a bradley bradshaw x reader halloween fic, based on scottish folklore.
1994. After years of studying and schooling, you're in the process of finishing up your PhD in astronomy when your supervisor suggests you take a holiday. Celebrate your last summer of freedom by heading somewhere that the stars are crystal clear.
You choose Scotland - it's where your late father is from, and you've always hoped to learn more about his roots and where he came from. Bradley joins you, and you both set out to camp in the Scottish wildlife for a few days before doing your rounds of the local cities and towns.
It'll be the perfect break before the rest of your lives.
Except, the very first night, you stumble onto something you were never supposed to see.
And there are people in those woods who don't want you to make it to morning.
summary: you're forced to marry a man you hate and play along as his dutiful wife. but what you what is revenge. || warnings: arranged marriage, main character death, injury, mentions of r@pe (one sentence, right at the end) || words: 690 || masterlist
READ THE WARNINGS ON THIS ONE!!
Feyd-Rautha knew you would be his from the moment he saw you. Your father, Leto, had presented you at Harkonnen court, as per the customs of his people. You moved with such grace and innocence that he wished to hide you from this world. Feyd did not listen to his Uncle as he discussed the arrangement with Duke Leto, choosing instead to stare at you.
A month later, you were married to the na-Baron and shipped off to Geidi Prime to play prized pet. You did not love him. You could not love him. Each night, he returned to your chambers far later than you. He climbed into bed and pulled you closer to him. But his touch brought you no comfort, only shame.
Three months after your union, you found yourself on Arrakis. House Harkonnen was celebrating the extinction of the Atreides, of your flesh and blood, your family. In the secret of your room, you let the tears fall, not caring enough about the loss of water but crying for your mother and father and brother who had been brutally murdered.
Since arriving on Arrakis, Feyd had required you to be by his side as much as possible. Even as Fremen attacks continued, he didn’t wish you surrounded by guards or back on Geidi Prime. He required you by his side.
And that was where you found yourself now. He held you to his side as the Fremen filled the chamber. They did not attack the Sardaakar, nor try to kill the Emperor. They waited and watched, blades drawn. They were waiting for him.
The Lisan-Al-Gaib. The Fremen’s Messiah that they followed without question. He marched into the hall, face shrouded in shadows and back turned as he muttered words to some men. He turned. And he was Messiah no more, now he was a very familiar face.
“Paul.”
Your brother was standing in front of you, alive. Paul was alive. The more you looked, the more you saw. Gurney Halleck was standing ten paces behind Paul and behind him was your mother, draped as a Reverend Mother. Without thinking, you pushed yourself away from Feyd and weaved towards him.
“Y/N.” The whisper of your name was all it took for you to launch yourself at him, hugging him tightly.
“I thought you were dead.”
Paul felt you relax in his arms. “What are you doing here?”
Feyd’s voice cut through the reunion, his drawl grating down your skin. “Wife…” You knew what he wanted. Feyd wanted you to return to his side, be loyal to your husband and stand against your own blood. The thought made your blood boil. Your face was murderous as you went to turn. But Paul caught your arm, meeting your eyes and silently communicating. He hugged you one last time but pressed a blade into your hand.
You slipped that blade beneath your skirts, settling your face into a far more demure look as you walked back to your husband. As you reach his side you tilt up to whisper in his ear.
“Did you know?”
Feyd subtly shakes his head. “Perhaps Uncle did.”
"Perhaps your Uncle will know when you are dead." You whisper back.
Feyd frowns, asking the silent question. What did you mean? Before he can speak, a blade is buried in his chest, digging into him. You had moved slowly, pushing it through his shield and supple flesh. The relief his imminent death brought you was immediate. This was a man who belonged to the house of your greatest enemy. His Uncle had ordered the death of your entire family and he had brutally hunted down Fremen for sport. This was the end of him.
You withdrew the knife, throwing it on the ground in front of him. "The blood is for you, my love." You recited the words he had spoken on your wedding night, when your blood and tears had stained the sheets and left you hurting for days.
This was personal, not just for your House. This was for you. No one could take that from you. He would not take anything from you again.
