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joz-yyh · 7 months

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Blighted Hearts - Ch. 2

SUMMARY: It's the night of the full moon and Damian has quite an eccentric request for the church. William also has a shocking proposition for his brute of a partner. No Beta. Read at your own risk.

PAIRING: Abomination x Flagellant / Bounty Hunter x Hound Master

RATING: T (for Ch. 2 only!! The rest of the fic is EXPLICIT!)

WORD COUNT: 3,882

READ ON Ao3: -> HERE!!

A/N: Huge thank you to @hungryhannya, @leenukeath, @zawwa and my reviewers for all their encouragement. Without you, I wouldn’t have had the support to turn this into a multi-chaptered fic! I hope you enjoy! 💚

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Neither of them had slept much that night, too engrossed in each other’s company for more than a few fitful spells of arrhythmic unconsciousness.

Bigby lays draped over the flagellant's shoulder, a shaggy arm angled over his scarred chest, a hairy leg twined with his enrobed one. Damian made sure the wolfboy held most of the blanket, shroud covering a larger portion of his exposed skin, one bandaged arm wrapped around the ringlets of his waist, clutching him close to his side.

The fire was now dead, the priest sadly needing to leave just before dawn, giving his boyfriend's hand a chivalrous kiss goodbye.

He had only been gone a few hours, needing to be in attendance when the other church members awoke and then like clockwork he fetches Bigby from his cave, speaking of the latest news from the town crier.

There had been a boon in supplies thanks to a recent excursion at the warrens and the holy man was adamant about the two of them visiting Hamlet together to celebrate.

That's where they're headed now, Damian making the bold move (at least Bigby thinks it's bold) to hold his hand during the daylight hours, out in public.

The wolfboy doesn't register it at first, the shock of it. He almost suspects it's on accident, but their hands remain locked throughout the whole trek towards the decorated square.

Damian has been exceptionally joyous, almost painfully so, but who was Bigby to squander it, especially since he was the cause.

Still the fear remains that if the residents didn't already have their suspicions, then this romantic air between them will certainly solidify the rumors.

Bigby shirks away from the judging eye of society (one would have to with his condition), but dating a flagellant with a reputation for madness only adds to the notoriety.

“I am glad you’re happy, but could you maybe tone it down a bit,” Bigby asks, overly conscious of his partner’s exuberant mannerisms.

“What do you mean,” the flagellant twitters, looking towards him with the same grin plastered across his face, “I am always this happy when I am with you.”

The lycan clicks his tongue, a flush appearing on his cheeks as well as a helpless look, both flattered and embarrassed.

“Perhaps, but people are staring,” he argues, trying to shrink away, fold himself inside his shroud and Damian’s bulk.

“Let them stare if they must,” the priest asserts, anticipating what the other might be worried about, “I am not ashamed to be seen with you.”

Bigby doesn’t say anything, choosing to bite his lip and hang his head, hoping his hair will eclipse his face, keeping watch over his steps.

“Unless, it’s me that you’d rather not be seen with,” Damian pouts, his happiness immediately revoked, becoming a gaunt frown, withdrawing his hand from their combined grips.

The wolfboy notices this change the same way he acknowledges a cold strike of fear.

“No,” Bigby shouts, reaching for the flagellant's hand with panicked aggression.

Damian jumps, surprised by this uncharacteristic reaction, Bigby reclaiming what is rightfully his, fumbling to reconnect them with jittery desperation.

At the reaffirming feeling of his boyfriend's warmth clasped in his, the abomination is once again calmed, but realizes his embarrassing slight too late.

He clears his throat, keeping good posture, attempting to pass for normal and not the touch-starved man he just proved himself to be.

“T-that’s not it,” he explains, avoiding Damian’s eyes by keeping his pinned straight ahead, “I am … I am just not used to this … attention.”

“You will grow to be,” the flagellant assures him, smiling confidently, hoping to inspire the same daring nerve in his partner.

"A tall order," Bigby laughs, smiling ruefully at the thought, "I am not exactly bursting with self confidence."

"All the more reason for me to show you off," the flagellant smirks, taking the reins as he tugs Bigby toward one of the stalls.

