.”

December 20th, 7:32pm

Yeonjun guided you along the frosted, cracked cobblestone of the church's path, protected under the gloom of the menacing gargoyles above. As thankful as you were that Soobin gave you the priest’s number, being in front of St. Cecilia’s Church with the man was more terrifying than you were prepared for.

You tensed as you both entered the chilled, dark interior. The tendons of your neck stood out like wires. Yeonjun adored how you looked like this: deliciously vulnerable. Although the priest mentally scolded himself, he couldn't help himself.

“I’m glad you called me. It’s nice to see you again,” Yeonjun grins, “No need to be frightened, I’m right here for you, sweetheart.”

You slowly nodded but said nothing. You did not have to: Yeonjun could tell that you were scared. He was too familiar with the reek of stale incense and the chemical freshness of the paint that failed to cover the damage beneath it. The courage that you had built up from the outside world corroded, just as the Holy Ghost permeated your skin.

What a paradox it is: to despise how you allowed this crap to eat away at your self-worth and yet be unbelievably turned on by how vulnerable it rendered you. Call it arrogance, hubris or just greed for control, but Yeonjun did not want to compete with mortal temptations. If you were going to be vulnerable, Yeonjun wanted to be the one who made you feel that way.

When Yeonjun found you in the restroom, alone in a state of drunken sombre, his heart broke. You were not crying for him, like those who attended his congregation to confess their sins.

Nor were you weeping over the exquisite thing you could become when he renders you desperate. Over how he could punish your ass with his hand. When you raise your hips, like a cat in heat, and soak his fingers with your desire.

Your drunk self was, instead, grieving for your desperate need for guidance.

So, if Yeonjun was going to compete with the sinful temptations outside the walls of his church, he figured that he had to take it to the source.

“Over there, my sheep,” Yeonjun lowly whispered, gently directing you to a pew halfway down the nave, facing the chancel.

The old wood creaked as you both sat, side-by-side, in the deserted, sepulchral cave. Yeonjun was usually unimpressed that his church was typically uninhabited. It only fuelled the rumours that it would soon close due to its ageing and dwindling congregation. However, at this moment, the priest had never been more grateful. He thanked God for this opportunity to be with you alone.

“Kneel,” Yeonjun commanded, motioning with a nod as he looked down at you: his authority palpable.

You hesitate as the priest slips his arm around your shoulders and nestles his mouth against your ear.

“Kneel, or I’ll drag you up to the altar by your hair, bend you over it and fuck you.”

You try to pull away, desperate to scan his face for any hint of sarcasm. “Yeonjun, I― Father, someone could come in. Someone could see,” You hiss.

"Look at me, (Y/n). Do you think I care? Do you think I am not perfectly willing to take whatever the consequences of that might be? Would they apprehend me for indecent behaviour? No. Chances are, they would freak out quietly and ask us to leave," Yeonjun stares at your shocked face. “As much as I am concerned about my immortal soul, my sweet. And I don’t believe God gives a shit where I fuck you.”

"Shhh!" You glance around frantically as Yeonjun reads your face, acknowledging the reaction his words have caused with a sly grin. Ironic how devilish a man of God could be.

“Okay!" You respond through gritted teeth, "Okay...” You edge off the pew and onto your knees. The mid-length dress that hugs your frame rides up your waist. The garment flares at your hips, draping over your ass.

On the pew behind you, Yeonjun reaches forward and strokes his soft knuckles down your back. “Put your hands together and pray.”

“I- what… what should I pray for?”

“I don’t care. It’s not going to matter soon― Will it, sweetheart?”

Beneath the dress, your legs are bare; Yeonjun gently pushed his way between your clenched legs into the heat. He caught a nice soft piece of inner thigh between two fingers and pinched hard enough to elicit a timid gasp.

“I can’t,” You shakily whisper.

“You can. And you will.” The priest stood up straight, moving in front of his kneeling form, “Beg to your God, (Y/n).”

He pinches hard again, in the same spot. It will leave an ugly bruise, but Yeonjun likes ugly bruises: it gives him a reason to kiss you better. You didn’t release the tension in your thighs, but you edge your knees apart. Just enough for Yeonjun to be allowed access to what he wants.

Soft and smooth and humid: source of most of your misery and an incredible deal of your joy. Yeonjun eased his fingertips between your lips, pushing your underwear to the side, and into your moist slit. Leaning forward until his face is buried into the crook of your neck, Yeonjun whispers. “I don’t think you’re praying, my lamb.”

“I-... I-.” You stammer: it was more a bleat than a complete response.

(Y/n), Little Lamb of God. Who turns Yeonjun inside out with your brimming eyes and your flooding cunt. Who validates every nasty thing the priest does to you.

As Yeonjun shifts the angle of his hand, pressing the edges of it into the taut and trembling tendons that attempt, with or without your intention, to keep him out. You fight and you fight and then, pressing your forehead to your clasped hands, you relent and relax your thighs.

