#slice of abbey life | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

forlorn-crows · 3 months

Text

And You Know That It Takes Two

Rating: E for Explicit

Relationship(s): Copia/Dewdrop

Tags: transitional period between era iv and era v, banter, slice of life, first time, first kiss, handjobs. beta'd AND correctly translated italian!

Words: 3731

Summary: “Well, I do. Of course I do,” he assures the ghoul. “Quite fond of you all, actually. It was, admittedly, a little rocky when we first met. But.” There’s that heh Dew was expecting just moments before. “Here we are, no?”

When Copia starts rubbing his thumb up and down the inside of his knee, Dew’s brain stops working. His gaze zeros in to the fingers splayed across the side of his thigh, so foreign, so bare, so pink against the black of his casual uniform pants. His mind is full of static and all he can hear is his own blood pumping through his head. But there’s a weird something tugging in his ribcage; something new yet old, unnamed but familiar.

special thanks to @miasmaghoul for beta'ing and @foxybouquet for the italian translations ♡

Read on AO3 or under the cut:

EDIT: now with ART from the fabulous @noahl-art. merci beaucoup, nono!! find his full artwork here

“D’you think Lucifer would want us to have black mass every Saturday?” Dew pokes the wooden arm of Copia’s chair with the toe of his boot. “Shouldn’t we be exercising our sinful wiles instead of listening to you drone on about the Dark One?”

Caro: dear

Stai bene?: (Are) you okay?

Ti piace?: Do you like this?/Does this feel good?

Merdaccia infernale: (roughly) infernal fucking shit. Closest to "unholy shit".

Proprio così: That’s it.

Copia tugs on a scrap of paper trapped beneath the ghoul’s thigh. “You do plenty of that on your off time, my ghoul,” he teases. He looks over his reading glasses, offering a smirk. Dew can hear the unspoken eh? at the end of his sentence, so much so he can’t help rolling his eyes and smirking back.

“How would you know, old man?” Dew fires back, flicking the hem of Copia’s trousers with his tail. He leans in closer. Elbows resting on his slightly spread knees until his face is level with the anti-pope’s. “Listening in on your free time?” The fire ghoul smiles wickedly, giving him an obvious once over. He cocks his head and bites his tongue between his teeth, waiting for an answer.

Copia’s face rosies a bit, but he returns to his chicken scratch. He jots down a few words before he mutters: “I am sure you do not fantasize your Papa spying on you, caro.”

“Maybe I don’t.” A lie. “Anyway, I think Rain’s loud enough to hear across the fuckin’ abbey. Probably have a soundtrack of water ghoul moans to lull you to sleep every other night,” Dew snickers.

Copia just shakes his head with an amused sigh and continues taking notes. Little chunks of writing in the margins of photocopies of Latin texts, scrawling in both Italian and English in a little notebook off to the side. Dew’s struck with just how patient this man is, endlessly so. He can get crabby on tour, just like any of them, restless and tired, but he really is kind to him and his pack.

The fire ghoul hums thoughtfully and returns to his upright position. Leaning back into the circles of bare desk he cleared earlier for his hands. “Do you get tired of putting up with us, Papa?” he asks casually.

“Dewdrop,” Copia says with a measured tone. He puts his pen down, and his glasses too, looking up at his lead guitarist and steepling his fingers. They’re devoid of gloves, Dew notices in passing, his nails neatly trimmed and his skin smooth and humanly wrinkly. “We have been working together for how many years now?”

Dew shrugs. “A few.”

“Si, quite a few, hm?” Copia agrees. He swivels his chair so his body faces Dew more directly and places a gentle hand on his knee. “Why then, my ghoul, would you think I am ‘putting up with you,’ as you put it?”

“Don’t tell me you actually like us,” Dew says sarcastically. But Copia’s hand is warm on his knee, and he’s trying not to focus too much on how he’s looking at him right now, all soft eyes and a worried crease in his brow.

“Well, I do. Of course I do,” he assures the ghoul. “Quite fond of you all, actually. It was, admittedly, a little rocky when we first met. But.” There’s that heh Dew was expecting just moments before. “Here we are, no?”

He’s quiet for so long that Copia clears his throat and gives his knee a polite pat before taking his hand away. He makes to go back to his notes, but Dew mourns the loss of his hand immediately. His pen barely touches the pages before the fire ghoul sobers up and inhales sharply.

“Uh,” he blurts out stupidly, shaking his head and squinting his eyes at Copia. Unsure what to say but determined to say something. “You mean that?” Immediately he wants to crawl back into himself—back into the Pit, even—for sounding so small. Vulnerable.

“Yes, I do,” Copia says quietly, genuinely. He taps his pen against the paper, little dots of black littering the line beneath his skip this? note. Instead of resuming his annotations, he sets the pen down once more, looking up at the ghoul perched atop his desk. His white eye is suddenly piercing in the lamplight, and he’s looking at him like he can see more than just the ghoul sitting in front of him.

“Well, I guess we’re . . . fond of you too, or whatever you wanna call it,” he mocks, aiming for levity. Dew’s tail flicks, ruffling the hem of Copia’s pants again.

Copia chuckles. “Well, that is good then,” he smiles.

Dew hums. Offers a one-sided smile in return. Easy. He could leave it at that; resume the relaxed banter about sermons and his new duties as Papa while Copia gets increasingly tired and/or annoyed and shoos him away with a chocolate truffle in hand (the ones he keeps stashed in his desk drawer for evenings like this).

He could. But in the same moment, he decides he’s tired of tip-toeing around the idea of what this man is to him. He wades out into the waters, throwing a line.

“Is that . . . the only thing you feel for us?” he says at length, quieter. He scoots his thigh closer to the anti-pope’s hand. Encouraging him to touch again, if he wants. The sudden heat in his belly hoping he does. He wades a little deeper. “For me?”

Now it’s Copia’s turn to falter, fingers twitching at the fabric of Dew’s trousers. He looks down at Dew’s thigh, then back up to his face. Searching his copper eyes for something, anything, his thoughts as loud as if Dew were a quintessence ghoul.

“I . . .” he trails off, a failed start. He clears his throat. “I am, as they say, only human. So there are, perhaps, other . . . things. Si.”

Dew grabs his hand gently, placing it just above where it was moments ago, confidence building. “Fantasies, maybe?”

“Dewdrop—”

“For how bold you are on stage, you sure are fuckin’ shy in private, Papa.”

Copia huffs a laugh, moving his hand tentatively along Dew’s thigh. “Eh . . . reserved, maybe. But I don’t know about shy, my ghoul.” He shuffles his chair so he’s situated back between the fire ghoul’s dangling legs.

Dew smirks. “See? Can call me motherfucker in front of thousands of screaming girls, but it’s my ghoul in here.”

“Ah, but that is the difference. They do not get the privilege of seeing you offstage.” A beat. “Though, I imagine they would do a lot of things for that privilege,” he mutters.

Dew bites his tongue in asserting that he is, in fact, a motherfucker offstage too. Instead, he tilts his head so his ashy hair cascades over his shoulder and spreads his legs further, hooking a foot in the arm of Copia’s chair and tugging it closer. He’s baring all of himself now, literally and figuratively. Potentially risking his position, too, if this goes south.

But by the look on the anti-pope’s face, they’re both too deep to swim back now.

“And what’re you gonna do with that privilege, Papa?”

“You’re asking?” he deflects, putting the other hand on the opposite thigh.

“If you don’t touch me in the next five seconds, old man, I swear to Satan—”

“Like this?” Copia smooths his hand up the inside of Dew’s thigh, running along the seam of his pants until he reaches where the ghoul’s started to chub up. His breath hitches, head tilting back.

“Yeah,” he breathes. He looks back down at his hand, tucking chin to chest as he watches those fingers press just so, right where the tip of his dick sits already sticky in his boxers. He bites his lip with a stifled noise.

“Long time we’ve danced around each other, I think,” Copia says. Dew just nods, flexing his hips into his fingers to get more friction. Copia presses more firmly, taking the hint. Drawing a firm line down the ridge of his clothed shaft.

“Humans and ghouls, well . . .” he trails off, looking up at Dew.

“You’ve thought about it,” he replies simply.

“Of course. Of course I have, caro. I–” he laughs, shakes his head in disbelief. “I mean, look at you.” He stops himself, color rising to his cheeks. He drops his gaze, focusing back on the hand on Dew’s fly.

The fire ghoul watches him trace a finger around the button before reaching down himself, popping it open. “What about me?” he asks softly, inviting. Shifting his hips again to encourage him to continue.

“Not just fishing for compliments, I hope,” Copia teases lightly, a little bit of that stage persona shining through as he drags the zipper down.

“That’s not what—hh-oh.” He cuts himself off with a stuttered breath of a moan, Copia’s hand having reached past his fly and into his pants to pet at the dot of wetness sticking his boxers to his tip. The look of pure curiosity—wonder, really—on the man’s face as he feels him up has his stomach flipping. “Fuck, keep doing that.”

“You tell me what you like, my ghoul, and I will do it,” he whispers.

Dew groans as another bead of precum blurts out into his boxers, wet at just his words. “Keep teasing it,” he breathes. “Shit, see how wet you can get it.” He twitches under Copia’s fingers as he wraps his hand around his clothed cock, thumb swiping back and forth over the head. Firm, but just light enough that it makes Dew keen for more.

Copia continues the little motions, over and over until Dew’s underwear clings to him, saturated with pre. The friction of it and the intensity of Copia’s gaze on him has him dizzy, wanting. The man’s thumb presses over his slit, and he can’t help his eyes rolling back, thighs twitching towards each other.

“F-fuck,” he stutters.

Copia rubs his other hand over Dew’s thigh, soothing. “Stai bene? Good?”

The fire ghoul nods, hair falling off his shoulders to frame his face. “More than,” he groans. He bites his lip, bucking into Copia’s hand. “Again—do it agai—yes, Satanas, yes.”

The anti-pope presses into his slit again, this time dragging the pad of his thumb along the ridge with even pressure. Humming as he works it back and forth. It’s so sensitive, so instantly overwhelming that Dew has to consciously restrain himself from gouging his claws into the wood. He lets his head drop back, facing the ceiling and biting his lip to stave off the rush of arousal that threatens to make him spill in his pants.

Below him, Copia sighs. “Beautiful, caro,” he comments.

Dew half-snorts, half-groans, bringing his chin back down to his chest. “You flatter me,” he says with an eye roll.

“They say it gets one everywhere, no?”

“If by ‘everywhere’ you mean ‘in my pants’.”

“If that is where you want me.”

Dew sucks his teeth, scoffs a little in disbelief. Eyebrows twitching upwards when Copia fingers the elastic of his boxers, blunt nails scratching at the peach fuzz on his stomach. He can’t get a grasp on the anti-pope’s tone, switching so fast between charming and soft it makes his head spin. He’s seen both moods separately, of course, fired back his own quips with a silver tongue or begrudgingly accepted praise and a head pat for a productive rehearsal. But having a cocktail of both leaves him with mental whiplash.

The hand making his dick wet probably isn’t helping in that department.

So he nods instead, helping the man shimmy down the waistband of his boxers to snuggle it under his balls, freeing his aching length. Dew hisses at the cool air of the room breezing over the slick-coated head—though, it’s replaced with a puff of hot air when Copia breathes:

“May I?”

Dew nods again, widening his eyes and raising his eyebrows as a silent duh. Copia chuckles at that, scooting a little closer. He smooths his other hand up the fire ghoul’s thigh, up, up, up until he stops at his hip and rests his palm there, forearm dropping to sit on top of his leg. Dew’s stuck watching its ascent and misses the moment the anti-pope reaches for him, wrapping his fingers gently around the base of his cock and stroking upwards.

“Lucifer,” he chokes out. He snaps his gaze to where their skin meets and watches his dick kick hard in Copia’s fist, more precum welling up in the slit.

“Ti piace?” Copia continues to stroke slowly, not immediately translating as earlier. His accent curls around Dew’s eardrums, the Italian twisting with foreignness and short-circuiting his language synapses. He shakes his head, begging the small box of Italian in his brain labeled ‘Papa’s Nonsense Words’ to make sense of the phrase.

He blinks at Copia’s expectant gaze. “Huh?” he asks eloquently, forcing the word through an embarrassing moan.

“Does this feel good?” he supplies, nodding toward his hand.

The fire ghoul stares at the man’s hand, now wet with his own slick as it glides up and down. When his brain finally catches up to him, he barks a bewildered laugh. “I’m gonna have to learn more fuckin’ Italian for this,” he mumbles.

“Oh.” Copia laughs too, realizing his little slip-up. Dew’s shoulders shake with his own renewed laughter. Giggles passing between the two as if they were twelve-year-olds who just pulled off a prank on their teacher, not a fifty-something leader of a Satanic church jerking off a near immortal hellbeast turned quasi-human.

