Can you lie and say I'm not allowed tequila anymore?
------------
It's a beat before she answers. "I'm not sure that should actually be a lie." Notes lie randomly across a desk and one or two on the floor, a tablet half-buried beneath with a genetics textbook showing on the screen.
But unfortunately, amongst the other glassware is a bottle of fairly distinctive shape and a label featuring an agave plant. It's also empty, and the result is sprawled in a desk chair already too small for him, looking just a little bit perplexed. Thera's likewise puzzled, because he usually hits up Mezcal rather than Tequila, but the question of why is better left for later on.
"OK, honey ..." Knuckles lift to her lips, tamping down the small hiccup of laughter she probably shouldn't make before crouching to pick up the pages on the floor, "How about we pour you into bed and worry about it later?"
CW: Drug use, drunkenness/alcohol use, dubcon, Kauri's Poor Life Choices
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No one even tells him what it is before there's a hand at his mouth and then a cup to his lips, liquid forcing something smooth and small down his throat as he reflexively swallows.
Kauri doesn't ask, either.
He doesn't even care.
He just coughs against the burn of the sickly-sweet liquor, apple-flavored vodka that tastes like those hard candies he sucks on sometimes when his panhandling isn't going well and he can't afford dinner.
The whole reason he came here is because they'd promised him free pizza, and they definitely kept that promise. He'd eaten plenty earlier, and then there's been some fooling around, and now there was some kind of movie night and potentially an orgy? He hasn't figured out if there's going to be an orgy yet.
In training, there had been some, sometimes. He remembers how it felt to have them all around him, some trainees like him, some demo pets to help them learn, handlers directing all the action, grabbing and jerking and slapping.
Kauri had aced the orgies.
At least, until Owen found out he was being trained for them and put a stop to it, because he wanted his little pet to only ever pine for him. Kauri had missed getting to see the other trainees, whisper to them, hear news or just talk to someone who felt as bad as he did.
But he doesn't feel bad right now.
He's already drunk, and he thinks a little high just from the smoke in the air in the small room, the press of bodies around him. No one's doing anything, really - just laying here for now, with a movie playing to no one in particular in the corner. Maybe some people are wearing less clothing than they should, but that's normal.
He keeps seeing Vincent fucking Shield on the screen, making serious faces while solving a mystery. Vincent fucking Shield, smiling brightly and kissing a woman with false passion, and Kauri wonders if he'd kissed Owen like that, ever.
Every time he feels himself getting angry about Vincent fucking Shield and his perfect fucking movie-star life, he takes another drink, or runs his hand up someone's thigh, or lets someone kiss him with their own vodka-soaked tongue sliding into his mouth.
Maybe there isn't an orgy.
Maybe Kauri is the orgy by himself.
He can handle that.
He's seated on the floor, between some stranger's spread legs, the denim of the guy's jeans bookending him, seams rubbing rough against his bare arms. Kauri's shirt is off - he has no fucking clue where it is. He might have left it in the one guy's bedroom, or in the bathroom. Or the kitchen.
Where did someone ask him for it first?
Can't remember.
Not important.
"Give that about half an hour," Someone says, half-shouting to be heard over the din, "And you're gonna fucking fly, gorgeous!"
For a second, Kauri has no clue what the asshole next to him is talking about. Then he remembers the pill, the something down his throat, and he laughs, bright and brittle as light shining off sugar cooked as thin and clear as glass.
"Hope so," He breathes. "What is it?"
"Don't worry about it!"
That should probably bother him to hear. It doesn't. He just giggles some more. The guy whose legs he's nestled between leans down and offers him a joint. He takes a hit, and wonders idly what Jake is doing right now. It's close to midnight, but Jake barely sleeps. Probably studying for some fucking test or writing an essay, the kind of shit you can't do when your brain has been made into malleable putty for someone like Owen to mold.
If Kauri called him now, he'd answer. Disappointed, and he'd tell him he shouldn't keep putting himself at risk like this. He'd get to hear Jake's soft voice chiding him for fucking his own life over after he just got to start it, and he's tempted.
Just to listen, because once Jake gets started on that lecture he'll talk forever, and all Kauri has to do is hum sometimes to show he hears it.
"Hey." The guy takes a joint back, blows smoke at him, giggles with an odd high-pitched tone that makes Kauri's teeth itch. "How many dicks you think you can suck before the movie ends?"
For one single solitary second, Kauri lets himself feel a well of loathing and shame that will shatter him to pieces the size of glitter flakes if he lets it. In a room full of strangers, they all know what he is as soon as he walks in the door.
Oh, they may not know why he covers his wrist in long sleeves and leather bracelets, but they know what he'll do, and that he won't say no.
They know Kauri Grant is always up for anything, or anybody, at any time.
