#He's more melodic than even Priest
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Looking so respectfully at Damiano 👀👀👀👀 Also, I can picture his voice sounding like Ezio (maybe older Ezio?)
I've been lookin at him disrespectfully the entire time designing him trust me 👀
I do like the italian lilt Ezio has, maybe not so pronounced in Damiano, but I like the idea of him having it.
I'm not quite certain on the tone, Ezio is somewhat rough in his voice, you can hear the growl undertone in it when he speaks. I don't see Damiano as rough as him.
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S&Co Sherlock recommended Vivaldi to John and I Lost My Mind
The fact that our Sherlock Holmes recommended Vivaldi to John so suddenly and apruptly is something SO personal! When I read a transcript of the mailbag episode (thank you @eardefenders ) I could NOT stop thinking about it, and have been listening to his many wonderful concertos since. I work in a church choir and am therefore somewhat classically trained, I have also played violin for many years as a child, and still do at times, so allow me to go on a geeky tirade about Antonio Vivaldi and Sherlock's understanding of John.
🎻🌱🌻🍂❄
In the second mailbag episode, a question is asked "If you could make a Spotify playlist for eachother of your own favourite songs, what would some of the highlights be [...] ?"
John answers with the rockband Elbow, who use orchestra and especially strings in their music. Which is why he recommends it to armature violinist Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock says that he would probably never make such a playlist, as he wouldn't find the task fulfilling, but he has an epiphany and IMMEDIATELY interrupts himself, not even finishing his sentence, and he simply says "Vivaldi". I have not heard the delivery of this line(cause I'm poor ✌), but the fact that the answer falls to him so suddenly and it simply MUST leave him immediately so John hears is delicious characterisation. Sherlock also answers with pop, as John likes popculture (a somewhat less personal answer, but still very considerate).
After another question it is established that Vivaldi isn't even a favourite of Sherlock's. He much prefers Mozart, Bach(I will come back to Bach) and Tchaikovsky. Now Sherlock is a violinist, so there is no way he has escaped the genius of Antonio Vivaldi, like he's escaped pop. And so this recommendation is really because he feels John would like it.
But why does Sherlock think that? What would John Watson, a middle class everyman, like about Vivaldi?
Let me tell you:
When we analyse the symbolic meaning of instrumental classical(in this case baroque) music, we often look at the biography of the composer (Vivaldi gives us a little more to work with, which I will return to). I will start here. Antonio Vivaldi of Venice was taught the violin by his father and was ordained at 25 but didn't work as a priest for long due to illness. He instead became a violin teacher and composer. (Who else do we know that took up a very respected line of work but ended up where his father did? Why John Watson of course!) Vivaldi taught abandoned girls at an orphanage for more than 30 years, and saw immense potential in them and their education. The most talented of the girls stayed into adulthood as a part of their renowned orchestra and choir. He wrote most of his music for these girls and women to perform. He also took the talented singer Anna Tessiseri Giro and her sister under his wing, and Anna became his protégé. What a great guy! Supporting the talents of young women! Of course John would love him.
Going into Vivaldi's musical genius, we have to talk about baroque music. Vivaldi left a huge mark on the late baroque period. Especially the form of concertos which I won't bore you with (🤓), but also the general style of the period. That style is characterised by grand ornamentation (like the baroque in general), driving movement (in rythm) and contrast such as ascending and descending notes. All this produces beautiful an grand pieces. Additionally, Vivaldi used melodic repetition(his critics say too much), which is what gets the new hit pop song stuck in our heads. Something our John is very prone to suffer under. Vivaldi also took a narrative approach to music. Not only through his many operas, but also in his concertos. Everyone knows his Four Seasons, whether you want to or not. He wrote four concertos, one for each season, and for each season there was an accompanying sonnet(which he presumably wrote). These concertos and sonnets depict both the gentleness and wrath of nature, all beautiful. But also people: herders, shepherds, drunk peasants celebrating the harvest and hunters. These are working people that Vivaldi chose to portray. John has a working class background, despite his social climb, he still shares most empathy with these people. Of course he would enjoy a celebration of their troubles and joys throughout the year.
Now back to Bach. A baroque man that Sherlock enjoys. The baroque ends with Bach, that is atleast what I've been taught. All of the period leads up to him. His complicated polyphonic(2 or more lines of melody at once) pieces are iconic and definitive of the period. And who inspired J. S. Bach? Well Vivaldi of course! Bach adapted several of Vivaldi's works and quoted him directly in his own compositions. Bach used bigger orchestras and different instruments (organ and harpsichord as he played them himself) and his works are generally more complicated than Vivaldi's Italian one-melody-centric works, but Bach is the metaphorical student! And Sherlock must absolutely be aware of this.
To me reading the mailbag episode, Sherlock started out uninterested, but the question had him think through his favourites. All complicated and very much not to John's tastes. But when thinking of Bach he went back to Vivaldi, which you must, and he is different. Vivaldi the sick priest, Vivaldi the teacher, the life long supporter of young womens' and abandoned girls' careers. Creative Vivaldi, Vivaldi the storyteller, which John is also. Vivaldi who celebrates nature and the dramatic lives of incredibly normal working people. Vivaldi and his repetitive melodies, although not in Sherlock's taste, fits John's so well. Vivaldi who inspired Bach. John who inspires Sherlock. ❤🎻
Tirade over! Thank you for reading. If you want to listen to some of Vivaldi's work I recommend The Four Seasons and a spot near a window with a suitable drink for the weather in your part of the world. For Bach you might want to look up whether your local church/music school holds concerts or similar events where Bach features, organ is a thousand times better live (if not, stick to his piano or string work).
#sherlock & co#sherlock holmes#dr john watson#My mind is only slightly elated#the brainrot continues#sherlock and co
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hdjfjdhfs i love your first prompt! here’s another one if you’re up for it: ❝ you’ve got me in the palm of your hands. you could crush me and i would still thank you for touching me at all. ❞
hope you get well soon!!
“You’ve grown old, Hob Gadling.”
Hob tensed at the all too familiar voice. A voice he’d never forget, despite the years that had passed since he’d last heard it. The melodic, rich voice that transfixed many, Hob being no exception. He swallowed as he turned, knowing the voice could hear it, could hear his heartbeat suddenly in his ears.
“Tends to happen to mortals, you know?” Hob regarded him in the darkness. He was a shadow on the wall, peeling away and floating towards him now.
Morpheus glides until he meets Hob at the window he’s stationed at. The night is cold and bitter, snow has begun to gently fall, like ash after a bonfire. After a public execution.
“Have you come back to me, my one?”
Hob’s breath hitches as Morpheus slips into his space, a cold hand, pale as death, presses against his chest, long fingers clawing up and around his throat. Hob swallows again, feeling his Adam’s apple bob along Morpheus’ feather soft grip. His blood races in both fear and excitement. Hob sees the way Morpheus’ eyes darken, his brows narrow, enticed.
“Your blood still behaves for me.” Morpheus leans forward and Hob forces his eyes to remain open, his body going still. “I wonder if your body would, as well.”
His voice soothes like balm on a burn, cool and soft and healing. But they’ve played this game many times, and Hob knows not to give in so easily, even if his very skin screams at him to resign himself. To crumple under Morpheus’ intense stare. To bare his neck.
“I’m here on a job, Morpheus.”
Morpheus’ head tilts curiously, like a cat. His hand remains at the base of Hob’s throat, his fingernails lightly scratching the hairs at the back, sending gooseflesh dancing up Hob’s arms.
“Oh?” A ghost of a smirk pulls his lips up. “Come to finally kill me, then?”
“Not you.” Hob answers too quickly. Never you. Even if the gods demanded it of Hob, even if it meant his own demise, he’d never allow harm to come to this ancient, gorgeous, dangerous creature before him.
“I’ve been called to abet,” Hob presses on, finally coming back into his own skin and stepping away from his old friend. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the murders.”
Morpheus lets him turn, but his hand remains on his coat, falling onto his shoulder. Hob faces the open window once more, observing the night, watching for activity. He has weapons hidden on his person, a pocket pistol loaded with silver bullets, wooden stakes and a plowshare, holy water given to him by a priest just this morning, and a long necklace tucked under his shirt ornate with a heavy cross.
“Mm,” Morpheus hums, his fingers lightly trace down Hob’s back, he can somehow feel his touch even through the layers of fabric. “Yes. I am privy to them.”
Cold panic seizes Hob. His head swings around to meet Morpheus’ black eyes. “You’re not–”
“It’s not me, Hob.” Morpheus says, almost offended, and leans forward again, his lips at Hob’s ear. “But I know who.”
“Tell me.” Hob’s eyes study Morpheus, taking in his wild hair and sharp features. Somehow, Morpheus is even more handsome than the last time they met. Vampires never age, of course, they are no longer among the mortal realm. And their beauty is effervescent, ethereal, intoxicating. Hob had fallen for that heady tonic more than a decade ago, when he was still young and honing his craft.
Morpheus was cunning and persuasive, almost divine with it. Refusing him felt like a sin and Hob knew it wasn’t with pretty words or a hypnotizing voice that lured him that first time, or the second, or the countless, countless others he’d freely given his body to him. Morpheus was a rare breed. Dangerous and devious of course, but also distinguished and demure. Hob was smitten from their first meeting, before he knew of his true nature.
He’d never taken Hob’s blood. Morpheus had gotten close, so close that he would shake with it, writhe and growl, testing the waters with fangs against Hob’s pulse points. On his wrist, his thighs, his throat. Hob would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the thrill of it, the danger.
“You’ve got me in the palm of your hands,” Hob had said once. “You could crush me and I would still thank you for touching me at all.”
Hob had been a fool, of course, lying with a vampire. The consequences of which were innumerable, forcing him to flee. Run away from his mistakes, his heart, screaming and clawing in its retreat.
“No.” Morpheus spoke, flat and final. “He is dangerous. We are handling it ourselves.”
Hob blew a long, harsh breath through his nose, glaring at his friend before finally brushing his hand off him.
“If you won’t help me then I suggest you leave.”
Morpheus’ hands are back on Hob before he can blink, forcefully turning and shoving him against the dusty windowsill.
“I will not have you hunt him, do you understand?” He hissed, fangs long and glinting in the moonlight.
Hob’s eyes blew wide. All his years of training, of killing, never prepared him for this. Facing his own conflictions. Seeing Morpheus again brought out old, buried feelings of want and lust that Hob had tried so hard to bury, to destroy. Putting a distance between them hadn’t helped at all. If anything, with the vampire standing before him now, his hands finally, finally, back on Hob, where they belonged, he realized the separation had only stoked the flame. Made Hob want more.
“You must stay hidden, safe.” Morpheus’ grip turned painful, deathly serious. “Until I rip his throat out myself.”
Hob took a shuddering breath. The cold breeze at his back was biting, but not so much as Morpheus’ breath on his face, his body so close to his own. Tantalizing, teasing him. Everything inside Hob screamed to close the distance between them, to reacquaint their bodies, to touch and mark and bruise.
“Morpheus…” Hob spoke his name slowly, an omen to himself. “Who is he?”
Morpheus doesn’t speak for a while, the silence is thick, punctuated only by Hob’s labored breathing and certainly his heartbeat, which he’s sure Morpheus can hear.
“He was one of ours…” Morpheus starts, hesitating on every word. “A young rogue we couldn’t keep under control.”
Hob remains silent as he listens, watching Morpheus’ expressions for a hint of change, of deceit.
“His name is Corinthian.”
“Corinthian,” Hob repeats, shelving that information away.
Morpheus’ glowers at him. He can read Hob all too well. It’s Hob’s biggest weakness, opening himself up to Morpheus, bending to his whims and desires. Or it had been… though Hob wondered what the point in leaving was, if he knew Morpheus could find him anywhere. Could sense him even in the daylight, as soon as he’d stepped off the train and walked among his territory once more.
Morpheus presses his body flush against Hob’s and Hob nearly comes undone, biting back the pleasure, the sheer ecstasy that radiates off Morpheus, threatening to penetrate him. His lips part without his command, his blood hot and running south. Morpheus dips his head, his breath hitting Hob’s lips, sinister and inviting.
“Do not. Find him.”