But the shared laughter is familiar. Comforting, in a way. Something to dissolve that final layer of caution that sat like oil on water between them.

“You are an endless delight, my ghoul,” Copia sighs, huffing out a last chuckle.

“I’ll give you an endless—uuh-nholy ff–fuck.” Copia runs his thumb over the slit of Dew’s cock, and his sentence is reduced to an eye-rolling moan. He grabs hold of the anti-pope’s forearm that rests on his leg, fingers digging into the muscle as he drools out a fat roll of precum.

Copia hums and smears it around the head, pulling down the foreskin to rub at the sensitive underside. It’s all the courtesy he’s granted before the man goes back to stroking him in earnest, skirting over the head with each downward pass and tightening around the base when he pulls up.

Dew grips his forearm tighter, thighs jumping with each tease of his frenulum. “Faster,” he begs. “And tighter. Fuck, feels s’ good.”

“Merdaccia infernale, are you always so . . .” Copia shakes his head, letting the room fill with the lewd, creamy sounds of Dew’s slick-soaked cock.

“Wet?” Dew supplies as a choked-off noise. “Not al–hah–always. Not since—” his eyes roll back again, too caught in pleasure to be completely coherent. “The–shit–the—” Dew flails his hand in some nonsensical gesture.

“Si, si.” The man understands without further elaboration that he means his elemental transition. That, despite the effective evaporation of his water, the born-again fire ghoul still carries traits from his original alignment—including dribbling pre like a leaky tap.

But Copia knows, doesn’t need him to explain or elaborate. Just tightens his grip and speeds his hand, looking up at Dew with a gaze that cuts him right down to the core. Intense, yet soft and admiring. Desire flickering just behind that.

“Shit,” Dew hisses, letting his eyes close fully. Sinking into it. His hips are moving of their own accord now, little twitches that meet each downstroke, just barely fucking into Copia’s fist. It’s so much better than it has right to be, but Dew doesn’t care. All he cares about is the way Copia’s hand feels on his dick, the way his other hand grips his hip, the way his breathing grows heavier and tickles the fine hairs at the base of his dick, how it chills the wetness at the tip only to be warmed by his fingers within the same second.

“Oh, oh, ohhhh fuck, Papa, fuck.” His pleasure heightens suddenly, the backs of his thighs going pleasantly tingly and his toes curling in his boots. He can feel it starting to build, balls drawing closer to his body with every stroke.

“Close?” Copia whispers, gripping Dew’s hip tighter and shifting in his chair. He grunts a little, no doubt filled out in his slacks too. Dew can’t confirm from this angle, especially not with the way his vision blurs, doubles even. But he has to be, if his wavering voice is anything to go by.

Dew throbs at just the idea of his cock straining against his zipper, balls heavy and squished between his thighs as he watches the fire ghoul come apart. Neglecting it as he showers Dew with undivided attention. He’s assaulted with the mental image of Copia in those tight, white pants from his Cardinal days, absolutely everything on display, and he groans.

He’s shaking now, stomach jumping as his breath starts to quicken. He’s sure his eyes are wild as he looks at the man below him, whining through his teeth as his hand moves faster, faster. Dew watches Copia bite his lip and look down at the movements of his hand, and the sudden fantasy image of that mouth kissing the tip of his cock makes him grip the anti-pope’s forearm until it threatens to bruise, nearly doubling over with the swell of impending orgasm.

Dew needs him. He needs him so badly.

“Gonna cum—fuck, please,” he moans, breath quickening to shortened gasps. “Kiss me—please, m’ gonna—Papa—” Dew grasps at the man’s shirt collar, pulling at it to get him to stand. Dragging him in by the shoulders and kissing him fiercely, whining when Copia groans into his mouth and pumps him even faster. The scent on him is instantly intoxicating; notes of neroli and patchouli, dull wax from the black patches of makeup, the barest hint of incense smoke underneath. All pressed directly into his nostrils where Dew’s nose smushes against his.

“Proprio così,” Copia mumbles, encouraging. His other arm loops around to cradle him between the shoulder blades, hand threading through his hair to grasp and hold as he kisses him deeply. That little bit of tension on Dew’s scalp sends a zing of heat right to his dick, and he’s moaning like a whore as he scrabbles at Copia’s shirt, ready to fall over the edge.

“Fucking. Fu–uhh, uh, uhh—” Dew loses all sense of words as he clings to him, mouth dropping open and tongue drooling over Copia’s lips. He cums hard, spilling over his hand with a shuddering groan, bucking into that wet fist until he’s risking sliding off the edge of the desk. He doesn’t, of course, braced and embraced by Copia’s body as he is.

Dew’s head drops to his shoulder as he rides out the seemingly endless spasms. Far too many for a handy, if he’s being honest. But the anti-pope works him over until he’s milked dry, whispering more words into his hair that he doesn’t understand and rubbing a soothing hand over his back.

“Shit,” he rasps. After a few more moments he peeks down at his lap—lucid enough now to mind his horns—where his black pants are now streaked with white, Copia’s hand resting on his fly also coated in the stuff. He shakes his head softly and laughs.

“Got me good, old man.”

“Dewdrop . . .” His tone is pleading, breathless. Dew lifts his head and the hand on his back migrates to the side of his face, caressing softly. He leans into it as he looks at Copia, his face flushed and a look of pure want and adoration in his eyes. “Please, caro.”

He doesn’t need to ask what he needs, eyes flicking down to the tent in his pants and back up again. Dew nods. Moves the hands around Copia’s neck to the back of his head, pulling him in.

It’s less feverish this time. Softer and slower, but far from chaste. Idly he wonders if any of the others have had him like this: privately in his office, a mere exchange of something fleeting, or hot and heavy in a storage closet after a show, frantic and adrenaline-fueled.

If any of them have, they’ve never told. He’ll go back to the ghoul wing smelling of him, unless he runs straight to the shower. Douse himself in scalding hot water until he can barely smell himself.

But he won’t.

Dew slides into the space in front of Copia, ignoring the mess on his dick as he presses close to the man. Licking into his mouth and sliding their tongues together as Copia’s hands start to roam. The fire ghoul slots a thigh between his legs as his palms reach his waist, pressing against his crotch.

Copia whines in his throat, twisting his fingers into the fabric of Dew’s shirt. He’s hard as steel against his leg, throbbing when Dew presses harder and tugging at him like he could still get closer than he already is.

“Sit down,” Dew rumbles. He breaks the kiss and holds his gaze as he presses on his shoulders, easing him back into the desk chair. Down, down, down until Dew looms over him. He smirks slightly, confidence and ease returning to him as their positions switch. Running his thumb along the painted upper lip then dragging down to the bare one.

Wordlessly, the fire ghoul sinks to his knees. Scoots Copia to the edge of his chair so he can spread his legs. He smooths his palms up his thighs, his infernal heat seeping through the trousers. He watches Copia’s face as he pets at him, cupping and rubbing at his cock through the layers of fabric. The man’s chest heaves. Hands gripping the wooden arms of his chair. Exhaling shakily as Dew traces a claw around the button on his fly.

“Allow me,” Dew purrs.

#the band ghost #fanfic #the band ghost fanfic #ghost fanfic #dewdrop ghoul #cardinal copia #papa emeritus iv #copia x dewdrop #dewdrop x copia #papa x dewdrop #dewdrop x papa #copia/dewdrop #dewdrop/copia #papa/dewdrop #dewdrop/papa #CORRECTLY translated italian #dews gonna go back to the dorms and theyre gonna smell copia on him and then EVERYONES gonna want him

145 notes · View notes

folkloresthings · 8 months

Note

Okay okay okay, last oneeeee!!!

May I please ask for a NORTHANGER ABBEY with my sunshine boy Daniel Ricciardo and the “who did this to you?” trope?? That trope makes me feral and I just know you’d be an amazing person to write it!!

Thanks in advance, definitely thanks again for doing this amazing event, and I hope you’re doing well, darlin’! 🤍🩵🩷

this is heavily inspired by that one normal people so enjoy the pain i’m so sorry

FIX YOU. ❨ daniel ricciardo x reader ❩

✩⡱ warnings: toxic family environment, a violent scene but nothing too graphic i hope 🫶

growing up had not been kind to you. life hadn’t dealt you a fair deal — you were the odd one out. all throughout school, you worked hard and focused on the goals you had set out in your head. this meant sacrificing a social life, being cool, having friends. the weird girl in the corner.

life at home hadn’t been much better. with no father around, your mother turned selfish. she became a workaholic, cold and miserable, uncaring for the feelings of her children. your brother was four years your senior and a mean kind of person. constantly teasing, taunting, dangling a rope in front to wait for you to bite. his torment of you was his entertainment.

when you met daniel, you never knew something could be so good. he was everything you’d never had, everything right about the world. and for the first time in your life, you felt loved. daniel looked at you and only you. he loved you, and only you.

“darling,” he’d whisper to you in the middle of the night. “i’m not a religious person, but sometimes i think god made me for you.”

what had been so horrible in your early life didn’t matter anymore. daniel was goodness and light. he was a new beginning, completely disconnected from any bad memories of your life before. you’d told him a thing or two about your family, but never the full truth. never how bad they were.

maybe it was fear of scaring him off, but not once did you invite him home with you. you’d met his parents, they’d taken you in like one of their own, but he’d never once met your mother or brother. he understood, respecting your boundaries, and when you needed to go home he let you go. you always came back.

once or twice a year you returned back to your home for a few days, just to appease your mother and give her nothing bad to say about you. it just so happened that this weekends race wasn’t far from where you’d grown up, so two birds were knocked with one stone.

daniel was busy with practice, giving you enough time to have dinner with your mother and get back to your boyfriend in time for the new episode of the kardashians. your brother wasn’t supposed to be there. but he was, and drunk. stumbling over his own feet, grumbling insults when he noticed you there.

excusing yourself from his stench, you wandered into the kitchen to clear your plate. he followed behind, stalking you like some prey ready to be pounced one. he taunted and taunted but you blocked it all out. you’d learned to blur his words out, stubbing out the knives before they could pierce your skin.

“give me that,” he snatched at the plate in your hand, grabbing until it smashed against the skin, barely missing slicing your hand. you glare up at him, pushing his hands away. your feet carry you quickly towards your old room, unchanged from when you turned eighteen. your bag was there, your plan to get it and go back to daniel powering you on.

you barely realised he was following you until the door you’d just slammed flies back open, crushing you between it and the wall. your nose took most of the blow, and you feel the blood begin to gush your face in an instant. your brother’s eyes are dark when he sees what he’s done, no regret or sorrow behind them. in fact, he’s proud.

when you found your phone, you don’t know. but daniel’s contact is on the screen and it’s ringing out, him answering in only a few seconds.

“hi baby. how was dinner?” the australian chirps, and your heart squeezes with how happy he sounds. the tissue you had pressed to your nasal is damp with red now.

“somethings happened. can you come get me?” you whisper, locked in the bathroom. amongst all of the commotion, your mother hadn’t come to check on you. she didn’t care.

the keys in daniel’s hand jingle in the background, someone calling him as he hurries out of the drivers briefing. he wastes no time in obliging, hearing the urgency in your voice. he doesn’t know what’s wrong, but something is. that’s all he needs to know.

“i’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

his blood runs cold when you come to answer the door. the blood has dried now, around your lips and chin. your nose is already turning blue. he grasps at your arms as soon as he can, softly moving the tissue out of the way to get a good look at the damage.

“who did this to you?” daniel seethes. never in his life had he felt so angry, not when he’d been crashed into or fucked over by strategists. he’d never felt so scared. behind you, he sees your brother slink in from the shadows. he looks at him, then at you, and he knows. “did he do this?”

you don’t even need to nod, the look you give him says it all.

“go wait in the car,” daniel tells you, not giving you a chance to argue. “go. i’ll be there in a minute.”

he waits until you’re out of site before he pounces on your brother. hands on his chest, pinning him to the wall. danny hovers inches over the other, glare piercing through his cocky demeanour.

“if you ever, ever, touch her again, i swear to god i’ll rip you apart,” daniel’s voice is low, and he’s glad you’re not there to see that side of him. the side that would kill for you. “stay away from her.”

your brother sheepishly nods, hitting the wall with a thump when daniel shoves him back. the driver turns on his heel and leaves the house, for what he swears will be the first and last ever time. you’re waiting in the passenger seat, sniffling as you try desperately to clean yourself up.

daniel slides into the drivers seat, turning the heat on and turning towards you. he feels his heart crack to pieces at the sight of you. he’d sworn to protect you a long time ago, and he hadn’t been there. it had been a feeling of hate he’d never felt for himself before.

