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caffeinatedmunchkin · 3 days ago

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"So I turned to the Lord God and pleaded with him in prayer and petition, in fasting, and in sackcloth and ashes." Daniel 9:3-5

St. Mary of Mercy Preparatory School for Girls is a paradise. His Eden. A garden of kindred souls he tends by day. Vibrant and new, petals unfurled fragrant, these flowers stretch towards him like he's their sun; for his is the hand that waters and weeds, and he is the warmth that nurtures. A flock of little lambs whose deference borders fawning. He doesn't encourage, nor does he mind. His role in their lives is to keep them on the straight and narrow, and most importantly, keep them with God.

Father Brennan {The First Omen} x Fem Reader ✞ 25.5k ✞ Explicit

✞ Warnings: Dead dove - sacrilege - religious themes, practices, and imagery (Catholicism) - dubious consent - underage* - older man/younger woman - psychological warfare - unhealthy relationships - canon divergence - alternate universe - male masturbation - obsessive behavior and fantasies - hierophilia (Priest kink) - fetishization - dubious morality - praise kink - smoking - drinking - guilt and self-loathing - jealousy - love confessions

*reader is of unspecified high-school age. No younger than 17, if picturing 18 makes you more comfortable by all means plug it in. I kept it vague and not expressly stated for that reason. Cheers.

Acts of a Penitent (1/3)

Crossposted on AO3

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"Bless me Father, for I have sinned."

He can't help but feel the words on your tongue are loaded. A trap sprung apart should he dare lift his foot from the plate. Knuckles rapt hard for reaching towards the fruit dangled. Ripe and yielding. Dewdrop glistening early morning temptation.

"It's been... a while, since my last confession."

A formality scripted. He well knows when last your confession was.

The Sisters expect the girls to go once each week, if not every other. Your last confession with him was teetering on a month, another strike against you he didn't deem pertinent to inform the Sisters of. Coming at all and coming earnest is the bit that counts, is what he believes. Just as praying doesn't need to be done in a church to be heard. All it requires is heart, a desire sincere.

A soft smile you can't see, Father Brennan does his best to wear it on his voice for you instead. "No need to be shy, child. You're here now, and that's what matters."

This new generation of girls impresses more than their predecessors. A society streaked with rebellion, loud and out-spoken. But the broken-mold upheaval has claimed not a single of his lambs. They stick close by, and come when called. A feat to be proud of, it only demands his renewed obligation for his problem child. His personal interest in your case. Your faith is being tested. Belief you've stretched beyond recognition, you've come to him to bring it back to shape.

"I'm just... struggling, Father." The words need to be coaxed, a skittish babe hunkered under the brush. Sniffing at his hand, head tilted up towards the sound of his encouragement. Coarse in it's cadence, there's a comfort in the low tonality. He doesn't shun. He's an embrace. He's shelter.

His flock is prosperous, a responsibility he regards with the utmost probity. Curled white obedience, velvet soft fidelity. A gaggle of young ones whose eyes sparkle when he rounds the corner, or enters the class. Their kind shepherd come to herd.

And then there's you. You follow him, but straggle and catch in the fray. You stray to wolf dens and cliff-sides. You rear and butt at your sisters. You yip at the elder sheep who try to offer the grass, nose turned even in starvation. But to his out-stretched hand you gallop forth, wobbling coltish, your eagerness unfeigned.

He's taken with you. Your stubborn inclination. Your curiosity. Your black fleece.

He's always drawn to that. The contrarian. The outlier. The challenge. The one most in need of salvation. He tells himself it's commonality. Necessity. The mantle he takes up as one who guides, who cares.

The power of allure is an old friend to him now. Father Brennan is far better acquainted with the taint of temptation, and how easily the lost are lead astray, then he'll ever admit. A unique perspective to bolster a vigilance weaponized. Your behavior has made you undesirable for the Sister's to curtail, but he will not stand idle while you're ravaged by skepticism, and picked clean by doubt. He will not allow you to fall through the cracks. He will not fail you.

"What sort of struggle?" He must tread slow, deliberate. Earn back the trust he fears he's lost from negligence assumed, unintentional oversight. What else would see your devotion tested? "Is there something specific?"

"I'm just feeling... distracted, lately." A gentle throat clearing, a delicate sniff. "I'm not really sure how to explain, but... I feel...," you huff, and begin again. His lips twitch curved empathy, not that you can see. "The church, God - they don't seem as important as they once were." You then hurry to clarify. "It makes me feel guilty."

"Oh, child." He relaxes against the wall, looking off nowhere in particular as clasped hands dangle between his thighs. "That's perfectly natural at your age."

"So this is something I'll outgrow?" You make yourself sound just hopeful enough that his next heart-beat thumps a fissure to pull apart in the tissue. Something bleeds from him there; pooling within the chest cavity. An endless well. Bubbled up to spit and smother. Viscous, slippery. A beginning.

"Even those on in years can become estranged from their faith. No need to fret. So long as you open yourself to him, trust that his word is true, you'll never stray farther than his reach."

Precious hopefulness turns rabid on a dime. He throws a bone but you pounce him instead. Digging, pawing, sifting. A stomach hollowed and grumbling for exploitation. Starved for something you can't place, you can recognize the smell. Salivating and curled inward, you smell it on him. On good Father Brennan.

"Do you ever struggle, Father?"

Realization mounts steadily that this is less a confession, and more spiritual counsel. A test to see if broken pieces match. Still, he affords you his time, his shoulder. These crucial pauses to win your favor he can almost taste. Things unsaid, things ached to say, haunt your open-ended lilts. Candied praline and powdered sugar in every skipped beat. Faint, he parses it through the stuffy smog of the confessional. He thinks on it a moment, and decides to entrust with you his truth.

Priests are, of course, only men.

"Aye, that I do."

"You're teasing me."

A chuckle seeps from the width of his chest, vibrating around his collar. "Never." Amusement worn like pride.

He's approachable, he's flawed. He's human. There's a reason why the girls take to him the way they do. Why he's held his position for so long, and only becomes more beloved with time.

Complacency a sheet of ice above a lake, he can neither see nor feel it thinning beneath his soles, the haze of a dawning spring warming his shoulders and nape. Honey-bees orbiting chrysanthemum, lavender lemonade, gingham print and large, pretty bows. A sweet smell. A distraction.

"No temptation has overtaken you except something common to mankind; and God is faithful, so he will not allow you to be tempted beyond what you are able, but with the temptation will provide the way of escape also, so that you will be able to endure it." He quotes to share with you his strength. "I give you my honest truth. Nothing in life worth having is easy. We already hold his faith, in who we are, in what we do. Trust in yourself, lass. Distractions are fleeting, you'll find your way back."

"What if I never do?" A moment of silence as he considers your plight. Whipped vanilla melting on the tongue. An indulgence that carries too long, it sheds you antsy from your side of the confessional. "I don't know if I can trust in myself, Father. Some days I don't even recognize who I see in the mirror. It only makes me wish I was someone else." You confess in struck chords. Plucks of youths tumults and woes he remembers from once upon a time.

"Conviction is always tested by greener pastures. Commitment to a love you cannot touch is a tall order." His fingers find his collar. Hard, shining white. A piece of his armor. A last defense against the distant tick-tock-tick-tock of utter catastrophe. The seconds before a disaster captured black and white and catalogued for future observation. A history that repeats. Cold sweat and crisis of faith in your lush decadence. A twinge sprouts in his stomach, a body chastised for skipping breakfast. "A servant to God is a servant to his children; I'll help you, child. You can trust in that."

It's a pledge made raw. An honesty as brutal as his own struggles. He's made a confession from the wrong side of the booth. Only one of you seeks repentance.

"Thank you, Father Brennan." He can hear your relief in the smile he can't see. Gooey and confectioner sweet.

There's a hole gaped and pulsing where reconciliation should be. Gnawing and troublesome. A dog he adores, house broken, whining next to her mess, tail between her legs. He dismisses how you devoured his truth. Became sated by the weakness, offered like scraps from the table.

A hunger identified by a hunger known. He forgets it just as quick.

November's chill burst bright and wondrous, nipping him blushed in the walk over from the rectory to the school. It's a pleasant jaunt that takes all of about five minutes with a brisk gait.

1971 is on the horizon, in the creep of sunlight that lifts like a veil over the Earth, flooding it pale and harsh. In the mild breeze that lingers a little longer, a little cooler, his black sport coat all he needs as protection. In the tree-lined perimeter dying slowly, beautifully. Decay romanticized.

The colds moisture will soon dry out, raw and bitter to January bleak. The start of a new year always held such promise, even in all its gray.

The former decade suggested challenge, as it's one seduced by hedonism. The newest senior class of girls, his elder flock, are a good lot. Fine Catholic girls who subscribe to the faith he's sworn to uphold.

The school day has yet to begun, and he surveys the domain in the hushed tranquility before the first bell tolls. The quiet halls and clean scent. Lemons and basil in the waxed floors and laundered upholstery.

The school, like it's staff, is pristine. Infallible. The picture of where both the affluent upper-class, and scrimping blue-collar Catholics alike come together. The place they want their darlings enrolled. The air of exclusivity no more than an illusion, for money is money, and the gold-plated tabernacle won't pay for itself.

Empty, sparkling classrooms. A vast auditorium, state of the art. A library, full and still, its glass doors opposite an open parlor bathed in sun from all the windows surrounding it. Father Brennan moves through the halls like it's the first time all over again.

When he'd arrived just a few months before the school year was set to begin, and the doors officially opened. He had been Father Brennan for a decade then, an Irishman abroad.

The Great Depression swept through all of Ireland without prejudice. A young lad such as himself with the duty of caring for his mother left him with few options. It was either employment at Dunlop Rubber, the factory that killed his father, IRA recruitment that combed through for young men in need of a cause for their zeal, or the cloth.

His household was one of devout Catholics, just like every other household in South Dublin. Not even the death of his father, nor the subsequent financial exacerbation to a family barely getting on kept them from church on Sundays. Going from not a care in his world to the role of patriarch left behind for him to fill. A life of devotion only made the most sense. Eight years in a seminary quelled his rampage, tempered his hunger. His ma had bragging rights, and an extra shine to her eye.

His priesthood, shining and new, sent him straight away on a mission to Africa. The war at it's height, a priest of neutral soil wouldn't be perceived as a threat. Two years later and his return home was celebrated, and the opportunity gifted.

A private school slotted to open for the end of 49', state-side. Lodging through the on site rectory. It's own church right on the premises for he and the students. And a flock to call his own.

All he had to leave behind were the memories of his youth. Minor celebrity in his hometown. A mother who couldn't have been prouder of her one and only son, the American-bound priest. Checks mailed every month like clockwork to keep her comfortable back in Terenure. The tie to his place of birth held knotted by letters and the odd phone call.

A sweeping stretch of land, the dormitories take the left, to the right the rectory where he resides full time, and situated smack in between is the crown jewel of it all. The church. Complete with an office specifically for him, where his his psychology degree hangs framed.

Set back behind the school, to forever cast it in it's shadow. A-frame, red brick. A large circle of stained glass the only south facing window. A sturdy cross of wrought-iron juts from the roofs peak like a weather-vane. A single statue of Mother Mary greets at the front steps. Just on the outskirts of the city proper, St. Mary's boasts accommodations for girls whose parents wish to board them, but not every girl does.

A small handful stays on with he and the Sisters. That number waxes and wanes negligible with every new year, every graduating class replaced by the latest freshman. Ages 14 to 18. Most are Italian-Americans, though there is a healthy mix. A handful of Irish-Americans slip into the fold, their immigrant parents tickled by the notion their second generation daughters would be led by one of their own. Another feather in the school's cap.

A roster of nuns that sing his praises, an administration of kind middle-ages that say his name with fondness, and smiles to match. Most of the faculty are women, save for no less than two male teachers. Mr. Bradner, the music teacher, and Mr. Amato who oversees second year chemistry. That just leaves him. Father Brennan. The priest of their comfortable, woman-dominated ecosystem. The one and only. The way it's been for the last twenty years and some change.

All the change to take place those decades were the new faces to replace the graduates, and the new principal ten years prior. Not only a woman, but a nun. Cutting edge progressiveness for the turn of the 60's.

Sister Annette was an interesting woman. Senior and unassuming, she wore high slacks and turtlenecks unlike the habit of her sisters. Ever unreadable in her malaise of authority, one could always tell from her lacking expression exactly how she felt when she addressed you.

In her office hangs two pictures, in the space between her desk, and the seats for those on trial before her. The insentient witnesses of her adjudication. A portrait of Jesus Christ, next to a landscape of the Philadelphia Eagles.

"Oh, Father Brennan, I didn't know you were a fan?" She once chirped, shadowing her own door as she caught him staring. The one and only time she regarded him with any sort of genuine fellowship.

"Oh no, not me. Not of the NFL in general, you see-I'm partial to college. You might call it boyhood loyalties, or some such."

Mates with the Notre Dame placekicker from way back in his heyday. A clarification she neither needed nor wanted, given the light of camaraderie promptly cut by blinked disappointment.

He stops in the parlor to gaze through the glass. Proper trees grown sturdy, and thickets of shrubberies wait for his appraisal in the glow of matured dawn. Amber-golden foliage swept to neat piles cleared of the paved walk, courtesy of the grounds keeper. He remembers when he arrived to the property, the day he moved in.

What's now a true and proper garden was then little more than saplings and fresh mulch. He likes to visit it each morning, to admire it's progress, how it fares each season. He's watched it sprout from nothing, after all. A sign of longevity. His accomplishments symbolized in flowered brush and leaves. He too sprouted from nothing much at all. Home grown and lived enough, his roots have taken hold, well nourished. Come the spring there will be even more blossoms than the last.

He carries his years in weary shoulders, broad but drawn. Creased by laughter even while stoic, and cracked by crows feet. An elder age that garners enough respect, but not decrepit enough to disconnect from the youth he is to shepherd. Both feet sunk firm in his fifties, he was a far cry from strapping. Features prominent and severe, the moths drew to his flame because of his nonchalance. A rigid academic structure whose spiritual head was prepossessing in his candor, his notorious blind eye. Blue that blinds. A crooked, gentle exasperation behind the Sisters shoulders. A push-over, he was often accused.

A swell of chatter muffled then rings loud and clear in time with the bell. Gaggles of laughter and the usual begins the day, pouring in from the double-doors of the main entrance. His lambs. Good catholic girls; kilts and cable-knit and crucifixes. Bare-faced, un-manicured, and sincere. A flock of pure white and pure hearts. Teens both finicky and unconcerned, just like their parents coming together to decide on St. Marys, the girls come together to decide on him. They prefer his guidance to the pinched face Sisters. Sour and serious at all times, such as their reputation hinges on dismal, closed off approaches. Disapproval down to the very ritual of eating their lunches in the lounge, a huddle of black and white that pick apart the girls' devotion over egg salad and iced tea.

Stood tall and dark before the windows to the garden is where they always find him. Good Father Brennan. Hands in the pockets of his slacks. He's a plain man. Acute stare softened by the rings in his trunk. His Irish once hot-blooded and quick was now lax, quiet as the halls in the early morning. Sharp edges honed blunt. Wolfishness subdued, old and tired. He greets the girls with sleep still heavy in his throat. It's surrender, but sweet surrender nonetheless.

The sparkling ewe eyes and deferential bleats sing in reply. A sonorous chorus that follows in his wake. Throughout the halls, they grin and giggle; "Good morning, Father Brennan." "Good afternoon, Father Brennan."

His smile is kind, his nod measured. "Good morning, girls." An accented baritone smokes the mundane just exotic enough to keep them interested.

To keep them listening. To keep them faithful.

Another successful service, the ceremony has long since ended. Pews empty and stiff. The setting sun floods the wood columns and stark white between pink and hazy. Blushed and content with his performance, as the afterglow of dusk soothes it reverent.

He had once heard a comedian liken the work of a priest to the crowd work of an entertainer. There is a certain finesse to engagement, and the act of worship is one for lovers. He loves his church, the voice she gives him. He's learned her architecture, familiarized himself with her needs. He's nothing if not astute. In the aftermath of a particular job well done, she purrs for him.

He busies himself at the altar, alone with his thoughts, in the bliss of a mass concluded. His sermon hummed in the stretch of his lungs, the blood pumped in his veins. The motes of dust suspended in the shafts of technicolor. Twinkling satiation provided by such finesse. His competence, his projection.

"Quod ore sumpsimus." Uttered grave and humble, low enough to keep the words between he and God. One such ray, yellow and gold with a splash of green, catches him as he purifies the Ciborium over the chalice. Wide palms and broad shoulders radiant in stained glass light, like he's every bit the redeemer he's hailed. A bell jar of relevance.

The Christmas season seems to start sooner each year. Orange clove and pine zing each inhale citrus clean and nostalgic. Poinsettias dot the dais red and white. Beautiful and lush, the curated bouquets consigned to a slow death on display. Wilted and frail like stale casket spray. Still lovely to look at, mind. To watch them perish. Stolen. Glorified selfishness, to impose upon them a purpose of temporary decoration. No more, no less.

Heels click the tile in brisk approach, luring his attentions to Mrs. Grady, an attendant of the main office, with you in toe.

The rubber soles of your mary janes fall silent in your step, though your head is held high behind her, assured with the saunter of your hips. You're but a girl, though your walk is a womans. You carry yourself with the oversized confidence of a fatale. One who looks into his tired eyes and wary posture and sees herself staring back, wicked and red. A devil. His devil.

You come upon him like you know it all. Wiser than your years, lethal in your innocence feigned. You fix yourself to Mrs. Grady's shadow as if the position offers you to him meek, but you hold yourself with a maturity that betrays you.

Father Brennan straightens with an amicable smile in greeting. Mrs. Grady returns it, though the quirk of her lips rises and falls so fast it's almost missed. Her skirts hem modestly swishes below the knee, three inches below to be exact. Three to four inches or so longer than yours had often been. Your waist band rolled twice to achieve the shortened length. An act of rebellion, a stab at the salacious you pretend yourself heedless of. Too pure to be deliberate.

The stunt with the skirt has landed you in the main office many times. Only until recently, when they turned to him for disciplinary action.

So began your routine.

Late to class? Go to Father Brennan

Lip gloss? Go to Father Brennan

Perfume? Go to Father Brennan

Gum in your mouth? Go to Father Brennan

He saw you so often he didn't even have to ask anymore, but he always did. A sighed; "What have you done this time, child?" Another sigh. "To the church then. Off with you, now."

The altar always needed dusting, a good vacuuming. The candlesticks polished, and missals organized. A place of calm, the labor kept idle hands busy, and the mind reflective. A watchful eye pinning you composed. His soft touch maintained even an arms length away, a strength bolstered by his sanctuary of rich mahogany and cobblestone. Warmth in the wood panels and glass that glowed with midday. Phthalo green veined marble so rich it shimmered velvet black in the light.

They came to him at their wits end, and suddenly, you behaved. So mild and pious, suspicious with how quick you bent the knee. Confirmation he loathed. Until the next pang of restlessness had you call down impudence, lightning fast and furious. Struck and scorching the ground at his feet. The Sister's called it a warning. He preferred to see it as a cry for help. The more agreeable scenario of the two.

Here you were, dragged before him once again. The same long walk to his domain, after school hours, when your studies wouldn't be interfered.

Not a walk of shame, but a strut.

"Good evening, Mrs. Grady." His eye shifts to you proper, the rhythm of his speech canting suspicion. "Lass. What seems to be the trouble?" Suspicion turned accusation, a bad habit worn in from the Sisters.

"She was caught sneaking out of the residence hall." Mrs. Grady answers for you, her foot tapping anxious to conclude a work day. Retreat to a home she's being kept from in order to deal with you. You remain quiet behind her. Quite adept at the foot taps and words put in your mouth.

Father Brennan nods, lips sucked inward. "I'll take it from here, Mrs. Grady. It's late, why don't you head on out." Sturdy arms cross his chest. A shirt tugged, he tosses the cut of his chin towards the altar not yet cleared. "I'll have plenty to keep her occupied."

A curt nod, relief released like a whistle. A spun heel, more clicks, and and the two of you are left alone.

Father Brennan clears his throat and shifts himself back before the altar. A corporal folded in thirds. The candles wicks are naked, the wax still warm and dripped. The purificator is picked back up in a wide palm, his damp skin leaches into the thread.

"What am I to do with you." A low rumble that's not looking for an answer, you sidle alongside of him and slip into banter so familiar it knocks him off guard.

"Paddle me like the Sisters do?" His head whips. A black shag grimace you recognize as a silent command to heel. So you heel. "I'm kidding, Father. Why beat the free labor?"

"Lass." Another shake of disbelief, it's slower, it's looser, it's lopsided. He hands you the cruets in a clink of metal and glass. "You're bound to become the exception." He grins crooked and waves you off.

This is meant to be unpleasant, but there's no reason why you can't be familiar.

Weakness.

No sooner does that thought blanket his mind cotton-candy fog does he notice the obscurity. Vision, and good-sense, skewed. Affronted propriety wailing alarm bell protest.

He watches your simper spread in full, teeth flash and cheeks crinkle. Eye-lashes too pretty for your own good. He knows he's a pushover, he knows he's soft.

His brow quirks to a step far too light and bouncing for a girl consigned to chores. To punishment.

As you disappear into the sacristy he wonders if you didn't get caught on purpose.

He remembers you as a little girl. The first time he met you.

He was asked, as he often was in those days, to visit Sacred Hearts Regional Catholic School. The co-ed grammar companion to St. Mary of Mercy, where the girls were expected to go, and St. Dominic's Prep for the boys.

"Are there any in God's kingdom whom he doesn't love?" A simple question, a soft open. A peek inside the minds the babes, some of which will join his flock when they come of age.

A hand sprouts upright. Thrust into the air, finger-tips wiggling to attention. Almost lifts you out of the seat by the sheer desire to deliver the answer you're so assured of. He looks to the body attached to the enthusiasm, and there you are. Fresh-faced anticipation. Lips licked in eagerness. Your hair pulled back and pleated in a french-braid.

Tipping his head to call on you, you then assert; "Bad people." Direct, the answer as obvious as the midday sun. A hint of attitude curls your statement, flames licking twigs in a bonfire, knobby and figure-less. You're missing a top incisor. He smiles.

"Oh child, he loves even them." He's smooth, rich warmth, a bourbon butterscotch melt for the ear. A chest-depth baritone that flips your stomach over as he amends with an honest smile. Crooked, but not a hint of placation. "Especially them."

The sourest pout challenges him, but Sister Martha cuts in on your behalf. Muzzling what was sure to be invigorating debate with her chirp of thanks for the good Father Brennan, and his time shared.

A tug at his pant leg pulls his attention down to that same, dissatisfied twist scowling up at him. The insistence in your tiny fist and the furrow of your brow tells him his answer has left you wholly unsatisfied. He'd heard of one such audacious, and though your introduction is hardly complete, he surmises he's just met her.

"Yes, little lass?" He tries then to be placative, affable even, in the way the wee-ones usually require. It bristles you, though your bark is clipped into pragmatism.

"Not little." Non-combative, your correction whistles his way like a bullet, unflinching, no holds barred. He can't help but blink in recoil at the warning shot fired from the pistol in a plaid jumper. "I'll be eight in two months, and my height's right on track."

Sister Martha's mouth pops open in audible mortification, but before she gets the chance to reign you in, Father Brennan laughs. A wheeze beneath his breath, his divided focus snaps back to a whole that he places on you. The weight feels good, important. Triumphant when he continues speaking to you, instead of over you, like adults love to do.

"Yes indeed. You'll pardon my mistake, I wasn't informed that there was an almost eight year old in this class."

You accept his reconciliation with a nod, a transaction complete. But there's still that bad people business that has you eye him with returned doubt.

"God can't love bad people." You begin, your inflection correcting, it perks a single of his brows and spreads his cheeks in a smile. He doesn't interject. He listens. "If he loves them, then what's supposed to stop them from being bad?"

"Ah." He understands, a tidal wave that wash away his ignorance. "His love is to be a reward then?"

"Isn't it?" You're incredulous.

He hunkers eye-level to you, the little girl who isn't buying it. Who doesn't understand. The gray world is seen through black and white, and he cherishes you for it. A luxury for only the innocent. He'll not let it blur and fade before its time.

He perches you on his knee, and little fingers ring around his collar. A face all too serious for being almost eight.

"We all sin, child. But that bad in us doesn't make it so." He tries to explain. "We're created in his image. We're created to sin."

"Even you?" Eyes slit, your challenge lilts more accusatory than questioning. Disbelieving that he - a priest - would admit to such faults. He's Gods right hand, of course, he couldn't possibly. So you must trick the truth out of him, if such a truth exists. Too smart for your own good, your aunt often says.

"Aye." Willful concession, not a hint of deceit or condescension. "Even me."

He has no idea then, but he's spoken the magic words. He's won you over. A little girl who thinks she's misplaced, and this black haired priest who reveals much the same about himself.

"So long as you're sorry for what you've done, and you promise to try harder, he'll forgive."

You ponder his words. Turn them over and over in your head as he waits in silent patience, balancing you on his leg, his other knee creaking at the floor. His forties have made a mockery of the spry man he played in his thirties. You think hard, careful, frowning at his black shirt.

"If you only apologize to get forgiveness, doesn't that mean you're not really sorry at all?"

He barks a laugh. A deep rumble of nicotine and booming projection. A reward for how precious, how honest. He smiles at you, one tender in sincerity. You grin back at him, the only one you've got, a hole where your top left incisor should be. He thinks you clever, and you feel the warmth of such adulation sugar rush high, spiraling crown to sole.

"Quick as a whip, you are. Very good." His praises an iron poker that prods something red hot and tingling, stoking an ember he can't yet see. Faint, flickering, smoke wisps from the smolder he feeds. His time and attention freely given dry, prosperous kindling. "We should all confess our sins, lass. But confession isn't the same as repentance. That's where the real work begins."

You don't keep him waiting long before your next cry for help sends you back to his office. Dumb as fox. The cat the got the canary more innocent then you appear at his door.

The Sisters warmed the classroom paddle on your backside, and when that no longer did the trick, to his office you were banished.

To Father Brennan's you go.

Father Brennan had a paddle in his office, same as all the classrooms. An archaic correction hung morbid and still on the wall, a dark stain in his peripheral for all the mind he paid it. Thin wood and dust, otherwise decrepit from disuse, and decrepit it would remain.

"Sister Barbara sent me to get paddled." You say, and his head shakes with a grumble.

Glasses perched on the tip of his nose, jacket hung from the chair back. All long, bare forearms and longer fingers, curled tight to his pen and papers, and a restraint turned to bite him. Nobility growling from the stench of his virtue, rotten and punctured. Laid in a field, still, infectious. A desiccated husk. He raises his head with an expectant look you will debrief him of your newest offense, as he tires of having to ask.

"I took the Lords name in vain." You're unbothered to even pinch the cloth of remorse, let alone drape yourself in it. You haven't for sometime. When you blink he swears he sees liner streaking your lash lines cat-like. An illusion that pits your stare coy, though contrived. A bit predatory. He grunts, dropping his look back to his splayed papers.

"No, there will be none of that today." His throat clearing discomfort. "I was told the paper towels in the women's restrooms were running low. You'll start there."

You pivot, curious hesitation. Fingers knotting. "Uhm, but... Sister Barbara said-,"

"Never you mind Sister Barbara." Eyes remain fixed to the paper before him. Scratching pen strokes, fast and deliberate, echo him. He doesn't even know what he's written. The oceans for his eyes swirl and swallow the words on the page. The stern tongue he's trying on for size. Cohesive thought. He's flying blind. "The restrooms, child. They'll not restock themselves."

You don't make a sound. He continues to distract himself with chicken scratch ink.

That same peculiar, stalled expectancy suspends you. Almost disappointment. You shift in place. The whiff of hunger lost to the wind and his dismissal. "Will that be all, Father?"

His face softens, brows quirked, breath held stuck in his chest. "Oh, only if you find it agreeable." Breath released slow, and with it, his octave drops. "I've plenty more for you to do, but that all depends on how long you plan to dally here."

You're a head bobbed and a twirl of skirt as you leave his office, the door catching with a soft click. He suspects it won't take you long at all to go about the first task he's given you.

Your disappointment lingers, a cloying haze he tastes as much as he feels. The reek of fluttering anticipation twisted up and left unfulfilled, empty and aching. A mess you leave for him to clean. Upon your return he means to get to the bottom of it.

"What's been troubling you, my child?

He doesn't recall when my began to precede child, but he notes the way you're alright with covetous pride, and it beams up at him through the white of your smile, and glint in your eye. He basks in it with rueful conflict, one whose favor tips the scale in disappointment, both in himself, and you. Or at least he tries to tell himself that, shift part of the blame.

He sits on the edge of his desk before you, a bold maneuver, a vulnerability, but one he subjects himself to willingly. A deliberate ploy to show he can. To assert you have no hold over him, a display of his strength, his determination. Lofty and unaffected by your wiles.

Wiles you somehow seem unaware of even as you wield them; in your blushed cheeks and gaped lips, sighing his name minty fresh and bubblegum sweet, from the chewing gum you sneak, and the tinted lip balm that has sent you to his office more times than he can count.

A little silver crucifix collars your neck, dainty and simple, it signals your virtue, brands you as one of his own. He finds himself captured by it, dangling from your throat.

"What has you acting out so?"

He observes with the same raw anguish settling in his gut like a brick with how you sit before him. Your leg crossed, one over the other. Foot bobbing from a small ankle, restless and blurring. Your kilt slides back over your leg, hinting bare thigh above the thin green cotton of your knee-high.

The girls of St. Marys are supposed to sit straight back, hands clasped and ankles crossed. Demure, innocent, juvenile. You've been told not to sit the way you do, as if the correction itself scolds you for the impurity of which he fears you implicit. The way you are now. Alone in his office. Looking up at him.

He wonders if he shouldn't correct it again himself, but thinks better of it.

Weakness. He thinks. He chants. He affirms.

Baseless, primal, profane. He shouldn't pay any mind to how you sit. Like a woman.

You sigh, long-suffering, and troubled. Pouty lips and pleading eyes. Your lashes flutter, jet black and spindly with mascara applied so light it might go unnoticed. It doesn't.

Weakness.

Red flares within him, pointed, sleek. Igniting with a spark that fizzles and fades to gooey pink, soft and tender. And then golden again. Reverential. The sun setting on a dismissed mass. The aftermath of grace and due deference to his person leaving him hazy and contented. A school of faculty and students alike who adore him. Without them he's left to the sobering of an empty church, one whose light then shuns him. Daring him to continue to fester with the new, hungry monstrosity that swells and stiffens, ugly and blunt.

Heavy on his shoulders, digging at his back. A cross to bear, he drags it along his pilgrimage to the hill, where he will stake it in the ground, climb to its center, and crucify himself on the broad tines. And you're both the hammer and the nail. Sharp and unforgiving. A pierce of his flesh that damns his rotten soul. A giggle through his left hand, a sigh through his right, and a kiss through both feet. He takes the pain and bleeds. He bleeds for you.

Weakness.

"I don't know, Father." You surrender, fingers picking the pleated hem of your skirt at your knee. A budding chest rising and falling beneath your buttoned blouse. His molars crack as he clenches his jaw firm. "I don't feel like I'm supposed to be here. I don't feel like I do any of this right."

His brows bow and his eye droops. Frosted brilliance chilled in pity. How wistful and lost his little lamb bleats.

"Do what right?" His voice is old and hoarse, and it catches in his throat. He hopes you think its breaks from disuse. From solidifying, stoic and cold in his lonely office, his clearing throat and crisp strokes of pen all that keeps him company there.

And not because of the way you take your bottom lip between your teeth.

"Belong." You reply, plain and real. So ahead of your years, and the vapid nuance that fill the heads of your classmates. Boys and lunches and status. He sighs, his smile so thin it disperses imperceptible in the deep lines that etch his face.

"We all belong, lass." He lilts around the pet names, feeling one weight lift in place of the new.

His vow of celibacy is a mutt gone rabid, and you're the child unawares, as you pull his ear and yank his tail, pushing at the warning ripple of jowl to get at his canines. Slick and yellowed by marrow, the memory of it's taste a perpetual haunt from the decades since it last soaked his tongue.

You're no Jezebel.

He almost sinks to his knees and sobs in relief. You're wayward. Wayward he knows. Wayward he can curve, he can herd, he can appease. And all without so much as a scuff to his shining piety. His stirred faith settles. Balls back up tidy, and tamed.

"You speak of nothing the Lord cannot quell." He eases himself into this routine, to the familiarity in advice he's since taken to using as a shield against your temptation. Or a muzzle to his own. "You need not but turn to him."

His suggestion is reasonable. One any good mentor, or spiritual counselor, should provide. You shake your head before his graveled words have the chance to settle.

"I try." Your insistence is earnest, as is your defeat. It strengthens his pity. "He doesn't listen to me. He never responds."

"My girl, of course he listens." You remain unconvinced. He sees it in your furrowed brow, and pout. "Come, I'll show you." He holds both of his palms out and open to you, thick and creased and stable. "We'll talk to him together."

It's a small school, and he knows his flock by name. All his little lambs he counts by day. They gather before him eager for his lead, anxious for his grace. Divinity in the form of a tender smile, deepened crinkles at his eye. Basking in the fond blue that warms and tingles despite how they impose. Rich pigment gleamed wicked in the right light. Revealed a little devilish by candle flame.

A line of youths in uniform files in at the dais. One by one, hands cupped, right over left, looking up at him. Looking up to him. The ghosts of smiles that solidify to his own. He holds up the wafer and hushes; "the body of Christ." Each girl to receive is special, sacred, something to look after. Each communion given is intimacy. A sacred intimacy. One conducted just between he and them, even in the middle of mass.

You're next in line. You step before him, palms cupped and lashes fluttering. Lashes that turn less pretty, as images of Venus fly-traps click into place over you like film squares in the children's toy. Click after click cycles you further away from the harmless, virtuous lamb he's promised to protect.

A neutrality to your expression that makes him do a double-take. His flow interrupted. Just a hint. A hitch easily smothered, but he's snagged, and there are witnesses in you and God. A tight smile and narrowed gaze returns him back to the priest he's expected to be. You stand before him still, a scheme evident in your show of placidity.

"The body of Christ." Clears with his throat, the depth of an oncoming head cold. He feels as feverish as you open your mouth, tongue drawn, both powerful and needy. Needy for him, and what he's promised. A quiver in his thumb and forefinger he corrals just in time. The wafer touches the wet muscle curled towards him, and disappears within your smile. Mild and tender as a garden snake. A promised returned serpentine that you'll be good for him. His black lamb behaved. Perhaps his sudden chill and foggy head is just the onset of an illness. It is that time of year.

"Amen." You cross your self and slip away, from him, from the line, back to your place in the pew. He watches you get down on your knees, hands clasped, head bowed. Your eyes remain open, they shift beneath your lashes and lock on him. Tight and twitching, the spindly tines of your trap snapped around him. Your smile, small and friendly, isn't returned, yet you appear sated. Fended back with more scraps, regardless of how meager and bland. You got something from him. A blunder in your trap, given to receive. Your eyes close, you retreat into silent prayer.

He swallows whatever raised in his throat, a bitter tinge within him unending and slippery. Faltering. Something that bore a suspicious resemblance to his nerve. He turns away from the site of you knelt down. Fate-hung-in-the-balance careful. Vehement discretion.

He returns to his next lamb, one blindingly white. A luster dull in comparison.

Acknowledgment is confirmation he can't stomach.

"The body of Christ." He says to her, wafer held and focus rigid. He looks into her eyes but dwells on yours. There was a glimmer in them. Tongue shifting beneath your cheeks, swiped over your teeth. A simper restrained. He knows it now, because the difference between hers and yours are day and night. White and black.

His oaths, his virtues, solidify links in a chain that connect at his collar. Chastity, obedience. They groan and clink, hardened and heavy. Chains aren't meant to be comfortable. Restraint is meant to be felt. He'd almost forgotten. His clothes feels too tight. The humidity too clinging.

His throat burns in a promise no antacid would soothe. He grants this lamb her communion. He tries to forget about the chains again, but you're looking right at them.

A homely shadow darkens his door way; bespectacled and sniffing. Tired eyes and tired sighs, Mrs. Grady hesitates at the threshold in respect to the invitation he's yet given. A raised head and soft smile, perhaps a bit forced. He gestures to the empty seat before his desk, crows-feet crinkled kind.