For just that one breath, he thinks that if he has to keep going like this, he'll just turn himself in to WRU, because at least Owen doesn't pass him around. Owen wants his pretty little Vince-slut all to himself.
And fuck, wouldn't it be better than living like this?
Then he pushes it back down, reminds himself that if he goes back to Owen he won't get to talk to Jake or Nat or the little redhead that just showed up again. He tells himself to give it another few weeks, maybe it'll get better.
Just a few more weeks.
Kauri takes another long hit from the joint, sucking it from right between the guy's fingers, and when he exhales, he breathes, "Don't know, but why don't we find out?"
"Awesome! Kauri, you are the fucking best." The guy hands the joint off to someone else, and his fingers are on his zipper a minute later as he watches Kauri with heavy-lidded eyes. Kauri turns, shifting from seated to kneeling, pressing hands on the guy's knees to spread them even more, swallowing against the nausea threatening to boil back up his throat.
He can't. He can't throw up right now.
Not until that pill dissolves and he forgets to give a fuck about this anymore. Until he forgets that he hates these people, and the drugs, and the alcohol, and his entire fucking life that he has to live because Vincent fucking Shield didn't want to fuck Owen Grant.
He puts every ounce of training into it, and after the third guy his jaw hurts too much to think anyway, and the world has gone soft and glimmering around the edges. Everyone tastes like apples and sugar because of the liquor they keep feeding him, and everyone tells him how good he is, how sweet, how fucking pretty.
It feels good, or at least it feels less terrifyingly bad than he felt before, and that's pretty much the same thing when you're Kauri Grant.
The fourth guy's hands are in his hair and Kauri's sure he'll be done any second when the guy's eyes widen, staring down at him. Kauri sucks hard and he jerks his hips forwards and buries himself so deep that Kauri would gag... if he still could.
Nope.
They trained that out of him, just like they made sure he could never say no.
"Jesus," The guy groans, rolling his hips forwards, the others at the party crowding close and cheering him on or waiting for their own turns, "You're so fucking good at this. Mmmmn, baby, has anyone ever told you you look just like Vincent Shield?"
summary: uraraka eavesdrops on midoriya’s phone call. midoriya x gn!reader.
cw: gender neutral pronouns used. uraraka-centric. one-sided uraraka x deku, unrequited love. suggestive. 18+. implication of exchanging of nudes and masturbation. mentions of alcohol, drugs, drunkenness. mentions of food. knife and stabbing metaphor for heartbreak. pet-name, babe, used toward deku.
wc: 1,986.
Uraraka had fallen asleep before she could make her move.
It was Deku’s belated housewarming party—extremely belated, considering he had been living in the apartment for a year and a half now. With everyone’s hectic hero schedule, it had been hard to get their graduating class together until today. Waiting for that long meant that the housewarming party leaned closer to a house party; friends of friends were invited, and Deku’s rank and charisma had brought in new contacts and new companions.
The apartment was filled with low music and high laughter, undercut by the flavorful aroma of food that people brought. Uraraka caught up with everyone from her graduating class, introduced herself to people she didn’t recognize, and played drinking games that made her feel young and reckless again. People came and left quickly due to patrols, so it never felt too crowded or too tight.
All in all, it was a good night—as good a night as any to confess, so it was the perfect night, actually.
Uraraka was finally tired of being on the side. She was going to waste her life away by waiting for the right moment to present itself, or, worse, for Deku to realize her burning desire and acknowledge it. She had decided to confess the night of the housewarming party due to her failed attempt earlier that week (during lunch, she had put her hand over his, only for him to absentmindedly pat it as he spoke, leaving her annoyed and fuming).
For a confidence boost, she had a few shots; that was supposed to have been it, but her nerves convinced her into drinking several cups of jungle juice. Then, to finish it up, Ashido gave her a tiny bite of an edible, further loosening her shoulders and softening her red cheeks. She had a nice pep talk with Tsu, and she even had a game-planning moment with Kaminari—but, when it was time to put the plan into motion, she choked.
She had grabbed Deku’s arm, said his first name with too many z’s, and slurred out that she loved his new haircut and that she was so proud of his muscles—and then she passed out.
It was in his arms at least.
His face had been beet red when he had caught her, the last thing she recalled, and she would’ve thought it was a good sign had she not known how easy it was for him to turn any shade of red. Uraraka had once seen his ears flush deeply when a fan had simply asked for an autograph, but that was part of why she liked him so much—Deku was humble and sincere; he was both good and great all at once.
Hours later, Uraraka groaned; her consciousness slowly flickered awake, pushing back against the siren call of sleep and the pleasant haze of alcohol. Her cheek was pressed into the couch cushion, a little wet from where she had been open-mouthed drooling. She wiped at her face, but the alcohol made it difficult to gauge distance and power, and she ended up smacking herself harshly in the chin.