“no one will ever hurt you like that again,” daniel swears to you, his voice soft but stern. his hand rests delicate on your cheek, the porcelain of your skin threatening to break under his touch. you sink into his touch, a tear slipping onto his thumb.

but you believe him, amongst all of the blood and ruin. you know he’ll do all he can to keep you from harm from this day on, be it caused by him or another. because he’ll never survive seeing you like this again.

“let’s go home.” daniel kisses your blood stained cheek, starting up the car and taking you away from the worst of the night. little does he know, you’re already home. home is wherever he is.

dolly!! 🧚 i know you sent a few other requests before this and i will get to them but i wanted to write this from the minute it came into my inbox

#🍾 ﹐ becca hits 1k!#🌙 ﹐ drabbles.#formula 1 #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 x reader #daniel riccardo imagine #daniel ricciardo x reader #daniel ricciardo blurb #daniel ricciardo drabble #daniel ricciardo #daniel ricciardo imagine #daniel riccardo x reader

312 notes · View notes

humanpurposes · 11 months

Text

From Eden

Chapter 1: Little Novice

Danes attack Wincombe Abbey and a young novice crosses paths with a group of mercenaries and their Baby Monk // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Osferth x Original Female Character

Warnings: bit of violence and death, suggestive themes if you squint, there will eventually be smut

Words: 4000

A/n: not me starting another series oops but i can't resist the baby monk

Today saw the first snowfall of the year. A few flakes landed on Bridget’s sleeves as she sauntered past the hard and frosted soil of the vegetable garden, past the pigsty and towards the stream that circled Wincombe Abbey. She swung an empty pitcher back and forth as she hummed the least melancholy hymn she could think of.

They had guests currently. Lady Aethelflaed of Mercia had arrived two days ago, bringing with her a group of guards who were camping at outside the Abbey. Bridget had been tempted to walk past the men on her errand, but the Abbess was already in a foul mood and she didn’t fancy testing her temper. Not unless it was for something interesting.

She had spent her morning as she always did. Prayers first. Her knees were never not bruised by the flagstone floor of the chapel, but with winter settling in they were numb too. Then she saw to the goats and the pigs. Then she helped in the kitchen. Finally, she got to eat in the hall with her Sisters. Bread with some winter preserves and slices of cured ham.

When she got to the stream, she placed the pitcher by her feet. With a final glance over her shoulder to the solitary stone building of the Abbey, she hopped across the water on a sparse path of rocks and made for the line of trees ahead of her.

The woods were the only place she felt like a living person and not simply a novice in a habit.

Bridget couldn’t stand how quiet life the Abbey could be. The Abbess, a stern but fair woman, told her it was because she was restless and unappreciative, but perhaps she was simply not well suited to mindfulness and prayer. Sometimes she could find things to laugh about with the younger girls, but then the Abbess would scold her for her “impiety”.

Once she was amongst the trees she tugged at her habit. In the summer she might take it off, but it offered some extra warmth in the colder months.

Her preferred weapon was where she left it, leaning against the trunk of a young oak tree. A broken bit of a branch, small enough for her to wield and heavy enough to hit against the trees.

She twirled it through her hands, just as her brother used to show her. From the few memories she had, she remembered he could do all sorts of impressive tricks with his sword. He could spin it and slice it through the air in controlled and precise movements.

It had been a decade since she had seen her brother, but she tried to keep his teachings with her, swinging branches at tree trunks, imagining she was a great warrior, like David slaying Goliath. Technically David had slayed Goliath with a rock and a sling, a detail the Abbess insisted was important. Bridget could invent a thousand reasons why, but she didn’t care to.

Especially when she was younger, she liked to imagine herself as a warrior when she was tasked with cutting wood or slaughtering and butchering the pigs. They were both hard work, but she was always willing to do it, if only to have an excuse to be destructive for once. She found it could be quite cathartic.

After a particularly harsh blow against a tree that cracked the branch almost in two, she froze. She heard horses. She hoped they would move on, but she made out a few figures in the distance, figures who appeared to have spotted her and were moving closer.

She dropped the branch and fixed her habit, to find a lock of her hair hovering over her forehead. She tucked it back in as the faces of the riders came into view.

There were five who rode at the front, four men and a woman with pale, blonde hair and strange markings on her face. A larger group, no more than twenty, hung back a little.

“A nun,” one of the men called. He rode in front of the group, their leader, she supposed.

“There we are then, you’ll feel right at home, Baby Monk,” another said. He had a gruff voice and an Irish accent. One of the other men laughed. The woman didn’t react at all.

“Is the Abbey nearby?” The leader asked.

Bridget frowned. He had an accent she could not place. “You are Danish?” She looked amongst the rest of their group, and they each seemed to find her accusation amusing.

“What is my religion to you, girl?”

“I would like to know if you would seek to do us harm.”

He raised a brow. “And you believe the best measure of a man to be the gods he follows?”

“I believe the best measure of a man is his intentions,” she said, meeting his eye and determined to keep her expression stoic.

But apparently he was pleased with her response. “You and I are similar in this respect,” he said, loosening the grip of his reins. “We seek the Lady Aethelflaed.”

“Would you seek to do her harm?”

“Only the good kind,” the Irishman mumbled with a smirk.

The leader rolled his eyes. “She and I are friends. I have come to offer her my protection.”

Bridget looked into the eyes of each of their group, the leader, the Irishman, the one who from his hair also looked to be a Dane, and the younger man riding at the back of the group. The woman had an unsettling gaze, she was the only one Bridget felt she felt compelled to look away from. The Abbess would call the markings on her face the markings of a heathen.

“There is a bridge over the stream,” she said, pointing through the trees. “Cross there. There will be room for your horses in the stables.”

She watched the men move away, each of them offering thankful smiles. She concealed her own, and headed back the way she came, across the stream and to the abbey with the empty pitcher.

Lady Aethelflaed welcomed them warmly and named their leader as Lord Uhtred. After it was agreed that they were decidedly not Danes (not the kind who would attack an Abbey anyhow), they settled in the hall, where Bridget and the nuns brought them bowls of stew and bread.

She expected them to eat like the Mercian guards, wolfing down bread and stew like they hadn’t seen food in days, but Lord Uhtred and his men thanked her graciously as she placed bowls on the table and went round to ladle out more stew for them.

Until she came to the man sitting at the end of the table, beside Lady Aethelflaed. He was the youngest of the group, with wide blue eyes and a sharp jaw. He kept to himself, slightly hunched over his stew.

She was rather fascinated by his robes and the small silver cross around his neck. If he had a slightly worse haircut he would look like a monk. But that was ridiculous, why would a monk be travelling with a group of mercenaries?

She approached him and waited for him to notice her. He looked up at her a smiled vaguely.

She indicated to the pot she was carrying.

“Please,” he muttered, holding out his bowl.

She dished a few spoonfuls for him and he smiled again, a little wider this time. She smiled back.

She wondered where he might be from, why he served a Dane if he wore a cross, how far their group had travelled and how many tales they might have.

“May I ask your name?” He asked.

She had been so distracted trying to think of something to say that his question took her by surprise.

“Oh… Bridget,” she said. “And you?”

“I am Osferth,” he said. He was very softly spoken, she thought. There was something so gentle and subdued about him.

“Are you a monk, Osferth?” She asked.

He glanced down at the cross hanging from his neck. “I was, I left my order to serve Lord Uhtred.”

“And now you are, what, a mercenary?”

Osferth chuckled to himself and shook his head lightly. “I am not much of a fighter just yet.”

“But you have a sword, and your friends are warriors.”

“I am still learning. In the meantime I can only practice and pray to God for courage and strength.”

She felt a light feeling in her chest she was sure she hadn’t felt in years. That’s what she prayed for too, even when the nuns told her she should be praying for patience and forgiveness.

“How did you—”

“Bridget.” The Abbess called, glaring at her from across the table.

Bridget nodded her head to Osferth, a farewell, she supposed, and headed back to the kitchen. One of the girls followed behind her, with a now empty pitcher of ale.

“The Irishman is handsome,” Bridget whispered into her ear once they were through the doors.

The other girl’s mouth fell open.

“What? Surely it is not a sin to look?”

The next morning, the Abbess ensured Bridget stayed in the kitchen. “So you might not be so easily distracted,” she warned, leaving her to peel and slice an endless amount of vegetables.

The Abbess seemed rather distressed at hosting Lord Uhtred and his men. “Ravenous permanently,” she grumbled, marching in through the kitchen with the remains of their breakfast. “They are eating into our winter stores.”

“So why let them stay?” Bridget muttered, dragging the edge of her knife over the skin of a few carrots.

“Because it is our place to show kindness,” the Abbess insisted through her teeth. She emptied the plate into a bucket by Bridget’s feet. “Take that out to the pigs.”

Bridget made no verbal protest. She placed the knife down and left through a small door that led out to the side of the Abbey, just as she had done the previous day. The skin of her cheeks stung when it met the icy morning air. The snow was heavier today. She blinked a few flakes out of her eyes and marched quickly towards the pigsty.

She made sure to scratch them behind the ears, poor things, left out in the cold.

She made her way around the building, to the front doors of the Abbey, and blinked.

And blinked again.

No, there was defineately an army of Danes lined up on the other side of the bridge.

“Good morning, nun!” One cried from atop a grey horse.

“Who are you?” Bridget demanded, but her voice came out a little more broken than intended.

The man chuckled and nodded to the bridge.

They had three hostages, each with a knife being held to their throats.

But with the order from their leader, the first hostage’s throat was sliced open, his body carelessly left to fall to the floor.

Bridget couldn’t bring herself to scream and choked out a broken sort of gasp.

They made no demands, made no moves towards her, and there was no indication they intended to kill the other two hostages. Not yet.

She slowly stalked towards the doors, unable to keep her eyes away from the danger.

“We will wait!” The man on the horse called, “for Aethelflaed!”

She ran to the kitchen first.

“To the hall!” She cried, moving to shut the windows.

The others all stared at her for a moment.

“Now!”

“What is the meaning of this?” The Abbess asked, bolting the door to the gardens as the others fled the kitchen.

“Danes,” Bridget breathed. She hadn’t realised her lack of breath or the restless feeling creeping under her skin.

The Abbess’s skin turned pale. She placed her hand on Bridget’s shoulder and ushered her towards the hall.

The nuns and novices had raised alarm amongst the men. Half of them were already reaching for their weapons.

Bridget and the Abbess slammed the doors of the hall with an ominous thud.

“What is it?” Lord Uhtred demanded.

“Danes. Outside.”

Every man was on his feet in an instant, and the sound of unsheathed swords rang through the hall.

“How many Danes?” The Irishman asked.

Bridget faltered. She hadn’t thought to count them. “More than twenty. Less than fifty.”

A few men moved towards the doors and the windows, but Lord Uhtred ordered them to hold for the time being.

He turned to Bridget. “Do you know what they want?”

“He asked for Lady Aethelflaed.”

“But they may not know we are here,” he said to his men.

“They know someone is here,” Osferth’s voice came. He was still sat at the table and had not drawn his sword.

“But they have hostages,” Bridget said. “They killed one man and they have two more.”

“We remain inside, and we remain silent,” Uhtred ordered, coming towards Bridget and the Abbess. “They must believe you are unprotected,” he said.

He looked between them for a moment, and turned back to Bridget. “Would you speak with them?”

Her heart must have stopped for a moment. “What?”

“We cannot save the hostages, but you can save the lives of the men and women here.”

“And Aethelflaed,” Osferth added.

“You must deny she is here; convince them you have nothing to offer.”

Her restlessness was starting to feel like fear, but she understood Lord Uhtred’s plan, and she could not say why, but she was inclined to trust him.

Until the Abbess interjected. “No!”

Bridget’s heart sank a little. “Abbess, I can do it—”

“No, child, this is my house. This will be my responsibility.” She turned to Lord Uhtred. “I will do it.”

Bridget followed Uhtred and some of the other men into the entrance hall. She stood by one of the windows, out of sight of the Danes, occasionally stealing glances of the Abbess as she stepped out to attempt a negotiation.

“We know him,” a voice muttered beside her. She looked up to see Osferth’s jaw hovering over her. “His name is Haesten.”

The Abbess made her plea for mercy.

In turn, a second man had his throat slit.

“Deny her presence again and a third man dies. And I will burn down your nunnery, and everyone in it.”

Bridget placed her hand on her throat. She could feel her heart pulsing.

A hand gently came onto her shoulder, but Osferth said nothing. His hands were larger than she realised. It wasn’t exactly calming, but she liked it.

True to the words of the Dane, the third man was slain, and when the Abbess reached for an axe she was met with a spear to her chest.