"Mrs. Grady." His friendly acknowledgement persists, but a dread grouses from it's slumber. The air with her carries a fragrance, whipped and candied. His hackles raise. The mask of affability hangs by a nail. "I suppose I know the trouble, given that look you're sporting."

"As if I come to you with any other trouble these days."

Trouble. They speak in code and that's your new marker. Trouble. What you brew and what he's in for, any time you're mentioned. The ring of his desk phone, suddenly much too loud and angry. The knock at his door. The squirm in his gut, even when he's already eaten.

She produces a bottle of perfume. A pink glass triangle she waves for his inspection like contraband. It is. He supposes as well. Perfumes are not permitted to be worn, not unlike makeup, or jewelry that isn't of the self-effacing religious variety. Eyes roll behind horn-rims, and the pink prohibition clinks against his desk, slid towards him expectant. A bulbous atomizer in shimmered netting dares him.

He sets his pen down with a sigh that reclines him backward in his chair, as if too close proximity to the bottle risks contagion. Artificial vanilla that boils blood and stings him blind. Cotton-candy smothered mustard gas. Chokes the air thick and perfumed, saccharine vapor forming manicured fingers that pull his jaw wide and slithers down the back of his tongue, into his lungs to suffocate him from the inside. He wants to leave the room. He wants to spread his thighs beneath his desk, as that opened posture will allow him to better breathe. His pen rolls directly into the beveled crystal.

"I see." A palm catches his jaw, and the arm of his chair catches the elbow. He exhales, long, weary. It's barely midday.

"If it's not perfume it's lip gloss, and if it's not lip gloss, it's undone hair." He didn't mean to invite this conversation, but it wags from her tongue. Horse-tail head shakes swatting off the irritant of invisible flies. "Next it'll be fishnets under her kilt."

The thought brings finger-tips to rub circles at his temple. He's snagged in a wince, but there's still the matter of the perfume sat guilty between them, and it makes for a good cover, as it does a spasm in his skull.

"She's a good girl." Coming to your defense is all the deflection he's left. A fight he'll never give up, what chance is there for you if he does? It's soft and hoarse all at once, it's pleading as much as it's self-assurance.

Though he's hiding behind eyes that are shut, he feels hers snap to him.

"She's trouble."

Whispered mother hen panicked, clinging to her darling boy with palms over his ears, to protect him from having to endure so much as an utterance of your existence. An urban legend, a succubus come to steal purity. Sucked from a kiss. Like that of babes cats were once accused of ingesting the souls of through their lips while they slept.

She's trouble.

Spat in superstition. A warding to keep the skeleton in the closet, the bastard in the attic. Your actions are wretched, and therefore so are you. A cautionary tale spun around the campfire, a yarn so vivacious you'd never be able to measure up to your doppelgängers lasciviousness. Is what he tells himself.

All he can do is chuckle.

She is right, of course. You're trouble. Trouble that rumbles his stomach. Trouble that's wafting from the center of his desk noxious and sweet. Stray dogs are put down for less. Hunger is unpredictable, disloyal. Dangerous.

"She's troubled." A correction that peels his eyes back open, cobalt cloudy, the murk indicative of implosion. On his horizon storm swell inevitable. He wonders if they can't see how sick his stare has grown, how glassy and abyssal. "She's... young. A tender age that makes everything unbearable. We were all there, at one time or another."

She considers his insight, chewed with a jaw click and a sniff. "You think that's all there is to it? That it's all that simple?"

It's a genuine inquiry, though he can't help but stiffen like it's an accusation. Blunt force trauma that saps his energy and leaves him sore all in one blow.

"Aye, though there's nothing simple about growing pains." He reminds her and himself. "I'll keep at her."

Your weekly sessions of prayer commence, and then weekly turns nightly. After dinner when the sky bruises purple to black, you come to him hands clasped and penitent.

Even tamed to but a murmur, the presence of his voice in your ear throbs penetrative, each pause an emptiness that aches for more. His voice unlocks something in you. Something old and ancient, laying in wait. Latin read to conjure an entity he can no longer stave. His voice is electric. Quelling and stirring. A tempest forever in motion, it whips you like a cat tail caught in wind. You never stood a chance. A gravel you'd rest on with bare knees just to distract from how it's unaware sentience enters you. Fills you. Possesses you. The church, hollowed as it is, quivers to the sound of him, bends and ripples like black-top baked in sun. The church, it seems, is as eager for more of his sounds, rumbling and growling and infesting, as you are.

Towards the middle back in an empty pew, rubbing arms and elbows, he leads you in prayer, then consultation. He hides from your slip of leg behind the advice, offered like fingers forming a cross outstretched to ward off any sudden moves, any advances. Your fidgeting latches to a bracelet, a link of delicate chain, in hypnotic motion as you work it round and round, flicking your grip with your wrist pinched between. A wriggle in his stomach, the louder it growls the louder he prays. The Sarum Primer a mantra at the fore of his mind; God be in my head and in my understanding; God be in my eyes and in my looking-

You tell him so much in these moments of quiet, of reflection. You spill yourself for his judgment, you bask in his rumination. Thighs crossed, your body leans towards him, but you're focused straight ahead. You speak to the altar, to the crucifix hung heavy above it, obscured in the dark that seeps through stained glass. Once pretty things in sun muddle nightmarish in shadow.

You confess at large. To the church. The God.

But your words are exclusive. You breathe and bleat for Father Brennan alone.

You speak of your father, a born protestant aged non-practicing, and skeptical. And oh, how you yearn to please him. Daddy's girl. His mini, his shadow. He questions everything, and so must you.

But then there's your mother, and her sister, and their father. Three more members you'd do anything and everything so they might yet be proud to claim you. The three the reason you're in St. Mary's now. Three more you wish to please, to gift them the pretty package of a good catholic girl, who attends mass each Sunday and says her prayers by night.

Two sides or your coin, one that spins forever on its side. It doesn't land, it stays in a whirl, and therefore, so do you.

His listening ear uncorks you in the silence. You can't help the flood, the out-pour of restlessness raw and unfiltered. He remains quiet, offering thoughtful susurration, encouraging the flow, the mess.

You tell him of a third factor in the equation. Someone whom you trust, you admire, you revere. This mystery man fills you with a longing you've never known. A thirst that damns both sides. He tries to bring you peace, this character, solace in the faith that hangs from you in shambles. A little girl playing dress up, you tell him. Until he came along.

"He makes me feel... special." You decide on the word with a nod, satisfied. "He's not a bad man, not at all, but... well, Father, sometimes this other feeling he gives me, it's... I don't know if it's good, because I feel this guilt again. But not because of what I'm feeling, but because of how badly I want more of it."

He swallows. Hard. His habitual self-crossing forced inward from the spot-light eyes that strip him in fevered anticipation. For a sign, a hint, another bone thrown. He gives you no such assurance.

"Satan and all his temptations can take many forms." He tells you, strained. Looking more ashen than sage. "Even the sweetest surrender is still surrender, lass. You must hold to your vigilance; and when it's pulled harder, you cling tighter."

It's then and only then he sees the tables turn. Is he your devil? Is he the serpent in the garden of your purity? Your virtue? The thought makes him sick, and he sees red behind his lids. Burning and itching and aglow with your shape. This un-tampered thing you are, his little lamb.

Is he who is to blame for your corrosion? The one has maimed and maligned?

Is he at fault for the lust that festers within you?

The nightmares begin.

You're in a nuns habit, but for some reason he knows the black and white robes are meant to be fig leaves. Coverings to shame you were only made aware of because of him. His putrescence, his urge, his impurity polished reflective.

A smile turned to a sneer, you're upon in a blink. A wraith that glides from beyond his desk to knelt on top of it, leaning towards him perched, an exacting gaze that bores into his chest and pushes him back in his chair. Away from you. Far away, as if afraid to touch you. As if there's still time to save you both.

The chair squeaks, there's no where else for him to back away. Nowhere for him to run. He remains cemented in place, frozen at the intersection of both your scrutiny, and the portrait of Christ. He can't speak, and he's unsure if it's night terror paralysis or shame.

"You did this to me, Father Brennan." You grasp one large hand in both of your own and place it to your middle. Long, thick fingers splayed over where your womb should be through the robes. Ripe in fertility. "You've spoiled me."

Your anger pouts. A mask slips from your face. Indignation turned desperate whiplash quick and biting. You climb into his lap, and he remains still. Compliant by way of unresponsiveness.

Legs sling along his hips to straddle his lap, the skirts of your robes hiked high on your thighs to reveal green knee socks and shiny mary-janes. Little fingers curl in the tufts of hair at his nape, knuckles dug above his collar, while the other disappears beneath the robes pooled black in his lap.

A tug, a zipper ripped, and his cock is bared. Soft-sheathed steel that throbs strong enough in your hand, that tears are pulled from his ducts with every pulse. Mist stinging his eye and breath choked from him in a sharp splutter. The only sound he's been able to make.

When you sink down on his rigidity and swallow it whole he croaks, a broken sound of unintelligible conflict. A plea, a curse, a cry for more - he couldn't say.

"You've spoiled me, Father." Repetition moaned, eyelids heavy and lips licked wet. Your fingers tighten in his hair in a pull of scalp that he welcomes, revels in the nip of pain. The waves in his eyes breach from the lash line and splash his gaunt cheek. Once charming cerulean leaks and stains himself bilious.

The hand that freed his ailing manhood snatches the dead weight of each of his hands, one at a time, to encircle your waist. Seeking his aid for no other reason than to taunt him, as he's useless beneath you. He can't move, he can't speak. He can feel, but only in fragments. Shrapnel punishment that splinters. Steals breath just as it's caught. It's too much, it's not enough.

He feels everything, and then he's left cold and lonely. It ebbs and flows. Peaks that push him to heights, only to force him back down to come under. And weep. Your hips cant forward with a pressure that grind his bones to dust. You press flush to his chest. The edges of his collar catching at his neck. He thinks you mean to kiss him, but you come up short. Just shy. Your words are all that brush his lips. "Don't forsake me."

He awakes in a clammy film, the heat in his room unbearable. Suffocation he wishes had actually smothered him, it's enough to force him from his bed. Those dreams but a taste of a purgatory he should be so lucky to be confined.

Slacks half stepped in with his heart still hammering, he stumbles out of the rectory and into the night. The cold needles at his exposed arms, his bare neck and feet. There's not a sound. An eeriness that accepts him so the stars may observe the onset of this infestation, one that rots from the inside out. Outside is not much better than inside. It's strangled breath and dead silence. Until his lighter clicks softly, and burnt paper and tobacco rush his nostrils.

He sucks it deep and holds it, until the ache in his chest matches the stifle of the night around him, the frigid disdain that regards his presence. The night holds, and so does his breath.

When he releases, its a steady thick plume of gray in the direction of the dormitories. He doesn't remember turning to face the building, but when his eyes open and he's exhaling, he's turned in your direction. A cursed north-star he follows entranced, his default trajectory.

Animi Cruciatus enters through the top of him and sinks like cinder blocks tied to his ankles, in an uncomfortable quiet that makes him stew. To wallow, and drown. Ice cracked beneath his heels. Affliction of the spirit. His spirit, trapped by a mind debauched, a prisoner of a body that aches in accordance. He thinks to shed his collar for sackcloth. Wear his remorse and his humility in a show of repentance he surely doesn't intend to commit to. But he should endure the discomfort. The least he deserves.

The smoke disperses visibly unhurried as he stares long and hard at the brick structure that houses you now. And he wonders, with a mist smearing his blue, and a sting at the back of an ashy throat, just how badly spoiled you are, and if it's from his hand.

"Are you feeling alright, Father Brennan?" He looks up to see Mrs. Grady, her bland features twisted concerned beneath her glasses. "There have been some cases of the flu making the rounds." A vague gesticulation reveals her implication, as well as her reason for coming to see him.

A small paperback the width of a novella. A lurid rendering of a man and woman embraced on the cover. The Final Temptation embossed in large flowering script. Red letters, two red A's. He wants to tell her to just bring these things to the front office, he doesn't know why they collect with him. Perhaps with his personal interest in you they feel it necessary he's intimate with your every transgression. His exhaustion has graduated transcendent.

"I'm alright, Mrs. Grady, I'm just not sleeping well these days." His sudden pallor does nothing to lend credibility, regardless of how it's a half-truth by way of technicality. He regards the book wearily, pushing away from his desk as far back into his chair as he can retreat. A preempt, knowing the book will soon plop square in the middle of his drafted sermon, backed once more in a corner. "I don't suppose that's school approved text."

"You suppose correct." She scoffs. Book thuds.

He sighs.

"I don't suppose I need to ask who it's been confiscated from." The man on the cover is clinging to the woman's body with a desperation that's too familiar. Seen in his nightmares, then burned behind his lids every time he seeks solace behind them. "This calls for suspension, if I'm not mistaken?"

She shakes her head to the contrary before his mouth shuts.

Her lips purse with a ripple of her brow, and her glance skews left. "Actually, you do. Sister Irene found it with Ms. Reid in the middle of class. It was opened on her lap, hidden under her desk."

Father Brennan's eyes widen as he slides off his glasses. The frames thick and black. Kate Reid was one of few second generation pups in the senior class, one who felt their common blood exempt her from the same standards of her peers. Platinum hair and stormy-eyed, she was striking as she was sharp. The angles of her bones, her smirk, her wit.

"Oh?" His fingers found his jaw, scratching to find mild stubble hooking nails in need of a clip. "And Sister Annette specifically asked for me to see to this, did she?"

"Just to have a quick word with her, if you could." Mrs. Grady has already turned on her heel. She never lingers. She would sooner choke on her own tongue than monopolize Father Brennan's time. Just as she would trip over her own heels before she overstayed her welcome in his office, as if his behavior had ever suggested she make such haste. "Sister Irene fears this could be symptomatic of a much larger, more disruptive presence in class."

"Ah." Then grateful for her retreating back, it's with a grim expression he catches her meaning, and angles it down at the paperback on his desk. His black lamb is rubbing off on the others. A vile contagion, they mean for him to staunch the spread. He's grown careless, obsessive, or both, and the garden is overcome with weeds.

A stray that's begun to bite. He can already hear the hissed verdict.

Put her down.

The latch of his door clicks shut and banishes him once more to his own devices. To the sermon left of scratched lines and unfinished thought then buried beneath what he can only assume is erotica.

Fingers reach, recede, then reach again in the finality of curiosity run rampant. A few dogeared pages catch his attention. Two thumbs dip inside and spread apart the first of the creases.

His hunger undulates like the sea, insatiability as vast and ruthless, it crashes over Cléo and drags her under. Under his body, chiseled and tanned, her yelps climb higher and reedier as his pace mounts to a gallop. A wild stallion betwixt her thighs, her nails scrape approval in red along his curved back, knotting reigns out of his chocolate mane.

Oliviero shudders and groans something obscene as he sinks deeper inside her. She smells of peaches and cream, and feels twice as soft. Tender and juicy like the meat of such fruit. Sin is considered impure, but with her it feels divine. If she is what lays between him and Heaven, he'll gladly sacrifice eternal salvation if only he gets to spend the rest of his finite mortality within the wet heat between her legs. She makes sin taste like peaches and cream-

He shuts his eyes, and then the book. The vision from his nightmares is there, waiting for his return. There isn't a doubt in his mind now it belongs to you, or that it was under your influence that Kate Reid's hand were caught red this time.

He knows you're behind this because of the way his stomach drops to his knees. Something so on the nose could only be your calling card.

He wonders what your sin tastes like.

Sister Irene and her English class halt in unison once he appears in the doorway. Formal acknowledgements are exchanged, the classroom erupts in wide eyes and wider smiles. His daily chorus of "Good morning, Father Brennan."

He nods, he smiles.

He pointedly does not look your way, though he found your exact position in the class before Sister Irene so much as he turned to see just who intruded upon her lesson.

"I apologize for the interruption." He says to Sister Irene, and the class, whom he still addresses without looking at you, but he feels you looking at him. A sharp gaze, one that slices accidental when it's startled from his next reveal. "I was hoping I could take Ms. Reid for a spell. Her and I need to have a chat."

"Not at all, Father." A tall and sinuous Sister in her middle-ages, Sister Irene singles Kate out and nods her forward. "Go on, child."

His looser verbiage. The general fluster that ripples from the class as Kate stands and approaches him in the doorway. He's surprised he has suit left to cover him from the cut of your stare across his back.

He doesn't bother to take her to his office. An offense that's serious only in theory, the hall just outside Sister Irene's door is as suitable a space as any to conduct his investigation. Wasted breath and wasted effort, Kate confirms what he already knew to be true. You're the one who lent her the book, you're the one who convinced her it was worth the risk. Your eyes pierced your culpability into his retreating shoulders. Your eyes pierce him with quite a bit these days.

And, well, Kate was a curious one. But please, Father Brennan, don't tell my parents.

He assured her with weariness rousing half a smile and hands raised to calm, that only repeat offenses required parental intervention.

A suspicion confirmed to the surprise of none. He releases Kate back to Sister Irene, but lingers in the hall. The question remains;

Just what is he to do with you?

Sister Annette stops him in the hallway between classes, just after the bell signals the changeover. In the flood he catches sight of you behind her shoulder.

You're so... pretty. A hard truth that erupts a fire in his belly. Of course you're pretty, you're young. Too young, much too young. A vernal treasure untouched by the hunger of the world at large, cruel and consuming.

Sister Annette prattles on about services and schedules, and sermons better suited to the particular passages of scripture the girls are being taught. For the school authority who commends his expertise on the surface, she does so love to tell him how to do his job.

It's never much bothered him, and it certainly doesn't now. For he's nodding at her, and humming in tune, but his eyes - trained, painstaking and exact to hers - are still cataloging you in the background at your locker. A glorious blur of tantalization, the suggestion of a dream. The whisper of fantasy teasing the fringes of lucidity. Surely all forms tailor made from the Devil to try his vigilance. A test of his obedience.

You look his way not once in a display that suggests you may not even know he's there, which he finds hard to believe. His height, his mass, his black. The giggles in the hall. He's a dark cloud that roams, a magnetism of the forbidden that lurks, suggestive, coaxing, even as he doesn't mean to be. Low breaths and rumbles of ignored hunger.

The father of a best girlfriend. A neighbor. A teacher, a mentor.

A priest.

A first whiff faint and inconsequential, he then catches it in full with nostrils flared. A tracker drawn to your scent. Too airy and strong to be perfume, certainly not as it sits leaking in his desk drawer. This is a different scent, a new scent.

Vanilla sugar cookies fresh out of the oven, clove and nutmeg spiced. Thick frosting, butter-cream stiff. You bathe yourself in the potent body-spray. Out in the hall tucked into your locker, he watches your show. Dousing yourself in temptation as though in secret, you revel in the oily mist, your shower made public. Flicking your head in a wave of your hair, bombshell full and free. Hair that is to be pulled up or back at all times. Corralled to a headband at the very least, one that often vanishes without a trace by midday.

A mist of sugar settling against your unblemished skin, you're satisfied with your fresh smell, a signature updated. Bending forward into your locker once more, a popped rear on tiptoes, you crane forward for height you don't really need to stick puckering lips at the little mirror on the door. Peachy and flecked with glimmer. Honey thick and sticky.

Heavy, hooded eyes sink into Sister Annette's face. Her gray brows, her bleach-blue eyes too small and beady for her face. The asinine deluge through an absent smile. He rests so much weight of his attention on her frail face he'd be surprised if the skin didn't tear. He stares at her like his very life depends on it, because it just might.

You tip forward to readjust your stocking, having slipped below your knee. Your hair falls over your shoulder, your crucifix dangles from the collar of your blouse, and you extend your leg outward. Perched as if on offer. Nimble fingers pinch the top of your sock and hike it back to it's proper place, hiding away those few inches of upper thigh in a gesture meant to incite the worst in him.

He refuses you that satisfaction, even if you don't seek it openly. He knows. It's with this insight he gives Sister Annette a little tighter of a smile, a nod, locked on her with such steely determination he can only assume she doesn't notice his agony because she doesn't notice anything much at all.

Phase two of your attack commences. It happens at the water fountain a little ways down the hall from where you just righted a uniform you never bother to heed the regulations of on a good day. You bend at the waist, and hold your hair back. Lashes flutter and lips purse as you bring your lips to the stream and wet them. Kitten laps and gentle suckling. A throat that bobs with your swallows. Your body poised to hold yourself still, a hip cocked, as you drink. Sister Annette's words dial to a low drone of obscurity. The whine of a television clicked on or off, the frequency only dogs could hear, he can longer decipher words. Hints, shells, but not whole pieces. He notices when her fingers are on his arm.

"I beg your pardon?" His only saving grace is that she assumes he's as disinterested in her drivel as he suspects she is in his. Not because he's caught with a hand in the cookie jar, drool at the corner of his mouth, crumbs dusting his fingers.

Her smile is patient, but only just. She hums in a belabored condescension, a state of being in which she reigns supreme. "I asked if you weren't chilly." The smile doesn't widen, nor does it fall. Plastered discomfort in having to repeat herself as much as it's having to linger on pleasantries for which her bandwidth is limited. "These halls are especially cold this time of year, and I'm not used to seeing you without your sport coat." She tries for a titter that sounds as stilted as he feels.

He then understands the false concern is a roundabout way to chastise him for his less than professional dress. His polish is tarnishing, and he's one of but a handful of St. Mary's most prestigious faces. Parents routinely tour the premises. Sisters from other schools come to marvel at the institution Sister Annette helms with strict sovereignty.

Every last detail, every rule, no matter how benign, is of full consequence.

And there he is. Good Father Brennan. His cuffs unbuttoned, and pushed to the elbow. A shirt tail in danger of becoming un-tucked. He knows his eyes are bloodshot because they burn as he blinks. Only once, and only after you've wiped your mouth on the back of your wrist and saunter away. Breaking the spell and leaving him hollow, throbbing. Cold.

"Yes, Sister Annette." His concession is a house of cards that an unguarded exhale will topple. He smiles at her, and she nods. His expression mimicked, though too clinched, too perturbed. "Forgive an old man his indiscretion, I forgot my coat in my office. If you'll excuse me?"

Her titter is little more sincere than her previous attempt, but at least this time she shows teeth. She's concluded her desire to exchange words, and brushes his arm once more as she dismisses him. Lest he forget his coat, the repeated touch to the offense should do the trick.

By the time he's safely back within his office, his silhouette has grown an unsavory bump where none should exist. Least of all over you, a child. And the hint of a little leg no less. Hands ball to fists at his sides, ignoring it as it swells to a more nagging chub. Flicking his inseam. The insistence of a dog nudging his leg with a leash in it's mouth.

Not now. Please not now.

Shaking fingers tug his sleeves back down the length of his forearms, ropy with lean muscle and sinew, as he implores his stirred cock to settle. He's not yet peeled himself from slumped against his door, eyes squeezed. He grasps at the vestiges of his rationale like straws, drawing reinforcement the only way experience has ever taught him.

Liturgy. Warm Guinness. Cold showers. Football players grunting mid collision - in the rain. Cold showers.

The phone chirps at his desk. I'm saved. He thinks.

His cock gives a kick in his slacks, as if to laugh at him.

He hobbles towards the blaring, doing his level best not to agitate the over-sensitivity with too quick and assured a gait. Snatching his sport-coat from his chair, he begins to shrug it on, the phone pinched between his ear and shoulder as he pushes an arm through the sleeve.

"Father Brennan." He announces, breathless. In a way he hopes is rushed-to-not-miss-the-call, and not from the swollen itch in his groin.

The words strike him from the other end, Mrs. Ritner, another main office nominal appointed by Sister Annette to liaison with the staff. She, unlike Mrs. Grady, finds the phone sufficient. The long paved walk from the front doors of the school to the front doors of the church, his office tucked to the far back, unfavorable.

Dead weight sinks into his chair by a grip on one of the arms. Hissing beneath his breath at the throb of his loins jostled by the motion, a jolt of live wire reignited by his friction.

You're on your way to his office as they speak. Perfumed and glossy. Hair free as a vixens.

Cold showers. Football. Famine.

You might as well enter his office in nothing but stilettos and a garter, for that's how his heart races as he wills his aggravated erection appropriately flaccid.

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned."

He waits, stewing in the captivity of silence, fraught and imprisoning. Heavy paws tracking ruts along the perimeter. Thinking to hold his breath.

The confessional a flimsy barrier between you, worn thin, such as the skin of Good ol' Irishman committed to the cloth. There's a prickling beneath, an itch; dark and matted that strains him taut, these confines he's bound. Midnight rich pressed and tucked, neat and clean, ivory at his throat keeping it all down. Pushing at his collar, constricting with every shallow breath he fights. Because every one indulged is sacrilege.

Sins of the flesh tasting of gingerbread and vanilla, thick gumdrop sweet. Every inhale scrapes frosting against the back of his teeth. He swallows to pretend he doesn't need to, doesn't want to. He can't feel the ridge of gums tear around sharpness that aches to push through. He can't hear the rustle of his chains.

No, such atrocity no longer resides in Father Brennan. He's noble, he's risen. He clutches his chains and tightens his bindings.

It's how you smell now. Invading his side of the booth, too cramped and stuffy for his tall, looming frame. The walls are tight, his collars tight, and if he breaths in any more of your smell, his trousers will grow tight as well. So he holds his breath. Until his lungs burn, and his eyes glaze, and the heaviness squirming in his gut settles. He waits for you to continue.

The pause stretches for an eternity, long enough for the hunger to gurgle and writhe, for the devil to burrow into his hunched shoulder.

Watch and pray that you may not undergo the test. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. He minds himself, over and over and over.

The pause continues, indefinite, frail, stifling. He shifts with a loud groan of the wood protesting his weight, and it shatters the moment. He hears your puff of breath, mousy and timid, just quiet enough it might yet go undetected. It doesn't.

"Go on, child." He musters warmth, but not too much. He instills authority, but hopes - prays - its yielding, approachable. His gruff portrayal steeped to encouragement.

There's another tense beat, sucked in breath beyond the other side of the grate, shaky and tender and oh, so close to him. Close enough it sounds like you're pressed against the wall. Worming closer to his cracks, leaching through the barriers between you. Barriers he doesn't reinforce, not anymore. As it stands, the very intimacy that pits you voice to voice all but encourages your infiltration. Your secrets, your sins. Your lips to Gods ears. Your conduit to the very salvation he's indebted to bestow.

"It's been a three days since my last confession."

A choke pulls his chest. A fault splinters his decency. "Only three?"

You splutter, taken aback. A soreness over the Kate debacle persisting, it's turned you prickly on him. Wound tight. "S-shouldn't I come to confession as often?"

He'd be a liar if he said he didn't appreciate the turned tides. For once he's not the one knocked off kilter and held there. Not standing tall, nor falling. Just a fool.

He chuckles, though not one of mock or derision. His amusement is tender, and true. "Your willingness is absolving in it's own right. What sins have darkened your slate since last we cleaned it?"

"I spoke back at Sister Irene when she began to reprimand me."

"What was Sister Irene reprimanding you for this time?"

A pause. Your confession mumbled, petulant, of little consequence. "I fought with Allison. In the hall before her English class. Right outside her door."

He's already abreast of the scuffle with Allison Brown.

He knows because he was the one called to break it up. Child's play for all the mind you seem to pay it in the aftermath. Long arms wound around your middle. The under-swell of fresh breasts brushing his forearm, a skirted bottom wriggling at a dangerous proximity.

He feels an old dog and his bark rasps accordingly, but when he must lay down authority, it's unbending. Two pampered house kittens arched and spitting at one another. He wrestled you away claws drawn, Allison's golden curls twisted in clenched knuckles like mouse-tails.

He's already been instructed to keep you in the church after dinner to see to it that you're tasked with the appropriate punishment. He already knows he's headed for another long night of hiding behind the door of his office.

Knowing you're within arms reach. Knowing the only witness to keep him leashed and indifferent is God.

Knowing all of this doesn't change the fact that you've come to him to confess, and that he's obligated to hear your side of the story.

"Fought how, child?"

"I lunged at her. Pulled her hair." You feel the need to emphasize. "Hard."

He shakes his head though you can't see. You can hear, however, the shake of his words in a chuckle he knows better than to indulge. He's not amused, he's out of his mind.

"Is that all?" He says it in slight jest, though it manages to pluck one more of your unsavory feats.

"And I... I thought about not coming to confess at all."

"Aye." He gifts to you in understanding, but that's all he gives. Onyx wool, fledgling, glinting like spun silk. He thinks to run his fingers through it, and feel you nuzzle into his courtesy. "What had you and Allison come to blows?"

Your attack startles. No wind up, no preempt. The consequences un-assumed with how candid your delivery.

"My period."

He runs so hot it's burns him frigid. A cough swallowed to a grunt, eyes sent upward his closed lids. Drawing the curtain. Shrouding what is surely to be a punishing conversation. He grasps at tact to navigate such foreign soil, steadies to keep fumbling to a minimum.

He governs the spirituality of young women at an all girls school. He has for years. They've all had the social graces to not deign his listening ear with such impropriety. Another mold you shirk, vehement, defiant. Confinement's a shackle, one to which you're ill-suited.

"Yes, well... seeking repentance grants the absolution you seek-,"

You trample his flimsy rouse. You're having none of his gentility, his subtle discomfort.

"-she started it, Father."

"Come now, you're beyond these childish excuses-,"

"-she accused me of being a whore, Father Brennan-,"

"-Tongue, lass." He warns, a deep rigidity that thunders in the confessional. Shaken to hear such talk from you. More shaken still how your girlish warble dresses the filth into something... sensual. Hot and bubbling. Sugar that scalds a dipped finger. Goading a different challenge that cracks him like a whip as he juggles flipping approachable, then diplomatic. A coin spun on it's side. "Mind your tongue, or it's a bar of soap next you waggle such crudeness from it."

"Yes, Father." You breath, a mewling kitten meek as your insolence scruffed. "Forgive me."

The Sisters are known for harsh punishment, not all, but most. A switch, a ruler, hair grabbed in fist. He's never been one for such cruelty, he could never think to strike the doe-eyed and adoring. A crux and a folly, his gentle disposition endears him even more to his girls. An accent that charms and eyes so blue they bewitch like crystal, oceanic-endless, a balm to the souls turbulence. They now bleach feverish, anemic and hollow, arctic-bright.

He thinks of you yelping to the strike of a switch. A paddle glancing your peach-plump rear. He doesn't dare think of who he pictures the wielder, just as he doesn't dare think to suggest such a punishment. Because he's a soft touch. Is what he tells himself. Merciful. Lenient. Kind. He rattles down the list, pulling the attributes from the muck to rebuild his morality. Wipe them clean and stick them on like armor. Good. A good man. A simple man. A man of God.

He stills himself. Tugging his shirt cuff and repositioning with another grating of old wood. "How did she assert such of you? Might there have been a misunderstanding, perhaps?"

Your frustration huffs. "She said because I use tampons, that means I've been had. Whispered it to Melissa Sue behind my back like some scandal."

He crosses himself. A pregnant stretch of silence creeps between you like an ink spill, black and viscous and promising an even worse mess if he moves to sop it up too quickly. Rushed and unprepared. Black and glittering and endless, like your fleece.

Left standing in the pasture with blood in your teeth, and sisters at his back, demanding and impatient. Put her down. They insist. A rabid animal, a bad seed. This one bites. They hiss. A lost cause, kicking and screaming. Don't trouble yourself, Father. This ones not worthy of your time and attention. Oh, what are we to do with her?

He offers his time and attention like communion, the special treatment fed to you the body and blood of Christ. Ever since you were a little girl. He slips the wafer between lips stretched open, dissolving against your soft pink tongue, drawn to receive. A quick lap of muscle dragging beneath the pads of his fingers, hot and wet through a sigh that aches. That longs.

A smile. A wide beam, you've learned to wear many the last ten years, but it's still the only one you need. Blood stains the incisor that used to gap through it, once upon a time. A face he still sometimes sees. A little girl who remembers those promises made to her even a decade on. Kept close to your chest, lurid Polaroids of his dedication and shine to you like blackmail. Black fleece. Waves them under his nose like pornography you threaten to divulge. A reputation damaged for turning his back on you.

He'd sooner lay down in the grass and let the sisters eat him alive before he ever turned you away. Ground through his flesh and bone, pop cartilage and floss with sinew string before he'd dare allow them to wreath your head with his failings. Crown you Antichrist, the child bride to blasphemy, secularism's prize. A truth that shakes his soul with how heavy sincerity rests upon it. A weight of devotion that crushes; his collar, his composure, his chains.

Blood in your teeth. Ripped thread twined around your knuckles. Allison's hair, and his resolve.

"Three of the Lords prayer." Intoning the penance in deep gravel, with a suspicious emphasis of its usual throaty register. A strength that cracks and folds when he needs it most. His final instruction seethes outwards the pit of his chest like his final nerve, pitched nasal of a pinched nose and rubbed temples, done behind the cover of alleged anonymity. "And an apology to Allison, if you've not already done so."

He knows not what mockery you made of her in retort; but he can only imagine. As if the fresh ruts of nails to her arms and ripped hair was not enough battery sustained.

He hears you exit the confessional, followed by too short a journey of your rubber soles squawking the tile.

You come out to Sister Annette waiting. Arms crossed, brow twitched, patience evaporating by the second. A line of girls crane their necks behind her, eyes wide and wandering. A row of owls that snicker upon your face.

Her smiles, rare as they were strained, never reached her eyes. Her voice never rose nor fell, a flat-line of nasal rule.

The girls adore him, nothing has changed. But when in your shadow he fears they can smell his guilt. A shining crimson A you've kissed onto his cheek. Hot breath teasing a sick pallor that only grows sicker as you ask for forgiveness he knows you don't truly seek. Not as earnestly as he seeks healing from your infectious gall. Knees bruised and voice hoarse, he prays and begs and begs some more. Though he's still on the wrong side of the confessional. Realizing he's begging the wrong divinity for salvation he doesn't deserve.

"Father Brennan has other confessions to hear to, young lady." Monotone scolding through the suggestion of a smile, so slight it's more a hint sarcastic than encouraging. But he knows better. She really thinks shes making an honest attempt at masking her displeasure with you.

The snickers in-line behind her hush to scandalized looks once he reveals himself. Hot on your heel out of the confessional, weariness from the wrong side occupied.

"I know, Sister." You say, beginning to skip away. "But I'm his favorite."

Father Brennan is quite certain he's stopped breathing.

The pistol popping warning shots grew into a sawn-off shot-gun. Four little words that erupt, ringing-ears and vision pinched. A blare that deafens and sprays explosive, uncontained. Everything in him seizes, an engine stalled and spluttering before oncoming traffic. From the sincerity that lacquers your words pink pearlesence to the looks the girls in line exchange. A shock wave to ripple the flock. Six syllables that chew through him like buckshot.

That night swells with fervent intercession. Its for you he pleads, of course. Surely not himself.

That night he dreams of you, like he does every night he's lulled unconscious by exhaustion and Irish Mist.

Prophetic visions of destruction come in your form. Meek, nubile, untouched - he assumes. A weary head resting at your middle, a sturdy breadth caught harsh at the ground, knelt before you. Wide palms to hold you, he's breathing you in and breathing you back out.

His indecency, his ugliness. The beast of his burden a bastard he's put in you. A belly swollen beneath your uniform. A vile conception. The urge that won out over his polish, his piety. All the good he's striven to attain. Cast aside like dirty rags, discarded sackcloth in favor of burying within your pristine. Your plushness. Your virginity a sacrifice to his unjust hunger.

His form all in black like fairy-tail malignancy. Just a spot of white at his neck, a canine flashed like the ones that sink into the crook of your neck.

It's fast and furious. It's sloppy. It's greed. And worst of all it's devotion. A name hallowed by his abandoned virtue. Absolute. A damning sincerity for the religion of you he now subscribes. He's curled around you and he pressing hard, pointed. A thumb dug into a wound that makes you scream. He's splitting you open, huffing in your hair in sounds that turn more animal than man.

Footprints in fresh, untrod snow. A trail of his infidelity. His disobedience blunt and erect, it carves you hollow for him to fill back up. Red slick against the inside of your thighs, red his white will turn pink. Wide palms that cradle you, fingers that tear you open, white knuckled and shaking. Father, Father, Father! Whined in his ear, kissed at his throat, panted into his collar. Red searing as pink and glossy as the depths of you he splits down the middle. Abandoning his life's work, his vows, his oaths, his sanctity, all for your sex.