—--

Tardif glances in the direction of the two addled men, hard pressed not to stare with the commotion they're making. He bristles beneath his mask, seething at how carelessly they strut their laissez faire fraternization for all to see, for him to see.

This bustling market wouldn't have been possible without him and William trudging in squalor, busting their asses for a silo of grain sacks, and now he has to share their success with those clodhopping imbeciles of all people.

Something soft, grounding presses against his clothed cheek, making his heart leap into his throat. He realizes it's William, his lips giving him a light peck of surprise.

"I got us a couple of meat pies and sweet potatoes for later," William chirps, holding the loot of delicacies in his arms for his companion to see.

Fergus, the dearheart, also presents a band of carrots in her muzzle, tail wagging happily.

Savory food was usually the quickest way to the bounty hunter's heart, but when the ruffian only grunts nonchalantly at his favorite meal, the blonde man knows there must be something else eating at his prickly exterior instead.

"What's wrong," asks the houndmaster, a concerned frown setting in amongst his tawny features.

"Nothing," the mercenary dismisses, shaking his head and walking towards their shared cabin and further away from the festivities.

William lingers on the sight of his retreating back before he turns his gaze, picking up the scent of who he's been tracking, his eyes landing on the mismatched pair that was Hamlet's most obnoxious couple: the abomination and flagellant.

The houndmaster sighs. It was no wonder then. Fergus similarly, looks up at her master with a forlorn whimper.

William, being the detective that he was, could read the situation. He knew of the bounty hunter’s intrigue, of how a crazed masochist was just as appealing as a trophy to be won and conquered, but the blonde will prove that he can be just as hardy if not as satisfying.

Mind made up, William prims his brow, striding up to the sulking hunk of armor, a determined glint in his golden eyes.

"Tonight, after dinner. Me and you. As rough as you want it," the houndmaster proclaims, walking astride him, gesticulating his free hand.

The brutes' eyes are blown so wide, William swears he can see them, even from behind the visage of his helmet. It’s torture, waiting for his response and the longer the bounty hunter looks his figure up and down, assessing his durability, the more the ex lawman begins to sweat out all his resolve.

"Ya sure ya can take it," Tardif taunts, truly debating if he could handle the physical demands of some rougher bedroom play.

William had more of a delicate constitution when it came to sex. His partner would often pass out if things between them got too intense, not that Tardif was opposed to the more tender stuff, but a part of him craved spice and untamed wildness.

"Of course I can," the beast tamer professes, puffing out his chest to convey just how tough he was.

Fergus equally attests to her best friend's credentials with an affirming bark and a little hop of her forepaws.

Tardif doesn't just chuckle, he full-blown giggles, the sound uncharacteristic and bordering on sinister as he plots out he could use this gambit to his advantage.

"Alright, hand me one of them meat pies and ya got yourself a deal," the bounty hunter smirks, holding out his glove.

William is all too thrilled to see the mercenary's appetite return, fulfilling the bargain without delay.

"Try not to back out on me," William teases, handing the wrapped delicacy over.

"Your back is what I’ll be trying," the brute snorts, pulling down his cowl to take a sizable bite of flaky crust.

A blonde mustache bristles at such vulgar comments, a stripe of red painting his nose, but he can’t deny that he set himself up for that.

—--

"No, wait that's–," Bigby cuts himself off, his shyness taking over as they stand before a proprietor of goods.

A middle-aged husband and wife greet their arrival, the wolfboy remarking with a timid wave.

“May we,” the flagellant asks, indicating the bushel of apples.

“Certainly, help yourself,” the older woman inclines, finding the two men of peculiar interest.

The priest plucks a pomme with a deep crimson hue, handing it to Bigby as if inviting him to dance.

"For you."

There's an interlude of hesitation, the abomination stunned by these acts of courtship, having never known such things before Damian. He reminds himself to accept this token of affection, warming the rind of fruit in his hands once he does.

The priest harvests one for himself as well, knowing his companion would not partake without him there to share the wealth.

The graying woman chuckles modestly at such a youthful display, looking with fond eyes toward her husband.

“Well, go on then,” the wife prods, sweeping her aging hands at the pair, “it’s the perfect time, height of the season so they're bound to be delicious.”