Suddenly, there was a warmth: a hand gently tucked her traitorous arm back into her side and shifted a blanket up to her shoulders. She was quickly encompassed by the familiar scent of detergent and vanilla—the familiar scent of the boy she adored and the man she could love (could love because she was too scared to think that she was already that far gone).
Uraraka forced her eyes open against the weight of the night, deciding, in her still foggy mind, that his lingering fragrance was a sign from the universe that her chance was still within her grasp. As her eyes focused against the dim light of the few lamps still softly lit in the apartment, she could hear the scattered snores and delicate breathing of the remaining guests.
She heard Deku move again. In the corner of her blurry eyes, she saw him draping a brown blanket over Tsu. When Uraraka tried to shift her head, the room began to spin. This was her moment, though, she thought heatedly. Tonight was supposed to be her night. He was right there. She could get his attention and then—she didn’t know if she would tell him everything all at once, but whatever she’d end up saying would be better than how she had been living the past several years.
But as soon as she had made up her mind, she heard Deku speak softly—“Yeah, they’re all passed out.”
The words died in her throat as she suddenly found herself embarrassed and unsure. She didn’t know why the feeling of being rattled washed over her sp abruptly. If he was talking to someone in the apartment, she shouldn’t feel concerned, but… There was something in his voice—a lilt or a tone that she couldn’t quite explain, that she hadn’t heard before.
“Ah, Ochako, Tsu, and Aoyama are in the living room, Mina and Yaoyorozu are in the guest bed, and Kaminari and Sero are in my bed—I think Mineta is still in the bathroom cuddling the tequila bottle Kirishima brought.”
She heard a distorted snort, a muffled laugh buzzing through a phone. The volume was loud enough that she could make out the words; she just needed to push through the haze of sleep and alcohol, and focus.
“Sounds like it was a good time.”
She could hear the voice—your voice—but she only vaguely recognized it. She couldn’t pull up a face in her mind, but she knew you were familiar, as though you had been introduced to her in passing and she hadn’t paid enough attention—and for some reason, there was something about that realization that unnerved her.
Deku chuckled quietly. “It was.”
“Did Katsuki come through?”
Uraraka stilled. You were on a first name basis with Bakugou?
No, maybe that was a good thing. Maybe that meant you were something to Bakugou and not to Deku.
—But wouldn’t that mean you’d be calling Bakugou? Why would you be calling Deku?
“Yes,” Deku responded, moving slowly about the room with what sounded like a trash bag now. “Kacchan actually brought a really nice gift, but he and Kirishima left after thirty minutes ‘cause they had patrol.”
“Ooh, what did he get you?”
“He got me a, uh, vicuña blanket?”
“Oh, that’s good shit. That’s expensive, you know.”
“You know what it is?” he asked in awed shock, dropping his voice when Aoyama rolled over onto his stomach, mumbling something in French. “I had to Google it—I didn’t even know how to spell it…”
The conversation seemed casual enough, Uraraka reassured herself. If you weren’t somehow connected to Bakugou (and, thus, to Deku by association), then perhaps you were an old friend. He could’ve met you post-graduation, during the time when everyone had temporarily disbanded as they tried to find their footing in the world of Pros. That could explain why she didn’t truly know you. Though it was a plausible theory, it still didn’t sit well in her stomach.
“How is it on your side?” he asked.
“It’s hot and bright as hell.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It sucks.”
“I’m sure there are some good parts that you’re overlooking,” he said.
Plain, simple, and uncomplicated. Yes, Uraraka thought. If Deku sounded tender, it was because he was kindhearted. There was no need to read so deeply into this.
She tried to relax, force her mind to fall back into the darkness that had been calling to her moments before. She felt ashamed for eavesdropping for so long, like an invasive, lovelorn schoolgirl. It wasn’t any of her business—but it (thankfully) sounded like a casual conversation. So, it was fine. She could try again in the morning before everyone else awoke. She’d just go back to sleep for now.
That was what she had thought anyways, but even as Uraraka tried to slip back into sleep, she found her brain was wired.
It just—this didn’t feel right.
It was surely past midnight—way past midnight—and Deku was up talking to you while he cleaned up after his friends. And even though it wasn’t a conversation that she was a part of, it still felt so…it felt more than private. It felt personal. Intimate. As if she was listening in on something that Deku was cupping secretly in his hands.
Deku dropped the bag in the trashcan, but she didn’t hear him move or speak afterwards.
It was quiet. He was generally very talkative, so for him to not say anything, perhaps it meant this was special. How much was being said in that silence? How much of it she didn’t understand? Wasn’t privileged to? Her chest hurt, as if her body knew what she wouldn’t yet admit.
Finally, she heard him ask, “How much longer will you be there?”