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

Your internal muscles flutter as Yeonjun probes your hole with his middle finger. The interior of your cunt is like heaven to the man: you were smooth and rough, tight and accommodating. Now you are all tensed up and only just moist enough for Yeonjun to penetrate. But he knows you. It wouldn’t be for long.

“You know what you want, (Y/n).”

The knuckles of your joined fingers are white. Lips are bitten together, the way they started when Yeonjun lays a first hard smack on your exposed ass.

“Mmmm.”

It is not a moan of pleasure: it was a whimper. Yeonjun holds his hand still, his finger embedded and motionless. “Be brave, my gorgeous girl. Come on. You know what you want.”

For a long moment– the aeon in which Yeonjun had time to wonder if he had made a mistake– You kneel, statuesque: equally petrified on the inside as you look on the outside.

Maybe Yeonjun didn’t understand you after all? Maybe you had convinced yourself this would be good for you because it was what Yeonjun wanted. Maybe Yeonjun was just an arrogant prick? Maybe Beomgyu was right for laughing at you for trying to fuck a priest.

'No, that’s impossible. Gyu’s never right.' You thought, shaking your head.

You think about removing his hand. Yeonjun thinks about the humiliation of patting you on the shoulder and saying: ‘Okay, sorry, love. I’ve made a mistake.’ Yeonjun wrestles with the potential consequences of that: of being wrong in your eyes, of heedlessly pushing you where you couldn’t go.

Then, you inhale – drinking in the musty, incense-bitter air in long, low, stuttered breath – and begin to move your hips.

It wasn’t until that moment that Yeonjun noticed how dry his throat had grown. The rush of relief burns his chest and sends a jet of lust through his body. Instantly, Yeonjun was hard and throbbing.

“There’s a good girl,” Yeonjun whispers, brushing your long hair to the side and tracing your cheek with his free hand.

“Oh, god!” You choke on the words and push your ass backwards, forcing more of his finger into your cunt.

You do it again and again. Experimental, small backward motions at first. Then your cunt begins to clench around Yeonjun's finger until you slide yourself easily onto it, and his palm was awash with your juices.

Yeonjun watches your hips buck. He listens as your breath becomes rough. But your eyes are shut tight, and that wouldn’t do.

“Open your eyes, (Y/n). Open them.” He commanded.

“No,” You panted.

And there was that familiar twist of Yeonjun's mouth. The crooked smile he wore in pleasure.

He tangles his hand and forces a second digit. “Do it.”

You gasp as your eyelids flutter open. Wide, staring. Fearful and aroused. But it didn’t stop you from moving. You are still, relentlessly, bucking your hips against the man's relentless fingers. He slips his free hand under your jaw, tight on your neck, and pulls your head up. He forces your gaze on his towering form.

A harsh sob rises in your throat; Yeonjun feels it against his fingers, like something ripping out. Yeonjun feels the first uncertain contractions of your impending orgasm; the definitive fluid motion of your hips pushes you closer.

“Is my poor sheep crying?" The priest coos in faux sympathy, before squeezing your neck tighter.

Tears begin to course down your cheek as your entire body trembles. Slicking his thumb in the sopping mess between your legs, Yeonjun eases it into your ass. You gasped, whining with an incoherent noise.

The priest wasn’t sure whether you were answering his rhetorical question or if you were whining about his penetration of your hole. Yeonjun didn’t care. He hauls your back from the rail and plunges his fingers into your with all his strength.

You stiffen in his arm, rut against him once, twice, and orgasmed with such force, Yeonjun thought you could squeeze his fingers out of their sockets. Your fluids pour over his hand, down the insides of your legs.

“Oh my― Fuck…,” You whine. “Fuck you!” As the last of your contractions squeeze around his fingers, you give a hard shudder in his arms and you repeat yourself. “Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.”

Withdrawing his trapped digits, Yeonjun freed his hand and smoothed the back of your dress down, then pulled you off your knees onto his lap.

You both sat in serene silence for a while, listening to the natural movement of the old, desolate building as the wooden pews expand in the afternoon heat― it was peaceful. It was heaven.

“It’s wild how hungry I am.” Your hand moves onto his lap, as you rub your open palm against the bulge in his pants. “I could suck your cock now, Father, then we could find somewhere to eat.”

He smirks, eyes widening a fraction. “Very tempting, but I’m really hungry as well. Let’s eat now, then we can fuck later,” Yeonjun said, getting to his feet and pulling you up with him.

As you both slowly walked out of the humble church, and into the early afternoon light, you almost collided with an elder priest, walking along the entrance path with deliberate steps.

You smile and nod, “Afternoon, Father.”

“Good afternoon. I tell you what―” He halts in his tracks, “It is so nice to see young people coming to the Church again. I hope to see you around more,” he smiles with genuine appreciation, as he continues his way into St. Cecilia’s Church.

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