“Will you stop me, Morpheus?” Hob taunts, cocking an eyebrow. His breath has gone ragged, almost desperate. He tilts his chin in defiance. “I could put you away once and for all.”
Morpheus grins, deadly. He nudges his nose along Hob’s cheek, making him gasp and then groan, unbidden, as ice cold lips caress up his jaw and down his neck, settling at his jugular and biting gently. So gentle, a promise, a devotion.
“I would love to see you try.”
from this prompt list
#dreamling#hob gadling#dream of the endless#the sandman#vampire au#vampire hunter Hob hell yeah#seriously i had to stop#before this turns into something i cant control#like a wip pfft#anon thank you!#hope you like it#my writing#disclaimer: i know nothing about vampires lol#if someone else wants to pick this up PLEASE do#though i would not be opposed to expanding on this... maybe a little#also Hob isnt 'old' he's like 35 here#unedited cos im RACING TO THE DOC#THANK YOU I HOPE I ALSO GET WELL SOON LOL
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'•.¸♡Lucifer has fallen, and with him, the angels followed♡¸.•'
Fyodor x priest; male reader
?
Masterlist
Warnings: Drinking.
Enjoy!
It had always been your practice to be in love with someone, especially with one of the faithful churchgoers, but he was no ordinary churchgoer. No, he visited God every day. His silent prayer under his breath was like a melody to your ears. The way he glanced up at you while kneel made your heart skip one million beats! You couldn't believe how you felt about this man.
If in almost any other circumstances, if he was not a man, you wouldn't have approached them and started a conversation of sorts, you promised to practice celibacy, so that is all where you would go, but a conversation would always easy your hunger. You hated the fact that you only felt these feelings around him, no one else, no other woman, only this specific man... almost like you have fallen in live with him. But the would not be possible, you couldn't do that, right?
One afternoon, while you were in the confessional booth, you heard that same melodical voice you hear every day, the voice that brings you to the edge of sin. "Forgive me, father, for I have sinned." The voice began to speak. You could hear your breath quicken as you listened to the voice, careful so as not to jump into the other room and do who knows what. The multiple sins of the angel of sin began pouring out, and nothing could stop him now, his heart tainted with sin, begging to be let out of the constant agony of entrapment. Your soul began to ache in need of helping this lost angel, for now, all you could do is listen to his sins, some harder to listen to than the rest.
The man whom you were so infatuated with, your angel of sin, was awaiting your response... a response for what? Your mind has been captured by this angel that you fail to notice any sin that should be forgiven. Either way, you announce the prayers he shall endure to earn the forgiveness your heart has already given him.
A pattern has erupted, and the man would begin to join you in prayer, go to your confessional booth, even strike up a conversation or two, the subjects of your encounters related to God, or politics, never about your angel of sin's life, never about his interests, about his home, family, friends, plans, nothing. All you knew about this man was that he was an angel of sin sent from heaven itself.
But as with every flood, it eventually came to an end, the angel stopped coming to church, and his presence was nowhere to be seen, ever. Like he had suddenly vanished. Your heart wept for the sinful soul. Oh, how it wept. Your heart ached to see the beautiful stranger one more time, even if it was wrong, even if your soul ached from the sinful nature of your admiration to the angel, it was selfish and full of sin, and yet, you could not keep yourself away from him. As if your heart has been ripped out of your chest, ripped into pieces right in front of your very eyes, the pieces all lost in hopelessness and doubtfulness. Oh, how you ached for him to come back, the longing becoming too much to bear, you had to see that enchanting angel one more time, and so your journey began. The only position you could take was one on foot, you walked to any and every house and building, looking for the man who stole your heart the very moment you laid eyes upon him. Sadly, the man you were so desperately looking for was nowhere to be seen or heard. With unbearable pain in your heart, the only place you could think of finding him was at the bottom of a bottle.
After years of that lonesome plague taking over you, you were told to go to Japan to a church, the details did not bother you too much, but you decided to go, a fresh new start, a way to forget about your past love, your angel. Yearning to leave the chaple of memories, you packed up your bags and headed to the unknown country of Japan.
Upon arriving in your new home, you inspected every inch of these new lands, admiring the scenery and cultural differences, appreciating the opportunity to learn about this new place. The church at which you were supposed to find a new life stood tall in front of you, towering over you like the new opportunities. With a heavy breath, you took the first step towards a new future, the door opened, and there he was... the Bishop of the church, he approached you, his demeaner cold with a kind attitude hidden underneath.
"You must be the new priest from Russia, is that true?"
He asked, the voice of a dominating man echoed through the church walls and back to you once more.
"Yes, Bishop, I am."
"Good, follow me."
A quick turn, causing a light breeze to sway by and off, he walked in a moderate pace, his hands behind his back. The clicking of his heels echoed menacingly throughout the halls. You followed suit.
Once you arrived in a closed off room apart from the main quarters of the church, your body was forced down to a near by chair by strong, rough hands, not letting go of your shoulders once you were sat in a chair.
"What is going on?" I tried my best to hide the panic in my voice as I looked up at the Bishop.
"Silence!" His forming voice rang loudly before slowly walking in front of me, my knees trembling as I looked up at him, fear lingering in my eyes.
"Do you know the demon named Fyodor Dostoyevsky?"
"Demon??? Who is this Fyodor?"
You thought while looking at the man.
"Wh-who?"
With your trembling words, a photograph, from what looked to be a security camera, was shown to you. It was blury and hard to see, but you knew it was him, the angel. Your eyes widened, signalling everything the man in front of he needed to know. You know, this man, there is no denying it.
"Tell me everything you know about him, NOW!"
His aggressive tone set anxiety in my heart, tears building up from the overwhelming glow of emotions upon me.
"I- h-he went to the church I worked in, please dont hurt me!"
"What has he gotten himself into, and why am I being interrogated! What is going on? Someone, anyone, God, help me."
"You know more."
"I swear I don't!"
You don't know why, but the determination in the man's eyes lessened.
"Tell me, where is the demon Fyodor."
"I don't know..."
My voice grew weak with the tears slowly crawling down my face and onto my cloth. The other person pushing downbon my shoulders let go as the men left.
"Whay just happened? Demon? Are they really calling my angel a demon? Has my angel really fallen from his grace?"
The end :)
༺♡༻ 𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 ⋆ 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊 ༺♡༻
Idk where I was going w this, but I'm posting it to be original and also to post for once.
Thank you for reading and have a wonderful day/night. Remember to stay hydrated and do something you like because you deserve it!
Love, Az.
#bsd#bsd x reader#bungo stray dogs#bsd fyodor#fyodor x reader#fyodor dostoevsky#fyodor#fyodor dostoyevsky bsd#bsd fyodor dostoevsky
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What music do you think Omega and Metal Sonic would listen to?(If they listen at all)
They're both Linkin Park fans caught in a bitter conflict about whether Hybrid Theory or Meteora is the better album.
Omega likes Hybrid Theory because it's more a violent and angry sound while Metal likes Meteora because he's more fond of melodic sounds (and he secretly resonates with the theme of 75% of the songs on that album, which is "you, older authority figure, stop changing me into something I hate")
We descend into pure self-indulgent headcanon territory below.
Okay, now for my serious answers- because I'm an insufferable metalhead myself, I give my favorite characters metal genres to listen to. I can't speak with reasonable authority whether or not they'd like other genres.
Omega listens to a lot of classic Heavy Metal. Judas Priest and Manowar are his favorite bands because he prefers songs with sick guitar riffs, heavy beats, and lyrics about either sticking it to authority or about fantastical situations where guns and destruction are involved. But frankly, he's not super picky as long as it's big and fast and loud. Thrash is also a favorite of his and he occasionally swings into death metal, though he's more fond of older stuff from both movements.
For me, the quintessential "Omega" song is Judas Priest's All Guns Blazing, but I'm biased since Priest is my favorite band of all time.
Metal, when he's allowed to listen to music, that is, leans much more towards prog metal and overall a much more modern sound than Omega usually likes. To put it simply, Metal is a TOOL fan. He is exactly as insufferable about this opinion as you think he is. He's the type of metalhead to analyze the technicality of the music he listens to and to tell you that your preferred genre is "low-skill" and "just noise". That being said, his guilty pleasures are symphonic metal, melodic death metal, and exactly one Dragonforce song that he'll take to the grave (it's Storming the Burning Fields. Shhhhh, don't tell anyone!).
That being said, he agrees with Omega about thrash metal. You could put on a Metallica album and they'd both be good with it. They also agree (mostly) about Linkin Park.
For me, the quintessential "Metal Sonic" song is Linkin Park's Faint, but I'm biased since I personally can't stand prog metal even though I headcanon it's his favorite genre.
#mwahahaha!!#people who've been following me for a while know about this already#I blatantly project my music tastes onto my two favorite robots#thanks for indulging me :)#metal sonic#e-123 omega
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Part 1 of Dean Priest's headcanons (written in a great hope he shall be forgiven):
Dean's first memory is seeing his mother cry. She is hiding in his nursery, with her bowed head, her shoulders shaking with sobs. He reaches out to stroke her hair, trying to comfort her. She wraps her arms around him and whispers "remember, dear, you ARE enough". Years later, he isn't quite sure if he hadn't dreamt it - but he clings to the memory nonetheless. It is all he has.
He grows up, seeing his parents argue. Well, it is his father who raises his voice - his mother never does. She doesn't scream even when his father throws a dinner plate at her. Dean can't help thinking his parents argue because of him.
Dean learns there is a difference between him and the other children, when he is only a few years old. He can't run or play the way other children can. His brothers and sisters are all lively and loud - he isn't. That's why he asks his mother to read him stories. She spends more time with Dean than with her other children (he needs me more, she thinks) or her husband (nobody could blame her for THAT). But Dean sees the envious glances his siblings and father throw at him. Envious - and hateful. It is when he knows - they despise him, too. He keeps telling himself he doesn't care - up to the point he almost believes it.
His mother sings him an old lullaby. She has a lovely, melodic voice. He knows the lyrics by heart. "On a night like this I always think of the 'hills where spices grow.' For years, he hopes that one day he'll be able to 'fly like a youthful hart or roe.' He remembers the day he realizes he won't.
Dean learns how to read very early on. He reads and writes better than his older siblings and everyone notices that. His teachers praise him in front of the class and, for the first time in his life, he feels proud. But then, he hears whispers. He is lame. It is his own brother who starts calling Dean a Jarback and the name sticks. His brother never dares to call him like this in front of their mother, but doesn't hold his tongue in front of father. And father only smiles, in his own, wicked way, so Dean knows he must have heard. He never says a word, though. Dean tells himself it doesn't matter. But his resentment grows.
His mother dies when Dean is only eight years old. Dean is the only one who can't cry (people will later say he's souless - not only lame, not only a Jarback, but also souless). He puts a single, white lily on his mother's grave (he hates lillies afterwards).
Life goes on. Slowly, Dean becomes more and more of a Jarback. He turns to books - they are the only company he will ever need, he tells himself.
Uncle James suddenly dies, with no wife nor children, when Dean is sixteen. He leaves all of his fortune to Dean, to the horror of the clan. He's the only one with brains, Uncle James used to say. All Priests hate Dean a little more - but he only laughs. His laughter has a cynical ring to it, now.
Dean doesn't believe in friendship, so at first he doesn't trust Douglas. Why should he? Douglas is everything Dean has never been. He's good-looking, strong, kind. But they both love books, so in a time, they warm up to each other. They spend long hours in library, arguing over the complexity of human relationships in A Tale of Two Cities, and Dean thinks that maybe... maybe he can be happy.
Perhaps there is something between Dean and Douglas, or perhaps not. Dean never finds out. He goes abroad to study, while Douglas finds a job as a journalist. Dean offers him a loan, but Douglas is too proud to take it. "I'll earn the money and join you". But he never does - because Juliet Murray happens, with her slow, blossoming smile. Douglas writes him about the wedding and Dean writes back, congratulating them. He doesn't understand - for many years he doesn't understand, not until Emily smiles at him - her mother's smile, he later finds out - and he's utterly lost.
He travels to escape. He travels to forget.
He tries to write a book, once. He vowes he will never try again. *inspired by a fanfic*
He tells Emily "I'll wait for you" and hates himself for that. After all, she's just a child. Douglas' child, which is far worse. Dean loved her father - he isn't sure what the love was, as a friend, as a... But now, Douglas is gone and Emily is the only thing Dean has left. *Douglas/Dean inspired by fanfic and conversation on tumblr*.