“You ask this every night.”
“It changes every night.”
“Barely.”
“…It gets closer every night.” His voice was soft. Tender. Full of the longing she dreamt of, the same longing in her own voice.
You responded with an amused chuckle. She could hear the affection even through the distortion of the phone.
It was quiet again. Uraraka held her breath.
“I miss you.”
He said it gently.
He said it desperately, desperate like the aching in her chest.
“It’ll be just one more month, Izuku.”
He sighed. “One more long month.”
“Well… I sent you those pics the other day to help hold you over. You didn’t like them?”
Uraraka heard his voice catch.
“I—um…”
“Did you get off to them?”
“H-hey…!”
“Don’t be embarrassed; that’s what they’re for.” You snickered. “Send me a video next time.”
“I’m…I don’t think I can do that.”
He sounded breathless.
It was easy to make him red, easy as pinching his cheeks and congratulating him, but she wondered how hard it was to make him breathless. She wondered how easy it was for you.
She had never done it before.
“If I send you a video, you’ll have to send me one back.”
“I—um.”
You laughed again.
What did you look like, she wondered. Did your eyes have the mischievous gleam that your voice had? Were your cheeks rounder than hers? Were you taller? Kinder? Would you be laying here eavesdropping, too, or were you better than that? She chewed the inside of her cheeks, finding herself creating faces in her head and trying to match them up to what she could hear of your voice. She imagined you in different scenarios with Deku, replacing her with you in her memories, and her insecurities and nerves and sorrow had him react to you differently than he had to her, more loving and affectionate, more attentive and devoted.
She felt she had just been stabbed in the chest, and yet there she was, masochistically digging the knife deeper into her sternum.
If you were his significant other—if you were his lover—why didn’t he tell anyone? Why didn’t he tell her?
And…if he had you, where did that leave Uraraka?
“Hey, Izuku, go to the bathroom. I have an idea.”
“Mineta’s passed out in the tub.”
“The guest bathroom, then. Solutions, babe.”
Babe...? Her chest tightened. That wasn't something she could ignore.
He inhaled shakily.
Did she ever have that affect on him?
“Put me on video, Izuku. Go, go, go.”
He sighed, but he headed toward the guest bathroom, his footsteps quiet and eager. In the dim light, Uraraka strained to hear his breathlessness and your laughter until he disappeared around the corner. Then, she curled beneath the blanket and breathed in his vanilla scent, the closest she’d ever get to having him in her arms, the closest she’d ever get to having him against her chest.
"Believe it or not, Halloween is a pretty busy night for me! You wouldn’t believe how many people drive under the influence, or jump kids for their candy, sometimes even much worse! The plus side is, nobody expects you to have actual powers and just think I’m wearing a bad costume.”
CW: Drunkenness, alchohol in general, some implied dubcon starting at *** and ending at the next ***, magical mind manipulation, restraints, religious talk
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three
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One year prior to present-day
He still thinks of himself as Brother Grigori, in his mind, even though he walked away from the temple in the middle of the night months ago. He abandoned his goddess and her open arms in a fit of rage and grief, in the aftermath of a week’s worth of nightmares.
In his mind, he’s still Brother Grigori. To the world outside, though, he’s Greg. Or, well, mostly he’s the drunk over there.
He keeps his white robes carefully wrapped in canvas and twine, hidden in a bag on the bench beside him. He’s anonymous like this, just wearing a simple linen shirt and pants, rope sandals to take the edge off the boiling summer heat. His skin’s tanned to a constant warm, light brown now and his hair’s a mop he doesn’t bother to brush more than once every few days, grown out and streaked from sunshine.
No one would know him for a priest. Dromada’s Chosen seclude themselves in the temples, spend little time in the light. Priests are pale men in white robes who smile without pain or bitterness, and they certainly don’t hate themselves and sit up at night wishing they were dead. They absolutely don’t drink themselves into a stupor every single night so they won’t wake up screaming.
He looks nothing like the hero they made of him through well-intentioned lies and constantly expanding gossip, and that’s exactly how he likes it.
There are already four separate popular songs about his supposed courage and bravery. Standing up against the wicked bandits who want to tear the kingdom apart in the name of his goddess, his stalwart and true faith terrifying the evil men and women back into the dark of the great, thick woods.
None of these songs tell a story he recognizes as anywhere close to what happened.
He’s come to this tavern every day this week because it’s the one place where he never has to overhear any of the tripe they’ve made about his life. The barman, who also owns the inn upstairs, hates him - or rather, hates the idea of him from the songs, and has banned all the music that mentions his name, or even the thought of him.
Grigori is deeply grateful for him for it.
