#Acquiring Devotion AU

[teruuu]

…It was in the realization of his feelings that it dawned on him. He was, in fact, a monster.

And for the first time in his existence, he finally learned how to hate himself.

(Deleted lines from the fic)

Edit: I modified it cuz the sentences looked ugly lmfao

I DECIDED TO DRAW OUT A SCENE

[space-dreams-world]

Another Twin Au: D and T: Danyal And Talia

Also, potential Spirit Halloween.

Ra's had two children, Danyal Al Ghul and Talia Al Ghul, the Demon's Daughter and the Demon's Son. Talia might have been firstborn, but she was neglected over her father favoring Danyal.

Danyal was treated better than she was, and while Danyal didn't understand Talia's jealousy, he still tried to help her. Like for instance, Talia had a fight to prove her loyalty to the Al Ghul line and was tasked to fight to the death, Danyal seeing how tired she was from training, he poisoned the fighters, so that his sister could win and survive.

Even when Ra's schemed to transfer his mind into Danyal's body, he was overwhelmed by Danyal's spirit and was not able to do the transfer.

Danyal liked to play tricks on new recruits to the league, and when Bruce was there, he pretended to be his sister. (As Danyal constant exposure to the pits made his eyes green)

Talia was only able to develop a relationship with Bruce outside the compound,but Danyal and Bruce's love story was very brief. ( And maybe Bruce liked Danyal more as he could be bargained to live with Bruce, unlike his sister who was devoted to her father)

Ra's would have liked the detective with either of his children,but it was not to be.

In fact, when Talia was planning on wedding Bruce, Danyal was sent for extra protection and liked the little Robin (Dick) despite being on opposite sides. So, when Talia acquires Bruce's sperm to make Damian, Ra's did a test to see which sibling produced better offspring, and unfortunately, Danyal's won. So, Damian was the son of the Bat and Demon, but of Bruce and Danyal. The thing is that Talia and Danyal are identical twins, just one boy and one girl. So, Talia assumes Damian is hers by default, and when creating Heretic, she uses her DNA.

Danyal was someone more connected with the pits than anyone knew and spent some time with the spiritualists of the league. Danyal was there when Jason was in the league and tried to curb his most violent fits, and sometimes took care of Damien in the league along with Jason.

Now, unfortunately, during Ra's coup, Talia, sick of her brother favoritism, pushes Danyal into the pits where he doesn't resurface.

(A few years in Danny Phantom world is a few days in the DC verse, so Danyal as Danny Fenton speedruns the DP life, becomes phantom, follows cannon lore, except doesn't really stay in Amity Park afterwords,closes the two portals, and goes to find his original dimension,where Damien is about to sacrificed to the pit by Talia, believing she can make more,with the bats present kills him.

More in part 2...

[larvasmoon]

Purpose

Summary: Sewing was a tedious activity all things considered. One that Astarion had never imagined himself doing for a living.

Rating: T Word Count: 2132 Content: Tailor Astarion AU, Fluff and angst, well quite a lot of angst as usual, mentions of death and grief

A/N: This little one shot is spoiler free but I wrote it as a prologue to my fic Portrait of the pale elf ! I hope you'll enjoy!

Sewing was a tedious activity all things considered. One that Astarion had never imagined himself doing for a living. 

Well…To be fair, during all those centuries, he’d never dared to dream or hope for anything. Torture was Godey’s speciality, not his. And indulging in grand fantasies of freedom would have certainly felt like a new kind of torment — especially when the only thing to look forward to was the next mucky rat he’d be allowed to feast on.

But becoming a tailor? Gods no, it had never been part of his plan.

Spending hours and hours in complete silence, hunched over some intricate sewing pattern. Struggling to pass a thread through the needle of his sewing machine, or finding it impossibly tangled around its mechanism. Stichting thousands of pearls in the shape of a blooming flower, until his vision blurred and his finger swelled under the thimble. 

Hardly an exciting prospect for someone like Astarion. His definition of a ‘fun night’ usually involved good wine, a little shopping spree, the latest plays or operas, and —if he felt like it— good company. 

Needless to say that his love for the profession had been an acquired taste, at best. 

But then again, he’d never really taken the time to think about the things he liked. Sometimes, he wondered if anything of what made him ‘Astarion Ancunín’ was truly his. Had he always enjoyed the scent of rosemary, or was it just the only trick he’d found to hide the faint smell of grave dirt clinging to his skin? Had he always enjoyed getting lost in extravagant parties and crowded dressing rooms, or had he always seeked to silence his own dark thoughts by visiting those places? He would never know. 

He’d first started sewing clothes for himself a few weeks after coming back to Baldur’s Gate. Nothing of what he’d found at the clothiers suited him. 

Poor quality. Crooked seams. Too tight around the shoulders or too wide near his waist. 

One night, on a whim, he’d come to the conclusion that if the city was full of incompetents, he’d do it himself. He’d stormed out, bought a few fabric rolls, before decidedly sitting at the desk of his room at the Blushing Mermaid. It really hadn’t taken him long to work out a few patterns, cut the blue brocades, and make a few doublets out of them. He’d mended his clothes time and time again, back when he was still a spawn, but he’d never made a garment from scratch before. Yet, something about this felt so innate, so instinctive, almost as if… As if he’d done it before. 

He already knew what to do without having to think — what to measure, where to pin the silk, how to stitch the seams. And from time to time, when the needle moved too quickly between his fingers, he was reminded of something. 

A vision, barely out of grasp. 

Old weathered hands holding an embroidery hoop, the crackling of the fire in the earth, and his own pudgy fingers clinging to the worn wool of a soft jacket.

“Needlework is a labor of love and patience. One sews like he lives, one motion at a time, designedly and purposefully. Diligence is a virtue you still need to learn, young master.”

So many stolen memories.

So many years spent living as an instrument of death.

Maybe devoting his time in the pursuit of beauty was the only way to atone for it, to prove to himself that he was meant for more than this eternal darkness.

Art imitates life, after all. And Astarion felt powerful each time he finished sewing a piece. As if he'd secretly stolen a bit of the gods’ power by doing so, as if he’d shaped something out of the void with his undead hands.

It was addictive, intoxicating, healing. 

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

Astarion never forgot his first customer.

It was right after he’d bought his shop. Some old and luxurious apothecary — or so he’d been told. He vaguely remembered walking past it during his nightly strolls, idly admiring the pretty jars on the shelves. A never ending procession of giddy ladies stepped out of the shop with bright silky pouches in their hands, filled to the brim with glassy bottles of rose water, perfumed soaps, and all sorts of scented lotions.

Now that Astarion was the owner, it was slightly less… glamorous.

The shop was still dusty and empty. He hadn’t painted the walls bright red yet, or bought any of the black lacquered furniture and Persian rugs that would soon decorate the space. Here and there, he’d placed a few sewing mannequins, dressed in dazzling silky ball gowns and eye-catching embroidered doublets. His workshop table was pushed in a corner; spools of threads, fabric scraps, and messy sketches scattered on top of it. 

He was busy sweeping the floors when the door flew open. Out of habit, he reached down for his daggers, but the only thing his fingers were met with was the cold silver of the sewing chatelaine. His embroidery scissors could work as a substitute — though perhaps a little too dull to deliver a killing blow. 

But when he turned around, there were no men in armor, no monsters and no foes to fight. Just a little girl, crying and trembling on the threshold.

“Is this a tailor shop?” she sniffed, wiping her snotty nose on her red scarf. 

She was very small, two funny little pigtails on top of her head. The stubborn look in her icy blue eyes was intriguing though, such determination didn’t quite fit on the face of a child. She swayed on her feet now and then, struggling to carry the satchel flung over her shoulder, twice as big as her.

“We’re not open yet,” he sighed, going back to his cleaning chores, “Sorry, dear.” 

“But- You’re the last place I haven’t gone to yet! I went to see all the seamstresses, all the clothiers, all the tailors! None of them want to help me!”

“Help you? I think you knocked on the wrong doors, darling,” he huffed, crouching down to dust the shop window. “People rarely do favors around here, you see. They offer their services in exchange for a generous sum of money.” 

“I can pay!” she proudly declared, thumping her little boots on the floor, red as a beetroot.

“Far from me the idea of discouraging you, my dear, but I doubt you can afford me.” 

He heard her rummaging in her bag, and soon a familiar tinkle sound. 

Astarion’s favorite little symphony. 

“I have daddy’s money,” she finally said, holding her heavy purse of coins in her quivering fist.

He slowly let go of his broom, eyeing her and the pouch in her hand with renewed interest. 

“And does daddy know that you’ve dipped into his coffers and fled with the swag hidden under your coat?” 

The last thing he needed was to have an army of flaming fists officers on his tail; he’d done his best to lay low during the last months, to be a picture perfect citizen. Being a vampire was enough of a problem already, and Astarion’s greatest wish was to be left in peace, to be forgotten.

“No, daddy’s too busy, don’t worry,” — she furrowed her brows, her blue eyes darkening like the sun behind a rainy cloud— “He won’t notice.”

He looked at her for a little while, hesitating, and she kept her round serious eyes trained on him. 

“Very well, it’s a deal then,” Astarion sighed, bending down to grab her hand and tug her inside of the shop, “This way, madam.”

The little girl giggled, whispering a few ecstatic ‘thank you,’ trotting about the messy atelier. She dragged her satchel on the floor with a sigh, before taking a long piece of blue fabric out of it. It was in a very pitiful state, torn and stained in various places, covered in soot, as if someone had attempted to burn it. .

“What in the sweet hells is that?” Astarion asked, scrunching his nose when she clumsily laid it flat on his workshop table.

“That’s mommy’s caplet.”

“Yes, what’s left of it, at least,” he mocked, examining it with a disgruntled look on his face. “What happened to it?”

She clung to the edge of the table, her knuckles turning white, her eyes silently filling with tears again. “Can you fix it or not, mister?”

He looked at the coat some more, trying to think about ways to clean or dye it, maybe by stitching a patchwork of new fabric onto it, but he always arrived at the same conclusion. 

This rag was beyond saving. 

“It would be much easier to sew a new one. I’m not sure I can make anything out of this.”

Her face fell, Astarion’s stomach flipped, and she started to sob. 

Oh gods, he’d forgotten just how dreadful witnessing a child cry was… He’d seen Arabella do it a few times — fists curled by her sides, face tense and awfully red, voice so high-pitched that he'd thought the sound would pierce his eardrums. 

What did Karlach and Lia do back then? Give her a handkerchief? A little pat on the head? Something sweet to eat? He couldn’t remember.

“No!” she screamed in the middle of her crying fit, “I don’t want another one, I want this one!”

“But you can’t possibly want to keep this miserable—” he tried to say, stepping towards her with wide panicked eyes. 

What if people heard her scream from the outside? What if they got the wrong idea? He needed to get her to stop. Quickly.

“It has to be this one,” she breathed, burying her face in her hands, “It’s the last thing I have, it still smells like her.”

Oh, so that’s what it’s about, he thought, and somewhere in his chest, where his heart was supposed to be beating, he felt a pang of hurt. 

Some old wound, reopened.

He knew a thing or two about that feeling too, about the agony of grief and loss.

He’d died, he’d killed, and he’d lost so many things along the way. 

A trail of corpses and blood in his wake.

And suddenly the garment sprawled in front of him was more than just a dirty mantle; it was a shroud, freshly dug out of cold soil of a tomb. His fingers shook around the seams, pensively tracing the stitched lines.

“How about this then?” he asked, softer this time,“See this half of the caplet? It’s as good as new, darling. What if I made something else out of it? Something you can wear all the time?”

She wiped her tears, droplets of salty water sparkling on her long lashes. “What would you make?”

“A scarf? I could embroider something on it, stitch a few pearls or gemstones, it would make it worth the money.”

“Mmm, I like it,” she nodded, with a sad little smile, “It’ll feel like mommy’s giving me a hug.”

Astarion’s hands were a little unsteady when he started cutting through the blue wool, afraid that he’d ruin it any further. It was his first time working on such an old fabric, something woven with so many memories and love. And his little customer was looking at each and every of his motions with rapt attention, her fogged eyes lingering on the parts of the caplet she’d have to leave behind. 

Stitch after stitch, little tassel after little tassel, the fabric came back to life. Resuscitated.

It had been beautiful once, he could tell. Soft and bright, warm and nicely tailored.

When he was almost done sewing it all together, she tugged on his sleeves and asked him to embroider a name on it. 

“Gabrielle.”  Her mother’s name, surely. 

And so he did.

In threads of gold, floating in a sea of pearls and crystals. 

Like a spell.

Most people came to his shop to buy something new: an armor of silk and satin for the next season, or a pretty dress to wear at tea one of those ridiculous five-o-clock tea parties.

But from time to time, someone entered his shop with a damaged and torn garment in their hands, and Astarion never denied them. He cleaned and he washed, he mended and stitched back in place.

He had a strange sort of sympathy for the old rags now, as if he could see more in them than the stains and the unstitched seams— perhaps some old and distant memory of himself, or an opportunity to prove that everything that is a little broken can be fixed.

Tailoring wasn’t just about sewing pretty ballgowns and enchanting attires, and on good nights, Astarion took pride in that fact.

He’d found so much more at the tip of his needle.

A craft teetering on the edge of life and death, an art dedicated to ghosts and social butterflies alike.

But above all else— a purpose, a reason to keep pulling the thread.

[devilevlls]

Creepy Obey me! AU

𝖲𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌, 𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖺𝗌: 𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗋, 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗀𝖾, 𝗌𝖾𝗑𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗌, 𝖽𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗂𝖼 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗌, 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗉𝗌𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖯𝗋𝗈𝖼𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇. Remember: The following information might not be that accurate comparing to Lucifer's canon personality.

Lucifer

⌞Feeding Habits⌝

  ࿔ Carnivorous (meat-eating)

  ࿔ Hunting habits: Lucifer harbors a distaste for the act of hunting souls directly. Instead, he frequents a secluded area in Devildom where lost souls wander, offering a more palatable source for consumption.

However, when it comes to acquiring meat, his approach takes a stark turn. He revels in the thrill of stalking his prey from a distance. The panicked screams only serve to heighten his excitement, igniting a primal thrill within him as he closes in on his target. ㅤ

⌞Unique features⌝

 ࿔ Two pairs of black feathered wings, some says they can cure wounds, but no one was brave enough to try plucking a feather.

 ࿔ Specific scent: He emits a natural scent reminiscent of roaring flames, so potent that it can induce discomfort and even prompt coughing fits. ࿔  Height: 1,97 m ㅤ

⌞Reproductive Habits, Seasonal Changes⌝

  ࿔ Mating seasons: Courtship displays - Lucifer's devotion to his mate knows no bounds, often manifesting in grand gestures and displays of affection. However, don't be too quick to celebrate, for alongside his demonstrations of love, you may find an unexpected presence creeping into your surroundings. Ghostly apparitions, once mortal souls he dispatched, now transformed into loyal servants, subtly assist you with your daily tasks, a testament to his unwavering commitment to your well-being.

  ࿔ Nest building - He leaves a whole mess of feathers scattered across his bed, evidence of his restless nature and feral instincts. Some of them bear traces of blood, torn impatiently from his own wings in moments of unchecked impulse. Afterward, he may find himself sore and in need of assistance, perhaps even seeking your help to tend to the wounds inflicted by his own fervor.  ࿔ Seasonal variations: Aggressive Behavior - He won't let his brothers come closer to you until his breeding instincts are gone. They won't try either, none of them wants to be hanged from the ceiling for weeks. Scent Marking - Brushes his feathers against you, imparting a subtle scent that escapes human detection but leaves you enveloped in a warm, weighty sensation. Alternatively, he may press his face into your neck, tracing gentle licks along your skin. As he marks you with his presence, you notice a distinct shift in the demeanor of other demons, since no one wants to defy Lucifer himself by getting too close. ㅤAnd of course, an intense craving to ravage you at least 3 times a day. ㅤ

⌞Territorial Behavior⌝

࿔ Aggressive displays/Territory defense: Lucifer wanders around the house when he has free time. Not just casually walking tho, he makes guttural sounds and stomps heavily. No one dares getting out of their room when he is passing the corridor. ㅤ

⌞Sleeping and Resting Patterns⌝

You see, there isn't Day/Night in devildom, just emptiness and darkness, so we are using as reference, RAD's daily activities to measure time. Class time being the morning, class end being twilight and after dinner being night.

 ࿔  Nocturnal (active during the night). The avatar of pride hates waking up early in the morning, he gets more active at night, and you can see a slight change in his behavior at this time, getting more chill than normally. ㅤ

⌞Bad/Creepy habits⌝

  ࿔ Lucifer loves classical music, especially cursed records. Do not dare come close to the music room when his songs start playing, or you might end up piercing your own eardrums, trapped in an unstoppable curse. ㅤ

⌞Defense Mechanisms⌝

  ࿔ Lucifer has the power to hear through walls and can teleport behind someone if they say his name out loud to check why he is being mentioned.

  ࿔ Possesses a remarkable immunity to the majority of poisonous substances found within Devildom. Similarly, he remains largely unfazed by the powers wielded by angels. Only the most ancient and powerful curses have any hope of affecting him. ㅤ

⌞Hygiene and Grooming⌝

 ࿔ Self-grooming: Grooming, or preening, is the meticulous art of cleaning and maintaining various parts of the body. Lucifer, in particular, dedicates himself to keeping his feathers impeccable, adhering to a strict schedule of cleaning every three days. This meticulous task demands much of his time and attention, occasionally leading him to fall asleep in the middle of his grooming rituals. ㅤ

⌞Playful Behavior⌝

 ࿔ How do they release stress? For Lucifer, playing the piano serves as a refuge where he can lose himself in the soothing melodies, calming his mind and easing the burdens of his responsibilities. However, if one were to delve into his more sinister forms of stress relief, a scene of horror awaits. He takes perverse pleasure in seeking out the terrified sounds of lost humans, reveling in their fear as he approaches, a dark satisfaction coursing through him at the sight of their trembling forms. Proud of the intimidating aura he exudes, Lucifer finds solace in the knowledge of his power and dominance over those who dare to cross his path. "Yes, scream, let me hear how much it hurts when I devour you. I could do this all day" ㅤ

⌞Human Interaction⌝

  ࿔ Responses to human presence: Annoyed, he doesn't understand why such an important demon as himself needs to be in the same ambient as an insignificant mortal. Won't attack unless you trespass his boundaries, but will threaten the hell out of you.

