Nov 16, 2025
Angel on your shoulder 👼🩸
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Angel on your shoulder 👼🩸
Blighted Hearts - Ch. 20
SUMMARY: *FLASHBACK CHAPTER!* (takes place directly after Ch. 15, when Damian returns from the cove). Bigby wakes up to Damian in his bed, but that's just the start of his problems. Baldwin must make a hard decision of his own. No beta. Read at your own risk.
RATING: T (for swearing)
PAIRING: Abomination x Flagellant / Leper x Jester
WORD COUNT: 4,501
READ ON AO3: -> HERE!!
A/N: Shedding some light on my leper/jester backstory, as well as some other political machinations going on behind the scenes. Thinking this fic will be around 30 chapters! Yahoo, for being over half-way there! 🥳🎉
I'll also link the comic I drew of leper/jester's first meeting in case anyone missed it! (the roses reference will make more sense after reading!) 🥀
▪ Part 1 I Part 2 I Part 3
——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————–
Frothy awareness, a pair of cursed eyes rubbing away the flotsam and jetsam carried by sleep. He must've dozed off without realizing it, Bigby waking up to find Damian on the other half of his bed.
Surely, a trick of the Light, trying once more to dispel the haze, but the dubious picture remains the same, Damian still there, resting peacefully beside him.
A jolt of panic, breath growing short to the novel sensation, remaining still so not to rouse the slumbering flagellant, at least until he can figure out what to do.
God, sleeping in the same bed together, was he reading too much into this? Did this mean something more? He can't remember doing anything improper.
OK, he might've stolen a kiss, but despite the swirling vortex of unchecked emotions, another chance like this may not come around again, fighting a moral dilemma of stealing another.
An internal debate, compromised ethics, but before Bigby can decide to which category he falls in, the masochist stirs, a groan heralding his return to consciousness.
Another round of alarm bells, flustered illumination, the chained lad sitting up, hugging the mattress edge to avoid explaining the plots of rouge blooming across his cheeks.
“Hmm, good morning.”
Breathy exertions, but it's not until he hears Damian’s voice call out to him that the abomination feels pressed to answer.
“Hey,” greets Bigby, careful not to show too much of his face, “H-how did you sleep?”
“I can’t remember the last time I slept so well,” Damian yawns, a stretch of contentment to sort out the kinks, “What time is it?”
“Not sure, but I think we missed breakfast,” the abomination scoffs, cynical, “Maybe lunch too. I wasn't sure how long you'd sleep so I didn't grab anything. Sorry.”
A quick glance at muscle, unable to resist, bandaged arms raised above Damian's head, strength that could reach the sky.
“It's OK,” says the priest, not at all bothered, “We can get something together.”
Bigby fidgets, apprehensive, content to avoid his problems for the sake of these four walls, merely a temporary fix.
“Are you worried about Reynauld and Sarmenti?”
Bigby nods in response, subtle, not yet ready to face them.
“Then, shall we discuss the matter of their penance?”
“C'mon,” the wolfboy chides, “we can't do that.”
“Sure we can,” Damian teases, lounging comfortably, “through the sacred covenant of confession.”
Mischievous hands stretch across the white river of cloth, seeking connection, compromise, playing with the soot-dusted fringe of his friend’s shroud, a fragile, paper-thin bridge to his person.
Bigby looks plaintive, thinking his ascetic friend could use a few more hours of sleep for any residual madness to clear.
“Whatever happened out there, while you were away? Do you … need to go back?”
His voice is strained, scared to ask, the flagellant giving a bittersweet smile, a finger reaching out to touch a be-shackled claw, but the abomination jerks it away.
“I subdued a threat. That's all that matters.”
The lycanthrope frowns, unsatisfied with that.
“Baldwin told me about the arrangement you have. That I could be called on next. I'd like to know what I am up against.”
It's the flagellant’s turn to frown.
"I see, so you already know.”
“I do.”
“If it came to it,” harps the self-sacrificing masochist, “I had every intention of going in your place.”
Bigby's face drops, appalled.
“I'd never ask you to do that.”
When they reunited outside the church, all that talk about protecting him, is this what Damian had really meant?
“Still, I would offer. So many unfortunate mishaps — you can understand why I'd do what I could to make it up to you.”
He knows what it's like to feel guilty, seek forgiveness, but Bigby doesn't blame him for any of the consequent tragedies that befell his arrival here.
“Really, it's fine,” Bigby smiles, reaching back out, reconciling the very fingertips he once scorned, “Nothing I am not used to. And it wasn't all bad.”
This small gesture re-invigorates Damain, speaking earnestly, “More than anything I want you to stay, but Hamlet is a dangerous place. We live a dangerous life. If you still wish to go, I will … understand.”
A long contemplation. Was it worth the risk?
Logically, there was no better place for a monster than to be among monsters. What family Bigby had were better off believing he was dead. Devoutly religious, they would never accept a son who fell prey to the devil, branded with the abomination’s mark. This estranged hovel of misfits was his home now. He just had to earn his keep.
“These missions,” begins the chained lad, “Could I go with you?”
“Truly,” the priest beams, “You would?”
“If we fight together, there’s no way we can’t win, right?”
At this affirmation, Damian soars, the respect he had for his hapless friend multiplying in droves.
He squeezes at the minimal contact they share, claws slotted against his bloody digits, could almost hold his hand if he dared to seal the openings that kept them ambiguously apart.
“You asked about my journey,” rehashes the priest, “I feel it's only right that I should tell you everything.”
The abomination nods, graciously waiting for him to begin.
“Every cycle, when the tide rises, I offer my services unto the Siren Queen. Such is our contract. She will not sway the village with her song, so long as we obey her every word.”
With this knowledge, the seriousness of their situation grows very intense, very quickly. Having such power over someone, Bigby is opposed to such tyranny, and for good reason, having been imprisoned, a slave to his own body.
“Is it just you or are there others permitted to go?”
“The contract isn't limited to any one person. Though, I usually volunteer. Junia gets seasick, Sarmenti won't follow orders, and Baldwin was deemed too sluggish for her tastes. Thus, the queen has developed an affinity for me.”
Bigby has to wonder, “What sorts of things does she ask you to do?”
Damian gives a placating smile, having anticipated his concern.
“There are, of course, rules, limitations she must follow. She’s forbidden from requesting anything that could harm the town or the people in it.”
That's one way to dodge his question, setting the stage for loopholes, lapses in judgement. If the Siren was capable of hypnosis, she could just as easily manipulate Damian’s memories.
“Do you remember everything that she tells you?”
“Why should that matter?”
That almost proves he’s hiding something.
“I would hate to see your generosity taken advantage of. Who's to say what she could be planning behind the scenes?”
“They're a peaceful tribe,” Damian defends, “They only attack thieves that threaten their home.”
“So they say. What about travelers, ships? Are they safe?”
“Innocents, such as those that would bring prosperity and trade are immune to the Queens’ reach. I fight on her behalf. Her enemies become my enemies.”
That could also get a bit dicey. An intelligent matriarch would no doubt stretch the boundaries of a contract to strengthen her own power.
“What enemies?”
“Fisherfolk are just one of the many races that live amongst us. There are swine in the warrens, undead in the ruins and other horrific creatures that surround her kingdom. Some have tried to invade, harvesting her people as food.”
So, Hamlet must be a nexus for all strange and unusual phenomena, an unspeakable energy that breeds mutants in a power struggle for territory. Seems a werewolf fit in here more than he realized, having every opportunity to use his dark gifts toward his benefit.
“Sounds like a lot for one person.”
“It is, though I am not without her horde’s assistance. We gather resources, tend to the sick, rebuild whenever necessary. We share a collaborative effort.”
At least Damian had some semblance of help. A minor assurance but better than nothing.
“Finding out about all this,” starts Bigby, a little overwhelmed, though a part of him already knew something was off about this place, “… it almost sounds impossible.”
“So does a crow witch,” the holy man supplies, “but she exists nonetheless.”
“Don't remind me,” the changeling sighs, head downcast.
“Then, I won't.”
One laborious exhale later and the priest rises, the longest he’s stayed in bed in recent months, a rare indulgence, Bigby feeling the pang of separation.
“Where are you going?”
“To get us something to eat. You must be hungry.”
True, he hadn't eaten much since yesterday or the days leading up to it, only now becoming aware of how empty his stomach is.
“I have so many questions,” says the wolfboy and yet, at the moment, he can't think of a single one.
“We'll talk more once I return,” assures the flagellant.
“You'll be OK?” A tender ask, the prodigal hermit swelling with emotion.
“You can still join me if you like,” Damian says, turning to him gently, “We could go somewhere? The garden, perhaps?”
A pleasant invitation, but Bigby still has to decline, worried for what drama may ensue should he alert anyone else to his presence.
“Think I'll stay here for now.”
“Any special requests?”
“Just come back soon.”
A mutual smile, the wolfboy a shy one, Damian endeared by his sweetness, sharing one last look before the two part ways, the door latching closed in goodbye.
——----
As the flagellant's shaggy robes grace the interior of the dining hall, Junia steadies herself, eager to greet him.
“I was wondering when I’d see you.”
A stutter of movement, either by surprise or pretense, that Damian notices her sitting there.