Dean thinks Emily is going to be gone, too. But he picks up the broken aster she crushed and puts it away between the page of Jane Eyre. He marks a verse "All glorious rose upon my sight / That child of shower and gleam." *canon*
He asks Emily if she's going to miss him. He no longer travels to escape - he travels to hear her voice say "very much so, Dean".
(Part 2 in a a separate post, because it is too long).
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Asmodeus' trip to the human world - Part 2
Asmodeus was left alone in the human world, the only step back was that he had to write letters to Lucifer every now and again. Since demons can't lie, this was a full-proof plan from Lucifer's perspective. Asmodeus was dropped off in Wallachia at the age of a forest.
It was dark outside, the silence only broken by some barks in the distance. Asmodeus woke up with a mild headache and layed on the ground for a bit longer, taking in the unfamiliar scents and feelings. Abbadon had no grass, neither did Paradise Lost... now that he thinks about it, only Gehenna had any greenary. Asmodeus began to stroke the grass like the back of a family dog. The blades of grass between his digits sending shivers down his spine. He should order grass be planted all over Abbadon when he gets home. Suddently, he heard a melodic song coming from the forest, and when he turned to figure out what was going on, he spotted a group of women holding hands and dancing. Asmodeus thought himself lucky for so easily getting some wonderful women right next to where he spawned, but as Asmodeus got up, they stopped dancing.
"Oh, are you all so impressed by my beauty that you stopped your dancing. Please don't, I only wished to join you, ladies. But it's kind of dull dancing to no music at all, maybe I could get you to sing my name." Asmodeus tried using his charm ability, but the women glared him down. Without warning they started lunging at him and screeching. As Asmodeus was taken by surprised and tryed to run, he yelled "This is not what I ment! What was Lucifer on when he fell in love with you?"
Asmodeus ran towards the small village near-by and the women followed. The women's lust for blood went directly to Asmodeus' dick and he tried desprately to get it to stop. "This is not the time for fucking, dick! Think, Asmodeus, think, something that's very unappealing. Um... shit, I don't know! Lucifer! That's right, do these women know him?" Asmodeus turned to the women and screamed back, even louder than them "Voi stiti cine-i tata?! My daddy is Lucifer himself!"
The repulsion to Asmodeus' statement made the women stop chasing him. They were disgusted by his obcenity and seeming arousal by his father. They wouldn't dirty their hands with his blood.
Seeing himself alone, Asmodeus sighed in releaf before he realised that he was walking on gravel. Asmodeus hated the feeling of his feet touching anything, much less something as harsh as gravel. He started to flout like usual. Wherever he walked, the dogs would stop barking, leaving the town feeling dead. Bored, he decided to visit the biggest building in the village, the church. He heard from Lucifer that churches were made by humans to worship God, his true father. But even God was sometimes repulsed by Asmodeus, even when he did normal tasks like bending over or licking ice cream. Asmodeus never liked God, so seeing a place of worship for him felt out of place. Only Lucifer would build something like this. Humans really were a lot like Lucifer, always praying to a father that would never listen.
Asmodeus' sad reflection ended when a man with a lantern in hand went inside the building.
"Tulai! Sariti, un demon in biserica! Sculati pe Popa! Doriane, adu agheazma!" The man yelled to the quiet village, which slowly but surely started walking outside to see what was happening. Asmodeus' glowing red eyes and horn wheren't helping his case. He tried to speak with the people but none of them listened and called the priest on him. The priest started spraying Asmodeus with scented water, which was one of his biggest icks. The feeling of small dropplets of water slithering down his skin, the scent of lavander overpowering his senses. He covered his ears and screamed, running away once more from the priest. Everyone was gawking at his missery, but the overstimulation of his senses was to overpowering for him to care about humiliation. They chased him two towns over before Asmodeus once more ran into the forest where he proceeded to cry and screech like a dying animal from the unpleasant feelings.
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Well, that hiatus didn't last long. Anyway enjoy more priest porn
Worship Like a Dog
Notes: NSFW, fem!reader in mind, use of vibrators, priestly worship, dom Pucci, improper use of Stands, ⚠️spoilers for the Heavy Weather arc are included, if yk, yk.
You listened to him softly speak the words of the lord in a voice so elegant it made your spine tingle. His voice echoed through the quiet church for all to hear. But he wasn't alone.
Maybe it was just you. Maybe nerves made you think the soft vibration coming from your panties was a lot louder than it actually was.
You tried to keep still. But the pleasant vibration inside you was far too good to ignore.
The way it rubbed against your clit. The way the vibration tickled your walls so continuously without fail made you want to double over and moan to the heavens. But you were in public... Sat next to his brother, no less.
"Are you all right? Your face is flushed."
Domenico. Sweet, so caring Domenico. How he moved his face close to yours so you could hear his whisper over Pucci's sermon only made you feel worse.
"I'm f-fine. Just a little queasy."
"Are you sure? I know Enrico wouldn't mind if I took you home early."
"Not a problem!" You squeaked out once Pucci put the vibrator on twofold suddenly. The weight of his gaze on you was suddenly very noticable. "Thank you, Dom. But I couldn't bare to miss one of his services. I'll be fine." You tried to give him what you hoped was a reassuring smile and he finally seemed to back off.
You both settled back into silence as the priest finished his first reading from the great book.
"Thank you. Now, please rise for the mornings first pray."
Oh boy.
The church stood together with bowed heads and closed eyes. All except for you. Not with this thing in you, even standing was making it worse, like your legs crossing was forcing it deeper in you.
You forced yourself to fold your hands in front of you, but didn't close your eyes. You kept your hooded gaze forward to look at Pucci, who looked right back with a lustful wink. Between his own clasped hands was the remote to his vibrator, where only you could see it.
Minutes ticked by like hours. You could've sworn you felt sweat bead down your neck. Throughout the service he wouldn't let the toy in your panties reach over a medium buzz. Pucci would switch it between barely felt and just enough to drive you crazy but not enough to satisfy you. Your panties had to be soaked now.
It was the last hour of the mornings service. Pucci's melodic voice continued to drone on about biblical themes. You couldn't understand any of it. You were too busy watching the hands on the clock tick by so slowly. It was like he could tell, as the vibrations rocketed again.
Everyone's head came up from the final pray and began to make small talk around the church. You on the other hand had places to be now that the priest wasn't on stage.
You said your quick goodbye to Domenico before speeding away out of sight. The church grew colder as you made away from the main hall, taking some twists and a turns to the private room where Pucci waited for you.
He was sat in a love seat on the farthest wall, a book in hand as he pretended to read. Pucci put the book down after you walked, legs shaking like hell still. He stared at you with those beautiful eyes of his, shining in the bright light from above.
"My dear what's wrong? You look a little sick."
He clicked a hidden button and the buzzing became louder than ever before. The force of the new sensation on your clit sent you to your knees crying out his name. He took his damn sweet time making it over to you. He only watched while you became a wet moaning mess at his feet.
"Pleeaaase Enrico! I can't take it, I'm gonna die if I keep this thing in me for any longer! Take it out, please!"
"You're so needy, dear." Pucci leaned down the slightest bit to cup your chin in his hand. His hold was soft like a feather, barely felt but cold like a ghost's. "Maybe if there was some way you could show me your appreciation for me, show me how much you need my help, maybe I could lend myself to you."
"Y-You, you want me to beg? I'll beg then! I'll kiss your shoes. Please help me, Enrico! You're incredible, the most amazing priest, a beautiful man of God. Please give yourself to me, I'm so incredibly in need of you, your body, your everything! A sinner like me doesn't deserve you, but could you let me indulge in you if only for this moment?"
It all spewed out like water over a cliff. You needed all of him so bad, to feel his thick cock force itself into your hole, pressing against everything all at once and overstimulate you until you're nothing but a babbling mess on his dick.
He pressed his thumb against your lips, not letting you speak another word. Everything he did was so elegant, so poised and perfect. It fucking made you hornier.
"Now, now, my dear. I can't have you sounding like some common harlot... I'll help you this once, just open your self to me and get ready for our session together." How he licked his lips after speaking made you feel like you were going to combust.
You did as he told and fervently undressed of all your clothes excluding your panties. He told you he wanted to do that himself. So he picked you up and strode to the alter in the middle of the room. With a gentleness he hadn't shown before he laid you down on the pedestal between your open legs. He raked over your needy body with his beautiful eyes before slowly peeling off your panties from your wet bottom half.
"My dear girl, so needy for me...Now now, don't whine, I'll take care of you." In a swift move he took out your vibrator, still going and letting of it's small noise. Pucci watched it for a second before turning it off, then putting it to his lips, taking it into his mouth to suck it clean and lick at the part that had just been inside you. He let out the most delicious moans, hearing them made you feel wetter. "Love, your juices can rival even the blood of God."
Enrico pulled you closer by your thighs until the v of your legs pressed against his hard crotch. The impact of hitting his dick just right let loose a moan.
"And that voice... It's more beautiful than any choir. I simply can't get enough of you."
He trailed his tongue up from your collar to your neck to nibble at your ear. His hot breaths mixed with yours while he clambered on top of you. You didn't hear his belt or his pants hit the floor, but you felt it as he thrusted all of him deep inside you in one move.
"I could just devour you whole."
His voice rattled with his alluring words as he drank up all of you. His eyes fluttered shut while he indulged in your wet heat before he began his merciless thrusts. You held on to his shoulders for dear life, sobbing his name as his cock pressed into your most sensitive spots. He filled you entirely and didn't let up for a second.
"Oh, God. God. God. Fuck, yes! Enrico please give me more!"
He was silent, but did as you asked. The hands that had wandered to your hips made it down to your thighs and legs, and forced them close to your chest. You cried out in extasy as this new angle forced all of him deeper inside you. Pucci drank in the cock hungry face you had, with tears staining your cheeks and drool falling down your neck. Your breasts heaved with every intake of breath you couldn't catch, your senses were overloading, thinking and feeling and smelling and seeing only him, him, him, him... Until it was too much and you came like a freight train, squeezing so tight around his dick, screaming his name like a righteous hymn and clawing down his back.
Pucci took his own time coming to his end. He ignored the strangled overstimulated whimpers creeping from your throat until he silenced you by putting his thumb in your mouth. By subconscious habbit you started to suck.
His thrusts grew harder, bruising your pelvis with every sharp burst forward. He finally came with a low groan, his cum poured from his tip deep inside of you, filling you up in slow, thick bursts.
He left you shaking on the podium while he fixed his robes and cleaned the rest of the room of evidence. Once he was done his gaze swept over you with bored but satisfied eyes. "That was good fun, my dear. I thank you for your time... But unfortunately I have to bring it to an end."
You were too out of it to reply. He suddenly cupped your face in his hand, the cool contact had you nuzzling deeper into his palm despite his threatening words. You grew drowsy, and as your eyes slid close for sleep the unmistakable sound of a disc slipping from your temple was heard. "You wouldn't forgive me for being so forceful on you... But make no mistake, I'll be sure to keep these hidden away for more private affairs." Pucci chuckled lightly, staring down adoringly at your unconscious body. He'd make sure to take care of you, of course. Maybe some day he could give you back the memory of this lovely scene, and make more with you. Until then, his sinful use of your body would be his own little secret.