  ࿔ Domestication behaviors: None. Jk jk, he has his soft spots, but hides them very well. Give him some ultra-rare cursed vinyl. Or worship his boots. He will pretend it doesn't affect him, but seeing you bend down to his feet? That makes him excited. If you manage to earn his trust and affection, a rare privilege indeed, you may find him unexpectedly responsive to your touch. A shiver courses through him, and a near-purr escapes his lips when you scratch the base of his horns, a gesture that elicits a subtle display of pleasure from the typically composed demon lord.

Hope you guys enjoyed, please give me your opinions! Sorry for any grammar mistakes ＞﹏＜ Check my Creepy AU masterlist for more content!

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[therabbitthatpostthings]

Plushies!

JJK Actor AU. Kinda headcannon to what their “out of character” persona would be like. Basically you have plushies of them and they have opinions about it.

Inspired by another fic, can’t remember the name and I scrolled for an HOUR for it. All the character had texts prompts in them.

Maybe spoiler???

Nanami Kento

Continuation of this post

- Between you simping so hard for his onscreen self and the plushies, he is so tierd.

- He’s been acting since his late teens but had one big breakout role. Since you two started dating you have made it a mission to collect any fan content that involves a role he is in.

- Even in the roles where he’s evil you have a mountain of merch!

- He loves that you are so supportive but the Nanami obsession is next level. He’d be more upset if it wasn’t just his face.

- He loves you so he puts up with the Nanami plushies.

Gojo Satoru

- Date an actor they say! It’ll be fine they said! Literally wtf.

- He’s a lot like his character in terms of playfulness. You have gone on record to say they are pretty 1:1 with each other.

- So naturally, when you bring home a Gojo plushie he is distraught.

“I can’t believe you would cheat on me!”

“IT’S A TOY!”

- He kicks Gojo off the bed all the time. Now Gojo Plushie sleeps on the living room couch.

- He still gets up every morning and complains that there’s another man in your apartment when he isn’t there (completely disregarding that you are at work half the time)

- He is secretly looking for artist to commission to make a matching plushie of you.

Geto Suguru

- He HATES it.

- Not just because it’s a plushie of Geto in his Kenjaku era but also because you got it from a con. It’s not licensed merchandise. Meaning stuff he would have gotten for basically free.

- In fact “Sugu-Mini” was just the beginning of a small empire of Suguru plushies you acquired over his duration on the show.

“Why are they all so fucking ugly? Why don’t you ever buy the cute ones?”

- Would rather die than admit that he’s jealous you hold one in you lap while working or lean on them when on the couch.

- Finally stops complaining when you move them to your home office and cuddle with him again.

Kamo Choso

- Sweet angle baby. He actually loves that you love plushies so when he got casted as Choso he would made it a mission to get you one of the first plushies they made.

- It makes you happy so he is ready to get you as many as you wants. He posts on insta a lot so when he mentions looking for more Choso plushies it practically goes viral.

- The next con he went two it took like three attendants to help him lug all the plushies he got. He later posted on insta that night a picture of his bed covered in Choso plushies.

- Eagle eyed fans noticed something though. The layout of the bedroom look eerily similar to another person who made a post about their brand new Choso plush. What are the odds?

- You both turn it into a game, posting photos with an increasing amount of Choso’s everytime.

- This actually starts a trend, #chosoplushietakeover. There’s not a single cast member or crew mate that doesn’t have a Choso plushie. It’s wild.

Ieiri Shoko

- She’s always been a natural beauty, so graceful and ethereal like. Playing someone collected and laid-back like Shoko was a welcomed surprise.

- Even though her role is smaller compared to everyone else, she loved it anyway. Any video from production has her somewhere in the background.

- As another devoted con-goer she also gets a bunch of plushies and brings them all to you. You two have at least 1 plushies in every room in your home. You both even carry a keychain version on your bags.

Iori Utahime

- like her character she has a deep seated hatred for Gojo’s actor but in more of a rivalry way. They are both child stars that got casted a lot together. For a short amount of time they were a ship.

- she originally posted a cute (cropped) picture of her plushie with you sitting off to the side.

- then Gojo did the same.

- So she posted another handmade plushie on her story.

- So did he.

- At this point she wanted him DEAD cause she knows how he feels about those plushies so he’s doing this just to piss her off. It would be that bad if he wasn’t actively bragging about ratioing her.

- Soon enough it becomes the battle of the plushies between these two. Factors are formed in the fandom. No mercy, all glory, blood for the blood god.

Ijichi Kiyotaka

- Doesn’t have any official plushies.

- it isn’t until you buy one online that he kinda cares.

- He treats that plushie like it’s your son. He has a pillow on the living room couch that is HIS pillow. No one can use it, not even guests.

Fushiguro Toji

- He hates it.

- He thinks they’re creepy. He’s never liked stuffed animals ever since he was a kid. None of your kids even have stuffed animals outside of like, 1 teddy bear each.

- Everytime you enter the room he is practicing wrestling moves on the poor thing with your son. You’re just happy you got a good quality one cause it had lasted through some rounds of combat.

Ryomen Sukuna

- I imagine him also being a child star but his career took off when him and his younger brother (Yuuji’s actor) starred in a drama together.

- They did not fight the twin allegations. Sukuna is older though by 5 years. As they’ve gotten older, they’ve gotten easier to differentiate.

- He straight up stole his brother’s Yuuji plush and drew Sukuna’s tattoos on it.

-Combined you two have five plushies:

A pillow one that he uses as a back rest. Two keychain versions. The drawn on Yuuji plush. And an ugly one that got messed up in manufacturing that is your personal favorite.

- He is essentially a plushie thief, if you lend it to him you will never see it again. He is currently has the second most Choso plushie count cause he keeps stealing others. Yours included!

[buckets-and-trees]

Hi Aspen, Cedar trees has been seeping into my mind lately (not that I’m complaining, but I’m blaming ovulation). Can I ask what a day in the life looks like for our dear couple? Do they ever run into each other doing their own independent tasks in town? Does reader ever watch Steve with his guards and become enamored with seeing him train/in charge?

Nonnie, I adore this ask!

A day in the life is a pretty odd juxtaposition between routine and a "plot of the week" kind of life. Running into him, depends on the day - but of course you love him more and more. As king, for Steve there are far more out of the ordinary things that crop into his days, whereas for you there are routines, ceremonial bits, and things that only change more based on the season, especially the first year of your marriage.

However, once the two of you came to the initial understanding that your marriage was more than just a political alliance between kingdoms with Steve acquiring someone to be his queen, Steve made some changes pretty swiftly to daily protocols so the two of you could grow together as a couple.

Title: A Shift in the Morning Routine Characters/Pairings: King!Steve x Queen!Reader Word Count: 1100

Content/Warnings: established relationship, reference to morning sex

Additional Notes: I've got so many head cannons that I want to build into more moments with the Cedar Trees AU, (including 2-3 more asks from @stargazingfangirl18 and @gifsbysimplysonia) but here is at least one.

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Not everything changes overnight, you are still new to the kingdom, your role as queen, and growing in familiarity with the people, the land, and your responsibilities, but the new intimacy of a deeper connection and commitment that you and Steve pledged to each other unlocks a wholly different sense of security that trickles steadily into your bloodstream in a way that make the days warmer, brighter, and bearing the duties you have becomes more natural. They were not impossible before, nor difficult, you had been raised and prepared since birth to be ready to become someone’s queen, but the sense of belonging that breathed now between you and your husband – that you were husband and wife – shifted things fundamentally.   

But there are things that do change specifically in your patterns and behaviors. The first thing to change is having breakfast brought in for you both any night the king sleeps in your chambers, and because there is so much protocol and support from palace staff around you, the palace notices quickly that it seems that the king is spending every night with you. There are a few - a very few - who raise an eyebrow at this behavior. Those few seem to think that surely if the king has taken such a liking to his new queen, that's all well and good, but he is the king, why not invite you to his quarters? But no one dares question the king, and much of the palace see his growing devotion to you as only another sign of his very good and kind heart, his capacity to care only showing consistently now in another form.

The servants do know not to bring breakfast until the two of you ring for it though.

Except for unexpected emergencies, the two of you are not to be disturbed until the king has had time with his queen and the two of you are in a state of decency, donning your bedclothes or robes as appropriate.

After a few weeks of this, there's a morning where the king's private secretary is getting antsy while he waits to give the king his first briefing of the day, and Lord Barnes diplomatically intervenes.

"My King," Bucky bows his head in deference that appropriately reflects his respect for Steve's position as king and their tie as friends since schoolchildren before Steve inherited any title. "Coulson doesn't want to disturb you, but he is growing more concerned we will fall behind on your majesty's royal itinerary if he cannot brief you soon ahead of this morning's audiences with the delegations from Vanaheim and Malibu."

The soft sigh Steve lets out is short and you're certain only you can hear, though you know Bucky has seen the affect his arrival and announcement have had as his face reflects warmth, a bit of mirth, but also the duty and responsibility to keep his friend in line with his responsibilities as right hand.

The two of you had lingered much longer in bed that morning, for the pleasure of both of you (twice for you, the second time with Steve). You reach for his hand where it was resting on the corner of the table, slipping your fingers into his palm and brushing your thumb over his knuckles. “I would be a poor queen if I kept you here any longer then.”

Now Steve actually huffs. “You are not keeping me, I choose to breakfast with my wife, and I am not yet finished taking my nourishment for the day.”

You tilt your head and grin. “A kingdom cannot wait on their king all morning.”

“If I may,” Bucky interjects, and you both turn your attention to him, “Coulson could brief you as easily here as anywhere else.”

Steve nods and a wide smile spreads over his handsome face. “Bring him in, Buck.”

Your heart warms and flutters, the two of you holding each other’s gaze for another moment, and he reaches for more bread.  

When Lord Barnes returns with Coulson behind him, Coulson stands with only a little apprehension at the end of the table, but Bucky takes a seat across from you, to the right of the king, and begins to fill a plate of his own with breakfast.

“Your majesties,” Coulson addresses with a bow.

“Coulson,” Steve nods.

“Shall I start with the reports from the borders of the kingdom?”

“Are updates in regard to the delegations not more important than the border reports?” Steve questions, his brow furrowing.

It was fleeting, but you see the slightest of a glance to you and your presence, and your stomach hardens with guilt.

Coulson takes a breath to respond, but Steve holds up a hand. “I see. The queen’s insight may be valuable as we hear what you have to say as she is no stranger to royal politics.”

That hardening melts away at his words.

“Indeed, she may often prove to be invaluable in our efforts here in the coming days but as we move forward, as well, given that there are parts a queen may play that are wholly unavailable to a king.”

Bucky does not look up, but you see a relaxed grin on his face, and as you turn to gage Coulson’s reaction, you see his own previous apprehension had dissolved. “I would agree, your majesty.”

“Moving forward, if the queen should not mind, I would like you to deliver the morning briefing to us both while we breakfast. Come in straight away with the day’s food, Coulson.”

Steve squeezes your hand. “Do you object?”

A show of trust, of valuing your opinion, of seeing you as an asset as his queen – it is the furthest thing from your mind to object. “I serve this kingdom without reservation, my king.”

“One could not ask for a more dutiful or beautiful queen at my side.”

Those blue eyes bore into yours.

You know he means those words.

The full silence in the room only hits you when Lord Barnes clears his throat.

“Start with Vanaheim, Coulson, I meet with them first, correct?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

Over the weeks that turned into months and years, you grew to like Coulson very much, and after that first day when Steve stated his trust in you, Coulson never showed any hesitancy in you ever again, and, in fact, became one of your most staunch champions in the kingdom.

READ THE NEXT PART: WINTER SOLSTICE read more of the Cedar Trees AU

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I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[nausicaamusiclover20]

Hi Nausicaa 👋👋👋 I’ve requested a work from you before (the AU where James is in biker gang) and it was so good, I couldn’t resist to put another request, I hope it’s ok…

This was particularly inspired by Lana Del Rey (I love her) and beautiful dangerous music video - the one where Fergie is an obsessed fan of Slash (I mean he’s damn fine, but she took it a notch too far…)

It’s gonna be current James x younger reader, so maybe she’s a singer like Lana type (nostalgic, very Americana and most importantly is into older man); and she’s been kinda obsessed with James since she first saw Metallica on MTV- like kissed his poster before going to bed when she was younger obsessed (deffo not like Fergie in the video) and then she got fame and money, she started to collect his guitars, vintage magazines with his interviews, etc. She finally gets to meet him at some awards ceremony and that’s kinda her chance, so she uses her charm like in full force and although James feels guilty for liking her (the damned age gap) he can’t resist? And at some point he confesses to her that he feels to old and he thinks she’s wasting her youth on him, but she consoles him that she never wanted any other man and it leads to sex, and she’s on top and she’s telling him how am he is (can we get daddy kink pretty please🙏)?

I hope you’ll find it interesting and will consider writing it. There are a lot of stories with current James/younger reader, but pretty much all the time, he’s the one initiating the relationship, sex, etc. So I thought it’d be cool to look at it from the other side and have a younger woman seduce him and him trying to resist?

Did you say lana del rey? Well how could I not write something based on my queen, woman, goddess (I had written a one shot based on a song of her that maybe I will publish) Having said this, I hope you like it💕

----

Warnings: use of the word daddy, fem dom, a bit of smut, age gap

Burning desire

The glimmer of Hollywood lights felt both familiar and surreal as I stepped into the awards ceremony, my heart racing with excitement. It was the kind of night I had dreamed about since I first discovered Metallica on MTV. As a teenager, I was a devoted fan, plastering my walls with posters of James Hetfield—his fierce gaze, tousled hair, and leather-clad figure captivating my imagination. I had spent countless nights lost in the world of rock and roll, dreaming of meeting him one day.

When I finally got my break in the music industry, I poured my soul into collecting everything related to him. Vintage magazines filled with his interviews adorned my shelves, each page a time capsule of my admiration. I had even acquired a few of his iconic guitars, their strings echoing the sound of my youthful fantasies. Now, standing here in a red  dress that hugged my curves—a nod to the Americana style I cherished—I felt like a star ready to shine. But my heart raced not for the accolades I might receive that night but for the man I had idolized since childhood.

James walked in with an air of effortless cool, surrounded by a small entourage, and I felt my breath hitch. The aura he carried was magnetic, even at a distance. He looked timeless, a rock god who hasn't aged a day in my heart. I took a moment to admire the way his leather jacket hugged his shoulders and how his jeans clung just right, accentuating his strong build.

Finally, I spotted him at the bar, a glass of amber liquid in hand, surrounded by admirers. I took a deep breath, channeling all the confidence I could muster, and approached him, the sound of my heels echoing against the polished floor. Each step felt like a leap toward destiny.

“James?” My voice was steady despite the butterflies dancing in my stomach. He turned, his deep blue eyes locking onto mine, and for a moment, everything else faded away, leaving just the two of us.

“Hey there,” he replied, a charming smile breaking through his usually stoic demeanor. “What brings you to this event?”

“I’m a singer,” I said, fighting the urge to fan-girl. “Your music was the soundtrack to my youth. I mean, I was obsessed.” I leaned against the bar, feeling the cool surface beneath me as I looked into his eyes.

“Yeah? What did you like most about it?” he asked, genuinely curious.

I leaned closer, emboldened by the moment. “Honestly? Your voice. The way you command a stage. You’ve always had this raw energy that draws people in.”

He chuckled softly, the warmth in his eyes revealing how much he appreciated my honesty. “You don’t meet many fans who end up in the same industry. It’s pretty cool.”

“It’s wild, right? I had to chase my dreams, and now I’m here. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t dream of this moment,” I replied, letting the excitement of it all wash over me.

His gaze deepened, a flicker of something more than just admiration in his eyes. “What’s it like being up there, knowing people are watching?”

I shrugged, feeling bold. “It’s exhilarating. But honestly, standing here with you? Way more nerve-wracking. I think you might be the one person I’d be starstruck over.” I bit my lip, feeling the tension simmer between us.

James looked at me, a mix of amusement and genuine interest. “You’re not afraid to flirt, are you?”

“Why should I be?” I replied playfully, leaning in closer, my breath mingling with his. “Life’s too short to hold back, right?”

As the night wore on, we shared stories, laughter, and glances that ignited a fire between us. The chemistry crackled in the air, palpable and intoxicating, but I also sensed a hesitation from him, a protective wall he was trying to maintain. He seemed torn between desire and duty, and I was determined to break through.

Later, as the evening wound down and the crowd began to disperse, he pulled me aside into a quieter corner. The music faded into the background, leaving a serene silence enveloping us, and it was just the two of us, the air thick with unspoken words.

“I feel like I’m too old for you,” he confessed, his brow furrowing with worry. “You’re still young, and you have your whole life ahead of you.”

My heart raced at his admission, but I stepped closer, looking directly into his eyes, determined to convey my feelings. “You have no idea what I want, James. I’ve never wanted anyone but you. I’ve spent my childhood dreaming of this moment.” I reached up, brushing my fingers against his jawline, feeling the stubble beneath my fingertips. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”

His hesitation melted away as he leaned closer, his breath mingling with mine, warm and inviting. “You really mean that?” he asked, his voice low and filled with disbelief.

“Absolutely,” I whispered, feeling the gravity of my words. “You’ve been my fantasy for so long, and now I have you right here.”

Without another word, his lips crashed against mine, igniting a fire that had been simmering beneath the surface for far too long. I melted into him, my body pressing against his as he deepened the kiss, his hands gripping my waist tightly. The world outside faded away, and all that mattered was this moment, this connection.

As the kiss grew more passionate, I felt alive, the heat radiating off him mixing with my own. He pulled back slightly, breathless, and I could see the conflict in his eyes. “Are you sure about this?” he asked, his voice a low rumble filled with concern and desire.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” I declared, my heart pounding with anticipation.

With a smirk that hinted at the mischief lurking beneath his surface, he took my hand, leading me to a private lounge, away from prying eyes. The moment we stepped inside, the door closed behind us, and he pinned me against the wall, his lips crashing into mine again with a fierce urgency.

As our bodies entwined, I could feel the heat radiating off him, and I wanted more. I pushed him back against the couch, climbing atop him, my heart pounding with exhilaration and anticipation.

“You’re so damn hot,” I whispered, feeling the thrill of power wash over me. “Tell me how good I feel.”

His eyes darkened with desire, and he groaned, his hands gripping my hips tightly as he watched me with an intensity that made me ache for him. “God, you’re going to be the death of me.”

“Then let’s make it worth it,” I teased, rolling my hips against him, feeling the heat building between us. “I need you to remind me just how good it can be. Show me how much you want me.”

His hands slid up my sides, fingers tracing the curves of my body as he drew me closer. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this. You’re so young, and I don’t want to ruin you.”

“Maybe I want to be ruined by you,” I purred, leaning down to whisper in his ear, my lips grazing his skin. “Show me how it feels to be yours. I want to feel you, James.”