All the pretty nonsense played on lutes or sung in warbling voices about Dromada’s son, who stood up to the evil spat out by the Kaila trees… It’s all just lies, pointless lies to comfort the people. They want to think one man can make a difference. What could he even tell them? He couldn’t even save his own brothers in the temple. The men who had raised him from his infancy, and taught him to be holy and pure. When they could have used him, he wasn’t there.
If I had been there, I’d just have died with them.
The thought brings no comfort. It’s what should have happened, but didn’t.
He takes another drink, letting the liquor burn hot down his throat. He had never had anything stronger than watered-down wine in the temple before it all happened, and now he isn’t sure when he’s last been sober at all once the sun goes down.
Sobriety, for him, comes in bursts of hangovers - headaches and nausea and a stomach desperate for bread and butter nonetheless. Sobriety is the return of his self-hatred after he had spent the night before successfully drinking it away. Or sometimes not as successfully, but on those nights he just drank more and sooner or later he fell asleep with his head on the bar.
As long as he keeps paying, the barman doesn’t mind mopping up when ‘Greg’ spills a tankard or two when he forgets to keep holding onto it. Even if he suspects the man goes through his things when he’s passed out, he hasn’t said anything and he hasn’t kicked him out for being a priest who broke the vow of sobriety.
Grigory lets his head fall back against the wall, eyes closed. So many vows. He’s broken, what, two of them? To always wear his robes and make himself known as a Chosen of the goddess, and to pursue always sober living, staying away from wine that isn’t watered and all alcohol otherwise.
That leaves… poverty, chastity, obedience, and serenity.
He’s probably broken serenity, too, actually. Is being drunk all the time serene? Or the opposite? His hair brushes against his cheeks, and he wonders if blood vessels have begun to break, if he’ll get ruddy like the drunks he saw sometimes as a child, leaving offerings to Dromada and begging her forgiveness for the sins they confessed to the priests.
Dromada forgives, you have only to ask. So you have requested, so Her forgiveness is given. Walk in new peace and be free of your chains.
He hasn’t confessed any sins since the day the temple priests died and he didn’t. Not that it matters, not anymore.
Dromada isn’t listening. He isn’t sure if She ever did.
A cheery voice speaks entirely too closely to him, making him jump as his heart skips a beat. The voice is bright, slightly raspy and deeply masculine. “Well, don’t you need a haircut, a bowl of stew, and some clean shoes? Not necessarily in that order, of course.”
He blinks his eyes open, wincing a little as the light stings - even as dim as it is in here, the light stings. He needs to drink more. “What?”
A handsome man smiles down at him, a knit hat pulled low on his head, until it covers even the tips of his ears. White-blond hair sticks out the bottom over his forehead like hay, straight as a bone and every which way, but there’s a hint of closely-shorn hair just above his ears that suggests the sides are shaved. Unusually, his eyes are a thick and glossy black, with no sign of the shift between iris and pupil. It’s all one color, and seems to suck light in rather than reflect it. The stranger’s tall, having to lean over just to talk to Grigory where he sits, but he’s also lean, like a sapling ready to bend in the wind rather than break. “I said, you need a haircut.” The stranger reaches out and twines a bit of Grigori’s curly brown hair around his finger, letting it brush against his cheek.
He watches Grigori shiver with a slight, half-cocked smile, black eyes sparkling with a kind of good humor and interest that feels as dangerous as a threat.
“You also need a bowl of stew and some clean shoes. Sadly, only one of those can I be of assistance with. Bowl of stew, bit of bread? My treat, of course.”
“I… are you asking me?” The stranger nods, and Grigori hesitates… then sighs, and looks down, eyeing his sandals. Are they that dirty? They look fine to him. “No, but thank you. I am not hungry.”
“Don’t eat much these days, do you?”
Grigori’s frown deepens. “I eat when I am hungry.”
“No, you drink when you’re hungry. But you’re going to eat now.” The stranger laughs, bright and kind of beautiful, and Grigori blinks, his frown fading. He watches the man cross the room, calling out his order to the tavern’s owner, who looks over at Grigori with eyebrows raised. Grigori just shrugs, and goes back to his drink.
Or he tries to.
He has to stop when the stranger swoops in with two bowls of stew and a plate of bread balanced on the inside of one elbow, like a man who has waited tables in inns all his life. He then swipes the tankard from Grigori and chugs it all down, drops running from the corners of his mouth down over the long line of his throat.
Grigori’s mouth feels, suddenly, rather dry - for reasons Dromada would frown on, but Dromada already allowed his brothers to be sacrificed. He’s not sure he believes in her forgiveness and mercy anymore. No goddess who cannot protect her most devoted can be much of a goddess at all, can she?