“Ah hello, Miss Junia.”
A display of haste, Damian spares no time for small talk, his bloody cadence bound for the kitchen. He takes whatever provisions are within reach, leftover bread, fruits and cured sausages, so long they don't require the maintenance of cooking.
“Quite the appetite for someone who's fasting,” remarks the nun, sneaking up on him, “I'd almost say you were eating for two.”
Her calm speculation elicits a gasp, still galvanized by the night before, imagination charged by the sight of their homo-ertoic embrace, in need of clarity and context.
“Does anyone else know,” he asks, voice a small whisper, defeated by her perceptive eye.
“I’ve told Baldwin,” she admits, sheepish, but having a good reason, “He's been a wreck ever since Bigby left. He blames himself, you know.”
“He's blaming the wrong person.”
A cryptic curse, courtesy of the prickly spiked priest, but the good-natured vestal seems to be in conjunction with him.
“While I do agree, we must offer our hand, bring peace to those in pain.”
A pause, the flagallant struggling to find the right words, especially two agnostic types with their rocky past.
“I’ll give him your message,” Damian remarks, spoils of food bigger than what his arms can carry, instead using a tray.
Junia sighs in disappointment, but there’s not much more she can do, shy of interfering, staging a meeting.
“Can I assume you and Bigby will be joining us for dinner tonight?”
“I don't know,” Damian replies, solemn, but honest, “I am not sure if he's ready, but I'll ask him.”
One wrong move could send Bigby running for the hills, forever this time, an outcome he’d prefer to avoid.
“You know,” the nun continues, a contemplative expression behind the lace of her fingers, “I don't think Bigby would have come back if it wasn't for you.”
She’s probing, insinuating, but no further elaboration comes.
“Thank you, Junia.”
It's the safest thing he can say without revealing too much, thinking only of the abomination stuck waiting for him, alone and hungry a few chambers away.
“You'll tell him I said ‘hello,’ won't you?”
“I will.”
“And,” she starts, words catching, delaying his departure, “please, go visit Baldwin. I know he's the strongest and wisest of us, but he could really use a friendly face right now.”
By that, she means Bigby, but there's danger in putting too much on him too soon, a precarious tightrope that requires a most delicate balance.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
A patter as he rushes briskly from her clutches, disappearing around the corner before she can implore more favors he cannot promise to fulfill.
—----
Bigby hears the muffled rap of footsteps approach, the room feeling too empty, lonely without the company of his hooded friend, glad for his return.
“It's me.”
Scarred lips announce his arrival, as if it could be anyone else, crooked nose and hood appearing as the door cracks open. A plate of overconsumption, the flagellant can only claim the best of intentions, pieces likely to collapse, tumble over the edge.
“I wanted to get something you like,” the holy man admits, “Hopefully, it's enough.”
“I am surprised you managed to carry all this.”
Such a hearty delivery of food surpasses expectations, eyes bulging from its precipitous handling.
Beshackled claws help steer the tray toward the bed, a pile of motley riches to be shared between them, placed in the middle of the mattress, an most unconventional table.
Stomach rumbling, hunger gets the better of him, Bigby taking a sausage from the top, helping to reduce its size, a crusty loaf of bread to follow, a deconstructed sandwich.
One mouthful later, Damian rocks their conversation with the next bit of news.
“Junia was there.”
Bigby swallows, a lump too big, prematurely chewed, a pang of dread.
“You told her?”
“Somehow, she already knew.”
The abomination isn't sure how, but he finds his appetite again, taking slower, more timid bites.
“She asked if we could visit Baldwin.”
Besieged by guilt, the brunette winces, hanging his head within one of his sickly-stained palms.
“I left so suddenly,” the abomination sighs, regretful, “He probably hates me now.”
“Miss Junia was glad to welcome you back,” comforts Damian, a soft dandelion puff of hope, “I think Baldwin will too.”
He's probably right, it's just looking the leper king in the eye that was going to be the hard part.
“I need to apologize to him. Explain that none of this was his fault.”
“If it helps, I'll come with you.”
“It would.”
Bigby smiles, noticing his friend hasn't claimed any of the breakfast buffet for himself.
“Aren’t you going to eat anything?”
To this nudge, Damian plucks the tiniest grape from the bunch (as if that qualified as a meal) and crushes it between his teeth.
The chain lad chuckles, any dents made to their collective share plate a one-sided endeavor, but then, maybe there was another use for all this food.
“You know,” the wolfboy says, inner cogworks turning, “this gives me an idea. We'll need a basket.”
“I might know where to find one,” supplies the priest, fueled by his enthusiasm.
“That's perfect.”
The shapeshifter is feeling better about this already, enough to swipe a buttermilk biscuit, chomping down, ready to finally make amends.
—----
A knock at the leper's door, the poet king anxious, wondering who it could be.
Bigby stands on the other side, brandishing a gift basket, a green bow tied to the handle, likely ripped from his shroud, the straggling flagellant offering moral support from behind.
“Sorry for showing up unannounced like this,” pleads the abomination, a respectful bend forward, “but I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have run off like that. I know it was childish and I am sorry. I hope that you can forgive me.”
It’s quite startling, the abomination turning up at his doorstep, pouring his heart out with a modest assembly of gifts. Rather than words, the great swordsman replies with a hug, squeezing the chained lad tightly, basket stuck between them. Expecting harsh words and rejection, Bigby is startled by vehement warmth, a few blinks before the reception of strong arms finally parses his thoughts.
“It's good to see you too,” says the he-wolf, freeing up a hand, giving him a gentle pat on the back.
“Forgive me.”
Bigby almost doesn't catch it, voice strained for one so grand, the shaggy brunette holding on a little tighter, feeling the monarch shake with the chilling whispers of remorse.
“What for?”
“What I said back then," dredges the cowled man, doused in mourning sorrow, “I didn't mean to scare you away.”
“No, Baldwin, you did nothing wrong,” Bigby points out, sure of the fact, “It's my fault for leaving. I … didn't know where I belonged.”
“You are always welcome here,” Baldwin smiles, sniffling, but relieved, "if there's anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable, please say so.”
Bigby averts his gaze, knowing there were others who felt differently, a house divided because of the beast, the chaos it brings.
“If you're worried about Reynauld, I've already dealt with him.”
“Oh,” chirps the flagellant, infinitely curious, “How exactly? Tell me.”
“His helmet often goes missing,” replies Baldwin, possessing a mischievous side of his own, “It'll be days before finds it.”
“Simply diabolical,” cheers Damian, commending the masked man's genius.
“So forgetful,” adds the leper, “misplacing his armor. He really should keep better track of it.”
Bigby tries to laugh along with them, but he can't shake the unease, building like a flood, about to drown in it.
“Did Sarmenti have something to do with this,” the leper asks, loosening his hold.
The question seems unprovoked, neither Bigby or Damian prepared for it, the two staying quiet, strapped for an answer. It's enough to solidify Baldwin's next act, the tall swordsman about to settle this ridiculous dispute himself.
“I must have a word with him.” A grim baritone, carrying the token threat of a death knell.
“No, don't,” Bigby shouts.
“Baldy, there’s no need,” agrees Damian.
They both try to stop him from doing something rash, impulsive, Bigby mooring himself against his arm wrappings while Damian blocks his armored chest with his gory one.
Twin barriers of flesh he could easily break free of, futile restraints, but Baldwin is a reasonable man, taking a moment to consider their placating parlay.
“His greatest weakness,” a burdensome sigh, harsh lines dominating the king’s mouth, “would you like to guess what it is?”
Damian and Bigby share a look, matching idols of confusion.
“I don’t understand,” says Bigby, “Why does that–”
“–Roses.”
“What?”
“If you wish to teach Sarmenti a lesson, you will need a rose.”
A confession met with more silence, the pair of shaggy misfits staring at the iconic gold plating of his mask, more concerned with the leper’s state of mind.
“You needn't fear retaliation,” Baldwin adds,” Sarmenti will not think it your doing, but mine.”
“Even if that's the case,” Bigby adds, “Isn't it–”
“–I’ve said all I will,” interrupts Baldwin, firm in this boundary, “Whether you decide to do so or not, I leave it up to you.”
The leper is clearly bothered, the topic troubling enough that the great king must pardon himself, an exodus to address the complexity of his thoughts.
For a man usually so calm and collected, the two friends are left gobsmacked by Baldwin’s behavior, deliberating his sudden exit.
“I've never seen him like this,” frets Bigby.
“Give him time,” assures Damian, “Everything will resolve itself.”
“What he said before,” asks Bigby, conflicted, still processing the magnitude of what took place, “about the roses. Do you think we should?”
“I can't say that I'd regret it,” the flagellant answers, “it’s worth considering.”
The werewolf toils, not sure who to believe, which instinct to trust. “Violence begets violence. Won't this make things worse?”
“Hardship brings people closer together. Perhaps, this is the push we all need. A blessing in disguise.”
“Maybe,” remarks the wolfboy, “ but once we do this, we can't take it back.”
“A plant severed from its roots can still grow,” provides the priest, “The Light makes it so. You will see, this is just the start of something new.”
“Suppose, you're right.”
“Come, we should go.”