Bridget flinched into Osferth’s chest, keeping her hands over her eyes.

“Aethelflaed!” Haesten cried. “How many more men and women must die to save your bony arse?”

“To the hall,” Osferth said, taking one of her hands in his.

When she glanced once more out the window, Haesten and his men were moving past the bodies of the hostages and the Abbess, towards the doors.

Bridget, Osferth and Aethelflaed gathered the nuns and novices to the back of the hall, while Uhtred and his men lined up behind the doors with shields, spears and swords.

“Will you not fight?” Bridget asked Osferth.

“I told you, I am not much of a warrior,” he said solemnly, as he and Lady Aethelflaed positioned themselves before the others.

Bridget frowned, but tried to distract herself by whispering assurances to some of the younger girls.

When the doors finally burst open she felt utterly helpless. The fighting was kept by the doors and the entrance hall, while Osferth and Lady Aethelflaed watched with their swords drawn.

And when two of the Danes broke through the line protecting the door, they moved together. Lady Aethelflaed fought better than the monk, she thought.

She watched as a third man fought through, overwhelming Osferth while Aethelflaed was still preoccupied.

Bridget couldn’t stop herself. She darted towards the table and grabbed a knife. She supposed the man could have easily turned to her and lodged his axe in her chest, but he didn’t get a chance to even look at her before she rammed the knife into his neck, sending a spray of blood through the air.

The rest of the room was a haze. Something warm and wet landed on and dripped down her cheek.

Suddenly she felt two hands against her shoulders. She blinked.

Osferth’s blue eyes were glaring at her. “That was foolish,” he said.

Three men lay dead on the floor. Swords continued to clash in the entrance hall but Haesten and his men were retreating.

Osferth and Aethelflaed moved out to join Uhtred, while some of the nuns came to wipe the blood from Bridget’s face.

She told them of the Danes and the Abbess’ death. Some of the girls cried, some prayed. She came to clutch her own cross around her neck. But her hands would not stop shaking and her heart would not rest.

She killed a man. Really, it hadn’t been much harder than slaughtering a pig, but at least it felt a little more justified.

If the Abbess were not dead, she would have screamed at her, told her she was ungodly, no better than a cold-blooded murderer, or any of the Danes who ravaged villages and stole from innocent Mercians.

They stayed huddled in the hall until dusk, when Lord Uhtred seemed to finally come to a resolution.

The woman with the markings on her face, Skade, was a seer, and Haesten agreed to take her in Aethelflaed’s place.

Bridget watched the exchange from the doors to the main hall, and a shiver slipped down her spine when Skade turned to Uhtred with a dark look in her eyes.

“You are cursed once more, Uhtred of Bebbanburg.”

Bridget had hardly slept that night. She lay eyes closed, still in her robes and the white headscarf she wore under her habit, listening to the gentle snores of the girls in the beds around her and aware of the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.

The moment she heard the first whistle of birdsong at dawn, she was up. She pulled on a pair of boots and looked around her bed. But it occurred to her she owned nothing, save for her little silver cross.

She hurried through the abbey, past the open doors of the hall, now empty.

The men were outside, securing their saddles and mounting their horses.

She spotted Lord Uhtred as he was helping Lady Aethelflaed pack her own mount.

Osferth was by his horse, talking to the Irishman.

“Lord Uhtred!” Bridget called over the noise of the horses.

He turned to her with a small smile. “Fear not, we have not emptied your food stores—”

“I want to come with you,” she said.

She had the attention of the others now.

Uhtred chuckled to himself. “I already have a stray monk, I have no need for a little novice.”

Bridget’s skin still felt strange where it had been stained with blood. “I fought better than him.”

“Not a particularly high standard,” the Irishman joked. Osferth’s head sunk, but he was smirking too.

“So you killed one man and now you offer yourself as a warrior?” Uhtred asked.

Her breath caught in her throat as she finally realised the ridiculousness of her proposition. She could swing a branch, cut firewood and bury a knife into an unsuspecting man, but that would hardly help her in a true battle.

“With practice, perhaps?” She said, pressing her nails into her palm. “But I have some skills as a healer also. I’ve assisted the Abbess with all sorts of ailments, no doubt you encounter your fair share of injuries?”

“She’s got spirit, Uhtred, at least give her that,” Aethelflaed said.

“Please,” Bridget said, “give me the chance and I will prove myself to you.”

They each shared a few pointed glances.

“I admire your determination, but I cannot bring a girl onto the battlefield against armies of Danes. I cannot guarantee your protection and I cannot even offer you a horse.”

“Lord? She can ride with me,” Osferth said quietly. “With your permission of course. I can look out her.”

Uhtred raised his eyebrows. “Very well.”

Bridget felt herself smile, wide and showing off her top row of teeth. It felt uncomfortable but she didn’t try to stop herself.

The others were already starting to move off as she approached Osferth as he stroked the nose of his horse.

“Have you ridden before?” He asked.

“No.”

“You’ll sit behind me; I’ll help you up.”

Bridget nodded.

She watched as he placed his left foot in the stirrup and swung his leg over to the other side. “Easy,” he insisted, holding out his hand to her. “Don’t be afraid to use your strength.”

She followed his movements as best she could, but her skirt wouldn’t allow her to bring her leg to the other side of the saddle. She fell back onto her feet with a disgruntled huff.

“Other foot then, and slot both legs onto one side of the saddle.” He held out his hand again. “Ready?”

“Wait.” Bridget looked back to the space around her. The stream, the woods, the doors to the place that had never really felt like home. She reached for her headscarf and pulled it off her head, letting it fall to the ground. She didn’t suppose she would have any use for it now. Her hair fell down her back in a messy braid.

She looked back up at Osferth, between his hand, his eyes, and briefly to the curve of his upper lip. She held his hand tightly and hauled herself up onto the horse, her arms and legs trembling slightly at the effort.

Once the horse was settled Osferth gave it a gentle kick and they began to move. Bridget latched onto his shoulders as they began to sway with the movement.

“What if I fall off?” She asked, suddenly horrified at the prospect.

“You won’t fall off,” Osferth said, “use your thighs.”

“What?”

“Grip with your thighs,” he said.

She did so instinctively. Something about it felt… strange.

They cantered to catch up with the group and Bridget gripped Osferth’s shoulders a little tighter. Until he took one of her hands and placed it on his waist, so she wouldn’t impede on his arms. She muttered an apology and unsurely placed her other hand around him.

A few days ago she hadn’t so much as spoken to a man in years, except an incident where a nearby farmer had broken his leg, and even then she only wordlessly assisted the Abbess to bandage his limb.

Now she had her arms around a man’s torso, close enough to feel his warmth from under his winter cloak as her body rocked against his back.

“You’re frozen,” Osferth said, briefly brushing his thumb over her hand.

“It’s winter.”

“Did you not have anything warmer to wear?”

“We don’t attach ourselves to material items,” she said in a mockingly wistful voice.

He huffed a small laugh and pulled the horse to a stop before swinging his leg around the its head, landing on the ground in one smooth movement.

He undid the clasp on his cloak and held it up to her.

“Thank you,” she said, wrapping it around her shoulders, “but I don’t want you to get cold.”

He mounted again, a little awkwardly with Bridget already in the saddle. “Hold it around me. We can keep each other warm.”

She shuffled closer into him. Osferth brought one hand off the reins and pulled the corner of the cloak around his arm as Bridget settled against his back, resting her head at the base of his neck.

Thank God he couldn’t see her as her cheeks started to burn against the cold and the snow.

#my fics #osferth x reader #osferth fanfiction #osferth fanfic #osferth smut #the last kingdom #tlk #seven kings must die #baby monk #osferth x oc #osferth x y/n #osferth x ofc #ewan mitchell

293 notes · View notes

goldenamaranthe-blog · 5 months

Text

Hallelujah pt. 2

Roughly 3 months after Blake summoned Demon!Yang.

Blake: (ears twitch as hushed whispers pull her from sleep)

Shrill Voice: Do you have any idea how much danger you're in staying at a CHURCH?!

Demon!Yang: Shhhhh! Keep it down! You're going to wake up Blake.

Shrill Voice: That's another thing! Why in the Four Planes would you strike a deal with a nun?! If the counsel of this church finds out a demon, and the daughter of the devil at that, is "stealing the pure soul" of one of their devout followers, they're going to kill you. You KNOW what happens to demons if they die on holy ground!

Demon!Yang: Awww, Weissy the Icy Queen is worried about me~

Blake: (opens her eyes and blinks at the pure white being surrounded by a halo of light and white wings scowling at Yang in her demon form) .....There is an angel and a demon in my room.....

Demon!Yang: (snaps her head towards Blake) Blake! Hey! Sorry, did we wake you up? (glances at Weiss) Oh, this is Weiss. She's an angel, obviously.

Angel!Weiss: (sighs tiredly) Yes, I'm an angel, and one who questions her poor life decisions every day. (glances at Blake) I take it you're the one who made a pact with Yang?

Blake: .....I am. (notices her lack of clothes and pulls the blankets up over herself)

Angel!Weiss: Don't bother. I've seen everything already. Save your modesty for someone who cares.

Blake: Uh... noted. (looks to Yang) Why is there an angel in my room?

Demon!Yang: She's just trying to make sure I don't do anything stupid.

Angel!Weiss: (sticks her finger in Yang's face) No. I'm trying to make sure you don't do anything catastrophic. Ruby would be heartbroken if you suddenly disintegrated because you got killed in a monastery!

Demon!Yang: Thank you, Weiss! Warning heeded! (slices a portal open with her claws and pushes Angel!Weiss through) Bye, Weiss! Thanks for visiting! Give Ruby my love when you get to heaven!

Angel!Weiss: You insufferable brute- (phases through the portal)

Demon!Yang: (wipes forehead and turns to Blake) Well! I think I'm gonna go take a walk around the abbey. Toodles! (flaps wings and bolts to the window)

Blake: Stop.

Demon!Yang: (freezes just short of the window)

Blake: What did Weiss mean you would disintegrate if you died on holy ground?

Demon!Yang: (slumps and sighs heavily as she slowly descends to the floor) ....If demons die in the human world, we just go poof and wake up back in Hell. If we die in a church or on holy ground, or get killed by a high enough member of the church, we just go poof.

Blake: (arches an eyebrow) Poof?

Demon!Yang: Yup (wipes a handful of dust off the floor with her tail and blows a cloud into the air) Poof. Do not pass Go. Do not wake up in Hell. After that, no one knows what happens to them. They just disappear.

Blake: (wraps the blanket around herself and walks over to Yang) And you knew this when you accepted my summon? You still made a pact with me despite the fact that you knew you could disappear if you were found out?

Demon!Yang: Or if you decided to tell someone I was here. Kind of another reason why I was keeping that hush-hush.

Blake: Why?

Demon!Yang: Honestly, there was something about you. I don't know what it was, but I felt something in your heart and soul that made me want to help.

Blake: (hesitantly cups Yang's cheek) Thank you.

Demon!Yang: (blushes and clears her throat) Y-Your welcome.

Blake: (heart pounding in her chest, face flushes, and swallows thickly) Are you still hungry?

Demon!Yang: (blinks in confusion) N-No. I'm good. Thank you.

Blake: (takes a deep breath) I might be.

Demon!Yang: Oh! (locks eyes with Blake and swallows) I guess I'm a little peckish.

Blake: (gently kisses the corner of Yang's mouth) Take me to bed then?

Demon!Yang: (eyes widen in shock and stutters) Y-Yes, Ma'am.

Part 1

#bumbleby #yang xiao long #blake belladonna #rwby #demon yang #nun blake #angel weiss #Demon in the Chapel Au #weiss schnee

61 notes · View notes

angellayercake · 1 year

Text

Banchetto: Antipasto

Papa Emeritus III x Reader

AO3 | Aperitivo

The tomatoes should be small diced and even. In a dish so simple every detail must be perfect lest they disrupt the whole. The juicy seeds are scooped out and left to one side leaving you the ripe flesh to work with.

• • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

Whatever it was about the recipes from the book they had done the trick. He was finally eating and you could relax slightly. Although it was clear to you that whoever had translated it had not been an experienced cook. The descriptions were sometimes clunky, other times made little sense at all. With your lack of Italian and the mysterious translator's lack of cooking knowledge it was clear that some things had been lost in translation. But, since the day he had left the notebook out for you he had refused to discuss it.

You flick through the pages most days making notes of recipes to try, ingredients you need to acquire and passages that need further research. The thought of showing the notebook to anyone else made you uncomfortable but the odd instruction? That didn’t seem so much of a breach of trust. For now though you stuck to the simpler recipes. There had been less to translate and any errors you had found were easily corrected with your cooking knowledge.

