#so you try to chop that priests arm off (he asked to be fair) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ciggylungz · 4 years

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Pray to me

word count. 4,077

Warnings-like probably the most risky smut i’ve ever written, church sex, wild stuff (sorry)

Pray to me:

(A random little smutty one shot relating to my bad boy harry series, it’s not going to affect the story line so just imagine this is another au for my au that’s an au. I just gave myself a stroke writing that.)

Detention.

A ‘punishment’ Harry Styles was used to getting by now, he was in his third year of Catholic high school and to say he has gotten his fair share of detention slips is a gross understatement. You’d think being surrounded by crosses would help subdue his cursing yet Harry didn’t seem to inherit the same fear his classmates did by the ‘word of god’ that was crammed down his throat every day. So, it wasn’t exactly tolerated when the boy strung a slew of curses together to describe the head Priest, or when he got caught smoking spliffs in the boys bathroom when he was supposed to be in math and well, those choices led him to where he is now. Slouched in a pew whilst the head nun was giving him a proper tongue lashing and explaining to him that he was to clean the chapel from top to bottom, smooth any creased pages in the 300 bibles that were stacked in the rows of pews, get any gum off the under side of them as well and wipe down the stain glass windows. The school had called his mum to tell her he would be home very late that day knowing the job would take a solid 4 or 5 hours to complete and that’s if he rushed it. To say he was pissed was putting it lightly, yet the biggest shock was yet to come when he heard the heavy wooden doors open and slam again as another person shuffled inside.

“Miss Yln, you’re here. Mister Styles here can tell you the duties you both must complete, here are the keys lock the doors when you both are finished. We’ll expect to meet with you before mass tomorrow to get a proper apology once the work if finished. Right-o, chop chop kids.”

The grouchy wrinkle faced nun thrust the keys into an anxious Y/n’s hands while she shuffled her way towards the exit, giving a careless slam of the 20 pound doors causing both Harry and Y/n to flinch. Harry was genuinely surprised to see Y/n there with him, he’s used to seeing her at mass or in line at confessional but detention? That was a new one for her. He took his time standing from his seat, cracking his back and neck whilst he settled onto his feet, casting a curious glance at the girl who stuck out like a sore thumb in the somber hostile environment. He knew Y/n well, he considers her a friend which is rare since he’s not the friendliest of people around town. Yet he liked Y/n, she was cute as button and what teenage boy doesn’t find an innocent girl wearing a catholic school uniform appealing?

“well well well miss sunshine, what did you do to get yourself this torment?” Harry gave her the quick once over, using his typical teasing nickname for the girl just to get her cheeks to blush a bit and help lighten the mood. Y/n blew out a breath out through her plump glossed lips, subconsciously stomping her foot a bit in annoyance which Harry thought was funny, and also cute. “I accidentally said a bad word in class! James tricked me into saying it and Sister Amy heard and gave me detention.” Her pout grew further when the boy chuckled at her attitude. “How did he trick yeh into saying somethin’?” Y/n grunted a bit, very peeved and mentally hexing James for what his actions caused her, “He said hold your tongue while you say apple…” Harry at this point was letting out a belly laugh, just imagining Y/n’s face when she realized she’d said asshole and finding humor in how ditzy she could be sometimes. “You fell for that? Did you not have a childhood? I thought everyone knew that trick, hon” Y/n simply smacked his arm and tossed the keys onto the nearest surface. “Shush Harry” her little finger pointed at him, trying to be serious but he found it comical. His hands moved out to poke her sides, knowing exactly how ticklish she was feeling content as Y/n squirmed and squealed. Adorable giggles falling from her lips and making the chapel seem a bit less creepy, her tiny hands trying to push his biceps back to free herself from his tickling fingers. “Ah! Harry!-“ she was trying to speak between her laughs, the boy one year her senior smiled, dimples sinking into the flesh of his cheeks, “Dunno what you expected, love. You thought you could tell me to shush?! no one tells me to do princess.” “Okay! Okay I’m sorry! I take it back!” after what seemed like an eternity to Y/n, but was only a few ticks over a minute Harry finally let go, smiling down at her while he ruffled her hair chuckling to himself while she tried to straighten her uniform back out. “That was not a fair fight Harry, you had an unfair weight AND height advantage!” y/n stuck her tongue out at him. “Hey, you started it bossy pants. You’re lucky I didn’t throw yeh over m’ shoulder and tossed yeh around. You got off easy this time missy.”

Harry wasn’t typically so playful and relaxed, he couldn’t bring himself to be so cold around Y/n. How could he? She’s sunshine personified, the real version of the rhyme ‘sugar, spice and everything nice’. The girl was the only thing that kept him from dropping out. Y/n makes day to day bullshit tolerable for him…and well she also has given her inspiration more than once when he couldn’t sleep at night and resorted to a quick wank while mumbling of dirty phrases topped off with her name to send him off to dreamland.

_______________________________

After some more shenanigans, the pair got to work on their scheduled tasks. Y/n had started in the bibles in the first 6 pews on the right side of the chapel while Harry dug through a supply closet to get a ladder out to wipe the windows. He was contemplating if he should pretend to fall and collect an insurance claim instead of actually cleaning the 12-foot art pieces but he decided against it by the time he found what he was looking for. After setting the ladder up and grabbing the giant duster Harry decided to take his first break, he knew he was just procrastinating but who cares? He decided during his break he’d get Y/n to take one with him. “Hey love, wanna take a fiver?” Y/n looked up from the 12th bible she had fixed giving him a frantic nod, her mind numb from the task she was busy doing.

“what do yeh wanna do?” she left the choice up to the older boy, watching as he bit his lip lightly in thought, shrugging and scooting in next to her. “truth or dare?” he wiggled his eyebrows tempting her and being the compliant and very bored girl, she was, Y/n agreed.

“Okay you first Harry, truth or dare?” the boy pondered for a moment before shrugging, “Truth” he didn’t miss the way she was fidgeting with her skirt all excited for the game. “Ok, have you ever uhmmmm got drunk?” her innocence laced her tone, genuine curiosity. Her voice slightly lowered as if what she was asking was naughty which of course got Harry to chuckle, “Yes, pretty much every weekend. You’ve never drank? Not even once, love?” his left eyebrow raised and she timidly shrugged “Nope, I only had wine at communion but then it’s only a sip. Never been drunk before…Okay your turn!” he hummed slightly, “Truth or dare y/n?” “uhhh dare!” at this point she was squirming in her seat from her giddiness, and Harry took full opportunity over the chance he had. “I dare you to kiss me.”

Y/n wasn’t exactly expecting that one. She thought maybe he’d dare her to say another bad word or smoke one of his cigarettes, but he wanted her to kiss him…and she was confused on why she wanted to. She didn’t want to say no, she had the urge to follow through with it. The girl noticed the butterflies in her stomach she was used to getting when around her older friend, and a blush crawled up her neck to her cheeks. Harry sat with an amused smirk, darting his tongue out to lick over his lips whilst tipping his head to the side slightly, “cat got your tongue, love? What are yeh waiting for?” a pointer finger was placed under her chin to get her to look at him, and y/n decided it was better to bite the bullet and pushed her thoughts out of the way while quickly leaning in to give him a peck.

Harry was surprised she actually did it, feeling her lips on his for a split second before she pulled away with a shy giggle yet he was having none of that. “uh uh, a real kiss” his natural dominance reared it’s head when he grabbed the girl and plopped her on his lap, holding her jaw and planting his lips on her’s yet again coaxing her to move with him. When she didn’t respond how he wanted he tugged her hair a bit, biting her bottom lip and dragging it down so her mouth was pried open, “Being a tease y/n, keep your mouth open wanna taste ya’”

y/n’s head was swimming, she’d never done anything like this but her body went weak under Harry’s rough hold and demanding voice and so she complied opening her mouth so his tongue could infiltrate. She wasn’t really skilled in the kissing department; she’d only kissed one person before and it was nothing like this. Harry didn’t mind her clumsy, clueless movements he found it even hotter that she didn’t know what she was doing and he was the one cracking away at her purity. His heart was pumping, his fingers tangled in her hair as he tugged her by it to get her to move where he wanted her, it was hot. So fucking hot.

When he finally pulled away from the kiss he observed her. Plump lips now a flushed red, swollen and slick with her lingering lip gloss and their mixed spit. She was breathing heavily, eyes staring into his darkening ones. She looked amazing. “God…pet you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to fuckin’ do that” his tongue darted out to lick over his own lips frowning when he got a heavy taste of sticky lip-gloss , “gotta get this off yeh, it’s too sticky” his sleeve was pulled down to cover his palm whilst he rubbed the remaining product off her delicious lips before shuffling it back up to bunch at his elbows. “There, look a little dazed petal. Yeh alright?” Y/n nodded quickly at the question, smiling a little bit before kissing his nose and each of his cheeks then going back to his lips mimicking how he’d kissed her prior. The boy could hardly contain himself, taking over the kiss and pulling her hands off his face holding both her wrists in one of his hands yanking them above her head so she was completely bound. “No no no, little love. I make the rules hon, you don’t. I didn’t say to kiss me again did i? I didn’t say you could touch me, hmm? Being a bit naughty aren’t yeh baby?”