“Yeah, I’ll just leave this.”
Bigby sets the gift basket on the table, adjusting the assortment, making it presentable. The room feels more lively with it there, amongst the decoration of bird houses and handmade dolls.
He hopes Damian’s resolve will sustain them both, praying for the best, a changing of seasons, bare branches blooming with the beauty of faith and friends who set aside their differences.
—----
Sarmenti’s day started no differently than any other, unremarkable except for a peculiar tug, a forgetfulness that he can't quite shake. Not the call of his muse, but rather something more ambiguous lingering at the edges of his mind.
He wanders in search of it, bells brightening the church with token merriment while his pallid expression stiffens with the drudgery of frustration.
A glimmer of something red catches his eye, too far to discern what exactly, but it's inconsequential, about to walk past and ignore it. While an odd occurrence, the thought twists like a knife, a bothersome thorn in his heel that throbs with every step that he takes.
A crunch, something soft yet crisp, looking down to find a rose petal, perched on the cobblestone underfoot. This alone shouldn't bother him, but rather it’s the dread that accompanies it, the fleeting beauty of his past that drives him mad.
He looks up only to find another, flowers multiplying in number, littered about with intention, following the seemingly romantic trail to his room.
It's not often that Sarmenti feels fear, numb to it, but he does so now, afraid to open the door. His gloved hand shakes, knowing what must be waiting for him there, shutting his gaze until he’s ready to face it.
A vase full of vibrant red roses, perfectly trimmed and exquisite. It’s a sight many would welcome, fawn over, but to him, these are a weapon, the cruelest anyone could use.
He falls to his knees, feeling betrayed by the very man he loved above all others.
What these roses meant to him, what they symbolized, there's only one place they could have come from, pruned from his only existing plot, the soil too corrupted, conditions too harsh for them to grow naturally on their own - now gone forever.
—----
A booming entrance, Sarmenti bursting past Baldwin’s bedroom door, a brilliant kick to the hinges, the splintering of wood grain against a solid, stone wall.
“It was you, wasn’t it?!”
It was only a matter of time until he found out, Baldwin counting on it, anticipating the fool’s arrival.
“Whatever do you mean,” asks the golden sage, nose deep in a book, eyes keen on it.
A harsh rattle, a marching band of bells stomping further into the room, ringing up close and personal.
“Don’t fuck with me! You know damn well what!”
Fuming accusations, the jester seething like a serpent cat, but his dramatics are ineffective, his current audience the picture of inner peace and tranquility.
“Actually, I don’t.”
“The roses! The fucking roses!!”
With a creak, the gentle wordsmith leans back in his chair, looking at his raging red companion with the most unbothered face in existence.
“Sarmenti, if you don’t calm down and tell me what’s wrong, I am not so sure I can help.”
The jester should recognize it, the same lackadaisy attitude he gave to the great king when he was searching for Bigby. How terrible it must feel to be on the receiving end.
Sarmenti flinches in response, eye twitching, a vein pulsing wildly in his forehead.
“It had to be you,” he shouts, convinced of the fact, “No one else knows!!”
“Oh? Tell me, what happened to the roses?”
Baldwin swivels in his seat, wearing a contemporary smile, Sarmenti growing more insane by the minute. The jester has screwed with enough people to know when he’s being fucked with, giving into bad habits, killer instincts, pain to persuade the truth he seeks.
With blinding precision, he calls upon his blade, cold and unforgiving against his sire’s throat.
“You know how much I hate liars.”
It’s a warning not to test him further, but despite the grim intent, Sarmenti is shaking, gripping hold of his sire’s cowl while Baldwin stares back, contrition on his lips.
“Do what you feel you must,” a sigh of acceptance, relaxing against his will.
Steaks of blood rain down, coating the bandages, a struggle of whether or not to dig in deeper.
“Grahhh!!”
With an estranged cry, the threat of danger is pulled away, sparing his life, the fool huffing, snarling inside his mask, fists tightly bound at his sides.
“I hate you,” he spits, eyes narrowing at the floor, “I hate you so much!!”
Fickle anger erodes into upset, sobs and shivers striking his person like a thunderclap, makeup ruined, smeared from the tears collecting under his mask.
“Perhaps, there's something you wish to tell me?” Showing no remorse, Baldwin tries again to get the jester to confess, but he's too proud and hateful to resolve this amicably.
“I don't need your pity.”
Rage now turns to disgust, unable to stand the sight of his sire, his very form sickening, the bell-caped fool repelled by it, forced to walk away.
“Sarmenti,” the leper calls, halting the other man with his tone, “If you need an outlet for your anger, you take it out on me, and only me.”
Harlequin eyes narrow, vision blurred by the sting of tears. “I don't have to listen to you.”
Such nostalgia, when Baldwin would always take his side, loved him no matter what horrible acts he committed, civil or not.
“I thought you would always fight for me,” cries the fool, about to break, “You know what happened with my mother!”
“I never stopped fighting for you,” Baldwin says, affronted that his intentions were being questioned, misconstrued, “Even now.”
“You left me! Your kingdom, your people - you left it all behind! Do you know what I went through while you were gone? Everyone blamed me! I was the most hated man in Jerusalem!”
The church wasn't much different than a court, the clergy just another breed of aristocrats going by a different name. The setting had changed, time had passed, but they were no closer together than that day he found Baldwin's note on the empty pillow beside him.
“Couldn't even say it to my face, you coward!”
“Sarmenti,” Baldwin tries, emotion caught in his voice, “I thought–”
Indomitable hands reach for him, a grip of solace, but the jester can't bear his touch, not after everything. He might shatter if he does.
“–Don't! Just don't!”
Dear God he's crying again, twice in one day and he absolutely hates it. He promised himself he wouldn't.
“You've changed,” says Baldwin, stepping back, hardened by rejection.
“Ha-ha, that’s what's so funny! You're wrong!” Sadness blends into laughter, the two interchangeable, the jester pushed to uncomfortable hysterics. “I am not the one who changed, but I'll show you, just you wait!”
A cryptic threat, a spurned lover making good on his word, his liege left to simmer in the fires of his wrath.
Blighted Hearts - Ch. 18
SUMMARY: *FLASHBACK CHAPTER!* In the safety of Bigby’s room, the new couple enjoy a number of firsts. Reynauld and Dismas similarly share clarity about their own situationship. No beta. Read at your own risk.
RATING: EXPLICIT!! (sexual themes)
PAIRING: Abomination x Flagellant / Crusader x Highwayman
WORD COUNT: 4,147
READ ON AO3: -> HERE!!
A/N: Happy Saint Dismas Day (3/25)! Who's out here getting crucified in hopes of redemption? 🧣🪽
——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————–
“Look, I already know what this is about, so let's just get this over with.”
An errant sigh, Dismas being held up, ironic given his profession.
Also fitting that they're inside a church, but this is not a sin the highwayman wishes to confess, even if it's in his best interest, coerced by Reynauld to share the true nature of his heart.
“Did you feel anything?”
It's difficult to ask, especially in a room full of people, but the crusader had to know, driven mad by affection he rarely felt toward anyone, emotion rampant in his usually stoic voice.
“I had your dick down my throat, didn't I?”
An unapologetic deadpan, the crusader perturbed, quickly covering the bandit’s lips with the palm of his hand, ceasing the flow of derogatory filth.
A quick survey of his flank, damage control, no one seemingly in range of overhearing this damning bombshell.
“Half the pouch,” the knight growls, minimizing the risk by upping the ante, “now answer the question.”
Tormented, Dismas looks away, eyeing the cold, slatework floor.
“I am no good, OK? It wouldn't matter.”
“Why don't you let me decide that?”
Surprising that Reynauld would give him a second chance, but Dismas already knows how this'll end, plenty of personal recuse to look back on in failure.
“Don't ya get it,” scoffs the promiscuous bar sleaze, tone increasingly harsh, “I am telling ya I am shit at relationships!"
“Then, let's not start with one.”
As sweet as that sounds, Dismas isn't so sure that the crusader can stick to his word.
“Puh-lease," spouts the prolific conman, dark features flippant, "I can tell ya want more than just a causal fuck.”
Reynauld's deadly blue gaze narrows, pinning his raunchy male counterpart with it, affronted by the accusation.
“How would you know what I want?”
“Cuz ya actually give a shit ‘bout me,” the gunslinger smiles, flattered yet cynical, “And I hate to break it to ya, altar boy, but I am just one big disappointment after another.”
“Come with me.”
The knight grabs his red-spangled wrist, tugging him along, finding the path of least resistance, weaving through the mob of bodies still focused on celebrating.
“Wha?! Where are we goin’?!”
Despite his protests, Dismas is dragged outside, away from the party, sparing his dignity so they can talk amongst a secluded part of the building's exterior.
The highwayman yanks himself free of his grip, huffing with anger, a grown man tired of being told what to do.
“Alright, what's the big idea, huh? What's so goddamn important that we had to–”
Once again, Reynauld muzzles him, but instead of a hand, it's his lips, lifting his helmet, well-executed intentions.
Far from an innocent peck, yearning put into action, all or nothing, everything that he'd failed to say with words.
Possessive to the touch, it soon gets heated, a tongue added to the mix, landing a critical hit.