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this has been tumbling around in my mind for the last week so now i have to expose all of you to it. shoutout to @wellgoslowly for listening to this in person
lockwood LOVES listening to classic rock and metal (as well as a few older pop-punk but he'll never admit to it). anything from the seventies and eighties (he pretends that no other era of metal exists and if you even say the phrase "nu metal" around him he WILL see red and draw his rapier). it doesn't matter who the band is or what subgenre they are, as long as the song was released pre-nineties he loves it, although he tends to prefer more mainstream bands and artists (respect) like ozzy osbourne, judas priest, kiss, etc. the only band he will break this rule for is metallica - they are his all-time favorite band and i will die on that hill. and when i say he WORSHIPS james hetfield... that is an UNDERSTATEMENT. james is like a pseudo-father to him. he doesn't want to put posters on his walls so he keeps a scrapbook of pictures cut out of old magazines of james, lars, kirk, cliff, even jason and rob. he is a number one dave mustaine hater and will defend lars's drumming skills until he's blue in the face. lucy got him a signed copy of ride the lightning for his birthday one year and george didn't see either of them leave lockwood's room for a week. there are only three things he loves in this world: his family, his friends, and james hetfield.
lucy, i feel like, has the most whiplash taste in music. like, yes, we can all agree lucy is your average indie pop listener and i am a major supporter of that hc (i know what linnie’s playlists sound like) but i guarantee you when she shuffles her most-listened-to playlist it goes from crane wives immediately to cannibal corpse. she loves death metal, deathcore, goregrind; the nastier the better (except for black metal - iykyk). the era doesn’t matter to her either although she tends to gravitate toward the older stuff. think opeth, cryptosy, morbid angel, deicide, obituary, venom, slayer, even xavlegimaofffassssitimiwoanindutroabcwapwaeiippohfffx - she loves playing the “can i figure out the name of the band given the logo” game and if she loses she listens to them. she finds it a great way to unleash her stress and anger without hurting herself or others or even taking it out on a case. she doesn't like to mosh (autism) but she loves watching people in the pit at concerts. she drags lockwood and george to the store to help her pick out plushies to give to corpsegrinder. one night she goes to a taylor swift concert and rushes out at the end to make it to sanguisugabogg in time. she's also a big female-rage/female-led fan (fem supporting fem yk how it is). if there is even a single fem-presenting band member she is instantly ride-or-die (within reason, of course). any time conquer divide/castrator/cyrpta do an eu tour she essentially becomes a roadie.
george. oh, george. my beloved kin. the only one who understands me and i him. his taste in rock and metal is... i don't know a better way to describe it other than neurodivergent fruity. it needs to have some kind of element to it that he can latch onto other than just the music - costumes, over-the-top production, detailed lore, etc. like lockwood, he doesn't really care about the subgenre; as long as he likes the sound he'll listen. he tends to frequent more of the nu/prog/melodic/symphonic side of metal, though. he's your average autistic ghost fan and makes it everyone else's problem. he knows all the lore and has dedicated his life to every incarnation of papa (primo is his favorite but he loves them all). he can tell the ghouls in every era apart in an instant and is a consistent quintessence ghoul kinnie. he will not hesitate to get into twitter beef to defend his opinions (bro's in the trenches of toxic ghostwt). he's one of the most well-known ghost accounts on every social media platform and actively writes fanfiction (about the characters, NOT the real people), character analyses, and essays. he's also a HUGE sleep token fan (he understands their lore better than vessel himself and has created a youtube commentary channel just to break down each of their songs) and ice nine kills fan (he's a number one ricky armellino lover and has forced lockwood and lucy to watch all of the horror movies that the silver scream one and two are based off of). he loves avatar and made his own ringmaster costume (lucy walked in on him trying to recreate johannes's makeup and slowly backed out of the room; the situation was never mentioned again) and when chris motionless unveiled his new hair he screamed so loud that the others thought someone had broken into portland row (lockwood had to restrain him while lucy hid his laptop to prevent him from ordering purple hair dye). he has a ziplock bag of (definitely expired) marshmallows that he calls his “rammstein concert care package.” he pretends to be a gatekeeper but the instant someone mentions even a passing interest in any of his favorite bands he will burst into tears.
skull enjoys smooth jazz.
#big fan of projection in this house#they all listen to rock and metal but none of their subgenres overlap#and i love them for that#george's paragraph is just an autobiography#i've been diagnosed with chronic george karim kinnie syndrome. it's incurable#this went off the rails so sorry#metalhead aaron’s hcs strike again#anthony lockwood#lucy carlyle#george karim#netflix lockwood and co#lockwood netflix#lockwood and co#anthony bloody lockwood#save lockwood and co#queer-and-nerdy
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Waltz to Death - Prologue
Xe watched as the more experienced deity shifted its shape through multiple different Syrens. She could almost make out the individuals’ features but they shifted too fast for her to get a good grip. Finally, they settled into what looked like a young man with chin-length fluffy hair and blazing blue eyes. He was wearing a dark blue traveler’s outfit made of thick wool. “This one works, I suppose.” His voice was pleasant and melodic, as usual. “I am in a more extravagant mood today but it’s not quite appropriate to wear silks in this weather,” he laughed and he and Xe walked down a winter road, “so I guess I’ll settle for a boring traveler today.”
Xe still didn’t know how he could be so many things and people. Sometimes he wasn’t even a he, most times he didn’t adhere to any of those specifics. She told herself that she didn’t mind that she didn’t even know his name if he even had one. She admired his skill and thought of her own as she could only shift into a few different forms, and not any other people than how she usually expressed herself.
Xe fastened the buttons on her fur-lined coat. A bitter wind was beginning to stir and sting her cheeks. Her traveling companion didn’t look outwardly fazed. However, he had given himself a scarf that covered his face and nose. “There’s an inn up that way,” he said, pointing to a brick structure with a plume of smoke flowing lazily out of its chimney, “I’m sure they’ll like some business on this cold winter night.”
She agreed and the two of them made their way to the inn. The path they were walking on had been crudely shoveled out and made it so they had to walk single-file. The snowbanks were almost as tall as Xe, although they only reached to her companion’s shoulders. I guess I’m just short, thought Xe with an inward laugh.
As they made it to the inn, her companion checked them in. He pretended not to notice the innkeeper’s startled expression when she noticed his unnaturally blue eyes. When they were safe in their room he sighed, “Yellow probably would’ve been a better choice.”
“I like the blue. It’s classic,” Xe replied, settling down on the smaller of the two beds. The other was larger, but not by much.
“The yellow is ‘classic’ too,” he replied.
“I suppose,” Xe looked up at the bare wood ceiling, “One question. I’ve known you for almost my entire life, which admittedly isn’t that long, but I still don’t know your name.”
“I thought you didn’t mind not knowing?”
“I guess I do now.”
“Well, since you asked, my name is Aurentis,” he said. Xe figured that the name roughly translated to “fractal” or “the one who confuses through shape” in Oldest Syran, the language of Upper Gods like Albys and Syrra. The name made sense from what she knew of him.
As far as Xe knew, Aurentis was one of the older gods in the pantheon, although they usually kept to themself or did errands for Syrra, who couldn’t leave her domain lest she be cast out permanently and another god take her place as Priest of the Sun. From that logic, Xe figured that the whole reason she was with them was that she was the errand for Syrra, whatever that meant. It left a bad taste in her mouth but she still had some sort of innate respect for the Sun Goddess, was she the one who made her? She tried her best not to think of it.
All she knew now was that they were headed north, and at this point, they were about halfway across The Towering Range that split the continent of Seunby-Sy in two. On one side was the Golden Rainforest, named for the way the sunlight filtered through the leaves; and the Kingdom of Tataki and the Vetur Alliance of Provinces, both of which were subject to a terrible lycanthropic curse over a hundred years ago which made all their citizens more wolf or foxlike than human. On the other side of the mountains is the cold Xiollan desert and strangely crystalline Aevum forest, along with the split Syrenian kingdoms of Ornithincia and Sylven. Xe thought it was strange that she never had to be told this information, but maybe it just came with the territory of being a god? Demigod? Spirit? Angel? Something along those lines.
The next day they started their descent down from the mountains. Traveling became much quicker once they got out of the domain of people, as they could shift into more graceful shapes and run on four tireless legs. Aurentis preferred a form similar to a wolf or fox, although it was taller with long legs and tail, and a peculiar blue coloring with dark blue stripes that ran down the entire length of its body. Xe’s favorite form was a black wolf with one long horn on one side of her head. And so they ran for tireless miles, and sometimes they flew, Xe as an eagle and Aurentis as a dark blue jay with stars glittering under its wings.
“Where are we going?” Xe finally asked.
“To Albys. You need the blessing of the Moon Preist,” Aurentis said, diving through the sky to land in the suddenly appearing prairie. And she heard no more about it.
#oc#writing#original story#this is mostly for my YouTube followers lol#anyways writing a thing#I’ll try to keep up and remember to write#original pantheon#worldbuilding
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Name: Lukas Zabek
Species: Vampire
Occupation: Catholic Priest / Freelance Writer
Age: 37 Years Old
Played By: Addie
Face Claim: Nicolas Hoult
"That does sound troublesome. Why don’t you let me help?"
TW: Emotional abuse, religious trauma
Father Lukas was a devoted man that was something very few people could deny hearing the young priest. Full of passion and eagerness to help, his sermons were the highlight of many a faithful parishioner. Moreover, in the silence of a confessional booth, Father Lukas was a gentle guiding spirit in all things, leaving both room for reflection and peace in his counsel. While others may have preached fire and brimstone, his preoccupation was always that of everlasting love. Steering away from doom, much of the prisoners enjoyed his optimistic outlook and his gentle reminders to care for one another.
It wasn’t a shock then, when Father Lukas was selected to make a pilgrimage back to Poland -- a land that he had only the vaguest memories of. Without much thought the Father accepted, thinking at the very least he could see the graves of his parents who had been buried there years ago. He hadn’t realized he would ever get to return home, and part of him was excited at the chance. As he left, he promised the flock that he would soon return, and set off to Krakow. There he was to help at the old Basilica as he took small trips to holy sites. There he hoped to become more learned, and to better serve his community that always seemed on the brink of disaster.
It was there that he first met his Angel near the outskirts of the Church. She was pleasant and astute, approaching the Priest with a gleam in her eye. Her hair golden and laughing melodically she had asked for counsel that the priest was happy to provide. After all, even on a pilgrimage he was still a man of God, seaking to lead people to the light. It wasn’t only his job to go to holy sites, but also help those in need. Thus, the Father and her spent hours talking, her pointing out the corruption and the whispers of the men that he had admired. Father Lukas, for what it was worth, had tried to defend them. He pointed out the goodness that they had. Amused, something that he knew now, she asked him if she proved that they weren't Holy men if he would join her. Knowing that it was a tall order, he accepted. After that, he didn’t see the strange young woman, and he wondered if perhaps she had figured out that she was wrong.
When she came to him that fateful night, Lukas could admit he was frightened. After all, they had set out to the nearby monastery -- and were not in the city limits. The forest was thick and, well he could have sworn that he hadn’t told her that they were going. Still, she looked lovely, heartbreakingly beautiful but she was covered in the other priest's blood. She had been right, they hadn’t been holy enough stuttering in fear as they were stricken down by the small woman who must not be human. Surely, she was right. In that moment though, instead of holding his cross, Lukas bowed his head and dropped to his knees and accepted the lesson she gave. Thoughts creeped into his mind, how he must have failed as well. After all, this Angel was about to kill him and no God was around to stop it.
Still, he let her come up to him without a struggle, and with a whisper he accepted her and that she won. Whatever lesson this was, he had learned it. If God had been on his side, surely this would not have happened. With that, his Angel simply smiled, placed a kiss on his cheek, and stabbed him cleanly through the heart. Unlike the other Priests she followed him down, keeping him cradled in her arms, keeping him close and obscuring everything other than her. On the brink of death he heard her reply, telling him that he would be reborn soon, and to not fight the blood that was now in his mouth.
When he woke up, Lukas knew that he was no longer a man, feeling the burning in his throat was harsher than a man could have quenched with water. However, like she had suggested to me over all those nights, maybe he had been wrong. The others had fallen because they weren’t strong enough, God hadn’t protected them the way they claimed. A new philosophy of heartbreak and blood filled him with a new purpose and now he could see that more clearly. With that, Father Lukas -- the good faithful man -- embraced his new life.
In the following two decades Lukas and the woman he now understood to be a vampire worked to keep his bloodlust in check. After all, she was getting close to a permanent change, one that meant Lukas would need to be her eyes and ears. Eager to follow, Lukas trained for the role as eagerly as he had with his previous occupation. Shedding the previous teachings, he learned that salvation and immortality came with a price -- and that devotion meant nothing without sacrifice. If she could not lead others in the coming years Lukas would be more than willing to take on the role.
After all, he is pretty sure he is still a good man even if his hands now cannot hold the rosary he once treasured. Although the line between man and monster is now blurred, he’s sure that he can lead and provide true leadership. In any case, as his Angel asked, his eyes have turned back to his home to spread the word of immortality and freedom through the dark. After all, a Shepard is nothing without his flock and he had plenty of new sermons to give.