“Just remember, you asked for this,” he warned, his voice deep and commanding, sending shivers down my spine. “I won’t hold back.”

I grinned, exhilarated by his words. “I don’t want you to hold back. I want to take control tonight.”

With that, I shifted my position, straddling him with a newfound confidence, my hands finding his shoulders as I leaned in closer. “You’re going to let me take care of you,” I said, my voice low and sultry.

“Is that right?” he replied, a mix of surprise and admiration in his gaze.

“Absolutely,” I declared, grinding against him, feeling him respond beneath me. “I want to feel you lose control as I show you exactly what I want. Just sit back and enjoy it.”

His breath hitched, and I reveled in the way I had him at my mercy. “You’re mine tonight, Daddy,” I teased, the words spilling from my lips as I embraced the thrill of our dynamic. “I want to feel you lose yourself in me.”

His expression shifted, a mixture of surprise and desire crossing his face. “You’re incredible, princess” he murmured, surrendering to the moment as I took the lead.

“Let me remind you just how good it can be,” I whispered, leaning closer, my breath hot against his ear. “You’re going to show me just how much you want me, right?”

With a deep growl, he nodded, his hands gripping my waist as I began to move against him. “Just don’t forget who’s in charge, sweetheart,” he warned, his voice rough with lust.

“Trust me, Daddy. I won’t forget,” I said, my confidence soaring as I took control, guiding our movements with a fierce intensity that ignited the night.

As I brought us both to the edge of ecstasy, I could feel the connection between us deepening, a bond that transcended the physical. With each thrust, I lost myself in him, surrendering to the moment and the man who had been my lifelong obsession.

Finally, as we reached our peak together, I collapsed against him, breathless and glowing. I looked into his eyes, filled with warmth and desire, and I knew what I had to say.

“I love you, James,” I breathed, feeling the weight of the words settle between us. It was a promise, a declaration of everything I felt.

He smiled softly, his hands cradling my face as he whispered back, “I love you too, princess.”

In that dimly lit room, wrapped in each other’s arms, I realized this was just the beginning of our story—a love that would defy the odds and thrive in the spaces between dreams and reality.

[dimepdf]

★  𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐋𝐘 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔. + 𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐑

masterlist. / taglist. / any request? synopsis. you were the one who said you'd devote your entire being to your king, so Eren make you prove it .

─── ☆ notes. i did, finally my first royal!au i've been sitting on this since i first made the post 3 days ago but had it held back because i hate proofreading so much lmao .

─── ☆ length. 3.5k ( 29 min read ) .

─── ☆ genre and warnings. +18 nsfw under the cut. minors dni, royalty au, king!eren, servant!reader, minor mentions of death, pwp, porn with plot, authority kink, stretch marks are normal, Eren is kinda cocky, manhandling, grinding, biting, marking, oral sex(f), rough sex, clothing sex, dom/sub undertones, fingering, floor sex, slight size kink, reader got that million dolla pousay!, breeding kink, unprotected sex, aftercare is important people, multiple orgasms, does this count as baby trapping? | — feedback is always welcomed & don't forget to reblog 🤍

Your king Eren had a handful of staff hands littered about his wide estate, from the knights standing guard in the courtyard to the long line of maids dusting the dark maple oak window seals in just the east wing section of the castle every morning. 

As far as being a maid went, you were part of the arrangement of hired workers devoting their being to making sure the bloodhound king himself, Eren Yeager, was satisfied enough in his own home to not become a victim of his raised sword. 

You were one of the lucky ones, still having your head attached and in charge of disposing of the body and making sure no traces of the poor victim's blood had stained his wooden floors.

He was a strong man, an even better warrior, and the pinnacle of estranged power, dominating the vast expanse of acres as well as all of the people within his domains. 

Eren was stronger in many ways than just his towering muscular build, but a man who had a track record of bodies behind every step to prove the blood he would be willing to spill in order to keep his wealth and title.

Even though he was king, Eren spent most of his wealth on his unhealthy habit of violence, starting many wars just because he would feel bored and angsty sitting on his high throne for too long, wanting nothing more than for his hands to be wrapped around his blade.

There was no genuine evidence that he was a good man, nor had he ever claimed to be one.

In fact, he was well-known among the women for his deft fingers, embracing any who had fallen firstly for his dangerously striking looks. Though most only wanted one thing in return, all hoped to be the next to claim the empty throne next to his.

Willing to sully their title as honorable women to spend a night in his sheets in hopes to persuade the heartless monarch to let them carry his heir. 

All those women met with the same sad, unfortunate fate. 

Finding out with a swing of his sword that King Eren didn't care too much about being tied down by anyone, especially some of the beautiful women that would gravel at his feet.

Though he, too, would fall victim to the many eyes that would expose all of his dirty deeds. A man with a title so powerful that a target had been emboldened on his head, millions were wishing and plotting his death, and yet you were the poor soul assigned the task of caring for him.

There wasn't really a job description when you first acquired your role as one of the king's servants. 

Being a young woman coming from a poor family within his territory, the fact that you were even trusted enough to work for royalty after a simple background check was enough to bring your parents to tears. 

Nodding at just the promise of a chestful of gold that would be divided out to each of the staff for pay was enough to pay for the life you risked knowing that it would all go to feed your family for months.

You worked hard to stay out of the way of any trouble, to keep your head down and do your job, and to make sure that your family back home was fed and cared for with each paycheck. 

Eren had eyes everywhere, even if it hadn't seemed like it, especially to his enemies.

He had seemed to be just another carefree, young, spoiled royal with so much power in his hands that he hadn't known what to do with it, but they were all wrong.

It was your deviation to keep away from everything and stay alive that had caught the king's attention in the first place. 

One year you're just a lowly maid scrubbing the main entrance floors until dark bruises form on your knees, and then all of a sudden you're appointed as the king's personal maid, combing through his thick, dark mane as he soaked in his lavender-scented bath.

It was unruly for you as a woman to be in the same room as a naked man who had been as bare as the day he was born, let alone being so intently close to contact with him. 

To have your fingers scrubbing at his scalp, learning with the experience of your position that you just had to swallow most of your dignity working so close behind the king who had not much care for societal norms, the king who liked doing whatever he pleased whenever he could. 

Many of his workers were used to his taboo way of life, and he would often stride around his estate with his chest bare from a shirt. 

Knowing the scars that littered his torso and the muscle that showed off his drooling figure struck fear into the hearts of any impartial observer.

It was almost like a show of dominance daring anyone to test his thin patience knowing he was willing to throw down any task for a good brawl.

The same scars that you had been ordered to sponge, becoming acquainted with the wounds that you had been left to tend to every night.

Stiff with every move would you do your best to keep a fair distance away from the man that you were ordered to groom.

The luxurious bathing room was silent, except for the small splashes made by your hand as you rinsed the sponge through the water. As you rolled up your sleeves and sat on your knees, leaning down to claw your fingers through his scalp, the air was thick with hot steam.

Eren leaned against the final stepping tile leading into the small pool carved into his flooring. Even though you normally enjoy working in silence, there was something about Eren that had you counting your every move and the times you were alone with him.

You found it a bit strange to see him not hugging his blade, instead becoming a quiet man who valued his peace above all else, his eyes closed as he relaxed under your touch. 

This gave you even more reason to be afraid of breaking his calmed trance, fearful that even the smallest mistake would result in your exile, so you did your job meticulously.

Although he would die before admitting it to your face, that was what Eren had found the most intriguing about your character.

He would secretly admire you from afar, finding something so appealing about your personality that made him want to have you by his side all the time.

Eren knew the sensation he was experiencing was more than dangerous. That lusting for someone with such a lowly title as yours made him convinced that the feeling in his chest was caused by an illness.

Throughout his time knowing you, Eren ordered many doctors to visit his private chambers in search of the reasoning behind the hard thumping that had shaken his ribs every time he had seen you. 

It only took a few beheadings to discover the fact on his own that he was experiencing "normal human emotions," much to his dismay.

With his arm hunched to keep his head resting out of the water, Eren sat in view of your cleavage, just at the end of his sight.

He could count how many sighs that had passed from your lips, as you strained to scrub every inch of him as he pleased clean until your fingers were sore. 

His gaze lingered as your skin was practically glowing from the steam of the water, your brown dark skin glistening with small beads of sweat that trailed down to your exposed cleavage.

Eren had not enough shame to take a few peeks at your low-cut shirt, revealing the plump of your breast.

"Would you say you were devoted to me?" His voice cut the air roughly, his deep cadence gravelly yet low, as it was difficult to predict what expression he would adopt next.

Your body was trained to come to a halt to hear his every word, "Well?"

His brow furrowed in irritation at your hesitance, the silence after his question quickly becoming an annoyance to him. If there was one thing Eren despised more than anything else, it was not being answered the minute he had wanted to be.

“Well of course, my king.” Like a fool, you nodded your head like a bobble toy. 

As he turned his body fully towards you, the slosh of water wet your white cotton dress at the skirt, dropping the sponge in the bath water.

"I devote the entirety of my being to you." It wasn't entirely true, but the lie was born of survival instinct since you weren't one to let your pride get in the way of saving your life.

It hadn't seemed worth it, though, judging by the dangerous glint in Eren's eyes, it was as if he could tell that you were lying. 

Sending a shiver up your spine, you took a different route instead, bowing your head to the floor to break away from the intense eye contact.

Resting your forehead against the cool tiles, you became suddenly aware of how hot the blood in your veins ran under his stare.

"Your entire being, you say. How naive of you." Your ruler hummed.

The harshness of his response was expected, however, the insult still managed to make your heart lock in your chest.

A secret part of you was also ignoring the way your thighs squeezed together in response to his stern tone.

Even with your head bowed, you could feel his menacing stare, his dark eyes bored at your pitiful figure. "Come prove to me that you are as devoted as you say."

You hesitated to raise your head, your eyes widening as your attention latched onto his bare chest.

Tracing over the water that made his pale muscles glisten under the light that spilled through the colored glass windows decorating the room in a different arrangement of colors.

He looked down at you like a goddess, his expression ominous, waiting for you to obey his command.

The smirk hid behind his hand, telling you that you wouldn't bother to turn down such an offer not because he was your king, but rather because he knew you wanted him as well.

Another minute of hesitance to tick him off making your next move was lazy.

Standing awkwardly to your feet to remove the straps from your shoulder, you avoided his lingering gaze as it swept over your body with a new sexual intent of adventure.

The torso of the fabric slips down to your waistline, hugging your curves and reaching down to tug yourself out of the rest of the dress.

Standing in just your bra and panties before him, your arms crossing against your chest to comfort yourself. Your eyes meet as Eren lets his lips part, letting out a satisfied hum at the sight of you. You could only watch his movements as you watched him lean in closer.

Allowing his fingers to brush against the mid of your thigh.

His touch was at first gentle, Only tracing up to your stretch marks before his fingers would need themselves into your flesh, squeezing at your legs watching as they dented marks with his nails.

"Perhaps I wouldn't mind dying so, if it meant being suffocated in between your thighs." You'd felt so exposed, shivering as he fondled you and complimented the part of your body you were insecure about, and yet you couldn't stop the soaring heat in your core.

You swallowed as Eren motioned you forward, taking his hand in yours as you stepped into the water. 

The temperature change causes goosebumps to run up your leg, his grip tightening around your wrist with each step until you are fully immersed in the tub, following the guide of his grasp into his lap.

Even with the fabric of your undergarments coming between the two of you, you could still feel the outline of his hardened dick pressing against your lower stomach.

Eren's arms wrapped around your waist, squeezing you forward and leaving you gasping at the sensation of him twitching against your stomach at the unexpected friction. 

"My king," you pester, your hands gripping his shoulders to brace against his legs.

"You shouldn't be doing this with someone as lowly as a mere servant." 

Eren had practically purred from your touch, his gaze flitting down to your soaked bra. 

He succumbed to his desires, leaning forward to press a trail of kisses against the crook of your neck, your nipples poking through the material.

His path soon found your lips as his mouth pressed against yours with hunger, his tongue parting your lips as he moaned down your throat as if he were in pain.

The string of saliva that connected your lips to his was disregarded.

Eren shifted your hips with just the push of his arms resting under your thighs to rut your stomach against his erection.

"Who are you to tell me what I should and shouldn't do? I fuck who I please when I please," he hummed, his hand gripping tightly at the plush of your thigh, a taunting warning to remind you of who was still in charge. "Am I understood?"

It was a miracle that you were even alive based on the way he glared up at you, there was just something about the way his stare looked as if he were about to strike you dead at any given moment.

You wanted to melt at the expression that he made, making you seem like mere prey that had been caught in his trap, ready to be eaten at any given moment.

It was an absolute pleasure to be pressed against his toned muscles, with his strong forearms guiding your hips as your bodies seemed to move purely out of greed for each other.

Both desired nothing more than to pursue the pleasure obscured by the steam that surrounded the bathing room. 

You couldn't feel shameless for having fallen into King Eren's lustful trap, too busy whimpering against his touch, and he hadn't even penetrated yet, but somehow you still felt so twisted up inside.

With each movement, you whimpered poor noises that echoed off the tiles along with the slosh of the water, becoming a bigger mess as you started to fall apart by the seams.

His touch tarnished every part of your body he touched, leaving you wanting more as his lips followed with a kiss.

Parting your lips from the sensation of his teeth impacting your soft skin and leaving small bruising marks as he did with the rest of the territories he had owned.

He had arranged you to angle you just right, the perfect position for him to urge himself just between your lower lips, only your underwear keeping him apart from where you had truly desired him to be the most. 

Given the severity with which he had pressed against you, it appeared that your king felt the same way.

The angst in his touch as his fingers moved quickly to remove the final obstacle to finally fondling your clit, flinching as his thick fingers nudged you apart. 

As his thumb circled your clit, his pointer and middle entered you, causing your body to tremble. You struggled to hold yourself upright, your hips bucking widely at the stimulation and crumbling limply forward into his shoulder.

The moment Eren picked you up with his other arm slung under your knees, lifting you up only to lay you with your back against the dry floor tiles, you were reminded of his fortitude. 

He parted your legs with his elbows, leaving them wide enough open as he rested his palm against your belly to stop your squirming and lean down between your thighs. He'd buried his face in your cunt the second he slid off your panties, tossing them to the side.

The first thing you felt was his tongue, sending a shiver up your spine away from the ground. His arm rested against your thigh to keep you from smothering him, while the other rested toying with your clit making work of his mouth.

You couldn't believe the sounds that came from your mouth, foreign to the pitch of your moans as they echoed through the room alongside the lewd squelching around his finger of your wetness. 

An almost animal-like growl vibrated against Eren's lips as your hand knotted tightly in the black nest of his locks grinding against his face, your mouth moaning out the rest of your pride. “I think I've become rather fond of the taste of you.” 

Your body had trembled at the sound of praise, the complement to the treasure that he saw in your body.

Your eyes slit as you watched him wipe traces of your arousal away from his face with the back of his hand, the glisten of his pink lips as his tongue dragged over them tasting traces of you on them.

Bare, he crawled out of the bath, settling on the tile with his hands and tugging you closer by the hook of your knees.

You hadn't bothered to winch at the uncomfortable feeling of the tiles scraping against your back, instead dividing our attention to more pressing matters.

Like how he slotted himself against your body, his chest pressing into yours as he lined himself up and buried the hilt of his length deep inside of you.

Your legs were quick to wrap around his waist, encouraging his thrust to become deeper with each stroke. His almost crushing weight against your smaller frame with each thrust that raised your stomach. 

Your insides felt like they were melting as he was completely stirring up your poor guts, clenching at the pleasure that it had brought hearing his struggling groans against your ear. 

You felt the brush of his canines against your shoulder, his head tucked away in the crook of your neck to pierce into your skin once more.

His bites were not hard enough to draw blood but enough to keep him from opening his mouth to whimper from how amazing it felt inside of you to listen to the sound of your own punched-out moans.

His rhythm was steady, wide strokes that left your thighs trembling each time his pelvis kissed yours. It was only a matter of seconds before your first orgasm pushed past the challenge that was the strength you had clenched around him.

Eren fucking you through it had you convinced you were seeing stars from how tight your eyes were shut moaning for your king like your life was on the line, you were starting to understand why women would flock to him so closely, beginning to comprehend the allure of his charm having to witness it all firsthand.

His strokes became toe-curling, slowing down to catch his breath as his hips pressed yours to the floor, tucking himself just as snuggly as his hips shifted hungrily against yours. 

The jolt of his own orgasm shook your frame as his last pumps carried a burst of energy, dawning back just to fuck you deeper and stuff you full as he released inside of you.

You had been to bed with only a finger count of men before, yet had Eren been the first to finish inside of you freely. 

There was something dangerous about the way he felt tucked in so deeply, twitching against your walls, as he gave you the possibility of bearing his next heir.

It took you a few minutes for your mind to process the reality of the situation that had just occurred.

Not only had you just had hot sex on the floor of a bathing room, but you had also just been fucked silly by your own king of all people, not to mention the part where he was leaking from between your legs.

Eren seemed to realize the gravity of the situation around the same time you did, sighing as he looked down at where you had met.

"Forgive me for acting so brash, but I've been wanting this for a long time. You must understand my unrest."

The apology came after he finally had pulled out, the sight of him still hard in his grasp making your mouth wet.

His touch had turned so gentle that it was almost foreign having him aid you back into the bath.

With a new sense of yearning, as he rested you with your back against his chest in between his legs, you sat welcoming the water's warmth as the back of your head rested against his shoulder.

Soaking in as much of his suddenly rare, gentle mood as you possibly could.

You knew that his love would come with some sort of flaw, but right now, you were in his arms, and that was all that mattered.

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[kimeoshi]

So if C!Ratio's image of his students changes from respecting their autonomy to forcing his ideals on them, how would that reflect on his views on Aventurine? We know from his conversation with the TB where he brings up Aven no matter what you say that he views him as someone he's guiding, along with that just being his whole thing, but it's clear he also has a lot of respect for Aventurine/his intelligence. What would C!Ratio's view/idea of a Successful student be, I guess?

I also wonder how it would be muddied with his personal feelings for Aven as opposed to his students?? You've definitely put a lot of thought into what a corrupted Ratio would look like and it's super interesting

I'm glad you enjoy my silly AU!! It... Honestly wasn't supposed to go further than one fanart HAHAH

Let's first consider how he sees people in general:

Those who have the privilege, the resources and integrity, yet still choose to live in ignorance will get taught a lesson by our doctor. This version of Ratio cannot accurately judge the goals of his students or those who are truly ignorant, and will become hostile at the slightest sign of resistance. You could imagine him as a version of himself which is impulsive and just as ignorant as his students, devoted to Erudition. He wants those who are in this position to be the same as him, someone who makes a successful student.