“I see you undressing me with your eyes,” The stranger teases, and Grigori blushes even more deeply, dropping his eyes hurriedly back down to the steaming bowl of stew on the table before him, picking up his spoon with fumbling fingers and getting a bit of meat - cheap cut of beef cooked slow over a fire until it tasted as good as the richest man’s steak - and faking a consummate interest in the shimmering fat that had settled atop the broth. “None of that until we’re done getting some food in you. And no more beer until you’re full, either. Try dunking the bread in, it’s great.”
Grigori nods without looking up, afraid to see the sparkle in those eyes again. He’s never had anyone look at him like that before. Being raised by the priests, well… when you’re wearing Dromada’s robes, the people know you’re pure.
He feels like the stranger isn’t very pure at all.
“What’s-... thank you, for the stew,” He says around mouthfuls, discovering once he starts eating that he can’t seem to get himself to stop. His stomach growls after the first bite and somehow he finishes the bowl and starts sopping it up with bread in record time. “What’s your name?”
“Ooooh, he’s curious now that he can think,” The stranger says, still bright and cheerful. Grigori watches the line of his body as he sits back, fingers interlocked behind his head and elbows bent, kicking up his feet to rest his heels on an empty chair. “The formal name is Bohlinde hir Maksma en Ygridsen, which I hate. Call me Bohli.”
“You have a nobleman’s name?” Grigori’s curiosity gets the best of him and he looks up, eyebrows raising. “Or… partly. Maks is a noble house-”
“My mother was quite the little lady indeed,” Bohli says, and his smile twists sharp and cynical. Somehow it suits his equally sharp features, and Grigori feels an unsettling, unfamiliar shiver roll through him at the sight. Something about the room feels a little overheated, but when he glances over, there’s no fire in the fireplace, no reason for it. “My father… well. Ygridsen-”
“I know what it means.”
“You do?” Bohli’s smile stretches somehow even wider.
“Yes. We do training, in such things at-... at school.” He catches himself almost too late. He doesn’t share that he was a priest - no priest leaves his order, and they might find out who he is. He couldn’t stand it if that happened. He’d shrivel up and die, if the people had to see what their great hero really is. “Ygridsen means ‘god’s son’. You don’t have a father.”
“Well, I mean. Technically I have one. Just not the one my mother was married to when I was born.” He winks, and Grigori’s eyes narrow more in confusion than distaste. Bohli must misread it, though, because he sighs almost dramatically and grabs a hunk of bread himself, spreading it with thick butter. “Oh, what. Listen, my mother had an idea. It didn’t pan out for her, and here I am. Besides, you should be happy with me being a bastard.”
Grigori finds himself oddly fixated on the sight of Bohli’s long, thin fingers as he lifts the bread to his mouth and bites. A bit of butter sticks to one lip, melting against it. There are crumbs at the corners of his mouth. Grigori wants to do… something to it. But he doesn’t know what. “Why?”
“Because the man my mother was married to was ugly as a dog with mange and about half as graceful,” Bohli says, bright and cheerful, and then grins at Grigori’s shocked half-laugh in return. “There we go. See, I knew you’d be fun, given the chance.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Let me buy you another drink, since I finished yours.” Bohli lifts a hand and the barman finds his way over, pints of beer already ready to go.
Bohli pays for it all, seemingly no end to the coins he has on hand. At some point beer becomes whiskey, heady and too strong, and the room runs together along with all the people in it. Grigori opens up, a little - he doesn’t tell the truth about who he is, but he and Bohli talk about the dangers of travel in the countryside. Bohli nods sympathetically as Grigori explains how careful he is to avoid the Kaila and the bandits within, and how it means that he must always take the longer, winding route everywhere he goes. His words slur but Bohli seems to understand, or at least is polite enough to pretend to.
Grigori hasn’t realized just how lonely he is until he has someone to talk to and discovers himself utterly unable to stop.
Couching his words carefully, he even shares with Bohli that he is traveling because of the untimely murders of his family a year ago, and Bohli nods and murmurs comforting things and puts a hand on his shoulder, rubbing one thumb back and forth in a way that sends a strange heat deep in Grigori’s stomach. He tips his head, looking at that hand, a little confused by its placement there. And far more confused by the fact that he doesn’t want it to stop being placed there, unless it moves down.
“I think I know how to help you,” Bohli says, and Grigori doesn’t know when it happened but the man’s lips are moving against his ear. His breath is hot and Grigori has to hold back a sound, something odd and helpless.
Is this-?
This is temptation. Sins of impurity, unchastity. This is his body wanting another’s, more shameful than the nights he wakes up in damp sheets from sweat and has to furtively clean and purify himself after the impure dreams that the priests say are natural, but will fade, in time.
Dromada’s priests are dead. The men who found him, raised him, made him one of their own… slaughtered by the Kaila-born bandits, destroyed. What use is chastity to a priest with no temple?
Grigori has to hold back a groan when Bohli’s fingers drift up to graze up the side of his neck, up into the nape, into his hair.