Character Facts:
Personality: Reverent, judgemental, idealistic, haughty, charismatic, obsessive, kind
Lukas is constantly trying to hold religious items which has ended up scarring his hands. He’s also tried to enter his old church to no avail. He’s sure that it’s a test.
He has a special fondness for humans, especially those who show tenacity. He will very often offer his help, although it’s rarely something that they want.
Although he believes his sire is an angel, he is still rather frightened of her and will not divulge much information on her including her name.
Lukas is very strict on his feedings and will go out of his way to “test” his strength. It doesn’t always end well.
Lukas does still try to provide advice and guidance to people, his advice can be somewhat weird and concerning.
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A Riff of Retribution | Heavy Metal Hunters 1 | Chapter 1
January chill bit into Hale’s skin. The wolf pelt he’d picked up years ago at a second hand store in Gothenburg kept the worst of it out. He closed his eyes to focus on committing the sound of wind whistling through the trees to memory. Tomorrow, he would do his best to transcribe the sound for guitar.
If we make it to tomorrow.
There was always the risk on these trips that every night would be their last. Hale had made peace with that a long time ago.
Aleksandr’s voice from the other side of the fire was the only human sound in the Swedish mountains. It was strange to hear the words in his soft melodic voice rather than Ragnar’s death growls. Strange, but pretty.
Two thousand years ago, Aleksandr would have been a priest or a storyteller in a small mountainside town, and he would have been happier for it. He wasn’t meant for rapid modern life. He sifted through the rabbit bones at his feet with the stick he’d been using to stoke the fire, trying to read some kind of message from the gods in them.
“Freyja spoke to me yesterday,” he said in soft Swedish.
Hale raised an eyebrow, silently urging him to continue.
“I had this dream. There was a… fetal deer eating its own umbilical cord. I think she wants you to call your mother.”
That was… disgusting.
Even though he was used to Aleksandr saying these sorts of things, Hale made a face. and shook his head. Some of his hair fell from the loose bun. He tied it back up to keep it out of his face despite the wind’s best efforts. His finger brushed one of the beads in the thin braid on the right side, more out of habit than anything else.
“I think she wants you to stop smoking so much pot,” Hale said.
The rustle of branches interrupted Aleksandr’s soft laugh. Their eyes met for a brief moment. Aleksandr unsheathed the long dagger strapped to the side of his leg, while Hale’s hand settled on his already-loaded crossbow. Guns might have been more practical, but they would have to account for every bullet. It was more trouble than it was worth. The ash bolts were more effective than bullets anyway.
More movement came from Hale’s left. His head snapped in the direction of the sound.
Two of them?
“Aleksandr,” he said sharply.
“I know.”
With his free hand, Hale found the silver mjolnir pendant and engagement ring hanging from the leather cord beneath his jacket and kissed them. He rolled his shoulders to let the pelt fall back onto the snow. His eyes were fixed on the tight line of trees.
Odin, protect us.
They had been lucky so far. They had survived these hunting trips on and off for eleven years now. Hopefully, this year would make it twelve.
A woman’s voice cried out in the darkness.
“Help me! Help me!”
Hale ground his teeth against the instinct to find her. He didn’t know if this tactic was something they learned or if it was ingrained into them. The nearest cabins were all empty right now. They had checked before sundown and found no sign of human life.
That had been several hours ago. Somebody very well could have wandered up into the mountains and gotten hurt or lost in that time.
Hale doubted it.
The same cry came from behind him. This time, it was a man’s voice.
“Help me! Help me!”
Hale stood and raised his crossbow with both hands. Though it was fairly light, he was mindful of the way the weight tugged at the scars behind his left shoulder. In his periphery, Aleksandr sheathed the dagger and raised his own crossbow instead.
This wasn’t right.
Draug weren’t like European or North American vampires. They didn’t move in pairs. It was likely why Hale and Aleksandr had survived doing this so long. It was always two against one.
They had a strategy. His job was to slow the bastards down so Aleksandr could finish them off. Two of them coming from different directions complicated things.
“Hale,” Aleksandr said.
Hale knew that tone.
“Don’t,” he warned.
“You’ve been a good brother.”
“Fuck off.”
Aleksandr laughed softly.
“I love you too, Hale.”
Hale’s lip twitched into a smile despite himself.
“Come on, you fucks,” he muttered.
The silence was worse than the noise. Had they seen the weapons and retreated?
No—
From his left—
“Hale!”
Hale spun.
Eyes glowed yellow in the light of the fire. His finger twitched on the trigger. The bolt went wide.
Dammit!
The draug moved fast, too fast for Hale to follow. There was no point trying to see it. He allowed instinct to take over. He turned in the direction of the hairs prickling on the back of his neck as he released the bolt without letting himself think about it. A howl of pain rang through his eardrums. The draug paused long enough that Hale could see the bolt sticking from her thigh. She stared at him with sharp teeth bared and wide eyes a blue so pale, they were nearly white. She was thin enough that he could make out the bones of her skull and collarbones where her torn and bloody clothes hung loose from her body. It was impossible to tell how old she’d been as human.
Jeans and a t-shirt.
Had she been killed in the summer?
Hale smothered down the guilt before it could distract him. One week a year. That was the agreement. Anything outside that week wasn’t his responsibility. All he could do was put the poor thing out of her misery and keep her from killing anybody else.
His weak shoulder gave out a little as he pulled the trigger again. The bolt stuck between the draug’s ribs instead of her heart.
“How are you doing, Aleksandr?” he shouted.
The lack of verbal response wasn’t encouraging.
“Aleksandr!”
“I’m fine!”
Hale slipped his shoulder to the side, narrowly avoiding the woman’s claws aimed for his face. The ash poisoning was slowing her down already. She was too close for the crossbow. He let it fall to the ground and moved his right leg back.
A sharp cry rang out behind him.
“Aleksandr?”
Hale made the mistake of looking back. He didn’t see Aleksandr or the other draug.
“Aleksandr!”
Gods, where was he? Where—
The woman slammed into him. The snow broke his fall, and the pain was muffled by the spike of adrenaline in his veins. He braced his left hand against her rotting throat to keep her teeth from his face. Cold pain pulled at the scars behind his shoulder. The weak muscles quivered with the effort of holding her back against gravity. Her ugly snarl looked even more inhuman in the firelight.
Hale’s pendants were hot where they’d fallen back against his skin.
Protect him, you bastards, not me. He’s not a fighter!
Hale could handle himself, but Aleksandr—
Aleksandr could hold his own. He wasn’t as soft as he looked. Hale couldn’t think of him while the woman’s short claws raked at his arms. She was clearly young enough they hadn’t had a chance to grow long yet. The sleeves of his jacket kept them from breaking his skin.
Hale shifted to push the woman back a few inches with his good arm. He wedged his knee up between them. His fingers scrambled over his thigh until they found the hilt of his dagger.
Blood splattered on his face as he drove the blade into the underside of her jaw. She howled and screamed around the metal. He kept his grip on the hilt as she jerked back, dislocating her jaw. She fell back, and Hale was on her in a less than a breath. He dropped his weight onto the dagger. It took two tries to get it between the ribs and into her heart.
It was concern for Aleksandr that made him stand as the draug woman thrashed on the snow, not the sick feeling that came with watching her die.
This never did get easier.
“Aleksandr?”
“I’m— I’m okay. I got it.”
Aleksandr wavered a little as he stood. As Hale approached, he made out the figure of the male draug in the firelight. Crossbow bolts stuck from his body, including two protruding from his heart beside the dagger.
“Are you hurt?” Hale asked.
He unzipped his jacket and tossed it back onto the log Aleksandr had been sitting on. Sweat made the long-sleeved shirt underneath stick to his body. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Aleksandr did the same.
“I don’t think so,” Aleksandr said, looking himself over.
Hale guided Aleksandr closer to the fire so he could get a better look. His stomach clenched.
In Eir’s name—
“You’re bleeding,” Hale said.
Aleksandr looked down at himself, frowning.
“I am? Oh...”
Hale pulled one of his gloves off and grabbed the bottom of Aleksandr’s shirt. Aleksandr’s long fingers caught his wrist.
“No! I don’t want you to see,” Aleksandr said quietly.
For the love of all the Gods.
Hale had had seen Aleksandr at his worst. He had seen every one of his ink-covered scars. He was the one who’d found Aleksandr when he—
It wasn’t worth fighting over.
“I won’t look,” Hale promised.
If the injury was as mild as the amount of blood suggested, he wouldn’t have to.
Hale had two inches and a good fifty pounds on Aleksandr. Even with the sharp ache in his shoulder, it wouldn’t be difficult to manhandle him if he had to.
Aleksandr winced as Hale prodded at his stomach with his bare hand. His long fingers clutched at Hale’s arms.
“Breathe through it,” Hale said.
He took deep, exaggerated breaths that Aleksandr gasped to match. There were three breaks in skin on the left side, running from beneath his ribs to his navel. They didn’t feel deep enough to need more than a few stitches, but they would leave another scar. Aleksandr already had so many, both from fights with draug and from his own hands.
Hale flattened his palm against the gashes and wrapped his free arm around Aleksandr’s waist to hold him in place. Another scar would bother Hale far less than it would Aleksandr.
Aleksandr had survived some of the worst things a person could live through. Hale would never mistake the way Aleksandr clung to him as weakness.
Hale’s hand grew warm. He closed his eyes, focusing on the high singing of the wind through the trees. Aleksandr let out a pained sound and jerked. Hale tightened his grip.
“It’s all right, Aleksandr. Relax.”
The heat burned. Hale clenched his teeth together to keep his expression neutral. A light sting began at the base of his ribs and drew downward in a mirror of the wounds on Aleksandr’s body. He couldn’t let it show how much this hurt him. It was bearable. The worst would come in a few days when Eir took her payment for healing Aleksandr from him.
Aleksandr squirmed in discomfort as the deeper muscles knotted themselves together. Hale kept his hand in place until the gashes wouldn’t heal anymore. He pulled his shaking hand back and wiped his palm on his pants.
“We should finish with these,” Hale said, nodding toward the corpses bloodying the snow.
Cutting the heads off and carving out the hearts was just a precaution. The bodies would return to the earth on their own when the sun rose. Hale grabbed his hatchet from where it rested against the log he’d been sitting on and turned to the female draug.
“Hale,” Aleksandr whispered. “Hale!”
Hale spun, raising the hatchet to hurl it at what he expected to be a third draug, and froze.
The woman and two men flanking her were not draug. Their bare feet didn’t leave any prints in the snow as they approached. They wore fur pelts, long wool robes, and jewelry that looked like it was made of bone. Antlers protruded from their heads. Ornate headdresses obscured the top halves of their faces.
“What are they?” Hale said.
“Fjallvættir,” Aleksandr whispered.
Mountain spirits?
“I thought they were just stories,” Hale said.
He knew how stupid the words were as soon as they left his mouth. Draug were just stories, too. What he could do was just a story, too.
They stopped walking far enough to be nonthreatening, but close enough to make out their features in the flickering firelight. Their skin was as white as the snow. Black lines ran from their cheekbones to their jaws.
Hale’s breath stuck in his throat. The hatchet slipped from his hand. The pain that tore through his heart was almost enough to bring him to his knees.
It can’t be him.
It was impossible. He was dead, and what few pieces of him they’d managed to find had been cremated.
The man to Hale’s left with the smallest antlers smiled, his sharp teeth a bright contrast with his black lips.
In that moment, he’s 22 again, sitting outside on a night just like this. Aleksandr is across from him and Sören Ecklund is beside him with his arm around Hale’s shoulder. They’re laughing and drinking, celebrating Hale and Sören's engagement, Hale’s birthday in a week, and the launch of Emperor Immortal’s debut album. The release was the month before, but Aleksandr and Hale had been too busy with exams to celebrate. Hale doesn’t usually drink much, and he’s already a little bit buzzed.
“To the two greatest guitarists in Sweden!” Sören shouts. “May Braggi bless you both.”
Hale laughs. Sören kisses the side of his head, his cheekbone, his jaw, before Hale finally turns his head to connect their mouths. Aleksandr gags.
“I would have helped mom and dad move if I knew you’d be making out this entire time!”