The good Father Brennan, his neat, pressed clothes and collar, dampen with sweat as he works himself inside you. Stroking your cheeks and petting your hair. You're bleeding for him, a virgin at the altar. The sacrificial lamb. Salty and sweet, iron pierces the heavenly aroma of your slick. A wetness he coaxes out of you. A wetness that stains him with your misdeeds. He was always better at making a bigger mess than he was at keeping clean. All he can do is groan at your neck and maintain his rhythm, kneading himself against the throbbing, the clenching, the pinching. A bloated ache he ruts away within you.

"Well done, my girl." He huffs, eyes squeezed shut as his praise makes you tighter. Makes you wetter. "Oh, well done."

Sometimes you're in fine lace and silk, and veiled. Other times your naked as the day you were born, wearing his descent like a cloak, your fevered ecstasy a pretty rogue that blushes every inch of you his mouth laves.

He jolts awake, stifling heat that smears his skin in an oppressive film. A hardness between his legs he deigns with touch not once. No matter how stiff it twitches, how it throbs for friction, for heat, for you. Meek and mild beneath his weight. Pretty petals in fresh blossom he crushes with eagerness reawakened.

He lays there on his back in a dark bedroom with a painful length of temptation he prays for strength to ignore, even as visions of you tease the tenuous edge of fantasy, calling him back to bed. Even as fresh pulsation floods from tense loins trembling. Aching. A need ignored, a need left to fester.

Denied for decades.

Your sessions of consultation is what he takes to calling them, how he refers to them for the Sisters benefit. You've moved from the church, cold and exposing, to the sacristy. A room unfrequented by most, it's one of few places he truly feels at peace these days. Perhaps it'll settle the both of you. Surely that's why he brings you in there.

He sits across from you and feels so bold as to grasp your hands and keep them. Soft palms and warm fingers swallowed by his mitts, wide and meaty with knuckles sharp and veins dark. He holds you without force in his grip, lame and lax as you clutch at him for guidance, for understanding.

Crazed by righteousness he thinks of anointing you. Callouses and greed slick with oil he paints over your flushed face, your nakedness. A false modesty that blushes and burns under his trail, candle light caught in the glisten. Lubrication for his annexing, forbearance that dismantles you piece by piece.

Each limb, each plane, each pore singled and sanctified for consecration, catalogued for future adoration. Scrupulous passes down the bridge of your nose, along the ridge of cheekbone. Tracing your lips curve, dragging a stripe down your chin. He'd lay you down on the dais, in the stained-glass rays then painted over you. A cornucopia of color and light then made holier for your body caught between.

Splayed on his altar, butter melted liquid in cupped palms, he pours over your scalp. A drizzled crown of decadence, divine nourishment dripping down your hair and throat in rivulets. He refused his mouth your savory in his fasting. Denied himself your sweetness. Abstained from your pleasure he's ready to ingest, a starved tongue flat up your neck, velvet and butter. Hair woven in his fingers like rings. Reins. New shackles.

Milk, warmed and creamy, spilled against your bosom, blooming across your ribs a sheath of silken purity. Ivory cream whiting out the black. The black he so adores, the black that taunts him, wicked and forbidden.

Sinking down to his knees before you, a blessing crafted by his tongue in reverence to you. "Sprinkle me with a wand of hyssop, and I shall be clean; washed, I shall be whiter than snow." as he places green sprigs and violet buds to your thighs, gentle and deliberate like his kisses might be. Clean and refined. His fealty pledged. The patron saint of attrition. You already have your own prayer, one he repeats from dusk till dawn. Hushed and fervent, proclaimed veneration in between whimpers for mercy.

The Sisters laud him for his service, for the burden he assumes in such personal interest with their problem child, their black sheep. Poor Father Brennan, God bless his soul, for having to beat the devil out of the girl. They pray for him as much as they pray for you, maybe more. A kindness. A warranted precaution. But not for the reason they expect.

"How do you remain so vigilant, Father?"

Your smile attests you don't know what you ask, what slinks at the end of your words. He returns one much weaker, rueful in a worldly way. The experiences that followed his vows of devotion, tar black that stained, no matter how hard he scrubbed. How earnest. So he threw himself into abstinence instead. He couldn't become cleaner, so he'd just refrain from more mess.

"I pray, my girl." A frayed cadence to match his unraveling. His sigh of one who carries the burden of your soul and his, heaviest of all. "I pray until I cannot bear the words on my tongue, and then I pray some more."

Your nod is thoughtful, an understanding indicative of something too atrocious to face. So like a coward he retreats, he lets it lay.

Until the lonesomeness creeps back. A spirit trapped in unrest come back to him, alone with his thoughts. Called back to him. Left vulnerable to the temptation he scorns.

Weakness.

The linger of your heat buzzes in his fingers long after you leave. Vanilla hand cream softens his cracks and callouses with meticulous femininity. A throb at his temple, the whites of his eye veined like shattered glass. The pink bottle of perfume in his desk drawer.

It's enough to pull the flask of Jäegermeister from the top shelf of his bookcase. The first swig flooding his throat in a syrup he pretends is yours, 70 proof and licorice bitter. A burn to match the trail of your touch to his hand.

A hand that still smells and tingles with your memory, one he rubs over his face and then under his nose. Down his body to his groin, where it stops. Twitching and hot in his slacks. It's enough to bring him to the edge but not enough to push him over.

He's anger and devastation in every rigid inch he denies. He abstains from a lover's touch, he swore to it when he made his oaths. Oaths that shackle him, shadow his trail with a rustle and wail. Unmistakable chastity in his collar, and solemnity to uphold the burden. And burden it is.

It's meant to throb and ache, its meant to be agony.

He's handled it with exemplary prowess and grace. Until you came along.

You touched his chains, held them up to light, ran the links between your pretty fingers. Hard, cold, unbending in ways that make you pout and pull. Each loop a vice hardened and soldered repentant. Virility, pride, ego, lust. He wares them in a heed of what he promises to shed, risen above the lure of mortal men a devout phoenix from the flame and ash. As priesthood ordains, rebirth that strips pure and noble from weak and debauched.

He's not holy. He's repression, the victim and the assault. He's the worst of what mankind has to offer. Selfishness and misery. Appetite disguised in black suits and crosses. A title that only worsens the insatiability after decades of believing he'd tricked it sated.

You see them as a challenge revealed. Attributes of a compatible mate. Hungers aligned, agitation matched. Of the spirit. Of flesh burned red. Locks that promise the existence of keys. Of indentured servitude of which he can be freed. Should be freed.

You're before him in his office. Hands clasped behind your back. A wad of chewing gum tucked behind a wry grin. Thick digits card through his black shag before it drags down his face in a show of exasperation. His shirt strains around heavy shoulders as he rubs his eyes beneath glasses, and then the bridge of his nose.

The moment the frames hit the desk he's spun sideways and pushing out of his seat with a click in his knee. A trick joint worn thin, inflamed by all the prayer he's thrown himself into as late.

He's never been on his knees so much until you.

The thought still nags in the back of his mind, a monster breathing heavy and snorting from the foot of the bed, that whenever he finds himself on his knees these days, he's vulnerability, and you're inevitability. He thinks of his maw buried in your girlhood, his prayers muffled in your folds. If the sin of you doesn't taste like peaches and cream, or Oliviero was just more far gone than him.

He scoops down and straightens with the waste basket in his clutch. He extends it to you, over his desk kept between, a buffer, a safe distance away. Stares slot and lock like ram horns, but his gentle weariness holds. He's not angry, just doomed.

At last you acquiesce. Leaning forward, the gum drops from your lips into the bin, and he thanks God, if he's even still listening to good Father Brennan, that you refrain from holding his gaze while you spit.

Dropping the basket back to it's place, one hand falls to his hip while the other outstretches to you. Sighing expectancy once more.

A playful eye roll sends you into the pocket of your kilt to fish out the packet with the rest. He stands in wait, palm opened, until you deposit it with him and he utters his thanks for your cooperation.

"Will that be all for now, Father?"

"For now." He leans over his desk, a weight held by palms splayed under him against the surface, shoulder width apart. He's without his coat again, and his sleeves are forced up his forearms, sloppy cuffs that are beginning to unroll. He looks every bit as tired as he feels. "I was hoping we could keep today's office visits to an even, agreeable two. And this is already strike one."

You grin as a single of his eye-brows lift in an agreement he hopes you've reached. A suggestion he believes you may yet follow. Just to shake things up. You don't answer. You're all grins headed for your door. He stops you with a tut just as your hand hits the knob.

"Lass?"

The pet name sees you halt, then turn back to face him. His expression is tweaked to merciful assertion, a brow arched in the understanding he believes is mutual. You arch one back at him.

"Yes, Father?"

His chest rises and falls with a silent sigh as he draws back to full height. Worn haggard in posture, but one that still imposes. Stifles. He opens a drawer at his right and produces a ruler. You swallow, smoothing your hands on the front of your skirt as he approaches.

Hooded eyes, impossibly blue and barely concealed longing, holds yours captive as he strides the distance. He doesn't release them when he reaches you, nor when he lowers to a knee before you. Another pop of the cartilage as broadloom carpet cushions his descent.

He brings the ruler to the side of your leg at the knee, and sighs once more as he examines the length between the hem of your kilt and the top of your knee. And the two inches higher than it should be.

His look alleging a deliberation your smooth innocence protests before any accusations are spoken, much less pointed. He's not touching you but the proximity stalls both your breath and his. Even knelt before you he swallows you whole. His angled gaze an ocean surge, sweeping you in and pulling you under. Brisk and dark, but once it surrounds you its a calm, still comfort. An overwhelming mass even in how soft and lean age has dulled him.

"You know the rules." He rumbles, a long-suffering exasperation that's softened immeasurably by the threat of a kind smile, even as he denies it. He stands with a creak in his joints that deafen when compared to the click on his way down. The ruler still curled in his fist, he crosses his arms across the broad expanse of his chest, matte black and buttoned, and cocks his head to the side. "So would you kindly fix your skirt, then?"

A little smirk and down-cast eyes is all the fight you put up. "Yes, Father."

His gaze flickers on your face, a dying ember tantalized by the whip of rogue wind. Eyes fall from your face where it's safe to your midriff. Nimble fingers dart to your waistband as you begin to unroll the band in an outward perimeter, from hips around to your back. He realizes his watching turns lecherous when he can hear the hoarseness of his breath.

"You know the Sisters are strict with the dress code. Don't you tire of making the trip to my office?"

He tries for levity, but the little smirk you let slip with your head still down expresses to him just how severe his miscalculation was made.

"Not at all, Father. In fact all the girls would rather be with you then the Sisters." Your boldness lifts you back up to his stare, and something akin to victory blushes you about the bridge of your nose as you catch the ripple in his jaw. "But you already knew that."

His silence betrays how careful he begins to craft his navigation. "It's a blessing to have the respect of you girls, truly." He means every word of that. "But the Sisters care, my girl. They want to see you all staunch in your faith."

"Which is why they beat me?" Smiled small, innocent eyes then peek devilish through the curtain of lashes. He's not the only one who knows that party trick.

He bites. "Aye, they're strict. But that's only because you've left them no other choice, I reckon."

A cutesy shrug to pick your shoulders, hands clasp behind your back. Your head tips ingratiating and tilts up at him cat-like. He's not felt the canary a day in his life until he found himself on the receiving end of that look. Your head tilt just so.

"Mm, I guess you're right. If they weren't so fed up with me I wouldn't get to see you nearly so much."

He deflects, fancying himself seasoned when it comes to evading traps you set. "If it's my council you seek, you need only request it. The other girls seem to have no trouble reaching me that way."

"Yes, Father. I know."

"You don't see the others doing themselves up like brassers, and torturing the Sisters."

You smile. One slow and sly. "No, you're right. I guess not. But I still see you more than they do, even with all their scheduled time." You shrug. "I'm just the most committed to finding my way back to you."

Another day. Long and more eventful than he'd like. Another day that concludes with a migraine. A twinge pinching the vein until the skin there pulls and prickles. Glasses yanked away, finger-tips burning to replace the wire frames with the thin flask tucked neat in the top row. The schools empty save for the janitor. Mrs. Grady had already poked her head in on her way out, shrugged in her jacket a jingle of her keys.

No one would be there to happen upon him seeking solace from another healthy gulp or two of Jäger to the drone of the floor being waxed just beyond the chapel entrance. At least the anise settles his stomach.

His desk drawer slides open to discard his folded readers and that's when he sees it again. The little pink perfume bottle. Carved glass and oil, insentient and coy. Flirtation. Your wrist turned open and extended under his nose with a purr. Do you like it, Father?

His glasses fall against it and the draw shuts with a hasty slam. He should bring it to the main office instead, really. There's no good, sound reason why he should have your possessions. Forbidden as they are at St. Mary's, he's amassing a small trove that now feels more like a shrine. Chewing gum, bubble gum, lip gloss. And now the perfume. It somehow is too much like you. So much so that it feels like your spirit split, and one half resides in his office just to haunt him when you're off duty. Merciless and impish and cruel, a djinn locked away in pink crystal. One that lurches free to wreak havoc on his poor susceptibility whenever he faces it the beginning and end of each day. Its your smell and its overpowering. Right at his hip as he works, the proverbial palm of his hand. A suggestion to what lurks within him.

The prowling mange that looks at you and licks its chops. That remembers the time when he was more man. Just a man. Just Brennan. Simpler times, unburdened by duty and obligation. Chastity and obedience.

Dark hair and darker eyes, lean and mean. A tomcat fixed by one mates sister, and another's cousin. A scoundrel, their mothers branded him. He wasn't the most handsome or the most charming, but he was the most cunning. Gone without a trace. The only way to know he had even been there the odd bruise sucked to a neck. Whiskey-stickey tongue tracks dried between a set of breasts. Sets of glistening eyes heart-shaped and gooey stuck to him during mass on Sunday mornings. Maybe that's why he decided to pursue the priesthood.

He still gets that same look, those same gazes drizzled over him like honey, thick and golden sweet. No sucked tit or hand up a skirt necessary. He fears he misses the latter more than he enjoys the former.

He pushes up and away from his desk, and the taint of you emanating from the top left corner. Stalking hunched and hallucinative he rifles through thick leather binders until his fingers slip thin cool metal hidden away. He pries it loose, flicks the stopper unscrewed in one fluid stroke before he's tipping it back. Desperation in an Adams apple bobbing a dipping so erratic it catches the edge of his damned collar.

He gulps the thickness, the syrup like it's medicinal. He's not looking at the place in his desk where you are, pointedly. He has to think about it to not catch himself wandering. He's thinking about you in the form of pink crystal to make sure he's still not looking. Thinking about you just to make sure he's not thinking about you too long, too hard. His eyes ping around his office over the rim of his flask. He finds a spot on the ceiling, one where the wood paneling on the wall meets the crown molding. Where shoddy workmanship sees it cracked. He stares long and hard as he sucks every last drop, and all the while he thinks about pocketing the perfume and taking it home.

The Jäger is self-medicating, but he's steadily building immunity.

"Your sweater, girl." Sister Barbara snips, thin skin wrinkled vexed. A scowl you could depend on like you could the sunset. "I don't want to hear any excuses now."

He doesn't need to see to know who Sister Barbara's scolding. He pauses mid step for a minute and sighs, crosses himself a quick ward of protection, and continues around the bend, en route to Sister Jean's classroom.

You're not wearing the cardigan. Your back to him, he watches with eyes burning and shoulders tensed as the silhouette of yours teases him. Shoulders through the thin cotton of a crisp blouse that turns translucent in the light you're standing in.

"It was due to be laundered." You explain, and cross your arms over your chest. Your back is still to him, and Sister Barbara mimics the stance. She hasn't noticed him, neither of you have, perhaps he can weave through this minefield unscathed.

"So you didn't think to put on your spare?"

"I couldn't find it."

She tsks her disapproval, but has no counter, other than to gesture at your down hair, her eyes rolled. A huff and puff to another audacious display of insolence.

"Comb that nest back. You know the rules." Her tone is ice cold and twice as dry. "Otherwise you'll be spending another class period in Father Brennan's office, not that I don't already have half a mind to send you there now."

He thinks then to retreat. Please God don't send her back to me. He can see Sister Jean later in the day with a decent excuse and a wonderful apology. But you bend, you comply.

"Yes, Sister."

And then you're sweeping your hair off the back of your neck, and it's bared to him. A length of flesh, a column of muscle. Wisps of hair at your nape.

Your head tilts demure, only as far as your shoulder, and the line of jaw twitches something inside.

Low, below the belt. The rush of heat blossoming like an open wound. His collar pulls taut around his swallows, each one turning his throat parched. Your fingers rake your hair and tie it up. A naked neck, a bare jaw, and the hint of shoulders. He sees his hand coming to grip your shoulder, the other slipping under your jaw. Snatching your jaw. Sliding over to slip between your lips and down your throat, your whimpers vibrating his thick knuckles. Gagged on his intrusion.

Twitching. A squirm low in his stomach that breaches the division between gut and groin. A heat that slithers, coiled upwards a scrotum that squeezes it sprung loose.

Teeth-marks jagged and wet break the skin at your nape, the junction where neck meets shoulder from a blouse collar yanked away.

He's spun on his heel, and retracing his path back around the corner from where he's just come. The mens restrooms a safe haven, as there are hardly any men at all in the building at any given time. A tall body hunched and sagged against the door, slammed shut not a moment too soon. Wetness erupts at his groin, a slick sensitivity milked painful from the friction of tight black slacks. A zipper raking engorgement.

He shoves knuckles into his mouth to stifle his cries, and it backfires to thoughts of doing similar to you. Sat in a pew at the back of the church, speared in his lap, your crude joining hidden beneath the cream and hunter green of your kilt.

Animals, like dogs, bite the nape of their mates. They mount, jaws latch the scruff, and they rut. Until exhaustion drags them limp and boneless, until the knot pops. That's what he's thinking when he comes, a release reached by colorfully lewd imagination, your bare neck, and shoulders teased beneath thin cotton.

His sounds are labored and whimpering as he spends himself down his left pant leg. A length throbbing and tender, busted skin at his knuckle. There's a portrait of Jesus Christ on the opposite wall that watches this wretched display, one he averts the oil-painted judgement of. There's a picture of Christ in every room of the school, he realizes.

He's running out of places to hide.

There's no longer refuge in abstinence. Refusing himself touch does not save him.

He holds his office door open for Kate to exit out of. Splayed fingers, a shirt cuff buttoned around the thick of his wrist.

"God keep you, child." His eyes skim the top of her head, a blonde ponytail swishing back and forth as she skips, drawing his eye to you. Prowling outside his door, waiting. Watching. The threat of a pout quivering and eyes blinked hot with the fury of catching a man claimed with another pretty youth. Long legged, grinning around his name. Marked territory invaded.

"Lass?" His acknowledgment is of one of genuine perplexity. You march inward and he stumbles aside to clear your path. Allowing you in, gesturing an invitation he doesn't wholly want to give. He hadn't received a call you were coming.

"What was she doing here?"

Your tongue strikes like a clap to the cheek. An accusation that strangles she spitting and serpent-like. The green-eyed monster has come to collect, and you drag it to his feet. A tangle he must sort. A mess you bring for him to clean.

He blinks. Slow, startled, digesting the situation with labored understanding he must piece together with context clues that oppose. Jagged lines that refuse to slot together.

"She sought spiritual council." He divulges the explanation in calm that's had its edges singed, hands raised in defense of both himself and Ms. Reid. Whatever you believe took place behind his closed door must be a misunderstanding, but that implication roils in his stomach all the same. "It's a service I'm certified to provide, if you'll recall. One you're always welcome to receive."

For a moment he watches you look around his office. Arms crossed. Irritation coiled in a posture looking to lash forth at something. He stays quiet, a raised brow trained on you.

As always, you come out swinging.

"Am I special, Father?"

He blinks, throat closed cold. Careful steps and a steady hand. Easy, old boy.

"All you girls are special." It's still his honest truth. Another shield, the breastplate of his armor he clings tight.

Your eyes glance down at the floor between you. Your voice is so quiet he has to strain to hear you, not something he's used to with your boldness, your unapologetic candor. "That's not what I asked you."

There's more quiet between you. It goes on for longer than before. A sensation eases him, one he recognizes as calm, of all things. Turns out it has the opportunity to reveal itself in your shared company if you're both quiet for long enough. Before he decides if it should thrill him or frighten him, you're tear the calm and silence away. You try again.

"Am I worthy, Father Brennan? Of your attention?" Eyes widening doll like in desperation. There's a right and a wrong answer. You need him to know the difference, and face it. Brave it. "Am I special to you?"

He doesn't give you either answer. Just a look. It's longing. It's pain. It's hunger. Ocean eyes spilling, not of tears - but secrets. Confessions not made, not voiced. So much held at bey. The white at his throat keeping it all down. The moment he dares to utter even a hint, one word that slips passed, it all falls down. It's begging you as much as it's telling you everything you need to hear in words that stay buried. Stay under the collar.

It's not enough for you. You need the words. The confirmation. Something for your teeth to sink into.

"Do you love me, Father Brennan?" His stunned silence makes you smile. A smile that instills more dread. Not because it's malicious, but that it's hopeful. "Don't you want to?"

"Lass-,"

"You said yourself that committing to a love you can't touch is a tall order." A tangle of words turned against him, he breaks through the web. Wet-tissue paper pried apart by the dead weight of a dropped hand. He's stronger than that, at the very least.

"Aye, a test of our faith. A sacrifice. But one made because we must."

"But why must we? Where is loyalty in suffering? Our honest faith in pain? How could that make it more real? How could that make it worth all of this?" A wild, vague gesture that he assumes means to be between you and him. The emphasis on agony a peek behind your curtain. You poor child. He almost thinks to offer that it wasn't so dishonest.

Like the pain recognized isn't one shared.

You're demanding answers he not only doesn't know how to give, he's incapable even if he had them. His tongue is cotton un-spooled against his teeth, down his throat. A chewed up useless thing that rends him mute. He only realizes you've begun to stalk towards him in scuffed mary-janes until his low back knocks the ledge of his desk.

"I don't understand, why is touch wrong when I need it, Father?"

He's run out of ground to stick between you. He has no where else to hide. He'll give you whatever you want so long as you don't come any closer, don't ask him for the one thing he absolutely cannot give you. Will not give you.

Ribs crunching as he rips them from his side with a bloody grasp and skin peeled open. His sternum, long and flat, clattered to the ground at your feet like a ceremonial dagger. His heart. Still beating in shaking palms. Still slick and red, even with all the fissures you've since opened along it's glisten. Yours, all yours. He'll take himself apart piece by piece on his knees for your hurt, for how he's failed you. He'll give it all if only you'd give him even a scrap of mercy in return. A kindness for all he's fed you. All he's given to your satiation.

Your anger pouts.

You cock your head, cat-like. "Don't you want to?"

"No." It's not even a lie. God help him, you're pushing him over a line, and he'd sooner dive across it, head over heels, before he'd lay a hand on you to catch himself from falling. "No, child. This is wrong."

Self-cannibalized malignancy. He'd feed himself to you if it fixed you. A sacrifice made to turn you docile, trick your appetite sated like he had done his own. It could work. He reasons. It's sterilization. It's lobotomy. But it works.

His look is begging you to yield, to show him mercy, but you step closer. A hard swallow and a sturdy body brought to trembles once your hand comes up to flatten against his chest. Over his heart as it hammers the breast bone. You feel along the heavy cross that hangs heavy from his neck on heavy chain. You're wading through his ocean eyes as you do. As you touch him.

Instinct makes him want to growl. Reason, the shreds that remain, think to pry your hands from his person and distance you as gently as he can.

The heart that hammers is slippery and viscous. It's rotting. It's sick. It somehow strong arms both instinct and reason.

In a move that stuns you, he touches you back. Palm cupping your lower back, he pulls you closer. Not into his body, but close enough your toes touch.

He presses a kiss to your hairline.

Gentle, fleeting. A father's quick-pecked affection to a child shirked and throwing a tantrum.

Startled, but only for a beat. You look up at him in a beam. His payment satisfactory.

And it is payment, a toll exacted. It was on the forehead, he barely touched you for longer than it would have taken to push you away, but he pulled you instead.

He pulled you in, and he kissed you.

"Thank you, Father."

You're barely a whisper through his door before he slumps to his knees to the ground. Tipped back to catching himself on the heel of his palm. His fingers rake through his hair, rough and erratic, trying to shake himself from a nightmare. Pinch himself awake, only to the horror that he already is.

He's shaking. Anguish, hot and wet, streaks down his cheeks from raw eyes. Eyes like ocean waves, flash frozen so still they'd shatter with a touch. He'll shatter with a touch. His lids fall heavy and he retreats to his arms, his knees. Long, creaking limbs he tangles himself within, and hides there. He mourns himself, he mourns you.

He licks his dry lips and tastes peaches and cream. His sobbing wrenches to a hard torrent.

He abstains from a lover's touch, but he can take his own.

An old act he hasn't felt beneath himself to oblige since before he joined the priesthood. Its big and thick and worsens the ache for yours, as its meant. Self pleasure always has and always will be disdainful, as by design. The weight and scratching of the chain. The weight and scratching of his palm up and down himself under the shower spray.

Forehead pressed to the tile, eyes held shut to the water and the filth. Debauched grunts and snarls turn rasping pathetic as he sprints to the finish, a name clogging his throat that he refuses to profane by saying it aloud, even though you're the one he prays to have and hold.

Angry flesh bloated from neglect, a bruised complexion contusing to his battery. That's what this is after all. Yanking and tugging to furious abuse. He means to beat away the urge, strip it from the tingling skin and salivating glans. An ailment of a fevered mind, strayed focus. The infection of sin.

Thick and slimy ropes coat his fist and swirl along the drain at his feet. He loathes the smell, the sensation. The clarity that settles around his shivering body cold and needling. The showers turned cold, the water pelting him in a sting. Insult to injury. He'll not be able to conjure the sensation of shower droplets, icy and thick, to calm his swollen girth from thereon, a realization made grim.

Good. He thinks. He's meant to suffer. It's meant to be unpalatable. Good. He thinks again.

The taint hasn't spread. It's but an illness, and illness can be cured. He'll mend. He'll overcome. His soul is sick, not damned. His mind races fire and brimstone and the fetid depths of Hell. Depths he'll leap to before he thinks of yours again. Tight velvet. Delicate virginal tears. Young flesh and hot blood that turns him haggard ancient. Comparison isn't meant to be kind. Touching himself isn't meant to bring him pleasure. Despite the rumble in his gut, the itch in his fingers. Black curls and black eyes and red, every blink, every breath, every squeeze, every stutter. Semen drools between his trembling fingers.

Chastity and obedience. Chastity and obedience.

The once sacred turned laughable. Is it still chastity if he rubs himself raw to the taste of your name? Is it still obedience when he fingers his cross with one hand and jerks himself with the other?

You've taken those precious oaths of his and eaten them. Sucked your fingers clean for him to see, hypnotic motions of swirled tongues and moans seethed shrill and breathy.

He has to will himself to remember that he's the one who fed them to you.

The chains creak and groan. A once harsh, sterile dissonance now a beautiful sound. Restraints remembered, restraints that protect. That keep him held back. A stray dog permitted to live so long as he can't reach the meat.

He rattles them on purpose. Rattles them to remind, to feel the confines. He means to hide. His cock limp, pathetic. It hangs deflated between his thighs another bleak reminder.

You're back alone with him in the church. At night. One echoing and confined. The stiff cushions lining the pews could use a vacuuming. The sort of labor that seems fitting for the offense of indulging strawberry bubble-gum out in the open hall between classes.

Father Brennan rakes you over the coals of a cobalt smolder, eyeing you for the stench of sin. A hound snarling in preempt for a hand to strike as you set to work, bent over in a ruffle of plaid kilt. The hem dragging higher up along the back of your stretched, spread thighs as you lean further along the seat cushion. Hose attachment in hand and the drone of suction, caught in the hollow shell and spit back out in piercing reverberation. A church that screams at him to take himself and his hunger far away.

At least it's loud enough to muffle the low groan as your knee lifts to the pew and you climb forward. Balanced on one hand and knee each, his vision hazy and ensnared by bands of thigh peeking between the top of your stockings and bottom of your skirt.

A common lecher, an old sick dog made to starve. The cross around his neck, between his shirts, hangs heavier by comparison. His collar a flimsy restraint that only paints him more lascivious, regardless of how earnest he tries to look away. And oh, how badly he wants to touch you.

Stroke. Tickle.

Force wider apart to fit his stance between.

Kiss you again.

He's traded his sport coat for a green sweater. School colors, of course, and a stereotype he's unable to escape. An Irishman in black and green. You match. The church is large and drafty, and with the absence of body heat and candle flame, it's desolation has a particular chill. A place of supposed worship honed razor-edged repellent. A former love whose resplendence turned frigid at the presence of his new mistress. Once a shelter it then shuns him. The vacuum whines louder and shrill, it bounces off the rafters; get out get out get out! And take the whore with you!

A similar thick knit of hunter green cotton hides your upper body, but only from the back.

He must look guilty. His loitering irrefutable. He had dismissed you already, set to retreat back to his office to hide. But there he stands. Looming behind you in a position most compromising should anyone happen upon you, and good Father Brennan.

A genuine Lolita, humming in blissful ignorance. In doe-eyes and a back turned. A body presenting a gourmet delicacy to the slobbering hound aching and stiff behind you. He's lived on meat and potatoes. Hallion's Irish Red whenever the gum line around his sweet tooth got that itch for fake caramel malt. God's love and acceptance, blind and unflinching. He must be flinching now, a blind eye turned away from Father Brennan's indulgence. Soft, tender veal. Crushed velvet. Fine wine. A virginal sex blossomed to womanhood in his lap. In his mouth. In his nightmares.

All he can think of when he gazes upon your position is Quod ore sumpsimus.

Lord, may I receive?

He's begging for you where he should be begging for salvation. Deliverance from your evil. Jittery, in pain from how badly he wants to mount. Leering at the precipitous lift of skirt, and young, supple thighs. Would the vacuum be loud enough to cover your cries? His forgiveness huffed and begged as he sinks inside you, deeper and bloodier and selfish. A wilting poinsettia crumbled on the dais.

You turn to face him in a sudden swirl of skirts and open cardigan flaps. An unfortunate effect of the chill has sunk it's tendrils into your body. Your young, fertile body, in the two pinched peaks of nipple through your blouse.

Bras are certainly a strict staple of the dress code. The obvious. Standard. A conclusion. One so forgone it remains unspoken. And surely, Father Brennan's tongue is unwilling to make mention. His eye falls to the poked fabric with a mouth set to water before he rips them away, a blink that sends them - forces them - back to your eyes. You have the audacity to look innocent. His lamb, his little black lamb, meek and mild, even as she offers her purity. Her nubility granted with such nonchalance he has to look away. A display too obscene in its innocuity.

"Is something the matter, Father?" Strawberry bubblegum breath. Your crucifix caught and glinting from overhead florescence. Innocence a five-course meal.

An Hors d'oeuvres of silhouette, one-bite to whet the appetite. His title, his name, hushed yearning, pornographic. The appetizer. A snarl and gnashing teeth to taste it from your glossy, plush pout. A palate cleansed. He dives to gorge himself on the entrée. Gasped bleats, scratching nails, an arched back. Oh God cried in response to the ravenous set loose. A collar that shocks and stings as punishment for his straying, his brazen disobedience. But he doesn't stop, he can't stop. Licking, slurping, chewing, swallowing.

For dessert he finds room to lap up the cherry, popped and smeared. Sticky on your thighs. Syrupy sweet on his tongue.

He coughs, or chokes. Either way it's painful, and disgraced. Tired eyes and pale cheeks. "No, lass. Carry on." He takes his leave you, forcefully, heavy heels strikes that drive his needs to run with every clap against tile that separates. "If you need me, you know where to find me." Called cordially over the resumed drone of the vacuum. Intoned in a way that grumbles don't need me, don't find me, don't come looking.

1971 is chomping at the bit in the bitter gusts of a December on its way out. Classes proceed in the standard flow; coursework persists steadily and the Sister's remain pedant, however the attitude in the classrooms have slackened, and the halls buzz anticipatory and restless. Halls that would soon empty. Arterial structures attached to the heart of the school, the organ stalled, the veins deflated. A hibernation until next year.

Christmas a week to the day and the holiday vacation slotted to begin after mass, the girls of St. Mary's have shelved their retention, their focus closeted. The same sort of languor that overtakes them on Friday afternoons.

Father Brennan has never appreciated the sound of his own voice like the Sisters seem to, but the concluding rite is cut and rolled with a particular brevity that suspends the mass in hesitation, even once it's ended. He then remembers a smile, reassuring and warm, it only heightens the lines of his face drawn deeper, the dark around his eyes heavier. The church doesn't hum or blush for him.

It echoes instead of hushed conversation, wishes of Merry Christmas. The Sisters bidding the girls farewell until school resumes in the new year.

Sisters Jean and Barbara, along with himself, suggested to your parent's a holiday home might be good for you. His relief upon their agreement was born of a much needed break from you. For the sake of his sanity. He wears it lamely, tatters limp and stretched gossamer thin.

You sneak into his periphery, whisper quiet and all the dread of an unidentified shadow. Unfortunately for him, familiarity isn't the issue. Your silhouette is in his dreams, his shut eyes, and now - his prayers. Every curve, and dip. Every peak and valley. Unexplored territory he's now consumed with the thought of charting.

He's defenseless. Sleeves pushed to his elbows, a collar that blisters his neck as it begs to be removed. He clutches the bible in a wide palm like he means to make a shield of the leather bound word.

"Father Brennan," your cadence brokers no negotiation. You will not be shirked, despite your parents awaiting you in the front office to take you home. To take you away from him. "I have something I need to confess."

He closes his eyes and counts to ten. His posture stiffens defensive, his back put up at you. "The mass has ended." It's weak, but if weakness isn't all he has left. He turns to face you, miraculous in finding he's still able to even look you in the eye. "Go on home, lass." He doesn't know if he hopes you can or can't hear that it's a plea. "I'm sure it can wait until you come back."

"It can't." Your insistence fails as nothing in him gives, or softens. So naturally you change tactics. "Please, Father. Am I not still worth your time or attention?"

A dirty trick that turns his look of hesitation sidelong and begging. You lock into him, unflinching. You never back down, and you're not about to start. You're carrying the weight of the world in your heart; your limp trembling, your eyes glassy. He sees you. He knows this particular brand of desperation.

Shoulders sagged and head hung he ushers you into the confessional beside him. Crossing himself on his way in.

"Bless me, Father. For I have sinned." It's a whisper, it's weak and wet and shaking. His heart blips arrhythmic in alarm. You've never sounded this way before. Breath labored in a guilt that saps you of your pluck, a candor sagging under a burden. He can't see you but he imagines you on the other side of the screen, brittle. A sheet of ice suspended seconds before a shatter, splintered outward from one press held too long, pushed too hard. Your silence all that holds you from going to pieces, but the cracks are formed. They wait.

He waits.

"It's alright, my child. You're alright."

Bowed brows, a hand held to a skittish animal quivering in the corner. The toes of his loafer catches his eye, and he bores into the sight. Polished shining black, the hard gleam of blue soon to burn a hole clean through, he'll not look away until he does. He listens to your breath, and stares at his shoe. Hard.

He waits.

"Father, I tried not to do it. Really, I did, I..."a pause to collect yourself, moving slow. Slow so that you do not burst cold crystal, slick and weeping. Melting at his feet. "Well it's just... I can't help myself, you see?"

"Did what, lass?" He shakes at his shoes, slumped forward. Elbows catching his thighs heavy, fingers laced between his knees. Hung like his head. "Can't help yourself from what?"

You swallow. He hears the slurry of muddled admission and secrecy. It's burning a hole in your pocket, much like his shoe. You want to spill yourself, but for once, there's hesitation. Something great hangs in the balance. If you shatter there will be fragments, sharp and biting from which he'll need to shield himself. A retreat deepened. If you wait too long you'll simply wither. The heat, the unbearable, forbidden heat will melt you down, a sopping mess before him he can't make heads or tails of it.

You take a breath. You decide, not to shatter, not to melt, but to explode. A hail of buck-shot.