For clarity, standard Ratio's idea of success is someone who can be open-minded and ambitious, someone willing to grow (as he wants to cultivate a generation of independent thinkers). (this might sound so bullshitting idfk) C!Ratio's idea would shift more towards acquiring knowledge. And we do know how perfectionistic he is; not a lot of people would meet his standards.

As for personal feelings for Aven,

if the corruption is externally corrupted by something/someone: if we adhere to their canonical state of relation, I don't think much would change, stated for the above reasons. But if they were in a relationship, Ratio would be snappier and irritable in general. That would be all that changes (in Ratio's display of character towards Aventurine), yet it would be really easy for him to notice, even if Ratio is "playing favourites" with the gambler. If... however Aventurine doesn't notice it, it would really affect his well being as Ratio would exacerbate the rate of self-destruction within him; he'd gradually push him, caring less about his well-being the stronger the corruption gets. You could say that he stops recognizing his autonomy and freedom, more or less trying to fit him into a cookie-cut example of what he considers is the ideal path to follow.

if the corruption is internally imposed, as in corrupted by his own self: Ratio wouldn't even have batted an eye towards Aventurine or considered his intelligence or potential from the start. Why would he read into a foolish gambler's character and waste any further thoughts on him? Not that he despises him but he avoids him. Ultimately, Penacony would have gone a lot differently.

[foxritz]

My Lamb three main Disciples, there have been more in my playthrough but these are the ones I got attached the most and have more ideas around, so they are the ones getting added to my au with some tweaks and whatnot.

Thegrena "The First"

The Lamb first devoted follower, first to acquire the Disciple title, and first follower to be revived when Lamb learned the ritual. Hardworking, kind, patient, and unofficial second in charge whenever Lamb is out. It's common to find him sleeping by the base of the main shrine whenever Lamb is out crusading. He is often seen as a father figure by the other followers.

Arna "Golden Tooth"

Joined the cult very young, freedom bought from Helob. Constantly restless, he found himself more often than not following Thegrena around, aiding in whatever task was asked of him. For his charisma and ambition, but lack of greed, was early on given the position of Tax Enforcer. He is the youngest Disciple so far, with much less experience (or patience) for things such as rituals, more interested in activities that ask him to move around or bring materials.

Pheny "Pure of Heart"

One of Lamb's first followers (around the time Thegrena reached old age for the first time), died of old age and was brought back to life by the request of various followers missing her presence, Arna being the spokesperson of said petition. This second chance filled her with a new love for life, wanting to give it her all and enjoy every minute of it. She believes that the best way to honor death is to live a full life, so once she dies again, she will have no regrets holding her back, surrendering herself fully to the god of death.

[innaillus]

I really want to know what kinda relationship Sukuna has with your oc I kinda love it

Good question, thank you!

So at first, I didn't have an OC. I still think it's generous to call her that, since I never published a proper design or anything, and I'm doing my very best not to specify any facial features. (I think it happened once, because I couldn't come up with a way to efficiently censor/hide her and angle didn't help either.)

Originally it started with my headcanon about Sukuna's early life. I believe he used to have a wife, or at least a partner he was devoted to (whom then he lost in one way or the other, I think she was murdered). It started out with sketching him with somebody who could fit the Heian-period beauty standards (ie. the super long hair).

Despite this, I believe only a very few of my pieces depict them as I actually have them in my mind. (Basically the burial piece?) I think she was gone way before his transformation (provided his "true form" is something he acquired later). Most of the time her presence is symbolic, a memory, maybe an au-headcanon, or I use her as a placeholder to convey the idea of the act itself. (At least I hope to.)

...or who knows, she may have reincarnated at some point.

(apologies about the delay, it took me some time to put my thoughts in a concise format)

[teruuu]

Art I made way back when I started writing out the overall concept of my fanfic (damn I should’ve discovered my favorite pen sooner)

[chimivx]

‘…and when you’re gone, i’ll tell them my religion’s you…’

Jisung’s dreams are an arms length away, lying in the hands of his superior who gives him a test, one that challenges everything he’s ever known, a taste of a life so intriguing. It’s only a matter of time before he’s faced with a choice… Whose hands does he take?

✞ sacrilegious!minsung au ✞ 24k  { one of three } ✞  ‼️ 18+, sacrilegious- it says it up top, blasphemy, its all very religious, they live in a clergy home, religious imagery, praying, god/christ/lord usage, they’re all devoted, eventual explicit sexual content, alcohol use, cigarette smoking, mentions of drug usage, light cussing, sexual acts occur in the church, it costs nothing to keep scrolling, IF I FORGOT ANYTHING PLEASE LET ME KNOW !!

Three times.

Deafening, three chimes of the clock tower is all it took for Han Jisung to stretch his legs through the courtyard, skipping over the crooked cobblestones, slipping into the crack of the dilapidated wooden door of the clergy house. Just through the back door hanging on its hinges lived a kitchen, one always hot and steaming. The house's caretaker, Ann, slaved away day and night ensuring that the men who resided within the home were well fed and taken care of. Between long hours lost in books or prayer, Jisung has had his fair share of visits from Ann, the tall, hollow cheeked, grey haired woman knocking on his door into the hours of the night after he’s missed dinner, or if he’s left his light on for too long.

Many times he’s found himself being dragged out of the church by his collar, the elderly woman forcing a meal into the gangly boy with a waist no wider than the length of his forearm. While he’d sit on the stool beside the stove shoveling whatever it was she’d filled the bowl with for him, he’d listen to her scold the older men, the priests in the other room, damning them for working him too hard.

Sunday was the big day, Jisung couldn’t help himself, they were his favorite. Everything would be perfect, and they always were perfect, ever since he’d been granted the internship everything has been perfect.

If he ever caught himself lost in daydreams, gazing out the window at the land draped in green, the tans and beiges of the courtyards speckled with pink and purple flowers, he’d sometimes begin to wonder if that was why he’d never been offered a higher position. Everything’s perfect. If he were to acquire what he wanted the clergy would be forced to pick someone new to fill his, now, entirely too large shoes. The three priests who lived in the home, who preached in the church just next door, they’ve grown accustomed to Jisung and his perfectionism, though it’s the very thing that made him consider himself flawed.

He’s spoiled them rotten, and if not to excel himself forward in his career, his lifelong dream of becoming a preacher, showing off to the older men that he was worthy, that he was more than capable of reading his own sermons and shaking parish members hands after mass was held, being showered in their thanks, their gratitude- he did it to spite them. Not that he’d ever admit that. 

It was a feeling he’s swallowed down his entire life, one he’s often attempted to pray away. Not the overwhelming infatuation with being absolute perfection, but a constant berating need to be so terribly good that no one else could ever compare. 

Only one priest above him could come close in the race that was perfect intern. Christopher, a man five or so years older than Jisung who always wore his curly hair short and well kempt. A man who Jisung noticed liked to undo the first two buttons of his black shirt while he read in the study late into the night, a hand rolled cigarette burning between his plump lips that pursed as his eyes scanned over the words scattered about the page. Christopher took pride in being the one to hire Jisung, taking him beneath his wing, cracking jokes over drinks with the members that Jisung had surpassed him in expectations. That was how he knew it wasn’t his time. Until right now.

Quickly approaching two years of daunting tasks, cleaning for hours on end, preparing for masses, ensuring the hours of worship went exactly as planned, Jisung was instructed to meet with Christopher after he finished his duties in the sacristy. Organizing book after book, arranging throws of freshly cleaned fabrics, sorting through hundreds of candles, dusting antique gold, the second that tower told him it was three o’clock and that he was free to go, he bolted.

Years he’s worked for this, sleepless nights he’s acquitted for this, it was finally here, minutes away from falling right into his slender little hands. As he barreled through the kitchen, making sure to express his greetings to Ann who gave him nothing but a smile, he couldn’t help but begin to wonder what he’d be allowed to do first. Surely not Sunday’s mass, it was only two days away, he wouldn’t have enough time to prepare, and besides, Christopher was set to preach then. 

Breezing through a short hallway that toward the left led to a laundry room, and toward the right led to a small bathroom, Jisung stepped into the more than adequate living room with ample space to house three large couches around an apple wood table facing a fireplace with a structure that matched the cobblestoned sidewalks outside. To his right, a wall of glass outlined and accented in dark wood, the study, a room through the chestnut archway with bookcases for walls and comfortably cushioned chairs that Jisung has fallen asleep in once. Hardwood creaked beneath the sunken blue rugs all of the furniture sat upon, the house impossible to sneak around in. 

Behind the fireplace there was a staircase that matched the floors, hardwood that took one up to the second floor where four bedrooms fit the men with ease. Christopher in one right at the top of the stairs, the two other priests, Hyunjin, a quiet man who used to scare Jisung a bit, and Jeongin, the eldest and wisest, resided in the two bedrooms to the left of Christophers. Their three rooms were close to the stairs and big enough to house another person within it without feeling cramped. Jisung’s bedroom was shoved toward the back. Up the stairs to the right, down the hall and around a corner. A bathroom separated the pattern of rooms, but regardless, his room may as well be off the map. There certainly was little to no room to house anyone else with him.

With a promotion though, things could change. Jeongin did just hit his mid-thirties, certainly he wouldn’t want to live out his entire life in a home with three other men. Though he did appear to be the one most dedicated to his faith, following every little detail of every single scripture like his life depended on it, Jisung couldn’t imagine Jeongin living here forever. Perhaps a promotion meant other things would change as well. 

Passing by the staircase he calmed his racing heart with a deep breath, pushing the air deep into his chest, repeatedly telling himself to not get his hopes up too high. There was just no way that this was anything else, Christopher asking to meet with him, setting up an appointed time and everything. This had to be it. 

Tugging at the collar of his white button up Jisung stepped into a dark hallway standing in front of a white wooden door with a golden handle. The smell of cigarettes and musky cologne wafted through the cracks, through the broken keyhole beneath the knob. Christopher was here, he was already inside. Jisungs heart sprung up into his throat.

Wrapping his hand around the cool metal, Jisung pushed the door open with a breath, stepping into the sunlight that poured through the white linen curtains into the office. Unable to help the smile on his face, he grinned as he closed the door gently behind him, placing his hand flat to it for a few seconds before he turned to face Christopher, the broad shouldered man perched upon the edge of the large desk.

A cigarette hung from his lips, the glowing tip bobbing as he smiled larger than he already had been. “Jisung!” His deep, melodic voice echoed in the room full of chairs that matched the couches out in the living room, bouncing off bookshelves and filing cabinets.

Smile faltering as Jisungs eyes spotted another head in the room, dusty brown hair in a chair pointed toward Christopher, the boy took a couple steps forward and planted his focus on his superior.

“Christopher,” he breathed, nodding his head as if to bow to the older man who waved his formality away and beckoned him closer with a wag of his fingers. “I came as fast as I could.” Jisung started through the room, his focus forward.

“I’m sure you did,” Christopher said, something sly pulling at his lips, cigarette ash sprinkling onto the hardwood of the office. Jisung approached the desk and the priest gestured to a chair to the right of him. The other man in the room was seated to his left, dressed simply in slacks and a button down like Jisung, but with silver jewelry dripping from his wrists and his neck.

Glancing from the man who didn’t spare him a look just yet, Jisung set his gaze on Christopher as he sat down on the edge of the flattened cushion, a curiosity growing within him. 

Taking the rolled paper from between his teeth, the priest stood to his feet, adjusted his belt, then rounded the worn wood carved desk that had been set in this clergy house for decades. History was written within it, written on it, beaten into the top of the wood, whispers of clergy members' past left behind for future ones to remember, to protect. He sat down in the chair behind it with a creak and folded his hands, resting his muscled arms over the desk.

Christophers brown eyes darted between the two sitting before him, the ghost of a smile making a home on his plush lips. “Jisung, I’d like you to meet the newest member of our parish,” he said, eyes zeroing in on his intern. Trying to hide the breath that corrupted his lungs, Jisung folded his hands in his lap and pressed his lips together. 

Here we go.

They’ve found a new intern, someone to take his job from him, and he was about to be handed a new one. Interesting choice though, Jisung would tell Christopher later, considering this man wore a straight fringe over his forehead slightly parted toward the center, with silver jewelry wrapped around his joints, chains linked together like Jisung’s never seen before. His jaw, sharp, matched his nose in curvature, the details carved delicately. His features may as well have been handcrafted by Michelangelo himself. 

His neck, slender in size, had one of those silver chains wrapped around it, hugging it ever so perfectly. Beneath it lived another. Beneath that one, a cross, dangling between two milky buttons. It seemed ordinary, the shining cross generic, not like the one made of pure gold, encrusted with genuine jewels that hung around Jisungs neck. He tucked it into his shirt every morning. The crucifix belonged to his grandfather, a token passed down to him from his grandfather. When the time was to come, Jisung would hand it down to his grandson, hopefully after a marriage or when he would take up the family trade and work in the church, serving his God.

He appeared legitimate. Strong faced, proper posture though his legs were crossed, an attentiveness while Christopher spoke. His dark eyes, a deep brown, or a mahogany, or a warm, rich chocolate, they studied. Analyzed. So statuesque, when he turned his chin to look at Jisung, the boy nearly leapt back into place.

“This is Lee Minho,” Christopher said, holding out a hand toward the man who’s analytical gaze had gone cold. Rich milk chocolate turned dark and bitter, and Jisung didn’t like the way it tasted. Within seconds this man had gone from someone whom Jisung would like to get to know to someone who just set their boundaries without even opening his mouth.

Facing him completely, Jisung was now able to see just how beautifully crafted Minho's being had been blessed. Completely symmetrical, his eyebrows set in place above his eyes, two straight lines that set further boundaries for him, his slender lips, the top plumper than the bottom, softening the sharpness his edges created. This was a man who was to not be messed with. Every little siren, every red light going off, flashing in Jisung’s head told him plenty. 

Minho was here for business, he was going to get what he wanted, and Christopher made a mistake hiring him.

“Pleasure to meet you, Minho,” Jisung said, dipping his chin.

Something shifted within his jaw, a setting taking place as the analytical eyes flashed back onto his face. Then, he smiled, only the corners of his lips lifting, rounding the apples of his cheeks. “The pleasure is all mine, Jisung.” He didn’t seem to blink often. His eyelashes have dusted his cheek maybe three times since he’s looked at Jisung.

Beneath his gaze was hot. It wasn’t fun being on the receiving end of someone studying you. Since he was young Jisung has always been the studier, not the one being studied. If this was how everyone he’s been caught observing felt he’d regret every single one. Like Minho had reached over the chairs and wrapped his hands around Jisung’s neck, warmth crept up through his chest, his cheeks hopefully not turning pink. Air a foreign subject, the darkness within his eyes wound Jisung thoughtless, the bitterness laced with a charismatic charm. He felt so small. Minho had only been looking at him for not even a minute and he’d already established his dominance. His place.

Jisung could only suck in a breath when Minho turned to smile at Christopher.

“He’s moved down here from Soro,” the priest said, nodding toward Jisung, “and he’ll be working beside you. I wanted to formally introduce the two of you here.” Parting his lips, Jisung sat straight up, tucking his ankles beneath the chair, knitting them together. “I’ve already told Minho how great you’ve been, Ji. The straight A’s in school, the honors, the awards and degrees and all the decadence from every institution you’ve walked into and tribalized into your own.” Christopher glanced at Minho with a smirk. “He is the best of the best. You’re going to learn great things from him, and one day, because we have the space, you’ll be one of us.”

You’ll be one of us.

Jisung narrowed his eyes, pointing them back at Minho who shared a smile with Christopher, his teeth making an appearance, all perfect in a row.

Today was the day Jisung was supposed to be made one of them.

“We’ll find space for you in one of the bedrooms upstairs, though you may be paired with Hyunjin or myself. Jeongin, since he’s been here so long, we allow him this sort of seniority, you know, for lack of better terms to describe it. I’d say that you could room with Jisung, but I’m not sure the space is enough. Though it’d be perfect, wouldn’t it?” Christopher smiled at Jisung, the boy now watching him with his brows nestled above his eyes. “The two of you will be spending a lot of time together, it’d make sense to share a room, Minho, you’d be a pro in no time.”

He couldn’t get a read on the situation at hand, couldn’t make sense of it. Picking it apart, putting it back together, it was too simple. Too simple for Jisung to come up with something logical to explain why he hadn’t been granted a higher position. Now that Minho had arrived, he’d been hired, taken under here at the house like Jisung had been two years ago by Christopher… Or, maybe, that was it.

Jisung’s last and final task.

Lee Minho.

Something about it didn’t feel right, however. Whether it be the way Minho carried himself or the way his eyes seemed to devour Jisung on the spot. It’d be a challenge. As threatening as he came off, Jisung mentally prepared himself to take this on, to whip Minho into shape and mold him into Han Jisung quality. No matter how painful the matter appealed to Minho, a certain dread was written on his face whenever his gaze brushed over Jisung, the man bobbing his clenched jaw while Christopher spoke, spilling more stories of Jisung and his successes.

He came from Soro, this man with the bitterness steaming out of his ears, a town poorly developed with only one church in the center of the madness they considered community. Jisung had visited twice. Once on his own while enrolled in his years at university, and another with Christopher, accompanying his senior on a matter of business, an exchanging of private documents that Jisung has yet to read with his own eyes.

That trip had only happened a few months ago, sometime in the spring. He supposed Soro wasn’t so bad then, the flowers along the streets reminded him of here, Avida, home. Trees greener than green lined streets of cracked pavement and misery, an immediate heaviness invading his chest when the car crossed the lines of Tamoe, the neighboring town, and sped them deep into Soro. It wasn’t a nice place to be in terms of people and behavior, Jisung had been told his entire childhood to avoid it.

The only reason he’d ventured there on his own after he’d turned eighteen… His own pure, impulsive curiosity. Jisung needed to know. Sitting beside his treacherous perfectionism, one throne below, his insatiable need for knowledge.

Lee Minho came from Soro, from that church he’d visited months ago with Christopher. In fact, he may have even been there when Jisung stepped through the gnarled wooden doors accented in faded bronze and tarnished gold. The tiled floors needed to be redone, the pattern had been chipped, the colors dingy from years of dirty shoes treading over them, like no one took the time to scrub between the grout. His heart seconds away from sinking in as he tipped his chin backward, up toward the high ceilings as he walked and found dust layered on the ornaments, cobwebs hanging from chandeliers with flickering bulbs.