The flagellant takes a large mouthful, crisp and juicy flesh crumbling to his ration of teeth if only to persuade his partner to do the same.

Bigby takes a much smaller nibble, smiling cordially at the sweet yet sour taste. "It's good."

A harsh squeal draws his curiosity and the instant the wolfboy sees the rosy potbelly of the pig that made it, he’s charmed, the odd coloring of the bovine skin reminiscent of his own branded blood.

"May we pet the pigs," the abomination asks, turning towards the owner's, seeking their permission.

"Don't see why not," the man guffaws, shrugging in his overalls as he chews on a reed of wheat.

Bigby beams, approaching the makeshift pen, squatting down to be closer to the rotund creature that’s currently snout-deep in a bucket of slop.

"Hello, what's your name," the abomination coos, patting the white hairs between the swine’s floppy ears.

"That one there’s Rudolf," explains the old-timey farmer, pleased to see someone take an interest in his stock, "cuz he's so fat and red. My most prized hog."

"Haha, I see," the abomination chuckles. "It's a great name," he assures the animal, should there have been any offense.

Rather than any dotting reassurances, the pig seems more interested in the half-eaten apple, it’s salivating mouth abandoning his trough to wriggle toward this temptation and Bigby lets the glutton have it.

“Look at that,” the bifocaled man laughs, “Never stops eating!”

“Over here,” the woman beckons the flagellant, “Take some grain. Join your friend.”

“Thank you,” the hooded vagrant says, cupping a hand as she pours the millet into it.

Damian kneels to replenish Bigby’s supply of food with his own unfinished apple, whispering just low enough for him to hear, "Be careful he doesn't eat your whole hand. I have use for it later."

The brunette flushes despite himself, watching as his partner finds a small herd of sheep to preoccupy himself with.

The abomination shakes his head, feeding the leftovers to Rudolf, his eyes inevitably drifting, endeared by the sight of the flagellant being surrounded by a bunch of bleating clouds of wool.

Revised to leave his spot, the changeling observes how the sheep retreat as he draws closer to Damian's side, sensing a swell of danger that they did not before.

"Have some grain,” the flagellant smiles, recruiting him to the cause of hungry livestock.

“What’s the point? They’re all so scared of me,” the abomination scoffs, rising to his feet, intending to return to the sanctity of pigs.

“Wait,” Damian pleads, pulling him back down.

He opens a manacled palm, splits what feed there's left between them, urging both their lures through the gaps in the wooden fence.

“They will come,” the priest says, dispelling his partner's look of criticism, “give it time.”

Soon enough, this proves true, one of the younger lambs the first to dip into the well of Bigby's palm, the older siblings following suit until the reservoir of food is barren.

“See, I told you.”

That he did.

The tolling call of the church bell rings, both heroes looking towards the brass deacon of it’s steeple.

"It's nearly time for mass," Damian says, dusting off his hands, rising to his feet.

He holds out his bloody palm, extending it towards his companion and an old, vulnerable side of Bigby still flinches at these strokes of benevolence. Too many times generosity wore the skin of friendship, only to turn deceptive and cruel, but Damian's hands had never struck him, had only ever fulfilled his wishes of amity and warmth.

"Right," the lycan nods, swallowing down his learned misgivings, taking his boyfriend’s impressions of goodwill with an optimistic brow.

The two young lovers spare a brief thank you to the husband and wife before filing through the dirt roads, homogeneous along with the rest of the church-goers.

Damian walks them up the stairs to the abbey, a brazen audacity that Bigby admits he cannot replicate himself. If anything, the changeling is more anxious attending services now, knowing what Damian plans to ask his comrades of Light.

As they enter, doors propped open in welcome, the priest cannot contain himself, compelled to speak his humors aloud.

“Greetings, friends! Another glorious day for the Light, is it not," he hollers, grinning ear to ear, addressing the congregation.

Bigby's face burns scarlet, deflating at such an exuberant admission.

So much for being subtle.

And oh, Damian isn't done.

"Rejoice, for I have such great news to share with all of you!”

Baldwin looks up from his sermon, Sarmenti snickering from his iconostasis as he gently strums his lute.