The highwayman can't deny it sparks something in him, kissing back, reconsidering his stance, desperate, unrefined passion worthy of changing his mind.
He's thumbing over Reynauld's cheeks once they part, air a necessity, sharp, prickly outlines that he could lose himself in, a wolf whistle for how wild it was.
“Guess yer not such a good guy after all.”
Dismas licks his lips, enjoying the eclipse of Reynauld’s seemingly straightlaced personality.
“Is it enough?”
Still in a daze, Dismas doesn't quite get what he means.
“Huh?”
“Is it enough for us to try again?”
The swordsman is panting, fumbling to explain, veneration in his voice, hunger in his eyes.
“Ya must be really pent up,” scoffs the dark-haired thief, “Even through all that armor, I can tell how much ya want it.”
With a practiced hand, he draws circles around his superior’s cod piece, following its impressive shape, a curved, metallic outline.
“Don’t tempt me, Dismas.”
He could get used to that commanding tone, about to punish him, sanity hanging by a thread.
“You're the one with the loot,” suggests the succubus in a coat, “Why not just pay me to do it?”
“I … I can't.”
As hard as it may be, the crusader refuses to take advantage, having more respect for his fellow man than that.
“Told ya,” smirks Dismas, poking him in the breast plate, “Yer not in it for a hookup.”
The sadness that fills the poor swordsman's eyes is devastating, as if they could get anymore blue, but the bandit keeps him at arms-length, the templar reaching, not wanting to let go.
“Listen, I was drunk, and lucky for you, I happen to have a thing for big guys in armor. That's all it was.”
He's downplaying the extent of what happened that night, but the Light-deluded fool needed a bold-faced rejection in order to move on.
His point being made, Dismas steps past him, hands stuffed in his pockets.
“Fine, take the purse,” barks Reynauld, holding out the rest of the stolen coin, “but promise me … promise me you'll think about it?”
Dismas turns, regarding the greedy kleptomaniac with disbelief.
“Yer serious? What's stoppin’ me from takin’ the money and never seein’ ya again?”
“Nothing,” he admits, fists clenched and shaking, more vulnerable than he would be wielding a blade, “I can only pray that the Light will bring us together again.”
“Tch! Yer crazy, ya know that?”
Devoid of words, the crusader remains silent, having nothing left to say.
“Sure thing, big guy. I'll think about it.”
Scarred lips whisper in his ear, taking his pouch back, deft fingers ghosting over his, breath like a farewell kiss upon his skin.
Dismas leaves, parting ways, but Reynauld stays to listen, holding onto the sound of his retreat, waiting until the last piece of his precious highwayman disappears into the night.
—-------
The flagrant pattern of footsteps, Damian follows Bigby to his room, the headiness of anticipation thickening the air, senses elevated, every sight, sound and smell pounding loudly between his ears.
A bloody hand shuts the door behind him, the two finally alone, Bigby surprising him with a kiss the moment he's able, safe now from prying eyes.
The flagellant hadn't expected his partner to be so forthcoming, making up for the time they were interrupted, delighted that his desire had not waned by the hours caught between.
Warmth, soft and steady, the werewolf only has so much confidence, pulling back, looking just a bit sheepish.
“I still can't believe that you … That this isn't a dream.”
Damian puts a finger to his lips, sliding down parted pink folds, bridging the gap, leaning closer.
“Believe it.”
A shiver that makes his jaw ache, a kiss sweeter than that cake, standing on tip-toes just so he can get closer to the source.
The same hand that traversed his lips dips lower, finding the dark hairs of his chest, gentle, inquisitive, feeling over the skin there, Bigby uttering a bemused groan.
“Your heart is beating so fast.”
“Of course it is,” Bigby scoffs, amused by the observation, “Why wouldn't it be?”
“It's OK,” Damian smiles, “mine is too.”
Acceptance, understanding, proof that he had just as much to lose, unease fighting with exhilaration, investing himself completely, body and soul laid bare.
Just to tease him, the abomination mirrors his actions, strong thumping emotion, seeing if what he said was true, (though he had no doubt it was).
“So it is.”
“Forgive me for asking,” remarks the flagellant, depraved intentions, “but where else can I touch?”
Bigby's face gives him away, burning red, unable to hold Damian's gaze, whether it's hidden behind the rags of a bloody hood or not.
To think a kiss would lead them here, Bigby never weighing the odds of what would happen because he never expected to make it this far.
“Um, where d-do you want to touch?”
He's so embarrassed, it's beginning to affect his voice, eyelashes aflutter, a tangled mess of nerves.
“Everywhere.”
After such lewd provocations, the wolfboy's coyness quickly dissolves, helpless to the holy man's bluntness.
Still, if they were serious about pursuing a relationship, it should be built with openness and honesty, the flagellant laying the groundwork, a sturdy foundation.
“Damian, I haven't been with someone for a long time. I may be–”
“–It's the same for me.”
The flagellant interjects, Bigby having no need to explain, the branded boy relieved, sparse romantics just another commonality they share.
“What about you?”
A curious head tilt, the priest not quite following.
“What about me?”
“Where can I touch you?”
“Wherever you want.”
Somehow, he should've known that would be his answer, predicted it, but rather than assume, there's something emboldening about hearing the confession first hand.
Palming down his front, Bigby presses the issue, those thick rippling muscles under his command, hard as rocks, pausing there, at the tie of his robes.
“Are you sure?”
Damian laughs at the question, already surrendering himself to the abomination's will.
“What do you think?”
“Not what I asked,” Bigby tuts.
His partner's penchant for doubletalk taunts him, Bigby following the same path upward, retracing his steps, finding one of Damian’s numerous wounds to rub his grievances into.
“Mmm.”
Their conversation is dissolved, elevated to touch, Damian wondering what tender spots await him on Bigby's body, but the masochist is easily distracted, especially when the lycanthrope scrapes a tapered nail across the trenches of a bright, new lesion.
Bigby doesn't dwell on it for long, not when there are other parts of him to explore, climbing now to the tatters of the flagellant's cowl, a beshackled wrist disappearing under tainted threads.
The scars here are so much deeper than the rest, engraved, the angle too meticulous to be self-inflicted, a gift given by some higher power.
Where others wore robes and rosaries, Damian chose to carve out his faith with flesh, needing no holy symbols when he was one himself.
Slipping past his collar bones, now comes the rusted metal of his collar, bent from its original design, hard-wearing just as the flagellant’s face is slashed, missing chips from its canvas.
The last time Bigby touched his face like this they were sharing a bed. Damian hadn't kissed back, but Bigby didn't expect him to, the priest already asleep, knocked out cold from exhaustion.
A part of him still feels ashamed of his actions, stealing a kiss when the other wouldn't remember, bold enough to try it again, conscious when he gave Bigby his birthday gift.
A soft gasp as Damian holds his cheek in return, swept into the present, coal-black strands a cascade, trickling over his fingers, a stream of liquid night.
“I want to feel you against me.”
Bigby's face is hot, so hot he nearly explodes when the priest pulls him closer, sharp curves solidified against thicker-toned skin.
They're close to crossing a line they can't come back from, friendship deepening to something more, though they made that jump long ago, only now feeling the impact.
“Is something wrong?”
Bigby doesn't realize he's stalling, frozen in place, a shiver of fear.
“Are we going too fast?”
“Do you think we are?”
Seems Damian is just as apprehensive, relying on his answer, the abomination smiling because he knows how important this is, what it means for the both of them.
“Maybe, we'd be more comfortable on the bed?”
The suggestion no sooner leaves his mouth than bandaged arms curl under his knees, scooping the werewolf up, carrying him the rest of the way there.
“Hey, put me down!”
The flagellant does so, the two flopping down onto the mattress, a messy heap, the priest draped over scraps of torn threads and broken chains.
“Well, now that we're on the bed, are you feeling more relaxed?”
The holy man is smirking, waiting for the abomination to make the next move, the invitation tempting, Bigby pulling him down, putting those smug lips to work.
The more they kiss, the easier it becomes, Bigby sinking further into the mattress, a familiar warmth, a lasting burn.
With no guests to worry about, expectations and responsibility fade, opening themselves up, deepening their bond, passions reflected, requited, a dance of lovers.
Whether it's out of instinct or not, Damian thrusts, a pertinent advance, a jolt of their hips, Bigby moaning into his mouth, the sensation too good not to.
The priest does it again, Bigby cringing as if he's in pain, growing arousals outlined through their clothes, slotted against each other, their kiss parting with a wet smack.
Damian is looking quite flush, Bigby can feel his body temperature rising, the uptick in breaths, those glittering eyes turning dark and smouldering.
“Is this alright,” asks the flagellant.
He must be worried about Bigby's response, his staggered reluctance stemming more from overstimulation than lack of interest.
Incapable of speech, the wolfboy nods.
“Good, because I am going to make you cum.”
“Wait, I — what?”
He expected more touching, making out, but somehow he forgot dry humping each other was also on the menu.
Fulfilling his promise, Damian grinds their parts, gaining frequency, momentum, the brunette shuddering, friction causing a build up of heat, sparks amidst ragged layers of fabric.
“Nrgahhh!”