"This ache inside me, Father. I'm out of my mind, I don't know what to do." You're whimpering, voice hushed but strong, and clear. Oh so clear. Bright and gleaming, a reflection of himself he's forced to gaze upon. "It's only... it's only getting worse."

His shoes won't save him now. He shuts his eyes to the spinning, but somehow the black behind his lids only make it worse. His stomach sour, he sees red, swirling and lurching and burning. There's no where for him to step now. His tact, like his armor, is lost back in the muck. There's nothing to say that won't damn him. There's nowhere to step that won't give. A patch of garden, virtuous and pure, trampled underfoot of his own weakness.

"I touch myself, Father. It just... it hurts so much."

His ears ring. A spot of black in the corner of the cramped booth. A blotchy, uncontained spread, fuzzy and dank on the tile in the corner. Allowed to foster in the shadow. Black mold, he assumes. More black.

Acknowledgement is confirmation he can't stomach.

"I touch myself to you, Father." Your agony almost suggests this confession perhaps doesn't gratify you like you might have fantasied it would. You've shattered, but the mess is only announced, not seen. Not witnessed. Nuance and a heart bloodied lost in the grate of pretend anonymity.

"Child." A warning that begins and end in one word. It's all he can get out before he's choked silent. He hopes it's enough, he prays. You can't name him. Identification is the beginning of the end. He's begging you. On the wrong side of the confessional, but a desire sincere.

"I know your job is to lead me closer to God, but I only want to be closer to you." A hushed whisper that knots whimpered and soft. "I can't stop thinking about you."

He stalls out. He mouths at the dead space separating you, gaping. Tongue a mangle of cotton. The passage of Final Temptation floods his loss for words, and adds pressure to the crush of a confession he's still not sure he's heard correctly. Of Olivero's vast, ruthless hunger that means to drown Cléo. An unceasing tidal wave that floods your lungs and sinks you, waterlogged. Spoiled.

His spluttered silence goads you to continue when that's the last thing he means for you to do.

"Won't you help me, Father Brennan?"

"You," his cadences wobbles and stubs, forcing him to catch a breath his lungs aren't able to hold and barrel onward, "my child, you don't know what you're asking for."

"I want you, Father."

His collar catches. The pattern of tile between his toes slowly come to life and twist. Writhe. Bleed indiscernible. Bleeds as he bleeds for you. Bleeds as he wants you to bleed for him.

"I need you."

Weakness.

You jump on his shoulders. You bite the back of his neck. "I love you."

His face is in his hands.

He is damned, he knows it now.

He loves you. He loves you.

Temptation, slithering and snake-skinned. Around his ankle. Up his leg between his thighs. Heavy, hot, aching. Coiled to knots that burn his gut and lump cold in the throat. Right at the ivory, still keeping it all down. His armor peels free and falls at his feet one piece at a time. Clanging metal, loops in the chain sprung open. Slack, weak-points, faults. You've sniffed it out and destroyed it all.

A final sniffle and a creak of wood and he's then aware you're fleeing. Rubber mary-jane soles striking the tile like heel clicks. More languid than a heart bared and broken would stand for. You want him to catch you.

With eyes shut and fingers trembling, the tips brush himself protected in the sign of the cross. Rapid-fire warding. Furrowed brow. A heart swollen and sick. Left shoulder to right, both sagging heavier with each second that passes.

Weakness. Shameful. Reprehensible. Worthy of naught but eternal damnation.

Father Brennan all but falls out of the confessional. The floor shifts and the walls sway with the fit of the sea has engulfed the church. The sea from his eyes, spilled and flooding. His church. Shining and new like his priesthood once upon a time. Dust gathers in the corners, hairline cracks splinter from the crown molding. His shelter, his purpose, his empire falling to disrepair. A slow rotting. Negligence regarded with a blind-eye and denial. He sees it now. He sees you. He sees too much.

His Eden is poisoned, by it from he or he from it, he doesn't know. It casts him out all the same, this impurity. A humbly devout servant turned traitorous and vile. Slithering. Hissing. Venom in his lure. Condemnation in his touch.

He keeps his distance but he calls after you.

"Lass-," He must sound as sick as he feels, for you stop. He can't say more. He can say nothing else.

Then you turn.

The smile you give him almost pulls him to his knees.

Everything in him feels like it's dropping, every organ every bone every sluggish vein tries to force him to the ground. every part of him aches to submit to you. Old knees crashed to hard tile. He wants to bury his face in your middle and sob. A confession made to you in exchange, in his brows bowed pleading, his clenched jaw, his bleached eyes. All color in him has paled, flushed down the drain with his sin. He's stark. Black hair and black cloth and the ghastly pallor in between. He thinks he needs you if he wants his color back ever again.

You see it all. And then you're gone.

You've broken him down piece by piece. His yellow ribs and brittle sternum and oozing, gaped heart. And then you skip away into the holiday break. Skipping and smiling. Face stinging from watery eyes.

That night swells with fervent invocation. This time it's himself who he prays for.

He wants you. God help him, he wants you.

To say his prayers in the dampness between your legs. To feast from your body like the alternative is famine. A life abstained from your lush decadence is a life sentence, one deprived. Starved.

He's knelt at his bedside with knees that creak and shoulders heavy as his hoarseness is stripped and frayed. He reeks of Irish Mist and disdain. Whiskey makes him see you writhing and arching and still straining Father on your stilted breath. Tongue-numbed and slack-jawed he fumbles into the shower, blinking back sopping black shag from eyes so tired they glow red. Burn against the back of his lids red. Red that bursts with a pop and a hiss. Red that dribbles down your legs. Red that coats him, the spoils of war, an ill-gotten conquest. A concubine for the beast.

Black shrouds him in thin cotton that weighs heavy against his cracked soul. Clings to his huddled drunkenness wet with shame. He only realizes he's stumbled into the shower with clothes still on when he has to wrangle the soggy layers to bare himself to the spray. An old weight slotted in his palm. He can't breath beneath the pelting heat and the throbbing swell that screams under his touch, but he doesn't stop.

He sees more red. So much of it all the time. Blood in your teeth, blood between your thighs.

Would you be virginal? Would you bleed for him as he bleeds for you?

Ripping you apart. A lamb he's sworn to protect then a feast, a sacrifice to the altar, a purity he's sullied. Broken and mended back together in his image. Someone as sick and hungry as he is.

Failing joints cracking the shower's roar makes for an unpleasant melody, but it's not enough to drown his obscenities. His curses. Forgiveness he begs you for even though you're only there in a shaking hand cupped tight. An approximation of slick flesh and giggles from recall. Moans from nightmares. A body from fantasy.

He's a black spot in the corner. Smudged, uncontained, amorphous. Leached poison spread, the blue drained from his eyes. He can't tell if they prick from the water or from tears. He didn't even cry half as hard or twice as much when his father dropped dead. He's begging you to forgive him again. Humping his hand, too wide and calloused to trick him. Slick tile cradling his forehead instead of your breasts. Hot water rivulets down his clothed back, tendrils of steady pressure, pretending they're your fingers.

The cramped tile an echo chamber that forces him to bear witness to his unearthed depravity, the soil loosely churned, the fetid stench invasive. He works himself from wiry root to bloated tip, and every inch between. Rutting, jerking his hips sore. The shower is scalding. This drunken stupor saw fit to burn the fever from him instead of ice it out.

His feet slip and squeal under him. His head lolls and shiny black glints from the shower pan. Laces limp and shiny, black pleather so wet it looks like he's standing in ink. He went in with his shoes on as well.

He squeezes his tip hard, puckered raspberry pinched white, and the grunt he makes is unlike any sound he's heard from his own mouth. The water floods down upon him without mercy. Heat blistering raw, it's sinks marrow deep. In from the top of him, all the way down through. Black hair, black clothes plastered to his body. A stain of weakness, he is. A mold. The thatch at his base draws his focus. Curled and thick, salt and pepper black. Black fleece. He tries not to think how it reminds him of yours. A correlation that builds behind his eyes until they twitch. A rotten core pulsing towards expulsion. Trembling fingers snatch the collar from his throat to rip it off just in time.

A half-sob half-roar announces what he has just done, the evidence riding itself post-haste down the drain. Every inch of him quivers to an imperceptible weight, an exposed nerve twitching and glistening vulnerable. He shakes like a wet dog, his hand still grabbing a hold of himself.

He's a wet mess in the shower, thrown in the corner. Crumbled and shamed. Wet clothes weighing heavier as he stands under the spray. Honey whiskey and spiced bile raise in warning up his throat, but he chokes it back.

He only wishes it would have choked him instead.

This work is 25.6k words. More than half of that I wrote in a writing bender where I, for some ungodly reason, stayed up for 48 hours straight. I'm on hour 48 as I type this. I can't look at this fic anymore. Come scream in my inbox please and thank you

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blessedarethebinarybreakers · 6 months ago

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Avery, if it's not too much, may I please request a prayer from you?

My country is going through a bout of turmoil due to the actions of the government. The president's family has been using sketchy tactics in an effort to secure members into positions of power. The senate of representatives also tried to bend rules made by the constitutional court.

Yesterday, protests have erupted all over the country over the matter. College students have been at the forefront with street vendors, motorcycle taxi drivers, high school students, and even some allied cops helping or showing support. Sadly, some people were reported to have gone missing.

Could you please help pray for the safety of the citizens and for anyone who got separated from their loved ones to be reunited?

Hey Neko, I've been praying for your country today! <3

Blessed are the ones who join the struggle for justice; may God fill them with courage, strength, and the support they need to succeed.

Blessed are the students, the vendors, the taxi drivers, who risk everything for the sake of their people; may all be inspired to join in their struggle.

Blessed even are the cops who turn traitor to an unjust system, proving themselves more faithful to the People; may this allyship continue, opening their hearts to challenge their colleagues and pursue new paths that enable them to keep joining the fight for what is right.

I call on Jesus, once separated from his family and found again, the Good Shepherd who dropped everything to recover his lost sheep; and on Mary his mother, Mother to all the Disappeared, to hold those missing close, to guide them safely home.

O God of outcasts, insurgent of the status quo, who raises the lowly from the ash heaps and casts the mighty down, let your justice roll across this country, your grace transform all things. Amen.

#prayer

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corancoranthemagicalman · 6 months ago

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Do you have any funny pet stories you'd like to share?

Many years ago now I had a Jack Russell Terrier named Cotton who the first time he tried to lift his leg to pee, he fell over. He also jumped in the ditch and it was a good thing I had a leash on him because he straight up sunk like a stone.

We had another dog, shepherd mix, named Ash who ate our wedding album and we needed our marriage certificate for college stuff so we had to go to a government building and tell government officials we needed a copy of our marriage certificate because our dog ate it. She ate other things too during her puppy phase.

*Asks are sent for fun, no pressure to answer.

Awww, poor wee Cotton. When we adopted my old man (who is no longer with us), they told us he was a Jack Russell mix. He grew three times the size and turns out he was an Australian sheep-herding dog. He didn't like water at all and would avoid going out if it was raining or if the grass was wet. He'd prance like a deer to keep his feet out of the wet grass.

Tucker, the old fella, once ran straight through the screendoor because he was going blind and hadn't realized the screen was there at all. It was such a comedic moment for a dog who has continually run into glass before to finally tear the screen. He'd also get so distracted looking at someone that he'd just straight up run into couches, trip over his own feet, etc.

That sounds like a WHOLE ordeal to have to get all of those documents replaced :( I hope it wasn't too much. Tucker's puppy phase was more separation anxiety, so he only got into things and tore stuff when we weren't home. We had to put hot-sauce on a door frame once just to keep him from tearing at it (didn't hurt him, obviously!! Just not a fun experience so he refrained.)

He also hated grapes. He'd want them so so bad, and then he'd bite into one and it would squirt in his mouth and you could see regret on his face. (He only accidentally ate one once or twice, we know they're bad for dogs so we never fed him them, but it fell on the floor and he was a chow-hound—related to that, he'd get so excited to eat anything that fell on the floor, even if it was hot, and watching a dog try to eat a hot french fry is like watching a dog try to eat peanut butter.)

Oh, but the real funny story with him, one time he was out and best we can figure he got ahold of a lizard or a bee? Something he was allergic to. Swole up in his face and looked like Scooby-Doo. You could barely see his eyes over his chops. (He was totally okay! It was only the external swelling, and it went down with a benadryl, so it's easier to laugh at now, the way his lil' mutton chops blew in the breeze of the car window being rolled down).

My cats do cat shenanigans all the time, like climbing on open doors, running along the top of china hutches, hurling themselves body first into glass, but I don't have a memory that really sticks out of one of them at the moment. Might be because I'm just remembering my doggo, but I'll probably have a cat story pop into my head as soon as I post this, haha!

#ask c #amloveabledeathmo #c answers #pets

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nerdybunnysworld · 5 days ago

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The Jezebel’s Rage

She is not innocent.

She is not meek.

She is not mild.

She is a storm—a wildfire that refuses to be contained.

Her eyes do not just reflect fire; they burn with it.

Pain, seared into her soul, glows beneath her skin.

Her every move is measured, every step deliberate.

She sees it all—the way your energy shifts,

the hollow ring in your voice,

the surrender in your eyes when you realize she knows.

This is not love.

This is not strength.

This is not faith.

This is a war.

A war declared in whispers, in pulpits, in laws written in blood.

A call to arms that most ignore—

because comfort is easier than truth.

She does not seek refuge in pews lined with false promises.

She does not kneel at the feet of men who mistake power for godhood.

She dances in the ruins of the sanctified,

where soot and ash are her cloak,

where silence has never been sacred.

She is the spark in the dark places,

the defiance in the forsaken,

the hands that hold the abandoned.

She does not survive on half-truths or pretty illusions,

and she will not drink from the cup of forgetfulness.

You speak of love, but only for those who bend.

You preach of mercy, but only for those who obey.

You claim righteousness, yet build your kingdom on bones.

You rewrite history in golden ink,

glazing over the blood, the chains,

the way your god was wielded like a blade

against the very people you now call lost.

The tsunami of rage rises.

The whispers of frustration grow teeth.

The emptiness of abandonment festers.

And yet you stand, clothed in sanctimony,

twisting the past into something gentle,

pretending the bad never happened—

or worse, that it was necessary.

You drown in your own lies,

like oil thick in your veins,

clogging the force of reality.

You ignore the eruptions, the consequences,

the lives your doctrine was never meant to touch—

but shattered all the same.

You sing of forgiveness and acceptance,

but only for the ones who kneel at your altar.

You promise compassion, yet abandon the ones

who refuse to carve out their own flesh to fit your mold.

You say, “Protect the weak.”

And yet, children starve in your streets,

while you hoard your tithes and call it faith.

You say, “Support the poor.”

Yet women die in silence, their suffering deemed a test.

You say, “Life is sacred.”

Yet you send the desperate to war,

turning them into weapons,

discarding them like rusted steel when they are no longer useful.

You cry, “Save the babies!”

But the woman forced to carry?

She is a footnote in your holy book.

You go on mission trips across the world,

condemning innocent souls to your sick, twisted hell,

leaving nations more depleted than when you arrived.

You strip them of what little they have,

take their land, their voices, their gods,

build monuments to your own,

and dare to say, “We saved you.”

Your hypocrisy seeps through your robes,

your judgment stains the hands you raise in worship.

You condemn the ones who choose abortion—

yet when your own wombs betray you,

you make the same choice behind clinic doors,

whispering that it’s different, because God understands.

Your god is a shepherd, you say.

Yet you mock the ones who refuse to be sheep.

So who, then, is the true wolf in sheep’s clothing?

You marry off your daughters to your deity,

call them his bride,

wrap them in silk and obedience,

while their souls bleed beneath the lace.

You stand at your pulpits,

claiming holiness,

claiming truth.

Yet the walls of your churches crack,

splintered under the weight of your own deceit.

She does not pray for your approval.

She does not seek your salvation.

She stands in the wreckage you created,

breathing in the ash,

watching as the fire takes hold.

And this time, she does not weep.

This time, she does not beg.

This time, she lets it burn.

#my writing #trauma #mother #love #healing #christianity #christian faith #christian hypocrisy #faith #jezebel #female rage #emotional abuse #tw abuse #abuse survivor #cult of the lamb

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monsterxmade · 1 month ago

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Following Anya's near escape at five years old, Aris Calwyn came to the grim conclusion that her mother had instilled far too much humanity in his weapon while caring for her those first few years. She showed too much empathy, the beginnings of a moral compass that contradicted his goals, and a desire for connection that had her thinking of the other children as potential friends instead of means to an end the way they were meant to be. A desire to leave the facility because of these traits was especially dangerous considering that if he did his job well enough, the only thing that would make her compliance a 100% surety was a desire to be compliant.

So, he begins to create something inhuman out of her - a dog whose only desire and sense of worth is related to following orders, a sheep who blindly follows the shepherd, a monster who cares for nothing and possesses no desire other than to kill on command. To do this, he begins to convince her that she is something other to the people outside, that there is something inherently wrong with her that makes her less human but more powerful all the same, that isolating her is a way of maintaining her safety and that of others until she is ready for the missions that would lead her out beyond these walls. He convinces her that she was not made for contact and connection because she will destroy anyone or anything she loves, just like the mother she murdered and the items that turned to ash in her hands.

Anya internalizes this, as any child would, over the next ( 9 or 16 ) years but it isn't enough to kill the craving and as her "short-comings" were tolerated less and less and "punishments" became more frequent and painful, as the desire to please her father enough to earn something like love became a more impossible feat than ever before, the want to flee only grows. When the opportunity presents itself, she takes it.

This is a massive part of why Anya finds it hard to connect to others, or rather feel secure in the connections she actually makes more readily than most might think. She actually believes there's something wrong with her, that she is inherently dangerous and destined to destroy anything she loves, so the more she loves someone, the more terrified she becomes of losing them whether she does so because she harms them in some way or because they find out what she is and abandon her before it can happen.

The way she reacts to these fears depends a lot on age, verse, and the influence of the people she's connecting with but generally speaking, fourteen-year-old Anya is usually more prone to panic attacks but less likely to leave. Sometimes, certain things trigger them - mistakes or perceived rejections - but sometimes, it's nothing more than a passing thought that spirals out of control. She clings to the connection like a lifeline while simultaneously hating herself for being "too selfish" to let go. She tends to use a fawning or people-pleasing approach to basically "convince" people that they love her and tries her best to "pretend" to be more girl than monster, hoping if they don't see the truth and she manages to control the bad thing inside her that she can keep her loved ones longer, maybe even forever.

Twenty-one-year-old Anya has grown into more of a stance involving feigned apathy. She tells herself she doesn't need anyone, that she's actually better off alone, and tends to avoid loss by avoiding connection in the first place. She's a lot harder to form any sort of bond with and way more likely to leave someone if she feels rejection may be approaching. She still struggles with a lot of anxiety but is more adept at suppressing her emotions, unfortunately also making herself more prone to letting things build up until she explodes.

Five-year-old Anya still craves love and fear rejection, still fawns as a response to her trauma, and is still prone to lots of anxiety but she has far less of these beliefs instilled in her and is the easiest to connect with and the easiest to help heal from the abuse she endured.

#• anya ⁝ more info ( ❤︎ )#// I have no idea if this makes sense to anyone else #and the details really do change depending on verse and the influence ( good or bad ) your muses has on her so this is just a very #general explanation but here it is the meta I promised I would someday put into words 🙃

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theprayerfulword · 6 months ago

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August 21

Isaiah 55:1 Ho, every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he that hath no money; come ye, buy, and eat; yea, come, buy wine and milk without money and without price.

Psalm 23:1 The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not want.

Isaiah 55:2 Why spend money on what is not bread, and your labor on what does not satisfy? Listen, listen to Me, and eat what is good, and you will delight in the richest of fare.

1 Peter 3:15 But in your hearts set apart Christ as Lord. Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have.

1 Corinthians 1:25 For the foolishness of God is wiser than man's wisdom, and the weakness of God is stronger than man's strength.

Colossians 1:11-12 Strengthened with all might, according to His glorious power, for all patience and longsuffering with joy; 12 giving thanks to the Father who has qualified us to be partakers of the inheritance of the saints in the light.

May you be pleasing to the Lord, blameless and upright, fearing God and shunning evil. Job 1

May you develop a regular custom of devotional time and seeking God for yourself and for others. Job 1

When you are in the midst of troubles and sorrow, may you not sin by charging God with wrongdoing, but remain steadfast in your knowledge of His goodness and cling to Him as your unchanging Rock, maintaining your integrity before Him. Job 1

May the expression of malice from the enemy of your soul render all the more precious to you the gift of love and life from the Savior of your soul as He comforts you in your troubles, for in order to obtain your redemption, Jesus suffered far more from the enemy than we can understand. Job 1

When you are surrounded by the ashes of your circumstances with only broken pieces of your dreams remaining, sad of mind, heavy of heart, sick of body, may your faith remain unshaken and your words reflect the truth of heaven. Job 2

May you know and accept the truth that you are blessed beyond deserving, granted grace in abundance, and surrounded by mercy past measuring, all of which does away with any factual basis for complaints, much less boasting. Job 2

May the effect of circumstances, the washing of the Word, and the work of the Spirit in breaking, cleansing, and refining your heart and mind, release you from the bonds of fear and the constraints of carnality, polishing and purifying the eternal treasure of the glory of God which He has placed in you that you may stand unencumbered in the fire and shine brightest when the affliction is the greatest. Job 2

May the bitterness of hard thoughts and shaken confidence, the inward suffering which is more difficult than the sharpest physical affliction, not overcome or overwhelm the sweet sense of the love and presence of God in your heart and mind. Job 3

My child, hear My voice. Turn your heart and incline the ear of your spirit to Me so that you may catch the word of life which I have for you. There are many voices speaking to you on many levels, My dear one, but they speak many things and are not in agreement with each other. Just as at My trial before the high priest, there were many willing to speak against Me, but they could not come in agreement with each other, with each one speaking their own lie and delusion. I speak to you, My love, in many ways, and they each bear witness to the other. Some are easier to discern than others, and some require spiritual growth and maturity to learn to recognize and focus on. But My Word will always agree with My Spirit, and bring glory to My name. Do not judge the message by the messenger, My precious one, for I will also send you at times to bear My message, and you will be evaluated as you have evaluated others. Do not despise the message another conveys if it differs from yours in style or presentation, My caring one. Remember, they are bringing that message because you are not. I have many sheep in many places with many needs. Some are young, some are infirm, some have special needs, but all are treasured. I have given you the message needed by the ones I send you to, but I also have servants who are willing to take a different message needed by others who will never hear the words I have given you. Encourage one another as fellow-laborers in My work, pray for one another, and walk in love toward each other

May you relentlessly pursue the way of love and be emulous of spiritual giftings, desiring earnestly that you may speak clear edification, strong encouragement, persistent strengthening, and deep comfort to others from God's heart. 1 Corinthians 14

May you be reassured, when the wicked plot against you by preparing their weapons and readying their intrigues to attack you, that the Lord will laugh and have them in derision, knowing their day is coming when they will be taken and destroyed by their own artifices. Psalm 37

May you be content with the small portion of this world's goods that the righteous have, and not desire or envy the wealth amassed by the wicked, for the power by which they gather it shall be broken, but the Lord will uphold the godly. Psalm 37

May you be confident that the days of the blameless are known to the Lord, and their inheritance will endure forever; therefore in times of disaster you will not wither and in days of famine you will enjoy plenty. Psalm 37

May your ways delight the Lord, for He will make your steps firm; though you stumble, you will not fall, for the Lord upholds you with His hand Psalm 37

May you know that the righteous are never forsaken by the Lord, nor are their children ever forced to beg bread; rather, they are always generous and lend freely and their children will be blessed. Psalm 37

May you shun evil and do good, for then you will dwell in the land forever, since the Lord loves the just and will not forsake His faithful ones, who will be protected forever while the offspring of the wicked will be cut off. Psalm 37

#daily #blessings #prayers #scripture

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jdgo51 · 10 months ago

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MAY 1, 2024

From Loss to Abundance

Valerie Ronald (Manitoba, Canada)

"[The Lord has sent me to] provide for those who grieve in Zion — to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair." - Isaiah 61:3 (NIV)

"Following a fierce summer storm, my husband and I went outside to see an uprooted tree stretched across our yard. As we cleaned up the broken branches littering our lawn, I mourned the loss of the tree. On summer days we had rested under its shade, listening to the rustle of leaves in the breeze and the singing of birds in its branches. Now all that remained was an ugly stump. However, my husband took a more pragmatic view, realizing the tree’s absence allowed more sunlight to reach his vegetable garden. The plants would flourish with more sunlight to strengthen them.

Losing a tree cannot compare to losing someone or something precious, but it provides a picture of how God can turn loss into abundance. Amid the pain of significant losses in my life, God filled up the emptiness with an abundance of love. God gave me beauty and joy in spite of my loss and mourning, and praising God lightened the heaviness.

Where a tree once stood, now light floods our garden. Likewise, our scars of loss do not need to remain places of pain and darkness. Rather, they can be markers of where God met us and brought new light to our lives." When certain treasured things become lost or go away, God will provide something new to prize. We hold on to things of the past and find joy in them, but with new things we will also find some joy.

TODAY'S PRAYER

"Dear Lord, thank you for comforting us when we are brokenhearted. When we mourn, you offer beauty, joy, and praise to fill us up." Amen.

Isaiah 61:1-6

"1 The LORD God’s spirit is upon me, because the LORD has anointed me. He has sent me to bring good news to the poor, to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim release for captives, and liberation for prisoners, 2 to proclaim the year of the LORD’s favor and a day of vindication for our God, to comfort all who mourn, 3 to provide for Zion’s mourners, to give them a crown in place of ashes, oil of joy in place of mourning, a mantle of praise in place of discouragement. They will be called Oaks of Righteousness, planted by the LORD to glorify himself. 4 They will rebuild the ancient ruins; they will restore formerly deserted places; they will renew ruined cities, places deserted in generations past. 5 Foreigners will stay and shepherd your sheep, and strangers will be your farmers and vinedressers. 6 You will be called The Priests of the LORD; Ministers of Our God, they will say about you. You will feed on the wealth of nations, and fatten yourself on their riches." The Lord brings us the good news to bestow upon everyone around us. We can help Him provide a time of mourning, they will rebuild the things that may have been torn down or lost and give renewal to places that have been damaged. We can find blessings enough to share. Joe

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cruger2984 · 1 year ago

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THE DESCRIPTION OF SAINT BARBARA The Patroness of Artillerymen and Protectress Against Lightning Feast Day: December 4

"She is risen for all the humble, she has heard the conquered calling, St. Barbara of the Gunners, with her hand upon the gun." -G.K. Chesterton

Before Klee goes Boom Boom Bakudan in Genshin Impact, there's the OG - Saint Barbara.

St. Barbara is one of the most popular saints of the Middle Ages, particularly in Europe. She is one of the Fourteen Holy Helpers and is invoked against lightning, fever, and sudden death.

According to the story, which may be a legend, Barbara was born in Nicomedia, Turkey, in the Third Century AD.

Her father was Dioscorus of Heliopolis, a pagan. Barbara was so beautiful that he hid her in a tower to protect her. A Christian disguised as a doctor went to the tower, and after he told her about Jesus and the gospel, and after considerable time in solitude to reflect, she converted to Christianity. Meanwhile, one eligible bachelor after another approached Dioscorus to ask for his daughter’s hand in marriage. Her father approached her to suggest marriage, but she flatly refused, explaining that she had reserved herself completely for Jesus, and her father, infuriated, left her confined in the tower.

Her father then departed for a while on business, and during his absence a new bathhouse was under construction near the tower, and two windows were to be installed. Barbara commanded the builders to add a third in honor of the Most Holy Trinity. When her father returned and discovered what she had done, he became enraged, and attempted to kill his own daughter, but she escaped. The account of her breakaway varies, either that she leapt out of the window and landed safely or that a hole miraculously appeared in the wall. She fled to a mountain and hid in a cave, but an evil shepherd betrayed her whereabouts to her father, and the shepherd subsequently turned to stone and his sheep turned into locusts.

Dioscorus, her father, dragged his daughter by the hair before a judge, who had her tortured, but her wounds healed instantly. Her father then took her up a mountain and beheaded his own daughter with a sword. Reports on the date and location vary, somewhere between 303 of 306 AD, and either in Rome, Antioch, Heliopolis, or Nicomedia. Shortly thereafter there was thunder in the sky, fire came down from heaven, and her father was struck dead by lightning, and he was reduced to a pile of ashes.

The symbols of St. Barbara are a tower, often with three windows, where she was held captive; a chalice, because she drank from the cup of suffering; a sword, which was the instrument of her martyrdom; a crown, because she was crowned with martyrdom; and a palm, the symbol of the martyrs.

St. Barbara is the patron saint of stonemasons, architects, and builders, because she was held captive in a stone tower; of those afraid of being struck by lightning or fearful of sudden death, because her father died suddenly due to a lightning strike; firefighters, because many fires are started by lightning; gunners, artillerymen, gunpowder makers, fireworks personnel, and miners, anyone associated with explosives, because of the fire that rained down from heaven; and mathematicians and those suffering with a fever.

#random stuff #catholic #catholic saints #saint barbara #great martyr barbara #fourteen holy helpers

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vitaminkenjoyer · 1 month ago

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follow-up posted to ao3.

He was grateful that his eyes were dry by time the knock came. A holy brother entered, looking them over with pious disapproval as he dropped a clean set of clothes on the table. When he took his leave he kept the door to their hut cracked open, and the cold stream of air helped rouse them both.

Jaime sat up on his pallet and kept his eyes properly averted while the wench got dressed, staring down at her bruised feet. The pale hair on her calves glittered in the cold light. When he stood to shed his tunic he caught a glimpse of himself in the small looking glass tacked to the wall. He was mottled black and blue and yellow all over from the Northman's kicks and he had been freed of two of his bottom teeth. One of his eyes was swollen, both were bagged. Dirt and grime stuck in the lines of his face, and his hair and beard were wild and unkempt. Jaime Lannister looked a hundred years old, and felt a thousand.

When Brienne tried to assist him in dressing he shrugged her off and refused her stumbling apologies. "It's done, wench. Leave it be," he snapped as he clumsily pulled on a fresh pair of breeches.

The wench looked almost wounded at the rebuke. Though her frown was partially obscured by her bandages, it was so ugly and sad as to almost be comical. Jaime brushed his knuckles tenderly over the cloth covering her cheek. "This was no wolf, was it?"

Brienne's eyes shuttered and she shrunk away. Outside the door a brother clanged a bell strewn about his neck, making his circuit around the neighboring huts. They startled at the sudden noise and Brienne pulled on her boots. "That's the supper bell. We have must slept for so long..."

Jaime made to grab her arm but she stepped out of his grasp, her cloak billowing behind her. Stop running from me, he wanted to say, but his stomach interrupted him with a low growl, and he followed her out the door instead.

They made their way along the stone path and up creaking wooden steps, past long grass weeping with ice and through the narrow paths carved out of snow. Far down the slope the laughter of children could be heard as they pelted each other with snowballs. A pair of holy brothers knelt, their brown robes flowing in the wind, as they built a crude white structure in front of a small audience. "I'll get you, Jon Penny!" one of the girls shrieked, chasing a boy down and tackling him into the bank.

Past the low barn a shepherd was making a clumsy attempt at wrangling a few wayward sheep back into their pens. The brother rolled up the sleeves of his roughspun robe, turning to gather up a rowdy ewe and cursing all the while.

Brienne stopped in her tracks to gawk at him."Gendry?"

When the brother turned Jaime had the queer sense that he was being faced with yet another ghost. The lad was of a height with him, built like a bull, and looked as if he had room to grow still. His eyes were as blue as ice and his dark unkempt hair brushed his shoulders, hanging in greasy tangles.

"Robert?" The word escaped Jaime's lips unbidden.

Gendry furrowed his brow, ignoring him. "What are you doing here?"

"I've been here before. Why aren't you at your forge?"

The lad scoffed bitterly. "It's all ash now, along with everything else."

Brienne stared. A fresh bout of snow started coming down and flakes landed upon her head, melting in the tangles of her hair. "What?"

"Do you need me to repeat myself?" He shoved off a ram chewing at his robe, huffing. "Some of the little ones had caught sick so I went out to get some coltsfoot syrup. The nearest apothecary shop was in Harroway Town. Except when I got there the old man said most of his stores were ruined in the floods a few moons back, so he sent me further up the Trident. Took me about four hours to find some damned syrup, and halfway through my trip back I started seeing smoke in the sky. The cloud only got bigger and blacker as I rode and somehow I knew... All the children were standing around crying in the mud outside the gates of Riverbend when I returned."

Jaime pushed past the pain in his jaw to ask, "A kitchen fire?" At the same Brienne said in a hushed tone, "Who set it ablaze?"

The boy glanced between them both. "Men in grey cloaks, Willow said, and a few in green. Three dozen of 'em, all armed and armored, looking for outlaws. She said they turned the whole place over then burned it on their way out when they couldn't find any."

"This Willow, did she see any frogs on the green cloaks?" Jaime asked.

The boy looked at him queerly, his gaze flicking briefly down to his stump. He nodded, brushing the hair from his eyes. "On a lilypad, she said."

Lord Vypren's failure to apprehend the outlaws at Fairmarket must have lost him some favor with his goodfather, if he thought this a worthy task to put his men to.

Brienne crossed her arms, pulling her cloak tight around her front with shaky fingers. "How did you all find your way here?"

"That shoeless septon you visited us with. He came back to the inn after you... When we - " His eyes lingered on the bandage over Brienne's cheek, then he glanced down at his boots, scuffing his foot in the snow. "He tried to get some of the villagers to take some of the children off our hands, but no one would. They all said they didn't have enough food. A few threatened us as well." He frowned, shaking his head. "Children from Riverbend and Nutten used to come around to play with ours all the time. And Old Dorthy took measure of our hands so she could knit us mittens before she fell down her cellar steps."

Brienne's eyes were round with sorrow. "I'm so sorry."

Gendry flared and she flinched. "Are you? I'm not stupid, I know the lions and Freys are friends. Did you come here with your high lord lover to burn this place down, too?"

Jaime stepped between Brienne and the boy. "It's not her fault your inn burned. Those men were moving under Lord Walder's command, not mine, and you'll notice that we came here with no men of our own. We're here to heal, nothing more."

The boy's fists bunched and unfurled at his sides as they stared each other down. Their cloaks rapped in the wind, clapping in a mocking, uneven beat.

Jaime could only be thankful that there were no stray red cloaks spotted, or the squire and the hedge knight would be strung up as soon as word reached that dreaded hole in the ground. Ser Addam Marbrand and Ser Dermot of the Rainwood had been given leave to search along the Red Fork for the Blackfish, but were given stern commands to tread gently with any smallfolk they spoke to. The whole thing stunk of Black Walder; he had no qualms about putting the people of Hag's Mire to the question after Merret's hanging at Oldstones. Ryman's demise at Fairmarket would only harden him further. Jaime was starting to feel sick of this whole business; this dance of lords and broken men.

"... I'll see you at supper, Jaime," Brienne said with a voice full of hurt. She stepped around him and stomped her way down the path to the great wooden sept. She'll share her tears with a statue before she'll ever share them with me. They watched her go in silence as the chickadees whistled their honeyed goodbyes in the trees overhead.

Jaime grit his teeth, sighing. "How do you and Lady Brienne know each other?"

Gendry's eyes flittered over his bruised and battered face, and his features softened for half a blink. "She and her friends came to stay at the inn when the Brave Companions came down on us," he said reluctantly. "She took them all on herself."

"By herself? Where were you?"

The lad worked his jaw as if chewing on cud. "I was at my forge. It was dark, and raining... when they rode up I thought they were ours. They wanted to rape Willow, but she ran back in for help and the others joined the fight. That fat monster would have killed the lady if I hadn't shoved my spear through his head. He nearly did her in with the fever that followed."

A chill came over Jaime. Fat and monstrous as he was, biting was never Zollo's work. Nor was it the work of a wolf. Stupid lying wench. "How many were there? I've heard it said that there's been somewhat of a split or two."

"Seven."

Seven. Jaime felt his anger building. "And you captured her after she saved your lives."

Gendry's nostrils flared. "I had no choice in the matter. Lem and Harwin wanted her taken, and Jeyne and I tagged along. She was as good as dead by the time we reached the river so I headed back to the inn."

"Good that you did, since the rest of your merry band was too busy hunting down Freys and performing black magic to protect their own."