Hale laughs again, presses his forehead to Sören's shoulder to hide his embarrassment. His hair, barely brushing his chin, isn’t long enough to cover his face.
“You’d better get used to it. I’m going to be making out with this man for the rest of my life,” Sören says.
Sören lifts Hale’s hand to kiss the engagement ring on his fourth finger, a plain stainless steel band with a small, red cubic zirconium stone set in the middle. Hale wonders why he keeps insisting they wait until he finishes his Master’s degree to get married. They should do it as soon as they get back to town.
Aleksandr interrupts the moment with loud singing, still perfectly in tune despite being drunk, until a woman’s cry cuts through.
“Help me! Help me!”
Sören rises to investigate. Hale blinks, and there’s screaming. Blood on the snow. A woman crouched over Sören, tearing through his abdomen. He pushes at her but there’s so much blood. He gasps, chokes on screams. A bloody hand reaches toward them. Fingers dig into the snow.
Glowing eyes turn to Hale, blood all over her face. Sharp teeth glow in the fire.
Hale throws himself at Aleksandr. They hit the ground hard. Sharp claws tear at his shoulder. All he can do is scream.
“Sören... Sören!”
Aleksandr’s cry broke through the waking nightmare. Hale darted across the snow to catch him across the waist. He pulled Aleksandr back to put himself between him and the fjallvættir.
“Stay back! It’s not him. He’s dead, Aleksandr, it isn’t him.”
It couldn’t be him. He’d been dead twelve years.
Hale had been at the funeral. He might have been drunk, but he’d been there. He’d been there when they’d scattered Sören's ashes in these very mountains. He’d watched the light go out of Sören's eyes as he bled out on the snow not ten feet from where they stood now.
The fjallvættr looked toward that spot and tilted his head in a way that made Hale’s throat tighten.
Aleksandr pushed against Hale’s arm. The muscles of Hale’s left shoulder tugged sharply as he pushed back with as much force as he could.
“Stay behind me,” Hale ordered.
Hale’s dagger was still stuck in the draug’s chest. He pulled the other one from inside his boot.
The woman approached the male draug’s body and crouched next to it as if Hale and Aleksandr weren’t there. She seemed to be studying it. Hale watched her in his periphery, keeping his eyes on the man that was not Sören. Her lips moved, but Hale couldn’t hear anything. The other man nodded.
Sören — It’s not Sören. — walkedto the spot where he’d died and stood there for a moment, looking down at the snow as if he could still see his own blood, before he turned toward Hale and Aleksandr.
Hale stiffened.
“Stay back,” he warned.
Behind him, Aleksandr chocked on a sob.
The man ignored him and kept walking. Even the damned sway of his hips and shoulders was familiar. He still had that scar on his cheek from a bike accident as a kid. When he smiled, his black lips still pulled up more at one side than the other.
Hale swallowed down his racing heart. The dagger trembled in his hand.
The other man walked around them to the body of the female draug. Hale barely noticed. All he could focus on was keeping Aleksandr back as Sören brushed some loose hair from Hale’s forehead. He traced cold, calloused fingers along Hale’s cheekbone and jaw. They settled on his lips for a moment before he hooked his middle finger around the black leather cord to lift the pendant and ring.
Sören's smile went soft, and he tilted his head just slightly.
You still wear these, his expression seemed to say.
Hale licked his lips. The spot Sören's fingers touched was cold. It made him shiver.
It was him. By all the fucking gods, it was really him. Somehow, it was him.
“I— met someone,” Hale whispered.
He didn’t know why he said it. He didn’t owe this figment of Sören an explanation. What did he have to feel guilty over?
There was nothing but joy in Sören's broad grin despite his sharp teeth. If Hale could see his eyes, he was sure they would be just as bright. He ran his hand through Hale’s hair the way he used to and traced a cold finger over Hale’s forehead. The lines he drew out made the familiar outline of the Helm of Awe. Painting it onto their foreheads like the Old Norse warriors for their live performances had been Sören's idea in the first place. Their outfits, stage setup, and the way they did their hair had changed over the years as the band grew and evolved, but the Helms remained.
Sören's hand curled around the back of Hale’s neck to pull him down so he could press a cold kiss to the center of Hale’s forehead.
Icy pain shot through Hale’s skull like a screwdriver was being shoved through it. The dagger slipped between his fingers as he pressed both hands to his face. White spots blinded him. A sharp scream tore itself from the back of his throat.
“Hale!”
Through hazy vision, Hale watched Sören step toward Aleksandr. Aleksandr froze, looking wide-eyed between the two of them.
“Stay away from him!” Hale ground out.
It might have been more effective if he could actually see straight. Sweat broke out along his spine. His breath fogged in front of his face.
Sören cupped Aleksandr’s face with one hand.
“Don’t touch him. I swear, if you hurt him, I will kill you!”
He didn’t care if this thing was a mountain spirit or Sören or fucking Odin himself. If he hurt Aleksandr, Hale would gut him.
If he could get a hold of his damned axe or dagger or crossbow…
Sören pulled Aleksandr tight against his chest. Aleksandr let out another choked sound and buried his face in Sören's shoulder.
Hale wrapped his hand around the hilt of his dagger and pushed himself upright, bracing his thighs to keep them from giving out. Exhaustion was quickly beginning to overtake him.
I’m getting too old for this.
He wasn’t in his 20s anymore. He hadn’t been very kind to his body in the last decade. Truth be told, he hadn’t intended to live so long. In a few years, he would be 40. It was a little surreal.
Keeping one eye on Sören and Aleksandr, he angled the dagger to catch his reflection in the firelight. It wouldn’t have surprised him to find an imprint of the Helm of Awe, but there was nothing.
Each of the other mountain spirits held a draug over their shoulders. They watched Sören as they carried the corpses to the edges of the trees. The woman’s mouth moved silently.
“No, no, don’t go!” Aleksandr shouted.
Hale turned to see Sören attempting to pull himself from Aleksandr’s arms. Though only the bottom of his face was visible, the downward turn of his mouth showed as much pain as the tears rolling from Aleksandr’s eyes.
“Please, just one more minute. I’m not ready yet, I’m not— ”
Sören managed to pry Aleksandr’s hands from his shoulders, only for Aleksandr to catch his wrists. His head tipped toward Hale. His lips pressed into a tight line, then twitched a little.
Hale swallowed. It took everything he had not to look at Sören, dropping the dagger as he walked. He wrapped his arms around Aleksandr’s waist. Even through the layers of clothes, he could feel Aleksandr’s heart racing and his lungs stuttering around his sobs.
“It’s all right,” Hale murmured, knowing damn well it wasn’t.
“No it’s not! Let me go, Hale! I swear to Odin—! Sören! Sören!”
Aleksandr’s broken scream reverberated through his back and pierced Hale’s eardrums. There seemed to be no other sound in the mountains, as if nature had silenced itself to give Aleksandr space to grieve.
No, that was too poetic. It was most likely the draug and the screaming scared off any lingering wildlife. The fjallvættir themselves might have done it too.
When Sören reached his companions, his step faltered. His shoulders shifted beneath the fur pelt as if he intended to look back at them. He didn’t. He only straightened his posture and followed the other two fjallvættir into the darkness, leaving Aleksandr sobbing in Hale’s arms, and a cold pit in Hale’s chest.
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Grains of Sand by The Shore
Chapter 4
The wedding ceremony began with the powerful yet melodic sound of singing voices and accompanying instruments, particularly drums, rising above all the sound. The musicians gave way to the priests, who took their places, the bride and groom walked along a path full of flowers, thrown as they walked. T'Challa came first, waiting for Nakia, beside the priests. Then the bride appeared, the future queen of Wakanda, decked from head to toe in a light green dress with gold accents, representing the river tribe, the headdress showing her importance as a bride and as a queen.
Shuri watched everything from the beginning, attentive to her brother's smile, he couldn't contain his happiness and it was nothing less than his right to enjoy a little joy. Nakia did seem more restrained, but her passionate look left no doubt that she wanted to be there.
The ceremony continued, with the words spoken in Wakandan, for a moment, Shuri thought if Namor and his entourage were understanding everything, for a moment, she went further, imagining what weddings in Talokan would be like, if they would have anything in common with those of Wakanda. Probably not, or maybe yes... without really understanding where it was all coming from, he left it behind. The Talokani knew it was a wedding and that was all they needed to know, they were smart enough to deduce what was going on.
To Talokan's guests, everything looked at least interesting, inviting, yet they tried to ignore some suspicious glances from other spectators. That suspicion weighed more heavily on Namor than he anticipated feeling, than he wanted to feel.
He would defend his people until the last moment, take advantage of Wakanda if he could, but in that moment he recognized that he would have to do a lot more to make up for the bad impression he had made on them. He knew, they were right to think so.
Pulling him out of his thoughts, the ceremony ended with a passionate kiss from the bride and groom and shouts of celebration throughout the room. Namor thought it best to at least clap so he wouldn't look so static and indifferent. Namora and Attuma just looked at him, noticing that their leader was making at least a little effort to fit in.
After T'Challa and Nakia received congratulations from several people, a feast was served for everyone, an invitation for everyone to sit down. As a member of the royal family, Shuri was right there near the king and queen, and without thinking of anything else, feeling a little tired from standing for a long time, she started to taste some of the food on her plate.
-Are you in such a hurry that you can't even congratulate the groom before eating? - T'Challa joked with his sister.
-Oh that, T'Challa, I'm happy, very happy for you, really! I said congratulations before the wedding and always will - she shrugged good-naturedly, looking at her brother - you finally got it right, that makes me happy enough.
-Thank you, Shuri, I really hope you're fine - even though he was the center of the spotlight that day, he worried about his little sister.
-Ah worry about yourself, it's your day, we can talk more about me later, okay? -she did her best to dodge, even though she knew she couldn't get away from a serious conversation with T'Challa for long.
To her relief and curiosity, Namor rose, heading straight for his host.
-Congratulations on your wedding, your majesty - he wished genuinely - that you and your queen live a happy life beside each other.
-Thank you Namor, I also thank you for coming, once again - T'Challa replied - I hope you are enjoying the party.
-We are, your hospitality is remarkable - the king of Talokan praised - I would feel honored to know more about Wakanda, maybe a tour of your palace, if possible.
-I can accompany you if you want - Shuri offered, to everyone's surprise, driven by a feeling of diplomacy, which she should keep.
"It would be nice to have your company again." Namor accepted the offer.
T'Challa and Nakia said nothing more as they watched Shuri leave in the company of their ally. Something between them worried them, but they trusted her to resolve everything in the best possible way.
Before they walked, Namor was introduced by the princess to each of the elders, which made him even more aware of the tribes she had mentioned earlier. There was the wisdom and tradition of Wakanda, looking and judging him from top to bottom, discreetly, although his imposing figure, yet relaxed due to the occasion of celebration, was intimidating to say the least.
Namor took advantage of the situation in his favor, talking, asking, understanding more about how 5 tribes so different could form a single people. Shuri watched him there, with the occasional comment in between conversation, mediating as he saw fit. She knew he was a pretty smart man, but seeing how he was interested in the surface, even more so in her country, left her surprised, even happy. Maybe he was returning the interest she herself felt for Talokan.
Leaving the hall full, Shuri showed other surroundings, he saw the massive, ancient, traditional walls. Suddenly, he took the silence out of the walk.
-Is Wakanda as old as Talokan? - Namor asked her.
-Oh I think not so much, maybe 1500 to 2000 years of difference - she deduced, thinking about the closest answer to the question - why do you think that?
-I was noticing the walls, it looks like an old construction, which perpetuated for generations, despite all the technology present - he mentioned.
-Yeah, I think we balanced one thing well with the other - she shrugged, gesturing with her hands - although I received heavy criticism from the same people you were being so friendly with just now...
-What do you mean exactly? - he was genuinely curious.
-I don't want to brag, but I'm the technological responsible for all of this, I've dedicated my whole life to this, I've always felt this kind of... calling, vocation, I don't know, but it's what I know how to do and I'm good at it, but my ideas are not always welcome - Shuri told about her dilemma.
-I noticed how talented you are with all this, don't feel bad for bad reviews, I believe it's your way of doing the best for your country - Namor spared no effort to praise her again, once again that day, Shuri noticed.