Such a cute gasping face, length as hard as it can be, pulsing with each subsequent gyration, on the verge of release, gruff pleasure that borders on pain.
“That's it,” Damian praises, “Cum for me. I'll give you what you need.”
Goading breaths from the hooded man above him, a stimulating voice that strokes the fire in his gut, pushing Bigby closer to the edge.
It's more sexual gratification than he's had in years, choosing to ignore that unsavory part of himself, body dysmorphia amidst carnal urges, but now he surrenders to it, needing the relief.
An intense sensation that lingers, dissipating, bleeding out onto a dull, vibrating warmth, fabric bunching, darkening, glistening with the wetness he put there.
“Perhaps, we should've done this with our clothes off,” gasps the holy man, airy laughter.
He's probably right, a pair of matching soaked spots in compromising positions.
“Not much we can do about it now,” sighs the wolfboy.
They're already past the point of no return, Bigby inquisitive, on the high of his orgasm, reaching into Damian’s robes.
He might’ve felt the flagellant's cock rub against his loins, brief superficial shapes, heat and pressure shared through layers, but it was another thing to truly discover him with his hands.
“You’re wet.” says the werewolf, touching over a well of sticky pearls.
“Are you surprised,” Damian asks, winded and shocked by the possibility.
“Maybe,” the other replies.
How anyone could fall for the textbook definition of a monster, much less take one to bed, is something the abomination has yet to wrap his head around, counting himself lucky.
Bigby pulls back the dusky rags inhibiting his view, revealing Damian's erection, but he didn't expect it to be so pretty.
Small cuts, but somehow he imagined there would be more, other oddities, a dark ring circling the head, an old wound of deep circumcision.
“I'll need a few minutes if you wish to squeeze more from me,” groans his partner, still dripping.
Bigby chuckles, gently stroking his shaft, learning all the curves of his anatomy.
“I can't wait to see you too,” Damian says, eager to do the same for his partner.
The lycanthrope’s movements become detached, suddenly nervous about showing him, nowhere near as impressive.
“Shh, don't be afraid,” assures the flagellant, “Nothing could make me like you any less.”
The priest takes his face in his hands, lifting him up, a jaw like a pedestal, bringing them together for a kiss.
There's a rustle of fabric amidst their exchange, the wolfboy pulling his pants down just enough to expose his tip, average by comparison.
“So cute,” raves the flagellant, a lick of his lips, “I could eat you up.”
“You can.”
It's said in the faintest voice, lest his partner change his mind, a simple, unimposing wish.
Damian smiles in answer, hood dipping down, a slow descent, a trail of kisses, lapping at what flesh is awarded, served to him.
“Hn!!”
Bigby seems to enjoy the strokes of his tongue, the heat it brings, the priest pulling back just to gauge his reaction, but his partner shudders at the loss, those big, black eyes desperate for more.
“Don't go,” the wolfboy pleads, practically sobbing.
Damian can't ignore a request like that, ascetic hands finding the waistband of his friend's trousers, rolling them slowly, past shredded, miscreant hips.
“I won't,” the flagellant promises, breath ghosting over beaming red skin, exposing all of him. “I am yours, as much as you want.”
Bigby gropes around for his hand, Damian meeting him half-way, once again connected, the werewolf squeezing so tight, a tether to keep the fear at bay.
The priest doesn't rush, hearing the full extent of Bigby's moans, so beautiful it makes his ears ring, the object of his affection writhing in bliss from his touch.
Claws grab onto his lover's hood, Bigby biting at his bottom lip, a deep groan held in his throat, muscles taut, clenching up, close to another orgasm.
When the sublime moment happens, Damian drinks him down, savoring every drop, worshipping him with every inch of his tongue.
“Ah shit, I forgot!”
In a panic, the wolfboy finds his shroud, wiping at Damian's mouth, worried about the side effects brought on by his blight.
“Are you OK?”
“Of course. Why wouldn't I be?”
Dazed and deadpanned, the flagellant is at a loss while Bigby continues to fuss over him, unconvinced.
“It doesn't sting?”
“I wouldn't mind even if it did.”
Bigby calms, deflating, relieved that his partner was made of sturdier stuff, though he should know that by now.
“My bodily fluids have the potential to be … hazardous.”
“You let me off easy, then.”
“Is that so bad,” the wolfboy scoffs, “It grows potent whenever the beast is near.”
“Well,” the flagellant purrs, cozying up to his side, “I'd be interested in seeing your more corrosive properties.”
“Maybe, another time,” Bigby laughs, looking around the room, the reality of what they've done sinking in, “We really could have planned this better.”
Without towels or water, they had no way of properly cleaning their clothes, needing to visit the laundry pool just to freshen up.
“Nothing wrong with being spontaneous,” Damian says, pleased with their current progress, naught a spare garment between them.
“Not in my experience,’’ the other sighs, “What are we going to do?”
More angst and upset quickly consumes him, too stuck inside his own head, but more than that, the abomination seems exhausted, in need of a rest.
“Leave that to me,” vows the holy priest, inheriting the task.
A kiss to ease his suffering, the night bending to their whim, another kindred spirit to keep them company, no longer having to sleep alone.
Damian pulls him close, burying his nose in Bigby’s sweat-slicked brow, breathing in his scent, myrrh and green clover, the abomination similarly cuddling up to his chest.
It's comforting, lulling, and yet, the abomination is kept awake, still thinking about a resolution for their sticky situation, musk coloring the air.
“What are we going to do,” Bigby asks again.
“Nothing,” the other laughs, “at least not right now.”
“That hardly solves our problem,” replies the beastman, digging his nose in deeper, rust and opium, mild growls dampened by the breadth of Damian's pecs.
“If you really must know, I'll tell you in the morning.”
It sounds more like he's stalling, but Bigby is willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, prove his assumption wrong.
“I hope you'll come up with something better by then.”
“Funny you should say so,” Damian teases, sneaking in the next part, “Making you cum with the sunrise was part of my plan.”
“That's somehow worse,” cringes the wolfboy, a dramatic sigh of hopelessness.
“I think you'll enjoy it,” the priest smiles.
“We’ll see.”
It's obstinate, a little nip given to the blood-dipped flesh closest to the abomination's canines, the two finally settling in.
Although unofficial, having a boyfriend is scary in its newness, it's frailty, never knowing how long it would last, but there's also excitement, intimacy, the werewolf willing to risk his heart for a man that would just as soon offer his own.
All the little things Damian had done to solidify his life here, make it better for him, Bigby's truly grateful, trusting his word, reflecting upon one of the happiest days of his life.
—-------
Junia looks up from her plate of buttered toast and grapefruit to see two monks dressed in brown robes. Hoods cover their faces, one taller than the other, but she has no recollection of their arrival.
“Hello,” she calls, clearing her throat, “I didn't know we had guests.”
Caught off guard, Junia dabs at her mouth, standing from her seat to properly greet the unexpected pair of strangers.
“Don't you recognize us,” cries a familiar voice, a little pout of scruff to follow.
“I would think our voices should give it away,” adds the second fellow, equally barefoot.
Short of losing her mind, confusion plain on her face, the poor vestal is taken for a loop, their names and personage suddenly becoming clear.
“Damian, Bigby, is that you under there?”
The flagellant pulls back his hood, proving her assumption correct.
“Good tidings, miss Junia.”
“Don't scare me like that,” she scolds, holding her chest, a slump of relief, “I thought you were one of our neighboring cousins coming to visit.”
“Sorry for the scare,” Bigby apologizes, pulling down his hood as well.
“It's alright,” Junia sighs, “You just reminded me that I should probably reach out. I haven't heard from them in a while.”
“A splendid idea,” Damian agrees, “Though, I am sure everything is fine.”
“I hope so. It's not like them to miss the post. They usually send a letter every week.”
“We're just grabbing breakfast before heading down to the beach,” Damian says, grabbing some oranges for the road, tossing one to Bigby.
“Oh, is that why you've changed clothes?”
The flagellant turns to his companion, a clandestine smirk, an exchange of secret knowledge before answering her purely innocent question.
“We're paying homage to tradition, but we also have laundry that needs doing. Would you like us to take yours as well?”
She flushes at the very thought, preferring that her friends didn't see nor rigorously manhandle her personal undergarments.
It's times like these that she almost misses the same sex community of her former convent.
“Oh um, I can do my own, but thank you.”
Mortified, Junia takes a bite of toast, the brittle crunch a loud one, no need for awkward conversations when she was too busy chewing.
Once he's in range, Bigby yanks on Damian's sleeve, a stifled reprimand aimed towards his ear, just as embarrassed as the chaste, god-fearing nun.
“Why would you tell her that?"
“A distraction to our benefit,” the masochist explains, “She'll soon forget the incident than remember it.”
He supposed Damian knew Junia best, the matter far from over, but before they can discuss it further, the highwayman appears, hook-nose sticking out from around the corner.
“Dismas,” Junia nearly chokes, “What are you doing here?”
He looks paranoid, frantic, his signature belts and buckles whittled down to a loose tunic and trousers, boots and jacket bunched in his arms.
“Shhh! Keep it down,” he hisses, looking both ways, “If anyone asks, you didn't see me.”