To say she was overwhelmed and a tad confused was accurate, she had really no experience in any sort of sexual situations all she knew is she was going to listen to Harry. His gaze was enough to melt her into submission. “Words Y/n, did I tell you to do those things?” his grip on her wrist tightened a bit, “No….no you didn’t tell me to…” his eyes were staring into hers a subtle hum exiting his throat. “Good girl, now tell me your sorry.” “I’m sorry, Harry” an adorable pout decorated her lips, Harry was loving this.

He let go of her hands, both of them falling into her lap where she folded them, making sure to follow the new rule of not touching without permission, waiting for what was going to happen next. Only a moment later did Y/n feel Harry’s right thumb pressing into her bottom lip, eyes jumping to meet his, “open” she complied, letting him slip his thumb past her lips to rest on her tongue, “Close, now suck.”

Her confused gaze met his stern one while she started suckling on his digit. She didn’t really understand why he wanted her to suck his thumb, regardless she did it.

It was taking everything in Harry to not bend the girl over and shove himself inside her, god he fucking wanted to but he had something else in mind. Something more sinful than two teenagers having premarital sex in a chapel, no he wanted to give the biggest ‘fuck you’ he could to the school, and the ‘god’ he was forced to submit to. He knew if all the preaching’s were true, this idea was his first-class ticket straight to the devil’s doorstep.

“Listen princess, you’re going to do what I say, okay?” Y/n gave a quick nod of her head, Harry scooting her off his lap and removing his thumb from her mouth as he guided her up the steps to of the pulpit where the priest usually gave his sermons, a holy pedestal of sorts but today it would get a new use.

“on your knees.” It wasn’t a request, it was an order. Harry stood in the center of the pulpit, the religious art work surrounding them did little to stop his ‘sinful’ desires. Desires of the flesh were the only thing on his mind.

Y/n was on her knees before him, looking up at her friend who had a smug sultry look on his beautiful face. His hands fumbled with his belt whilst he looked down at her.

“you’re going to pray to me now, angel.”

Y/n couldn’t believe she was really in this situation, kneeling under the podium in the pulpit where she hears sermons 5 days a week for 3 hours with Harry pulling his cock out. when he finally managed to get himself free a loud groan echoed in the sanctuary, one that made Y/n feel a tingle between her legs and salivate slightly. A strange new sensation she couldn’t describe, but she knew she liked it.

“open your mouth, sweetheart.”

Y/n had never seen Harry’s eye’s look so dark, his tone so demanding and his breathing so heavy. His cock loomed over her face, bobbing slightly with every beat of his heart whilst something clear and sticky was leaking from the tiny slit in the top of it webbing onto the underside of his tip. She was nervous, but she did as she was told opening her sweet little mouth so the older boy could guide the crown of his cock into the warm cavern of her virgin mouth. The sensation was the closest thing to heavenly Harry had ever felt in this room, her mouth was warm and wet. Tongue slightly textured and slick with the nice, thick spit that comes from the back corners of your mouth. It’s better than any lube you can buy truly. He instructed her to suck his flesh, hollowing her cheeks and massaging his prick with the flesh of her mouth for the very first time in her life.

“Holy fucking shit, doll…you sure this is yeh first time? Good little cock sucker aren’t yeh? On your pretty knees, praying to me now huh?” Harry could see his cock pushing into the side of her cheek as she nodded, her mouth stuffed full of his leaking member, and because Harry was Harry and liked to really make a statement he decided if he was going to hell for this, he might as well make it worth it.

His fingers plucked one of the small wooden crosses off of the staircase on the pulpit, it was a decoration dedicated to Christ yet he had other plans for it.

The boy took a step back from Y/n, moaning slightly at the sight of her following after his cock when it started slipping from her lips. She wanted it, she liked it and god he fucking did too but he couldn’t wait any longer to execute the idea that just tumbled into his mind. Harry snapped his fingers in front of the drooly lipped girl, getting her attention on his eyes instead of the cock she wanted so desperately back in her mouth. “Up, don’t be greedy yeh can finish me off when I’m done with yeh..” Harry lifted the girl by her underarms up onto the flat part of the pedestal, where a bible was sat opened to a scripture that was suddenly smothered by the doe eyed girls round plump ass. Harry wishes he could dig his teeth into it but that’s for another time.

Y/n didn’t resist at all when he tipped her back a bit, hiking her skirt up and spreading her legs. The only reaction she gave at first was a quick gasp when he ripped her school tights right at the crotch her white cotton panties now in his view. “cute” was mumbled under his breath as he toyed with the tiny pink bow stitched into the waistband of her panties, but soon they were gone as well pushed fully to the side to expose her cunt, a small smattering of light curls at the apex of her thighs. They looked soft, light and quite cute. He could tell they’d never been shaven off before by how soft they were, wasn’t a very course or thick section of hair. That was likely to come later in her life, but for now her cunt was the only thing he was willing to worship in the holy home of Christ.

“Fuckin’ beautiful…got a real nice little pussy, angel.” Y/n was past the point of being shy now, she was spread eagle perched on top of a open bible with her cunt on full display in front of her half naked friend. Modesty flew out the door a while ago. And so, she responded in a little whine and shimmy of her hips, feeling the cold air lapping at her hot center and cooling the slick that had collected between her folds that she didn’t even notice till now.

The boy thought he might have been in the midst of one of his wet dreams, the stereotypical catholic school girl splayed out in a chapel with his hungry eyes staring at her virgin cunt. He was trying his hardest to take a mental picture so he can relive this the next time he has a wank, but in this moment his plan was coming to fruition.

Harry held up the small wooden cross, holding it between his thumb and pointer finger. The piece of religious art was about as wide around as a taper candle and maybe a good 4 inches from the base to where it met the divider of the cross. Much smaller than his cock, but a good size to fuck his classmate with.

“Open.” His voice doomed after the stretch of silence, Y/n letting her lips fall open again gurgling a bit as the wooden cross was thrust into her mouth. Harry was purposefully being rough, pushing her gag reflex intentionally, “Gag on it, get it nice and wet. Do as I say y/n, m’ getting’ yeh throat to slick it up. Could shove it in yeh dry be glad I’m lubing it up pet.” With a few more jabs at her uvula the boy was content with the amount of thick spit that dripped down the object.

Y/n couldn’t help but squirm and mewl, feeling Harry split her labia. An audible clicking sound fell on their ears from the wetness adhering the folds of skin together, the sound gave a boost to his already prominent smirk. Once her engorged clit came into view Harry made a point to give it a few strong strokes with his thumb before pressing the end of the cross into the girl’s virgin opening. The sight was nothing short of filthy, completely sinful. He wouldn’t be surprised if the floor caved in and they fell straight to hell as he finally managed to press through her thin hymen gaining entry to the untouched inners of the girl.

The stinging caused Y/n to hiss slightly, her legs quivering as he finally made it inside her. A small streak of her purity stood out against the white wood. Harry couldn’t help but snicker to himself, he thought of Virgin Mary in this moment. Ironic right? The first thought into his mind when seeing Y/n’s virginal blood striping a cross was how this was a strange twist on the story of the savior’s mother.

His movements sped up considerably after the flimsy membrane of resistance was punctured. The cross now being plunged in and out of the girl’s sacred spot in quick succession while she gripped the railing behind her in an effort not to tumble off the stand.

“Would yeh look at that, might be the first girl in this school to get fucked with a cross, baby. Always knew you were special huh?” Harry migrated his hand down to thumb at her clit, the foreign sensation of something inside of her and a massaging of her pleasure organ had the girl pigeon toed and panting. Harry swears he’s never seen anything hotter than what he was doing in this moment. His arm was getting tired but he didn’t dare fucking stop. No, he decided he was going to violate the artwork until Y/n had her first orgasm clamping onto the now not so holy figurine.

Y/n could barely form a thought, pleasure wracking through her body and a strange sensation building inside of her. Harry mumbling filth to her was the icing on the cake, her body tipping over the edge. Her body went stiff before breaking out into shakes, vocal cords strained from the moans and yelps escaping her throat. Her first ever orgasm was the most intense feeling she had ever felt, and Harry almost came just watching her suddenly remembering his abandoned cock.

Y/n was scrambling to regain control over her body, pushing Harry’s wrists away with a slick popping noise following as the cross was removed from her body. Harry leaned down to kiss the panting girl, dribbling spit into her open mouth while she gasped for air. “good girl, you’re such a good girl.” His ring clad fingers pet her cheek lightly, the other hand sitting her up and tugging her forward giving her a shove to get her back onto her knees.