Jisung had been able to care for his church for years without help, on his own, with the occasional five minutes of straightening up after a service by the priest. How someone could and would allow their sacred place, their sanctuary, to be so mistreated, it drove him mad. It fueled the passion he held for his own church. He would never see it turned to what he experienced that day, he wouldn’t stand for it. Priest or intern, Jisung intended to care for what he loved.

Minho came from this church. He must have. If he was their intern, or something of the sorts, if he worked for them, it meant he had taken part in the church becoming so desolate. Uncared for. Messy and one gust of wind away from ruin.

This would be a challenge. Jisung would need to watch him like a hawk.

“I’m very happy to be here,” Minho said, his voice like a needle to the skin, like the rest of him. He stood to his feet, his slacks loosening around his thighs. Stretching a hand toward Christopher who also rose out of his chair, the priest grabbed onto it and shook it with vigor. 

“Spend the rest of your time today getting acquainted with the place.” Christopher's grin made Jisung’s skin crawl. How he could hold his hand innocently without a second thought as to who he was allowing into this parish… They walked into that church together. They experienced the heaviness together. And Christopher now held it by the hand and welcomed it into his home. Their home. Jisung’s home.

Minho thanked the priest, then turned to Jisung who sprung to his feet. Stepping closer to the boy, the bitterness evident in his eyes, Minho held out a hand, one Jisung took out of pure submission, not knowing what else to do. His grip, strong, tight, dismantled any chance of defense Jisung could muster up. His hand engulfed Jisung’s entirely, his fingers reaching his forearm, the digits probably capable of making a perfect circle around his wrist. In more ways than one, Minho was much larger than him. With him standing on his feet he towered over Jisung by a few inches, looking down at him, his eyelashes unmoving.

That energy from before that rendered him breathless came back, a weight sitting on his chest, triggering a tingling within his veins, a nervousness. Tearing his hand away Jisung shoved them in his pockets and glanced toward the floor, swearing that Minho snickered to himself as he turned back toward Christopher who sat back down his desk. 

“Thank you for this opportunity, Father,” Minho said, a smile on his lips, one Jisung could hear. Bowing his head Christopher smiled back and gestured toward the door. With one more look down at the boy in front of him, Minho blinked and the smile wiped from his cheeks instantaneously. “Shall I meet you outside?”

Jisung cleared his throat and pressed his palms to his thighs within his pockets. Shaking his hair aside, he met Minho’s eyes and stuttered before pushing, “I’ll come find you,” from his lips, just above a whisper. Three seconds of silence passed, then Minho removed himself from the room, his shoes clicking on the hardwood until the door was pulled shut.

“Jisung,” Christopher said softly, allowing the boy to take however long he pleased to look at him. To his surprise, it took no time at all. Jisung, with his hands pressed to his legs, bounded for the front of the desk, twisting his eyebrows together. Christopher froze, his jaw agape with lost words between his teeth.

“No warning at all,” the boy whispered, tightening his jaw. “Do you know how-” Jisung cut himself short, shoving the tip of his thumb between his front teeth. Christopher waited with a patience unknown to the pistol in front of him. “Why blindside me?” Jisung took a breath, dropping his hand to his side. “I’ve been here two years, I’m in full control of this position, and you throw me this.”

Christopher shifted in his chair, sitting backward. “It was sprung on us, Ji, I had no choice but to do it this way. I’m well aware of the high standards you hold yourself to, and you know we admire you as you are, but keep that ego in check.” Jisung gulped, lowering his glare to the wood of the desk. “Show some humility. Minho came from a place that couldn’t shelter him, he needs our support. Welcome him, show him around. You remember your first day here, don’t you?”

“I do,” Jisung whispered, looking the priest in the eye. “I was twenty, about to turn twenty one, and I held within my heart a desire to serve you, to serve Hyunjin and Jeongin, to serve our Lord, and continue this journey in my faith.” A smile tugged at Christopher's lips. “With a single bag on my shoulder I left my parents behind, whom I served all my years prior, and I devoted my life to you. To Christ.”

Nodding once, Christopher thought with his hand, drawing it around in a circle before pointing it toward Jisung, stating the obvious that flew over the boy's head. “Jisung,” he breathed, taking the fingers to the bridge of his nose, “I admire your devotion, I really do. If anything, that is where you outdo all three of us.” Christopher looked at the boy, his wide, somewhat saddened mocha colored eyes and his fluffy hair laying over his forehead. “I know what you expected, coming here today,” he lowered his voice, “I feel sorry for not being able to give it to you.”

Jisung pressed his fingers to his palms, willing away the urge to snap at him out of frustration. It wasn’t his fault, Christopher was a mere pawn for the bishop to play with, giving his orders for the priest to flesh out within his own parish. All over the country it worked this way, Jisung knew his place, he knew Christopher’s place. While in this house he was the one to carry out these decisions made together with the three of them, most of the time they were ordered by the bishop to follow through, which in turn meant Christopher had to follow through.

Hyunjin argued he was too softhearted to deal with being the bearer of bad news, even good news, any news at all. He didn’t want the responsibility in his hands, he knew Christopher had a clearer way of speaking, of relaying his thoughts. A confident charisma. Jeongin had the position before and simply didn’t want it any longer. When Christopher came around the eldest handed it over with little worry that he wouldn’t be able to live up to the expectations. Like Jisung, Christopher straight away proved himself more than worthy.

“You deserve it,” the priest said, and Jisung softened. “Trust me on that, Ji. You of all people deserve to be where we are,” he paused for a moment, making the boy look up at him, then, he whispered, “You just have to do this one last thing. I promise.”

“He’s come from Soro, Chris.” Jisung’s concern spread onto his face, his soft cheeks.

The priest hung his head for all of two seconds. “I know,” he whispered.

“The church of Saint Denis,” Jisung continued on, “We both walked through it. That’s where he’s come from, isn’t it?”

“He’s right out there, Ji, why don’t you go find out for yourself?” Christopher leaned forward onto his desk, his hands folding over a grey folder full of papers with 1959 written on the front. A full report of the year so far, the records, the history made. Some type of paperwork from Minho would be in there, just like Jisungs was in the folder labeled 1957. “You could make a friend, you know, he’s not much older than you. Surely you can’t enjoy spending all of your time with us old people.”

Jisung cracked a smile, one Christopher returned. “You’re only thirty, I’ve just turned twenty four. We’re not so different.”

“Ah,” the priest raised his chin and his brows, “So you think.” Pressing his lips together he flickered his eyes toward the closed door and sighed. “Go, Jisung. I’ll be here if you need me, but I have no doubt that you can handle this on your own.”

Jisung stepped out of the office, pulling the door closed behind him quietly, always careful to not disturb the peaceful air that hung about the house. The priests moved just the same, quietly, with a poised purpose and a courtesy to the other men that resided within the cinder block walls. After speaking with Christopher Jisung’s doubts for dealing with Minho had faded somewhat, that is until he turned within the dimly lit hallway and found him perched against the wall opposite of him.

Arms folded over his chest, over the cross that hung from his neck, he had one foot on the wall, the other outstretched before him. That stone cold look was on his face, and it felt as if Jisung hadn’t spoken to Christopher at all. In a single look Minho could swallow him whole and spit him back out, only to devour him once more, finish him off. Jisung, not usually uncomfortable in front of new people, part of the reason why he was so certain he could preach in a room full of utter strangers, felt nervous. Especially now that he stood here alone with the man.

Somehow, beneath the chilling rest of his face, Minho wore the ghost of a smirk, a reminder to Jisung of that arrogant snicker that left him in a breath so quiet that Christopher couldn’t hear it. Jisung wondered if the priest would even believe him if he told him about it.

“Uh, I’ll be honest with you,” Jisung willed his breath to remain steady, “I wasn’t prepared to give out any tours today.”

Minho’s eyes looked from Jisung’s attempt at a smile, then drew back up to his eyes. “That’s not very star student of you, is it?”

Lips parting in shock, Jisung couldn’t tell if it was sarcasm or not. “I just… No one told me that you were coming, I didn’t have the chance to…”

His smirk grew ever so slightly, his fingertips pressing into the fabric of his white shirt around his biceps. “Relax, Han Jisung, I’m messing with you.” Pushing off the wall with one foot, Minho took a step closer to the boy. “Besides, you’d be able to pull something out of your ass in seconds wouldn’t you?” 

“Oh,” Jisung sighed, his eyes widening. “We don’t use profanities on property.”

The dark chocolate of his eyes danced around Jisung’s face, the analytic showing through once again. “‘Course you don’t,” he said above a whisper, narrowing his glare slightly. “Apologies, Han Jisung.”

Tilting his head, the boy let out a quiet laugh. “You can call me Jisung.”

“How old are you, Jisung?”

The intensity of his stare had the boy rocking on his feet. “I’ve just turned twenty four a little over a week ago.”

Minho was a statue. “Happy Birthday.”

“Thank you,” Jisung whispered. “And… and, you?” 

“I’ll be twenty six in about a month.”

“That’s great,” Jisung swallowed, hard, “We’ll certainly celebrate, Hyunjin is a stickler for recognition and tradition. He’s our feeler, if you will.” Minho turned from him, releasing the strangling hold he had over Jisung, the boy feeling like he was allowed to breathe again. He studied the walls and the next room while Jisung spoke. “Christopher’s the brains, as you can probably tell, you go to him if you have any issues or things you need to work out. Jeongin, he’s rarely seen unless it’s for meals or prayer, but he’s our scholar. A teacher. I learned a lot from him and I continue to do so, if you ever need to-”

Minho turned to face him abruptly, cutting him clean off. “And what of you, Han Jisung?” 

“I’m- I’m sorry?” Jisung stuttered, shaking his head. Minho prodded his cheek with his tongue.

“Come on, don’t get humble on me now.” Minho smiled. He actually smiled, and Jisung’s knees buckled. “You’re all three of them wrapped into one, aren’t you?” 

Jisung never thought about this. He was always his own entity. Sure, he was inspired by the priests he worked for, but he’d never compare himself to them. Every move he made was his own. 

“I- I never… I don’t think I’d say that,” Jisung laughed, a nervousness wavering within it, “The three of them, they’re extraordinary, the best our church has seen in years, I cannot compare.”

Minho dropped his gaze down to Jisungs shoes and allowed it to drag up his stature with ease. Jisung longed to shrivel into a ball of nothing. “Interesting.” A curiosity burned where the bitterness once lived. “Han Jisung of Avida, belonging to the Saint Joseph Calasanz Church, astronomically successful in his schooling which then led him to his position here working alongside the best and the brightest?”

Mouth suddenly dry, Jisung gave a meek nod. “That’s… that’s me.”

“I feel like…” Minho paused, walking closer to the boy, a few inches between them. Jisung held his breath. Lifting a hand above the boy's head, Minho measured a foot of air. “I feel like you need to be here,” he muttered. Jisung blinked fervently, pointing his eyes up at his hand, then to his face where he believed a smile was resting. Minho moved his hands to Han’s shoulders, hovering them above the white cotton, then extended them outward. “And, here.” 

They met eyes and Jisung pursed his lips, Minho blinking down at him.

“You’re so…”

“Small?” Jisung offered, a mere squeak from his squished lips. 

Minho squinted, his lips crinkling. “Hm, no, I was going to say awkward,” Jisung gasped, his eyes shooting open, making Minho laugh, “But, small works, too. Maybe you are somewhat self aware, Han Jisung.”

The boy cringed. “Call me Jisung.”

Rubbing his lips together, Minho then nodded, and said, “Okay, Jisung.” Stepping backward, he nodded behind him. “Work your star student magic, this is a test. How perfect will this tour be?”

With one word he managed to wreck the ‘he’s kind of alright’ image Jisung attempted to build. Here in this hallway, within a few minutes, Minho undid what he’d done in the office, but with one word tangled it all back up again.

He’s the test.

Lee Minho, the challenge.

A cathedral stretching tall into the greying skies of the September-esque weather lived cozily on the edge of the massive green plot of land, the clergy house situated directly behind it, hidden by the peaks and towers atop the church. Around it, the crooked cobblestones, the path winding around the building on both sides, meeting the grand staircase that led up to the delicately carved, well preserved double doors that one often needed two hands to pull open. Along the grainy bricks of pure stone that made the two stories of the church were gardens of flowers and freshly trimmed hedges and bushes alike.

Trees lined up, separated by four feet of space on the other side of the cobblestones would grow across the way, their branches hanging over the paths, creating a canopy of sorts, granting passerbyers a break from the beating sun. Soon the green would settle, and the happy hues would turn a warm yellow, and orange, a comfort, the leaves one day covering the stones. 

Oftentimes when it’d rain in autumn, they’d become so slippery that one would have the hardest time rushing from place to place. An act that took Jisung three times to learn. One can only hit the ground with books stacked in their arms so many times before realizing the leaves were trying to teach him something.

Everyday when he passes through the alleyway, the small strip of stone between the church and the house, he’s reminded to slow down. To breathe. To take his time. To think things through.

The round stones laughed at him, rattling as he stepped over them with Minho trailing behind, the man lagging by a few steps, hanging behind Jisung as they walked throughout the house, brushed by Ann in the kitchen and stepped outside to the overcast skies. 

“She’s always in that kitchen,” Jisung said, wiggling the heavy back door to the clergy house open so that Minho could follow him out. The wood drug, caught along the concrete of the step. Minho, once outside, tipped his chin backward, his stoic gaze taking in the church and its size. “Ann is kind,” Jisung said, forcing the door shut with both hands, then joined Minho at his side, “As long as you’re kind to her.”

“Learned that the hard way, did you?” Minho asked, shifting only his eyes sideways to look at the boy who shrugged. 

“Ever since I’ve been here she’s been kind.” Jisung stepped off the concrete and onto the colored stones, starting for the back door of the church. “Christopher used to tell me I was lucky that I didn’t deal with her rigidness the first few weeks. Both Jeongin and him endured it, before they earned her trust.” 

Three strides. 

Jisung grabbed the shining handle and twisted it, yanking the door open with ease, a blast of heavy, musky, incense filled air washing over him. Glancing over his shoulder, Minho was already there peering inside, his jaw closed tight. With a slight jump, startled, Jisung whirled himself around and stepped inside.

“What of Hyunjin?” Minho asked, letting the door close gently behind him, one of his hands guiding it shut. Dim light engulfed them. A soft glow from the stained glass, well sheltered windows illuminated the space, but nothing more. 

Having taken to putting things in their place already, as if he wasn’t here an hour ago, Jisung straightened out some books and gave Minho a curious look. “What about him?”

“You didn’t mention him,” the man said, his voice the quietest it’s been. Inside the sacristy, a room half the size of the sanctuary that resided through the curtain on the archway and outside the double doors behind that, the air was still. Every sound that they made became incredibly muted, yet entirely loud for either of them. Almost sound proof. The fabrics hanging around, draped on the walls, and the books lining the shelves acted as a barrier, a different type of sanctuary.

Minho stepped around with a caution, hands in his pockets, letting his eyes do the discovery of the cluttered, yet organized space around him. His gaze fell upon Jisung a few times, the boy never happy with the placement of something.

“That’s because the two of them started like Ann and I,” he reached above his head, rising to his tiptoes, pushing a line of books back on the shelf so that they were in line with the rest. 

Minho stopped behind a table with wooden chests stacked on top of it, little and large and all sizes in between. Dragging his middle finger along the edge of one he popped the yellow gold latch open and lifted the lid an inch. Three thick cream colored candles laid inside, every single one of them in their purest form, perfect and untouched. When Jisung turned toward him, wiping his hands on his slacks, Minho closed the lid and met his eyes.

“Hyunjin joined our parish when he was a child.” Jisung came to Minho’s side, his attention dropping the table where he flicked the latch of the chest to lock it, then brushed his hand over the lid, wiping away imaginary dust. “He’s lived here in Avida all his life, his parents belonged to the church.” Minho watched Jisung work, yanking at the chests, pulling them out of place just to put them back where they started. “He decided what he wanted to do with his life when he was very young, and he’s been working here since age ten.”

A smile tugged at Minho’s lips. “Someone more ambitious than yourself, I see.”

Jisung straightened himself out, taking in the amusement that trickled onto Minho’s expression. It jostled something within him. Jisung couldn’t place if it were frustration or anger, or both. The feeling wasn’t debilitating, he could handle it, he wouldn’t let it fuel his response. Swallowing it down, fingers curling over top of a wooden chest, Jisung bobbed his head and blinked.

“I, uh, I suppose so,” he said, willing his tone to be strong, telling himself to ignore the comment. Minho’s the challenge, he was meant to come with these types of hurdles. The frustration settled in further as Minho’s amusement grew. 

“How old is Ann, anyway?” he asked, dropping his eyes to the table and Jisungs clenched fist. His eyelashes fanned along his prominent cheekbones. With a breath, Jisung shrugged.

“No one knows,” he said, and Minho looked up at him. He glowed in the splashes of color from the windows, the warm tones setting his skin alight with a blush Jisung wasn’t sure Minho would be able to produce naturally. Shadows contoured his already chiseled jaw and nose, deepening his artisan aura.

Jisungs frustration threatened to turn sour. No man's appearance ever filled Jisung with envy, his faith wouldn’t allow it. 

‘All men are created equal.’

‘We are all equally made in God’s image.’

‘Every human being is the object of the love of God.’

Through his word Jisung has never needed to feel inferior, nor has he ever been presented with a situation where he’d feel less of himself. Standing here with Minho, since he’s laid eyes on him in the first place at that, he begins to assume that that's what this feeling is. It has to be. An envy of how perfectly symmetrical his features had been placed, a jealousy being spurred on by the utter man he was. Strong, wide, taller than Jisung. A man who’s filled out his face and knows how to fix his hair. A man who knew what to say to knock Jisung down a peg when for two years he’s been living in a comfortable solidarity that everything he’d been doing was perfect.

Jisung couldn’t remember to comb his curls some mornings, not when there was work to do. The mess would hang over his forehead, the black locks brushing his eyebrows unless they were pushed backward from his forehead hours into work. He wasn’t tall, nor would he consider himself strong. Compared to most men, including all three in the clergy house, Jisung’s probably half of what each of them weighed. His clothes hung off of him, his belts desperately clinging to his waist to keep his slacks in place. He was small.

Growing up he’d never been an object of affection, not that it was his goal, nor was it ever really a thought. Girls in school would pay attention to him, but he’d go through his days without needing that attention like other boys would. The matter never bothered him, he had his school work to worry about, he couldn’t see why some of his old friends would waste time running after girls. Little did he know his round cheeks, fluffy hair and gentle build were what the girls wanted.

Inferiority. That’s the feeling Minho gave Jisung. That was the lesson to be learned here.

Puffing out his chest, or attempting to, Jisung nodded toward the curtain. “Shall we continue?” 