He takes off, no time to talk, a man on the run, patchy socks and garters masking his steps.
“Wonder what that was about,” muses Bigby, one eyebrow curled in stupefaction.
“Who knows,” Damian shrugs.
They needn't speculate for long, Reynauld appearing in much the same flavor, though, he's fully dressed and presentable, armet casting a shine beyond the edges of the doorway.
“Have you seen Dismas?”
The knight’s inquisition is met with silence at first, the trio quite suspicious in their reactions, fighting with their conscience of whether or not to cover for known criminal and thief.
“Nope, sorry,” Bigby says, the first of them to speak, dismissive as he peels away the rind on his fruit.
“You sure he's here,” Damian asks in return, eyeing the slats of Reynauld’s visor.
“Yes, didn't he leave last night,” the vestal adds, finger to her chin, feigning ignorance.
The crusader doubts their sincerity, leaving them with a leer, in hot pursuit of his quarry, having an inkling the highwayman was near.
If Dismas was ducking behind shadows, running for the door half naked, it must be for good reason, Junia's mind stuck on the pattern of red hearts that deck the shorthairs of his underwear.
“Never a dull moment, is there?”
The vestal sighs, cheek in palm, staring at her half-finished grapefruit, spooning on more sugar to help her get through this eventful morning.
Hope this message finds you well >:) I have arrived not twice but thrice >:))
The text excerpt holding hands is so cute they actually deserve to have nice moments, being so gentle around eachother
I LIKE THEM A LOT and reading more about them makes me jump of joy
thanks for sharing these!!! Holding them dearly
Hehe, they say all good things come in threes~
Thank you! Yes, my thoughts exactly! With such death and despair in the DD universe, glimmers of love and hope are all the more revered and I want to give Bigby the world. Same here, I can't get enough of these two being precious. Get loved idiots! 😘 💕💋
It was a pleasure to welcome you back, dear traveler. May this doodle sustain you for the journey ahead. 🤲 🖼️
Another scene from my fanfic~ 🌲⛺️💕 (At this rate, I'll have an art for every chapter) "Were you finally able to sneak away," the abomination asks from beside the fire, rising to meet the flagellant halfway, his oud growing headier. "For you, I would do so every night," the flagellant vows, having just come from the penance hall, those of his flock now asleep. Bandaged arms reach out to hold him, pull his lithe body close, the ever-present chains rattling as he’s lifted up, spun around like a fair maiden reuniting with their betrothed.
HEHEHEHEH IT'S ME AGAIN
Reading the excerpt from Blighted Hearts and I'm quite excited to see what's to come
Seriously, this is lovely >:))
AHHH, OUR MYSTERIOUS GUEST RETURNS!! HELLO AGAIN AND WELCOME!! 🤗 💕 [lol, keep sending me asks like this and I am going to snog you (/this is an affectionate threat)] As thanks, here's another excerpt for your reading pleasure! Bigby and Damian hold hands *romantically* for the first time 😌 🤝
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Damian approaches him as he so often does, for company, for any number of reasons Bigby can't seem to figure out. Regardless of all the places the changeling chooses to hide away in, the other male always finds him. It's become somewhat of a challenge, a game of hide and seek, but there are times when the scruffy recluse makes it all too easy for him.
The two are engaged in idle conversation, the subject matter nothing important, just droll small talk that he can't even remember the topic of. The wolfboy is trying his best to be attentive, responsive, but he has other things on his mind today.
Ever since the flagellant had held his hands in his, vowing to show him the path of Light again, he cannot get it out of his head. He so desperately wants to relive that moment over, replaying the memory so much that it feels like it's steadily losing it's clarity, but Damian hasn't touched him like that again, not since that day.
They've brushed limbs, a slight hand against his hip in passing, a light graze at his shoulder to steady him. It has him craving more, enough that he steals glances at the priest's hands, at how red they are, wondering if the outside has the same tenderness of his palms or if they're rougher, harder.
Consumed and driven by such thoughts, he lays hesitant fingers over scarred ones.
"Oh," Damian gasps, unexpectant of this development, cutting himself off.
"S-sorry," Bigby squeaks, pulling his touch away, flinching further away in his seat.
"Why," the flagellant asks, head tilted in confusion, searching his companion's face.
"Huh?"
"Why are you sorry?"
Bigby looks down, his emerald eyes searching the stones around his feet. Even he has trouble articulating his logic.
"B-because I touched you?"
"And that warrants an apology," Damian laughs in question, hooded eyes fixated on him, awaiting a response.
"… Yes?"
Even the wolfboy seems uncertain, the flagellant making him feel inane for such baseless insecurities, but he can't deny there have been countless others that have detested his very being.
Damian smirks, the bubbling hum in his throat resembling a purr, "Hm, what say you to trying again?"
Bigby's not entirely sure what he means, but the flagellant walks his hand closer, letting it rest there as it was before, between them on the bench.
Chartreuse eyes look down at this offering, then away, then back again. He reaches out, drawing closer then pulling back, this process repeating, but the flagellant waits, wearing an encouraging smile for him. Finally, he places snuff-colored fingers over crimson lacquer, lighter than before, a mere teasing of contact.
Damian grins, curling his fingers around Bigby's in a tight grip, one that cuts off all means of retreat.
"Would you still say sorry now or should I be the one to apologize?"
Bigby finds himself laughing, "Should you go first or should I?"
Damian adds his own hearty beat of mirth, "Together perhaps?"
"Apologies"
"Sorry."
Another laugh.
"Sorry."
"Excuse me."
The levity between them carries, Bigby showing the barest traces of a smile and Damian never wants to see it leave his face.
Blighted Hearts - Ch. 2
SUMMARY: It's the night of the full moon and Damian has quite an eccentric request for the church. William also has a shocking proposition for his brute of a partner. No Beta. Read at your own risk.
PAIRING: Abomination x Flagellant / Bounty Hunter x Hound Master
RATING: T (for Ch. 2 only!! The rest of the fic is EXPLICIT!)
WORD COUNT: 3,882
READ ON Ao3: -> HERE!!
A/N: Huge thank you to @hungryhannya, @leenukeath, @zawwa and my reviewers for all their encouragement. Without you, I wouldn’t have had the support to turn this into a multi-chaptered fic! I hope you enjoy! 💚
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Neither of them had slept much that night, too engrossed in each other’s company for more than a few fitful spells of arrhythmic unconsciousness.
Bigby lays draped over the flagellant's shoulder, a shaggy arm angled over his scarred chest, a hairy leg twined with his enrobed one. Damian made sure the wolfboy held most of the blanket, shroud covering a larger portion of his exposed skin, one bandaged arm wrapped around the ringlets of his waist, clutching him close to his side.
The fire was now dead, the priest sadly needing to leave just before dawn, giving his boyfriend's hand a chivalrous kiss goodbye.
He had only been gone a few hours, needing to be in attendance when the other church members awoke and then like clockwork he fetches Bigby from his cave, speaking of the latest news from the town crier.
There had been a boon in supplies thanks to a recent excursion at the warrens and the holy man was adamant about the two of them visiting Hamlet together to celebrate.
That's where they're headed now, Damian making the bold move (at least Bigby thinks it's bold) to hold his hand during the daylight hours, out in public.
The wolfboy doesn't register it at first, the shock of it. He almost suspects it's on accident, but their hands remain locked throughout the whole trek towards the decorated square.
Damian has been exceptionally joyous, almost painfully so, but who was Bigby to squander it, especially since he was the cause.
Still the fear remains that if the residents didn't already have their suspicions, then this romantic air between them will certainly solidify the rumors.
Bigby shirks away from the judging eye of society (one would have to with his condition), but dating a flagellant with a reputation for madness only adds to the notoriety.
“I am glad you’re happy, but could you maybe tone it down a bit,” Bigby asks, overly conscious of his partner’s exuberant mannerisms.
“What do you mean,” the flagellant twitters, looking towards him with the same grin plastered across his face, “I am always this happy when I am with you.”
The lycan clicks his tongue, a flush appearing on his cheeks as well as a helpless look, both flattered and embarrassed.
“Perhaps, but people are staring,” he argues, trying to shrink away, fold himself inside his shroud and Damian’s bulk.
“Let them stare if they must,” the priest asserts, anticipating what the other might be worried about, “I am not ashamed to be seen with you.”
Bigby doesn’t say anything, choosing to bite his lip and hang his head, hoping his hair will eclipse his face, keeping watch over his steps.
“Unless, it’s me that you’d rather not be seen with,” Damian pouts, his happiness immediately revoked, becoming a gaunt frown, withdrawing his hand from their combined grips.
The wolfboy notices this change the same way he acknowledges a cold strike of fear.
“No,” Bigby shouts, reaching for the flagellant's hand with panicked aggression.
Damian jumps, surprised by this uncharacteristic reaction, Bigby reclaiming what is rightfully his, fumbling to reconnect them with jittery desperation.
At the reaffirming feeling of his boyfriend's warmth clasped in his, the abomination is once again calmed, but realizes his embarrassing slight too late.
He clears his throat, keeping good posture, attempting to pass for normal and not the touch-starved man he just proved himself to be.