-I think I can say the same about you, you have your own way of defending your people and... well, the way you act shows how much you care about them, they are your family - she shared her opinion too.
-You're like that too, we have that in common - he pointed out, which left Shuri a little confused, and at the same time, realizing and admitting that he was right.
The two had become vindictive for the same reason, a destructive trait, but now she admitted that their love for their people was a good thing they had in common.
"That's good…" she decided to admit out loud.
"I agree," he said, just as quietly.
It seems that Shuri had taken the words out of him, which gave her a sense of satisfaction. Taking advantage of this in the conversation, she decided to give her curiosity a little voice as well.
-I don't have the habits of a typical princess - she said - I don't deal with what you expected from someone like me.
-I see what you mean - Namor let himself laugh, noticing that she was relaxed - yet you’‘re wearing something worthy of your position.
For a moment, she didn't know exactly what he was referring to, until she noticed her pulse.
-Oh that - Shuri observed the bracelet, admiring it once more - I wore it on purpose, showing that I consider Talokan.
"I thought maybe you got rid of it," he confessed.
-No, I didn't think of tha t -Shuri was moved to hear that, even touching his arm gently as a form of comfort - that was a gift, a memory of a special place, I couldn't do that.
-I appreciate your consideration - he thanked, feeling moved.
-I would love to go there again - Shuri let her excitement show little by little - study more about your technology, talk to the people, play with the children, if possible...
-You really liked it there, didn't you? - he allowed himself a smile - I can say the same from here, and I would come to Wakanda more often too.
"It's good to know we impressed you," she smiled at once.
"I expected nothing less from the most powerful nation on earth," Namor praised, returning the smile.
It was funny and at the very least peculiar how they had forgotten at that moment the conflicts of the past and were here now, together, laughing, like old friends.
Their closeness did not go unnoticed by those watching.
#grains of sand by the shore#my writing#black panther#mcu#shuri x namor#namor x shuri#shuramor#namuri#seaprincess#nashuri#arranged marriage au
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Despite the early hours of the morning, where most of the lands were still far into their sleep, a single priest wandered about his clinic with a look of utter determination upon his face. Arms were full of various items and objects he'd ordered for restocking, shifting about; vials upon vials of mending potions, salves, tinctures, and solutions. Worn labels browning from age, thin layers of dust upon the glass. Age didn't mean they went bad, however. Aedin liked to think of it as maturing - much more potent than they would have been.
Once glance around the clinic would tell the elf all he needed to know. He was just about finished with preparations and the office would be fit to open within the next day or so. Small beds for patients to sit upon, privacy screens made from a dark blue cloth lined with golden seams. Various herbs and medicinal flora hung from the ceilings to catch just enough sunlight from every window so they could flourish and provide a bountiful array. Shelves were stocked to the absolute brim with various medical instruments and mixtures, ready for any sort of job that may walk through the door at any given moment.
The priest set the remaining vials and bottles down and brushed his hands together, dust pluming up into the air as he did so. He'd sniffle and brush at his nose a tad to stop himself from the oncoming sneeze. A glance about before he trotted over to the window and pushed it open, almost immediately a soft breeze bellowing through the small clinic, filling it's corners with the scent of fresh air and flora. It was a comfort he'd not had in some time, waking up to such a view that he'd not seen in months. Dreadmist was not the most.. Visually pleasing to some; but to Aedin, he positively adored it. It made his heart swell with joy, even if only for a brief moment. He'd grasp around and take hold of his harp, blowing the thin layer of dust off the wooden surface. The elf hadn't gotten a chance to truly play in ages, giving a testing pluck at the strings. Still in tune, surprisingly enough.
Ever-so gently, Aedin continued to pluck at the strings of his harp until a melodic tune filled the air; somber in tone to fit the falling leaves and decay of the plants outside. The song would travel over the air and fill the otherwise quiet atmosphere, a gentle song for the early-morning workers to hear while they slaved away.
It'd been so long since he'd felt such comfort. So long since he'd felt whole in this way. There was no regrets to his actions; just a simple thought of moving forward and pressing on.
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Welcoming the Lick of Hell’s Flames
Summary: Father Steve Rogers is one of the priests of your congregation. After many confessional interactions, you feel the need to confess sinful urges of your own.
Pairing: Priest!Steve Rogers x Reader
Word Count: 2.2k+
Warnings: Oral sex (both ways), fucking on a desk, against a wall, religious content and guilt, questioning religion. Sweaty fucking honestly.
A/N: For those of you 18 and over!
Months had passed, and despite all of his praying, all of his asking God to take these urges away, they remained and were even stronger than ever. Each time he went to his mentor, Father Springs, he would tell him, “Father Rogers, pray a rosary and reflect on these sinful urges,” “Father Rogers, pray two rosaries this time and ask for God’s forgiveness. He loves you and will guide you if you ask,” “Father Rogers, remain steadfast and God will answer your prayers.”
Every day he heeded his mentor’s urges, but every day, upon his return home, his mind drifted to thoughts of you, the woman who he’d only seen glimpses of through the slotted mahogany walls of the confessional booth. The enticing scent of your perfume stirred in his mind as he pulled the collar from his neck, looking at it and shaking his head in disgust. Was he truly less a follower of God for urges that were built into so many?
As he pulled off his shirt, he allowed himself, despite his mentor’s voice looming large in his head, to drift to thoughts of you. The self-consciousness in your voice when you would admit to touching yourself, the melodic, tortuous sound of your voice as it traveled through the wall between you, the scent of your perfume - it all drove him wild.
He started to palm the growing bulge in his pants as he imagined your lips around his shaft, your tongue darting out to lick away the salty pre-cum that had gathered there. Laying back on his bed, he unzipped his pants and slipped his free hand into his boxers. Closing his eyes, he slowly began to stroke himself and bucked into his hand, picturing your mouth wrapped around him, the guttural noises you would release as his cock hit the back of your throat. It was all too much, and within minutes he’d released himself all over his hand and stomach.
When he began to clean up, the guilt set in once more. “Another day,” he mumbled, looking to the ceiling in earnest at his Creator.
The following morning, he conducted the last mass of the day as normal, all while shaking thoughts of you from his mind. From the peaks he’d caught of you, plus your name, he believed he knew who you were, but when he caught your gaze in the church pews, he knew it was you. That familiar feeling clawing inside him - unmistakable.
With his final words and goodbyes to the congregation, he turned to head to his office to finish the paperwork needed to hold their annual clothing drive for the community. Though he could get it done in no time at all, he was quick to turn on his heels for fear of meeting your gaze, allowing himself to get sucked in. Once tucked away behind the closed office door, he steadied himself and pushed you from his mind, grateful for the distraction of paperwork.
Lost in the monotony of his scribbling his signature across the page again and again, he heard a knock at the door. “Father Rogers?”
“Yes?” It was Father Springs, and he sounded anxious.
“I just got a call from my sister about my father. His health is declining, and I need to take some time off. Are you able to handle things for me for the next few days until I get back?”
Springs’ father’s health had been declining for many years, and he felt for him. “Of course, Father Springs.”
“Thank you,” he replied, the relief apparent in his voice. “Miss Y/N was here to speak to me for confessional but since I need to run out, can you handle that as well?”
Steve swallowed hard. “Of course, I’ll be there momentarily.”
He closed his eyes and thought of anything but what was invading his mind. Father Springs’ steps quieted as he ran out of the church and toward his car, hoping to catch the next plane to Chicago.
Bracing himself, he opened the door with a plastered-on smile. “Miss Y/N, nice to see you. In person, I mean. Rather than through the confessional booth.”
Smooth. It wasn’t even smooth for a layman, no less a priest that shouldn’t have been having lustful thoughts about a member of his congregation.
You chuckled awkwardly, unable to meet his gaze. Despite your self-conscious nature during confession, you’d always struck him as more confident, but here you were, standing before him, timid as anything. “Come in,” he said, taking a step back and motioning to the chair near his desk. “Father Springs said you were here for confession?”
Though she sat down in the chair, and intended to stay, she took a moment to speak. “I wanted to confess to Father Springs this time. I told him I could wait until he got back, but he insisted...since you were still here.”
Something about the shame-filled but steady gaze led him to believe this was just as awkward for you as it was for him, though for the same reason he wasn’t sure. “I’m sure I can handle it,” he said shakily, forcing another smile. “There’s no need to be ashamed for if you confess and repent, God forgives.”
“Father, I... I’ve been having lustful thoughts about someone I shouldn’t. No matter how much I pray, they won’t go away. I don’t know what to do,” you began to ramble. “No matter what I do, I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like if y- he was touching me, kissing me...”
Steve caught her slip up, a wave of trepidation and yet strength rolling through him. “I don’t necessarily think those thoughts are bad thoughts,” he said, finding his own truth in his voice as he spoke. “God made us with those urges, so why would they be wrong?”
Apparently, his answer took you off guard. “Even outside of marriage?”
“Even then,” he said, his eyes locked on yours. “Miss Y/N, I...”
Was he going to do this? Say it? Admit that he was in direct defiance of his calling?
Just as he was about to open his mouth, you popped up from the chair and started toward the door.
“Wait!” He said, following behind. Before he could stop himself, his fingers grasped your wrist.
Wide-eyed, you spoke, “We shouldn’t...right?”
If God would bar him for the gates of heaven for this then so be it. “Maybe not, but I don’t care anymore.” He clasped the side of your neck with his hand and pulled you close, lips drawing you in for searing kiss. He couldn’t help the moan that escaped him. “I’ve wanted to taste you for so long,” he breathed, his voice no longer the one he put on for the public. “Needed to feel you.”
A nervous laugh escaped you as you wrapped your arms around his waist and pulled him in, backing up against the wall. “Since you walked into this church, I haven’t been the same, Father.”
“Call me Steve. Please,” he said, smiling for the first time in a while, as his lips trailed the side of your neck.
When you moaned into his mouth, he braced himself against the wall, chuckling when you caught him off guard and turned him, so his back was against the wall. “Forgive me, Father,” you said, giving him a kiss as she dropped to her knees before him.
Pulling his cock from his pants, you looked up and licked your lips, wrapping them around the tip. If this wasn’t what heaven was, he didn’t want it. As you pushed yourself to take more of him, your tongue rolling against the vein running along his shaft, he snaked his hands into your hair. “Good girl. That’s a good girl.”
His praise made you smile around him, your head bobbing up and down faster and faster in search that catch in his breath that told you he was close. You pulled off him, kneeling at his feet. “Can I taste you, Steve?”
“I want you to,” he moaned, bucking into your grasp, “But I also need to feel you and I’m not gonna last if you do that.”
You chuckled softly and slipped your hand down between your legs, rubbing small circles against that spot you’d touched so many times before, picturing the man in front of you. “Then fuck me, Steve.”
Grunting, he shoved himself off the wall and picked you up, quickly closing the window and placing you on the desk. “Put your feet up on the desk,” he commanded, surprised at how naturally the words fell from his lips. This is what was meant for him. You quickly complied, your knees falling to the sides, your sex aching and dripping for him.
Without a second thought, Steve dropped to his knees in front of you, his eyes hungry, mouth agape. “Fuck, Y/N, you’re soaking wet.”
“For you,” you replied, a huskiness filling your voice in a way he’d never heard before. “This is how I am every time I touch myself, to thoughts of you.”
“What do you dream of?” He asked, kissing your inner thigh. “Paint me a picture.”
As his beard tickled your sex, you wove him a beautiful tale. “I’ve imagined my lips around your cock, choking on it while you cry out my name. I’ve pictured you with your face deep in my pussy, devouring me like I’m the last meal you’ll ever enjoy-Oh,” you whimpered as he slid his tongue up your slit.
He groaned at the taste. “Keep going,” he said, his voice low and lecherous.
“I’ve fucked myself with my fingers imagining your thick cock stretching my little pussy out. I scream your name and you swallow it as you pound into me. I’ve pictured it all. I’ve felt guilty for so long, but I can’t deny it anymo-”
He cut you off, burying his face into your pussy, nose rubbing against your clit. Groaning his appreciation, he licked at your slick, smiling against you as you bucked up into his waiting and eager mouth. “So sweet. Fuck.”