“Now, time to finish your prayer, love” His hand pushed his cock back into the cavern of her mouth, she suckled hard on him. Tongue lapping at the underside of his cock, suction hard on the crown of him. The way she gave harsh spongy movements of her tongue and cheeks had his knees weak having to hold himself up on the podium. “Shit, Christ pet I’m gonna cum”.

Harry felt his climax rapidly approaching, taking both of his hands and putting them on the back of her head forcing the entirety of his cock down the girls sore throat. The muscles already tired from all the noise she made with it, but she only dug her fingers into his thighs as he spilled down her tight throat.

Harsh breathing along with Harry’s pleasured chuckle were the only noises filling the room as the pair removed themselves from each other. Harry getting his control back, putting his cock away before pulling Y/n to her feet giving her a few smacking kisses as he helped straighten her out tossing her ruined tights into the trashcan.

“Think we took more than a fiver babe, guess we gotta finish now huh?”

His smirk was wide while he put the cross right back in it’s place, cum still dripping off of it.

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huntertales · 4 years

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Part Three: At First If You Don’t Succeed. (Clip Show S08E22)

Episode Summary: Sam, Dean and the reader share a bitter reunion with Castiel after finding the angel beaten and bloody in the middle of the road. While digging through the Men of Letters’ files, they stumble upon an undiscovered film which could be the key to completing the third trial. Meanwhile, Crowley digs into the reader and boys’ past, putting people they saved in mortal danger. Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader Word Count: 3,744.

Previous Part | Supernatural Rewrite Masterlist

You had your doubts on Dean's plan of digging up a demon you had buried away in the outskirts of town for the past few months. There was no reason why she wouldn't come back to life after all this time. While you were still skeptical, it seemed you were discovering new things about demons today. You learned that you might possibly be able to cure one with some Latin and purified blood. And if you chopped the head off of one with a devil's trap bullet in her skull she'd come back to life like a typical functioning monster. While you wanted nothing more in this world than to leave Abbadon buried six feet under with her still conscious of her surroundings after all she did to you. The desire to figuring out how to close the gates of hell was stronger.

You stared at the demon with your arms crossed over your chest, the sight of the red head alone made your desire to bury her alive came back even stronger. All the things she did to your father fueled the idea of leaving her in solitary. But you knew if this plan worked—if you somehow could turn her into a human again—the guilt of the blood she had on her hands from countless murders and terrible acts she committed for hell would be the best kind of punishment of all. It might be just enough for her to end her own pathetic life.

“It worked.” Dean declared the obvious. He slapped his brother on the chest for his doubts. “You owe me a beer.”

“And I owe you both so, so much.” Abbadon thought all of you were stupid enough to attach her head back on to her body with free mobility to her body. It seemed she wasn’t all back to her normal self when she made passive threats to the older Winchester. “I can’t wait to tear those pretty green eyes out.”

“Good luck with that.” Sam told the demon.

You nodded your head to the lack of human parts she woke up a little less with, your lips stretching into a smirk at her new discovery. "We figured kitty didn't need her claws.”

Abbadon stared down to see you were staring at her arms, to be specific, the bloody stumps of where her hands should have been. You couldn't help yourself but snicker as you saw her struggle to get out of her seat and come after you from the reaction alone. Abbadon enjoyed a challenge on taking down her victims. "Then I'll stump you to death. It'll be swell."

"Yeah, that's not gonna happen, either." Sam said. "The bullet, remember?"

The bullet that was currently lodged in the roof of her mouth if you took a wild guess from the angle Henry shot her, before she ripped his insides out and left him to bleed out. Long as the bullet was in her body, there was no way she was going to smoke out or escape from your clutches from what you were about to do to her. It was sweet, sweet karma coming her way that was fifty-five years in the making from what she did not only to your own flesh and blood, but to all the others she tried wiping out.

“So you sit there like a good little bitch. We’re gonna consecrate the ground, and you’re gonna get to fessing up.” Dean explained the plan for today to the demon, thinking she had no clue what was about to go down. He thought it would be a nice little surprise to ambush her with after waking up the demon from her little dirt nap. He might not be able to kill her with the demon knife, but she'd do his job for her after that soul of hers turned a little less dark.

“Oh, I know this tune.” Abbadon said. Sam scoffed quietly at the secret the Men of Letters kept hidden for decades. It'd be impossible for the demon to know, however he didn't connect the dots together. Only it was the exact reason why she was here in the first place. "Father Max Thompson, born on October 12, 1910. Died, August 5th, 1958. Who do you think ripped that priest apart? Word got back to home office that Maxie was messing with things, so we made an example. It wasn’t my most artful kill, but it was effective. But Andrew...oh, he was my pride and joy. What I did to him was a true work of art. A masterpiece, if I may say.”

“What you did is that you turned him into a monster. Like yourself.” Your insult to the demon was like a compliment from the smile that spread across Abbadon’s smeared red lips. “This entire time I thought it was because you needed someone on the inside to help you. But I’m guessing the chick you’re wearing was one of them. You did it for revenge. You knew about the rituals this entire time.”

“Father Max spilled his guts before I ripped them out of his body. He told me all about Josie Sands. I rode her into the Men of Letters and what I did to them—that was fun. But you really don’t care about that. You care about why Daddy didn’t die like everyone else.” Abbadon took a wild guess at the questions you still had. “Andrew was a special case. His family has a long history of messing with demons. It only seems fair he got a taste of his own medicine. Took days and countless demons, but it was all worth it when his soul turned black as his eyes.”

“So you knew what Max was doing.” Sam said.

“I had an idea. Fella screamed the basics. I tried getting more information out of Andrew, and, well, you can’t say much when you’re choking down demon blood.” Abbadon nonchalantly shrugged her shoulders at the inconvenience for her. “I can only imagine what kind of half breed you turned out to be, Y/N. Your little plan isn’t gonna work.”

“You keep telling yourself that.” Dean said.

You found the conversation taking a momentary pause when you heard your phone start ringing from an incoming call. You shoved a hand inside your back pocket and pulled it out to see a three number digit on the screen. “666.” You furrowed your brow slightly from who it could be from the usual number. You answered the call and pressed the phone to your ear, deciding to let the caller say hello first. The person on the other line was a voice you were expecting to hear in person after he popped out of thin air. It was Crowley, with that obnoxious accent of his.

“Hello, Kitten.”

You rolled your eyes from hearing that stupid nickname of his you were given. “Crowley.”

"Crowley?" Abbadon repeated the name of a demon she remembered before being thrown into the twenty first century. He dubbed himself king of the crossroads back in the day. She smiled slightly, wondering why he was calling you. "The salesman?"

“Try the king of hell.” Dean corrected the demon.

The smile on Abbadon's face fell quickly as it came after hearing the words come out of the man's mouth. Hell must've froze over for that pompous prick to have gotten such a prestige title. When Abbadon was around there were key players still alive—Lilith, Azazel, just to name a few on the top of the food chain. There was no way Crowley got ranks over hell above all of them. Things really went to crap while she was gone. "This a joke, right?"

You nodded your head for the boys to follow you outside so you could take this call in private. Whatever reason why Crowley was trying to contact you like this it was important. Dean ordered for the demon to stay right where she was while all of you stepped inside to figure out what the king of hell wanted. You thought Abbadon would have done what she was told. After all, there was no way she could escape if she had no hands to sneak out the bullet.

When you got outside, you pressed a button on the screen to put the call on speaker so you weren't the only one graced to hear the demon's voice. You continued on the conversation by asking a very important question. "How'd you get your slimy hands on my number, Crowley?"

"Ah, first thing's first," Crowley answered your question with a sleazy one of his own. "what are you wearing, Kitten?"

"Oh, okay, hanging up now." Dean jumped into the conversation when he heard the demon try to get cheeky with you. He nodded his head for you to end this call once and for all, thinking the demon was trying to be funny with you by wasting your time. "Hang up."

"Don't get your boxers in a twist, Squirrel. This isn't a social call. I was wondering. You lads been reading the papers, say, Dever Times from yesterday? No? Well, you should. It's side-splitting." Crowley said. Dean pulled out his phone and pulled up the newspaper the demon was talking about, and why he was going through all the effort to tell you about it. "What the hell—I'm sexting you an address. Check it out. Then we'll talk. Cheerio."

"Wait, what?" Sam tried to figure out what the demon was talking about, but he was a little slow on the draw when he heard the dial tone coming from the other end of the line. "Crowley?"

You hung up the phone and shoved it back into your pocket for safekeeping after Dean pulled up the front page of the newspaper Crowley was talking about. You spotted a news article that caught your attention, something about a freak accident always raised a few questions. "Here it is. Vic's name was Tommy Collins." Dean read off a bit of information after skimming through the article. The name sounded familiar to him, but he couldn't place where he heard it before until today. "Tommy. Why do I know that name?"

"Tommy Collins. We saved him from a wendigo like forever ago." Sam said. "It was the second case we ever took with Y/N when she was still learning how to hunt."