“T-that’s not it,” he explains, avoiding Damian’s eyes by keeping his pinned straight ahead, “I am … I am just not used to this … attention.”
“You will grow to be,” the flagellant assures him, smiling confidently, hoping to inspire the same daring nerve in his partner.
"A tall order," Bigby laughs, smiling ruefully at the thought, "I am not exactly bursting with self confidence."
"All the more reason for me to show you off," the flagellant smirks, taking the reins as he tugs Bigby toward one of the stalls.
—--
Tardif glances in the direction of the two addled men, hard pressed not to stare with the commotion they're making. He bristles beneath his mask, seething at how carelessly they strut their laissez faire fraternization for all to see, for him to see.
This bustling market wouldn't have been possible without him and William trudging in squalor, busting their asses for a silo of grain sacks, and now he has to share their success with those clodhopping imbeciles of all people.
Something soft, grounding presses against his clothed cheek, making his heart leap into his throat. He realizes it's William, his lips giving him a light peck of surprise.
"I got us a couple of meat pies and sweet potatoes for later," William chirps, holding the loot of delicacies in his arms for his companion to see.
Fergus, the dearheart, also presents a band of carrots in her muzzle, tail wagging happily.
Savory food was usually the quickest way to the bounty hunter's heart, but when the ruffian only grunts nonchalantly at his favorite meal, the blonde man knows there must be something else eating at his prickly exterior instead.
"What's wrong," asks the houndmaster, a concerned frown setting in amongst his tawny features.
"Nothing," the mercenary dismisses, shaking his head and walking towards their shared cabin and further away from the festivities.
William lingers on the sight of his retreating back before he turns his gaze, picking up the scent of who he's been tracking, his eyes landing on the mismatched pair that was Hamlet's most obnoxious couple: the abomination and flagellant.
The houndmaster sighs. It was no wonder then. Fergus similarly, looks up at her master with a forlorn whimper.
William, being the detective that he was, could read the situation. He knew of the bounty hunter’s intrigue, of how a crazed masochist was just as appealing as a trophy to be won and conquered, but the blonde will prove that he can be just as hardy if not as satisfying.
Mind made up, William prims his brow, striding up to the sulking hunk of armor, a determined glint in his golden eyes.
"Tonight, after dinner. Me and you. As rough as you want it," the houndmaster proclaims, walking astride him, gesticulating his free hand.
The brutes' eyes are blown so wide, William swears he can see them, even from behind the visage of his helmet. It’s torture, waiting for his response and the longer the bounty hunter looks his figure up and down, assessing his durability, the more the ex lawman begins to sweat out all his resolve.
"Ya sure ya can take it," Tardif taunts, truly debating if he could handle the physical demands of some rougher bedroom play.
William had more of a delicate constitution when it came to sex. His partner would often pass out if things between them got too intense, not that Tardif was opposed to the more tender stuff, but a part of him craved spice and untamed wildness.
"Of course I can," the beast tamer professes, puffing out his chest to convey just how tough he was.
Fergus equally attests to her best friend's credentials with an affirming bark and a little hop of her forepaws.
Tardif doesn't just chuckle, he full-blown giggles, the sound uncharacteristic and bordering on sinister as he plots out he could use this gambit to his advantage.
"Alright, hand me one of them meat pies and ya got yourself a deal," the bounty hunter smirks, holding out his glove.
William is all too thrilled to see the mercenary's appetite return, fulfilling the bargain without delay.
"Try not to back out on me," William teases, handing the wrapped delicacy over.
"Your back is what I’ll be trying," the brute snorts, pulling down his cowl to take a sizable bite of flaky crust.
A blonde mustache bristles at such vulgar comments, a stripe of red painting his nose, but he can’t deny that he set himself up for that.
—--
"No, wait that's–," Bigby cuts himself off, his shyness taking over as they stand before a proprietor of goods.
A middle-aged husband and wife greet their arrival, the wolfboy remarking with a timid wave.
“May we,” the flagellant asks, indicating the bushel of apples.
“Certainly, help yourself,” the older woman inclines, finding the two men of peculiar interest.
The priest plucks a pomme with a deep crimson hue, handing it to Bigby as if inviting him to dance.
"For you."
There's an interlude of hesitation, the abomination stunned by these acts of courtship, having never known such things before Damian. He reminds himself to accept this token of affection, warming the rind of fruit in his hands once he does.
The priest harvests one for himself as well, knowing his companion would not partake without him there to share the wealth.
The graying woman chuckles modestly at such a youthful display, looking with fond eyes toward her husband.
“Well, go on then,” the wife prods, sweeping her aging hands at the pair, “it’s the perfect time, height of the season so they're bound to be delicious.”
The flagellant takes a large mouthful, crisp and juicy flesh crumbling to his ration of teeth if only to persuade his partner to do the same.
Bigby takes a much smaller nibble, smiling cordially at the sweet yet sour taste. "It's good."
A harsh squeal draws his curiosity and the instant the wolfboy sees the rosy potbelly of the pig that made it, he’s charmed, the odd coloring of the bovine skin reminiscent of his own branded blood.
"May we pet the pigs," the abomination asks, turning towards the owner's, seeking their permission.
"Don't see why not," the man guffaws, shrugging in his overalls as he chews on a reed of wheat.
Bigby beams, approaching the makeshift pen, squatting down to be closer to the rotund creature that’s currently snout-deep in a bucket of slop.
"Hello, what's your name," the abomination coos, patting the white hairs between the swine’s floppy ears.
"That one there’s Rudolf," explains the old-timey farmer, pleased to see someone take an interest in his stock, "cuz he's so fat and red. My most prized hog."
"Haha, I see," the abomination chuckles. "It's a great name," he assures the animal, should there have been any offense.
Rather than any dotting reassurances, the pig seems more interested in the half-eaten apple, it’s salivating mouth abandoning his trough to wriggle toward this temptation and Bigby lets the glutton have it.
“Look at that,” the bifocaled man laughs, “Never stops eating!”
“Over here,” the woman beckons the flagellant, “Take some grain. Join your friend.”
“Thank you,” the hooded vagrant says, cupping a hand as she pours the millet into it.
Damian kneels to replenish Bigby’s supply of food with his own unfinished apple, whispering just low enough for him to hear, "Be careful he doesn't eat your whole hand. I have use for it later."
The brunette flushes despite himself, watching as his partner finds a small herd of sheep to preoccupy himself with.
The abomination shakes his head, feeding the leftovers to Rudolf, his eyes inevitably drifting, endeared by the sight of the flagellant being surrounded by a bunch of bleating clouds of wool.
Revised to leave his spot, the changeling observes how the sheep retreat as he draws closer to Damian's side, sensing a swell of danger that they did not before.
"Have some grain,” the flagellant smiles, recruiting him to the cause of hungry livestock.
“What’s the point? They’re all so scared of me,” the abomination scoffs, rising to his feet, intending to return to the sanctity of pigs.
“Wait,” Damian pleads, pulling him back down.
He opens a manacled palm, splits what feed there's left between them, urging both their lures through the gaps in the wooden fence.
“They will come,” the priest says, dispelling his partner's look of criticism, “give it time.”
Soon enough, this proves true, one of the younger lambs the first to dip into the well of Bigby's palm, the older siblings following suit until the reservoir of food is barren.
“See, I told you.”
That he did.
The tolling call of the church bell rings, both heroes looking towards the brass deacon of it’s steeple.
"It's nearly time for mass," Damian says, dusting off his hands, rising to his feet.
He holds out his bloody palm, extending it towards his companion and an old, vulnerable side of Bigby still flinches at these strokes of benevolence. Too many times generosity wore the skin of friendship, only to turn deceptive and cruel, but Damian's hands had never struck him, had only ever fulfilled his wishes of amity and warmth.
"Right," the lycan nods, swallowing down his learned misgivings, taking his boyfriend’s impressions of goodwill with an optimistic brow.
The two young lovers spare a brief thank you to the husband and wife before filing through the dirt roads, homogeneous along with the rest of the church-goers.
Damian walks them up the stairs to the abbey, a brazen audacity that Bigby admits he cannot replicate himself. If anything, the changeling is more anxious attending services now, knowing what Damian plans to ask his comrades of Light.
As they enter, doors propped open in welcome, the priest cannot contain himself, compelled to speak his humors aloud.
“Greetings, friends! Another glorious day for the Light, is it not," he hollers, grinning ear to ear, addressing the congregation.
Bigby's face burns scarlet, deflating at such an exuberant admission.
So much for being subtle.
And oh, Damian isn't done.
"Rejoice, for I have such great news to share with all of you!”
Baldwin looks up from his sermon, Sarmenti snickering from his iconostasis as he gently strums his lute.
It was mostly quiet before their arrival, the hushed murmurs of those in the pews turning silent, swiveling in their seats toward the commotion and Junia excuses herself from the pulpit to mitigate the problem.
She glides down the nave, wearing her best smile as she approaches the two outcasts, “My, what spirit you have brought with you today!”
The wholesome vestal regards her parish with similar vibrance, “may all of you take a page from his example. Every day is to be celebrated with joy!”
At Junia's disarming words, the room returns to normal, everyone facing forward again, away from the theatrics. Others continue to stream in through the central aisle, and the virtuous woman tactfully ushers the two men off to the side.