It was mostly quiet before their arrival, the hushed murmurs of those in the pews turning silent, swiveling in their seats toward the commotion and Junia excuses herself from the pulpit to mitigate the problem.

She glides down the nave, wearing her best smile as she approaches the two outcasts, “My, what spirit you have brought with you today!”

The wholesome vestal regards her parish with similar vibrance, “may all of you take a page from his example. Every day is to be celebrated with joy!”

At Junia's disarming words, the room returns to normal, everyone facing forward again, away from the theatrics. Others continue to stream in through the central aisle, and the virtuous woman tactfully ushers the two men off to the side.

“Here, come this way," the vestal bids them with a hushed voice, hoping to award them some privacy.

"Now tell me what’s brought you such excitement! I wish to share in your happiness,” she asks, giggling with a gentle heart.

The flagellant looks to his precious companion, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, “Allow me to take care of this. I will find you later. Please, enjoy the service.”

Knees knocking together, Bigby feels a shiver of dread at the thought of being left alone, his courage dependent, elevated when Damian was near and now it dwindles at the impending loom of his departure.

This shift in Bigby's demeanor does not go unnoticed, his partner facing him fully, taking both his hands in his.

“Would you rather stay,” Damian asks, not considering this before, but offering such courtesies now that he has.

“No, no it’s OK,” the wolfboy dismisses, bashful of his own neediness, not wanting to impose, “I’ll let you two discuss it.”

He pardons himself before he can act a fool, retracing his steps back toward the entrance, turning to see that the brief conversation with Damian and Junia has led them both to disappear behind a side door, no doubt to discuss their arrangement with the other religious heroes.

Bigby sighs, gritting his teeth with a nervous brow. Suddenly, all the repercussions of what could go wrong rise to the surface of his mind, his altruism crashing down around him like broken glass.

His sooty feet carry him towards one of the farthest pews, taking a seat at the very end, a customary action, isolating himself from the rest of the attendees out of habit.

Hoping to assuage his doubts, Bigby remembers the resting place for his rosary, procuring it from his pocket, dedicating himself to prayer with a bow of his head.

He listens attentively to Baldwin's voice, the moral of today's psalms, but his thoughts no doubt circle around to his own troubles.

What will the others say when Damian tells them? What will they think? Nothing worse than they already do, surely. Hopefully.

Too engrossed in his own head, Bigby had not heard anyone approach, not until a cast shadow towers over him, blocking out the morning sun.

He nearly drops his crucifix, jumping up from his spot, alarmed that he had let his guard down.

“Damian,” the abomination sighs in relief, quelling his anxious heart, “I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

“They’ve agreed.”

“What,” the werewolf squeaks, not believing his ears.

It just couldn't be true. There was no way.

“To you joining me tonight,” the flagellant elaborates, worry coating his expression as he moves to sit down beside him.

“They will be barring the doors, but I told them it wouldn't be a problem, assuming it wouldn’t be,” he continues, finding Bigby’s hand again, needing that strong, reassuring tether to ground his own doubts.

“Really,” Bigby breathes, dubious that his plight had been answered, that he could be so blessed.

“Yes,” the flagellant says, his voice a weak treble, “are you not … pleased?”

Bigby feels his cheeks heat up, looking towards his partner, seeing the same spell of apprehension on his face.

“Overjoyed,” the abomination smiles, gently meeting his eyes, reaching up to cup a serrated jaw, “I just can’t believe it.”

The flagellant grips his wrist, that holistic grin reappearing in full swing of his broken teeth.

“You must,” Damian insists, continuing his ecstatic string of words, “my room is open to you for as long as you may wish to stay. They will release us once the full moon has passed.”

Truly grateful, the shapeshifter wants nothing more than to kiss him, but he also remembers where they are, of who might be watching, using his gaze to convey the depth of his desire.

Bigby was a patient man, he could wait. With the worst of their worries gone, all they had was time and the promise of what the night would bring.

———

Damian leads them down the spiral staircase, a torch to light the way in one hand, Bigby’s clammy mit held in the other.

The pitter patter of their bare feet echo with each step, the hypnotic walls of stonework seeming almost never-ending, niches filled with skulls and cobwebs marking their path.