The thought of being Papa’s personal cook hadn’t really excited you when you first found out, especially with how difficult he was during the first few weeks. You enjoyed cooking for the whole Abbey. It was a challenge for you cooking in such large batches and still maintaining the flavour and standard you expected of yourself. Cooking for one man hadn’t seemed like much of a stretch even if it was Papa Emeritus III. But now as you tried to settle on your choice of the day you could acknowledge how much fun you were having learning about authentic Italian cooking.

• • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

Leaves plucked carefully from the stem and piled in the centre of the wooden bowl. Your fingers come away fragrant, with a faint tinge of green you notice as you rock the curved blade back and forth slicing through the delicate leaves. There is nothing like the aroma of freshly cut herbs you think as you add them to the tomato.

• • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

‘Wine?’ He gestures the bottle towards you after pouring his own.

‘I’m working Papa. No thank you.’ You continued stirring the pot in front of you, turning down the heat fractionally. He had taken to sitting in the small kitchen space as you prepare his evening meal. He rarely spoke much but had the occasional question about something you were doing. Dipping your spoon in the sauce you blow across it to lower the temperature before giving it a taste. You allow the small mouthful to roll over your tongue giving yourself time to identify the flavours. Taking a pinch of salt you sprinkle it across the surface as you continue to mix. You reach for your tasting spoon, cleaning it quickly before taking another taster.

‘Why are you doing this? Hungry already, are you?’ You take your time finishing your taste test happy that the flavours were now balanced. He is watching you inquisitively and you shouldn’t be as surprised as you are at his lack of understanding given the life he has led.

‘I’m making sure the seasoning is as it should be.’ He tilted his head as though he still didn’t quite understand. ‘I am tasting, not eating Papa. To see if anything needs adding to improve the flavour.’ He nods as you finish speaking.

‘So you say Sorella, that you must taste it as you go along so you know when something is ready. You must monitor the flavour as it develops so you know if you must add this or that.’ He gestured to the rack of seasonings you had placed next to the oven.

‘The good thing about seasoning is you can adjust it as you go up until the very end of cooking, but how would you know if you didn’t taste it?’ You smile at him over your shoulder as you continue to stir.

‘Si I understand. But that only works if you have not done enough, no? What if you were to add too much?’ It is no surprise to you that this is his next question. You had asked something similar when you had been completing your training. You were enjoying sharing your knowledge with him. ‘Surely the dish would be ruined?’

‘Well that depends. If you know what you did to ruin it you can add something to counteract.’ Turning down the heat for the last few minutes you are able to give him your full attention.

‘Adding more, this would not just make the situation worse eh?’ You smile and shake your head. Aside from burning a dish there was not much you could do to ruin a simple dish entirely.

‘That’s why you must understand how to balance flavours before you try anything like this. For example if I added too much salt to this dish I could add some lemon juice to neutralise it or if I added too much spice adding some oil will help temper the heat.’ He didn’t respond further so you returned your attention back to the task at hand although you couldn’t help but glance at him every now and then. He was lost in his thoughts, brow furrowed as he absent mindedly swirled his wine around the glass. Every time you look over at him he holds your gaze for longer and longer until you can’t bring yourself to look away. He is not the man you thought he would be, that's for sure. Now he had gotten used to your presence he was quiet and thoughtful. Much more introspective than many would give him credit for.

He visibly snaps back to the present and you quickly turn back to your cooking. The thought of him catching you staring has a blush spreading across your face. He moves in the corner of your vision, setting down the glass and running his hands through his hair, his agitation confusing you. He stands and moves closer, placing his hand on your arm and squeezing to get your attention, as if he didn’t have it anyway. You don’t understand the frustration in his face or what about your conversation had inspired that feeling.

‘But how do you know Sorella? How can you tell what must be added, what must be taken away, and by how much?’ He flusters you with his questions. The thought that your conversation is no longer about food grows in the back of your mind as you look into his eyes.

‘Intuition, I suppose, practice, experience.’ Your answer only seems to increase his frustration so you continue. ‘Your personal taste also plays a part.’ His hand drops from your arm but he looks at you a moment longer before returning to his seat. The conversation is over and you can’t shake the feeling that you said something wrong. Removing the dish from the heat you quickly serve up a generous portion for him and place it before him at the table. You clean up quickly wanting to get away from the awkward atmosphere as soon as you can. As you are about to leave he calls to you.

‘This is very good Sorella, grazie,’ along with a tired smile. You take it for the apology you think it might be and give him a smile in return.

‘Good night Papa.’

• • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

The smell hits first as you pull the foil package from the oven, opening it slightly to let it cool as you prepare the bread. Cutting through the loaf diagonally for the best slice. Thick enough to carry their intended load but thin enough to ensure they toast evenly. You brush them with oil watching it drip into the airy dough before returning the tray to the oven.

• • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

The bread, cheese and seasoning could already be found in the now well stocked kitchen but the fresh ingredients required a trip to the Abbey gardens and so to see Primo. You were apprehensive. He would have questions naturally but you had been doing your best to keep Terzo’s confidence. The longer you spent with him the more you realised he was quite resentful of his brothers interference in his life. A veiled comment here and there. A roll of the eyes when you mentioned speaking with them but at least he wasn’t taking it out on you any more.

The walk through the ornate moon garden and past the fountain gave you some time to prepare yourself. The fragrant white blooms waved softly in the breeze as you walked. You had always thought this part of the garden bland especially when compared to the riot of colour and chaos that was the kitchen garden. That was until you had been passing through one evening on your way back to your quarters. More often you walked the long way from the Papal suites, through the winding halls but one balmy night you had thought to cut across the gardens to shorten your journey. Instead you found yourself sitting mesmerised as the white blooms seemed to glow in the moonlight. Now you take every opportunity you can to wander through the flower beds, the soft sound of the fountain and singing birds your soundtrack and the floating bees and butterflies your companions.

Today though you do not have time to linger so you spare only a quick glance before heading to the green houses. You slide open the door to let yourself in, feeling the humid heat wash over you as you close it again behind you. The sweet smell of ripening produce melded with the earthy scent of the damp soil filling your senses as you look around for Primo. You spot his dark robes through the greenery and make your way to the potting tables set up in the centre.

‘’Buon pemeriggio Sorella,’ he called as you moved into his line of vision. ‘And what can I help you with today?’

‘Only tomatoes today Papa, and some fresh basil as well.’ You had known Primo for longer than either of the other Papa’s, your work in the kitchen had brought you together very shortly after you had arrived at the Abbey.

‘Ah both staples in all good Italian cooking si. Is he still having you make all the classics for him?’ He gestures you towards the vines at the far end. ‘Come, come we will find the best that I have for my fratellino.’

‘Thank you Papa. Those meals do seem to be what he prefers, but I don’t mind.’ It felt that you were the only one not surprised that Terzo might prefer food from his home country given the reaction of everyone but you were genuinely enjoying his preference so far. ‘I hadn’t had the opportunity to learn many Italian recipes before this so it is an excellent opportunity.’

‘Si Sorella I am sure. And how is my brother? Is he behaving himself?’ You wonder what he means by behaving himself. Surely he knows that Terzo had been eating normally for some time now. ‘I fear he has not forgiven me for siding with Secondo. More often I used to be the neutral party between them.’

You take your time before answering him, slightly surprised at his candour. You had always got the impression that the brothers kept their familial relationship private from the majority of the congregation. ‘He is fine I think Papa. I don’t see much of him except at mealtimes but he seems well.’ He fixes you with a look you can’t quite decipher.

‘I think you have seen him enough to know him better than most.’ Hesitation fills you with his statement. You know exactly what he means and yet you don’t really want to let on.

‘I just make him food Papa,’ is your simple reply. You are just doing the job that has been asked of you.

‘The mistake people often make with my fratellino is to take him at face value. He does it very well, his show. He has done, since he was a child but it is a mistake to think he is only this.’ You nod slowly. That was something you had noticed. The man you had got to know so far was different from the man you had seen at rituals and at mass but that was not entirely unexpected.

‘You know him best I’m sure.’ You keep your attention on the tomatoes searching through the vines for the brightest red you can find.

‘Si, si. I know him, Secondo knows him but many others, I think they only know Papa Emeritus III. Many will need to find out who Terzo is now. Maybe even including him.�� You aren’t entirely sure how to respond. This was not how you were expecting this conversation to play out but you try to bring your mind back to the matter at hand.

‘I think I have enough tomatoes now Papa. I just need some basil and then I will be out of your way.’ You add what you have collected to his basket before winding your way back out of the vines.

‘Oh Sorella you are not in my way. I appreciate any visitors that find their way here.’ He hands you the basket of tomatoes and motions you to follow him out of the greenhouse towards the herb garden collecting a pair of secateurs as you pass the potting table. Instead of trimming from the larger plant though he picks up a smaller plant still in its own pot.

‘This one,’ he starts turning back towards you and offering you the plant to hold. ‘It was broken from the main during the last storm. But you see when something breaks if you allow it to grow roots and nurture it, it becomes a whole new plant.' He cuts away at the leaves all the way down to the stem starting from the base and working up the plant methodically.

‘That’s enough now Papa you can stop,’ you say but he continues cutting until there isn’t a leaf left on the poor plant, just little stumps protruding from the bare stem. ‘What will happen to it now that there are no leaves?’

‘If it is strong it will grow back even bigger and better than before Sorella. And I am sure it is strong to have survived all that it has already.’ He fixes you with one last confusing look before adding the cuttings to your basket. ‘Give my greetings to my fratellino, and tell him to come and see me when he has finished sulking.’

‘Of course Papa.’ You nod your head in farewell and take your leave. You had thought you would be subtly integrated about Terzo, not given some kind of plant based philosophy lesson. You sigh to yourself checking the time as you make your way back through the gardens. There is no time to dwell on cryptic metaphors. You need to get back and start your preparation otherwise his food will not be ready on time. And that was what you had been asked to do, just make him food.

• • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

It is a pleasant surprise that the recipe had suggested roasted garlic but it made such sense by smoothing out the pungent flavour and adding some depth. Before mixing you generously splash it with olive oil and balsamic vinegar and season with freshly ground salt and pepper.

• • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

For once he wasn’t loitering in the kitchen as you cooked so as you came close to finishing you decided to fetch him. Bruschetta was best served fresh. You wandered through the rooms in an effort to find him but it wasn’t until you reached the door to his bedroom, left slightly ajar, that you knew you had located him. Reaching forward to knock your actions are halted when you hear a choked off moan.

Your eyes find him straight away through the gap in the door, sitting on his bed with his back to you. Which would be fine if he wasn’t sitting opposite a mirror which gave you the perfect view of exactly what he was doing and you have to hold back a gasp as soon as it registers. The first thing you notice is his hand wrapped around his cock. How could you not? His stroke is slow and teasing and you can see the pink head disappearing and reappearing from his fist. You shouldn’t be seeing this and you certainly shouldn’t still be watching but you can’t move. Realising how long you have been staring you quickly glance up at his face and let out a sigh of relief that his eyes were closed. His face was slack with pleasure, an expression you could recognise from when he especially enjoyed the food you had made for him. That knowledge sent a spark of unexpected heat through you and you have to look away.

But you can’t drag your eyes from him completely. The next thing you notice is his other fist clenched to hold the hem of his shirt out of the way of his ministrations. You can’t see much but what you can makes your mouth dry. His stomach was tense twitching as he pleasured himself but that didn’t disguise the softness that had grown in the time you had been working for him. Right there only just visible was the evidence of your hard work and you could not have predicted the reaction it would have inspired within you.

A loud low moan finally brings you back to your senses. You have to go, this isn’t right. Dragging your eyes away you turn as quietly as you can leaning against the wall a moment as you catch your breath. Pulling yourself together you carefully make your way back to the kitchen pleased that you weren’t caught in such a compromising situation. What you didn’t know at the time was if you had let your eyes drift to his face one last time before turning away you would have met his burning mismatched gaze where it was fixed on you in the mirror. Watching you, watch him.

• • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

Now toasted you grate the parmesan directly onto the bread and give them a minute more in the heat to begin to melt and crisp. You spoon the well mixed tomato and basil onto each slice piling it generously until you have one spoonful left.

• • • • • • • • • ✦ • • • • • • • • • •

It takes a lot longer for parmesan to melt than you had thought. You stare at it intently attempting to stop your mind from wandering to what was happening just down the hall. Don’t think about what he was doing. Don’t think about how he sounded. And certainly don’t think about how he looked, so different from the last time you had seen his body. Gone was the concave stomach and the visible ribs. You had noticed it somewhat in his face, the shadows receding under his cheeks and around his eyes. But that didn’t prepare you for seeing how his stomach had filled out. If you hadn’t seen him before it would have barely given you pause, but knowing that you had done that. Your cooking and your care had changed him, that affected you as much as watching him pleasure himself had.