“Here, come this way," the vestal bids them with a hushed voice, hoping to award them some privacy.
"Now tell me what’s brought you such excitement! I wish to share in your happiness,” she asks, giggling with a gentle heart.
The flagellant looks to his precious companion, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, “Allow me to take care of this. I will find you later. Please, enjoy the service.”
Knees knocking together, Bigby feels a shiver of dread at the thought of being left alone, his courage dependent, elevated when Damian was near and now it dwindles at the impending loom of his departure.
This shift in Bigby's demeanor does not go unnoticed, his partner facing him fully, taking both his hands in his.
“Would you rather stay,” Damian asks, not considering this before, but offering such courtesies now that he has.
“No, no it’s OK,” the wolfboy dismisses, bashful of his own neediness, not wanting to impose, “I’ll let you two discuss it.”
He pardons himself before he can act a fool, retracing his steps back toward the entrance, turning to see that the brief conversation with Damian and Junia has led them both to disappear behind a side door, no doubt to discuss their arrangement with the other religious heroes.
Bigby sighs, gritting his teeth with a nervous brow. Suddenly, all the repercussions of what could go wrong rise to the surface of his mind, his altruism crashing down around him like broken glass.
His sooty feet carry him towards one of the farthest pews, taking a seat at the very end, a customary action, isolating himself from the rest of the attendees out of habit.
Hoping to assuage his doubts, Bigby remembers the resting place for his rosary, procuring it from his pocket, dedicating himself to prayer with a bow of his head.
He listens attentively to Baldwin's voice, the moral of today's psalms, but his thoughts no doubt circle around to his own troubles.
What will the others say when Damian tells them? What will they think? Nothing worse than they already do, surely. Hopefully.
Too engrossed in his own head, Bigby had not heard anyone approach, not until a cast shadow towers over him, blocking out the morning sun.
He nearly drops his crucifix, jumping up from his spot, alarmed that he had let his guard down.
“Damian,” the abomination sighs in relief, quelling his anxious heart, “I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”
“They’ve agreed.”
“What,” the werewolf squeaks, not believing his ears.
It just couldn't be true. There was no way.
“To you joining me tonight,” the flagellant elaborates, worry coating his expression as he moves to sit down beside him.
“They will be barring the doors, but I told them it wouldn't be a problem, assuming it wouldn’t be,” he continues, finding Bigby’s hand again, needing that strong, reassuring tether to ground his own doubts.
“Really,” Bigby breathes, dubious that his plight had been answered, that he could be so blessed.
“Yes,” the flagellant says, his voice a weak treble, “are you not … pleased?”
Bigby feels his cheeks heat up, looking towards his partner, seeing the same spell of apprehension on his face.
“Overjoyed,” the abomination smiles, gently meeting his eyes, reaching up to cup a serrated jaw, “I just can’t believe it.”
The flagellant grips his wrist, that holistic grin reappearing in full swing of his broken teeth.
“You must,” Damian insists, continuing his ecstatic string of words, “my room is open to you for as long as you may wish to stay. They will release us once the full moon has passed.”
Truly grateful, the shapeshifter wants nothing more than to kiss him, but he also remembers where they are, of who might be watching, using his gaze to convey the depth of his desire.
Bigby was a patient man, he could wait. With the worst of their worries gone, all they had was time and the promise of what the night would bring.
———
Damian leads them down the spiral staircase, a torch to light the way in one hand, Bigby’s clammy mit held in the other.
The pitter patter of their bare feet echo with each step, the hypnotic walls of stonework seeming almost never-ending, niches filled with skulls and cobwebs marking their path.
Finally, they reach the bottom floor, a gloomy chamber with a pair of double doors coming into view, the sturdy lumber barred with iron beams and reinforced hinges.
"Hold this, I won't be long," the flagellant says, relinquishing the torch.
With his hands now free, the priest aims to unlock the beams, the metal scraping with a harsh cacophony of rust and the abomination tries not to flinch from the assault on his ears. The lycanthrope was already weary thanks to the dire accommodations of such a place and these unsettling noises only added to the unease.
Two hands on either side, Damian's muscles ripple, using all his strength to push the hefty cellar doors open, and an exhausted breath of dust billows out around them, the threshold of a tomb, eerie in atmosphere.
The flagellant flitters over to borrow the flame from him, lighting a few sconces adorning the walls, unveiling more of the sepulcher's macabre decor.
"What do you think," the flagellant asks, expectant and proud of his torture dungeon.
Crossing the threshold, observing his surroundings, the abomination affords himself a few extra seconds to reply. Various tools of anguish are stretched out before him, cages, chairs, racks of every size and delineation. An impressive collection to say the least, but as off-putting as it was (given his history with captivity), Damian liked it and that was reason enough to give such horrific designs a second chance.
"Roomy," the wolfboy remarks, off the cuff, rubbing at his shoulders to expel the flood of goosebumps.
"What shall we do first," Damian asks, beaming excitedly, wanting his partner to choose from the array of sadistic toys.
—
"Check," Bigby calls, moving his knight into the iron square to take Damian's queen.
Who knew there would be a chessboard down here, but Bigby's supposes one cannot subject themselves to misery all the time.
"What, again," the flagellant exclaims, exasperated by his losing streak, "that's the fourth time in ten moves."
"You need to be more strategic with your pawns," Bigby tutors, raising an eyebrow, looking towards his impressive graveyard pile, "the idea is to preserve your pieces, not to sacrifice them all at once."
Damian is having trouble wrapping his mind around the rules, too used to blindly diving in with the same stubborn, predictable patterns just as he does in combat.
As Damian tries to dissect the board, plan his next move, Bigby admires the set laid out before him, crafted to resemble the various torture devices spread throughout the room in a morbid twist on the usual theme.
It took Bigby a moment to attribute all the crudely assembled avatars (with Damians help), but the game still played the same, whether it was derived from cheap scrap metal or fine onyx and ivory.
Even as he waits, fiddling with one of the miniature iron maidens, a familiar shiver runs down Bigby's spine, a sickness dropping into his stomach.
There's a crack in the barred windows, just enough that he can glean the sliver of moonlight, Bigbys's eyes intuitively drawn to it.
It's bright, ephemeral, illuminating all the dusk of the night sky.
Bigby shudders again, a revenant pulse echoing from inside, rattling his skull like a beguiling siren's song.
He tries to hide it, mask his reflective eyes from view, ignore the bite of his fangs as they stretch, curling over his lips, but he can't resist it much longer.
“Damian," the abomination huffs, urgency in his tone, "it’s time.”
“I am ready,” his partner nods, excited for this moment, taking him by the hand, leading him to the center stage of the basement.
“I hope you are,” Bigby strains, clutching tightly to his shroud with apprehensive eyes.
His nails grow long, feral, veins popping, varicose in his neck, ribs cracking as they expand into a cavity twice their size.
“Grrnnnghhhh,” Bigby growls, his transformation a painful one, but still self conscious of his appearance, knowing Damian is watching.
He manages one last look before his consciousness is pushed back, jarring and distorted, bulbous even as all his hair strips out.
The beast breaks free, ripping apart the flesh of it's human guise, the liberation of chains echoing along with a terrifying roar of power.
The beast is panting heavily, gathering it's wits, acclimating to it's new body, stretching out it's stance of hooves.
“That still you in there,” Damian asks, taking a step closer, trying to find his face among the darkness.
The beast's pointed ears perk up, revealing it's tall stature, long spindly horns nearly scraping the ceiling, massive arms draped heavily at his sides.
The beast may have forsaken it's need for lips, but it's jowls still manage a smirk and Damian returns this with one of his own.
“Then, catch me, if you can,” the flagellant taunts, sprinting off like naive prey, igniting his partner's instinct to hunt.
WIP Train
It was so lovely of @hungryhannya to tag me! Thank you!! ❤️
Blighted Hearts - Ch. 2 (Preview) Darkest Dungeon / Abomination x Flagellant
Neither of them had slept much that night, too engrossed in each other’s company for more than a few fitful spells of arhythmic unconsciousness.
Bigby lays draped over the flagellant's shoulder, a shaggy arm angled over his scarred chest, a hairy leg laced with his enrobed one. Damian made sure the wolfboy held most of the blanket, shroud covering the larger portion of his exposed skin, one bandaged arm wrapped around the ringlets of his waist, clutching him close to his side.
The fire was now dead, the priest sadly needing to leave just before dawn, giving his boyfriend's hand a chivalrous kiss goodbye.
He had only been gone a few hours, needing to be in attendance when the other church members awoke and then like clockwork he fetches Bigby from his cave, speaking of the latest news from the town crier.
There had been a boon in the supplies thanks to a recent excursion at the warrens and the holy man was adamant about the two of them visiting Hamlet together to celebrate.
That's where they're headed now, Damian making the bold move (at least Bigby thinks it's bold) to hold his hand during the daylight hours, out in public.
The wolfboy doesn't register it at first, the shock of it. He almost suspects it's on accident, but their hands remain locked the whole trek towards the decorated square.
READ CHAPTER 1: Here
Tagging (only if you want to!! no pressure!!): @lacertae-dreamscape @iaus @werepaladin