"Wow. Talk about a blast from the past." You mumbled the slightly insensitive remark under your breath. You vaguely remembered the case that you took back when John was missing and you were figuring the ropes of how to be a hunter without getting yourself killed. You wondered why Crowley went after Tommy after all these years "You think Crowley blew his head off? I mean, what are we dealing with here? Some sort of demon-wendigo team up?

“No clue.” Sam admitted.

“All right, well, we’ll pour one out for Tommy later.” Dean said. He shoved his phone back into his pocket and headed back inside the building, knowing you had more important things to do than worry about what Crowley was up to. It was sad at what came of Tommy, but you didn’t have time to play games. “As far as Crowley goes, screw him. We got everything we need to put him in a permanent time-out.”

You thought you were one step ahead of the game from Abbadon sitting in the building with no where to go and Crowley thinking you were going to play his little game. It seemed for a second you had everything exactly where you wanted. Life has a funny way of not always working in your favor. When you stepped back inside the place and into where you left the demon, you felt your heart stop in panic when you saw there was an empty chair—and no demon. You swore on your life she was there when you left her only a few minutes ago. Somehow the bitch managed to sneak away while you weren’t looking.

“No. No! No! No! No!” Dean growled to himself at the unfortunate sight. He raced forward to the empty chair and looked around to see if he might be able to spot the red head around here somewhere. “She’s gone. She’s—son of a bitch!”

Dean took it upon himself to try and track the demon down while you and Sam figured out how Abbadon managed to get herself free. She might be immune to the demon knife, but you’ve never met something like her that was resistant to a devil’s trap. You should’ve take it one step further and made one around her before you brought Raggedy Ann back to life. You walked over to the desk you had laid all the materials out on when you noticed something was off. You reached for the metal box that you had put her detached hands for safe keeping. When you noticed they were empty, you let out a frustrated sigh and threw it back down to the desk, causing you to make a banging noise that echoed through the place. Who would’ve thought her hands were like Thing Addams.

Sam started to figure out how she managed to get herself free when he spotted something red on the ground he didn’t seem before, not too far from where the chair was. He bent down to examine it further to try and figure out what it was. Sam didn’t take very long to realize it was the bloody bullet that was lodged in Abbadon’s head. She must’ve somehow gotten it loose from using her unattached hands and snuck out while the demon had the chance. Sam called for yours and his brother’s attention to show you what he found. The sight of the bloody bullet made you grow even more pissed off. Before you could let out a swear word like you wanted, you felt your phone vibrate. You snatched it out from your pocket to see it was a notification.

“It’s a text message from Crowley,” You told them. “an address in Prosperity, Indiana.”

“Prosperity? Didn’t we work a case there? Yeah, yeah, the one with the witches and the baked goods.” Dean said, figuring out why the place sounded so familiar to him. You guessed it was during your absence away, that’s why you were out of the loop. “So what? He’s going after somebody there now?”

“I don’t know.” Sam said. “We got to check it out.”

You raised your brow slightly from the obvious reason not to play along to Crowley’s game. He would stop at nothing to see you dead. No matter how many bodies it took to get you where he wanted you. “Well, you know it’s a trap.”

“Of course it’s a trap. But a trap means demons,” Sam stated the reason why it was important for you to go to Indiana. He raised up the bullet that held the one that you had at your disposal, before she ran away. “And we could use one right now.”

+ + +

You didn't have much of a choice but to follow along with Crowley's instructions and take the long drive to Indiana with the hopes that you were on time to save this Jenny person from the fate Tommy had suffered. Along with a few demons that he might be stupid enough to have waiting for you. All you needed was just the one to get this entire situation wrapped up for good once and for all. No more kings of hell calling up to harass you. No more demons trying to toy with your life for the hell of it. You could finally have the life you've been yearning for decades now. Most importantly your child could have a life without worrying things were going to end up the same way as it had for you.

When you pulled up to the apartment that Jenny was living in after her near death experience with some pissed off witch, you and the boys wasted no time in getting out and heading up there. You were anxious about what was waiting for you inside the apartment. Every part of you was hoping Crowley was going to slip up and have one of his goons waiting for you. Dean picked the lock in record time and swung open the door, stepping into the dark apartment after testing the light switch only to conclude the power was out. He made his way inside first with Sam following behind. You lingered in the hallway as the both of them made sweep around the place to see if there was anyone hiding in the shadows.

You made your way inside when you noticed there was most likely no one here, all though you still kept the demon knife close to your side, wanting to err on the side of caution just in case someone wanted to get the jump on you. You noticed right as you stepped into the apartment Dean found something. You made your way over to the kitchen area to see Jenny had been busy earlier from the sight of delicious looking cupcakes and a mess of ingredients around the place. You peered over the counter to meet Jenny for yourself. However the both of you couldn’t be properly introduced from the sight of her.

You grimaced at the burnt smell of human flesh that made your stomach feel queasy, the sight of Jenny with her head in the oven after someone most likely forced her in there. You had to cover your mouth with your hand to keep yourself from throwing up. “Is that…Jenny?”

Dean slowly nodded his head to answer your question. He stared at the body for a moment, a sense of guilt coming over him from how the poor girl fell into the clutches of Crowley's plan "You were a great gal, Jenny Klein.”

You heard your phone start ringing again just a minute after you arrived to Jenny's apartment and discovered the present Crowley had left for you. You quickly pulled it out to see the familiar three digit number on the screen. You let out a frustrated sigh at who was calling you again and got the boys’ attention before answering the call. "What the hell are you doing, Crowley?"

“Oh, Kitty, isn’t it obvious?” Crowley asked you, wondering why you haven’t caught up to the little game he wanted to play. “I’m killing everyone you and those neanderthals ever saved—the damsels in distress, the innocent whippersnappers, the would-be vampire chow—all of them.”

“How do you even know—” Dean tried to ask the demon a question, but he was quickly cut off.

“I have my sources and a cracking research team. When you kids hit a town, you tend to leave a mess. Now, you’re probably wondering why my droogs aren’t in there giving you the bum’s rush, so let’s bress these tracks, shall we?” You felt your grip around the knife go slightly tighter as you looked around the room, wondering if Crowley was just bluffing. But the place was empty except for the three of you. And Jenny’s charred body. “I’m gonna gut one person every twelve hours until you bring me the demon tablet and stop this whole trials nonsense.”

“We don’t have the tablet.” Sam lied to the demon, hoping it would be enough to buy you some time and figure out another plan to stop Crowley before he could hurt anyone else. “Kevin took it and—”

“I took Kevin. Then someone took him back. Word from the cloud that it wasn’t heaven. So either the cutest little prophet in the world is with you two lads and Y/N, or you better find him tout-bloody-suite because time, she is a-wasting. About now, you’re thinking of ways to stop me. You won't be able to, but you'll try because that's what you do. You try. So, time for an object lesson.” Crowley decided to be nice and throw you another chance at saving a life you already did many years ago. “Indianapolis, the Ivy motel, room one-one-six. You have fifty-seven minutes."

You peeked at the clock on the oven to see that it was a little after eleven. You and the boys had until midnight to find this person and save them from whatever twisted plan Crowley had. When you heard the dial tone come from the other end, you wasted no time getting out of there and back down to the Impala. There was no way in hell you were going to let that bastard win again.

+ + +

On the way to the motel you tried racking your brain for old cases that you worked here to help figure who Crowley might be going after. Maybe he was just pulling at your strings and leading you to another dead body. A warning for the people he was going to pick off if you didn’t do what he said. You felt a nervous knot in your stomach began to form as you cautiously watched the time on the clock as it ticked down to a half an hour until midnight. You were determined to make it there with time to spare and prepare yourself for whatever sort of twist Crowley wanted to throw your way.

Dean stayed behind to collect some things for you while you and Sam rushed to find the motel of Crowley's next victim if you weren't quick enough. Sam rapidly knocked on the door until someone finally answered it after a long grueling minute of waiting. Who you saw answer the door took you by surprise if you had to be honest. Sarah Blake—she was a young woman at the time you first met all the way back in '05. The daughter of an art dealer who got caught in the cross hairs of a spirit of a child who murdered her family and anyone who had taken possession of it. You saved her from the spirit after it trapped her and Sam in the home of the last person who took ownership of the painting.

“Sam.” She spoke the name of a man she hadn't seen in almost eight years. All though she only met him once, the encounter they shared together was something she'd never forget. It took a second he didn't come here alone. You greeted the woman with a forced smile as a sense of fear slowly crossed her face. "What are you doing here?”

[Next Part]

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rudra-writes · 5 years

Text

Pallas and Telurin - Hot Springs (Part 12)

Part of a roleplay story with Telurin’s player. Telurin considers his conflicted feelings about continuing to be Pallas’s guardian, indirectly putting the anchorite in danger from his own death knight compulsions. The following day on the road, Pallas suggests they stop at a natural hot springs. Pallas encourages Telurin to join him in the warm water, and their attraction to one another comes to light. (Advisory for some suggestive content.)