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Relationships: Andrew Hozier-Byrne/Original Female Character(s)
Characters: Andrew Hozier-Byrne, Original Female Character(s)
Additional Tags:
Bisexual Female Character, Forbidden Love, hot priest, Catholicism, Criticism of the Catholic Church, Inspired by Fleabag (TV), POV Alternating, no happy ending, Inspired by a Hozier Song, Dominant Woman, Submissive Man, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Explicit Consent, Oral Sex, Eventual Smut
Summary:
About a woman who already deconstructed her catholicism and who is trying to seduce a priest to “save” him from it, as she thinks. About a priest who thinks he has chosen his life path well, trying to bring his “friend” back to church, to “save” her. Fleabag-inspired priest!Hozier romance and smut. What can I tell you. This is for all the (ex)catholic women <3
Chapter 12: I Could Break Beneath The Weight
Word count: 836
Read also on AO3
Fic under the cut ↓
Notes:
Hi ! just so you know, I haven't forgotten about my blorbos :) in fact, I'm putting them in the tumbler again :3
Andrew
Andrew couldn’t focus on the rites for the next couple of hours, replaying that conversation, or rather, that monologue, in his head. It’s not exactly like he didn’t know about the Church’s problems… when he was younger, he had hoped to be the one to fix them, in his youthful naivety. And then he just kind of stayed…
Suddenly it struck him, a thought that felt like twisting the knife, that Father Kevin may have been speaking from experience. Andrew’s guess quickly triggered his disgust.
Nevertheless, Father Kevin clocked him right; he hadn’t been faithful to his vows. When Andrew had taken them, not so long ago, he really thought he would never touch a woman again. And yes, there were a couple of pretty parishioners every now and then who seemed to like him for more than just a good sermon and a kind word; usually some young girls giggling around him, or women trying to flirt with him; but he had always managed to ignore such behavior, redirect himself to prayer, to avert his eyes.
Until Mary.
What was it about her that he gave into temptation? Gave into sin?
What was it about her that made him risk disappointing God? Disappointing the parishioners, the curia, and, the worst part, disappointing his mother?
He’d been thinking a lot about that.
***
The night between Good Friday and Good Saturday finally fell. Jesus Christ was in his tomb, there was another hectic day of clerical work ahead, and Andrew was tossing and turning, emotions not letting him sleep.
He kicked his legs in anger at the memory of that conversation; he trembled from the horrors of what might have been going down under Father Kevin’s reign here; Jesus, what still might be going on right under Andrew’s nose. He shook with guilt how he hadn’t noticed it sooner, and from shame that he was the corrupt one now.
He reckoned that this conversation was bound to happen at some point; but this wasn’t how he wanted to proceed with it. He blamed himself for being too stunned to speak. This is not what he had signed up for. This is not how he saw the Church.
He felt like all his ideals were betrayed, even if he literally did betray them himself only days prior. He’d expected his mentor to scold him, threaten to relocate him, make him cut ties with Mary.
However, a very small part of him, very small, and he was not proud of it, felt relieved. That he was met with… understanding. There was, perhaps, some twisted comfort there.
When he heard the early birds sing and noticed the day start to rise, all the exhaustion finally led Andrew to be honest with himself.
There had always been signs.
But he had so much faith in how the Church could rehabilitate itself that it rendered him completely blind to how it actually was.
It had been quietly draining from him for years. He remembered that brief moment, it lasted maybe only half a day, when he almost resigned, right before coming to this parish. But he had nowhere to go, no plan, no back up, no other profession he saw himself do. Where does he put all this faith now? Where does it go?
Right now, he thought of Mary. How his love for her started to fill all this emptiness…
Wait.
Love?
***
Andrew got up from bed on Good Saturday morning, somber and exhausted; he hadn’t slept a wink. He wished he was like a river, clearing itself at all times, never static, escaping into the ocean. He felt confined to his anxieties, to his guilt, to his head, to this room, to this parish, to this city, to this island, and to this church.
He fulfilled his duties, one by one, his mind wandering elsewhere. To someone else. Mary.
He was thinking about that one little thing she’d said to him on St Patrick’s Day; that he could leave, if he wanted to.
Well, he didn’t.
He hadn’t.
He wouldn’t.
Andrew came such a long way, from a scared kid to a hesitant clerical student, to an eager priest. He became a vicar in such a young age, he now thought he might have been perhaps too ambitious, too idealist, because the injury of finally seeing the once revered institution for what it really is has been so sobering. He caught himself wishing to become oblivious to all this again, but he realized his heart, once full of goodness and love for the Church, now started weighing too much on him, suffocating him, bringing him down to earth.
On confession duty, he was so much in his head he was spiraling. He felt more and more confined, claustrophobic even, couldn’t stand being in the confessional. He took a break, much to the parishioners’ dismay, saying it was an emergency.
Well.
A priest having a crisis of faith certainly is one.
Part One of Foreigner's God
King Simon Riley X F! Faerie Reader
WC: 2k
Sunlight fractures through the leaves of age old oaks and ancient pines, dappling against your back, weaving through long strands of untamed hair to brush a kiss against your thinly clothed shoulders, spiders silk and gauze just barely fluttering on a phantom breeze stirred by the muted clopping of horse hooves on the forest floor.