“You have a room here?” Bohli asks, all hushed voice and too much breathing against thin, sensitive skin.
Grigori nods, not trusting his voice, and grabs his bag and stands so fast he knocks his chair over, making Bohli laugh that beautiful brilliant bell-like laughter, drawing the eyes of the room.
Everyone knows what they’re about to do.
Everyone.
Just by the sight of Grigori all but fleeing to the stairs and the back half of the building, Bohli hot on his heels, still laughing.
****
Grigori has barely dropped his bag and closed the door when Bohli slams into him, surprisingly strong for such a lithe body, shoving his back against a wall and kissing him with a fervor that steals every ounce of willpower he might ever have had to resist.
The world is still spinning, from desire or drink he can no longer tell, when Bohli drops to his knees and yanks Grigori’s pants down until they tangle around his ankles. “Stay still,” Bohli orders, and takes him - already half-hard even not quite knowing what comes next - into his hand. The heat and grip makes Grigori shudder and let out a sound like a cry. It’s nothing like his own hand, nothing at all.
“Ssssshhh, keep it down,” Bohli says, but that teasing smile is back and his hand starts to move, stroking languidly. Grigori has to grit his teeth against the urge to simply spill right here and now, before anything has even gotten started. He swallows and closes his eyes so he can’t see the incredible sight of Bohli’s black eyes as his mouth closes slowly over him.
Grigori probably cries out again, but at some point Bohli stops shushing him and he no longer cares. He comes once and his knees buckle, but Bohli refuses to stop and brings him back to hardness again too soon, his back on the floor and the man straddling him, before he strokes him off a second time, laughing in a way that would be sinister if the pleasure weren’t so overwhelming.
Somehow they find their way into the bed, and Bohli brings him to his peak a third time, a mix of hands and mouth.
“Three,” Bohli whispers, when Grigori is boneless and sated. “That’s a sign if there ever was one.”
“Sign of… of what?” Grigori murmurs, eyes closed, drifting somewhere just before sleep claims him. Bohli is still fully clothed next to him, murmuring sweet soft things and tracing little patterns on his skin.
“Don’t worry about it,” Bohli whispers. “Just sleep, pretty man.” He kisses Grigori on the cheek, sweet and soft, and Grigori falls into the darkness, content in his sin, reveling in the broken vow. He can feel guilty and go to Confession tomorrow. He can worry about that when he wakes and has to feed the hangover again.
He sleeps without dreams, grateful for the peace he’s been given by this stranger he only just met, how his body’s release unlocked some rage and horror he’d been holding tightly within him and gave it the freedom to go.
***
He wakes with a groan, finding his arms stretched above his head, arching his back as he stretches further.
“Oh, damn,” Bohli’s voice says, husky and low. “Now that’s a pretty sight. They breed all your priests to look that good with your robes off?”
Grigori’s eyes fly open, and he moves to jerk himself upright, but his wrists catch. Wide eyes roll back to look up, and he finds his wrists tied with firm knots to the headboard of the bed. His ankles are tied to the posts at the end, forcing him to lie spread-eagled, naked as the day he was born.
“Wh-... what-”
He turns to look, wincing against the stinging headache and the hangover throbbing behind his eyes, and sees Bohli standing over in the corner. He’s surrounded by the contents of Grigori’s bag, the white robes laid out on the floor, picking up the first hints of dust, along with everything else he has brought with him or bought since he left.
“Why-... I have nothing to steal,” Grigori starts, his body washing cold with something close to fear. He broke his vows for a man who will rob him? What a small mean awful thing to commit such a sin for. “Nothing worth buying!”
“Mmmmn, beg to differ, but I could see how you might think so.” Bohli steps carefully over and around Grigori’s only possessions, until he sits next to him on the bed. He leans over, patting him on the stomach as if soothing a frightened animal. “You have lots to offer, though, Brother Grigori.”
His heart skips a beat. “Why-... why did you call me?”
“Oh, silly holy man. I’ve been looking for you for a year. I’ve been following you for a month. I guess I owe you the twenty marks, though, since it took me this long. Guess I didn’t know where you’d go. Never occurred to me you’d just… fucking stop being a priest. I’ll pay you later.” Bohli grins. “In kisses.”
Grigori’s eyes widen. In a burst of panic and rage, his vision blurs and then clears again, his headache fading. “You!”
“Me!” Bohli grins. “Me indeed. You didn’t forget me completely, then?”
“You… you bastard-”
“Right again!”
“-you killed my family-”
“Technically, that wasn’t me, but Harren did it on my orders, so I guess kind of-”
“Why?!” The cry is one of sorrow, a barely-human wail. Grigori’s grief wells back up and washes out of him, tears burning and running down his cheeks. “Why?!”