Telurin curls an arm around the slight Anchorite when Pallas settles into his side, stroking the man's hair idly. He regrets not picking up his runeblade with the blanket, since it looks like Pallas is well on his way to dropping from exhaustion.

Still, nothing has bothered them yet, and Telurin should be able to sneak away at some point when Pallas is fully asleep and take back up his armor and his watch of the little Anchorite. All of this is nothing more than idle worry, his mind skittering off of his real concerns to fret something less troublesome.

What is he going to do with Pallas, who seems to delight in pushing him to the edge? Telurin had felt the man's pain at their second joining, and had enjoyed it. It would be too easy for him to fall into his baser desires and merge the desire for Pallas's body with the more sinister eternal hunger, especially when the man practically encourages it. He continues to stroke Pallas's hair and horns, his expression falling into his typical somberness as his thoughts spiral downwards.

Pallas murmurs faintly from his little blanket cocoon, and strokes Telurin's solid chest with a hand. "Could the next time be... something gentle, please?" he asks in a small voice. He isn't aware of Telurin's concerns, but is coming to the conclusion that maybe the rough sex /had/ been too much all at once for him.

"Of course, my beautiful Anchorite." Telurin squeezes Pallas briefly in reassurance. His voice is equal parts strained and relieved. Strained because here is more proof he'd gone too far, and relieved that perhaps it was enough for Pallas to see what he was truly asking for earlier. "I had intended to be gentle this time, only you seemed determined to force my hand. I am not one to back down from that sort of challenge willingly, Pallas."

Pallas reaches up to cup Telurin's chin, stroking his mutton chops gently. "I knew I was working you up." Then he laughs. "...Well... I suppose I'm just not used to it yet, is all. Firm sex can be nice, at times."

Telurin's eyes half close at the touch, enjoying the feel of warm fingers though his mutton chops and on his face. He stops short of leaning into the touch, however.

"We will have to work on that then." He smirks, kissing the top of Pallas's head, between his horns. "If it is something that you prefer to happen more often than not....?" Telurin trails off, the question leading in its tone. He's asked precious few questions of the Anchorite, though if they were going to continue to be intimate Telurin wants to know Pallas's preferences, the sooner the better.

Pallas bites the inside of his cheek in thought. After a moment, he shakes his head. "I think it depends on the mood," he replies, looking up into Telurin's lichfire-blue eyes. He is again struck by the consideration the death knight pays to him. It's an unexpected juxtaposition with the more monstrous aspects of what he was. "I enjoy your possessiveness, and when you take initiative. But, mm, I think I would stop short in saying I enjoy roughness for its own sake. In the right mood, at the right time, it can be very good."

"There is much that can be good," the little priest continues, taking the back of one of Telurin's hands and kissing his knuckles. "My Boros and I... He was of a different temperament than you, but we liked to experiment. I suppose in that way, we are similar. You mentioned enjoying trying new things."

Telurin nods, looking amused and relaxing a bit more when Pallas kisses his calloused knuckles, filing the information about roughness away in his mind for later. When he's released, he returns the gesture by hooking an arm under Pallas's knees and looping them over his thigh, curling the little Anchorite even more toward him.

"Tell me about him." Telurin says, unhurried, fingers massaging the muscles of Pallas's shoulder. "I would like to hear the sort of legend I'm being compared to, and what sort of things you considered experimental."

Pallas smiles. This is the first time he can recall that Telurin has wished to ask him questions about his past. Still wrapped in the fleece blanket, he settles into the death knight's touch.

"It would not be fair to compare you to him," the priest said softly. "You are two very different people in your own right, with your own unique personalities. But since you have asked, I will tell you about him.

"He was one of the temple guardians back on Karabor-that-was, which is how I met him. I at first thought him very crass. He liked to make crude jokes and elicit a reaction out of me--That's one thing you two have in common. I didn't like him at first, but the more I observed of how he interacted with others, the more I learned that he was a very kind, selfless man. He liked to make me laugh, and he supported everything I undertook to do.

"We became friends, then lovers when we realized we were drawn. We were partners in every sense of the word, inseparable. His life adjusted to accommodate me, and mine did the same. I married him before all of my peers at Karabor."

Pallas looks like he is dwelling upon memories, but he doesn't seem upset or saddened. "After we were married, we began to speak of being bonded... Is that something you’ve heard of before?"

Telurin listens attentively while Pallas speaks, smirking at the mention of getting a reaction out of Pallas. He did indeed enjoy their banter. As Pallas continues on, Telurin finds he can picture the type of man Boros must surely have been quite easily. He'd been around enough of the type before. He shifts slightly to better accommodate the little priest at his side before answering his question.

"Mhmm." Telurin replies in wordless assent. "I have been married too, you know, though I did not find Meyruu till late in my life. She and I shared such a connection." His tone is gently teasing, more of a jab at his own age compared to Pallas's few years. "Though I hear it can be more intense for those bonded to Anchorites whose focus is the mind. My… mentor, I guess you could call him, was just such an Anchorite, though he was not the sort to suffer questions about such topics."

"Then you have heard of it?" Pallas is very interested in this. He had not known Telurin had been involved in any sort of mental connections. The little Anchorite shifts to turn and look at the death knight.

He nods. "At least, in my case... It was a mental bond, yes. It is like being connected to the other person at all times. Surface thoughts, emotions and sensations become shared." Pallas blushed faintly. "It is a very intimate experience, one requiring great trust on both sides. It is my guess that the Triumvirate might have shared such a bond--A three way one, with one another." Pallas meant Velen, Kil'jaeden and Archimonde.

"It can be a frightening thing, to be so deeply connected to someone else, but it is comforting also. Like someone is always there, holding your hand. Does that sound anything like what you had with your mentor?" Pallas asked gently.

"I never had such a… permanent bond with Belaar, though each of us were familiar enough with the other to allow more fleeting connections." Telurin frowns, remembering the experience of finding a version of Belaar on this world so similar to his own, and how well that had turned out. He shakes his head as if to clear it. "No, Belaar and I were close, but not as close as you describe. I doubt he maintained permanent bonds with anyone."

"Meyruu, however..." He smiles at her memory, though it's tinged with sadness. "She and I were somewhat closer. I could always sense what she was feeling, and she could do the same with me. Helpful, I cannot recall a single fight between us..." He trails off, though on the whole he's been far more forthcoming than any other time Pallas has questioned him.

Pallas watches and listens to Telurin as the other man speaks, then trails off. He reaches up to stroke the other man's face. "It's become late," he says, and it has. The night has darkened to black and the stars are out. "Is it safe to make camp here?"

Telurin nods, he had been thinking the same earlier. "I had intended to stay up tonight and keep watch, so that you could get some rest."

Pallas nods, and slides forward to kiss the other man gently on the lips. It had been a long and eventful evening, and rest was probably for the best.

The priest rose to allow Telurin to retrieve his armor and blade. In the meantime he washed the exertions of the evening from his body, singing to himself quietly, and combed the tangles out of his long hair. He dressed himself in his silk pants and shirt, and made a campfire and modest meal out of what travel rations they had, since they had not stopped for supper. When he had finished eating, he curled up in Telurin's blanket again.

Telurin joins him at the water long enough to get clean himself, and then begins the task of refitting his armor as Pallas works at making a fire. He settles just outside of the fire's light, between the little Anchorite and the entrance to this little secluded grove, his eyes shining against the dark. The sounds of the talbuk grazing and Sugarfoot mimicking the beast can be heard in the darkness, the Charger’s hooves leaving clumps of foxfire in his wake. All-in-all, a peaceful evening, and it looks as if the rest of the night will pass without incident.

#draenei #draenei death knight #Pallas #Telurin

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konglindorm · 7 years

Text

Lindworm Chapter One

“Thank you so much for thinking of me,” Marit said, “but really I’d rather not marry a monster.”

The king stared at her, his men standing stiffly by. It had not, of course, been thoughtfulness that led him to her cottage in the woods. Marit knew this, and knew that the marriage was not optional, and that one could not speak to a king in this manner and expect to keep one’s head. But when one has already been sentenced to death, such things as respect for royalty matter very little.

She had heard the story—she was sure the whole kingdom had, by now. How some six months ago, their prince had set off to find a bride, and how his path had been blocked by a dragon, a snake-beast, a great lindworm who spoke with the voice of a man, demanding a bride of his own before the prince could have one. How instead of chopping him into small pieces, the prince had ridden home, and how instead of sending someone else to chop him up, the king had set about finding the lindworm a bride. How the lindworm had devoured that bride, and demanded another, which the king had also found. And now, with two princesses dead and two countries about to declare war, he had chosen Marit to be the third.

She was no one, and lived near enough to the palace. He could not risk another princess. It was rumored that the lindworm was his son. She did not know how true that might be. She did not much care.