The lad stepped forward as if to hit him. "And what has your merry band been doing? All those children would have been at home with their mothers and fathers if you high lords and kings hadn't torn the lands apart. Jeyne and Willow said it was your lot who hanged her aunt. The others aren't perfect but they're sure as hell better than you."

Jaime had to laugh. "Then why aren't you with them? I didn't see any boys built like boars at my farce of a trial."

Gendry blinked. "The lady gave you a trial?"

"At the red priest's counsel, yes." That reminded him. "It's said that the lightning lord is dead for good and all, is that true?"

"Lord Beric passed his fire onto the lady... it was R'hllor's will," he said hesitantly, reaching down to pet the sheep at his legs.

"And what became of the rest of his loyalists? Where have they gone?"

Gendry's eyes turned to stone. "Why do you want to know? So you can hunt them down and kill them?"

"Use your head," Jaime snapped. "Do you think your precious dead lady let me escape the noose because she was feeling particularly charitable?"

"I don't care why she let you go, I have sheep to milk." The lad rolled his shoulders and turned away from him, brokering no further argument.

Jaime's head was starting to ache and he was content enough to leave the boy to sulk. He made his way down to the stables despite the grumbling in his stomach, his fingers itching all the while. Tiny pins of snow pierced his cheeks and the cold hard ground crunched underneath his boots as he approached Honor's stall, passing by a droopy eyed donkey dozing off in a bed of straw. On the blood bay's second handful of oats a crash on the other end of the stable rang out and the donkey stirred, braying obnoxiously. Jaime grit his teeth at the commotion and furrowed his brow as he came upon a stallion throwing a tantrum in his stall, massive and beautiful and black as midnight.

The days past were too surreal, and for a moment he was convinced that he must be dreaming up the absurdity.

"As quarrelsome as he is handsome." Jaime startled at the voice behind him. The Elder Brother gave a nod in greeting, eyeing the war horse with a certain fondness.

"He's as familiar as he is handsome," said Jaime. "How did Sandor Clegane's destrier wash up here?"

The beast gave another kick and upended his water trough. The Elder Brother looked up from the trickle of water pooling at his feet, nonplussed. "I admit I had a similar question in mind when you stepped off the ferry last night. You and your," he scratched at an ear and gave a brief frown, "friend arrived so late, we didn't get the chance to speak properly."

My whore, you mean. "I'm not in the habit of giving confession if that's what you're after."

"And I am not in the habit of receiving confession, ser. This way," the Elder Brother beckoned him with a flap of his wide bell sleeve.

The faintest of red streaks painted the sky as Jaime followed up a steep set of winding steps and past gnarled barren trees, feeling like a little boy all the while. By the time they reached the top of the slope his bruised calves were aching, but the Elder Brother was wholly unbothered by the exertion. The man's hands were just as calloused as Brienne's, not the soft sort Jaime was used to seeing in those purporting to do the Seven's work, and the rest of him was broad and square and corded in muscle.

At the end of their trek was an ancient door set in the side of a hill. "In here," the Elder Brother shook the snow off his robes and removed his sodden boots and socks, revealing feet as hard and cracked as stone.

"You look as weary as I feel," he placed two crudely carved wooden cups on a long table strewn with books and parchment papers, clearing a spot to sit. "I'm afraid we have nothing stronger than cider to wet our lips."

"Pity," Jaime took a sip and savored the sweetness on his tongue. Not enough to get him drunk and send him back to sleep, but it would have to do. "You aren't the usual sort of septon I meet."

"I am no septon, my lord."

Jaime frowned down into the amber liquid in his cup. "As a boy I had the tendency to doze off during lessons with my septa. What are you, then?"

"A penitent. Like all the other men here, only with a longer list of duties and a much later bedtime."

"And I suppose Sandor goes to bed with the chickens like all the rest? I confess this is the last place I'd expect to find the man."

"Some might say the same of you, my lord."

Jaime downed his cup in one swallow, reaching for the tankard. "Don't fret, I'm not looking to get a tonsure any time soon. I'll only sully your sanctuary as long as necessary." He was overzealous in refilling and cider pooled on table, leaving a ring. "You're quite the slippery septon when questioned."

The Elder Brother's lips pressed together in a tight white line. "If you mean to take Brother Sandor to justice for his crimes, I would ask that you reconsider. Though I would not oppose you if you decide to apprehend him."

Jaime lifted the cup back to his lips, pausing. "You've went to all this trouble to harbor the man yet you'd give him away so easily?"

"You are Tywin Lannister's son. You have all the power of your house and the throne behind you. As loath as I would be to do it, I cannot risk the rest of the isle. We have more to lose than ever." The Elder Brother took the first drink from his cup. A faint sheen of sweat could be seen on his tonsured head. "Every man who takes sanctuary here knows that I cannot guarantee them protection should the hand of justice come knocking. This is an isle of peace, and I am sworn never to kill again. You would not be the first man come to our shores seeking retribution."

Jaime found the man's resignation irksome. "I'm not here to burn down your septry, you can unclench your holy arse."

"What are you here for, Ser Jaime?"

"My salvation," he laughed into his cup, then put it down to scratch at the angry scars on his stump. "I had my suspicions regarding Sandor's involvement at Saltpans. It seemed unusually cruel, even for him."

"You were right to. Sandor has softened some in his time here, but then... I shudder to think of what he would have become if he had not accepted my help. The blame for the slight to his name is mine. When I found him dying on the banks of the Trident I had to strip him of his armor, else I would not have been able to carry him. Whoever came upon his possessions..."

"Took his helm." A part of Jaime was glad to have been proven right for Sandor Clegane's sake. He raised his cup in a toast. "To a sinner reborn. May Sandor live and die on this isle, churning butter or whatever it is that you do. A lifetime of tedium is surely punishment enough."

The Elder Brother was not amused. "I would have your word, ser."

That took Jaime by surprise. He hiccupped and his jaw throbbed. "The word of an oathbreaker?"

"The word of a man. The word of a knight sworn under the light of the Seven."

Nigh twenty years basking in the light of these so-called gods, and yet I've never felt so cold.

"The Seven can fuck themselves." The Elder Brother didn't so much as blink at his blasphemy and Jaime shifted under his gaze. "You have my word. Should Sandor ever set foot off this isle again, it won't be my doing." He lifted his stump, waving it. "I'm in no fit state to be dragging the dog around by his tail anyhow. I may get bit." And it hardly seemed just to apprehend the man for desertion, considering his own predicament.

The Elder Brother nodded. "I thank you, Ser Jaime," he said sincerely, and took a modest sip of cider. His chair creaked as he leaned backward. "How is it that the Lady Brienne is back in our company? Last she was here I beseeched to her to return home to her lord father. I fear the third time she washes up on our shores I'll have to hand her body over to Brother Sandor to burn and send her ashes along to Tarth. Corpses still come up on the tide, and the ground has grown too hard to bury them."

That the man thought Brienne could be strong-armed into anything made Jaime want to laugh, but his premonition wasn't far off. That the Maid of Tarth could be reduced to a chest of ash sitting in Lord Selwyn's halls made his guts twist. Arise, Ser Jaime, her voice came back to him, when she had used Oathkeeper to slash through his bonds. He downed his cup once more and refilled it again. "How much time do you have?"

"As much time as your pain will allow." He handed him another portion of crushed up sourleaf. Jaime let the plant do it's work for a moment, then spat into his handkerchief and began his tale. In fits and starts, and in between the time it took to let out the occasional stream of red spittle, he recounted as much as he could. He started at Pennytree, when the wench first stumbled into his tent, and ended at their escape from the dreaded cave she led him to. And the price they paid to walk away with their lives. The price that poor Podrick Payne and Ser Hyle were still paying as they spoke.

Was a castle on a river worth two meager innocents? He wondered. Was treason? He knew the answer Brienne would give.

The Elder Brother had a dismayed look about his face when he was through. He shook his stubbly head in disapproval. "I admit that in my darkest hours I share your own skepticism towards the Seven. I had hoped that with the war winding down and so many brigands captured by Lord Tarly, that these lands might see peace soon. A fool's hope, I know. Bad blood is not washed away so easily. As sad as it is to say, these outlaws would be far from the first to harm innocents in the pursuit of justice."

"The pursuit of vengeance seems more apt."

"Even still, as foul as this brotherhood is, vengeance cannot take root without the seed of justice. Dondarrion and Myr began their journey as King's men."

The words pricked Jaime's anger, and he was starting to wish he hadn't indulged in so much drink on an empty stomach. "Am I about to be lessoned in the ways of broken men? Perhaps I should be asking if you're about to apprehend me instead, if you're so taken with these outlaws and wretches."

The Elder Brother's voice grew stern and his eyes narrowed. "Such accusations are beneath you, ser. We are nearly of an age, and I have seen as much strife and battle as you, if not more. My sympathies lie with all men, friend or foe. And I despair when I hear of any person who chooses to cast aside all that is good and decent to live a life lower than that of beasts."

"Do you think I don't despair as well?" Jaime demanded.

"I see your despair writ on your face, ser," the Elder Brother said hotly. "I do not envy your position. Though a lord enjoys many comforts, his work is hardly pleasant if he has half a heart."

Small wonder my father so enjoyed his work, then. "What would you know of a lord's work?"

"Enough to forsake it in pursuit of another vocation. It is said that your cousin felt the same as well."

Jaime frowned. "Lancel? What of him?"

The Elder Brother gave a rueful smile. "The former Lord of Darry. Though I never met the girl, I rued to hear of the dissolution of his marriage to my niece. Especially when I learned of what he traded it for. Would that Lancel had ridden north instead of south." He heaved a heavy sigh. "Secluded though we are, I do try to stay privy on new developments throughout the realm. My proctors often venture across the Trident for food and supplies and return with whispers in tow. On rare occasion I am heartened by a piece of news, but most times I am left angered or saddened. Saddest of all are the reports from my former home."

Jaime stared at the man, trying to clear the fog in his mind. He recalled his supper at Darry moons ago, when he had spoken with Lady Mariya. They have the same eyes. Kind, yet shrewd. "You mean to tell me that the Lord of Darry has been hiding away on some ghastly little isle in the Bay of Crabs?" He gave a laugh in dismay. "You do know your house is on the brink of extinction, don't you? Worse, that it's being overrun by Freys?"

"I do," the man's tone was grave. He said nothing more.

His finality was baffling and infuriating. "You and my dear cousin share the same pigheaded stubbornness when it comes to vows, then. You could claim your seat, find a wife, have children. And yet you're content to just... give sermons and pick apples all day?"

The Elder Brother rumbled out a laugh of his own. "You paint quite the idyllic picture of my life, Ser Jaime." He downed his cup of cider then rolled up his sleeves, revealing coarsely haired arms veined with muscle. "I could go back any time, it's true. I've thought about it many nights, most especially when I heard what became of Raymun, and his little boy soon after. Raymun always had a thirst for adventure, like the rest of us. Benam and Braddish were the first born, and after my birth came Mariya and Jeyne. There were five years between Raymun and I. My sisters doted on him, and we boys fed him stories of war and battle and great knights, and hoped that he would grow big and strong to fight beside us all on the same field. We got our wish in the end, though our dreams quickly soured once Braddish took a sword to the belly. He bled out in the mud while stag and dragon alike trampled over him. Benam and I were showered with arrows. He took his clean through the eye and I took mine to the leg, then I was kicked into the river by another man's horse.

The next ten years of my life I spent in silence, ignorant to the realm at large. When the last Elder Brother died it fell to me to take his place and his duties. I had to regain knowledge of the world in order to keep a proper peace here. The last seven years are all I know of what became of my house, and of my baby brother. The temptation to forsake my position here and cross the river for good grew stronger with each new revelation, but no sooner did the thought appear that another broken man would appear on our shores with naught but the clothes on his back, crying like a babe, with nowhere else to turn. Raymun had my father and a castle to inherit. My men only had me.

I had hoped, after hearing that he had wed and sired a trueborn son, that my brother's thirst for battle had been quenched. It takes much to change a man's nature, though. And so he died by the sword, just as he swore he would the day we all rode out for the Trident underneath the banner of the dragon."

"He died riding against the Mountain," said Jaime. "I'd have thought you'd find that a noble death in the pursuit of justice."

"Certainly there needed to be recompense after the calamity Ser Gregor visited upon these lands. Would that his overseers had brought him to justice instead of the Red Viper. But Wendish Town would have been better served if my brother had stayed within his domain to rebuild it. Though there were no survivors of the raid, it still lies barren and trampled. If rebuilt so many others could have taken refuge there instead of fleeing south."

And my cousin took his vows before he could address the matter. The call of the Warrior had always been more seductive than the Smith, where boys and men were concerned. Jaime shook his head. "Casterly Rock will fund the rebuilding of it, along with Sherrer and the Mummer's Ford. It was my father's dogs who did the pillaging, no one else. I'll find a way to get a hold of our coffers."

"You are still of the Kingsguard, ser. You have sworn off your inheritance."

He shrugged. "And my cousin is Warden of the West. And another cousin is castellan of the Rock. The word of Tywin's trueborn son holds more weight, they can be swayed to bring forth the gold I need."

The buzz of the cider had him speaking with more confidence than he felt, but it was better than his earlier despair. Daven was one matter, but Damion's appointment to castellan was his sister's doing, and he knew whose orders the old man would obey should the Lady of the Rock refuse to fund such an effort. Cersei had never been the charitable sort and she grew spiteful when slighted. She was still awaiting the High Septon's justice, and if the whispers of her being forced to walk were true she would never forgive him for failing to heed her call. He would have to act fast should she prevail in any trial. Knowing his uncle, he'd have her take up residence at the Rock soon. The stag queen no longer, his sister would live out the rest of her days a lioness. Her rage at being knocked down after reaching such heights would be terrible and beautiful to behold, but it was the best she could hope for after the mess she made of things.

If his kin could not be persuaded to aid him then he'd find another way, and damn anyone who would deny him because of the white cloak. His lord father was dead, House Lannister had lost it's guiding hand, and new rules would have to be forged.

"I wish you luck in such an endeavor, ser," the Elder Brother said with equal parts doubt and hope. "Masha Heddle's inn had become something of an orphanage in the past year. I heard it from the boy Gendry that sparrows had taken to dropping off wandering children there. Since it is no more..."

"Your isle has taken up the load. Those villages will stand again and you'll be able to breathe easier in time. On my honor as a knight," Jaime swore, then leaned back in his chair and smiled. "A sage septon such as yourself would make a decent lord. Perhaps peace would break out once and for all if you took your seat amongst the great council of Riverlords. Castle Darry certainly has room enough for a couple hundred whelps and penitents as well." And House Lannister might have one less enemy...

"You jest, ser, but we both know my return would not be without cost," he responded dourly. "The Freys would not take kindly to losing such a boon as Darry. And as loath as I am to leave what's left of mine own kin to sort out the situation, I'm more loath to rekindle the spark of war. I know the blackness of my heart, and I would not be content to sit out the battle. I would be the first on the frontlines, and soon after, drunk on the frenzy of war, I would find some clever reason to soil my honor. Or worse, someone else's."

Jaime snorted. "Afraid you'd bed a maiden or two?"

"No. Worse."

Jaime's mirth was killed at once. "I see..." He picked at the last remnants of sourleaf clinging to his teeth with his tingling tongue. "There was a man I had picked up at Harrenhal," he found himself saying, "one of the Mountain's soldiers. He tried to rape my washerwoman and I had his head taken off."

The Elder Brother nodded his head. His eyes said nothing. The wind picked up outside and the cave door set to creaking softly on it's hinges. It's squeaking song was strangely sweet.

"A child was crippled by my own hand," he whispered into the silence. "And I almost butchered another one for..." Jaime swallowed. For Cersei, for love, for sex, he might have said, but he could not disclose that. He stared down at the table, searching for an answer in the grains of wood. For no good reason, he really wanted to say, but the words were lodged in his throat.

"I see," the Elder Brother said gently, and stood. "Will you allow me to change your bandages before you leave, Ser Jaime?"

Jaime nodded, and said nothing else.

After, the Elder Brother sent him on his way to the common hall for supper. "So many children about, we've had to start taking our meals in shifts. There should be something warm for you still." He laid his hand on Jaime's shoulder, hesitant. "You'll want to consult Mariya for the rebuilding of Wendish Town. She was made Lady of Darry when she was no more than ten years old after our mother died. Now that she's back from the Twins I know she'll wish to return to her duties. It's been said my niece is more of a frivolous creature."

"It will be my first stop on the way back to Riverrun. Do you have a rookery here?"

"We do."

Three ravens took flight that night, their wings flapping like great bats, traveling north, and west, and further west. All marked with the humble seal of a seven-pointed star, and signed Ser Jaime Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

The humble hall was still teeming with life by time Jaime made his way in the door, stomping the snow off his boots. Children and holy brothers flitted about, setting a motley assortment of cutlery and cups and serving bowls on the tables, and driftwood chairs were shoved into empty spaces wherever the long benches could not suffice. A silent brother with a stooped back and a long white beard made his way around the room, spooning portions of fish stew into bowls while the young, rail thin boy trailing behind him filled the cups with sheep's milk. The baskets of freshly baked bread in the center of the table were quickly descended upon by a mass of small, pudgy hands, and the children brandished their rounded knives like spades to carve out the hills of butter nestled inside the crocks.

Jaime crammed himself awkwardly into one of the last remaining seats along the bench beside Brienne. She glanced up briefly in acknowledgment, her eyes puffy.

"Did you have a nice talk with the Mother?" He asked.

"No," she said dully.

"The Father?"

"No."

She had shed her bandage from last night, allowing the wound on her cheek to breathe. It was a ghastly sight; a pit of gnarled, angry pink flesh where a full, smooth freckled cheek had once been. The corner of her mouth was taut and stiff, pulled upward from the shoddy mending job she must have gotten, giving her a sort of permanent crooked smirk. I once thought she would never smile...

It made him murderous. His phantom fingers itched for a spear.

The old septon stood at the head of the table, clasping his wrinkled, leathery hands together. The hall quieted at once and the children sat in rapt attention. Down the long row of chairs a boy fidgeted in his seat and a holy brother glared at him, pulling down his cowl to reveal his marred and angry face. The boy gulped.

Sandor adjusted his hood and locked eyes with Jaime, his hand freezing on the hem of his cowl. They stared at each other for a long moment. It was on his lips to come up with some clever jape, but he remained silent, and Sandor was more like to hit him than laugh with him besides. In all the time Jaime knew the man he was so dour and lonesome that Brienne seemed a ray of sunshine in comparison.

When Lord Tywin assigned Clegane to his daughter's guard after the sack of King's Landing he had been scarce more than a boy, only a few years older than Tyrion. For a time he and Jaime had taken to dancing in the yard together. The boy had been as big as an aurochs even then, and was one of few in the Red Keep who could be regularly called upon to match his speed and give him a challenge. For all his gruffness Sandor took well to instruction, and each night their swords clanged was a night that Aerys could be forgotten.

The man's prowess with the sword proved useful when they rode out west with his father's host to defend Lannisport during the Greyjoy Rebellion. Jaime could still recall the sour look on Ser Barristan's face when Robert allowed him leave from the capital to head out west. His sister's face had been no more sweet either when he rode out of the gates of the Red Keep, though she had fucked him blind that morning, and Myrcella was born the following year. A sense of dread filled him when he returned to the capital to find that his sister's womb had quickened again; though she insisted that Robert had stumbled into her bed only a few weeks prior, her husband's presence in the war had been prolonged when he sailed to Pyke with Eddard Stark to put an end to the rebellion for good. Cersei's face had twisted in fury when he suggested that they seek out a cleansing witch once more, and his stomach finally unclenched when the girl's birth came only four days after His Grace's return.

When Victarion Greyjoy's foolheaded raiders stormed the ports after burning the Lannister fleet Sandor and Jaime had led the charge against them. Gregor had holed himself up in Clegane's Keep, so Lord Tywin gave his usual position to his younger brother instead. "I have two dogs," his father had stated over breakfast one morning before battle, "and if I should lose this one, I will buy Cersei another."

What the Ironborn lacked in sound strategy they more than made up for in number and brutality; they had cut their way through several fishing villages by the time they were reached. When Jaime was swarmed from behind it had been Sandor who had saved him, and the limbs of the kraken littered the ground like so many tentacles by time they were through. The blood hadn't even finished soaking into the dirt before Jaime was offering to knight the man for his valor. The sneer on Sandor's face had been so nasty that for a moment he was convinced his father's dog would turn his sword on him, but he only tipped his head back and laughed when he realized that the offer was sincere.

"Piss on your knighthood," he spat, "it was whores, gold, and blood that drew me back out west, not fucking chivalry." He used the end of his sword to point southeast, to a line of pines turned gold in the light of the falling sun. "You see that little woods over there, Lannister?"

"I see it."

"My brother's keep lies beyond those trees. You know why he's not here today?"

"I confess I don't."

"He said he's got a headache," Sandor took in the look of confusion on his face and scoffed, "You think I'm fooling? Lord Tywin told me last night that Gregor's maester had sent a raven, said the big dog has been abed for weeks in his chambers with the curtains drawn. He only gets up to piss or shit or eat."

Jaime laughed. "Is the sudden bout of bedrest to make up for weeks of revelry paid for by my father's gold? Did Gregor go through another tavern's worth of wine?"

Sandor's mouth twitched. "No, though I don't doubt he drank and raped his way through near every tavern in these lands at least once over." He curled his lip and walked away, turning his head to spit again, the glob of bile missing Jaime's foot only by a couple inches. "Ser Gregor's always liked to spread his chivalry."

Jaime stood leaning on the hilt of his sword as he watched him go. Herons squawked on the shit smattered seawall as they fished for their supper and the evening air chilled the sweat on his skin, sending a small shiver up his spine. He stepped over twitching limbs and slithering entrails to follow back to his Uncle's castle, shrugging off the cheers and weepy shows of gratitude from leather-faced fishermen and their fat wives on the way. He had failed to find Sandor in the great hall for supper that night and was glad for it.

A decade later they had downed a flagon of wine together and laughed as they rode beyond the gates of Darry to begin their hunt. The notion of a wager to see who would come back first came up, but they had met a fork in the trail before they could agree on a sum. Their lanterns lit the way as they separated, swaying and creaking in the wind like caged birds. Sandor had come back with his game in tow, and Jaime didn't. They had both gotten drunk in the supper hall that evening, and were late to rise the next morning.

Jaime raised his cup of sheep's milk and gave a brief nod in greeting. Sandor gave a nod of his own, somewhat wary, his mouth twitching as he donned his cowl again.

Jaime kept his eyes open and his head unbowed as the septon droned out a prayer of thanks for the meal. Sandor did not. Brienne stared glumly down at her plate of greens with her hands folded in her lap, unaware of the little girl blinking up at her expectantly in the next chair over. He felt a sticky hand grasp his stump from the right, and glanced down at another girl, even younger and with a rat's nest of dark hair, silently mouthing pieties. A chorus of small voices rose in unison, singing 'The Mother's Hymn', rounding out the evening prayers. The children unlinked their hands and dug into their food in a manner that could only be described as feral.

All these whelps, Jaime gave one last glance around the warmly lit hall, alive and unmolested.

He looked back to Brienne and took her hand in his. A stray tear fell from her cheek.

i'll probably never finish this fic that i'm working on so here's a little drabble. post-stoneheart, jaime's trauma, the quiet isle, etc.

They had ridden in a quiet daze, stopping only for the briefest of moments to piss or shit or redress their wounds. Jaime's blood was still singing from their bout, but he felt no jubilance for his victory, and Brienne's sullen silences only helped to set his teeth on edge.

The girl called Long Jeyne had stitched and patched their injuries before the brotherhood allowed their leave, but it was shoddy work at best. When Brienne had to be coaxed from her mare to sit against the trunk of an oak she insisted they ride for the Bay of Crabs instead of risking any inns or keeps. Her adamancy pricked his anger once more.

"Why, so you can lure me into some other trap?" He paused dabbing up the blood from the cut on her arm to sneer.

"No!" Her eyes widened in dismay. "It's the only safe place I know, ser, please. The holy brothers will heal us - "

"I've had my fill of getting kicked around and my men are waiting for me. I have no time to be lectured by a bunch of tonsured eunuchs on the state of my honor." He threw the bloodied cloth down in the dirt and stood. Every word magnified the pain in his jaw twofold, coming out in a hateful slur. "No doubt you'll be welcome among such pious company, deceitful righteous bitch that you are."

Brienne lurched to her feet and grabbed him by the collar with her good arm, hauling him close. Her nose nearly brushed his. "Honor or no, you still would have found yourself in that cave, and with me behind you. Now we are both soiled."

Jaime clutched her bad arm with his hand and she winced, but did not pull away. Their breath mingled, hot and rank, and for a moment he was certain they would come to blows. A purse of the lips would be all it took to close the space between them...

The muscles in his back tightened, sending a fresh stab of pain beneath the skin where the arrow's shaft was lodged.

"Lead the way, my lady," he wrenched himself free and mounted his horse, sparing her not another word or glance.

The sun had just set when they led their weary horses off of the ferry and onto the dock. A group of men in robes greeted them, silent and somber, and took their mounts off to the stables. Through a maze of steps and stones they walked in a dour procession to the maester's chamber.

Finally, stumbling and crusted in blood, they stopped before a heavy oaken door. One of the holy brothers rapped his knuckles on the wood and the surprisingly brutish healer within widened his eyes at their entrance. "My lady, I had not thought to see you again. Please sit, both of you. Brother Narbert, fetch some more candles, will you?"

Their wounds were deftly tended to by a pair of hands that looked more fit for killing than healing, and Jaime found his eyes drooping as he sat, though the agonizing withdrawal of the arrow in his back soon woke him. By time they were through he and the wench looked a matching pair; the Elder Brother had stinted his jaw with cloth wound around his head, then cleaned and applied a salve to Brienne's cheek, advising her to keep it covered for the night. "To better soak in, my lady, though you'll want to air this out soon..."

"And you'll want to stick with mashes and stews for some time, my lord." He placed a bowl of crushed sourleaf in his hand. "This will help with the pain. So will holding your tongue as much as you are able."

Jaime would have laughed if he were the man of a few days ago. He let the leaves melt on his tongue and scrunched his nose in distaste. "That may prove difficult," he spat red into a handkerchief. "What say you to giving my commands for me, wench?"

Brienne's big weary eyes flitted about his face and she turned away in guilt, saying nothing. The less she said the more he wanted to shout, but he was much too tired to start a fight, and it wasn't her that did the kicking besides. And how she screamed when the blow landed...

The Elder Brother looked between them then braced his hands on his knees, rising from his seat. "I'm certain you will overcome the adversity, my lord."

He and Brienne were sent off with a dose of milk of the poppy then hastily placed in a small hut on the eastern side of the isle. "Normally we would not permit a man and woman to cohabitate unless they were wed, but circumstances of late have forced us to forego some rigidity," the Elder Brother said as a pair of novices hauled a spare straw pallet in and dumped it on the floor.

His eyes were just starting to shutter when Brienne whispered, "Jaime, can you hear me?" He laid still, slowed his breaths, and waited. And waited. And waited. She said no more and rolled over. The sniffling of her nose lulled him into a restless slumber, and he dreamt he was in the Whispering Wood again, the wind riffling through his golden hair as men fell dead at his feet. The sun warmed his skin and he laughed, but a cloud passed by and blotted out the light, making him shiver.

Enemies surrounded him, faceless and hateful, and he was without a sword or armor, naked. Claws punctured his arms and he was dragged through the muddied field and back into the wood at a tortoise's pace. His felled horse squealed in the distance. "Kingslayer," the shadows spat, and he spat back, laughing. "Oathbreaker," they hissed, and he kicked out his leg, smiling at the sound of teeth cracking on his heel. "Freak," a foul hand pulled at his manhood and twisted, and he screamed like a woman. "You must never do that again," a voice whispered from the trees, full of sorrow and hurt.

Corpses dangled overhead like perverse ornaments, drained of blood and shrunken, their skin turned to leather under the sun's harsh rays. Dwarves, he thought, but that wasn't quite right. Children. Rhaenys and Aegon, aye, and the Stark boy as well. And the girl called Tysha, with tears still wet on her plain but pretty face. Jaime peeled his eyes for Brienne's squire, for Lady Catelyn's daughters, but the sun blinded him, and he was pushed ahead.

Finally, he was brought to the black mouth of a cave. His toes were cracked and bloodied. Pebbles and twigs had dug into his flesh, pushing deeper with each attempt to plant his feet. Desperately, he glanced behind him, searching, waiting. Brienne! he wanted to shout, but no words would leave him. Brienne, where have you gone? He squeezed his eyes shut. They cannot hurt me if I do not see. Wood splintered and scratched at him as he was tied down to a pale chair. "Goldenhand," they jeered, mocking. The more he struggled against his hempen bonds the more he bled, and soon the crude throne he sat upon turned from ivory, to crimson, to rust.

"Goldenhand the Just!" They chanted with false merriment, dancing around him in zealous ecstasy. "Goldenhand, Goldenhand, Goldenhand!" A thousand nails pinched and tickled at him cruelly, and he woke up breathless, the cold echoes of their cackles seeping into the walls around him.

"Ser?" A big hand rested on his shoulder, heavy and warm. Brienne towered over him even as she knelt at his bedside. Her eyes were wide with worry. A girl's eyes, he thought, and shuddered. She palmed his forehead, checking for a fever. "Ser, are you well?"

No, he wanted to say, and to hell with you all, but he only closed his eyes and whispered, "My name is Jaime," as salt trickled coolly into his ear. He turned his head away.

"Oh, Jaime," Brienne gasped, and she trailed her fingers through his hair.

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the-broken-truth · 3 years ago

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Can I request yandere Batman vampire x reborn wife reader x batfamily

Where the reader died a long time ago cuz of some vampire hunter's and she was pregnant at the time and the boy have final found her and want to take her back to where she belongs but this Time she a vampire hunter and The boys have to fight her and trun her into what she hates.

Broken: A Reincarnated Vampire's Lover that's a Vampire Hunter? This is gonna be interesting. Now, let's find out what happens by letting the words weave together!

During the times of old, Vampire roamed the night and ruled over the citizens as if they were shepherds to the sheep that feared the power of the immortals. The most powerful of all the nightwalkers but also the most peaceful was the Family of Wayne - Sired by Count Bruce Wayne.

Lord Bruce was a rather different vampiric lord - he was all-knowing and powerful but he refused to feed off the blood of mortals and managed to make an elixir that substituted for human blood with the same effects. The same went for his sons: Young Lords Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson, and Tim Drake. As well as his daughters: Cassandra Cain & Barbara Gordon.

What made him stand out the most was that he took on a Human Lover - A Village Woman by the name of [Reader] [Surname]. She came to his castle looking for work and found it as a cook in his castle but unlike all the other workers, she did not show fear to the Vampire Lord or his spawn. In fact, she loved them as if they were her own children and they began seeing her for something they never had before - A Mother.

Lord Bruce began falling for the woman and they began to court one another before Bruce placed a ring on her finger and seed in her belly. All was going well until a Vampire Hunter Group burst down the doors of Castle Wayne and attempted to kill the Vampire Head & his spawn but the maiden of Bruce got in the way and took a stake to the heart - it killed her instantly...as well as her child.

Heartbroken and Angry, Bruce and his children killed the hunters before sending his lover to rest in the Wayne Family Catacombs - besides his mother and father. His child was nameless but never forgotten - that was the only time they ever killed but they swore to never let it happen again.

Centuries would tick along and the Wayne Family would still be in power before the rumors began - The Tales of a Female Hunter going around and killing the Vampiric Heads of Families and she was skilled to not waste a single stake. It was told that this woman came from a village that was turned into ashes and rubble by a vampire lord's coven and she was going to avenge them.

When the rumor that the woman was around the Village of Gotham, Bruce sent his sons to scout around the castle to make sure this woman did not get in but she did - however, it did not go unnoticed. Damian was hiding in the shadows before he saw the woman break into the castle through a window - silently breaking it to where they wouldn't have noticed she was in but Damian saw and attacked the woman.

Once he had her pinned, the familiar scent of his mother's blood hit his nose; he roared to his brothers and father as he ripped the woman's hood from her head and mask from her face. His eyes widened as he locked eyes with familiar [Eye Color] eyes that met his in a glare. His mother was under him.

He was suddenly kicked off and the woman pulled a stake out of her belt and charged after Damian but she was tackled to the wall by Dick and Tim while the Count of Castle Wayne walked down the hall, looking wide-eyed at the face of the woman he once loved.

The woman yelled at him - promising his death and the death of his spawn, of all Vampire until she found the one who burned down her village. Bruce just looked at her and tried to make her remember who she was before he was spat upon as the woman struggled against the two men she once called her sons.

Bruce's blue eyes turned crimson as he grabbed the woman's chin, turned her head to get a clear view of her neck, before sinking his fangs into her flesh to steal away her mortal life. Bruce lost [Reader] before - he was not going to lose her again. He will have back what he lost and no one was going to take her away from him again. He will make sure she remained in this castle with the family she once had.

[End]

#yandere dc #vampire #yandere bruce wayne #yandere damian wayne #dick grayson #tim drake #cassandra cain #barbara gordon #vampire wayne family #reincarnated reader

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wolfgirlandfarmboy · 2 years ago

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It's unknown how exactly the two winded up on the topic, but Nana had found herself having to describe what kind of dog her boyfriend would be.

They were lounging on the couch as per lazy day protocol when Jack had gone off on one of his cute ramble tangents. And by the time he stopped, he ended it with a "What dog vibes do I give off?"

Nana pursed her lips and tilted her head in thought.

"Well...you would definitely be a big dog. Not crazy big but you certainly aren't a puppy." Nana pondered about his size in comparison to her. She rested more of her weight on him as she leaned into his side, one hand resting on his arm that was draped over her shoulder.

Jack perked up a bit. "So like...a Boxer?"

Nana nodded before shaking her head. "Yeah but I wouldn't say you have Boxer energy. I'd say Ashe is a better fit for that. You have...I wanna say golden retriever but that's not it either," Nana squinted and Jack couldn't help but admire the cute expression on her face.

"What's the name of those dogs that herd sheep?"

"A...shepherd dog?"

"Nono, the other one. Not as hairy. Kinda like the one Lassie was-"

"AH! A Border Collie!"

Nana grinned up at him. "Yeah! You remind me of one of those dogs."

"Ah...I can sorta see it...actually I can super see it." Jack let out a laugh as he thought more about the comparisons. It was almost embarrassing how right on the head Nana hit the nail. "Gee, you're kinda really good at this."

Nana's grin shifted into a more smug one as she nuzzled up to her boyfriend. "The perks of being a Lupine."

Jack blushed as he felt Nana getting closer and his mind went blank. There was white noise and that noise was her happy purring. There wasn't a single thought or working brain cell in his mind.

"...Jack?"

Jack snapped back to reality as he realized Nana had been calling for him and he looked down to see her big silver eyes staring right back.

"S-sorry 'bout that! What were you saying?"

"I asked if you wanted to try assigning a dog to me?"

Jack blinked a couple times. A dog for Nana was definitely much harder to nail down. His automatic response was going to be a wolf but...well a wolf isn't really a dog. At least not in this case. Jack hummed as he leaned in a little closer to Nana's face, his focus mainly being on her whole...existence being translated over to a dog breed. Ironically, he didn't notice her blush darkening.

He figured he could at least nail down the size like she did. That way he could narrow down a breed.

"Well you'd definitely be a lap dog!" Jack happily professed as he pulled away. Nana's eyes widened, her cheeks now noticeably warm.

It took the farm boy a couple seconds to realize exactly what he just said. And once he did, his face went completely red.

"I-I mean! Because you're small! And easy to pick up!"

Nana, sensing the flustered tone in Jack's voice, simply smirked. There was blood in the water.

"Perfect size to put in your lap?" She purred as she pressed up against him more. She could feel his body temperature soar and his voice wobble.

"I-I mean y-yeah when you put it like that." Jack had to turn his head. He couldn't concentrate under the flirtatious gaze of his girlfriend who was mere inches from his face.

But this is Nana. Which means running was futile. And she had become less interested in an answer now and more interested in taking that "lap dog" descriptor for a lap.

Jack only had a second of processing before he turned to see his smaller girlfriend now plopped down in his lap, a smirk on her face and amusement in her eyes...along with something else. He froze, his heart beating so fast and loud that he was sure she could hear it.