The shrill beep of the timer pulls you back to reality abruptly and you reach for the toast quickly so as not to let them burn. Only when the tray is securely placed on the trivet do you allow your mind to wander again. The guilt was starting to overwhelm you now. You should have left as soon as you realised what he was doing, not stood and watched like a pervert but you had been glued to the spot. Reaching for the bowl you let the image of him fill your mind once more as you spoon generous heaps of the mixture on to the fresh toast. So lost in thought you are as you carelessly eat the last spoonful, oblivious to anything else going on around you.

‘Caught you Sorella,’ he whispers so close you feel his breath against your ear. No he can’t have. You choke, coughing and spluttering and he laughs as he pats your back, helping you clear your clogged airway. You gasp in air as soon as you can and force yourself to look at him. He is smiling, why would he be smiling at you after catching you watching him in such a personal moment? You wipe away the tears that had gathered at the corner of your eyes as you concentrate on regulating your breathing.

‘That was eating and not tasting I think.’ A hysterical laugh bubbles up in your chest, relief washing over you. He was talking about you eating, not about you watching him jerk off. He laughed along with his hand resting on your shoulder and you were torn between leaning into it and pulling away. You were already attracted to him and everything that had happened this evening just compounded to make it worse. This was not what you were here for and you needed to pull it together.

‘Yes Papa, you caught me this time,’ you offer with a weak smile before adding two slices of the bruschetta to a plate and handing it to him and creating a buffer between you. He accepts it with a grin, not even moving before taking a bite. His eyes close and he lets out a now familiar moan at the taste. He adds another couple of slices to his plate giving you a wink that makes your pulse race and your knees weak and then he is gone.

Thank you @ghostchems and @namelessdrool for all your help!!! And @running-ace21 for the original prompt :)

#papa emeritus iii x reader #terzo x reader #terzo #papa emeritus iii #the band ghost fic #the band ghost fanfiction #my writing #banchetto

173 notes · View notes

ghouletteanon · 7 months

Note

“Actually that sounds more like a you problem.” SCREAMS RAINDROP PLZ 🙏🙇🏻‍♀️🙏🙇🏻‍♀️

Yes it does!!!

Can it be classified as romantic slice of life if it's Rain and Dew being all murder ghoul-y about it?

Featuring mean!Rain because I said so. Rated M for mild gore. Word count 400+.

“Rain, come on, help me before someone finds out,” Dew pleads, a rag in his hand.

“Actually that sounds more like a you problem,” Rain looks down where Dew is on the floor on all fours.

Rain had entered the fire ghoul’s room only to see Dew on the floor, trying to wipe up all the blood that’s splattered across the room. It looks like the murder scene that it is. There are towels all over the bed, catching some of the blood, but the biggest blood sprays are on the wall next to the bed. No doubt the fire ghoul had accidentally bit an artery at the wrong angle.

The white chalked wall is definitely going to be not so white in the future unless Rain helps with the cleanup.

Rain’s tail whips slowly side to side. Seeing Dew on his knees, begging for his help awakens a hunger inside him. The blood that stains his face makes him look undeniably feral and Rain wants to lick it off him. There’s blood all over his jaw and trickling down his neck, tempting Rain like the most delicious sin.

Rain steels himself and puts on an air of indifference, setting up a trap instead of giving in just yet. There’s time for that later. “Plan better next time instead of making a mess.”

Dew whines. He’s come off the euphoria of a successful hunt, but now it’s time for the boring part associated with every hunt in a place like the Abbey. “Rain, please, Sister Imperator will send me back to the pits if she finds out I made a mess again. I’ll do anything you want.”

Rain’s tail stills. His ears turn back. Dew should know better by now, but his mate is incorrigible when he is in a hurry and not thinking straight. But Dew’s loss is Rain’s gain. “Anything?”

“Anything,” Dew nods eagerly. “Please, help me get rid of the body and fix the walls and I’ll do whatever you wish.”

“I am going to enjoy this.”

Before Dew can reply, Rain stops denying himself and leans over, kissing Dew where he is still kneeling, gripping his hair to keep him in place. He licks deeply inside Dew’s mouth, his forked tongue chasing every drop of remaining blood and tasting the intoxicating blend of blood and what is purely Dew.

Rain breaks the kiss, pushing Dew aside as the fire ghoul whimpers and tries to break the hold Rain has on him. “And that’s all you’re going to get until we are done here.”

#the band ghost fanfiction #dew ghoul #rain ghoul #ga writes #cw gore #murder ghouls

43 notes · View notes

johannestevans · 3 months

Text

I have added my ongoing serials to ScribbleHub, in case people read there!

Prophet's Cry

Erotic romance/drama, M/M infidelity leading to M/M/M where a boss doesn't realise that the man he's started seeing is the husband of the subordinate coworker he's been fucking over his desk. Rated E, 20k+. This has a Steddyhands flavour if that's your vibe.

Prophet Shulman, Administrative Secretary at the Middlesbrough branch of Friar Holdings, has been on the verge of divorce for the past twenty years, almost ever since he got married.

Shagging his boss might make him as bad as his husband, but what the Hell's the point in trying to be good anymore?

Meanwhile, Vance Vixen, recently emerged from his own divorce and also the closet, when not shagging his Admin Secretary in the stationery cupboard, begins a delicate romance with a bartender named Gideon Shulman.

Read on ScribbleHub / / Ao3 / / Medium

Powder and Feathers

Dark erotic romance between a highly manipulative Fallen angel and a depressed, lonely alcoholic of an artist, fantasy and magical elements throughout. Rated E M/M with some fucking around, lots of kink, possession, weird flavours of trauma around bodily autonomy & abuse recovery.

This is originally inspired by Les Misérables, but if you love the French nastiness of Lestat de Lioncourt, you might enjoy the same vibes in Jean-Pierre Delacroix. Ditto if you generally like fucky angel mythology.

It seems to Aimé Deverell that there is very little point to life, except for what pleasures can be enjoyed before the grave. Life is short - thank God - but at least there's enough in the world to dull the senses in the meantime.

That philosophy shatters like glass when he meets Jean-Pierre, an angel.

Read on ScribbleHub / / Ao3 / / WorldAnvil / / Medium

Rescue Dogs

Slice-of-life and trauma recovery with some fucked-up romance and fantasy on the side between an ex-knight of the realm and destined hero and his ex-PE teacher. M/M with that E rating. Age gap, teacher/student vibes, trauma recovery, etc - ex-hero and child of destiny tries to be a normal person.

If you like the vibes of post-war fucked-up Snarry, you'll vibe with this; if you like the fucked-up destiny dynamics in BBC Merlin, ditto. In general, if you like it when men identify a little bit too much with abused dogs, this is the story for you.

Cecil Hobbes, an ex-PE teacher disgraced and looked down on in his hometown, has a new partner: Sir Valorous King, a knight of the realm, once a child of prophecy, and Cecil’s stalker.

A few months into their relationship, Cecil finally convinces Valorous to see a therapist, on the condition that Cecil attend one himself.

Read on ScribbleHub / / Ao3 / / WorldAnvil / / Medium

An Uncommon Betrothal

Period romance set in the 20th century interwar period between a disabled gentleman and his butler. Also E, also M/M. Lots of disability and chronic illness feelings here alongside a growing desire for and sense of queer community as a man begins for the first time to reach out and experiment with his sexuality whilst being disabled.

If you love Jeeves and Wooster or if you love more serious valet and butler vibes, such as Thomas plotlines in Downton Abbey, you'll vibe with this; if you're generally craving plots with disabled, fat, and neurodivergent men being very explicitly desiring, desirable, and desired, you'll like this!

Alexos Fox is of course quite sad when the long-time butler of his household, the man who all but raised him, retires. He is not at all prepared for the old man’s replacement: his exceedingly attractive and painfully tempting nephew, Harry Sutton.

Alexos, overcome with feelings that are simply too much to repress, tries his best to avoid him, but it seems that Mr Sutton has more than his employment on his mind as he attends his new employer with keen and concentrated focus.

Read on ScribbleHub / / Ao3 / / WorldAnvil / / Medium

#musings #original fiction #writers on tumblr #gay romance

31 notes · View notes

gancegancerevo · 4 months

Text

Arknights Hortus de Escapismo Thoughts

An aspect about the story that I found interesting is how it shed light on the fact that Laterano and the Sankta have a stake in both the fate of the Sarkaz and the Church of the Deep. This can kinda be extended to the conflicts around the Seaborne and the Demons (but not as much for the Demons [haven't played that stupid Minecraft gamemode so I wouldn't know]). Laterano seems to be on the verge of a change and while we have an idea of who might be involved, what that change will bring remains to be seen.

I feel Stefano's ending captures the ideas they wanted to express with Andoain way better then he ever did.

Firstly, the age of Stefano gives his grievances a gravity that is lacking with Andoain. This applies both to the era of Stefano's life and how many years he's actually lived. Stefano has lived so long and that gives off the feeling that he knows what he's talking about when he speaks of his trials.

Secondly, Stefano's pain is much more palpable. Andoain advocates for outsiders but he doesn't give off the vibe of an outsider. He feels like a Laterano Sankta who just so happens to differ on this one issue. Stefano on the other hand, is a member of the abbey first. He is unsure of the Lateran Sankta even though they should have empathy to connect them. He fights for the Sarkaz because his principles built on experience cannot deny their humanity even when it's the best course to let them go.

Finally, Andoain just isn't rooted in this conflict. His inciting incident is wanting Lock and Key and breaking his team apart because of it. He leaves, starts a sort of cult, and just stops by because he can. Stefano on the other hand has to grapple with questions about Paradise because that is where both his faith and troubles lie. What is Paradise? Is it worth to enter a Paradise that runs counter to your principles? What does it mean to believe when your faith mandates some inhumanity? All these questions and more define the abbey's choice of going to Laterano but they plague Stefano most because he's their religious leader. And he used (and bent) religion as he saw fit because his principles, though rooted in faith, come first. Stefano (and Hortus de Escapismo as well) embodies this conflict is a much more depressing way than Guiding Ahead because they actually gave thought to what value Paradise holds when you have to watch it turn people away.

It's the difference between theory and practice in a sense. Andoain v. Yvangelista XI was a lot more talking and philosophizing. Stefano and all the rest of them have to actually grapple with the choice before them. Because they are actively being separated from family by seemingly nonsense rules. The higher-ups can wonder why the rules are unreasonable but they're not the one who have to slice their own heads off because their kin might be massacred based on their past crimes.

All this is to say that I am kinda disappointed that everything can be traced back to Arturia and her Arts. It makes an interesting series of events built on the divisive nature of Laterano seem hollower than it is. Like, oh if only Arturia's ride got here on time maybe Fortuna wouldn't be Fallen and Gerald wouldn't have killed himself (but Oren still had the troops so I dunno)

As much as the ideas explored were interesting, the Laterans themselves didn't see much development aside from Executor and even he went from brick to pondering brick. I don't know how good of a story this was overall; maybe a 6 out of ten because I do like it, just not as much as others of its type. Hopefully Viviana's event would give the Giallo siblings a better showing but whatever.

#arknights #arknights event #arknights executor #arknights arturia #arknights laterano #ramblings #really not sure how I feel overall #some things feel underdeveloped and random #and others feel like assigning Sankta something to do #looking at you Spuria #Oren is still an ass but what's new #lemuen arknights #Lemuen being mother was great

18 notes · View notes

iamthecomet · 5 months

Note

i've been thinking about it since you brought up the domestic ghoul thoughts, but when I'm reading fic, and the ghoul quarters are mentioned, I always picture them the exact same way?

like, the bedrooms are always the same layout as my childhood bedroom? like, the decor's different, but the bed is against the wall in the same spot, the door's in the same spot (the windows are more like one of my college dorms but i digress), the closet and the dresser are in the same spots

the kitchen is somewhere between my great grandmother's kitchen and the kitchenette in the apartment style dorm I lived in for a year

and the common room is always the finished part of my parents' basement, so even if the fic says "so and so came into the common room" I always imagine them coming down stairs

(now that i write it out, all of that doesn't convey what i think those spaces look like but i can't get pictures of half of those spaces because they're gone/renovated/i can't get into those dorms anymore lmao)

This is so interesting though! I tend to picture all the ghouls rooms as having the same layout too--but with very different decor/styles. The common room/kitchen tend to morph depending on how I'm talking about them (which is really frustrating). I love that you have such specific imagery for all of this. I'm sure so many of us do, but it doesn't always translate into fic (or we just don't talk about it).

I'm so tempted to open up the Sims 4 again and build/decorate the ghoul wing to match what I envision, I just know if I do I will get one room done and then give up. It just sounds like so much work.