Finally, the king found his voice. “You misunderstand me. This is not an offer or a suggestion. You may come willingly, in which case your family will be compensated, or you may be dragged off by your hair. Choose wisely.”

Kings, she thought, ought to be more impressive and aloof. Also kinder.

There was no doubt they needed the king’s gold. It had been a dry summer, and an unpleasant winter. If he had called for volunteers, she might have gone, to see her family safe through this next year. But he had not called for volunteers, and stood now in the mud, glaring down at her in his purple coat as if she were the one that was worthless. The chickens squawked around him.

"Ja, and what next?” she said. “After me, you’ll kill off every maid in the country, and then I suppose you’ll have to go to war, and find slaves to feed his appetite? Discipline is important for growing boys, Your Majesty. Learn to say no to your son.”

The king slapped her, but did not contest the claim he was the lindworm’s father. He did not bother to punish her further. There was no further punishment than this wedding.

“You will be collected, and the gold delivered, in one week,” he said. “Of course, there will be men watching to see that you do not run.”

“Of course,” she echoed.

Her father and sister were in the back—they would not have heard the commotion. She could hear the cow mooing still from here, more than enough to drown out a king. It would be left to her, then, to explain. She did not look forward to it.

They had dreamt of kings and queens and ball gowns. Greta was half in love with Prince Harald, as were most girls her age. The king had long had a reputation for mercy and kindness, before the lindworm. And now she would explain to them that he was the sort of man who struck defenseless girls in the forest.

It was three days later, wandering the woods to escape the oppression of mourning at home, that she met the old woman. She was short, with white hair spilling from her cap, bright and cheerful in a blue skirt and red vest, and she smiled like an old friend at Marit.

“And why are you so sad?” the woman asked.

“It is nothing.” She would not tell her sorrows to a stranger with the soldiers watching—she had some small pride, still.

“Come,” said the woman, “perhaps I can help you.” She leaned forward and spoke softly, so that only Marit might hear, “It is the lindworm, is it not?”

Marit was too surprised to answer, and the woman led her deeper into the trees, where there was snow still on the ground. The soldiers could see them still, from their post behind the evergreens, but would not hear.

“Now. Here is what you must do.”

The king came himself to collect her for the wedding, which might have been an honor, except that they had learned to hate him, these past seven days. He said that her family was invited to the wedding, of course. Perhaps her sister could be a bridesmaid.

Marit had declined his generous offer.

Her father had sent her off with her mother’s wedding dress, just as if this were something real. Greta had cried.

The walk to the palace was long and mostly silent. Marit would have expected a carriage. She walked beside the king, in front of a small horde of soldiers, clutching the bundle that held her dress and everything else she might need. If they had come through the city from the front, instead of through the woods, she could have walked beneath the rows of pink flowered trees that led to the gates. She would have liked that.

They probably weren’t blooming yet.

Greta had cried. She would not. Not in front of the king.

The terracotta waves of the palace roof were in sight when he started trying to make conversation. “What is your name?”

“Marit.”

“Olaf,” he said, and it sounded like an apology she would not accept. She had known his name already. She had not cared.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“We all do foolish things for our children.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” She wondered if he meant the lindworm, or only Prince Harald, who could not be married until it was satisfied.

“We’ll probably have to go to war with the princesses’ fathers.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“You had much more to say a week ago.”

She would be dead by morning, and he wanted small talk to distract from his guilt. “What would you have me say? I’m sorry this is hard for you? Good luck with your war? I’m sure I’ll be very happy with your son? No, I really don’t mind dying before I’m twenty?”

A few soldiers stepped forward, and he waved them away. There was another long silence before the king asked quietly, “How old are you?”

Marit stared down at the ground, arms wrapped around her chest. “Seventeen.”

“I am very sorry,” he said. He did not speak again until they reached the palace.

It was stunning, but few things are truly impressive when one is about to die. Mostly, she just felt numb.

She asked, dully, as a troop of maids descended, “When will the wedding be?”

“At eight o’clock,” he said. “Will that give you enough time to prepare?”

One of the maids assured him it would, and he told her, “Give the girl whatever she wants. It’s her wedding day, after all.” He laughed, unamused, more bitter than cruel, and then he was gone.

“Is there anything special we can do for you, miss?” the maid asked dutifully.

Marit thought of the old woman in the forest. “This is going to sound a little strange."

The rest of the day was spent preparing her for the wedding, as if it could possibly matter what she looked like, as if the lindworm would notice or care. Would the state of her hair really impact how she tasted?

They even had a mirror. She had only seen her reflection in rippling water before, and it was incredible, like magic, but this was much too high a price for learning she had freckles.

The worst part was that she felt special, by the end. Like a real princess, with her hair piled high, and those gorgeous soft slippers. Her mother’s wedding dress. And she was cleaner than she’d ever been in her life. So much hard work, all for her.

She didn’t want it. Her father had the king’s money, and that was only fair. She didn’t want any favors. She didn’t want to die feeling like she owed them something. Not when she was the unwilling sacrifice. She didn’t owe them anything.

The ballroom where they held the wedding was gorgeous, with shining wood floors and dark walls covered in rosemåling, blue and gold and red. All the court was seated when she arrived, dressed in their finest clothes, looking horrified. She recognized the king and the queen and the prince, familiar from a dozen parades, sitting in the front row. The rest were strangers.

And then she saw the lindworm.

He was enormous, the height of seven men at least, white like a maggot, or the mold on stale bread. He had dark wings on his back, far too small to hold his weight in flight, and shiny white fangs quite visible even when his mouth was shut. He had no legs. There was a crown on his head, the size a man would wear, which might have been funny if he hadn’t planned to eat her, and he was staring at her with an expression of mild curiosity. That was the worst part—the look of his eyes, which were a comfortable human shade of blue.

She broke eye contact and started walking down the aisle, alone, since her father wasn’t there, and quickly—maybe the anticipation was worse than the death itself. One could only hope.

The lindworm stared at her a moment longer when she took her place beside him, then turned to the priest, who stared silently ahead, pale—whether in anger or fear, Marit couldn’t tell. It was a mockery of a marriage, and enough to infuriate any priest. If he disapproved so much, he needn’t have performed the ceremony.

There was a long pause before the lindworm hissed. “Whenever you’re ready, Father.”

Marit flinched at the sound of his voice. She had known he could speak—how else could he have demanded a wife in the first place? But hearing it for herself was different.

“Of course.” He swallowed. “Do you, Prince Lindworm, take this girl—” He paused, and looked up slowly to meet Marit’s eyes.

“Marit Liefsdotter.”

"Thank you.”

There was another pause, until the lindworm hissed again.

“Do you, Prince Lindworm, take this girl, Marit Liefsdotter, to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do.”

Marit looked about the room, hardly listening, as the ceremony continued. Her dress, fine enough for a peasant girl’s wedding, must be the poorest garment these people had ever seen. She did not want to care what they thought of her, these fine lords who stood by, swords in their belts, sacrificing when they could be stabbing, and ball gowns were not so tempting as they had been in her dreams, on these stiff cold women who did not care.

She realized that everything was quiet again, and then that everyone was staring at her. Including the lindworm, his forked tongue darting in and out below those terrible eyes.

“I’m sorry?”

The priest repeated, slowly and unhappily, “Do you, Marit Liefsdotter, take this lindworm to be your lawfully wedded husband, for be—”

“I do,” she interrupted. There was no point in drawing it out.

He nodded, and mumbled something that sounded like “You may now kiss the bride.”

Marit took a step back. “Absolutely not. There will be no bride kissing here.”

The people in the audience leaned forward. Marit saw them, and wondered if the princesses had let themselves be kissed, but mostly she was focused on the lindworm, who was unreadable. How did a lindworm kiss?

She didn’t want to know.

“Time for the reception, then,” the king said, finally, from his seat in the front row.

The lindworm twisted his head to stare at him, but didn’t object.

Prince Harald took her arm to lead her to the banquet hall, the lindworm somewhere ahead. He was very handsome, their prince—well, the whole kingdom knew that. But he was also rumored to be funny, and kind, and very charming. If she had any hope of rescue outside the old woman, it lay with him.

But he had already failed to save two girls more important than her.

“Could we not just be done with it all?” she whispered.

“You don’t want the reception?” He sounded surprised.

“We all know how this ends, ja? I would rather not pretend at being a happy bride.”

“There will be a banquet. You don’t want him hungry, do you?”

“That’s your plan to save my life? Feed the lindworm wedding cake?”

He stopped abruptly in the middle of the hallway. “Honestly? I don’t think anything is going to save your life. But if this gives you a few more hours, well, isn’t that worth something?”

“You’re the prince. You’re supposed to be a hero. It’s your job to kill him and save me. How can you let him do this?”

He had the grace to look uncomfortable, at least. “So I should chop off my brother’s head to save a stranger? I’m sorry. I am. I hate him. I hate what he’s doing. But there are bigger things in this world than a farmer’s daughter, or even two princesses and a war, and I will not live with his blood on my hands.”