Nana purred as she wrapped her arms around his neck, anchoring his gaze to be on her and only her.

"What else~?" Nana cocked her head, an ear flickering. Jack gulped. He had completely forgot they were still talking about dogs.

"W-well...y-you're really-" Jack was trying so hard to make a sentence. He was trying to think of something to help him continue to conversation. But all that would come out as he watched Nana flutter her eyelashes at him was-

"I can't really think of any pretty dog breeds but...you can't really think at all at the moment so-" She planted another quick kiss on his lips. "I'll let you get away with 'lap dog' for now."

"You're really pretty."

A goofy and dreamy laugh escaped him as his last braincell gave out. Nana softly giggled before kissing him on the cheek.

Jack give his best response back but with his mind being stuck on cloud 9, all he could really do was smile and nod as Nana pulled him back down for another barrage of kisses.

#jack #nana #writing

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sirowsky · 3 years ago

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The Lonely Castle

Chapter 11 - Hallen

Chapter Summary: Pero struggles to understand his new abilities, while Ember is facing several battles on her own.

Author's Note: Much later than I'd intended, but here it is! And as promised, our idiots are reunited at last, but things are bad in many ways now.

Rating: Mature/Explicit 18+ONLY Warnings: cursing, violence, vengeful hatred, blood, descriptions of torture and wounds and death, murders, allusions to possible rape, angst, grief, loss, death of a secondary character. Word Count: 8479 Masterlist (this story) Author’s Masterlist

Scout was breathing fast and hard, his hooves hitting the ground forcefully with each stride, as he relentlessly pushed his body to the brink of what it could do, in order to outrun the beast that followed them through the shadows. Thankfully, both horses were equally fast and proficient runners, and Luna had no trouble keeping up. But they’d never be able to stick to such a punishing pace for several hours, so if the demon didn’t give up on them, they’d likely not manage to get away from it.

Pero had told her about his first ride with Ash, and how she’d been able to achieve tremendous speeds even through dense parts of the forest, so Ember had expected these beasts to be just as quick, since their physique didn’t seem to have been affected by their ‘deaths’. But this one didn’t appear to be gaining on them, despite its superior size and presumably also strength, so perhaps there was some magic involved in their movements as well. It kept off the road as much as it could, still favouring to keep hidden, even in the dark, which seemed odd, but worked to their advantage, as it further slowed the creature down. Rosa, having never managed to catch more than a glimpse of it since their hasty departure, only knew that something dark and unholy was pursuing them, and yet she was impressively unflinching. But the longer they ran, the more Ember started to feel like something was off about the entire situation. The creature couldn’t know who she was, her scent was still masked, so it wasn’t that surprising that it seemed less frenzied in its pursuit, than she’d previously witnessed. But it was as though it wasn’t even trying to attack them. And if so, the only other explanation for its behaviour, was that it must be herding them. Like a shepherd on the heels of his sheep, it was pushing them forwards along the road, driving them towards Hallen, meaning something must be waiting for them there. It was a risk, but she had to test her theory. She held Scout back, forcing him to a stop, and since they were in the lead, that forced Rosa and Luna to do the same. Both horses snorted and stomped, nervously prancing round on the road, unable to stay still with the knowledge that they were under threat.

“Snow, what are you doing?!”

“Just wait!”

“Wait for what?! Getting eaten?!”

The thing circled them once, and then stopped in the middle of the road, to the south of them, and as Luna turned, Rosa got her first real look at a demon, and she suddenly lost her bearings. Her eyes stayed locked on the thing, no matter what the horse did, as though she was enchanted with the horror she witnessed. This demon was different than the other two Ember had had the chance to study more closely, so its element must be something other than fire or whatever the wolf-thing’s had been. It was hard to tell what colour it might be, under the moonlight, but she would’ve guessed dark grey or possibly green, with strange bony… swords, maybe was the closest description, all over its back and down its tail. Perhaps three feet long, and roughly the width of her hand at their widest, although they were wider at the base and narrowing towards the top, but they didn’t appear to be sharp. And it was bigger than the wolf-thing had been. Almost as big as Ash, but then the things on its back made it appear even bigger. It growled at them, and paced back and forth on the road, and when they still didn’t keep going, it started lounging at them, but never closely enough to actually reach them. It was trying to scare them into moving. It might have had the intended effect on the horses, making them rear up and strike out, before backing away a few steps, but Ember knew that it was all for show. She’d seen how they looked when they were really going after an intended prey, and this was a bleak imitation at best.

“Fuck…!”

The spat-out word made Rosa wake up from her trance, and she was immediately panicking.

“What, what’s happening!? What’s going on? Snow, we gotta go!! What are you waiting for?!”

She screamed the questions in rapid succession, all while trying to keep her horse from bolting, but only just succeeding. Most likely because she herself wanted to go, and the animal could sense it. Whereas Scout did turn nervously, but remained much calmer overall.

“Its trying to push us towards Hallen. Which means that whatever’s waiting for us there, is worse than just one demon on our tail.”

“Worse?? How does it get worse than that!?”

“It doesn’t matter right now. We can’t elbow our way past this thing, so our only choice is to keep going. But we’ll keep it slow, so the horses might still have the strength to fight when we get there.”

“Fight?! I can’t fight, I can’t even swing a sword!”

“Doesn’t matter. Swords don’t hurt these things.”

Rosa tried to argue further, but Ember just spurred Scout into a gallop, and worked on trying to get him to take it slow and save his strength. The sun had begun to make the sky shift colour, ever so slightly, to the west, so if they could keep a lower pace, it would be up before they got to the town, meaning the beast would be forced to remain in the woods until nightfall. With a bit of luck, that might be just enough time for her to free her mother and get out of town before dark. Assuming her mother was even there, and not in Crown Hill. If the others were gathering in Hallen, then the woods would be safer than the streets after dusk.

It was somewhat maddening, trying to keep something as fickle as the wind, tamed enough to hold his course steady, as Pero made his way across the sky. The slightest shift in his focus, and he was hurled to the side, or even backwards, or dropped a hundred feet in no time at all. He surmised that it was probably easier having wings that one could actually manoeuvre and feel as they worked with the air, rather than just being pushed around by it. But it was better than walking, at least. It got dark quicker than he would’ve guessed, and the full moon was the only thing that allowed him to keep going. Navigating wasn’t the issue, as he knew which stars to look for, the problem was seeing how high up he was, so that he could avoid mountains, or even just treetops, that would turn all but invisible without the moon’s light. Eventually, some time after midnight, he was forced to give up and rest, as he was in danger of falling asleep mid-air. Landing turned out to be harder than it might seem too, especially when he was barely even aware of what he was doing, and he managed to get himself stuck in the crown of some kind of giant tree, instead of floating to the ground as intended. He wasn’t harmed in the crash, though, and since he wasn’t bothered enough to try and get down, he just found a spot that would hold him secure, in the event that he moved, and fell asleep up there. In the morning, he woke to the very first rays of sunshine, and quickly got up to get going again, but found himself unable to ignore the rumble in his stomach which was trying to remind him that he hadn’t eaten in two days. The satchel Snow had given him still hung in his belt, and he decided to take the time to eat, remembering that without food he’d soon be rendered useless from weakness. He’d made that mistake in the past, and it had cost him more than one bounty. She’d thrown in pieces of bread with the dried meat and fruit, and the smell brought back that memory by the fire, when he’d tried and failed to express how much she meant to him already. He ate it almost reverently, wondering if he’d ever get the chance to taste it again, or if she’d refuse to be with him anymore, once he found her. If she did, he couldn’t deny her that freedom, as he was the cause for her pain. He’d have to let her go, no matter how impossible it would feel. Though not without a fight. Now more than ever, he regretted the months he’d had by her side, without daring to confess his love for her. The time wasted… Scores of leaves were torn from the tree as he conjured the wind once more, and somehow, it was as though he hadn’t learned anything the day before. It seemed just as hard, despite an entire day of practice. And even with the sun to guide him, the terrain confused him, and he kept second guessing himself about his heading. Additionally, he found that it was hard to recognise anything from above. The woods all looked the same, the hills were impossible to judge the height or shape of, and the rivers and lakes could’ve been any one of a thousand he’d seen in his travels. Therefor he wasn’t overly surprised, but seriously annoyed, to see that he’d veered off course at some point, and found himself looking down on his own castle, all of a sudden.

“Ay, hijo de puta…!”

He was about to turn north, when his eyes registered the state of the building, and something compelled him to drop closer. Ash had said that he’d find Snow in Hallen, but… what if? His head said to keep going, but his heart had to know that she hadn’t perished with the ruins. However irrational, he needed the confirmation that he wasn’t lying to himself, even though he’d trusted Ash not to lie to him. He dropped all the way down to the ground, in front of what had been the stairs leading to the main door, but was now merely rubble. The door had already been broken open by Ash when she’d barged in two days before, and the creatures had apparently not been able to undo the sturdy nine-foot-deep walls, but it seemed they’d wrecked everything else. There was debris scattered all over the surrounding snow-covered lawns. He headed for the basement. The last place he’d known his wife to be. The door had been reduced to splinters, and inside there was an assorted mess of wood, stone, broken items made of leather or steel, that had been stored down there, now turned to distorted or torn junk, barely recognisable for what it had once been. They had paid no mind to the food, since these monsters had no need to eat, but they’d managed to ruin most of it anyway. He found some more bread that was still good, and pieces of meat that the cold had kept fresh, so he wrapped it and put it in his satchel, just in case he’d find himself in need of it. Happily, there was no blood or bodies anywhere, and the staircase to the main hall was still intact, so he went upstairs. The dining room and kitchen had been completely destroyed. Nothing had survived the creatures rampage, not a single window or piece of wood, not even the ceiling. But still no sign of Snow. The staircase to the upper floors was filled with rubble, so he stepped through the main door, and let the wind catch him to lift him up into the pathway between the towers, because all three of them had been wrecked, along with the roof of the castle. He could see straight into the bedroom, and what had once been the beds in which he’d had the best night of his life, now half buried and crushed under rubble and snow. Somehow, it felt as though those memories were being picked apart. As though some unknown entity was trying to erase their union, as if it was ugly or unnatural or sinful in some way, when in truth, it had been only beautiful. And that feeling, even though it existed only in his own heart and mind, made him absolutely furious. The ground shook underneath the castle, making the ice on the lake crack open, and water cascade into the air, where a suddenly whipping wind caught it and turned it into snow, and through those simple and natural reactions, Pero could finally feel how he was connected to it all. How his body knew the earth beneath him like the veins of his own blood, how his soul was connected to the water, as though his reflection in its mirroring surface, was actually inside of it somehow. His mind was the wind, trying to go everywhere as quickly as the other elements would allow, and kicking up a storm every time it met resistance. And the fire most assuredly lived within his heart, a quiet glow whenever the remaining elements were still, but a roaring flame as soon as they weren’t. They weren’t powers so much as extensions of his being, that had been linked to the forces of the earth by some unseen string, and now that he understood that, he also realised that managing them wasn’t about controlling them, but about understanding himself. And the one thing he knew most clearly about himself in that moment; was that his heart was in Hallen. He took to the skies again, this time flying straight as an arrow, due northwest, faster even than Ash had been able to push her wings to take her.

Ember and Rosa reached the trading town without being attacked, despite keeping a controlled pace, that saw them enter the settlement well after sunrise, forcing the beast into the shadows long before they reached their destination. Neither woman spoke again for the duration of their journey, taking turns keeping a watchful eye on their pursuer, as they advanced on the town. The horses had settled down once the monster was no longer behind them, and trotted calmly through the streets. But their fur was curly with dried sweat after their sprint in the night, and they’d need to be cleaned to avoid getting chafes or terrible itches that would distract them. Fortunately, Rosa really did have a favourable eye from most everyone in town, it seemed. They were still in the outskirts of the settlement, when people started calling out greetings, using only her first name with no Miss, Mrs, or other designation, even though her status would ordinarily have made such a thing improper. So, when they stopped at an unassuming house about halfway along the streets into the center of town, Ember wasn’t surprised to see her hug the woman that emerged from the cosy-looking structure.

“Hello, Katerina.”

“So good to see you again, Rosa. Is it time?”

“Yes. Will you tend to the horses for us?”

“Of course, my son will be delighted to care for them. He loves horses, but so rarely gets the chance to actually tend to them.”

“Thank you. They belong to Miss Ember now, so make sure they’re fit for sale if she so desires.”

“Certainly.”

Katerina nodded at Ember, who was a bit surprised to hear someone from her old life refer to her by her given name, but quickly smiled and nodded in return, to the kind woman. Rosa was eager to get going though, especially now, when she was even beginning to question her own sanity, after meeting a creature of the dark.

“Are the boats still ready?”

“Everything’s been kept prepared, just as you asked.”

“Good. Then this is goodbye.”

The women hugged once more, holding on to each other for a good long moment.

“Safe travels, my friend. May the winds be kind to you.”

“Thank you for everything, Katerina.”

They parted, and the woman called for her son, a teenage boy who came and took the horses with practiced hands, even though he’d apparently been denied such company with any regularity. Suggesting he was likely the kind of boy that would sneak into stables to pet and groom the animals he so clearly cherished. His smile was radiant at the mere prospect of caring for two such prime specimens. But once he was out of earshot, Ember stepped closer to the woman.

“Listen to me carefully; you need to take the horses and go. Leave Hallen, today. Pack only what provisions you’ll need to survive on the road, and head south. As far as you can, don’t stop at the nearest village or town, keep going until the road ends, do you understand?”

The woman looked befuddled, eyes darting from Ember’s dark and serious ones, to Rosa’s confused but also terrified expression.

“But… why?”

“Because something horrible comes this way. A darkness that will destroy everything in its path, and there’s no stopping it. I know how this sounds, but please believe me. These horses weren’t pushed into such a state by our heels, they were fleeing for their lives. And what was chasing them is already here. It will attack by nightfall. Please… go!”

Katerina looked at Rosa once more, and when she saw that her friend’s expression had shifted from fear to desperation, she realised that something really was wrong, and nodded at Ember, before running back inside her house. Ember didn’t wait to find out if she really was going to pack, she had troubles of her own to tend to.

“Will you be alright now, Rosa? You do seem to have everything figured out.”

“Everything except… Snow… I have so many friends here, and most of them wouldn’t just up and leave their lives for my asking, even if I had the time to go round and warn them. Not that they’d even believe me if I tried to tell them we were chased by… Gods above, what was that thing, anyway?”

“I’m not really sure. I just know it’s evil, and that their kind have their eye set on Hallen right now, for reasons I don’t even dare to speculate. This place is doomed, there’s no saving it, no matter how many doors you might knock on, so just get yourself as far from here as possible.”

The woman sighed unhappily, and looked at her own feet for a few beats.

“Are you still going after your mother?”

“What else can I do? She’s quite possibly all I have. What should I live for, if not her?”

Rosa looked up again, and tilted her head to the side, a peculiar look crossing her face, as though Ember was missing something obvious, but then it was gone as soon as it had appeared.

“Well then, unless they took her up to the fortress at Crown Hill, they’ll be keeping her in the brig in the Constable’s office. Do you know where it is?”

“Yeah, I remember father pointing it out to me when I was here as a kid. He said I should always endeavour to avoid setting foot in there.”

“Wise man indeed.”

“Indeed. Take care of yourself, Rosa.”

“And you, Snow. Thank you for getting me here.”

She darted off towards the harbour, hopefully to never be seen in these parts of the land again, and Ember set off for the heart of the town; the marketplace at the central square, where the Constable’s office would be on full display where it stood, towering over all other buildings surrounding the open area. Thankfully, her cloak was big and heavy enough to effectively conceal her bow and quiver, provided she carried them in her hand, and not on her back, but on the other hand, it was fine enough to also draw unhelpful attention. The streets were fairly lively, courtesy of the mild and sunny weather, and the market was still largely busy during winter, because even though there were no crops to be sold, meat was still a valued commodity, so hunters from all around came to sell or barter their spoils. Pelts too, were highly sought-after goods in the colder months, and the trading of livestock never seized, regardless of season, as animals often fell ill, or just unexpectedly died, needing to be replaced. She wasn’t concerned with the larger population possibly recognising her, as her face wouldn’t be familiar to people there. Also, these traders tended to see the benefit of not being a tell-tale, which was generally bad business. She hadn’t set foot there in a very long time, and it was unlikely that she’d happen to run in to someone from Boden on random. She assumed that her name had been spread far and wide, undoubtedly accompanied by some horrifying tale of deception against the Crown and conspiracies a plenty. But should she need to identify herself, her other name was likely to keep her rather anonymous, as it was something only her own towns-folk had taken to calling her. And she could always use Pero’s last name, since it was technically now hers too, provided he was alive and that they were still together, neither of which she could say with any confidence. What she did worry about was turning a corner and running head-first into Guardsmen. They’d used her father’s services enough times that she’d met scores of them at this point, meaning that if she was unlucky, she might find herself staring at a familiar face, which would surely get her arrested. Something to consider, should she not be able to locate her mother. Because there was every chance whatever jail they’d take Ember to, her mother might be there as well. She made her way through the streets, trying not to rush or draw attention to herself. Until she reached the square, where she perused around, feigning interest in the odd market-stand, fending off admirers of her cloak while stealing unassuming glances at the Constable’s office, now and then. It wasn’t guarded on the outside, and the bottom floor windows were covered with drapes. The Constable himself worked on the second floor, the only building in town to have more than one, and his windows were clear enough that she could detect movement up there, meaning he was likely working today. Slowly moving closer, she examined her options. She could simply barge in, and attempt to rush through the structure in a heedless search that might very well not amount to anything, other than getting herself arrested. She knew nothing of the internal layout of the house, nor where the guards might be. On the other hand, if she waited to try and learn about their routines, or happen to see the majority of them leave for some reason, it might turn out to be too late, as she felt absolutely certain that the demons would attack the town by nightfall. There was no other choice; she’d have to just walk in, and hope that not every single one of them was currently mulling about in there. She moved up close to the north corner of the house, trying to look like she was just resting, leaned against the wall. But just as she’d made up her mind, and started closing in on the front door from the side, someone yelled from across the square.

“Fire! There’s a fire in the harbour!”

A smile spread across her face, as she listened to the town react, and the warning spread through the market, getting louder as it went. Because she knew that it was Rosa, bidding farewell to this part of the world, and probably figuring that Ember could use a distraction of some sort, regardless of what she was up to. She spared a thought of well wishes for the woman, now and forever-more cemented in her heart as a friend, rather than a meaningless childhood relationship. And then the door to the Constables office flew open, and two dozen soldiers poured out into the square, running towards the harbour without so much as a sideways glance, closely followed by the somewhat rotund, and thus much slower, Constable himself. She breathed a sigh of relief that she hadn’t merely charged the building the moment she got to it, as that many Guardsmen would’ve made for an impenetrable wall between her and any prisoner they might be keeping. As soon as she was certain that all attention was aimed elsewhere, she snuck inside and quickly closed the door behind her. Inside it was warm, and stuffy in that way that many people in a small space usually feels. There was a long hallway, with three doors on either side, and one straight ahead on the very end. Most of the doors along the hall stood open, where the men had rushed out, and she could see trays of food, and fireplaces alight in some of them. But she only needed one glance to know that the furthest door was where she needed to go, because there was a lock on that one, unlike all the others. It was just a wooden bar, placed in holders against the door, which opened outwards into the hall, which was lucky. Had it been a steel lock, she might not have been able to get in quickly, or silently. She lifted the heavy bar out of the way, and opened the door, finding herself in a larger room, with four cells, two on each side. And these were steel, with proper locks too. But she only registered that secondarily, because the first thing that came to her mind, was that one of the cells was occupied, and that it was a woman. That was as much as she could make out initially, as the woman was curled up in a corner, her head resting on her knees, and her arms hidden behind them for warmth. This room was furthest from all the fireplaces, and right up against the backwall of the house, where the cold winter air seeped in through the cracks. There was no bed, or even a blanket in any of the cells, just a bucket for collecting bodily excretions, and that was it. She kneeled outside the bars of the occupied cell, right in front of the woman, letting her weapon down on the floor beside her.

“Ethedred? Is that you?”

The woman moved, slowly lifting her head, and Ember nearly screamed out in pain as she barely even recognised her mother, she was so badly beaten. Bruises as black as dead flesh covered the entire left side of her face, and she was swollen and cut over the cheek and forehead. Her arms came into view as she reached towards Ember’s outstretched hands, scarcely believing her eyes, and needing the confirmation of her touch to know that her daughter really was there. Tears streamed freely down Ember’s cheeks as she saw the angry red marks of whiplashes on her arms, having cut through her clothes with how hard they’d been delivered, and she knew without seeing it, that her back would be covered in them as well. She tried not to consider what the tears in her skirts could mean, but her mind went there anyway.

“Oh, mother… what have they done to you?”

She didn’t reply at first, she just kept stroking Ember’s arms and hands, leaning her head against the cold bars, straining her eyes, as if she struggled to see and needed to be close to make her out.

“My baby, you made it. I’ve prayed to the stars every day for you.”

Her voice was frail and broken from screaming, but despite the damage to her face, no doubt full of broken bones, the older woman still managed to smile, and it broke Ember’s heart to see that kind of warmth from her in that situation.

“I’m here to set you free, mama. I just need to figure out this lock…”

She tried to hold back the sobs that pushed at the back of her throat, but didn’t quite succeed, as she attempted to reach for the steel padlock, but her mother wouldn’t let go of her hands.

“No, my darling. You need to go.”

“Absolutely not! I’m not leaving you with these barbarians!”

She tried to break out of her mother’s grasp, but the woman had her in a vice, and she was unwilling to risk further harm to the woman’s starved and frail body.

“Listen to me now, child; I told you the night you left, never to come back, and you shouldn’t have. They only keep me alive to bait you…”

“I know that, and I don’t care! You can’t ask me to abandon you again, not after he-…”

She cut herself off when the pain suddenly, impossibly, doubled inside her chest, and she had to let her head fall, though she was unsure if it was defeat or sorrow that made it so unbearably heavy.

“Pero? Does he still care for you? Has he kept his promise?”

It took more effort than it should, simply to shake her head.

“He… left me…”

Ember lifted her gaze, only now finding her mother in tears, as she tried to put the pieces together.

“I thought he was a good man… I looked into his eyes and I saw a man that was broken, but looking to be made whole. And he already had a favourable eye for you. I thought he would move heaven and earth…”

“He did, mama. He is a good man. What’s happened to us… it’s not his fault, although I tell myself it is, so that I might be able to hate him one day, should he never return.”

“What do you mean by that, Em? What’s happened to you?”

That reminded her that there were two threats bearing down on them.

“There isn’t time, we have to go…”

“In all your years on this earth, I have never seen you frightened to the bone. Not even when I sent you away. You’ve always kept your head, always known how to keep your heart free from the weight of true fear, as well as love. Yet, here you are, trembling. Tell me what haunts you.”

She wanted to tell her mother everything. Every thought, every memory, every moment from the past four months, but most of all, she just wanted to be a little girl again, so that she could once more pull on her mother’s skirts and ask for a hug. Just one more time. But those days were gone and lost, and everything she’d once been able to lean on, was no longer there. Ember was haunted. But not just by darkness; by loneliness as well. All her life she’d been an outcast in her own society, loved and cared for only by three people in all the world, all of whom had been lost. And in her heart, she knew that even though she had her mother’s hands in her own right now, she wouldn’t get to keep them. She willed the tears to stop, and the trembling faded away. A softness found its way to her eyes, as she looked upon her mother, choosing not to see the bruises anymore, but the radiant and stoic and clever woman whom she had been raised by.

“Nothing powerful enough to destroy me. Now, I’m gonna pry this lock open, and you’re gonna let me get you out of here, do you hear me?”

The older woman sighed lightly, lowering her head and shaking it slowly, while Ember pried her hands free and got up to start looking around for something to use to release the spring inside the lock.

“No, sweetheart. My purpose is already fulfilled, and while I am eternally grateful to have been given the chance to see you again, our time together ended that night. My time is passed, and I won’t allow you to perish trying to save what is already lost.”

The way she spoke, with such resolution and conviction, made Ember feel as though she’d missed something. That her mother knew something she didn’t.

“W-what do you mean?”

She returned to the bars, sitting back down on her knees and reaching for Ethedred’s hands once more. But the older woman only took her right one with her left. With the other, she reached into Ember’s coat, and the younger woman realised too late what it was that she was after.

“Mama, no…!”

Her mother found the dagger she’d concealed there and snatched it from her daughter, as quickly as a striking serpent, before letting her go and shuffling herself backwards, out of Ember’s reach.

“No, what are you doing?? Mama… mama, don’t… please.”

“Whatever it is that has you so frightened, know that I will always believe in you. And thank you, my darling, for letting me know that you survived. It gives me the closure I need… so that I can finally let go.”

Without a hint of hesitation, she plunged the blade into the middle of her own stomach, burying it all the way to the hilt.

“No!! Wha-… why…? No, no, no, please…”

The older woman slowly lowered herself onto her side on the floor, showing no trace of pain in her features. Only peace. And there was a small part of Ember which hated her for that.

“Don’t leave me… not you too… please, mother…”

Her breaths slowed, getting increasingly strained, as life drained from her body with every ounce of the blood which poured so effortlessly from around the blade.

“…go… fight… live……… love…”

Her eyes stilled, staring right at her daughter as the light left them. Ember held on to the steel bars as though they could somehow hold her together, a strange desperation keeping her frozen to that spot, and those eyes, already so unnatural. So cold. She was now truly alone, and a darkness of her own was trying to fill her mind with the most horrendous thoughts, even now, only seconds after her mother had left this life. Why even try to hold herself together? What for? There was nothing more to fight for, no reason to do anything at all. Even her own mother had chosen to die rather than take a risk, and have a chance to be with her. She was unwanted, unlovable and horrible, a freak and a monster. This was her fault. Her own lies and deceit had led to all the tragedies of late, and she had none other to blame. When the door to the house suddenly fell open, and soldiers began to walk inside, stopping just inside the threshold as they registered that the door which was supposed to be barred shut, stood open and that there was a trespasser behind it, the darkness inside of her seemed to flip, and suddenly it wasn’t directed at herself anymore. In a single heartbeat, she’d unclasped the cloak, picked up her bow and swung the quiver to her back. Her arrows flew without mercy, burying themselves in brains, necks, lungs and hearts, while she got to her feet and started advancing through the hall, towards the front door. She wanted all of them to die at the skills of her father’s craft, the skills men had decided was only theirs to know, for no reason beyond their own egos, but which had cost her family everything. She wanted to honour Alard Fletcher’s faith in his one and only daughter, by not letting these men get away with their barbaric treatment of his beloved wife. When they gave up trying to get in, she drew her arrows from the five already fallen bodies inside the hall, and stole a sword which she strapped to her belt, while she listened to the remaining forces as they closed ranks in the small open area between the office and the now quiet market. She crossed the threshold and stopped at the top of the two stone steps that led to the door. There were another three bodies strewn around the ground closest to the steps. She couldn’t care less. There were another twenty men staring at her from the half-ass ranks they’d scraped together. It didn’t matter. These men had expended their time upon this earth, the moment they laid hands on her mother. It made no difference if all of them had, or only a few, they’d all known what had been done to the Fletcher’s wife, and therefor they were all equally guilty. There were no bowmen staring back at her. Their mistake. Her arrows felled another eight men before anyone got close enough to pose a threat, at which point she dropped the bow, drew the sword, and despite having no previous training, managed to both evade their strikes, and land several of her own. Perhaps because she wasn’t trying to hit them. At least, not the way that swordsmen usually did. Instead, she danced her way through them, letting the memories of her mother’s lessons flood her mind as she twirled and stepped, swung her arms and twisted her body like a snake, guided by nothing but her own blinding rage and pure instincts. But it only worked for a while, and when there were still five men left to bring down, they finally managed to disarm her. A deep cut to her lower arm made her drop the weapon, and within moments, they had her on her knees in the snow. Loud voices screamed and barked, but if they spoke with words, she never heard a single one. She was waiting. Preparing. How peculiar that the rage could make it so simple to stay calm, and school herself to regain focus and strength. Two men held her by the arms, keeping them stretched out from her sides, while they stood close, so that they could each keep a hand on her shoulder, and because she was on her knees, that put her elbows in the perfect position. She waited until the

remaining three were in front of her, and then she shoved her elbows backwards, as hard as she could, hitting their sensitive groins, prompting them to involuntarily release their grip on her. Once free, she instantly reached for the nearest sword on the ground, swinging it upwards blindly as she felt, more than saw, one of the three in front coming at her. She managed to lodge the sword between his ribs on his right side, and he fell down slowly, staring at her as though she was a witch. Perhaps she actually was. It wouldn’t have surprised her to learn as much, at this point. The remaining four seemed to agree with that assessment, as they nervously glanced at each other, holding their swords out towards her but backing away, while she slowly advanced on them. But eventually they stopped; challenging her. So, she stopped too; inviting them. All four charged as one, but she only managed to bring down three, before the last of them, probably the smallest of them all, shorter even than Ember herself, suddenly had his blade at her throat. Had he been behind her, she could’ve mortally wounded him before he could slice her throat open, but he was in front of her, well out of her reach. Fury burned her stomach and lungs, because against all odds, she’d defeated the entire garrison, only to have one small man stand in the way of her vengeance. His previously uncertain and even frightened expression was replaced by smugness the moment he knew that he’d beaten her, and it only enraged her further.

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna kill you. We burn witches in this town.”

His smile grew as he clearly enjoyed his own wittiness, but it quickly vanished when a powerful gust of wind seemed to fall just over Ember’s shoulder, pushing her a step to the right, while it hit the soldier with tremendous force, sending him hurtling backwards into a market-stand. As though he weighed little more than a leaf, Pero was suddenly floating down from the sky, landing softly in a flurry of snow kicked up by the strange wind, with his back to the mayhem she’d caused, and his eyes firmly holding hers. Her heart swelled at the mere sight of him, and her already heated blood, turned into an excited fire in her abdomen.

“Mi Sueño…”

Oh, god… how had she already forgotten the power of that voice? But then the fury returned as the memories of their last encounter did, and she felt her face harden and something corrosive take hold of her insides. She shifted her focus back to the soldier, whom was just crawling out of the remnants of the stand, no longer armed, or smug. Realising that he was well out of his league now, he took off running across the square, while Ember calmly retrieved her bow, snatched an arrow from a nearby corpse, set it against the string and waited for her target to emerge where she knew he would, in a narrow space between a small tent and a large cart. The arrow landed exactly as she’d envisioned, burying itself behind his right ear, and he was dead even before he crashed to the ground, around two-hundred paces away. Some of the rage settled down, knowing that vengeance had been achieved, but an altogether different anger had awoken at the sight of her partner, and that one wouldn’t be quite so easily quelled.

Pero didn’t know how anything could ever offer greater relief, than seeing his beloved again. Even in her rage she was glorious, formidable and almost unstoppable as she relentlessly pursued her targets, even after they’d thought her defeated. He’d arrived in Hallen just as the blood-curdling screams had erupted at the marketplace, and when he’d carefully landed on the roof of the Constable’s office, he’d been just in time to see Snow as she’d danced her way through the charging garrison, and he’d been too mesmerised to intervene. Even when she was brought to her knees, and he’d been about to break the very ground underneath her enemies, she’d found a way to keep fighting. He had no idea why these Guardsmen had become her quarry, but he didn’t care. He was a trained and experienced killer, and even though he’d opted to pursue a different life after losing William, that was still the person he was. And if he’d been largely indifferent to the lives that had fallen at his blades before, he was entirely unbothered by those that fell in the service of protecting the only thing in the whole world that was dear to him. But he also knew that anyone so consumed with rage wouldn’t take kindly to someone meddling with their fight, even if it was someone that they (hopefully) cared for, so he’d only intervened when she’d already been bested. He’d imagined a dozen different reactions from her, upon seeing him again, but somehow it was still nothing like anything he’d managed to conjure in his mind. More than anything, he was surprised by her silence. Once the last man had been rendered lifeless, she turned her attention to the Constable, whom had been standing pressed against the outside wall of his own office, during the entire altercation, staring in absolute shock at the mayhem which had befallen his vibrant town. And while her movements as she approached him, may have been deceptively calm and controlled, her eyes betrayed the depth of her anger, and her voice even more so.

“Where’s the key?”

The man stared at her as though she was the devil walking among them, but was otherwise completely paralysed, even to the point of speechlessness. Having no patience at the time, Snow punched him hard in the abdomen, and he doubled over before hitting the ground heavily, laying on his side and gasping for air, squirming against the pain, while she rummaged through his pockets until she found what she was looking for. But while she was still leaned over him, Pero could hear her low and dark voice spit a few words into his ear, between gritted teeth.

“Did you lay a hand on her?”

The Constable vehemently shook his head, closing his eyes tightly, and keeping his face turned away from her, as if he thought that he could pretend she wasn’t there if he just couldn’t see her. For whatever reason, she decided to spare the man, and walked into his office instead. Pero followed, drawing her arrows out of the bodies he passed, each one having landed in perfect killing positions, instantly rendering her foes unable to fight, so that she needn’t waste any extra time or energy on making sure they were dead, before proceeding to the next target. She was a frighteningly efficient killer, and he wondered if this perhaps wasn’t the first time that she’d turned her skills against men. He found her in the room furthest from the door, cradling a lifeless body that took him too long to recognise, considering she was the one that had set Snow on the path which had led to their relationship. One of his own daggers sat buried in Ethedred’s chest, and from the overall state of the woman, he could guess the rest, and his heart sank. This brave mother, sacrificing herself to keep her daughter safe, only to end up tortured and used as bait, for the same daughter to be snared and imprisoned and likely tortured too, had chosen to end her life as perhaps the only way to keep Snow from getting herself captured. But her actions had set a fire to her daughter’s heart that would not be lessened, even with vengeance served. Snow would forever feel responsible for this outcome, and it broke Pero’s heart to know that there was nothing he could do to ease her suffering.

“I can carry her for you, Nieve.”

He knew better than to approach her without invitation, so he remained by the door to the cell while he waited for her reply. But it didn’t come. She stayed there, holding her mother to her chest, and huddling herself protectively over the body.

“I’m sorry, my love, but we can’t remain here. The sun is setting, and reinforcements will be here by morning.”

“It’s too late, either way.”

The rage was still there, but layered with grief and longing now too. Her words didn’t make sense to him, though.

“What do you mean by that?”

“The others are gathering here. They’ve been herding people towards town. There won’t be anything left of Hallen by morning.”

Heaps of questions gathered in his thoughts upon hearing that, but he had to ignore them all for now. If her prediction was accurate, they were in danger, and time was running out. He stepped inside, and picked up Ethedred, ignoring Snow’s furious protests as he turned towards the back wall, and used a combination of wind and earth, to shake and blow the wall out of the house. She fell silent with the sheer incredibility of what her eyes were seeing, particularly when he stepped outside and didn’t hit the ground, three feet lower down, but hovered at the same level as the floor, when the wind picked him up at his direction. He let go of Ethedred, and she too remained suspended in the air. He held a hand out to Snow.

“The wind will carry us to safety. Just step out, and I’ll catch you.”

She hesitated, but then people appeared further down the alley behind the house, starting to scream and cause a racket when they saw a man hanging in mid-air. She snatched the cloak from the floor before taking his hand, and stepped outside, gasping involuntarily at the strange sensation, before he wrapped his arms around her, and took all three of them high into the sky, heading out of the city. Perhaps he rightly should care what might happen to Hallen in his absence that night, but he didn’t yet know how to fight an entire army of demons by himself. Not to mention that Snow might chose to ignore any danger and join the fight, even though she couldn’t defeat demons, and he wasn’t willing to risk that by bringing her along, any more than he was prepared to leave her side when he was finally with her again. There was a lot that needed to be cleared up between them, and even though the destruction of an entire town might take place while they did that, it had to be done. Because he’d never be able to focus on fighting with powers he’d only just learned how to tap in to, if his heart was in turmoil. He needed to know, either way, if she was still his. If she was, her love would carry him through any battle, and if she wasn’t, his pain would make him deadlier than ever before. He brought them to a cliff on Dreamer’s Peak, carefully setting Ethedred’s body down on her back, before letting Snow land softly right next to her, while he set himself down some ten paces away. Snow kneeled next to her mother, kissing her forehead and mumbling something to her, before she got up, turned, and came at Pero with eyes turned black with anger, hurt and sadness.