I would LOVE to talk more about ghoul wing/room layouts though. I'm a big ol' nerd so this kind of stuff makes my brain super happy.

#comet comments #dottie #slice of life ghouls #abbey architecture

6 notes · View notes

everybodyshusband · 7 months

Text

angst is angsting. please tread carefully.

cw. dewdrop angst, self hatred, self harm, suicide.

this ritual has happened many times before. with dewdrop it’s no different. the holy water splashed across his face, his hands, feet. doing its best to cleanse him of his many impurities.

the stone slab is cold against his back. or at least, he thinks it is. he’s not present enough in himself to know what he does or does not feel.

fear is there, he thinks. he’s seen the aftermath of this ritual many times throughout his life, but never seen or experienced the true act of it. he’s come close. almost barging in on ifrit. zephyr. aether too. but on all three of those occasions something had stopped him. he regrets it now. regrets not stopping them. and their executioners.

peace, also. as scared as he thinks he is, there’s certainty somewhere inside him as well. he knows this is what is best. for himself, the abbey, his pack. they’ll thrive without him weighing them down. that’s what sister had said to him. or maybe that conversation had happened in his head. he’s not sure. he’s not sure of anything anymore.

but. that’s not quite true. he’s sure of the sensation of the executioner’s blade dragging over his limbs. teasing him. taunting him. reminding dewdrop just how close his demise truely is. it’s cruel, really. and despite the fact his eyes are open, he can’t see. no matter how badly he longs to understand the hand holding the gilded knife, he can’t. not without his sight.

the blade digs in. someone on his thigh, he thinks. he’s naked on the slab. the executioner has his entire body as a canvas, why not have fun with it. torture the prey a little bit.

dewdrop isn’t tied down. he finds that strange. but then again, he’s not sure he wants to escape. he knows he deserves this. deserves every ounce of pain the cruel hand is about to deal out to him.

the blade of the knife continues taunting him as he thinks. thinks about how much he deserves this. thinks that maybe, he’s not that scared after all. not if his participation in this ritual will be better for the pack. the band. the abbey. everyone.

the knife digs into his arm, running up the entire length of his inner forearm, flaying him open. the pain is agonising. he screams. the executioner doesn’t seem to care. the knife digs in again right as blood starts to rush to the surface. it slices through already broken lines of skin, tearing through muscle and fat like butter.

the executioner repeats the actions on dewdrop’s other arm. then on his thighs. he’s bleeding out. intentionally having his arteries sliced open until he bleeds out and becomes a shrivelled husk of who he once was.

he doesn’t want to be here as he bleeds out. doesn’t want to be conscious. the pain is starting to creep in and it’s horrific. he can’t stop screaming. he thinks he’s sobbing to. crying out apologies to everyone he’s ever impacted throughout his miserable life.

the knife comes to his throat. it shakes against the vulnerable skin. if the executioner is having second thoughts, it’s too late. he’s dying. he can’t be saved. not now.

when the knife finally digs into his throat, silencing his last breath, he realises his own hand holds the blade.

#sorry for the lack of captial letters #i haven’t proofread either i hope it’s alright #tw self harm #tw suicide #dewdrop ghoul #nameless ghouls #the band ghost #husband ficlets

21 notes · View notes

zombiequeenblog · 11 months

Text

Waiting for Vincent Price to find me

Or Dracopia…

I love (Evil) Cardinal Copia, and anything relating to Ghost. I write on ao3 (mostly dark smut, please mind the tags), including the

Cardinal Copia: A Sadistic and Glorious Bastard series, which is probably the most popular of my humble works (I try to tag things related as #sadglo). Please enjoy! (But note that this series is heavy on themes of rape, sadism, masochism, and violence. NOT SAFE OR SANE. A sort of extremely dark gothic romance, explicit, and not based in reality.)

Further stories in the sadglo universe concerning the Cardinal and his Mouse:

So Bold, So Sweet - dark somno fic

Meant To Be Yours - lighter little hurt/comfort flash fic

Errand Day - a little slice of life inspired by a kissing prompt

Where It Hurts - another little kissing prompt

Secret in the Dark - a little glimpse of the Cardinal and his Mouse

Phone Call - the Cardinal receives distressing news

Terzo's side quests in the sadglo universe:

Cocky and Coddled - Cardinal Terzo welcomes a new Sister of Sin to the abbey

The Sisters' Delight - Papa III is honoured to take a Sister for her First Time

Gentlest Hearts Will Soonest Bloom - Papa III enjoys one of his Sisters in a sweet tryst

Devilish Creatures - Papa III partakes in a threesome with two of his dear Sisters

A Sin To Pay For Sin - Papa III cares for one of his Sisters and shares a story from his past (sick fic, no smut)

Secondo's side quests in the sadglo universe:

Fevered Love - Papa II is cared for by a Sister of Sin

Extreme Unction - Papa II cares for a Sister of Sin

Nihil and Imperator's side quest in the sadglo universe:

Omnis Caelestis - Sister Imperator shares a Sister of Sin with Papa Nihil in a threesome where she runs the show (obviously)

There are also several fics relating to Ghost which are not a part of the sadglo universe, as well as a couple works from other fandoms on my ao3:

The Noviciate - Cardinal Copia has you stay after class to receive your birthday gift, whether you'd like it or not

Candelabra Copia - crack fic, I have no words

Between the Anvil and the Hammer - pretend that Cardinal Copia and Papa IV are separate, different people, having a threesome with a Sister of Sin they both admire greatly

A Cardinal Mark - 19th century pirate au bodice-ripper novella, seems to be quite popular and I am so grateful!

Vessels of the Arms of Hell - crack fic? monster fucking? tentacle porn? Cardinal Copia on ice (should have been an x-files episode)

Papaver Somniferum - Terzo, best read without spoilers, search the tags if you're concerned

Postcard from the Basilica - microfic about Sister Imperator and her baby son

The Morning Star - Papas III and IV rape a maiden in a satanic ceremony

Shine - short and not-so-sweet evil Terzo

My first Baldur's Gate 3 fic, featuring Raphael because I love him:

Faustian Fyreflies - the debonair cambion takes you out to the opera in hopes of securing your soul, will you sign it over?

#a girl can dream #selfie #feeling romantic today #face reveal #neck reveal?#pinned post for selfies #and now a master list

48 notes · View notes

folkloresthings · 9 months

Note

Can I get a Northranger Abbey? Carlos Sainz and brothers best friend trope? Perhaps like after years of knowing each other they just click?

LOVE this trope with both of the ferrari boys

ALL ALONG. ❨ carlos sainz x reader ❩

✩⡱ warnings: age gap, but nothing happens illegally

you had first met carlos when you were only nine years old. he was fourteen, and had come to your brothers birthday party in your back garden. you, the ever annoying little sister, hung around the older boys too much, eventually being shooed off by your brother. you had sulked in a corner, but carlos had snuck over with a slice of cake to cheer you up.

when you were fifteen, and carlos twenty, you’d gotten drunk for the first time. your brother was off with some girl, so carlos had held your hair while you threw up and tucked you into bed, a glass of water nearby for you.

when you were twenty, carlos twenty—five, you’d come with your brother to one of his races. you were just finished your first year of university, now a woman, and carlos had asked you a million questions about the course and your new city. he had his new girlfriend with him, and you had shown him pictures of the boy you were seeing back at uni.

now, you were twenty three. not long graduated, unemployed and enjoying the freedom that came after three long years of studying. you were travelling, with a few of your university friends, and just so happened to be in nice the same week the monaco grand prix was happening. you shot carlos a text and got on the first train to monte carlo for the day.

it had been three years since you’d seen him and he’d suddenly grown up quite a bit. more handsome, more manly. his hair had grown out a little and he’d been working on his muscles a lot more.

“you’re here!” he greeted you brightly, picking you up into a warm hug. the monaco sun was hot on your bare shoulders, now littered with freckles from travelling.

“i figured i’d come see you, since i was in the area.”

over coffee, then lunch, then drinks, the two of you sat and talked for hours. but something was different now. the way you looked at each other, the tension that fell every time you accidentally brushed hands. maybe it was because you were both single now. he was out of a long term relationship, and your days of flings were over. maybe he saw you as more than his best friends little sister, now that you were no longer a student and out in the real world.

either way, you were suddenly the most beautiful thing he’d every laid eyes on.

“how did i never know?” he whispered, at some point along your walk across the marina. it was dark, you were both a tad wine drunk, and your hand had slipped into his at some point.

“know what?” you asked, leaning into his side. you always got this close, but never with the same tingles along your skin.

“how perfect you are.” carlos stopped, turning to face you. the moon had settled in the sky, bathing the spaniard in a halo of light. he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, finger following to graze along your cheek. “i should have known, all along.”

“we were younger then. stupid,” you shrugged, absentmindedly fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “i did have a huge crush on you, though.”

carlos smiles, so bright that it makes you dizzy. he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. nothing drastic or passionate or life—changing. just a fated moment, needing to do it at least once before everything got all too complicated.

“think we can make this work?” you ask, eyes closed and forehead resting against his. your fists ball around his shirt, unwilling to let him go.

“i’ll make it work, cariño. i promise.”

#🍾 ﹐ becca hits 1k!#🌙 ﹐ drabbles.#formula 1 #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 x reader #carlos sainz #carlos sainz imagine #carlos sainz blurb #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz drabble

296 notes · View notes

willshipanything-blog · 2 years

Text

Rules of the Game- Chapter 15

New chapter for your weekend reading!

Find the whole chapter index here.

Or, read on AO3 if you prefer. (Detailed tags there)

MINORS DNI!

Chapter 15- Ghosts

“Hey, dove, wanna come give me a hand with some things?” Al’s head had peeked around the metal door of the basement, and you nodded brightly, throwing the blanket from your legs. You folded down the corner of the page of Northanger Abbey to keep your place, even though you’d read it cover-to-cover twice now (you really needed to ask for some more reading material soon).

It had only been a few hours since he’d given you breakfast down here, meaning he probably had a day off work. You liked those days; it meant less time spent alone to wander in the labyrinth of your own mind. And more time with Al, of course. He had been letting you up more frequently, and not just when he left the door open for a game of Naughty Girl (though he had done that since, too- the fading handprints on your bottom and thighs evidence of your purposeful misbehaviors. The warm, hazy memory of it would last longer than the red marks). No, he had allowed you to venture upstairs for other reasons, too. Mostly into the kitchen, where he would feed you breakfast or just talk to you- with Al asking most of the questions, still reluctant to open up completely. It all felt like forward progress in your relationship- though you still hadn’t been able to say what that relationship even was. You were convinced it would remain a nameless, intangible concept. Like saying it aloud would mar it, make it feel wrong, which of course it was. Leaving it unsaid meant not having to admit this.

You reached the door and instinctively took the expectant hand that was held out. Not that Al was dragging you by the wrist forcefully anymore. But allowing him to lead meant less culpability in your compliance. You squeezed his hand tight, and his blue eyes smiled down at you through the pale horned mask, though his warm smile was on full display. It matched your own.

In the kitchen, Al nodded towards a couple of brown paper bags sitting on the breakfast table.

“Put those away for me, and I’ll whip you up a snack.” You could smell the coffee brewing already and saw Al take out a small blade from the knife rack. A fleeting image of his switchblade that he kept in his back pocket rippled through your mind, but you supposed he no longer kept it on hand, right? Aside from this short-lived, baseless worry, it felt like a (relatively) normal morning, though Al seemed jittery and excitable. You mused as you began to unpack the bags: had he a surprise game in store for you, or had he just drunk a whole pot of coffee already? You unloaded the bags. Milk, Wonder Bread, Kraft mac and cheese, a bunch of frozen TV dinners, two whole cartons of eggs; he really wasn’t much of a cook, huh?

“Al, I could make dinner sometime, if you’d like?” you suggested as you stocked the refrigerator and kitchen cabinets with the groceries. Since your first breakfast together in this very room, you’d felt more at ease with talking freely. On these occasions, there were no tricksy games, you weren’t obliged to follow any orders, the only intimacies were a couple of soft kisses or held waists. If someone were to look through the kitchen window, it was a picture of marital bliss (albeit with a barely-dressed wife half her husband’s age). You figured it was as normal as your life might ever be again, though admittedly the word ‘normal’ didn’t hold much meaning anymore.

“Aw, you don’t have to do that for me, dove.” He said, looking up at you across the kitchen as he slowly peeled a lush red apple. The crimson skin had spiraled in one long corkscrew from the fruit before he severed it, tossing it on the counter and beginning to cut out slices. Having finished putting away the groceries, you walked towards Al.