“But you’ll live with mine.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

And then they were in the banquet hall, and she walked unaccompanied to the lindworm’s table. He looked up with interest as she sat, then ignored her as the food was served.

A short blonde girl caught the prince’s arm as he walked away. “This is dreadful. Harry, please.”

He shook her off. “Don’t call me that.”

Marit did not see the prince again. She watched as the wedding cake was cut, a golden tower of ever-narrower rings, white icing dripping down the sides. A little boy, six or seven, charming with curly copper hair, ran forward to whisper, “If I were bigger I’d kill him for you,” and his mother dragged him away.

The lindworm stared down at his plate and said nothing. He must have heard. Everyone ate in silence, eyes cast carefully down. They were afraid of the lindworm, and he was frightening, of course, but just then he was flicking his tongue absently at a slice of cake, and looked less deadly than he might have. If there was any chance of reasoning with him, now would be the time.

"Not hungry?” she asked.

His head swiveled around, and she thought he was confused, and looked down to avoid his eyes. “No. I don’t eat much.”

“Oh. Maybe if you—” She stopped. But there was nothing to lose, anymore, by being direct. She looked into his human eyes and asked him, “Will you be hungry tonight?”

His tongue stopped flicking. “I’m never hungry.”

“Then you do it for fun?”

“Fun,” he repeated slowly. “Is this supposed to be fun? With the cake and the terrified silence? I’m not having fun. Are you having fun?”

“No,” she whispered.

He had not blinked once all night. Maybe lindworms didn’t. Normal snakes didn’t seem to, after all.

“Let’s get it over with, then.”

"I thought you weren’t hungry.”

“I’m not. That’s why I want to leave the banquet.”

She let herself be pulled into those eyes again, trying to understand what he wasn’t saying, and he added, “It’s only some pathetic cosmic joke. You realize that, don’t you, Marit?”

It was the first time he’d said her name. She nodded, wishing he hadn’t.

“The other ones didn’t.”

He rose, towering above the entire room, and announced, “Princess Marit has had a long day. She is bored and tired. We will retire to our room for the night.”

A few people in the crowd looked sick, but no one objected, and Marit wondered, as they started to flee, why she had wanted this. Surely, a few more hours to live would have been better. But then, perhaps the old woman’s plan would work.

The lindworm led the way, managing stairs quite impressively without legs. Marit followed, hemmed in by fleets of maids and soldiers, as if she were foolish enough to think she could escape this now. There was no sign of the royal family. At the door, the lindworm bowed his head, and one of the maids, trembling, went to lift off the crown. He slithered into the room, and Marit stood frozen in the doorway.

Finally, one of the soldiers nudged her, and she took a step forward. Everyone in the hall was suddenly in a great hurry to get away, but Marit had just remembered something. She turned back to the door.

"Wait, please.”

The last maid stopped, looking helpless and miserable. There was really nothing to wait for.

“Can you just help me with the buttons? On my dress? It was my mother’s, and I don’t want it to be ruined when—could it be sent back home, please? After I—to my little sister. Tell her it doesn’t—I mean, she should still wear it. She’d look beautiful in it.”

The girl nodded and started to undo the buttons, glancing nervously over at the lindworm as she worked.

“Good night, princess,” she whispered, just as if Marit were a real princess. And then she fled.

Marit closed the door and turned to the lindworm, who was twined around the bedpost, watching her intently. He had done nothing so far, and didn’t look too malevolent.

“All right, then.” She stepped out of the dress, so she was in just her shift, and began to fold it carefully. “This dress is a very important family heirloom. So I’m going to leave it up here.”

She set it on top of the wardrobe. “You’re not to tear it or get it bloody or anything. I want it left alone, and returned to my family tomorrow. Ja?”

The lindworm flicked his tongue a few times, then nodded. “You may take it home to them in the morning.”

She felt the pressure of tears rising, and blinked them back furiously. If she hadn’t cried for the king, she certainly would not for the lindworm.

"Well, that’s just mean.”

It looked puzzled.

“We all know what happens next. We’ve heard the stories, even us peasants in the forest. So don’t act like this is some kind of—let’s just get on with it, ja?”

“All right.” It slithered away from the bedpost, stopping just a few feet from her. “Would you take off your shift, please?”

The lindworm had manners. She was sure that would be a great comfort as it devoured her.

She took a deep breath. It was time to find out how crazy the woman was. “I will take off my shift after you take off your skin.”

It tilted its head, clearly puzzled, but started to wriggle obediently. “The others didn’t ask me that.”

Marit didn’t want to think about the others.

It was a full ten minutes before the skin lay on the ground beside the lindworm, long and thin and hideous. He was bigger than he had been. Just slightly. But if every skin shed led to such an increase in size—it wouldn’t. The woman had said this would help, and growing could only make things worse.

She took off her first shift and laid it on top of the skin. The lindworm seemed fascinated by the second shift, but not unduly concerned.

“Take that one off too, please.”

“You first.”

“I don’t think I’m supposed to shed twice in one day. I wasn’t even due the first one for another month.”

“No skin, no shift.”

The wriggling started up again. It was not until the sixth or seventh skin that Marit began to be really concerned. Hours had passed. It was taking longer each time, and it sounded painful. He wasn’t getting bigger anymore—in fact he was getting smaller. He was more greenish than white now. But he kept going, with no more questions or complaints.

It was not his health that worried her. If he was this determined to have her unclothed, what must he be planning for when it was finished? She could not imagine he would go so far merely to avoid the hassle of eating fabric.

She was down to her last two shifts, and he was working, very slowly, with long and frequent breaks, on the ninth skin, when he asked, sounding rather alarmingly like a little boy, “Can I be done now?”

“Not if you want my shifts off.” She crossed her arms and tried to look stern.

“I’m sorry. Only it really hurts, you see, and I’m afraid it might get messy. I don’t know how many skins I have.”

He was beginning to look a little transparent. She did not tell him that he had only ten. He would find out soon enough.

While he was working on the tenth, she went to the closet to organize the supplies the maids had left for her. That she wore ten shifts was strange enough; what must they have thought about a tub of milk and one of lye? And the whips, of course.

She dipped them into the lye, now, and carried them back out to the lindworm, just in time to see the final skin slip off. He had been horrific enough before. The first layer had been stiff and dry, and very thin. This last one was thick, slimy with blood. She looked up from the floor to the lindworm, and caught glimpses of his insides that she had not needed, and she wondered how old he was. Not far from Prince Harald, she thought, but perhaps lindworms aged differently. She lifted the whips.

“What are you doing?” he asked, and his voice was shrill and frightened and young.

“I don’t know.”

Anyone listening would assume the screams were hers. He shouted and whimpered and begged, and she thought that nothing right could cause a creature such pain, not even a creature like him, and would have stopped, but he would have eaten her, as he had eaten the others, who had spoken to the woman too, and who had not listened. He called again and again for Ida, apologizing and condemning her, then apologizing again, and finally Marit could bear it no more, and dropped the whips.

She dragged the tub of milk to him and dunked him once, reminded absurdly of a baptismal service she’d seen last spring. Then the milk turned red with blood, and she dropped him whimpering to the floor, and found her hands and arms still streaked in it. But they were nearly done.

She lifted him again, a quivering mass of blood and twitching muscle, and pulled him to the bed, where he fit from head to small bedraggled wings, the rest of his tail in a heap on the floor. He had lost the majority of his great size, between the shedding and the whips. He seemed to be crying. She looked up at his eyes, the blue even more startling now against the red.

“Is it over?” he asked.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

The woman had promised that Marit would survive the night. She had not said how it would end for the lindworm. He was no danger to her now, at least. She did not know how long he might survive in this state, or what she would tell the king when he woke to find him dead.

Telling the king, she would manage, somehow. She did not want to explain to those blue eyes how unlikely it seemed that he would live much longer.

“I am afraid,” he said.

“It’s all right. Just go to sleep.”

She pulled the blanket over him, gently. There was already enough blood to wash out. It could not hurt to give him some warmth, or herself some distance, as she lay down carefully beside him. This was the final step—something symbolic that the woman had not explained. She reached up to catch a trickle of blood before it dripped into his eye, then closed her own eyes and lowered her hand.

The blast threw her across the room.

When she sat up, she was half convinced she’d been knocked out, and woken in some dream world. There was a thin, pale young man on the bed, bent down with his head on his knees, arms hanging useless at his sides, crying quietly. He was completely naked, covered in long red welts.

“Make it stop,” he was saying, apparently to himself. “I don’t want it. Make it stop. Make it stop.” He repeated this, again and again.

Marit approached slowly, and touched his shoulder when he didn’t react. The boy leapt up explosively, then slumped down again. She backed away.

“Oh, gods,” he said.