“You have until the full moon rises. One evening to explain what the fuck is going on, and to convince me that you’re still worthy of my heart and my life.”

He didn’t doubt her sincerity for a moment. And he welcomed it, because her words told him that she still loved him, and that she might be able to forgive him. Taking a deep breath, and bracing himself for what he was certain would be a tumultuous conversation, he identified three paths to take, to kick things off, and quickly chose the one he felt was most relevant in that moment.

“Ash is dead. And the last thing she did before she died, was give me control over all four elements, which is why I can fly, shake the very ground you walk on, flood any river or lake I please, and walk through fire without getting burned.”

Her expression didn’t change at all, for a long moment, while she presumably weighed his words and tried to decide if she believed him at all. Pero could hardly breathe as he tensely awaited her judgement. And she made him wait for it alright, but eventually she crossed her arms over her waist, and nodded sharply.

“I’m listening.”

***************

Link to Chapter 12

Thank you for reading, and have a wonderful day/night!

@sarahjkl82-blog @marydjarin @idreamofboobear @agingerindenial @tiffanyleen @hounding-around @tobealostwanderer @deadhumourist @toomanystoriessolittletime @tintinn16 @nolanell @prostitute-robot-from-the-future @dihra-vesa @feminist-violinist @lowlights

#the lonely castle fic #pero tovar fanfiction #pero tovar fic #pero tovar x ofc #pero tovar x female character #the great wall fanfiction #the great wall #idiots in love #romance #fantasy #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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zmaragdos · 3 years ago

Text

XI Kalendae Maius | April 21st

Night has departed, and Dawn appears; I am summoned for the Paralia: I am not asked in error, if Kind Pales is favorable.

Kind Pales, may You, Sacred to Shepherds, applaud my celebratory singing, if I honor Your festival with my service. Certainly I carry the ashes of a calf, and the stalks of a bean-thing in a full hand, the holy purgations: certainly I have leapt over flames, having been set out three times in a row; the soaked laurel branch has sent off dripping water drops; the Goddess, having been roused, exists and is favorable to my work: the ship departs from the dock-yards, now my sails have their own winds.

Go! Seek, people, the incense of the Virginal Altar: Vesta will bestow it, you will be unpolluted with the service of Vesta. The blood of horses and calves will be the fumigation on hot cinders; the third things are the hard things, the empty tops of beans. Shepherd, perform the fat sheep, the Lustral, sacrifices toward the beginning of dusk! Let water first wet the ground, and let a green branch sweep the ground; let the sheep-things be adorned with foliage and branches having been fastened to them, and let the long garlands veil the decorated doors. Let the blue-black smoke be created by pure sulfur and let the sheep, having been touched with the smoking sulfur, bleat.

Burn! The male olives, the pine-torch, and the Sabine herbs; and the laurel, having been burned in the middle of the hearth, creaks; and let a basket of millet follow cakes made from millet: the Rural Goddess is particularly pleased by this food. And bring! a milk pail to her sacrificial feasts, and with the sacrificial dinner having been cut up, Invoke! Sylvan Pales with tepid milk. Say! “By the consul for the herd and equally by the commander of the herd: let an Offense, having been rejected from my stables, run away. If I have pastured my flock in a sacred place or if I have loitered beneath a sacred tree, and a sheep has grazed ignorant fodder from a gravesite, if I have entered a forbidden, woody-grove, or if there are nymphs, having been driven away by our eyes, and the Half-Goat God: if my pruning hook has stripped the sacred grove of shady boughs, from which place a little basket of foliage had been given to a sick sheep: Make atonement for my crime! I will come while it might hail violently, let it not hinder me to drive my herd into a rustic temple; let it not do harm to have disturbed the ponds. Forgive! Nymphs, the hooves, having been set in motion, which make the water dark. Calm! Goddess, The springs and spring-divinities for us. You calm the Gods having been scattered through every grove! Let us see neither Dryads nor the baths of Diana; nor Faunus, when he lies in the fields in the middle of the day.

“Keep! disease on the skin far away; let both the men and the flock be healthy and let the vigilant watch-dogs, that cautious crowd, be healthy. Let me drive back the multitude, not less than there were in the morning, and let me, carrying the fleece having been snatched from the wolf, not cry. Let injurious hunger be absent: and let the herbs and the foliage remain; and let water wash every limb and let each water be drunk. Let me milk the full udders, let the cheese return in copper coins to me, and let the loose woven basket give way to flowing whey. And let the ram be lustful and let his mate deliver offspring, having been conceived, and let there be many lambs in my stables. And let the wool, that is produced, be an irritant to no girls, and be suitably soft with relation to tender hands. I invoke, that which might happen, and we will prepare a large cake for the coming year for Pales, for the Mistress of Shepherds.”

It is by these things the goddess must be soothed: you, turning around, say these things to the East four times, and wash your hands with living dew! Then, it is Lawful. With the wine-cup having been placed just like you would with a krater, drink the snow-white milk and purple must! Afterwards, throughout the glowing heaps of creaking straw, you might throw nimble limbs with quick feet.

There is a custom, having been explained: the origin of the custom is left to me: disorder creates a doubtful thing and restrains our work, having been begun. The voracious fire cleanses everything and the defects melt out from the metals: for that reason the sheep makes atonement with the leader.

Or, because the seeds of all things are opposite, the two discordant gods, fire and water: have the elements united the ancestors; and have they cleansed the appropriate thing with fires; and have they thought to touch the body with water having been spattered? Or, do they think these two things to be important because in these things there is the cause of life; the exile has squandered these things; the new wife is created by these things?

Indeed, I scarcely believe that some might think those things are to be reported as reference to Phaethon and the flood-waters beyond measure of Deucalion. A part, too, believe it to reference when the shepherds were striking rocks with rocks: they cause a sparklet to have sprung forth suddenly; certainly the first one has vanished, the second one, having been captured, is on the stalks: does the flame of the Parilia keep with this evidence? Or has dutiful Aeneas performed this custom more completely, has the fire given to him, having been conquered, and unharmed journey? Can it be said that it is yet closer to the truth, that when Rome, having been founded, exists, the moving Lares, having been ordered, are to be brought over to new homes, and they are to set their home-place, with rustic abodes of huts about to be abandoned, on fire; is the livestock to have jumped, are the settlers to have jumped through the blazing fires? Which is even now performed in the same way for your birthday, Rome.

This very place creates themes for the Poet, the birth of the city has arrived! Attend, Great Quirinus, with your exploits having been performed! Just now the brother of Numitor had suffered punishments, and all of the shepherds were a flock under the Twin Leader. And it is arranged for the country people to assemble, and to build the city walls for either of the two leaders: it is disputed, either twin might establish the city walls.

“A task with any competition is nonsense,” Romulus said. “The omen of birds is powerful, let us put the birds to the test.” The circumstance is acceptable: one approaches the stones of the woody Palatine, the other, arrives early in the morning at the top of the Aventine. Six are for Remus; Romulus sees twice six birds in a row, he is abiding by their pact, and Romulus has the authority of the city. The appropriate day is chosen, on which the walls might be marked with a plough. The Festival of Pales was due to arrive: then, the work is undertaken. The trench is made down to the solid bedrock, crops are thrown into the bottom and so is earth having been procured from neighboring soil. The trench is refilled with soil, and an altar is built on the full thing, and the new hearth is completed by an attendant with fire. Next, Romulus, pressing the plough shaft, marks out the walls with a ceremonial furrow; a white cow with a snowy ox carry the plough-yoke, this was the speech of the king: “Jupiter! Be present at the founding, in the city, you, too, Father Mavors and Mother Venus! And it is natural to summon those gods, pay attention, all of you! Let the work emerge for the augurs, for you all, for this, for me. May her lifetime be long, and may the power of the earth be for this Mistress, and may the rising sun and the setting sun be subject to Her.” He was praying, and Jupiter has given omens with favorable thunder and lightning having been sent from the favorable pole. The happy citizens lay the foundations by the omen and, in a short time, there is a new. By this, Celer urges the work, who Romulus himself had called upon and had said: “Celer, let that very thing be your worry! Nor let one who either crosses the walls or to pour out of the trench having been built: deliver the one who dares to do such things to a violent death.”

Because Remus, being ignorant, begins to insult the short walls and he starts to say: “By these the community will be safe?” With no delay, he has jumped over them. Celer took the daring one by surprise with a shovel; he, blood-stained, presses into the hard earth. When the King learned these things, he repressed his tears, having risen internally, and he keeps the wound enclosed in his chest. He did not want to publicly lament the shovel, and he kept the powerful precedent, and he says: “Similarly, might an enemy pass over my walls.” Nevertheless, he gave a funeral procession, and yet now he could not tolerate to suspend his weeping, and his love, having been concealed, is exposed; and he has placed his final kisses, with the bier having been arranged, and then he says: “Brother, in unwilling deprivation, be well!” He has anointed the limbs that are about to be burned; they perform as he did, Faustus and Acca, her mournful hair having been untied. Then, the Quirites, having not yet been created, have wept for the young man; the flame, having been applied underneath, is the end for the funeral pure having been grieved for. The city, about to be built, emerges as the conqueror, her foot on the known-lands (back then who might be able to confide to anyone about this?) May you command all things, and please! always be under the rule of Great Caesar; frequently, too, keep a great number of this name! And may you have stood firm on the world, having been subdued, may everything be lower than your position.

—

Nox abiit, oriturque Aurora. Parilia poscor: non poscor frustra, si favet alma Pales, alma Pales, faveas pastoria sacra canenti, prosequor officio si tua festa meo. certe ego de vitulo cinerem stipulasque fabalis saepe tuli plena, februa casta, manu: certe ego transilui positas ter in ordine flammas, udaque roratas laurea misit aquas, mota dea est operique favet: navalibus exit puppis, habent ventos iam mea vela suos. i, pete virginea, populus, suffimen ab ara: Vesta dabit, Vestae munere purus eris. sanguis equi suffimen erit vitulique favilla, tertia res durae culmen inane fabae. pastor, oves saturas ad prima crepuscula lustra: unda prius spargat, virgaque verrat humum, frondibus et fixis decorentur ovilia ramis, et tegat ornatas longa corona fores. caerulei fiant puro de sulphure fumi, tactaque fumanti sulphure balet ovis. ure mares oleas taedamque herbasque Sabinas, et crepet in mediis laurus adusta focis, libaque de milio milii fiscella sequatur: rustica praecipue est hoc dea laeta cibo. adde dapes mulctramque suas, dapibusque resectis silvicolam tepido lacte precare Palem. ‘consule’ dic ‘pecori pariter pecorisque magistris: effugiat stabulis noxa repulsa meis. sive sacro pavi sedive sub arbore sacra, pabulaque e bustis inscia carpsit ovis: si nemus intravi vetitum, nostrisve fugatae sunt oculis nymphae semicaperque deus: si mea falx ramo lucum spoliavit opaco, unde data est aegrae fiscina frondis ovi: da veniam culpae, nec, dum degrandinet, obsit agresti fano supposuisse pecus, nec noceat turbasse lacus, ignoscite, nymphae, mota quod obscuras ungula fecit aquas, tu, dea, pro nobis fontes fontanaque placa numina, tu sparsos per nemus omne deos. nec Dryadas nec nos videamus labra Dianae, nec Faunum, medio cum premit arva die. pelle procul morbos; valeant hominesque gregesque, et valeant vigiles, provida turba, canes. neve minus multos redigam, quam mane fuerunt, neve gemam referens vellera rapta lupo. absit iniqua fames: herbae frondesque supersint, quaeque lavent artus quaeque bibantur aquae. ubera plena premam, referat mihi caseus aera, dentque viam liquido vimina rara sero. sitque salax aries, conceptaque semina coniunx reddat, et in stabulo multa sit agna meo. lanaque proveniat nullas laesura puellas, mollis et ad teneras quamlibet apta manus. quae precor eveniant, et nos faciemus ad annum pastorum dominae grandia liba Pali.’ his dea placanda est: haec tu conversus ad ortus dic quater et vivo perlue rore manus, tum licet adposita, veluti cratere, camella lac niveum potes purpureamque sapam; moxque per ardentes stipulae crepitantis acervos traicias celeri strenua membra pede. expositus mos est: moris mihi restat origo: turba facit dubium coeptaque nostra tenet. omnia purgat edax ignis vitiumque metallis excoquit: idcirco cum duce purgat ovis. an, quia cunctarum contraria semina rerum sunt duo discordes, ignis et unda, dei, iunxerunt elementa patres aptumque putarunt ignibus et sparsa tangere corpus aqua? an, quod in his vitae causa est, haec perdidit exul, his nova fit coniunx, haec duo magna putant? vix equidem credo: sunt qui Phaethonta referri credant et nimias Deucalionis aquas. pars quoque, cum saxis pastores saxa feribant, scintillam subito prosiluisse ferunt; prima quidem periit, stipulis excepta secunda est: hoc argumentum flamma Parilis habet? an magis hunc morem pietas Aeneia fecit, innocuum victo cui dedit ignis iter? num tamen est vero propius, cum condita Roma est, transferri iussos in nova tecta Lares mutantesque domum tectis agrestibus ignem et cessaturae supposuisse casae, per flammas saluisse pecus, saluisse colonos? quod fit natali nunc quoque, Roma, tuo. Ipse locus causas vati facit, urbis origo venit, ades factis, magne Quirine, tuis! iam luerat poenas frater Numitoris, et omne pastorum gemino sub duce volgus erat. contrahere agrestes et moenia ponere utrique convenit: ambigitur, moenia ponat uter. ‘nil opus est’ dixit ‘certamine’ Romulus ‘ullo: magna fides avium est, experiamur aves.’ res placet, alter adit nemorosi saxa Palati, alter Aventinum mane cacumen init. sex Remus, hic volucres bis sex videt ordine, pacto statur, et arbitrium Romulus urbis habet, apta dies legitur, qua moenia signet aratro. sacra Palis suberant: inde movetur opus. fossa fit ad solidum, fruges iaciuntur in ima et de vicino terra petita solo. fossa repletur humo, plenaeque imponitur ara, et novus accenso fungitur igne focus. inde premens stivam designat moenia sulco; alba iugum niveo cum bove vacca tulit, vox fuit haec regis: ‘condenti, Iuppiter, urbem et genitor Mavors Vestaque mater, ades; quosque pium est adhibere deos, advertite cuncti. auspicibus vobis hoc mihi surgat opus. longa sit huic aetas dominaeque potentia terrae, sitque sub hac oriens occiduusque dies.’ ille precabatur, tonitru dedit omina laevo Iuppiter, et laevo fulmina missa polo. augurio laeti iaciunt fundamina cives, et novus exiguo tempore murus erat. hoc Celer urget opus, quem Romulus ipse vocarat, ‘sint,’ que ‘Celer, curae’ dixerat ‘ista tuae, neve quis aut muros aut factam vomere fossam transeat: audentem talia dede neci.’ quod Remus ignorans humiles contemnere muros coepit et ‘his populus’ dicere ‘tutus erit?’ nec mora, transiluit. rutro Celer occupat ausum; ille premit duram sanguinulentus humum. haec ubi rex didicit, lacrimas introrsus obortas devorat et clausum pectore volnus habet, flere palam non volt exemplaque fortia servat, ‘sic’ que ‘meos muros transeat hostis’ ait. dat tamen exequias nec iam suspendere fletum sustinet, et pietas dissimulata patet; osculaque adplicuit posito suprema feretro atque ait ‘invito frater adempte, vale!’ arsurosque artus unxit, fecere, quod ille, Faustulus et maestas Acca soluta comas. tum iuvenem nondum facti flevere Quirites; ultima plorato subdita flamma rogo est. urbs oritur (quis tunc hoc ulli credere posset?) victorem terris impositura pedem, cuncta regas et sis magno sub Caesare semper, saepe etiam pluris nominis huius habe; et quotiens steteris domito sublimis in orbe, omnia sint numeris inferiora tuis.

—

P. Ovidius Naso, “Fastorum Libri Sex,” Lib. IV 721-862

translation by@zmaragdos

#ovid #fasti iv #april 21 #rome #ab urbe condita #natalus romae #p ovidius naso #fastorum libri sex #pales #parilia #roman foundation myth #aetiology #roman religion #romulus and remus #roma #latin #latin poetry #latin elegy #foundational sacrifices

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robininthelabyrinth · 5 years ago

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How about a canon divergence where wen qing doesn't bump into wwx but instead bumps into nhs and nmj. Would it be a tragedy or a fixit? Would nhs temper nmj's hatred for wens? Would nmj act honorably at seeing the old men and women and children doing hard labor or would he only see the clan he hates?

It was Nie Huaisang’s fault, probably. Someone tripped over someone else’s feet, and then he apologized and she apologized and then they both apologized, and then there was the whole “you go first, no you go first” dance and anyway eventually Nie Mingjue stormed over to yell at his younger brother for wasting time. He took one look at the ash-faced girl, caught her by the shoulder and said, “Aren’t you that Wen Qing? I used to see you at discussion conferences – what are you doing here?”

The whites of her eyes showed in her terror, and he scowled fiercely. “I don’t slay unarmed women or children outside of combat,” he said. “The question was literal – what are you doing here? The Jin sect said they resettled the remnants of the sects somewhere they wouldn’t make trouble.”

Wen Qing pressed her lips together, then couldn’t help herself and snarled, “If you call hard labor camps where everyone dies ‘resettled’ – they took away my baby brother! They took me to another city, I didn’t want to leave him, but I didn’t have a choice and when I returned…my brother’s as soft as yours – they’re going to kill him!”

Nie Mingjue’s scowl deepened, and his eyes flickered over to Nie Huaisang, the words ‘hard labor’ clearly ringing through his mind and struggling with his deep and abiding hatred for the Wen sect, the memories of Nie Huaisang being snatched away from him and sent to an indoctrination camp to be used as live bait. The very reminder of it made his face black in anger.

Nie Huaisang looked between the two of them and covered his face with a fan. “Dage,” he said, and his voice helped break through the haze of anger. “Maybe we should – check?”

It’s not like we trust the Jins, given the way they want to be the next Wens, he meant, and maybe there’s a little bit of Isn’t our sect’s guiding principle to stamp out evil wherever it’s encountered, human or not?

“Sect Leader Nie, I demand an explanation!” Jin Guangshan shouted. “You cannot barge into my territory, threaten my sect’s disciples, take away the prisoners won at war –”

“I’m not so blind as to tell the difference between captivity and torture unto death,” Nie Mingjue snarled in return, not even slightly moved. “Not only did I take the prisoners from Qiongqi Path, I demand you turn over every other one you have, no matter where –”

“Those were legitimately captured prisoners of war! We took them instead of spoils –”

“If the allocation of every penny matters so much to you, you may have the spoils seized by my Nie sect in exchange,” Nie Mingjue said, flicking his sleeve disdainfully. It couldn’t be more obvious what his implication was: that the Jin sect, despite all its riches, cared more for money than for honor.

Jin Guangshan’s eyes narrowed. “It’s most unlike you to get up in arms defending Wens, Sect Leader Nie; wasn’t it just yesterday that you called them all Wen-dogs and sought their utter destruction?”

Nie Mingjue sneered at him, but he continued, oily smile spreading on his face like a stain, “It couldn’t be that Sect Leader Nie has changed his implacable mind so quickly – perhaps it is the pressure of war on a man so young…you should take care for your health, make sure you’re not being unduly confused. People in your family die so very young, after all.”

“Enough nonsense,” Nie Mingjue said, eyes very nearly red in anger. “If my mind is so unclear, why did you choose to follow me during battle? When Wen Ruohan threatened, you dithered and delayed, and when there was no other choice but war, my blade was strong enough for you to hide behind, but when we have peace you rush to the front to claim a position that shouldn’t even exist – no one should be Chief Cultivator, Sect Leader Jin, no sect placing themselves and their own interests above another’s! But if the alternative is you, perhaps I should strive for it after all!”

“Is your brother actually going to try to be Chief Cultivator?” Wen Ning asked Nie Huaisang shyly; he was the only Wen currently inside the Unclean Realm, on account of needing heal his injuries. The remainder were all living in a small valley not far away where Nie sect cultivators kept a close watch.

Nie Mingjue hated injustice above all else, even Wens, but only by the smallest margin; in their new homes they were given food and water and medicine, but not freedom. Too many cultivators, male or female, had hidden themselves among the helpless to launch sneak attacks and assassinations; even children could carry a knife and swear to avenge their fallen parents.

Those like Wen Qing were watched most of all – she led one of the Supervision Offices that everyone had so hated, and she did nothing to stop them; she was indifferent to evil, and to Nie Mingjue that was very nearly the same as evil. It was only that the war had been officially ended that held back his hand; if they had still been at war, he would have executed her without so much as blinking an eye.

Still, Wen Qing had told Wen Ning that she was pleased with their current situation. A true prisoner of war camp, however strict, meant that they would be kept safe from all those who sought personal revenge, and Wen Ning couldn’t help but agree that the trade was worthwhile. The Jin had all but sold opportunities to those who wanted to get in a kick at their fallen bodies, just to say they’d been involved in the Sunshot Campaign; the Nie sect had those types of people, too, glaring and hateful, but the Sect Leader’s military discipline made them too afraid to do anything more than raise angry voices – and what were angry voices, compared to angry hands?

After all, if they’d come even a few shichen later – if Nie Mingjue hadn’t already known where the Wens were being kept, due to his position as sect leader, and been able to fly there on his sword at full speed – it would have been too late for him. Wen Ning didn’t even recall exactly what had happened, but two of them had been beating him and the chief inspector hadn’t stopped them, only told them to be sure to throw his body over the cliff when they were done with him…

“No, of course not,” Nie Huaisang said, pretending to be busy by his side. He had no skill at medicine, but it was a way to spend his time that his brother approved of and wouldn’t interrupt, so he came as often as he could. “He hates the idea, thinks it’s rotten to the core – like we’re all a bunch of sheep, needing a shepherd. No, he’s just saying it to annoy and distract Jin Guangshan. Besides, imagine if they made the position inheritable; that would make me the next one, and wouldn’t that be terrible for everyone?”

“The children young enough not to remember may join the Nie sect as guest disciples, if they wish,” Nie Mingjue said, his tone brooking no argument. “The adults will remain as they are.”

Wen Qing crossed her arms. “There aren’t many cultivators left among us, and it’s fine for all of those - they’d be happy to take up a life farming,” she said. “But those of us who are already on the path of cultivation should not be stymied –”

“You mean your brother, Wen Ning.” Nie Mingjue had some natural sympathy for her position, due to having his own weak-willed younger brother, but not very much. “No. In the end, he’s a Wen; we will not raise snakes to bite us later.”

“What wrong can you put on my brother’s shoulders beyond his surname?” she challenged. “What evil does he have?”

“Indifference to evil –”

“He was hardly indifferent!” she snapped, pushed beyond her limits. “I told him to do nothing, me, and yet he wouldn’t listen, time and time again. He kept Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng hidden after the destruction of the Lotus Pier, smuggled the latter out, even carried him out on his own back, and if that wasn’t enough, he collected what he could of the Jiang masters’ ashes for them – later, when Wei Wuxian asked me for help, he even –!”

She suddenly seemed to realize she’d said too much and shut her mouth.

Nie Mingjue looked at her thoughtfully. “You’ve already said this much,” he said. “There’s no point in stopping now. What did Wei Wuxian ask you to do?”

“Shh, don’t tell anyone I’m here,” Nie Huaisang said, gesturing for Wen Ning to join him in the closet where he was hiding.

Wen Ning, still a little uncomfortable in his new Nie robes, confusedly obeyed, even though he was still sweating from saber practice – he’d had to start over, alongside the children, but to his surprise he’d found that the straightforward brutality of the saber suited some secret resentful part hidden inside of him that wanted nothing more than to chop up everything he saw. “W-what’s going on? Why are we h-hiding? We’re in the Unclean Realm. What can harm us here?”

“Feelings,” Nie Huaisang said. “They’re the worst. My poor brother has to sit out there and listen to it directly, too – the burdens of being Sect Leader. I’m glad it’s not me.”

Wen Ning blinked. “Oh,” he said. “Are Wei-gongzi and Jiang-gongzi still fighting?”

“No, they’ve moved on to crying.”

“They were crying while they were fighting.”

“Yes, well, now they’ve moved to the just crying stage. There’s been lots of hugging, too; they stop for half a breath and then set each other off again, it’s awful. Can’t they be all manly and stoic like we Nie?”

Wen Ning gave Nie Huaisang a doubtful look.

“Well, me excluded, of course,” Nie Huaisang said with a laugh and a wave of his hand. “And anyway, even I only like crying when it’s going to get me something. Or out of something!”

Wen Ning suddenly felt as if he understood much more about his new Sect Leader’s endless frustrations with his younger brother. “But why are you hiding?” he asked.

“I have a reputation of avoiding work to maintain,” Nie Huaisang said, totally puzzlingly, but a few moments later there was a knock at the closet door.

“Huaisang, I know you’re in there. Get out of there and have an emergency,” Sect Leader Nie said. “Anything, as long as it requires my personal attention, and have it happen as soon as their sister, the young madam Jin, arrives – that’ll just set them all off again, especially as she’s pregnant.” A pause. “Do you think I can order Wen Qing to handle this as part of the terms of her parole?”

#mdzs #nie mingjue #nie huaisang #wen qing #wen ning #my fic #my fics #Anonymous

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tintentrinkerin · 4 years ago

Text

nothing on my tongue but hallelujah...

Rating: Explicit

Pairing:

Jared Padalecki/Jensen Ackles, Jared/various, Jared/Alex Calvert

Warnings:

Gangbang, Barebacking, Jealousy, Top Jared Padalecki, Bottom Jensen Ackles, Religious Cults, Power Dynamics

Summary: Jared's Cult, the "Church of Grace" is a peaceful and harmonic little community in the South. Then young Jensen appears and rocks the Cult leader's world - moreoever, it rattles Alex awake, who's been sure to be his leader's most loved member.

Written upon request

Word Count: 9.9k

Read below the cut or on AO3

Kudos are love <3

The Divine Five Pillars of “Church of Grace”

Obedience

Purity

Community

Free Love

Kindness

The “Creed”

I believe in God, the Father and the Almighty,

who created the world, the people, the seas, the animals and the trees.

I believe in God’s son, who is his true Vicar on Earth

For he brings joy, love, community, kindness and hope.

I reject the Devil and his kin. I turn my whole existence to

the true Vicar of the Holy Father.

I hereby swear to follow the five divine rules of the Church

and give myself into the hands of God’s most graceful creation.

May He and God’s Angels lead me into Paradise.

Amen.

2 Corinthians 11:13-15

For such men are false apostles, deceitful workmen, disguising themselves as apostles of Christ. And no wonder, for even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light. So it is no surprise if his servants, also, disguise themselves as servants of righteousness. Their end will correspond to their deeds.

Siddharta Gautama

Through true honesty deeply believe that all sentient-beings are one.That all beings have the same true nature, wisdom, virtue.

If people knew how much effort it took to get an orgy going, they probably wouldn’t even bother and settle for porn instead.

Jared and Alex had to plan every monthly “gathering” very thoroughly, especially, when new recruits and adepts arrived. The new boys and girls would maybe chicken out at first, but that wouldn’t be punished. Later, yes. At their first time? No. Jared was very kind to those he found. In other communities they’d be punished right on spot. But Jared, no no, he wasn’t that barbaric. He wanted everyone to feel happy and included. Everyone had to use the headquarter’s communal showers or baths after they had an extensive cleansing plan, to purify their body and also a very intense work out session. All for purity’s sake. Jared loves purity.

The garden behind the Church of Grace’s headquarters was around 400 acres, enough space to celebrate free love, the holy spirit within all of us, and most importantly, worship the true Vicar of God on Earth. Forget Jesus.

Jared was pleased when he saw his usual very busy adepts who were about to be initiated in the second step of Priesthood. They were so eager and they had a fantastic taste in decorating. There will be a bonfire, it’s May 1st after all, one of Jared’s favorite dates for a gathering. Pagans used to celebrate Beltane, well, they still do. In tiny groups, the Wiccans and the Druids. He has no affiliations with them, but as a shepherd of his sheep he needs to be informed. Wise. He wants to be the one who can answer all their questions, give interpretations. His interpretations. His view of the world. And in his world, only his Church will bring them peace and harmony and closer to God’s grace and mercy.

The bonfire wood is piled right in the center of the garden, the part of the garden that members are allowed to see and walk on. Around the bonfire a lot of big wooden logs are placed for the followers of Jared to sit on. As soon as the fire burnt down a little bit and some chalices of holy wine were emptied and some delicious weed was consumed, the orgy might start. Jared will let the believers start first. There’s always a couple or a single horny person that will start wooing a person of their interest. Jared will join later, when the ecstasy is palpable and the adepts play the drums, letting the mass of naked bodies find their rhythm. Behind the huge pile for the bonfire, there’s Jared’s seat. A massive chair made of dark wood, polished, carvings all over. Still a thing someone could find a little too pagan, but Jared doesn’t care. The truth is what he speaks, not the others. And the truth is, that people still are just the same as in the early Middle Ages. The same things struck them with awe, and it’s not churches in white marble and Jesus hanging from crosses. Nature and it’s forces, the hidden desires. Intimate, primal and authentic. That’s his motto. No nude angel chiseled out of porcelain will make people feel this kind of raw euphoria and devotion as a bonfire and some drums do. Let the drums shake their cores and make their blood rage. This is how you make people feel their primal truth, and then, they’ll realize why doing this once a month is so freeing. They will get back to work, back to Jared’s mass, satisfied and their needs soothed. Then they will happily obey, stay pure, pray and make the community itself a functional unit of people with the same values.

And their money. It’s always gonna end up in such a community running itself, on donations, the members’ money and other things.

When the sun sets, the members of the community sit down on the wooden banks or logs, or they bring a white towel to sit on. Jared counts the members and everyone is there. Alex sits beside Jared’s chair, obeissant.

The white flowy cult dresses start billowing in the wind. Jared sits down on his chair, with a graceful flowing movement. He’s dressed in white too, linen, see through even when dry. When he sits all the heads turn to him. In the twilight of the remaining sunbeam, you could think, Jared just descended from heaven. He likes that idea. He raises his arms and in his strong, rough voice he proclaims “Brothers, sisters, it’s time for our monthly celebration. You cleansed your bodies, you prayed and did good service to the community. Now is the time to reward you, my brothers and sisters. Let’s have the holy communion, break bread and offer it to your neighbours, offer wine to your friends. Connect.” There’s faint applause and Jared puts his hand down. “No need to applaud, my dear sister, tonight, we celebrate you and your devotion and purity!”

He turns to Alex, dressed in white linen trousers. “Brother Alex will light the fire and then, brothers and sisters, enjoy the bread and wine, let your spirits flow and find your matches for tonight!”

The crowd cheers and they end the chorus with a loud and enthusiastic “Amen!”

“Amen!”Jared echoes and his voice layers upon everything else.

When he sits down and Alex lights up the fire he watches all these people, the four new recruits. A young cute redhead girl, she looks like condensed sunshine - a young boy, looks like he’s here because the redhead is here (he’d be weeded out tonight) - another redhead, looking fierce. A snake. He might take a closer look at her - and then, there is Green Eyes. The boy that Jared picked himself. Usually one of his lower assistants would pick them but this time, Jared had to intervene. He needed these assistants to weed out the no go’s just before Jared could even see them. He couldn’t check on every person willing to join, they needed to make a first sighting and then the few ones who might be of Jared’s interest, would be invited to meet the True Vicar himself. Usually, that was 10 out of 200 or even less. And Jared was just as rigorous with ditching the foul seeds. But Green Eyes was his favorite all along. Those eyes…

Alex breaks the loaf of bread and offers it to Jared. Of course, he’s on his knees and only looks up when Jared takes the half of the loaf and gives him his blessing.

“May you be blessed by our Lord and his Angels,” Jared says very formally. Alex looks up, his face has tiny sprinkles of ash on them already and his robe turned transparent from the sweat. He’s decent. Will he try as the first one today? Like always?

“May you be blessed by your Father, Our Lord and his Angels,” Alex replies until Jared gestures to him to stay up.

“Amen.”

Jared eats and then receives the wine from Alex too. That’s a golden rule. As his personal assistant, Alex receives the blessings from Jared. Just after him, anyone is able to be blessed by their Master. They share half of the bread, they will need the rest later. In this community it is not necessary to receive Jared’s blessing to consume the holy communion as his liberal practice says that any true believer in their community, on one of the 12 holy days of their community “gathering”, can offer and receive blessings from a brother or a sister. Jared’s happy about that, because blessing 120 people would make him pass out drunk and he can’t have that. He is in control. And he needs to stay in control, too.

Around him, the wine, the food are eaten and some herbal cigarettes are lit, the thick smell of weed is everywhere. Four cult members responsible for music start playing the drums and flutes now. Quietly still, just a hint that soon, the gathering will start with their original purpose. The physical and mental connection of the members with each other. Jared can already see people who are done eating, wine tipsy and a little herbally relaxed. Hands wander under togas and robes, simple shirts and wide hippie trousers. Alex stays with Jared, looking down on the obedient sheep doing what they’re supposed to do. The fabric in his crotch is tenting. One look in Alex’ face tells Jared everything.

“You won’t give up, huh?”

Alex shakes his head. “No. I will never give up.”

Jared now stands up and stretches like a cat that has just awoken and now is on their way to do some mischief. “Boy, all of you try so hard, but none of you can take it.”

“It’s about receiving your mercy,” Alex says, now sounding a little sulky.

Jared heads towards the bonfire where some couples (or more) are intertwined with each other, laying on the bare grass, sitting on logs or they found a nice spot on the white towels everyone brought. Right in the center, around the fireplace, it is too hot to sit there. Jared makes his rounds, ruffles some hair here, kisses a girl there, even helps a young girl settle on her lover’s cock.

“There you go, sweetheart,” he coos, “that’s how you show your love and devotion.”

She would be too tight and small for him though. All the women here would surely love to try again and again, but none of them would be prepared for his cock.

When he is done doing rounds around the bonfire he sits down on an empty white blanket and just like it’s natural, the free members gather around him. The drums start playing a hard and catchy rhythm.

The psychology behind music and rhythm. His members really know how to play a mass of people and put their bodies in the right directions. Alex joins and everyone respects Jared’s assistant too much to try and get Jared before him. In absolute devotion, Alex pulls Jared’s white linen pants down to his naked ankles, then off his naked feet. The participants murmur and gasp, such a delight every time. Jared didn’t wear boxer briefs or anything else underneath and so, everyone can admire his massive cock. It’s big, the erection growing strong and hard and the tip bounces against Jared’s toned six pack, above his belly button. Even Alex with his long filigrane and very skilled fingers can’t wrap around the shaft fully.

They all watch, not even Alex dares to touch him yet.

“You. Alex. Claire. You were such a good team last time. Would you show me how perfectly you harmonize?”

The blonde girl blushes deep red and Alex first raises an eyebrow. It’s clear who he wants, but he would never deny one of Jared’s commands. And that’s what it is. A command.

Alex pushes Claire on all fours, one strong hand in her hair and presses her down while he sucks on two of his fingers and then penetrates her with them. She squeals and giggles, but before Alex fucks her he knows he has to give his true interest a show, and he will. While fingering her he presses his face between her buttcheeks and starts sucking. The scene gets very loud with pleasure noises very soon and another guy asks to accompany them.

Jared supports himself with one arm and the other he uses to stroke his cock, throbbing and hot, he loves it when his followers put on such a show. He’s leaking some precum already and a boy next to him looks at it. Greedy and inexperienced. Jared doesn’t let him taste yet, and instead the nameless boy bends down to kiss Jared’s very muscular thighs. Another follower starts doing the same on the other side, everything with Jared stroking himself slowly. He wants to enjoy every minute of it. His toes are sucked on, submissive followers suck them like it’s his massive member. The first brave adepts gather around them too and Jared can’t help but smile. People stroke his hair, kiss his neck and leave their marks, but what Jared really needs is someone taking his cock like a champion. He knows he’s intimidating. Thick and lock, and even grows bigger when hard. The first adept who is bold enough to come forward is very much welcome. He has himself oiled pretty well, he smells flowery and when he sinks on Jared’s cock (just the tip!), he freezes.

“Oh… God”, he hisses, “oh my f… so big…” Jared smirks, his hands on the twink boys hips. Such a beautiful boy, Jared would love to fuck him and fill him up, but it looks like he is already failing at the tip.