Minho relaxed his face and blinked. “You’ve not told me about this room.”

God, why did he talk like that?

“Surely a man of your expertise who can land a job like this knows what room this is, Minho,” Jisung said, snapping his jaw shut. With a harsh turn of his body he hurried away from him, tugging the curtain in the curved archway aside. 

Through the archway was a long, skinny hallway stretching to the right and left, both ends winding around to the front of the church’s entrance hall where the double doors and grand staircase hugged the outside. Along the hall were a few doors to offices, small rooms where records were held or where the priests would work for church matters only. The floor, covered in marble tile outside of the carpeted sacristy, shone in the light fading in through the small rectangular windows built into the walls just below the tall ceiling.

Jisung flew through the double doors, the sound of them being pulled open echoing into the spacious sanctuary, the church. Hidden behind the altar, a tall marble structure that built into the ceiling, Jisung ascended a staircase of five steps, matching the tile of the floor, and took a moment to himself. Closing his eyes, folding his hands over his chest, he breathed in the crisp air laced with nostalgia and released with the quick mutter of a prayer, one his father and his father before him taught him.

‘Oh Jesus, my King and Lord, by the grace of the heavenly Father and the power of the Holy Spirit, guide me in all righteousness as I serve You today at the Altar so I may be always worthy of Your presence.’

Engraved in his mind since he was a young child, Jisung recited the words aloud, whether quiet or with his chest, whenever he was to cross the altar or approach it. A sacred place, the most intriguing part of all for Jisung. The body and blood of Christ, the Bible, one that’s met the hands of priests from centuries before Jisung, before Christopher, before Jeongin.

Unlit cream candles upon it now, in their golden candelabras matching the sconces along the pristine walls of the church, ones Jisung has replaced and scrubbed clean again and again. The altar, free of any objects now aside from the candles as there was no mass taking place, glittered in the sunlight of the fading afternoon. Along both walls that seemed a mile high lived matching sets of stained glass windows telling the story of Christ, of the Virgin Mary and her life's journey with her one and only son. In the four o’clock hour now the sun poured in casting rays over the chestnut pews that Jisung adored much more when they were full of smiling faces, old and young.

Walking across the front of the altar, many steps above the church, looking down into the pews, he imagined what it’d feel like to stand here in a sanctuary full of people. Full of worshipers like himself, their eager ears listening to what he’d have to say, his own homilies, his own take on the scripture left behind for their naked eyes looking for direction. A direction he’d give them, he’d guide them, he’d take them someplace unimaginable, a place full of hope and undying love.

“This place is huge.”

Startled once again Jisung’s shoulders ate his ears, his heart leaping into his throat.

“I’m sorry,” Minho muttered, and Jisung could hear the smirk he wore. Turning to face him, evidently he didn’t wear much on his face which was somehow worse. Standing on the altar within the town's most beautiful, most prestigious church, walking into it for the first time he didn’t show an ounce of appreciation in his stoic self. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Jisung sighed, giving his head a shake. “You’re sneaky,” he said quickly, shoving his hands into his pockets. Averting his attention to the altar behind him and the angelic statues situated above and around it, he took another longing deep breath. “Are you always so quiet, Minho?” Stepping up to the shining altar Jisung took out a hand and placed it on top, the marble cool to the touch, soothing his frustrations within. 

The man’s feet scuffed along the floor, alerting Jisung he was moving closer to him. “I suppose I am,” he said. He snuck up to Jisung’s side, placing a hand on top of the altar. Continuing his slow stroll he rounded the side, dragging his fingers along the marble until he was across from Jisung, their hands mirroring each other, fingers splayed out to cover as much space as they possibly could. Three feet separated them physically, but the moment Jisung looked into his eyes it was as if the air between them ceased to exist.

“Your church in Soro,” Jisung said, keeping his voice low though it bounced around the vacant space without even trying. “The Church of Saint Denis.” Minho’s eyes shifted to the marble, his chin maintaining its height. “That’s where you’ve come from, isn’t it?” He nodded in answer, his brown eyes taking back to Jisungs, now a grappling hold. “I wanted to ask you if it was alright… I’ve visited before, and-”

“I know you have,” Minho whispered. Jisung clamped his jaw shut. The mans demeanor didn’t change, but Jisung did not like the way those words spewed from his lips. “And I know what you’re going to say, Han Jisung.” Every pause between his words festered a nervousness in Jisung’s gut. “I encourage you to not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned.”

Jisung hung his head. “I know the words,” he whispered. “Please accept my apology, it was not my intention to offend.”

“You really do live your life by the book, don’t you?” Minho asked within a breath after a beat of silence. Jisung looked to him in surprise, eyes wide and shining, finding Minho waiting for an answer with baited breath, his own gaze engrossed in a curiosity Jisung couldn’t make out. “Surely I thought you’d be able to weasel the information you wanted out of me, or you’d fight back with something smarter, more obscure than Matthew or Luke, but… Simple words from simple passages and you’ve been subdued.”

Jisungs fingers on the altar moved into a fist. Minho took note. “The words aren’t simple, they’re sacred, as are the passages.”

“Of course they are,” Minho said, beginning to round the other side of the altar, approaching Jisung with a tenacity. “The word of the Lord.” Pausing at his side, Jisung turned his chin to look up at him. “Have you never wondered what life would be like if they were wrong?”

“Never,” Jisung whispered.

“Have you never looked on the outside, have you never challenged the text, never thought your own thoughts? Never wondered why we’re confined to the rules within the passages written by, and translated by people of the past again and again, where something could’ve and may have been misread?”

That frustration Jisung attempted to hide away leapt into his chest, his blood boiling beneath his skin, a disbelief clouding his expression as this man stood inches away from him, a man he’s to share his position with. A man speaking words Jisung has never before attempted to think about in his life. He’s never seen the other side, he’s never wanted to. Never has his curiosity ever threatened to drag him that way, never threatened to take him down a path that goes against everything he’s ever known.

“I challenge you to do so. It wouldn’t just open you up to empathy beyond your imagination, it would broaden your perspective as a preacher. How do you expect to stand up here in front of hundreds of imperfect people looking for answers if you don’t even understand where they’ve gone wrong to have the need or the desire to sit within these pews? Every person you’ve ever met, every person you will preach in front of has sinned somewhere in their life whether or not you have, Han Jisung.”

Jisung gulped, willing his voice strong enough, he said above a whisper, “I liked you better when you were quiet.”

A toothy smile flashed onto Minho’s face, knocking Jisung breathless. “And I like you just the way you are, Jisung.” He held onto his eyes for a few more seconds before directing his attention toward the entrance hall doors that seemed a mile away. “The choir sings from there, correct?” Minho gestured a hand to the second floor balcony that opened up above the church, shoved toward the back behind all of the pews so the voices in the choir would shower down onto the churchgoers.

“Yes,” Jisung said, unable to produce anything else to plead his case, or argue back. Minho knew it too, and that killed Jisung tenfold. The amusement in the man's cheeks made him sick. 

“Take me there,” he said, looking at Jisung, knowing.

The boy sighed and glanced up to the balcony nestled under the painted ceilings of the cathedral, saints and angels dancing about the blues and whites of the ethereal sky. “Ann will have us for dinner soon, we shouldn’t take too long. It’s your first dinner, that’s important for her.” It also explains why she’s been working in the kitchen since early afternoon. She only did so for special occasions, Jisung should’ve seen Minho coming.

Putting his hands in his pockets, Minho, still wearing a smile, said, “The clock hasn’t struck five. When it does we’ll head back, I’m not done here yet.” Jisung didn’t have anything to say, he was entirely defeated, pacified. “Not done with you, either.”

Within the warm kitchens brick walls there was a table that could seat six and this evening five of those chairs were occupied. Sitting at the end of the table Jisung had Christopher to his left and Hyunjin to his right. Beside Hyunjin sat Jeongin who took a sudden interest in the house's newest addition, Minho, sitting at the other end of the table, directly across from Jisung. In the yellow glow from the light fixture mounted into the ceiling the men ate, they sipped their wine, and they laughed.

Conversations flowed through stories of the past, Jeongin ensuring that Minho knew his fair share of history before he retired for the night. The eldest telling stories meant that his first descendant below him was correcting him, Hyunjin flashing looks at Jisung that were making him giggle when Jeongin would get details all wrong.

“You’re thirty six, have you left your memory in the first half of your thirties?” Hyunjin hollered, outstretching an arm to shove Jeongin’s elbow off the table, the man with neatly styled hair scoffing at the one with hair that grew down his neck. Thin, half rimmed glasses sat on the end of his button nose, Hyunjin tossing his head back with a laugh, catching the spectacles before they fell to the floor. “I mean seriously, Yang, pull yourself together, it’s no wonder you can’t keep your mother happy.” 

Snickers sounded around the group, Christopher nearly spitting out his wine across the table at Hyunjin. Jisung laughed along with them, picking at his plate of various meats and veggies. The others had scarfed it down it seemed, the moment they were presented with the food it was gone in a flash. Even Minho at the other end of the table, he filled up a plate after watching the elders do so and had dug right in. Acting as if he’d been here for months, Minho slipped into the laughter and chatter with ease, asking all the right questions at the right time.

At Jisungs first dinner the boy couldn’t shut his mouth. Full of excitement that bled everywhere on top of everyone, he overwhelmed them with questions, with statements, with facts. The elders couldn’t get the information out fast enough, they were forced to, otherwise Jisung would begin assuming things on his own. They learned quickly that night that his brain worked faster than his mouth, more often than not that first dinner his foot may as well have been on the plate because it made a happy home in his mouth.

With Minho, maybe it was his age. Jisung was a mere child when he started. Minho has had years of practice in another church, he was about two years older than Jisung, so it wasn’t a wonder as to why this socializing came easy to him. He portrayed himself a different Minho than Jisung had just spent two whole hours with, however. For some reason once he shook the hands of Hyunjin and Jeongin it was like a wall melted away. At the table tonight as he smiled at him, the rigidness of his being didn’t exist.

Until he’d spare a glance toward Jisung moving food around on his plate with his fork knitted tightly in his fingers. Then the walls built back up.

Maybe Minho was right, maybe Jisung was just awkward.

“A working memory is important to women,” Christopher said, adding to the teasing of Jeongin. Tipping his glass toward him, he pulled his lips down into a smile and laughed.

Jeongin exchanged a glance with Minho who took a sip of his wine, enthralled with the discussion. “You’d know all about that Christopher, wouldn’t you?” 

“Oh, you’re a nuisance!” Christopher threw a hand toward him, sitting back in his chair. Jisung nibbled his bottom lip and gave a look to the man to his left. As if he could feel it, Christopher looked back at him while the men talked amongst themselves. “He’s kidding, Ji. Don’t you let those words get stuck in your head.”

“A joke from years ago, Jisung,” Jeongin said, turning the attention back on himself. “Before his sudden switch to God's grace your role model there was quite popular with the ladies.” A small smile took to Jisungs lips as he glanced to Christopher.

“You’ve never told me this before,” Jisung said, and the older man shrugged, sipping his wine.

“It was never important,” he muttered. “Besides,” he sighed, sitting forward, setting his glass on the table, “It was why I made the sudden switch. Women are wonderful gifts from God, but involvement with the wrong kind and you’ll be wishing for more than forgiveness.” Christopher gave the boy a look that informed him he’d speak of it later, that now was not the time.

“What about you, Jisung?”

The question shot a hole into his gut. Christophers face lit up, his eyes darting every which way, Hyunjin furrowed his brows, and Jeongin chuckled aloud. Meeting eyes with the man who asked the question, Jisung tightened his grip on his fork. The insecurities he felt looking at his face seemed to double beneath the pressure of the question.

When it took a few seconds for him to sort out his thoughts, the older men around him attempted to answer for him.

Hyunjin uttered, “Jisung is a sweet boy.”

“Our Jisung certainly wouldn’t think that way, not after all he’s been through,” Jeongin said.

Christopher listened, then added, “He’s so one track minded, I’ll be shocked if he…”

Minho held up a hand with a smile and slight roll of his eyes. “Let him answer for himself,” he huffed a laugh, and the men around him agreed. How? Jisung wasn’t sure, because if he were him he’d be reprimanded until the following morning. “Seems you all need to learn about it, too, let’s see what he has to say.”

Four sets of eyes burned into him, Jisung only able to stare into the ones that taunted him from the other end of the table. Sitting backward in his chair, his legs crossed, his silver cross hanging over his chest, he was smug as ever. In seconds he’d been able to tug him right back into the church, on top of the altar where he blatantly asked him of his sins. And now, here he was, at the dinner table with men who have become his family, asking him again.

Christopher may have been able to admit it, his history before he ventured into the church, but Jisung? Not only was there nothing to admit, nothing to say, but there was a disgust that grew there in that empty spot, and Jisung couldn’t place why.

“No,” Jisung whispered, glancing down at his full plate he certainly wasn’t touching now.

“No?” Christopher asked, his voice soothing the harshness this once comfortable setting was turning into. Jisung dropped his fork and tossed the napkin from his lap onto the table. “Ji,” Christopher nearly shouted as the boy pushed his chair back abruptly. 

Standing to his feet, Jisung threw his hands out to his sides and looked over the men around the slab of wood. “How can you all sit here and have this conversation? I preferred the stories, or when we discussed scripture, not women.”

“We weren’t even discussing it, it was only a question, we’ll move on,” Hyunjin said, willing Jisung to sit with a wave of his hand. The boy grabbed the back of the chair and shoved it under the table, rattling the glasses on the surface as he did.  

“Han, sit down,” Jeongin said, acquiring a look from Minho.

“No, I’m sorry, I can’t,” the boy muttered, dragging a hand through his curls, exposing his forehead. Without another second or another peace offering from one of the men, Jisung turned on his heels and hurried from the kitchen, through the living room and up the stairs. He left them in silence, feeling sick and hungry all at once.

“Strong sense of justice that one has,” Jeongin said, shaking his head. “Even jokes he can’t take.”

“But, it wasn’t a joke,” Hyunjin said, his voice smooth and melodic, entrancing Minho every time he spoke. “It was a legitimate question, he has every right to feel upset or uncomfortable.”

“Of course you would say that,” Jeongin muttered, reaching for his wine.

Hyunjin jutted his head backward. “You know how he is, Jeongin, it’s not like this is the first time you’ve met him, Jisung has stormed away from this table more times than I can count. Even when we’ve had guests, members of other parishes here with us, other priests from other churches. You know Jisung, we all do, he’s going to stand firm in what he believes in even if that means causing a scene.” The man with the long dark hair and glasses balled up his own napkin and tossed it beside Jisungs, rising from his chair. “Now let me go talk to him like I always do, I’ll get him back down here.”

“No,” Minho said suddenly, politely holding up a hand. Three heads turned toward him. “Please,” he said, standing up, tucking his chair beneath the table neatly. “Let me. I think I may have said something to him earlier that brought this on. Please, let me apologize to him.”

Hyunjin, after a glance at Christopher, sent Minho on his way with a nod. “Up the stairs to the right, around the corner.” Once he was gone, a satin white flash, Hyunjin sat down and leveled with Jeongin, focusing on Christopher. “Has it been decided where he’ll be living?”

“I was thinking of putting him with me, but Hyunjin, if you’re up for a roommate…”

Hyunjin narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips, the man the face of peace and serenity, a calmness exuding him. “Put him in your room, Chris,” he said, then looked at Jeongin who gave him a nod. “He got comfortable way too fast, you’ll need to keep your eye on him.”

Up the stairs to the right, around the corner.

The floor creaked louder on the second floor than it did on the first, Minho approaching Jisung’s door as quietly as he possibly could. Behind the inch of plywood Jisung sat on the edge of his bed, leaned over his knees with his head in his hands. The light bulb hanging from his ceiling flickered as he took deep breaths down into his stomach, easing the emptiness and the nausea that existed in unity. 

The entire day played through his head, a cassette rewound and replayed as soon as it was over. A normal morning spent preparing for the weekend, for the three days of mass, in peaceful quiet, nothing more to do than hum to himself while he prepped the books and set up the candles. Waiting anxiously excited for his meeting with Christopher, he had no idea that his entire belief system was hours away from being threatened, questioned. 

He’d been told stories like this one, how temptation would waltz straight up to the door and not even knock before allowing itself inside, seducing one without them even realizing it was being done before it was too late and they had nothing left to do but beg the Lord for forgiveness. It looked him in the face, it said the words to him, it put thoughts in his head he’s conditioned himself to ignore. When it came from such a pretty face it became believable. Considerable. His tongue was persuasive though Jisung batted it away, fought it out of his head. 

Then, at dinner, to involve his seniors in such a discussion, one he didn’t even start, but continued. They’ve never spoken that way around Jisung before, that could only mean it was his doing, his persuasion even if he didn’t speak it aloud. He brought an energy that encouraged others to turn, even the strongest of the strong.

He’s just arrived, it hadn’t even been a full day, and he was already infecting the house and the men that lived inside. Jisung wouldn’t allow it. He wouldn’t stand for it. Tomorrow he’d speak to Christopher, he’d express his doubts whether or not the elder assumed it came from a place of envy, which it did not.

A knock sounded at his door.

Dropping his hands he glanced up at it and sighed. He’s met Hyunjin this way numerous times, he was simply waiting for the knock at this point. Sliding off his bed he took three strides over the hardwood and gripped the handle.

“I know what you’re going to tell me,” he said before he opened the door, “You can save your breath if you’d like.” Stepping back from the wood as he pulled it open, his breath catches in his throat.

“Do you?” Minho asked, a different type of emotion laced in his brows as he stood in the doorway, an emotion that Jisung couldn’t place.

Jisung longed to slam the door in his face, but he was paralyzed in place. “I thought you were Hyunjin,” he mumbled.

“I asked him if I could come instead,” he said, pressing his hands to his thighs. “He defended you, by the way, after you left.”

Jisung clenched his jaw and perked a brow, Minho watching it. “He usually does,” he whispered, sure of himself, and Minho swallowed a laugh. “Why are you at my door and not him? Go back downstairs and involve yourself in conversation of wrongdoings with men I thought I knew.”

He bobbed his head ever so slightly, that ghostly smile hanging around his lips. “I need to apologize to you, may I come inside?” Jisung lowered his brows and pouted in thought. He wanted to come into his room and apologize. “Better to not do it out here where everyone may hear me, I want to talk about what happened in the church.”

Jisung scoffed. “You keep your irreligious ideology out here, Minho.” Pushing the door shut, Minho caught it with one hand, staggering Jisung backward a bit.

“We started this all wrong,” Minho said, poking his head around the wood to keep his eyes on the boy. “Please, hear me out.”