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#lindworm #fairy tale retellings #folklore #fairy tales #kong lindorm #prince lindworm #books #writing #my writing

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rudra-writes · 5 years

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Pallas Meets Belaar (Part 8)

Part of a roleplay story with Telurin’s player. At Karabor, Pallas’s romantic involvement with a death knight is discovered by one of the high priests, who seeks to confine and discipline him. Aware that something is amiss, Telurin requests his mentor, Anchorite Belaar, look into the situation.

Telurin just shakes his head and continues to stroke Pallas's hair until long after the little Anchorite has fallen asleep. The past month had been stressful for the both of them, and regardless of what names Pallas does and does not want applied to them, Telurin is determined to see to it that Pallas is never put in that situation again. He spends most of the night just enjoying having Pallas in his arms and watching him sleep, safe and so trusting that he won't come to harm with him near. Telurin falls asleep himself sometime late enough that it may be more accurate to call it early morning than late at night, Pallas still held protectively in his arms.

That morning, as the pale early light streams through the window, Pallas opens his eyes to the chirping of birds. Telurin's unclothed body surrounds him, and he himself is wearing no more than a thin chain. It feels surreal to wake up and no longer be surrounded by his familiar, small room back at Karabor.

He rubs the sleep out of his eyes. It surprises him somewhat that Telurin is present here. The death knight seemed to more typically be an early riser. Pallas moves himself slightly to look at the other man's sleeping face.

As soon as Pallas moves, Telurin's arms tighten around the slender Anchorite, effectively trapping him against him, but is otherwise absolutely still. The death knight’s features are softened in sleep, the tension that is so often present in his face wiped away. It makes him look younger, possibly, or more like the man he was in life, even though the stillness is perhaps unsettling.

Telurin's arm muscles tense, and Pallas is trapped. The priest frowns faintly, looking about for a moment like a concerned bunny. By all appearances, the death knight looks to be asleep. Pallas isn't certain how Tel is aware he is present.

His face looks softer, but there's no breathing, and it is eerily similar to looking upon a deceased person at their wake. Still, Pallas studies him tenderly, his observational eye taking in features he was coming to know almost as well as his own face.

After a few minutes, he became hungry. Pallas debated what to do. He remembered the time he had touched Telurin in sleep, and the other man had awakened violently and grabbed him. Telurin had said to Pallas that he should speak first, after that time. Would it work?

Pallas says quietly, "Telurin?"

There's a subtle yet clear shift in Telurin's features as Pallas speaks his name. He squeezes the Anchorite a bit more, and there's the barest hint of a smile about his mouth. The death knight opens his eyes, then closes them again, though it's clear that he's awake.

"Mornin'," He says, and even demonic voices can be roughened with sleep. He opens his eyes again to look at Pallas. "Sleep well, Kechare?"

Pallas sees the smile -- or did he? It happened so quickly, and was so brief. The priest caresses the side of Telurin's face now that he is awake, and presumably safer to touch, combing his mutton chop with his thin fingers. He smiles, "I did. But you have trapped me in the bed with you, and I am hungry."

"Ah, but I like having you trapped in bed with me." Telurin smirks, and lets his fingers wander up and down Pallas's back as the Anchorite combs his muttonchops. He doesn't let up his grip, apparently having Pallas back and safe has put him in a good mood and he's already teasing.

Pallas laughs and pushes against Telurin's chest. "How do you know I'm even there if you're asleep? I swear your arms moved on their own."

Tel lets him push out some, but as soon as he stops fighting, he pulls him back to his chest. "Oh I know." He says smugly. "Though I could say the same for you. You were out nearly as soon as we were finished last night."

"I was tired! Who wouldn't be after everything you did?" Pallas tries to twist away and out of Telurin's arms, to no real results. He settles back grumpily, and his stomach rumbles. "Listen to that, you are starving me."

"I suppose I do have to give you credit." He smirks, "You were very good last night." Telurin kisses Pallas on the top of the head and then releases him. "It would be remiss of me to rescue you just to let you starve the next day."

Pallas is released, but he does not end up going far, only moving away enough to sit up in bed. He looks at Telurin, his expression becoming more uncertain. "You don't really think of me as being your pet... do you?"

"I didn't know it worried you so much." Telurin frowns. "Of course you are your own person, Pallas. No matter what I say when we are .....otherwise engaged."

Pallas moves over to Telurin, and puts his arms around his neck. "...There is a part of me that enjoys the fantasy of it," he murmurs. "I feel like in a certain way, it could be blissful. Not having to feel as if I had to worry for myself, and letting you take care of things. Take care of me."

His thin arms squeeze Telurin tighter. "I can't be that, though... I want to be your... your equal."

The mention of being equals makes Telurin's frown deepen. He sits up, looking away from Pallas. "We will never be equals, Anchorite." He stresses the title, making sure that Pallas knows which way he feels the disparity lies. "No matter what happens here, behinds closed doors, in public there is no question of it."

Pallas blinks, not having expected this reaction. He touches Telurin's arm. "Equals in a relationship," he clarifies, trying to meet the other man's eyes. Surely... surely, that was different?

Telurin still keeps his eyes down and away, but he does nod. “In the relationship.” He confirms, as if he’s testing the sound of it on his tongue. He shakes his head with a smirk. “You said you were hungry. Get dressed and we will go downstairs to remedy that.”

Pallas peers at Telurin, but understands that this may be all the death knight is comfortable saying about this subject. He smiles and leans in to kiss his cheek, his mood brightening despite Tel's usual insistence that he is an inferior creature.

He then hops up off the bed, removing the chain and transferring it back to its wooden box, which he stows back in his satchel. The priest starts to wash his face in the washbasin. "Do you have someplace in mind where we should head next?" he asks. "I suppose if I am now Belaar's student, we shouldn't stray too far." Although Belaar hadn't exactly given them a timeframe when he expected their return. Pallas had some other things in mind.

Telurin stands and stretches, causing his muscles to ripple and flex. He picks up his discarded clothes and begins the process of putting his armor back on.

"You'll need a mount, and not one of those skittish rental beasts." He says, considering. "That should be our first order of business."

Pallas watches Telurin out of the corner of his eye while the death knight stretches, his tail twitching. Now that he's properly rescued and his containment is in the past, and his beloved guardian is with him again, he is starting to feel bubbly and excited.

He throws his silk clothes on, and his priest's habit on over those, then moves to Telurin's side to try to help him reattach the various pieces of his armor. "Where shall we find such a beast? Embaari, perhaps?"

Telurin looks surprised, then amused, to have a helper for his armor, and considers this. "Embaari has a fair number of talbuk traders pass through." //And Rii likely knows them all...// he thinks to himself, which decides it for him - he'd rather not spend days walking up and down various picket lines, looking for the animal that doesn't spook at his presence and yet is still sound enough to keep up with Sugarfoot. "Though I am fairly certain Belaar meant for you to return today, a diversion of a day or two should give him time to settle things at the Temple."

"/Today?/" Pallas says the word with a whine, looking up at Telurin with an expression that clearly suggests whatever plans he may have been forming may have to be put on hold.

"I'll take the blame with Belaar." Telurin snorts, setting his hands on Pallas's shoulders. "I do not want you near the Temple today, and a trip to Embaari first is not going to hurt anything."

Pallas blinks, stopping for a moment. He did not expect his complaining would actually work. "You won't get into much trouble, will you?" He stands up on his tippy toes, and wraps his arms around Telurin's neck. "I'm just so happy to have you back, I want us to do something nice. Can we, Telurin?" he asks earnestly.

Telurin wraps his arms around Pallas, careful now that he's got his armor on, his tail coming around to curl around Pallas's lower leg. "Of course we can, Kechare." He says, and the tone of his voice suggests he would have agreed to just about anything Pallas had asked him.

Joyfulness spreads across Pallas's features, and his tail wags. "How long has it been since anyone's taken you on a date?" he asks. His voice might have sounded coy if he hadn't been so delighted by the idea.

Telurin's head comes up and back, and there's startled amusement on his features. "A date?" He says with a smirk. "A very long time, I would say."

Telurin seems surprised, but not appalled. Pallas bites his lower lip, unable to contain his shy, eager smile. "I don't know what events are happening around this Embaari, but, um, I grew up not real far from this area on our world, and I remember there was a really good mead and beer-tasting festival that happened about this time every year? And the Observatory is still the same. I don't know if you would like to look at stars, I, I mean, you probably do that all the time on the road already, it's probably not really special to you..."

Telurin just presses his lips together in amusement and puts a finger over Pallas's lips, stopping the nervous flow of words. "If that's what you want to do, that's what we will do." He replaces his finger with his lips, kissing Pallas with a surprising amount of tenderness. "I am fond of good mead. I'm sure it will be entertaining, if only to see you enjoy yourself."

Pallas all but melts into Telurin's kiss, sliding bonelessly against the death knight's armored body. He wants to protest that whatever they do should be entertaining for Telurin as well, but, apparently it will be simply for Pallas's happiness. He stands leaning against the front of the other man's armor, looking happy and melty.

#draenei #Pallas #Telurin

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