With each pass of his tongue and scrape of his beard you writhed beneath him. Heat overtook him, but he welcomed the flames of hell as he dipped his tongue into your pussy, glancing upward to watch as your mouth dropped open and sweet sigh escape your parted lips. Despite his priestly garb, he’d had experiences before he joined the ministry. None of it had been like this though. Then, he was a selfish boy, only seeking his own pleasure, but now he wanted nothing more than to hear his name drop from your lips.
Grasping at your thighs, he pulled your legs wider, licking and nibbling and sucking until your body seized underneath him, your juices flooding into his mouth and down his chin. Little grace filled his movements as he stood up and pulled your ass to the end of the desk.
“Fuck me, Father Steve,” you moaned, heat radiating off your soaked cunt. His cock twitched at your words, a smile pulling at his lips as he slapped his cock against you, seeing your inhibitions fall from grace.
Bending down, he kissed a trial down your stomach, appreciating the gift he’d been given before placing the tip of his cock against your pussy. “Mine,” he whispered. “All mine.” Slowly, he pushed into you, watching as pain and pleasure mixed into one.
“Don’t stop,” you whined. “You’re just so big.”
Though he wanted you more than he’d wanted anything in his life, he took his time, allowing you to get accustomed to his size. “Fuck me now, Steve.”
He bent down over you, easing his cock into your impossibly tight channel and swallowing the moan that erupted from your mouth. “Oh my God,” he moaned into you, a laugh escaping him at the irony of his outburst. “You’re so tight.”
A chorus of grunts and groans filled the room as he bucked against you, sweat slick skin against skin. You reached down and grabbed his ass, pulling him into you, neither of you able to get as close as you wanted no matter how hard you tried. With each thrust of his hips, you cried out, begging and pleading for him to fuck you full, harder and faster. “I need your come, Father Steve,” you breathed.
He knew by your moaning laugh that you knew exactly what the name did to him, responding by fucking you harder, rhythmic clapping overtaking all other noise in the room.
“Come inside me...pleaseeeee,” you choked out, grasping at your breasts in an attempt to overload yourself with sensation. He slipped his hands over yours, pinching your taut nipples as he thrust into you one last time, both of you crying out the other’s name as you fell over the edge. “Oh my God,” you laughed, pushing up from the desk and pulling him in for a kiss. “I just fucked a priest in a church.”
Earlier, that realization would have hit him like a ton of bricks. Guilt would’ve washed over him. But now, staring into your eyes, he welcomed the lick of hell’s flames at his feet.
#steve rogers#steve rogers x reader#steve rogers x you#priest!steverogers#priest!steverogers x reader#dontshootmespence#welcoming the lick of hell's flames
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OUR LOVE BROKE MY HEART AND STOPPED YOURS
MATT MURDOCK X READER
Warnings: F! Reader. First-person pov / third-person pov. Non-linear storytelling. Organ transplant.
↳ HORROR / ANGST FIC :: For context, this is my reader with the gift of sight, some of the references will connect to that fic but you don’t need to read it to understand the materials explored here. This fic comes with a mini playlist if anyone’s interested. If you saw this fic in a different layout earlier this week, no you didn’t♥️
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You are responsible for the content you consume, as always read with care.
I Carry Your Heart With Me
Since the day before we got married.
Whatever is done, is done by me.
My baby In her linen and pearls, my baby with her pinup curls.
I stand before an old God in an old church on fire,
I’ve tasted divinity after I’ve been scorned by history.
I’ve tasted the laughter of our few friends.
What would he give for a glance at her? The priest says something but he cannot hear over the blood rushing in his ears. His sweaty palms reach forward as he takes three steps towards her:
ONE
The years that had staggered past him etched themselves in the wrinkles of his face near his eyes and near his smile and on his hands. He was a vessel of secrets, never in one place for too long. Here today, gone the next. Yet his feet were planted firmly on the ground, where would he run? Why would he run? Matt has never felt younger, never felt freer, never felt more ready.
Tuning in to the melodic clicking of her heels that echoed down the aisle, this record would remain a timeless classic. His chest swells with pride; what a lucky man he was.
If God is where he puts his sorrow, then in this woman, is where he’ll put his joy.
He is here today, drunk on the pheromones bouncing off her skin. Her perfume stuffs his lungs in the pattern of the lace on her dress, rows, and rows of endless fabric—light. Delicate. Floral.
When he is gone tomorrow, it will say:
Hero,
Lawyer,
Husband.
TWO
Light feet breezed across his floorboards humming a tune for his ears only, “Hmmm hmm I have loved you for a thousand years, I’ll love you for a thousand more.”
He takes her by the hand and twirls her around; his linen shirt hangs loose on her body, when she comes to a stop Matthew rests his head upon hers swaying back and forth. She stood on her tippy toes and planted her warm hands on his cheek.
The smell of fresh peonies flooded his nostrils, “Matty,” She said, in a voice that sounded like she polished the sun after a rainstorm, “You’re gonna marry me someday you know. I saw it this morning.”
“Yeah? Tell me what you saw.” He responds a little too eager for his own good, she's right of course, as always but he’d never tell her that. Foggy and Karen had already picked the ring out; a three-carat Princess cut diamond, cut for..well—his Princess.
“Only that you looked devilishly handsome at the end of the aisle.”
A grin breaks out on his face, he can hear the birds waking up to this news and he forgets the coffee brewing on the stove, completely enamored by her presence “Did you see how I proposed?”
“No.” She sounds earnest.
The hair on the back of his neck stood attentive and the blood rushed to his cheeks, “Good, it’s a secret. Don’t you worry, I’ll take care of you my Mrs. Murdock.”
“Till death do us part?”
“Not even.”
THREE
“Mr. Murdock” His taste in music is the sound of her heels hitting the dirty New York pavements. He could hear her down the halls of the courtroom clearer than the day-old crumpled-up newspaper propelled by the wind scraping the sidewalks, charting the distance between them. She’s so close he can taste the salt on her skin.
“Who's there?” He asks, turning sharply towards the opposite direction, fringing the helpless blind man persona hard enough to cringe internally.
“A burglar.” The response came firmly wrapped in un-amusement, with a lackadaisical bow.
“Oh. What are you burgling?”
He knew he was on the precipice of something great when she quipped, “Your heart.”
“You’d steal from a blind man? For shame, for shame” Shaking his head in disappointment and tapping his cane twice for emphasis. If it's banter she wants, it's banter she should receive.
Her laugh came bubbling to the surface like expensive champagne fizzing over “Do you care to make a comment on the case, sir?”
Matt is going to feast on this sin with wine and cheese, like a famished man. His smile reaches his rose-tinted glasses. He cannot wait for this memory to become a punishment.
I watch them carry your heart away from me
Since the day after we got married.
Whatever was done, wasn’t done by me.
My baby without her linen and pearls, my baby without her pinup curls.
I stand before a new God in an old hospital on fire,
I’ve tasted history and I’ve been scorned by divinity.
I’ve tasted the tears of our few friends.
What would he give for a glance at her? The doctor says something but he cannot hear over the blood rushing in his ears. His sweaty palms reach forward as he takes three steps towards her:
ONE
The wedding sprinted by but the car crash crept up and snatched her away. The pulse of his joy he’d tuned into had become sluggish. Matthew hates that he is now a sentimental creature, all love ever did was leave him muddy and bloody and just as alone as when he planted their first seed. The Genesis that soiled his promised land rendered the voyage fruitless. It was as if Heaven conspired against reason. Against him.
It had been an unassuming day in the office for him until he heard Karen’s rapid footsteps towards his door, “Matt it's for you,” was all she said. Her elevated blood pressure and the quiver in her voice as it cracked told him all he needed to know, he was already out of the firm as fast as his legs could carry him.
He wisped past the shouting pedestrians and honking cars with little effort, he was outrunning judgment day. Bursting through the hospital doors in a frantic panic Matt grabbed onto the first warm body he could find, “My wife! What happened to my wife?!”
He can’t hear it he can’t hear it he can’t hear it why can’t he hear it?
Motionless he stood there letting a Leviathan of sorrow unhinge its jaws and swallow him whole; his senses were disoriented by all the pain and death and suffering, was it his? Was it someone else’s? He didn’t know, pain and death are universal languages and Matt spoke them fluently.
The wind roared and howled in protest outside the building, he ran his hand through his hair fingernails digging through his scalp, suddenly hyper-aware of her vanilla-scented shampoo he used this morning.
When she came to, she took his large hands in her much dainty ones and croaked out, “This one isn’t yours Matty.”
Guilt sticky like bitter blackstrap molasses oozes down his conscience, what kind of man guards his city but can’t keep his own wife safe?
He wanted to coil around her like a dragon protecting its most prized position.
TWO
Matthew is sure something holy died that night. He sits in an almost empty bar lamenting with his friends over an untouched glass of amber displaced sorrow. Lately, he couldn’t stomach anything, including the story he was telling.
“Maybe I can see her? I’ll take her shopping. I really miss her, Matt.”
Me too.
“Uh, that might not be the best idea.” He rejects sweet, earnest Karen’s request.
Leaning forward placing her hand on his shoulder, “Why not?”
My wife is possessed.
“She’s just not well Karen, I’ll let her know you asked.” Tongue pushing the lie from behind his pearly white teeth.
That night he paused at the door listening to her mumble to herself, Matt took a deep breath and let the dead and deadening of their matrimonial life commence.
At the click of the locks, she snapped her head towards him and then came scrambling on all fours towards him clawing at the valley between her breasts, with the white-hot fury of a prophet made skeptic yelling “The wretched thing isn't mine!” She hissed hands clammy connecting to his face, “Matty! Matty! Listen to me. He wants it back, he wants it BACK! Get it OUT of me! He was a bad, bad man.”
Whimpering fell from her lips like gravel weighing down a voice she hadn’t used, sounding like gritty sandpaper against his ear, “I can see his shadow and sometimes I think his shadow can see me.”
Almost tripping on nothing he scoops her up in his arms, muscles flexing with the intensity of his desperation to keep her close, to keep her safe. He cradles her; alternating between rubbing small circles on her back and smoothing her hair “Tell me how to make it better” he coos, “I miss you so much sweetheart,” rocking her back and forth.
She flinches at the sudden contact and curses at him in a hundred different voices— one of which was his mother’s he could have sworn it was! But listening intensely it was gone as soon as it came. Cold-blooded body barren to his touch, he ran his calloused hands over the craters she dug into her skin; the pungent smell of dead flesh under her nails and the rot of the forbidden fruit in her mouth hits him like a train of nostalgia and sulfur and poverty and the orphanage —misfortune.
He thinks she’s two syllables away from speaking in tongues still Matt holds her close like a prayer. Or like a grudge.
He wants to spite the hand that feeds him.
THREE
thump thump thump ______ thump
The chime of a church bell at midnight aroused him from his slumber, somewhere due north some unsuspecting soul decided the devil should be awake. And awake she was, he heard it, the hairs at the base of his skull were now on high alert.
Her limbs flailed around briefly before the bed creaked in agony as she sat up in one fluid motion, her chest rising and falling with every breath she took. The wind from her lungs knocked the straggled pieces of her untamed hair out of her face only for them to fall back in place when she inhaled.
As an avalanche of frost plunges into the atmosphere; his body is compensating for the dip by working overtime to keep him warm even in the scorching summer’s heat. Yet he shivers for reasons beyond that.
Matt can feel her tantalizing stare burning holes in the back of his head—she was having a staring contest with a blind man. Daring him to look at her smiling eerily with too many teeth.
Back turned away from her, he paced his breathing, cold sweat trickling down his biceps leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. Like the church mouse he is, Matt lays perfectly still almost disappearing under a grave of silk sheets.
She hardly sleeps, so he hardly sleeps. She just waits, so he just waits. For what? Matt does not know.
The thing in his bed is not his wife; he wants to starve on this sin but God her frigid touches, when she drags her untrimmed nails along the slope of his back, are oddly familiar, “Haunt me” He whispers, through gritted teeth “Haunt Me.”
In this version, Hades eats the pomegranate seeds for Persephone and says:
My darling, my heart will always be with you.
And yours will always be in your grave.
#matt murdock x y/n#Matt Murdock#Matthew Murdock#matt murdock x reader#matt murdock imagine#reader insert#charlie cox#daredevil imagine#daredevil x reader#Netflix
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