“We didn’t start anything,” Jisung sneered. “You let me know exactly who you are and what you’re here to do.” A crack appeared on Minho’s face for the first time since Jisung had laid eyes on him. The cold exterior, the walls he’s built up, the facade he’s been portraying. It cracked, and Jisung sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and Minho took a step back. 

Christophers words came back, “Minho came from a place that couldn’t shelter him, he needs our support.”

‘Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away from you, with all malice, and be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.’

“Ephesians 4:31-32,” Jisung whispered, stepping back from his door, opening it as far as it would go. 

Minho blinked, taking Jisung walking into his bedroom as an invitation and stepped inside. Taking the door in his hands he closed it gently and took his time turning around. He recited the passage aloud, the one Jisung stated, and turned to find the boy waiting, a plea for forgiveness on his face.

“You don’t have to give me that, it is I who needs to apologize to you, and ask for your forgiveness,” Minho began, taking a step closer. “I went too far. I said some things I didn’t mean, things that have been stuck within me since I was young.” With a twist of Jisungs brow, Minho breathed through a laugh. “People like you, people who have nothing but faith and total trust in their God, you challenge me.”

Jisung took a step backward and sat down on his bed. Gesturing to the desk in the corner and the space beside him, he allowed Minho to make his own decision, finding a spot to sit in the wooden chair that he pulled from under the old school desk, sitting on it backwards.

“If I give you a life story I expect one back, Han Jisung,” he smiled.

The boy nodded, his face never changing. “Just speak, please.”

Intaking a breath, one far too deep for Jisung’s liking, telling him he was about to get hit with the cold hard truth, Minho settled his arms over the back of the chair and spilled his mind.

“For the record, I’m not here to be a priest, even though Christopher said it when we met,” Minho shook his head, “That’s not what I am here to do. I’m quite content living my life doing your job. I stated that when I moved here, and I’ll be willing to say it again, as many times it seems fit so that you know that I am not here to take something away from you.” Jisung swallowed, keeping his head moving as Minho spoke, expressing he was actively listening. “I’m not fit to be a preacher, it’s not in my nature, I mean, look at us right now. You’re sitting here listening to me apologize to you when we’ve only met hours ago.”

“People aren’t my forte,” Minho said, then nodded his head. “But, they are yours. This life was meant for you, Jisung. I’ll admit, my behavior stemmed from a place of envy.”

Jisung sat up straight. “Envy?” he muttered, and Minho nodded again.

“You’re a legend now, Han Jisung,” Minho said, squinting his eyes. “Everyone who comes up in the schools behind you, they know your name. The two years you’ve spent here, creating another perfect name for yourself, you’re setting the standard. All of us in your position, we’re compared to you, and so many of us are rooting for you to move up.”

“Even you?” Jisung whispered, his eyes locked on the man in his chair.

Minho tightened his jaw. “Even me,” he raised a brow. “It may not seem like it based off of today, but I am.”

“What was all of that?” Jisung asked, gathering the fabric of his slacks between his fingers. “You had me up here contemplating whether or not to tell Christopher to fire you.”

A flash of that cracked expression hit his face as he looked away and shook his head. “Deserved, I suppose.”

“The words you spoke,” Jisung breathed, the disbelief clouding over him like it once had, “They were unnatural to me, Minho. A person in your place, here in this church, you can surely understand why it scared me.” 

“Of course I can,” Minho answered. “Please understand I am still learning. I wasn’t brought up like you, like Hyunjin. I am much more like Christopher, having lived a whole other life before turning to Christ.”

Silence fell between them. After three seconds, Jisung lifted a hand, encouraging him to continue. The two sitting with one another like a sinner and preacher in penance. Minho, fluttering his lashes, pointed his eyes to the floor and dropped his chin.

“I was lost. I’d just started my late teens, maybe nineteen if I can even remember correctly, and I fell in love.” Lifting his eyes he met Jisungs. “Not with a woman, not with a human being, but poison. I was around some bad people at the time, the kind of people who speak like I had spoken to you earlier. Their influence was intoxicating, sometimes even more so than the garbage we fueled ourselves with.” Minho’s lashes brushed his cheeks with every blink. “I grew up with God, my mother, a single woman who had me quite young, she introduced me to his word the day I was born. We attended church every Sunday, that church up in Soro,“ he flashes Jisung a look, “Sometimes we’d even go during the week if she was able to get us there.”

“She was beautiful, everyone tells me I have her face,” he laughed to himself, and Jisung yearned to smile, because he believed it. “I left her when I turned eighteen, don’t ask me why. If I had to come up with a reason I’d tell you what I tell everyone else, that that teenage syndrome got me. She gave me everything and I ran from it, I abandoned her, my faith, my life that was quite alright, all because I met some people who sparked my interest. People who questioned my love for Christ, people on the other side who challenged me like you do, and you’re on the right side.”

A long sigh left him, Minho taking a second to collect his thoughts. The right side, Jisung was on the right side. According to Minho he’s been on the right side his entire life.

But, what of this wrong side?

Minho never said it was wrong. He’d simply addressed, and suggested believing in Christ was the right side, the right thing to do. Jisung knew what existed, he knew his probabilities after death, but this one was a new one.

Where there is right, where there is wrong… Is there something in the middle? A place in between it all where neither right or wrong exist? Could both be true at once? Could someone be right and wrong?

“What of the middle?” Jisung whispered, and Minho looked up in a hurry. “I was wrong as well, Minho. To dismiss your words in such a hurry that is, though I’m certain if they delivered differently and not in a way that attacked my faith I may have listened to you. I now know that either way I should have just listened to you, you know, if I’m looking to become a well rounded preacher.” Minho smirked. “I’ve never seen this other side, I’ve only known faith. Forgive me for the judgment, I don’t want to be this… know it all who looks down upon others.

“Just a know it all, then, right?” Minho teased. Jisung rolled his eyes while he laughed. “Come on, star student.”

“No, I don’t want that,” Jisung said, relaxing his smile. Shaking his head he took a breath and ran his hands along his thin legs. “I’m very good at what I do, but I’m humble about it.” Minho perked a brow. “I’m learning to be humble about it.” The boys shared a soft laugh. “When you’re isolated here with three other men who praise you like their lives depend on it, it’s a little hard to come down.”

“They care about you,” Minho said, and Jisung expressed his gratitude by closing his eyes and pressing his hands together, tipping his chin backward. “They want you to succeed. But, they keep you in check.”

Releasing a breath, Jisung dropped his hands and shrugged toward Minho. “They do, it’s necessary.”

Minho narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. “Do you ever get time to yourself? When you aren’t serving them?”

A playful smile evaded Jisungs face, his disproportionate lips flattening. “Don’t test me, Minho.”

“I’m serious,” he held up both of his hands, his dark eyes shooting open wide. “I’m asking you person to person, unrelated to faith.” Grasping the back of the chair he tilted his head again. “I think it’s also me… checking on you. Do you ever get the chance to be you, and not Han Jisung?”

Looking from his hands to Minho, Jisung clenched his jaw along with his fists. After a breath, he mumbled, “I don’t think I ever allow myself to.”

Something flickered into place on Minho’s face, his eyes blinking, reopening to a complete fresh start. “Perhaps I can teach you, while you teach me.”

Cotton brushed over his fingers, the soft fabric tickling his prints while he straightened it where it hung. Lips pulled taut, Jisung studied the garment and made adjustments where necessary. Christopher had worn this yesterday, the green vestment adorned with silver and gold stitching while he stood before a church filled to the walls. Men, women, children, every eye in the room, on Christopher. They laughed while he spoke, out of pure enjoyment for his words. Their gaze followed him as he paced the length of the altar, waiting for him to say more. Children ran to him when he called them forth to give them His blessing.

Jisung, serving Christopher at his side, watched it happen with a smile. He’d never seen his superior happier, more alive than when he was preaching for hundreds of people, some of whom didn’t even have a pew to sit in. Holding their babies on their hips, their children in their hands, they were content in standing, keeping toward the walls. 

They just wanted to listen. They just wanted to hear Christopher speak.

He had the power to bring them to tears, and he would, and he did, without even trying. Jisung’s never seen Christopher plan the details of the worship he’d lead, the priest would review, scribble mindless notes, and walk into the cathedral with his head held high and his shoulders rolled back.

And everytime, without fail, he’d knock them dead.

Or, to their knees, where they’d hang their heads in prayer. Jisung would wear this one day. So close to success, to his goals, everyone around him knew it as well. Just Sunday morning, standing beside Christopher after mass, heeding greetings and thanks as the church cleared out into the brisk September air, many women, many men, those who have known of Jisungs journey since the very beginning, congratulated him. Oftentimes they’d spend an immense amount of time after service talking with Christopher, or Hyunjin, or Jeongin, whoever had led, and evidently Jisung would be there too. They learned of his life, his dreams, the older women typically rooting for him more so than the men.

Over the last two years Jisung has built up his own reputation in the Church of Saint Joseph Calasanz. The people took pride in having him a part of their parish, their mission, their community, and Jisung took great pride in it as well. Partly the reason as to why he’d run such a tight ship, or attempt to. There was no room for disappointment. He wouldn’t allow it.

“Now that you’ve made it through the weekend,” Jisung took a breath, stepping back from the wall of fabric, tilting his head slightly to catch any deluding details, “How do you feel?” Turning around, facing his back to the corner, he sent a small smile down to the floor where Minho sat, his back against a table leg, a book in his lap where his knees were tucked toward his chest.

Pointed eyes flashed from the text to the boy, his jaw locked in place. “Fine.”

Jisung folded his hands behind his back and nodded, taking a few steps toward him. “Just fine? They’re going to speak with you about it,” he crouched down to the floor and sat on the carpet beside him, a foot of space between them, “You can gather your thoughts with me. Plus, I’m intrigued to know what you thought of how our services run.”

Minho loosed a breath, closing the book his eyes were skimming over. Setting it between him and Jisung, he crossed his legs and shoved his hands in his lap, letting his gaze fawn all over the sacristy. “It was… different,” he said. “Nothing like how we’d do things in Soro.”

“How would things go-”

“You feel informal,” Minho cut him off, shifting around on the floor to face Jisung who snapped his jaw shut.

“In-Informal?” he stuttered, moving to face him as well.

Minho nodded. “Which surprises me. For you, that is,” he said, his eyes dancing around Jisungs complexion. “With how much you look up to Chirstopher, I can’t believe you’re alright with how he runs his service.”

An unease sparked within Jisung. Unable to shift his eyes elsewhere, he had no choice but to succumb to Minho’s analytic glare. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t take what I say the wrong way,” he said. “Isn’t that what Christopher has to tell you? Don’t let these words get stuck in your head?”

Jisung gulped. “It’s a little hard not to when you’re speaking of someone who I care a great deal for.”

Minho smirked, then it disappeared as fast as it had appeared. “It felt informal is all. Christophers service yesterday morning. I noticed it was your most popular, the pews were overflowing, there were people standing around along the walls. He’s a great speaker and he knows how to connect with his people, but… The poise you convey, you didn’t get it from him. His mass is borderline completely imperfect,” he paused, then started to smile, “Perhaps it’s why he’s so loved by them.” Glancing down to his lap, giving Jisung a chance to breathe, Minho blinked and huffed a laugh. “They can relate to him.”

He tried to hold it, but the scoff came out anyway. Shifting himself away from Minho, Jisung pulled his knees into his chest and wrapped his arms around his knees. The two spent a majority of the weekend together when they weren’t eating or sleeping. Minho helped Jisung prepare for mass, trailing behind him like a dog awaiting his next orders. The man attended mass while Jisung served, the elder priests decided it’d be a good start for him to observe and study the way things were done before he had the chance to serve himself, or take the lead on organizing one with Jisung.

Friday night mass went smoothly. Half the church filled up, Jeongin ran it according to his plans, Jisung served by his side, Minho sat in the first row to Jisungs left toward the end. The eldest priest held the most structural service, an older crowd looking for the stricter rules to follow, a heavier penance.

Saturday evening, just as the sun was setting, Hyunjin preached for a slightly larger crowd, one that now had more children sitting on their parents laps. He drew a younger crowd, one typically full of women. A quieter, calmer, more intuitive type of service to attend, Hyunjin went by the books but couldn’t help himself when a mood struck, swaying up and down the center aisle, taking patrons by the hands to exchange gratitude and take away their sorrows. His service wouldn’t end by the appropriate time, as hard as Jisung tried to make it happen, Hyunjin would either end early or late, whichever felt right to him. Minho sat in the back, behind the crowd, observing.

Sunday morning, Christopher's mass, the one Jisung leapt out of bed for. The most joyous of the three services this weekend. Minho acquired a seat in the middle somewhere, lost in the sea of headdresses, suits and fedoras. Jisung was the happiest beside Christopher. The two had a chemistry that Minho’s never experienced. The priest treated Jisung as if he were a younger brother, even outside the church doors. Especially outside the church doors.

In the late evenings, after everyone had eaten and the two older men stowed away to their bedrooms before the clock struck midnight, Minho spent some time in the study with Christopher and Jisung. Reading while the two of them studied notes together, while they read through passages together, both of them in an armchair side by side, leaning over the middle, Minho watched them. Christopher with his shirts top buttons undone, his broad, muscled chest and the gold cross that hung over his heart completely exposed, and Jisung, his fluffy hair pushed back on his forehead the more tired he became as the hours ticked away. 

Narrowed eyes studied the paper, studied the text, flickering up to Christopher occasionally as the oldest boy read aloud. Deep cinnamon dusted with gold, sometimes swimming in a chocolate crimson, Jisung’s eyes held a greater love for Christopher than Minho had originally thought. Observing their connection over the last three days, Minho could conclude that Christopher had Jisung wrapped around his finger. With what he learned of Jisungs devotion to his faith, and the undying devotion and need to serve Christopher, within that big brain of his Han Jisung was nothing more than an insufferable people pleaser, and incredibly impressionable. 

The boy stood with his skinny legs on shaky ground, a foundation cracked and horribly glued together. By Christopher, of course. What caused the cracks in the first place? Minho didn’t know, but he guaranteed it’d be easy to find out.

With how he reacted to the insinuation from a conversation held days ago, that he should broaden his perspective on the act of sinning, of those who do and have sinned, Minho knew what he’d done.

Don’t let those words get stuck in your head.

“You’re the happiest with him,” Minho said just above a whisper. Jisung dropped his chin, his focus down on his knees. “Out of all three, you’re the happiest with Christopher.” Only the boy's eyes attempted to look at Minho who smiled. “His service may be abnormal, you may or may not have realized that, and if you haven’t then I realize now that I’ve made some more unintentional waves…”

Jisung pouted his lips in what almost looked like disgust. “I did realize, I just didn’t assume it was a problem.”

Minho caressed his chin with a hand, somewhat willing his smile to relax. “I never said it was a problem, Jisung.” Leaning forward toward him, Minho tilted his head and Jisung finally turned his chin. “It’s strange to me, to know how you are, and to see how he is. Surely you’ve known of his past, a man like Christopher doesn’t keep it all inside does he?”

“Not anymore,” Jisung muttered. “He’s opened up plenty, to Jeongin or Hyunjin, and me.”

Minho gave him a half smile and nodded. “Me too.”

Jisung’s expression faltered, a shock bleeding onto his features. It took Christopher weeks in the start of Jisungs time here to open up to the boy. As curious as Jisung is, and was, Christopher held back, bit his tongue. Minho’s been here four days now and already learned of his past, his journey. He’d been trusted so soon, too soon.

“I know,” Minho whispered, as if the thoughts were written across Jisungs forehead. “Sharing a room with him leaves a lot of time to talk.” He pulled his brows together. “Did you know he hardly sleeps?”

“Yes,” Jisung hissed, tightening his lips. The way he toyed with the words, speaking them as if they meant next to nothing, it shook Jisung up inside. 

Some sort of fear he supposed, it snuck its way into his heart. Every connection was different, Jisung knew this, and perhaps Minho needed to feel secure quicker. That had to be why Christopher was so lenient with him so early on. Minho needed the support, Jisung remembered. It did seem like Christopher, to overshare too soon, to gain his trust, to show that he was also someone who could be trusted.

“What have I said that’s upset you?” Minho asked, his voice quiet. His eyes never stopped moving, even when Jisung would meet them, Minho’s would continue their fondling of his features. 

“It’s not what you’ve said,” Jisung mumbled, focusing down on his slacks that hung off his legs. Minho moved closer to the boy, the foot of space between them reducing to an inch or two. Jisungs breath caught in his chest, he didn’t dare look up at him. 

“You can tell me, Han Jisung.” As playful as his tone was, it didn’t match the energy coming off of his being. Jisung couldn’t read it, couldn’t figure it out. “Better to tell me now then years from now when you have the power to fire me or send me away.”

Sneaking a glance at him, the chiseled features watching over him intently, Jisung felt a spark ignite within his veins, one full of nerves. “Christopher opened up to you faster than he did with me, that’s all.”

Minho’s lips tipped up, the entirety of his being having stilled. He waited for Jisung to continue, and when he didn’t, when he was quiet for a moment's time, he asked, “Is that all?”

“I’m still working through what we spoke of Thursday night,” he muttered in a rush, averting his eyes back to his knees. Jisung wished he hadn't said it. The words fell from him, seemingly unconscious. “And now with this I’m just not sure what to think.”

“About what?” Minho asked, his quiet voice sending a chill down Jisungs spine.

Blinking, scattering his gaze about, Jisung looked at Minho and pulled his lips into a frown. “I want to be the best that I can be, right?” Minho answered with a nod. “Christopher draws the biggest crowd, doesn’t he?”

“It’s not about how big the crowd is, Jisung.”

The boy squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his hair about. “I don’t mean it in that sense, I just… I want them to hear me.” Opening his eyes, he looked into Minhos, the man gazing down at him, listening. “I want them to listen to what I have to say, I want to lead, I want them to take from me what they need and I want nothing in return.”

“You don’t want their love and appreciation?” Minho asked, and Jisung sighed.

“Of course I do,” he whispered. “But, if what you say is true, that my name already holds some sort of bizarre meaning to people, I have to keep that up, don’t I?” With a tilt of his head, Jisung blinked and allowed his eyes to travel around Minho’s face. “I have to be the best I can be, I have to be the greatest and they’ll know that, they’ll look forward to that, I have to…”

His voice tapered off as a smirk grew on Minho’s plush lips. Narrowing his eyes, Minho could see the inner battle happening within the boy's mind, the torment he was putting no one but himself through. Whether his ego had completely erupted or not, Jisung was sure of himself.

Minho whispered, “You have to be God?”