Finally, they reach the bottom floor, a gloomy chamber with a pair of double doors coming into view, the sturdy lumber barred with iron beams and reinforced hinges.

"Hold this, I won't be long," the flagellant says, relinquishing the torch.

With his hands now free, the priest aims to unlock the beams, the metal scraping with a harsh cacophony of rust and the abomination tries not to flinch from the assault on his ears. The lycanthrope was already weary thanks to the dire accommodations of such a place and these unsettling noises only added to the unease.

Two hands on either side, Damian's muscles ripple, using all his strength to push the hefty cellar doors open, and an exhausted breath of dust billows out around them, the threshold of a tomb, eerie in atmosphere.

The flagellant flitters over to borrow the flame from him, lighting a few sconces adorning the walls, unveiling more of the sepulcher's macabre decor.

"What do you think," the flagellant asks, expectant and proud of his torture dungeon.

Crossing the threshold, observing his surroundings, the abomination affords himself a few extra seconds to reply. Various tools of anguish are stretched out before him, cages, chairs, racks of every size and delineation. An impressive collection to say the least, but as off-putting as it was (given his history with captivity), Damian liked it and that was reason enough to give such horrific designs a second chance.

"Roomy," the wolfboy remarks, off the cuff, rubbing at his shoulders to expel the flood of goosebumps.

"What shall we do first," Damian asks, beaming excitedly, wanting his partner to choose from the array of sadistic toys.

—

"Check," Bigby calls, moving his knight into the iron square to take Damian's queen.

Who knew there would be a chessboard down here, but Bigby's supposes one cannot subject themselves to misery all the time.

"What, again," the flagellant exclaims, exasperated by his losing streak, "that's the fourth time in ten moves."

"You need to be more strategic with your pawns," Bigby tutors, raising an eyebrow, looking towards his impressive graveyard pile, "the idea is to preserve your pieces, not to sacrifice them all at once."

Damian is having trouble wrapping his mind around the rules, too used to blindly diving in with the same stubborn, predictable patterns just as he does in combat.

As Damian tries to dissect the board, plan his next move, Bigby admires the set laid out before him, crafted to resemble the various torture devices spread throughout the room in a morbid twist on the usual theme.

It took Bigby a moment to attribute all the crudely assembled avatars (with Damians help), but the game still played the same, whether it was derived from cheap scrap metal or fine onyx and ivory.

Even as he waits, fiddling with one of the miniature iron maidens, a familiar shiver runs down Bigby's spine, a sickness dropping into his stomach.

There's a crack in the barred windows, just enough that he can glean the sliver of moonlight, Bigbys's eyes intuitively drawn to it.

It's bright, ephemeral, illuminating all the dusk of the night sky.

Bigby shudders again, a revenant pulse echoing from inside, rattling his skull like a beguiling siren's song.

He tries to hide it, mask his reflective eyes from view, ignore the bite of his fangs as they stretch, curling over his lips, but he can't resist it much longer.

“Damian," the abomination huffs, urgency in his tone, "it’s time.”

“I am ready,” his partner nods, excited for this moment, taking him by the hand, leading him to the center stage of the basement.

“I hope you are,” Bigby strains, clutching tightly to his shroud with apprehensive eyes.

His nails grow long, feral, veins popping, varicose in his neck, ribs cracking as they expand into a cavity twice their size.

“Grrnnnghhhh,” Bigby growls, his transformation a painful one, but still self conscious of his appearance, knowing Damian is watching.

He manages one last look before his consciousness is pushed back, jarring and distorted, bulbous even as all his hair strips out.

The beast breaks free, ripping apart the flesh of it's human guise, the liberation of chains echoing along with a terrifying roar of power.

The beast is panting heavily, gathering it's wits, acclimating to it's new body, stretching out it's stance of hooves.

“That still you in there,” Damian asks, taking a step closer, trying to find his face among the darkness.

The beast's pointed ears perk up, revealing it's tall stature, long spindly horns nearly scraping the ceiling, massive arms draped heavily at his sides.

The beast may have forsaken it's need for lips, but it's jowls still manage a smirk and Damian returns this with one of his own.

“Then, catch me, if you can,” the flagellant taunts, sprinting off like naive prey, igniting his partner's instinct to hunt.

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