“No, I’d like to. If that’s ok. I could write you a list of things you’d need-” you were cut off by Al holding a slice of apple mid-air, sitting atop the knife. You leaned forward to his request, sliding it carefully from the blade, your bottom teeth scraping across the metal. It was sweet, though that hint of danger laced the fruit with a bitter aftertaste. Had you said the wrong thing?

“You know what dove? Sure. We’ll do dinner soon,” That captivating smile broke across his face before he concluded his thought:

“It’s a date.” He popped a slice of apple into his own mouth as you looked on, completely beguiled in that moment, absorbed in implausible fantasies of Al pouring wine over a candlelit dinner for two. Al ushered you to the breakfast table, cleaving these thoughts from your head. You were privately amused; who’d have thought the only thing to sever you from thoughts of Al would be Al?

Perching yourself on one of the stools at the breakfast bar, Al served you a plate of fresh-cut apple slices and you dug in enthusiastically, though you noticed Al seemed to be hopping from one foot to another, and rubbing his thumbs and fingers together. His little tic.

“What?” you joked, tickled by his nervousness.

“I’ve got a surprise for you. I want you to guess what it is.”

A million ideas darted in your head. It was something nice, clearly, from how excited and nervous Al was. If it was a dark game, he’d be much cooler, his eyes black with that lustful hunger.

“Is it… candy?” Your voice was playful, flirtatious.

“Not food. Guess again.”

“Um, a sweater?” Something that could have been useful, but it seemed unlikely Al would prefer your body covered up.

“One more try.” His impish voice floated in the air as he walked behind you, his fingers playing along your shoulder and back. You wondered just how brazen you could be when Al was in such a spirited disposition.

“Is it… the combination to that bike lock?” Your heart raced; why the fuck did you even say that? Al’s hand stopped on your back, before his face leaned down next to yours.

“My, my, what an insolent little thing.” His hot breath huffed in your ear, sending a quiver through you, though you sensed he was enjoying your display of impudence. You’d clocked him right; you were getting better at reading him it seemed. As quickly as that bestial voice came, the playful one reappeared.

“No, silly!” He chided gleefully, placing the surprise on the tabletop, as if from nowhere. Like magic. “Books!”

“Oh!” You looked down at the pile on the breakfast bar, as Al slid onto the stool next to you, sitting sideways so his knees pressed into your thigh. You glanced his way and smiled, a genuine smile at his thoughtfulness. You perused the slim tomes, noticing the stickers on the spine.

“Mm-hmm. I had to sign up for a card and everything. Boy, was that librarian lady scary!” You knew straight away that he was referring to Ms. Rutherford, and laughed at the mental picture of Al being shushed and scolded by the old battleax.

“You went to the library for me?”

“I had a couple recommendations. I hope they’re ok dove.”

“Did you pick these out Al?” You were fairly impressed with the selection: The Great Gatsby, The Lord of the Flies, and The Bell Jar. You’d enjoyed the first two in high school, and the latter was one of your favorites. You absentmindedly began to eat your apple slices as you browsed the covers and blurbs of the books.

“Mmm.” You concurred through a mouthful of fruit, flipping through the pages of Lord of the Flies. “Yeah, I love reading most genres, but I know I’ll like-”

You stopped. The book was open at the very front, the first page frozen midair between your thumb and forefinger. The bite of apple in your mouth turned suddenly bitter. On the inside cover was the little card that had the names and dates of people who’d borrowed the books previously, meticulously curated by Ms. Rutherford. You’d glanced at a name that froze you in your tracks.

Griffin Stagg.

No. No no no. Not here. Not now.

Al must have sensed how white you’d turned, and the book was taken from your shaking hands.

Things had been going so well, so nice. And now this- a visceral, sickening reminder of who the man sat in front of you really was. You looked up in repulsion at Al. You'd almost stopped seeing him as the Grabber. The name on the library punch card had been forever erased by him, an inky phantom all that remained of Griffin Stagg. How easily you’d forgotten the evil lurking behind that charming smile and those earnest eyes. Al was the façade- the Grabber was his undeniable true self- wasn’t he? Unable to process the gutting reminder laid out in front of you, you bolted for the basement- where else could you go? If he called after you it went unheard, your dizzying thoughts screaming internally. You slammed the wooden door, thundered down the stairs and pulled the metal door closed with a clang. You don’t know how, but you made it to the mattress and under the blanket before breaking out into a howling cry, each breath choking you, each second bringing a fresh, haunting realization of the things you’d done with that…monster.

It wasn’t long until you heard the door opening, footsteps walking towards where you lay sobbing into a tear-stained pillow.

“Y/N. I’m- I’m sorry about the book.”

You remained curled on your side, stifling your cries and choosing to ignore the deep voice coming from above you. The blanket slid from you, pulled away and lost.

“Y/N. Look at me. You know I never meant that to happen.”

You remained obstinately mute aside from your choked tears. You didn’t care what excuses he had; he couldn’t change the things he’d done. A hand touched your shoulder and you recoiled, your emotions flaring into anger.

“Leave me alone.” You spoke coldy. It should have been a loud enough warning- you were clear in your speech; you had no intention of accepting his apology: what could possibly come close to atoning for the sins he’d committed?

Oblivious hands gripped your shoulder in an attempt to turn you towards him. Did he want your sympathy? Your forgiveness? He deserved nothing, and his pursuit of these things made you sick with rage.

“Don’t FUCKING touch me!” You sprung from the bed to face him, a few paces away from where he stood. He looked surprised, troubled, which angered you even more. Was he so stupid he couldn’t see how this had affected you? Could he not imagine the painful memories this had unearthed inside you? How dare he be the one feeling upset? You glowered at him through your watery eyes, and felt every inch of your face contorting with contempt.

“Let’s not do this right now, dove.” Al’s dangerous tone insinuated that continuing this behavior wouldn’t end well. You didn’t know exactly what the consequences of your outburst would be, but at this point you’d gone past caring. You were seething.

“Or what, you gonna do to me what you did to Griffin?” That about did it. Just like your last argument in this room, he barged at you, slamming your back into the solid stone wall. You expected it, though your smaller frame could do nothing to stop his almost inhuman strength as he pinned you between the concrete and his own weight.

A large hand reached for your neck, crushing your windpipe beneath strong fingers. You were unsure if you’d be alive to see the marks bruise purple and black along your neck. A thought flitted through your mind: is he going to beat you, or will he fuck you instead- is this a turn on for him, seeing you at his mercy, crying and shouting and completely broken?

“You know that’s not what I want, little thing.” Unable to retort due to the constriction in your throat, you clawed uselessly at his hand around your neck. He continued, your frantic struggling barely interrupting his speech. “You know I want you right here with me,” he growled in your ear, moving his head close, his body pressing you breathlessly against the wall.

“Or are you forgetting who you belong to, Y/N?” The hand that wasn’t wrapped around your throat pulled your shirt down and traced along the white-hot scar. It was fainter than ever, but the wound he had inflicted would remain embedded in your skin forever. AL. Marking you as eternally his. But this beast in front of you wasn’t Al. It was the Grabber.

You’d settled on staying with Al, not fighting or trying to escape. You hadn’t made the same promise to the Grabber. Removing a hand that had been scrabbling for release, you instead spread your palm wide, and swiped at his face. Your long nails clawed into the skin of his cheek and jaw, and he reeled from the unexpected attack, screaming wildly, though his hand stuck secure at your neck. He turned his head to face you once more, thin lacerations down his face contrasting against his white skin.

“Oh dove,” he uttered huskily “You really shouldn't have done that.” He smiled before his next attack, knowing how hopelessly outmatched you were.

He delivered a succession of hard slaps to your face, batting away any feeble attempts at retaliation your now weakened body tried to muster. Your cheek was burning in pain, with the Grabber only relenting to fire a final blow, releasing your neck as his fist flew towards your reddened cheek. You fell on the floor in a crumpled pile. He hadn’t been this violent since your escape attempt. Pain was becoming a gratifying game for you, but this wasn’t Naughty Girl; right now this was uncontrollable rage, untethered violence. There was no pleasure mixed with the pain he was inflicting right now.

The clank of the belt buckle forced you to look up at the creature standing in front of you. It wasn’t Al, this was the maniac who’d taken you away from your previous life. He was just missing the top hat and black balloons, but he was the same psychotic monster. Out of other options, you dashed for the door, but he caught you easily by the arm, swinging you back into the room. You were thrown to the floor, your bare legs scraping dirt and grit and remnants of broken glass as you skidded along the ground.

“You know how I feel about leaving without permission, Y/N.” His voice seeped in danger and fury, red mist blinding him to the damage he was inflicting. He whipped his belt from their loops, beginning to wrap it around a fist.

You screamed back just as loudly, your voice tremulous but no less emboldened by rage:

“I don’t know shit! I don’t know who you are anymore. You don’t know who you are either. You’re not Al… not the man…I thought you were!” Speaking his name, the name of the man you’d developed complex, vile feelings for, reduced you to pathetic tears, and you broke down sobbing. Wiping your face with your hand, you noticed the gold band enclosed around your finger. The one thing you had felt sure about was that his promise would remain unbroken. That promise lay in tatters, meaningless now. He crept closer, ready for the next round, the tormenting lashes approaching.

You yanked the ring from your finger; it was truly worthless.

“You haven’t kept your fucking promise! Did it all mean nothing to you, did I mean nothing?”

You screamed these words through your frenetic wails, and threw the ring in his direction. It landed by his feet, and he stopped dead. You hunched on the floor, head cradled in your arms, past caring what he would do next. You heard only your own violent weeping for a moment, the expectant lashes never reaching your skin. Looking up, you saw him staring at you, belt limp by his side, now holding his ring in his other hand. You couldn’t be sure, but you sensed his eyes were as tearful as yours behind the mask. His mouth trembled; he opened it to speak before abandoning the task. He left silently. The only sound beside your cries was the thud and click as the door locked behind him.

You sunk your head back into your arms, trying to block out the light. You were unable to block out your intrusive thoughts. You wanted to cry, to scream, to vomit, mostly to forget. But all you could do was think. Your thoughts were far more painful than any injury he had just dealt.

This wasn’t fair. Why did you have to remember the things he’d done? This whole thing was working because you forced yourself to forget about it all, let go of the past in blissful unawareness. You had stopped using the kidnapper’s nickname- it was just Al. Al, who made you breakfast and made you feel wanted, made you feel things you’d never felt before. Al who had kept his promise to take care of you. His little games, his gentle hands and his obscene perversions which you had come to crave. You could live with those, embrace them, take pleasure in them. But the spiteful reminder of the Grabber’s innate evil within the pages of that book, the truly heinous things he’d done, the small lives he’d extinguished- it was all too much.

That thing upstairs wasn’t Al. He was a kidnapper, a murderer, a (it sickened your stomach to think the word) rapist. It was true though: how could it not be? How was your ‘relationship’ ever anything but violating and wrong? You were his captive, his possession. But you had wanted some of those things, hadn’t you? Or had he just made you think that? It hurt more to be reminded of what he was than it ever had been to learn the fact, face it for the first time.

You were more upset that you’d remembered the Grabber’s atrocities than you were about the acts themselves. Your implicitness in the fabrication of normality, your purposeful forgetfulness- did these things make you a monster too?

Everything is ruined. It’s all fucked up. Of course she wouldn’t forget, how could she ever forget the things the Grabber had done? Al spied the damned book on the table, picking it up and shredding it to pieces with his bare hands. The book wasn’t to blame, really. Eventually, she would have remembered something, a trigger to remind her of his past, an image in her mind of the crimes he’s committed.

She said that even he had lost a sense of himself, and he supposed she was right, the clever little thing. Was he still the Grabber? To her, who had looked at him with such hatred and disgust, he was. But he hadn’t done that in a long time, and wasn’t planning on it again. He didn’t need Naughty Boy, didn’t need to live out his childhood suffering. She was here, and things were better. Or at least, had been better.

Why did he react like that? He hadn't acted on those urges in an age, and had only released his lust for pain when she wanted him to, when he gave her the choice to go upstairs and play that game. He shrank in horror at what he’d done to her. He had sworn never to hurt her like that again, to never go too far in inflicting his sadistic compulsions. He had broken his one promise.

But I can't let her go. Y/N is mine, my precious dove. Al held the ring up in the midday light before heading to the living room, slumping into his chair. He placed the ring in front of the photo frame, the one of him and Max from eons ago. He truly does fuck up everything. It wasn’t fair- he’d been trying hadn’t he? As he sobbed quietly, he determined his next move.

No more games for a while. He needs to care for her. He needs to just be Al for a while. Even if she never sees him as that again.

#the black phone #black phone fanfic #the grabber x reader #the grabber #albert shaw x reader #the grabber x you #albert shaw #first fic

83 notes · View notes