“Go slow, my dear,” Jared says nonetheless. A guru can hope.

Two hands on his shoulders push the boy farther down and he cries out, half in pleasure, but also in pain. The hands disappear and the young man on Jared’s cock looks like he’s about to cry.

“It’s too much for you, hm?”

The boy nods and gets up, legs shaking. You can tell he never had a guy fuck his ass before, bonus points for using oil as lube. He might try again after he gets used to it with another cult member. He stammers an apology. Jared pulls him down for a second and presses his thumb on the boy’s forehead.

“I bless you, brother.”

It’s a ritual, it’s a necessity, or the boy will maybe consider leaving. But most of the boys, like Alex, stay close to Jared and try it again and again and again. Some people are overachievers, maybe one day it will be successful.

The boy mumbles an Amen and then strolls away, looking for another group he can find a place in. Jared still feels the tight ass of this boy and, damn, how much he loves it when they’re tight, maybe an anal virgin even, and he’s the first to fuck them. Another brother sucks him off, but he also has trouble swallowing more of Jared’s wand than just the tip. His sucking is superb, ambitious even. Drool runs down his throbbing cock, damn, he even makes delicious sounds! Jared’s head falls back and he wishes he could blow his first load, but all these attempts of his followers just leave him just ‘almost coming. The man takes him deeper now but is interrupted by heavy gagging and he has to give up. Now it’s Alex who claims to be next. Alex is the kind of guy who acts like a passionate lover with anyone, even though he only craves Jared’s attention. He’s open and gaping already, must've gotten into a very nice threeway with Kathryn and the other member. Alex sinks on Jared’s cock, his back pressed against Jared’s sweaty chest. Alex is able to take more than just Jared’s tip after extensive dilating practice or when he’s been fucked already by two or more of his brothers of the Church, but that leaves Jared only semi turned on, too. He feels loose, not as tight as when he tried it the first time and cried for several minutes because Jared’s dick almost tore him apart. It’s enough to make Jared cum and bless Alex with an intense prostate orgasm, but still Jared is not satisfied. When Alex leaves and some others follow him to the pool, he sits down again, crotch still throbbing, his need still not satisfied. Around him the orgy is at its peak, no one is alone by now, everyone is sharing their love and energies. Jared is gifted, his cock is ready again five minutes later and he mounts that ginger woman, the adept. But she winces when he’s halfway in and Jared has to pull out. She’s biter and a scratcher, her thick accent is sexy and he makes her cum multiple times with his tongue and fingers, but he holds back now, he waits for the perfect one. Someone to form a union with. A tight one, but skilled and resilient. A man that can take his cock and even if it hurts a little, push through.

Jared sinks down on one of the blankets, lies down and stares in the clear starry night, a follower brings him a pillow and others massage his thighs and arms, his feet. God, yes, his feet are so sensitive. Another guy shyly asks if he may be of service and when Jared opens his eyes and looks up it’s Green Eyes. He hasn’t seen the boy since the beginning of the orgy. Jared immediately hikes up and shoos his other followers away.

“Sure, sit with me.”

The boy with the forbidden pretty pouty lips, the rough voice and piercing green eyes sits down, facing the self proclaimed Vicar of God.

“You want to be of service, what was your name again? I’m sorry that I have to ask, I am terrible with names – most people change theirs after initiation anyway and that’s what stays in my memory.”

Green Eyes looks at him. “I’m Jensen.”

“Hello Jensen. I’m glad you came to our monthly free love gathering. Is that the kind of religious practice you seek?”

A girl offers them some bread and a chalice of wine, plus some mushrooms on the side.

“It would be an honor, Jensen, to break the bread and drink the wine with you. Mushrooms are not mandatory if you’re allergic to that kind.”

Jensen grins and echoes the girl’s “amen” and gives her a smile. It’s gotten a bit quiet around them, some followers watch Jared and his new recruit very, very closely.

“I don’t want to break the protocol, who is supposed to break the bread and offer it?” Jensen asks with a shy grin. Jared chuckles.

“We do not have a strict protocol, not on these special nights when we celebrate freedom and harmony. And free love. When we surrender to our primal instinct, you understand?”

Jensen nods seriously. “Yes, I get that.”

He rips off a piece of loaf then a second and offers one to Jared without the ceremonial motto. Jared ignores that (at least today) and receives the bread. “May you be blessed by our Lord and his Angels,” he says, presses his thumb on Jensen’s forehead and mumbles an “Amen”. Jensen echoes again, then takes a bite. When he’s done Jared offers him the wine with the same motto, and this time Jensen copies it, even though the Vicar is addressed during that sentence with “May you be blessed by your Father, our Lord and his Angels”. He will learn that, Jared will make sure of it.

No one dares to come any closer after they’ve been offered shrooms, bread and wine. Some couples, or whole piles of copulating people don’t care what’s around them but some very devoted followers of Jared’s doctrine watch their Messiah and the new man very closely. Some are envious. Some are in awe of these two beautiful men sharing the body of Jesus Christ (strictly speaking Jared’s ‘brother’, just a few thousand years earlier) in such a manner. Jared’s tanned body glistens in the light and sparks of the bonfire and his hair started curling a little lately. Several people’s eyes turn wet. Given the beauty of their leader. Or given the fact there’s a new boy in town. And this boy is too pretty for his own good.

The wine is dry and aromatic, nothing you would just chug down and Jensen and Jared empty four chalices which are refilled by a maid that was brave enough to disturb her leader and the new recruit. It’s gotten chill and the bonfire shrinks and shrinks, some members of the Church try to revive it for a little longer and throw thick and heavy branches on it, along with brushwood that would burn easily and then transfer the fire over to the branches.

Just like in the 16th up to the 18th century – this is how you build a pyre to burn witches.

Jensen carefully, even a little shy now, lays a hand on Jared’s leg. The leader is surprised, given his attitude and behaviour he didn’t count on Jensen to take part in the orgy, he seemed more the watching type. The bonfire reflects in his intense green eyes and Jared feels an aching towards his new recruit.

Now he realizes that Jensen’s white shorts are tenting. The way he looks up at Jared, through his thick blonde eyelashes it’s absolutely acting. Jensen is not that shy. Maybe a little.

“The others told me…” Jensen started, “that I should under no circumstances give in to your… advances. You would, how did they say… tear me apart…? I wonder why…”

Jared snorts as an answer. Amused. His followers keep saying this to either see if someone’s brave enough to come forward right in their first few months here or if they’ll chicken out.

“Well!” He has to laugh again. “Look, I think you’ve… you’ve watched a little without participating in this celebration, right? You’re still dressed, to my dismay!”

Jensen blushes, one hand on his crotch. Now, this reaction is a little more honest.

“I can, I mean…”

Jared laughs louder now and then lays his hand on Jensen’s, that is covering his erect penis.

“Don’t make it awkward, Jensen, it’s fine. Not many participate in their first orgy and you are not obliged to, either. This is about free love. Father gave us free will for a reason. Because without free will, there is no love on this Earth.”

There’s one streak of Jensen’s chin long hair, it’s styled but now the hairspray or the gel isn’t working it’s magic anymore. Jared brushes the strand behind Jensen’s ear. He’s closer to the recruit now and Jensen’s hand under his pulls away for the messiah to feel what’s underneath.

“Regarding your concern about ripping you apart… I would never. But as you can see…”

Jensen’s eyes fixate on Jared’s growing cock and he gulps visibly.

“Yes, I…”, he looks up again, doe eyed and his mouth slightly opened, his pink silky tongue wets his lips.

“You have the face of an angel, do you know that? I wonder what hides behind that…”

Jared’s voice is low and rough now, he groans when under his fingers Jensen’s cock jumps.

“Jared, but… what if I can’t--”

“Shush, I’ll prepare you for it. And we have masses of oils. We’ll go slow. Very slow.”

A whisper erupts amongst the witnesses, their leader and idol! – wooing Jensen. A newbie. Some figures in the dark hurry for more oil, whole cans of it, juices, towels and fresh clothes. This is a choreography of duty to care for Jared. Everyone knows this is an occasion they won’t be able to witness that often. So far only one person could take Jared’s cock and fulfill his most aching wish.

It’s Alex’s now hated duty to bring it all over to the blanket where Jensen climbs in Jared’s lap, panting faintly between two very passionate kisses. There’s fresh bread, more wine, water from the Church’s own well, fresh clothes for both and a big bottle of lube, oil based. It will stain every inch of fabric it’ll meet. Jared doesn’t even look up at him when he retreats, but he throws a ‘thank you’ in his direction. As soon as Alex is out of reach he is forgotten.

Jared takes his time with this one. His commune members are in such harmony with each other already that prolonged foreplay isn’t necessary, but of course encouraged. Jensen is vocal, moans in their kisses and Jared loves the effort and the devotion he shows already. Jared pulls Jensen’s clothes off and bathes in the glow of this beautiful sight. Jensen’s skin is flawless, soft. It’s a joy touching him. Jensen pulls him in another kiss and arches in the leader’s strong arms - so responsive, in every way!

“I want to try it,” Jensen then whispers, shakily.

“What exactly?”

“Take you. Suck you.”

Jared chuckles and gets up, pulls Jensen along on his lap. Jensen’s hand is big, he has deliciously thick fingers and Alex would appreciate some good fingering from him. He should introduce these two a little later

Jensen slides between Jared’s legs, who’s supporting himself with his arms to be able to watch Jensen try and gag on his cock. Jared senses some of his sisters and brothers coming closer, silently, to not interrupt them in their exploration ritual. He can’t blame them for being curious, and this is the exact purpose of their monthly gathering. Enjoy each other freely.

Jensen’s mouth waters and when he opens his lips, a thick streak of drool runs down his face and chin. He doesn’t hesitate to bend down and wrap his lips around Jared’s tip.

A moment of breathless silence from everywhere.

Jensen. slides. deeper.

Jared moans and his head falls between his shoulder blades, so that he can see the clear starry night sky.

He will stop now, it’s too much. Oh God it’s too much, he can’t do it, Jared thinks, and then he starts praying Please let him go deeper.

Jensen’s mouth feels tight, soft, and hot and he produces so much drool, it makes it messy. Perfectly messy. Jared’s head falls foward again and he watches Jensen taking him inch by fucking inch. Jared’s cock disappears in Jensen’s tight throat to the root. Jared stays perfectly still and tries to not even move a hair’s breadth. Jensen’s hand slightly presses on Jared’s stomach and then pulls away slowly. Painfully slowly, while working Jared’s incredibly thick shaft with his tongue. As soon as he’s able to look up to Jared everyone can see streaks of tears in his angelic face and his flushed cheeks. He keeps on working Jared’s tip, circling the bundle of nerves under the tip and then, with a high pitched gasp, pulls away completely.

He looks over to Jared and smiles. “Did I do good?”

Jared nods. It’s been ages since someone took him completely. It takes all of his willpower to not grab in Jensen’s hair and force his mouth down again to suck him off.. and then fuck his recruit’s face. He would gag and whine so pretty…. Jared needs a moment to breathe in and out very deeply, call himself to reason.

“You are perfect,” he says, his voice shaky. “By the Angels, you are the best.”

Jensen blushes even deeper and looks away. He notices the other believers have gathered around them. Jared combs through his hair. He feels that Jensen now really is shy.. that’s not a show.

“Don’t bother, my dear. They won’t touch you if you don’t want to. I’m here for you and only you. Okay?”

Jensen nods. “So I really did good? Did no one before me take you that deep? I mean it’s a bit tricky but -”

Some of the watchers moan.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“They all tried, dear. And failed. I guess you just earned yourself a title.”

Some of the watchers lurk in the dark, some are illuminated by the fainting bonfire. The sound of drums is gone. Jared watches Jensen look around and get used to it, after all. Then he turns to Jared and grins.

“I will work to keep the title then…,”

Jared pushes his delicious mouth on his cock again, and yes, fuck, holy fuck YES, Jensen can take him. He takes him so deep that Jared can feel his throat tighten and contract, but he’s not gagging in the bad way. Tears fall and drool runs down his reasonably thick shaft. Jared’s hand grips in Jensen’s hair and pulls. Jensen utters a surprised but pleased moan and keeps going faster and faster. One hand sneaks around Jared’s balls and massages them. Jared’s hips buck up and Jensen needs a break for a second, deep, hectic breathing, his teary eyes, the rest of the bonfire glistens in his eyes. Jared has a hard time holding back his possessive nature when Jensen just worships him like that. Faint and aroused moans around them show Jared that the others enjoy Jensen’s show as well. Some couples even have started fucking. Girls stand close by, rubbing their swollen and wet parts.

“Look around,” he orders Jensen, “look around, how much love you spark.”

“Your voice… so deep… so much deeper,” Jensen is still fighting for breath. It makes Jared only crazier.

“That’s you, you do that to me.”

Jensen’s hand is still stroking him. Jared would be ready to come just now, preferably he’d shoot his massive load right in his throat, but what he wants even more, what’s the source of the deepest aching is the longing to finally be inside someone fully. He wants to ram his cock in Jensen up to the root and make him come first, then Jared could let go.

“You’re close,” Jensen whispers and presses a kiss on Jared’s lips. “I swallow if you’re into that…”

Jared’s answer is a low and growl. “What I really want…”

“Let me guess… you want to fuck me? Here in front of all these people?”Jensen sounds out of breath, thrilled, over excited. His hands are shaking when he pulls himself on Jared’s lap.

Jared holds him close, his raging, painfully hard cock pressing on Jensen’s asshole. It’s slick from all this spit, but he wouldn’t dare to just enter him now, without warning. Without giving him something to chew on while Jared has to push his way in.

“Free love. My pleasure is their pleasure,” Jared manages to say. He’s very proud to have that uttered in a manner that makes him seem still in control of himself.

Jensen laughs quietly and then climbs down Jared’s lap. He stands up. And everyone can take a look at this beautiful body, shaped by God to strike people in awe. His own cock is thick and looks just delicious, Jared might want to get a taste one day, too. Then Jensen turns around and lowers on all fours, his perfectly shaped ass in Jared’s direction, head down, almost submissive.

“Make your pleasure my pleasure,” he whispers, only Jared seems to hear it.

Men and women formed a crescent around them now, the opening pointing to the dying fire. Jared licks his lips while he squeezes a very lavish amount of oil in his hand. He doesn’t cover his cock yet, he will help Jensen first. He enters him with one finger and Jensen bucks away first, in surprise but then lowers himself on the finger, starts fucking himself with it. His broken and sweet moans make Jared’s blood boil and also the participants around them start jerking harder. One hand gesture from Jared, and his followers stop. They shouldn’t finish before Jensen does, that’s just and right.

“More,” Jensen demands, looking behind him with big teary eyes. His pupils are tiny and the iris of a thick and rich green. Jared gives him more. Jensen literally sucks the second finger in and when Jared starts massaging his prostate from outside with his thumb, Jensen cries out, stretching more and swallowing Jared’s long fingers to the root. He gasps tiny “oh god’s” and “fuck’s”. And then Jared isn’t able to hold the urge back and test if Jensen really is what Jared needs. Someone who fits him. He covers his long member with a lot of oil and also spreads generous amounts around Jensen’s anus.

“You think you’re ready, yeah?”

Jensen nods. “Positive.”

He even grabs his buttcheeks and pulls them apart, Jared has perfect sight of his slightly mouthing, dilated hole and all he has to do… He gulps violently, but then places his tip on Jensen’s entrance and sloooowly pushes in. Inch for inch. Jensen has to let go of his buttcheeks and his hands press on Jared’s hips.

“Holy… sh…”, Jensen huffs, “Is swearing even allowed?”

“Too much?”

“It’s a lot, but not too much… fuck…”

Jensen breathes heavily but slowly, as slowly as Jared goes, his hands don’t push against him anymore and Jared can slide in even deeper. He’s amazed by how Jensen’s hole just swallows him, inch by delicious inch. He’s tight, extremely tight, thanks to the thick oily lube he won’t be hurt. Quite the opposite. Jared pushes in, freezes and rubs over Jensen’s back, soothing him. Jensen doesn’t need that much soothing though, after a few seconds of Jared holding perfectly still and just twothree inches away from going inside all the way he sinks against Jared’s hips, taking him fully with a low, needy moan that seems to last an eternity.

“Please… move…” he moans, while Jared still holds Jensen’s hips and stares. Just stares in awe.

He really did it.

Jared can’t believe it’s really happening, that he feels so close to someone, again, finally, after such a long time. As he doesn’t start moving, Jensen rolls his hips back and forth, his back stretches and his hands clawing in the blanket. He just fucks himself on Jared’s member, doesn’t wait any longer and the moans he utters are - there is no other word -- they’re downright vulgar. It shows how much he lets go and it washes Jared away, his fingertips dig into Jensen’s hips as he meets his recruit’s pace. Now Jensen cries out, the words and moans just drop from his lips, he wants more, and Jared can feel how greedy he is.

The audience around them is a choir of pleasure sounds, each of them takes Jared up so high he feels like he’s more than drunk. More than high. He feels like he’s elevating.

“Jared… Harder!”

Jared fucks him harder. Jensen around him stretches and clenches like he wants to milk him dry, make him cum, but not now. It’s too good to let it end too early, he’s been starved too long and he wants to enjoy every second of fucking this angelic but oh so slutty adept. No one ever met his pace, wanted to be fucked harder and harder, no one asked to be sore, but Jensen does.

His moans are so loud his voice breaks and trails off, chokes on his own sounds. Jared loses it at this point, he grips in Jensen’s glossy hair and pulls him on his knees, closer to his body. Pounding his ass now makes beautiful wet sounds. Jensen leans on Jared’s chest and reaches for the prophet’s ass to push him deeper. And deeper.

“Can’t get enough, huh?”Jared growls, his hand in Jensen’s hair is pulling stronger, the other on Jensen’s hip holds him steady. “Want every inch of me?”

Jensen nods, sobbing. “Yes, never been fucked so good… just how I need --” He can’t even finish the sentence, Jared’s mighty deep thrusts make his voice fade into a cry. “Oh, God!”

Jared needs to slow down just for a bit, give himself time to breathe and hold back the orgasm that’s building up. He’ll shoot a massive load for sure, he wants it to be worth it. He bites Jensen’s neck and feels the violent shudder. They cling onto each other, hands in hair, fingernails scratching and leaving red trails.

“No, no, don’t stop now… I’m so close,” Jensen huffs, turns his head to Jared, their lips meet and Jared kisses him until both are too breathless, too close to be gentle or patient.

When Jared picks up his pace again it’s only a matter of a few seconds until Jensen cries out and sinks back on all fours, hiding his face in the blanket. He doesn’t have to touch himself to cum, with a loud and guttural sound he spills. And spills. It’s such a mindblowing orgasm. Everything about it is perfect. Jensen’s moans, how he pulls out handfuls of grass. His clenching asshole around Jared. The amount of cum he splatters on the sheets. Jared bends forward, pulls Jensen’s face up and turns it to the crowd.

“Let them look at you,” he hisses, “share the love.”

And then Jared cums, grunting and thrusting as deep as he can. His cock pumps and pumps masses. He’s never come so hard, so long, so satisfying. For a couple of seconds he doesn’t know anymore where he ends and Jensen begins, that’s how good and intimate it feels. Jensen’s tightness squeezes him tight and makes it impossible to move or pull out.

Jared collapses on Jensen’s back. He’s dizzy. He needs a moment.

Around them the noises turn from moans to grunts. Heavy breathing. Jared gestures to the watchers to stop jerking. He wants to have Jensen for himself for another moment when he pulls out. Jensen winces underneath him but his face just shows blissful exhaustion. Jared loves to watch his cum pouring out his partner’s holes and it’s no different tonight. Not after this divine intervention. Not after he’s been blessed with such a partner.

It’s a lot. Jensen turns his head to Jared, his face puffy and red, strands of wet blonde hair on his forehead. And now there’s the hint of a smirk.

“Did I do well?” he asks.

“I think you know…” Jared replies.

His hand strokes Jensen’s still half hard cock and Jensen moans. So sensitive. Next time, Jared might return the favor and suck that pretty cock.

“Your brothers and sisters want to show you how much they enjoyed watching you.”

Jensen looks around, then back to Jared.

Now the smirk is undeniable.

“Let ‘em come.”

Jared gets up, his muscular body beaming in the light of the moon and embers of the fire. He feels like he’s about to rise above anything and anyone. This union has given him the deepest peace he could ever feel. He still feels painfully hard and when he looks down he still is. His glossy cock perks up, but he won’t take Jensen a second time and risk really tearing him apart.

Jensen is on his knees, arms stretched forward like a satisfied lioness, sticking out his freshly bred ass to the audience.

“Children. Time to welcome Jensen in your midst.”

Alex approaches Jared to wash him off with a fresh wet cloth and a sponge while the others gather around Jensen. No one touches the recruit, after Jared united with him, but he will be showered in attention and much more.

Two days later, Jensen is still a bit sore.

He didn’t sleep much on the night of the celebration, he’s been too hyped, too high from the rush of alcohol, adrenaline and sex. Especially the sex. He can still feel Jared’s massive pole in his ass and everytime he gives in to the memory he shudders and feels his white robe tent.

Everything in this commune is white. The community houses in which the members live, white. The Church, white. Jared’s residence, white. The only thing that seems to be different is the massive wooden chair in which Jared sat during the celebration and watched his followers unify.

The blankets are white, the towels, the plates. Purity is an important pillar of this group, and everyone who’s not familiar with the customs might argue that collective orgies aren’t really pure, but Jensen knows better already. Purity is based on keeping your body healthy. The diet here isn’t vegan, but the community has their own farm. 120 people need food and water. Most of them live and work here. On the farm where vegetables and fruits are grown seasonally, or they take care of the cattle, pigs and chickens. Others help keep the houses intact.

Days are warm, the nights are pitchblack, there’s a lake and a river closeby. Women wash the clothes of the community. There is no “mine” and “yours” in the Church. There is only “we” and “us” and “our”.

Jensen has his own room, because the morning after the orgy, after the morning prayers and morning sports, in the great hall at breakfast, Jared proclaimed that Jensen was indeed heaven sent. Chosen by the Angels. That makes him special enough to have his own room for a while and it helps him acclimate in this environment. Most new members need that. They come from their picket fence life in the suburbs or the pulsing lives of a big city. They had day jobs, night jobs, family, addictions and almost everyone of them has been materially wealthy.

Everything that keeps them away from living a pure, devoted life with God is taken away here. Jared provides everything they need.

Some take a week to find their place in the community, some struggle for years. Some pack their bags as soon as they realize that the sense community here also consists of freedom in love, friendships. Children are born in this community and are raised by everyone, not only their genetic parents. No one here claims to own someone or something.

Well.

At least they say so.

Alex’s room is - as it’s appropriate for his position - in Jared’s residence. This morning he decided to cut his shoulder long, honey blond hair and trim his long beard.

Purity doesn’t mean to be shaven clean or have short hair. Purity comes from the heart, free will and the ability to love. Alex doubts he is quite pure at the moment. The community is free of the toxicity of a material life - in the community, you don’t aspire to climb up ranks. There are simply only three ranks. The community, Alex, Jared. Jared is their natural leader, it is supposed to be like that. Alex is chosen. Alex is confident.

He was. His heart is full of love for the cause and for Jared.

Until a few nights before he looked in the mirror every morning and smiled at his reflection. Because the reflection showed him a confident young man of faith. Full of love, not bound but blessed with free will.

Then, his heart started to hurt.

Now he hates his blue eyes, he hates his long hair, he hates the beard. He hates that he isn’t able to provide Jared the one thing he ached for.

It feels like an inconsistency of Jared’s teachings. Or Alex just isn’t at the point of enlightenment he always thought he was. He finds the fault in himself rather than Jared. But he likes it most thinking that it’s Jensen’s fault.

Jensen with the dazzling green eyes that tantalize Alex. And his damn ability to merge with Jared. Something no one in the community ever could provide.

Alex hates that someone other than him satisfies Jared in any way.

When he looks in the mirror he sees the man who came here all these years ago when Jared’s predecessor was still alive. The man who crashed here after drugs and sex addiction ruined his life.

Growth is something that never stops. And any day you don’t work through your struggles puts you one step further away from divinity and back into the life of materiality and toxicity.

Jared mustn’t know.

Alex stares blankly in the mirror while he shaves his beard off. Completely.

It takes a few days generally for the community to calm down after such a night. Jared knows that. He feels sore himself, but in a good, satisfying way. His community is thriving, they have new members. Fresh blood. The prayers are inspiring. Jared insists on holding the divine services all by himself. These days he’s beaming with love and the rich and satisfying feeling of being connected. This is Jensen’s merit. His sensuality, his sexual aura, everything about him reminds Jared of the Archangel Michael, the fiery son of God who guarded Eden. Everything about Jensen seems to set Jared on fire. And not only Jared. The others feel it too. The women, the men, everyone stares when he passes. It takes Jared a lot of introspection, prayer and exercise to not just drag him back in his bed. Jared is known for being considerate, kind, and balanced. He leads these people on their path to God and divinity, he is their idol. The true Vicar of the Holy Father. Preferring Jensen in his first month here would weaken his own strong will. He’s sure this man is sent by his Father to heal his hurts, but he needs to care for his community first.

Jared must not be selfish. He obeys the Lord and he will follow His guidance wherever it may take him. When he knows that his community is safe.

After morning’s prayer and exercise Jared retreats to the communal bath. Alex prepared everything like always. He’s shaven clean and his hair is way shorter than before. While Jared sinks in the hot tub, Alex hesitates to accompany him. He looks bitter. Some of the old worry lines reappeared. Jared makes an inviting gesture.

“Come in, Alex.”

Today, Jared notices, it sounds like more than an order.

Alex first shakes his head, but then looks up and his face softens. The lines disappear. He undresses and joins Jared for a bit.

Jared pulls him on his lap, it’s unusual for Alex to be physically distant. He recognizes his assistant has a razor cut on his chin. He runs his thumb just right under it and Alex inhales sharply.

“Why did you shave your beard?” he asks.

Alex looks away, bites his lip. His tooth gap is adorable.

“I didn’t like it anymore.”

Jared frowns.

“Do you doubt yourself?”

A scoff. Jared knows he just hit a nerve. Alex never scoffs at him.

“It’s just hair,” he replies. Now he even sounds a bit defiant.

“Alexandros.”

Alex stiffens. Jared has a habit of calling him by his full name when he fucks up, just like a mother would.

Jared cups his face and looks straight in those bright blue eyes and he sees the vulnerable boy that Alex still is. His progress is phenomenal, but part of him will always stay in the darkness he escaped.

Alex writhes but doesn’t honestly struggle against him.

“Your looks are not important. Be careful with your heart.”

A faint nod. Jared kisses his forehead, then his lips. Suddenly no writhing, no defiance, no stubborn behavior. Alex is pliant. Good.

“I have to go”, Alex mumbles, “I have to prepare our departure to Seattle… Our original flight was cancelled…”

Jared nods. Actually he has no desire to attend this event, but as the leader of this religious community, he has to fulfill some duties. Like going to charity events. It’s not that he hates charity, quite the contrary, as a son of God, it’s his pleasure and deepest wish to make the world a better place, but he hates the whole attention. He hates being compared to apocalypse cults or worse. His teachings are as pure as they can get under given pretenses and the struggle of humanity to overcome the Great Tribulation.

Alex knows. “I know you don’t want to go. But I will make it worth the trip.”

“You always do.”

Alex gets up with slightly shaky legs and a very impressive erection. When he jumps back in his clothes he even turns away. Suddenly he is so shy. When they’re back from Seattle, Jared will have to hold some very intense prayer and service sessions with Alex. He seems in need of healing. And that’s what Jared was chosen for. Provide for people like Alex.

Alex isn’t gone for five minutes when Jared hears a shuffling behind him.

“Did you forget something, Alexandros?”

Someone’s clearing their throat and it’s not Alex. When Jared turns around he sees Jensen standing in the entrance, blushing and looking at his feet.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… umm, am I disturbing you?”

Jared’s face lights up and he turns around fully, crossing his arms on the brim of the pool. Jensen is in his white robe, bread crumbs along his collar. He probably just ate breakfast. His hair is messy.

“Not at all,” Jared replies, “usually, I don’t have guests when I bathe but you’re welcome to join today. You’re new, you can’t know.”

Jensen frowns. “Alex doesn’t count as a guest?”

“No. He is wherever I am, unless he doesn’t want to be.”

Now Jensen’s eyes glow.

“Like now?”

Jared grins.

“You are a cheeky one, aren’t you?” he asks.

Jensen stands there, looking at him like he’s about to say ‘yes’, but ultimately doesn’t.

Jared gestures. “Come in already.”

Ruffling of clothes tells him that his recruit followed his wish and now gets undressed. A moment later Jensen slides in the water beside Jared, about an arm’s length away. His cheeks turn pink.

“Are you well?”Jared asks, just as the caretaker of his people, he is always worried about them. Always ready to provide care if needed or wanted.

Jensen’s teint turns even brighter. Ah. The orgy. It was surely his first time.

“I mean, I think I got a little rough with you there,” the leader admits.

Jensen shakes his head a little, a shy smile and a dreamy gaze show that Jensen might indeed be well. It would be reassuring to hear it though.

“No, no, it wasn’t rough at all but I would lie if I said I don’t still feel you inside me. It was a very world-shaking experience.”

“Uh-huh,” Jared replies, “it was.”

The memory alone makes Jared’s body fill with a need to do it again. Just right here. His pliant and slick body, how hot and tight and damn, how responsive and eager he was to take his cock. And that he succeeded!

Jensen turns to him, comes a little closer to get in touch, physically and Jared is very fond of the idea to have him close. Without a word, Jensen’s hand under the water’s surface, lays a hand on Jared’s thigh. Very close to his member. Flaccid. Yet. And still very big. Jared knows he’s gifted with this large cock and people who can take it, they won’t want anything else after they’ve tried it.

“I wondered, why, umm, everyone treats me like I’m super special, you do too…” Jensen’s eyes are fixated on the tiny waves his hand causes when he strokes along Jared’s thigh. “What makes me special?”

That is a very interesting question and Jared needs some time to think about it. Take deep breaths. It also shows that his new member has not ingrained all of the lore of the Church of Grace. That’s normal. No one knows it by heart after joining so recently.

“Being special is a gift from the Lord, my Father. Everyone is special in their unique way. Take Alex. He’s devoted and tough, loyal and very good at organizing things. Ruth and Judith, you probably crossed their paths already, they’re the best cooks I’ve ever been blessed to taste. Also they are very skilled in sculpting. Everyone is special. Some special things seem to be common, like, so many people on this Earth are talented cooks, tailors, musicians, yogis. And you, you are special, because you give me a feeling of unity in such a primal way, it may seem succinct or superficial. What is it worth, being able to take me? It might not be special to others, but to me this is a thing that brings me peace. And this peace, I can multiply, share it with my people. And by the Lord, it’s not only your physical perks. The way your brothers and sisters here look at you. Some are jealous, but most see in you the most important addition to the community in years. You have a spark in you and you will do great things for the Church. I’m sure of it.”

Jensen stares and Jared notices the slight squint of his deep green eyes. His utter beauty is a gift to humanity already. He radiates purity. If he knows that?

“Is that understandable for you?” Jared asks. He lays a hand in Jensen’s neck and gently squeezes. Pulls him closer. Just an inch but it’s enough to feel Jensen way better and catch his vibes.

“Yes, it is,” Jensen says, “I’m glad this community welcomed me, I’m glad I met you.”

Now he wraps his hand around Jared’s shaft, which is still too much and he won’t be able to embrace it completely.

“I was worried, I am worried, it will be the only time to be close to you.”

“You will be close to me every day. At the service, at the monthly celebration. We share everything here.”

“But, can I be alone with you, just like now?” Jensen huffs, his grip tightens. Jared is just a man, his body reacts and he grows hard, so big that the tip would break the water surface now if Jensen let go.

“I’m a man of my people, I will not deny you. To be honest, yes, I invite you to be with me.”

It would be so easy to lift Jensen up and let him sink down on his cock. It would be amazing to feel him right now. But he is still a little sore. Complete physical unity has to wait.

“Jared…” A sigh. “What you made me feel that night… I think I felt closer to my true self than ever.”

“I’m glad this is helping you. There will be a lot of occasions for you to discover your deepest self, your fears, your worries… Everything will come to light and I know, you will overcome, you will shine and rise above your plain human being.”

Jensen’s hand moves now. He knows how to touch a man, strictly physical. It's a mechanical reaction after all, but when Jared looks deep into these green eyes he discovers his own need and how much he suffered without a mate that would be close to him.

“Tell me, how do you like it… I feel it, I need it… you need it…?”

“I long for it.”

Jared wraps his hand around Jensen’s to guide him with the strokes.

He wants it to build up slowly, and his hand on Jensen’s neck holds him steady, whispering his instructions to keep eye contact, when to slow down and when to get faster. And Jensen is all in with it, he’s passionate, his tiny moans and curses, just from seeing Jared, make it extra hot. Actually Jared doesn’t need to climax here, because the mere anticipation of his partner is more than satisfying. They sink in a kiss when Jared’s instructions turn into a breathless staccato of ‘yes like that’s. He’s noisy when he comes and jerks in Jensen’s hand, forceful first but rapidly turning lazy and soft.

“Teach me more,” Jensen whispers, his face burning red, making his freckles pop even more.

Jared's head sinks on Jensen’s chest.

“About what?”

“About, what you like, how you like it… how we… connect… unify… Physically, I know… I can do that,” Jensen bites his lip.

“But you don’t know how it works spiritually?”Jared asks, placing a kiss on Jensen’s freckled shoulder.

“Is that a stupid question?”

A headshake. Why should it be? But Jared knows, Jensen is insecure, he longs for answers and guidance.

“Believe me, you didn’t ask a stupid question so far. You crave unity?”

Jensen nods.

“Just like you do.”

“I would love to show you more of it. But I will have to go to a congress in Seattle in three days. Alex and I will be gone and you’ll be on your own for a couple of days,” Jared replies. There is indeed some longing in his voice.

“Oh, that is… it will be long and I’m new, I…”

Jared clicks his tongue while he combs Jensen’s hair. “You don’t have to worry, everyone will take care of you. They will do what I’d do. You will be shown around.”

Jensen shakes his head. His muscles stiffen just lightly.

“That’s not my worry, but- I wish I could be with you.”

This causes Jared’s eyebrows to raise. He wants to be with Jensen, too. Show him the world that Jared lives in and help with the settling. It’s hard to find a place in a community. Jared also fears (and hopes) that Jensen found a way in his heart.

“You are with me. And you will be. You belong to the community now.”

Jensen winds.

“I mean… could you… I would like to go to Seattle. With you…”

“And Alex,” Jared corrects.

“And Alex,” Jensen confirms.

There is no reason to say ‘no’, but there is also no reason to say ‘yes’ that is justifiable. Jensen is new. But he’s shown commitment and he wants to learn. They would bond. Jared wants it. Badly.

“Will it put your heart at ease when I say yes?”

Jared smiles and it’s a knowing one. Jensen smiles. He also knows.

“Yes, it would.”

The way Jensen smiles and blushes is cute, maybe a little staged. Jared’s not an idiot, he knows that Jensen is wooing him. Trying to impress. Wants to appeal. He already does, there is no need to be overly pliant. Jared enjoys the attention though, who would judge him for it? He presses a kiss on Jensen’s lips and their hug turns closer, just like the last minutes of touching didn’t exist. Jared wouldn’t complain about that, either.

“Thank you,” he utters before he can think it through.

“For what?”

Jared squeezes Jensen’s growing cock.

“For giving me - peace.”

Peace is not the only thing Jared wants to thank his disciple for, but Jensen’s soft moan drowns any further thoughts. He wants to merge. Now. He doesn’t want to wait. Not for them to be in his room or Jensen’s. Just take him here.

Alex listens to the quiet conversation that turns into moans and splashing, Jared’s deep and ground shaking grunts. He would be a big fat liar if he claimed to be untouched by it, even Jensen’s soft noises make him rock hard. But what he feels in his heart and what he feels in his body, these two things diverge wildly from each other. He shoves a hand in his pants and hates himself for it. But who he hates more is Jensen. He will take Jared away from him.

That mustn’t happen.

Alex has to do something about it. Soon.

#j2 #j2 fanfic #sin is sinning #supernatural rpf #part 1 of 3

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