The mare beneath you holds tension in her withers, matching the unpleasant knotting of the muscle between your shoulder blades. She knows what’s coming just as well as you do.
It’s been a long time since you’ve felt anxiety this way. It’s the kind of gnawing, unsettling feeling at the pit of your stomach that comes only from venturing away from the safety of the trees and caves, brooks and hollow roots you call home. Your people call home. You force yourself to swallow down the fear - remind yourself that you’re doing this for them. Without this sacrifice, your sacrifice, the woods and forests which serve as sanctuary for your entire species, would be gone.
The sick feeling in your stomach refuses to be soothed.
In an attempt to calm yourself, to tear your mind away from the images you’ve conjured of what may await you on the forest edge, you focus intently on every slow stride of your companion. You draw your thoughts to counting every rhythmic movement of her shoulders, the way they gently jostle your hips as you follow each motion of hers with one of your own. A push and pull of a gentle tide. She and you melt into one being, acting and reacting in such effortless synchrony, such enviable elegance. An innate ability for which your kind are revered.
Humans long lost touch with nature - shunned it in favor of such rapid growth, such vast power. They burned the trees to make room for their sprawling palaces, dug up the earth and all of her riches to build their roads, to grow their crops, never once wondering what she could provide had they simply respected her instead.
Your people had never done such a thing, and for that, you’d been blessed.
She’d provided you with everything you could ever have needed, and all you’d ever had to do was provide for her in turn.
That balance, that equilibrium, is what humans have long since forgotten.
Compromise, to them, is an impossible thing. To you and your kind, it’s an intrinsic part of life.
At this moment, you feel that perhaps you know compromise better than any.
The journey so far has been painstakingly long. On the one hand, it’s something you feel grateful for, that you’ve time to prepare yourself for the life that lies beyond the treeline. On the other, however, it’s excruciating. To ride through the forest, down the path away from the only life you’ve ever known, to mourn something you’ve not yet even lost. Every blazing orange dusk is another grain of sand dripping through the fingers of time, and every golden lighted dawn a death knell. You wonder if your sisters miss you the way you miss them. Your mother, too. Maybe they sit in quiet solitude, wondering what you’re doing at any given moment, or maybe they cry tears of frustration and anger at the fact that it could’ve been anyone else. Anyone but you.
The days before had been spent in a resigned sort of mourning. You’d saved your tears for the first days of your voyage.
You still so vividly remember sitting with your mother as she twisted up your hair, pinning it with flowers as she reminisced upon the girl taken by the last king. She’d been only as old as your youngest sister, Ophelia, when it had happened. Once every generation, every two, if you were at all lucky. You, unfortunately, were not.
She’d spoken of how silent everything fell when the girl had been sent away - the strange, pained feeling that had settled over your people as they’d watched her go resigned into the trees. She’d never come back, of course, a fate that you too share.
The small hope flickering like a fading ember at the bottom of your heart sings songs of longing. Such a foolish thing it is, holding out that perhaps the man who waits beyond the woods will love you, guide you to him with coaxing words and the gentlest of touches. You feel pathetic even thinking of it.
You never had quite outgrown your childish fantasies of love, and in turn, had given the humans holed up behind their cold stone walls another innocent heart to break.
When the sun shrinks back to nothing but a hazy golden glow, like that of a dying fire or burning star, you realize that more for your horse’s sake than your own, that it’s time to stop, to rest before you carry on with your journey. A day or two more and you’ll have reached the place where the canopy dwindles and the roots which cover the forest floor grow sparse, travel under the earth as though to hide from the human feet which march upon them. You hope for at least one more blissful sleep under the stars, moss under your head and night creatures watching your rest with vigilant, unseeing eyes.
Settling aside the small pond where your horse bends at her withers to drink, you lay up against the gnarled stump of a fallen tree, which yields to accommodate your body, just one of the many perks of being so connected with nature. You’ve no need to set up a campsite when the forest welcomes and provides for you with such ease. It’s not easy to forget the fact that the forest probably recognises the way you’re feeling - sympathizes with your predicament.
As you drift off into a fitful sleep, under the comforting twinkle of the stars, A king is waking.
Behind the fortified stone walls of the palace, the revelry celebrating the lead up to King Simon’s wedding has lasted for days.
To most, it’s an opportunity to celebrate. Their cold, reclusive king finally taking a wife. When the betrothal had been announced, the sigh of relief collectively exhaled by the nation had been palpable. He hadn’t wanted to do it - marry some wild forest thing and rut her full of little fat wailing babies. Johnny had been the unfortunate soul tasked with convincing him - reminding him that since Tommy passed, so did the soul heir to the Riley line. With enemies poised in the south, ready to exploit any weakness they could find, Simon hadn’t exactly had much choice. His being backed into a corner, however, hasn’t made him the most pleasant to deal with during the preamble to his rapidly inbound nuptials. For not only his sake, but also everyone else’s, he hopes that his bride-to-be is at least reasonably tame. With his luck? Highly doubtful.