“Damn,” Bohli whispers.
Grigori can’t tell if he sounds guilty or like he wants to bed him again.
“Listen. I’ll explain later, once I get you back home.”
“Home?” For a second, Grigori stupidly thinks of the desecrated temple and its empty halls.
“To the Kaila. We live there-”
“Never!”
That just makes Bohli sigh, as if disappointed in him for his lack of enthusiasm. “Oh, hush. You’re going with me whether you like it or not, you know, Brother Grigori. I have need of a priest.”
“You… no.” Grigori struggles against his bonds, the ropes pulling tight, red marks growing on his wrists as the skin rubs raw. “No! I will go nowhere with you!”
“Now, see, you’re lying. I guess if you don’t realize it, it doesn’t count. But, look. You’re going. And you’re going to tell everyone who you are on the way there.”
Bohli leans over, slipping something over his head. A chain with a pendant on the end, simple stone with a runic mark carved in the middle. Grigori feels the burst of elven magic, his mouth dropping open in shock, and then-
His mind feels cool, like slipping underneath the water in a pond, only he has no need to breathe. He can’t imagine needing to breathe. His thoughts are still and calm, contented. Bohli leans close and Grigori wonders how he could ever have felt anger at such a lovely, kind man. The trap spell in the pendant, the elven magic that takes hold of him, feels like being held in such a sweet and soft embrace. It feels like the water closing over his head.
“There we go,” Bohli murmurs. “Pretty-pretty. I’m going to untie you. When you get dressed, make sure you put your robes on, all right? I want everyone to see who you are. I want you to show them off.”
Grigori swallows, nodding.
He can do that.
“Good. Then we’re going to my house, and that’s where you’re going to live now.” Bohli’s fingers made quick work of the knots on the rope, and Grigori sat slowly up, blinking as if he had to push through a haze to do it.
When Bohli hands him the robes, he dresses, clumsily. Bohli has to help him tie the belt at his waist.
“Good. You look great. I’m going to pack your bag back up, and then you’ll come with me and be my useful little traitor to the crown, won’t you, Brother Grigori?”
Another nod. He’s not even sure he hears what Bohli is saying. Or cares. He just likes the sound of his voice.
“Good,” Bohli croons. “Very good. Let’s go. I have a king’s reputation to ruin, and you are going to be my secret weapon.”
Grigori follows him downstairs, smiling when the people there eating their breakfast gasp at the sight of his robes. He’s happy to tell them exactly who he is.
Happy to tell them he’s the Hero they sing about.
Happy to tell them he’s joining the bandits, now, in the Kaila, because the king cannot protect them.
Happy to get on Bohli’s horse, sitting just before him with Bohli behind resting his chin on Grigori’s shoulder, and ride away.
The pendant bumps against his collarbone, and when Bohli whispers, “Sleep upright,” Grigori closes his eyes and lets himself sleep deeper into the pool in his mind, until all is dark and quiet and calm and he knows no more.
(If you don't mind a spicy ask, based on something I heard on a stream last week it's like three sentences but still)
Kauri leans into Jake and smiles, "Wanna play the chair game?" "The what" "I need something hard to sit on."
Kauri leans over in a way that Jake has seen a thousand times before, and his wide blue eyes are dark when he smiles. "Wanna play th' chair game?"
His words slur together, just a pile of syllables only loosely understandable. Jake just keeps moving, putting an arm around Kauri to help him stay standing. "What the fuck did you take, Kauri?"
"Dunno. Pill in a guy's hand before he fucked me up."
"I think the pill fucked you up first. Do you even know the guy's name?"
"Nope. Why would I know that? I just called him-" Kauri pauses, coming to a sudden abrupt stop. Jake nearly trips on his own feet before he stops, too, looking over and down. Kauri looks almost stricken. "I..."
"Kauri? What's wrong?" Jake maneuvers around in front of him, hands on his shoulders. "What's wrong?"
Kauri's eyes are glimmering under the streetlights, the chaos and noise of the nightlife around them a repeat soundtrack Kauri seems to love hearing. "I... left my drink in the bar," He says, a mournful whisper.
"Oh, Jesus." Jake sighs and just leans in, picking Kauri up. Legs wrap around his waist and arms go around his neck instinctively. Jake's face reddens but he ignores the cheers of a couple of others nearby. Kauri waves at him - maybe he knows them. Maybe he doesn't.
"You didn' answer my question," Kauri says, and kisses his cheek. Jake doesn't acknowledge that either. "Do you wanna play th' chair game?"
"What's the chair game, Kauri?" Jake has a sinking feeling he knows the answer.
"... givin' me somethin' hard to sit on."
Jake sighs hard enough to nearly make himself black out from lack of oxygen, but Kauri throws his head back and his laughter is brittle and beautiful.