His closest men had shared their theories and fantasies of some nymph-like creature, lovely and demure, happy to bend to Simon’s every whim, less wife, more well trained pet. Whilst he can appreciate a beautiful woman just as much as any man can, he keeps his expectations low - pleasant to be around and a decent conversationalist is enough for him.
He’s tried to expel the thoughts of marriage from his mind for as long as possible. He’s far too busy to be distracted with silly fantasies of rose petal decorated aisles and which rings he’ll select for his betrothed. Keeping a kingdom running and the vulture-like men that are his enemies at bay is no mindless thing. Simon barely has time enough to sleep, let alone celebrate a wedding he doesn’t want, nor to take the day-long trek to the agreed meeting place to collect his new wife. To collect his new wife. Parade her on horseback like some exotic acquisition to be flaunted, to grow bored with when the novelty inevitably wears off.
It’s impossible to ignore the way his knees creak as he rolls tiredly from his bed, the fathomless cold embedded in the very core of the flagstone floors seeping into his bare feet as he dresses himself. In spite of his status as King, Simon keeps his appearance reasonably simple, his tunics plain and armor scarcely decorated. Easier to dress. Simon Riley is a man of convenience, the bells and whistles of being monarch are nothing but a hindrance.
The celebrations have thankfully quieted, all of his courtiers and castle residents undoubtedly tired, hungover and sore from the days of singing, dancing and drinking - days which he’s mostly spent holed away in his study, playing chess with wooden carved soldiers on battle maps, giving the occasional go-ahead to wedding planners and burying his nose in any literature on strategy he can find.
Today, unfortunately, his kingly duties outweigh his reclusiveness.
He’ll only travel with Price to the meeting point - having originally wanted to go alone so as to make your initial meeting less intimidating, a point to which the head of his Kingsguard had made his disagreement abundantly clear. Yes, Price knows that Simon is fully capable of looking out for himself, but he sure as hell isn’t giving him any chance of proving that. He’s also desperate to get out of the castle and away from the mothers attempting to shove their daughters at his feet.
So, with huffed complaints about the weather, and the threat of oncoming rain, signaled by the gritty gray clouds blotting out the starlight, the two men set off. Hooves beat thunderously across stone, dirt and grass as they make their way past the walls of the city, through the dwindling suburbs of thatched roofs and smoking chimneys and out into the vast plains of the countryside.
The fresh air is a welcome reprieve from the smoke and burning metal of forges, the grassy hills and fields stretching for miles a refreshing break from the towering monoliths of stone that make up the palace. He can see why people would like it out here, away from the banal chatter of gossip and the unrelenting noise, left to grow stagnant within the confines of winding alleys or houses packed so closely together. Simon hasn’t even met you, and yet he already finds himself sympathizing for the adjustment you’ll have to make.
You, meanwhile, feel surprisingly more grounded following your nap, having allowed both yourself and your horse to rest for a while before continuing your journey. The gnawing anxiety in your stomach is soothed by the handful of blackberries you’d found and snacked on as you continued through the slowly more sparse woodland, and although you’re still wallowing, at least you’re not wallowing on an empty stomach and no sleep.
The sun slowly inches west behind the cloud cover, which quickly replaces the forest canopy you’ve always known, and tells you that in your mental absence, another day has nearly come and gone, and with that, the mileage covered which draws you closer to your inevitable fate.
The birdsong has long since gone quiet, and there’s no longer movement indicative of life in the shrubbery. Just you, and the parapet on which you seem to endlessly walk.
Until the forest seems to stop entirely. The trees halt their growth at some invisible boundary, wildflowers cease their spread with an unnatural abruptness and your stomach goes lurching.
Like you’ve jumped from a cliff. You’ve jumped from a cliff, you’re about to hit the ground, and everything in you is screaming for time to stop, for fate to twist, for the inevitable to be somehow avoided.
You could turn back. You could still turn back, and the forest would welcome you home with open arms. You could go home to your sisters, to your mother and the magic woven into everything you’ve ever known.
You could turn back - but in turning back, you’d only shatter the fragile peace forged so weakly between your own people, and those who’ve come to take you away.
“Looks petrified.” Price observes from where he and Simon stand proud upon the hill, watching as a faerie on a white horse comes emerging tentatively from the treeline. You do, you poor, delicate thing, Simon thinks to himself as he, Price, and their imposing black friesians make their way to greet you.
Happy Foreigner's God day to those who celebrate
1.8k and 2k are basically the same so pls enjoy the 1st chapter 💕