Jisung’s soul leapt from his bones. Lurching forward, falling into Minho, he grabbed onto his arm, his knees digging into his lap. The boy’s eyes were wild, wide and frantic as he chanted his negation. His little hands wrapped around Minho’s forearm, the muscle strong and firm. Laughing while he expressed his disagreement for his words, Minho tipped his head back, his grin only growing.

“Never say those words to me again,” Jisung babbled on and on, shaking Minho as much as he could. “Are you messing with me? Why on earth would you ever expect me to say that, I would never think that, I’d never say that, I’d never believe that. If any of them heard you say that they’d question us both, you’re crazy! We’re in the church, Minho, and you say that? Is that what you think of me? Is that what you think I think of me?”

Minho smiled up at him, the boy half on his lap looking down at him still shaking him around. He ceased with a breath, Jisung, letting go of Minho’s arm, but not moving from his lap. Pushing his hair from his forehead, the act shifting who he was as a person entirely, the chubby cheeked bouncing boy turning into a striking young man for all of three seconds, Jisung dropped his hands to his lap and took a deep breath.

“It is not what I think of you, Han Jisung,” Minho said. The silence that engulfed them was deafening, different than it was a bit ago when the two started to work in this room. Far apart from each other. On opposite sides of the sacristy. Barely a good morning mumbled from Minho when he stepped inside shortly after Jisung, and now the boy was in his lap. “Don’t let those words get stuck in your head,” Minho whispered.

“How long have you known of me?” Jisung asked, not letting Minho even catch his breath after he spoke.

Stuttering, Minho pushed, “Years,” from his lips, and Jisung, locked in on his eyes, nodded.

Parting his lips to speak, Minho’s eyes flickering down to watch them, the door to the sacristy creaked open and Jisung hurriedly fumbled himself out of Minho’s lap, leaping onto his feet. Over the tables, over the heaps of furniture and antiques and books, Christopher walked inside with Hyunjin behind him, the two dressed in complete black, their hair neatly done. 

“In my drawer,” Christopher said to the man with the long hair in close proximity to him. Hyunjin pulled the door shut and hushed him with one look. Wandering further inside, their gazes scanned the premises and found Jisung. Christopher smiled, Hyunjin perked a brow. “There you are, I figured you’d be here. Where’d you send Minho off to?”

Jisung glanced down at him still on the floor, his smile gone, his stoic default back in action. Though, his eyes were different. They weren’t analyzing him, nor were they judging him. His gaze was just that, a gaze. Jisung cleared his throat and shook his head, shaking away the feeling it gave him. The same one he felt after realizing he’d jumped into Minho’s lap on accident.

“He’s-”

“Right here,” Minho breathed, standing up, greeting the older men with a raise of his hand at his side.

“Ah,” Christopher chirped, walking toward the two. “Perfect, then.” Hyunjin hung behind, his eyes settling on Minho, his brows now a flattened line behind his glasses. “Jisung I was hoping to have a moment with you,” Christopher glanced between the boys, “Minho, that means I’m going to hand you over to Hyunjin. I’ll ease you in, I’m not giving you to Jeongin first.” The two shared a quiet laugh, one Hyunjin or Jisung didn’t take part in. “Plus, I think you’ll find that Hyunjin is easier to talk to than I may be.”

Minho pressed his hands together, smiling. “Thank you, Christopher.”

“No need to thank me,” he said with a shake of his head, “If anything, later on,” he leaned toward Minho, “You may be condemning me for putting you through his one on one exam of yourself. You may come out an entirely different person.”

Snickering, Minho said with a shrug, “Or perhaps not.” Hyunjin dipped his chin, staring at Minho from above his lenses. His intense glare didn’t falter even as Minho looked over at him. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“As am I,” Hyunjin sang, his voice a soft flowing melody as he took himself toward the door and outside of the church. 

Minho smiled at Christopher, bid him goodbye, and gave a look to Jisung, one the boy couldn’t return. “I’ll see you.”

Weaving himself through the boy and his master, Minho followed Hyunjin outside, but not before Jisung managed to mumble, “Sure, see you.”

Once he was gone, out of sight and earshot, Christopher pulled a face and shoved his hands into his pockets. Sitting in his hip slightly, he cocked his chin and did a onceover of his prodigy standing in front of him. “What’s wrong?”

His voice, clear and strong, Jisung felt the need to jump, but he didn’t. “Nothing is wrong,” he said, quiet and meek. 

Christopher pulled his brows together and chuckled. “You’re a terrible liar, Ji, you know this, what happened? Do we need to talk about something?”

Jisung folded his hands in front of him and glanced at the carpet. “No, Christopher, we don’t, I’m telling you the truth. I guess I’m still getting comfortable with this assignment.”

Stepping over to one of the sturdy tables in the room, Christopher brushed over it with his hand as if to check for dust while simultaneously teasing Jisung, because he knew it was clean, he sat down on it, his legs stretching in front of him. “Well, good, I guess this is perfect timing then.” Jisung tiptoed to his side and perched himself on the edge of the table as well, his legs not stretching as far as his seniors. In fact, he couldn’t even sit on the ledge, he simply leaned against it. “I wanted to talk about Minho.” He caught himself, tilted his head in thought, then smiled at Jisung. “The assignment,” he laughed, “Is that how you see this?”

Jisung shrugged. “In a way, yes, I do,” he said. “You said it yourself, I have to do this one last thing, and then I become you, or, I mean, work with you, beside you, like one of you.” Christopher, actively listening, nodded his head slowly. “I’m not taking this lightly, I hope you know that.”

“It’s you, Ji, I know that,” he said.

“It’s… strange,” the boy whispered, allowing his eyes to dance about the room he’s spent his morning in. “He’s come from a different world, it seems. Apparently we don’t run our masses like they do, or, you don’t run your masses like they do. He said they were informal?”

“And what did you say in return?” Christopher asked softly, watching Jisung search through his brain for the right answer. “Jisung?”

Releasing a breath, the boy turned his chin and cringed. “I didn’t say anything,” he whispered. “I feel like whenever he speaks I…” Jisung blinked, averting his eyes from Christophers. 

The priest nudged his elbow with his own. “Finish that thought, Jisung.” The boy couldn’t look up at him, no matter how hard he tried. A sigh came from Christopher, one that pulled Jisungs lips into a frown. “You two are utter opposites.” Jisung nodded in agreement. “You’re ambitious, you’re goal oriented, you stick to a routine, a schedule, and you don’t let anyone steer you from that. Unfortunately, Minho’s the same way.” Now Jisung looked up at him, whirling his head around faster than he ever had in his life.

“But, but, you just said we’re opposites,” Jisung whispered in disbelief. 

Christopher shrugged. “I may have just totally lied. I said that without thinking, though there is some truth… I mean, look at your two personalities, you’re confident and outgoing, Minho may be a little more reserved sometimes, a little rough around the edges. It takes a second to get to know him, but with you, it’s as if someone has known you their whole life. You’re inviting, you’re friendly, you attract people with your good energy.”

Jisung pressed his lips together. “And Minho doesn’t?”

“I didn’t say that,” Christopher narrowed his eyes. “As different as you two are, Jisung, I fear you have more in common than you think. Two sides of the same coin you two are.” Scrunching up his face, Jisung hung his head, staring down at the leather shoes on his feet. “You don’t like that, and I understand, but I feel as though you two could become friends. Give it some more time, it’s only been a short while.” When the boy didn’t answer, Christopher took a breath. “Is there something else that’s causing you to feel this way?”

Jisung straightened out and scanned the room while he sorted out his thoughts. There were maybe a thousand ways he could answer Christophers question and not one of them would satisfy his superior. He could bring up the fact that he was envious of the connection Minho and Christopher seemed to share, but that alone could cause a rift between the two of them personally, and that was something Jisung longed to avoid for all time.

He could tell Christopher of Minho’s irreligious speech the day he met him, how he sparked something within Jisung that the boy was planning to keep hidden, locked away in a box. Jisung didn’t want to get Minho fired, not now, not after he had apologized to him after that day, showing some sort of humility, but, apology or not, his words still weren’t sitting right. It was uncomfortable to think about the other side, the wrong side, or so the two spoke of it. Knowing it was not the way to go, not the correct stone to turn over, Jisung decided to swallow it down.

Then there was this morning, Minho questioning Jisung yet again, differently this time. Teasing him, in ways that Jisung, and the entire Catholic religion, deemed inappropriate, leading the boy to attempt to physically shake the idea out of his head. The act landed him in his lap, atop his knees, where Minho gazed up at him with his chocolate brown eyes so sweet it turned Jisungs stomach sour. He had no choice but to feel sour, to feel a disgust building within him. That was better than acknowledging the fact that looking down at him and his pretty face had made his heart flutter.

No, Jisung would not be thinking of that. There have only been four days spent with him, he was not ready to consider him a friend.

“I don’t think so,” Jisung ended up mumbling. “If there is, I can’t place the words,” he looked up at Christopher, “Not yet, at least.”

“I understand,” he bowed his head. “If you ever figure it out, you come to me, alright?” Jisung nodded, focusing back on his shoes. “Aside from working through the social aspect, he’s pretty sufficient workwise, correct?” Jisung flattened his lips when he shot Christopher a look, then the two laughed together. “Unfortunately, he is.”

The priest slung an arm around the boy's back and tapped his hand between his shoulder blades, three times. “Good to hear, Ji. That’s all that matters anyway, right?” Pushing off the ledge, Christopher took a deep breath and spun around in a circle taking in the views of the room with walls stretching high. “You really do such a good job here, Jisung. I’m going to miss it when you no longer have total control over what goes on around this place, this room.” Gesturing a hand around to the well organized space, Christopher started for the door. Gripping the handle, he smiled at Jisung. “Seems we’ve found someone adequate enough to fill your shoes,” he pushed the door open with a creak of its hinges, “Almost.” He was gone after a wink.

The worn leather of the chair comforted him, the cushions wrapped around him, pulling him in, keeping him warm, keeping him safe. A book in his hands, Jisung had his head leaning against the high back of the chair, sitting sideways in it, his legs pulled up on the arm, the book perched on his knobby knees. His copy of East of Eden wore torn pages, a curved cover and worn down edges. Jisung has been through this book more times than he could count, it’s been one of his favorites since it’s been published.

Ever knowingly clear to Jisung the semblance of Aron and Cal, the twin brothers the story parades around, the two are another representation of Able and Cain. Though Jisung feels slightly wrong for indulging in a warped story of two biblical figures, he cannot help himself, especially now.

After he ate dinner with Christopher, the other men occupied, and shared an insightful discussion, Jisung snuck away to this chair and stuck his nose in his book. He could read it with his eyes closed. Now, he kept a pencil at his side, and when something caught his eye or stood out to him, he underlined it, or he circled it, or he left notes in the margins to come back to later. 

He blamed Minho. That pit in his gut grew, the one he discovered Thursday night in his bedroom while the dusty brown haired man sat at his desk. 

Right and wrong. 

Good and bad.

And Jisung had the nerve to ask, but what of the middle?

Could something be there? Was it possible to be neither good nor bad, just simply… existing?

Little life experience left him curious, he supposed. Having lived his twenty four years in the church, spending all of his given time serving Christ… He felt sick to his stomach thinking about it.

Jisung never knew any different. He knew God, and God knew him. He knew prayer. He’s memorized passages from the Bible. He could run a mass himself with his hands tied behind his back blindfolded. One day when he’s up there he’d actually like to try that, and he’d challenge the others as well. The others whom he cannot discuss this feeling with.

It felt sinful to bring it up around Christopher. As a man who’s grown into Christ, Jisung isn’t so sure he’d understand the intrigue behind going backwards. 

Not backwards, inbetween.

Not toward the wrong, in the middle.

Regardless of triggering an awful thought for the others, the fear that struck him came from that place within him that desired perfection. If he were to come forward, he’d disappoint. If he let the men in the house even begin to think that he was having these thoughts of betrayal, all the work he’s done to prove himself worthy would have been for nothing.

Still, a curiosity grew.

It’d been silly of Minho to insinuate Jisung knew nothing of sin. He could easily shove Adam and Eve into his face, or Judas, or Peter, or Paul… Many have sinned, many have been forgiven. Nearly all. Christopher has come into his own, has moved through his obstacles with success. If he had been able to do so, Jisung figures he’s allowed to have this curiosity. 

It was only natural, wasn’t it? And, how fitting for this to happen right before his promotion, right before he’s allowed to stand where Christopher stands.

Flipping a page, a smile pricks onto his lips.

Minho had been right after all. If Jisung were to become a well rounded preacher, a priest who understands each and every one of his churchgoers, he would need to learn of life beyond the walls he resided within. Jisung needed to experience something. That terrified him yet filled his gut with a cluster of butterflies he couldn’t quite understand.

Quickly, he slammed the book closed and tipped his chin backward, stretching his back as he blinked at the glow of the chandelier above him. Intaking a breath, he held it for three seconds, then let it out from between his lips, slow and steady. Twisting on the leather he placed his feet on the floor and took himself over to the bookshelf on the far side of the study and slid his book into place dragging his middle finger down the spine before spinning on his heels. 

Sliding his hands down his sides, he rested them on his thighs, digging his fingertips into the muscle that only protruded because the boy lacked any substance. Clenching his jaw, he closed his eyes. Taking a slower, more intimate breath, Jisung released it through his nose and tilted his head side to side, the joints cracking as he did. When he opened his eyes, Christopher was standing in the archway of the study.

“Heading to bed?”

Jisung pulled his fingers into fists.

Tell him. The thought tugged at his brain. 

Tell him, talk to him, he’d want you to tell him.

Jisung nodded, feeling a yawn overcome him. ���I think so,” he mumbled, starting for the living room behind Christopher. 

The priest's eyes drew toward the shelf the boy walked away from. “What were you reading?”

Pausing by his side, Jisung looked up at him, inches between them.

Sit him down now, this is the time.

“Just… Uh, just my favorite,” Jisung said. Christopher tightened his lips into some sort of smile. “Goodnight, I’ll see you in the morning.”

Placing a hand to his shoulder before the boy hurried off, Christopher looked him in the eyes and waited a few seconds before he said, “Goodnight, Jisung. God bless you.”

He tried to smile, at least, he tried to smile as big as he could. Jisung couldn’t find it in him. He knew he was a terrible liar, he’d never been good at the art. So better for him to try to smile, while he could sweep it under the rug with the excuse that he was tired, that it’d been a long day, and that he was not harboring these thoughts of other ideals.

He couldn’t tell him. He couldn’t tell any of them.

He would figure this out himself.

Barreling down the stairs, his copy of East of Eden within his hand, Jisung wore the tiniest smile. A week had passed, it’d been just over seven days of Minho starting his work here and Jisung could feel the older men warming up to him more with every passing hour. Sufficient in his work, Minho mirrored Jisung daily, keeping up with the details, keeping up with the way Jisung moved and kept the priests happy. The two fell into a rhythm unspoken. Jisung does, Minho copies him. Jisung speaks, Minho listens to him. Jisung struts around the church telling Minho every miniscule fact he’s going to need to pay attention to, Minho watches him spin in circles around the beams of multicolored sunlight pouring over him from the stained glass windows.

The moment in the sacristy, Jisung in Minho’s lap, they never spoke of it. Jisung thought about it everyday since it had happened, but they never brought it up together. He wondered if it stuck in Minho’s head as well, even though he now said the same things Christopher liked to say to Jisung, don’t let it get stuck in your head. Late into the night, unable to rest his head, the way that Minho looked at him haunted his being. It didn’t feel right. Staring at his ceiling, sifting through the unease around it all, Jisung attempted to rid his mind of the matter.

If Minho didn’t talk about it, Jisung wasn’t going to talk about it.

There wasn’t anything to talk about. At least that’s what Jisung told himself, that it was nothing.

Whether or not it was something, Minho didn’t make it known. So, Jisung took the older boys' lead.

Everyday Minho spent time with one of the priests, one on one time to get to know them, to bond with them and allow them to get to know him, something Jisung went through when his job first began. Hours with Hyunjin dishing out life’s mysteries and the things that clung to your subconscious, Jisung had appreciated it, but he didn’t really remember much of it. They’d spoken of things that Jisung hadn’t been able to speak about with anyone in, well, ever. Hyunjin delved into his restless brain, his energetic joints, and he picked it all apart, not one thought left untouched. By the end of it all, most sessions ending in tears, Jisung found himself able to open up easier. 

The feeler handed him over to the scholar.

Jeongin spent days studying with Jisung. Knowing Hyunjin had given Jeongin a progress report, he found comfort in knowing he didn’t have to spill his guts to the eldest member of the house all over again. Possibly the reason why Jisung doesn’t remember much of Hyunjin ripping him open and sewing him back together, he never had to talk about it ever again. Days with Jeongin turned into nights with Jeongin, the two staying up late in the study or within the walls of the church, reviewing scripture and sharing thoughts on fact versus myth. Jisung found it easier to laugh with the eldest than the middle, which inturn made it easier to laugh with the youngest.

The scholar passed him on to the brain.

He was who Jisung met first. Christopher. After two weeks of surviving with little personal contact with the curly haired man, on the day he first met with him he seemed to fall straight onto his knees. Christopher figuratively picked him up with a smile, an arm around the shoulder, and became Jisung’s rock. After a month he finally felt like he belonged, like the men around him accepted him. Time spent with Christopher, incomparable to anything else. His favorite days were spent with him. The moments he held close to his heart, like the night a resurgence of his days with Hyunjin bubbled to the surface. 

Tears streaming down his face, his pillowcase stained with the moisture, Jisung had just enough willpower to push himself out of bed, out his door and down the hall. Making sure he knocked on the right one, Jisung pressed his back to the wall beside it and sucked air deep into his stomach like Hyunjin had taught him to. Seconds passed and the bedroom door opened gently, dark curly hair poking out of the crack. Without warning, not wasting another moment, Jisung hurried into his arms showing no ounce of shame. Christophers warm hold, his strong arms around his back comforting him, Jisung sobbed into his shoulder for only God knows how long. On the edge of his bed, a mattress much larger than the one Jisung slept upon, the boy cried and babbled mindlessly to his mentor he’d only claimed as his mentor probably only a few days prior.

After that night Christopher shaped into a brotherly figure for Jisung. If he wasn’t one before, he turned himself into one for Jisung’s sake. The boy kept his fears, his doubts, beneath the surface. Way, way beneath the surface where no one would be able to find them unless they took hold of Jisungs heart like Christopher had. Right place right time, is what the youngest of the priests would say when the elders would question how the two had grown as close as brothers. Jisung knew this too, he and Christopher sharing sly smiles whenever the playful jealousy of the men would come into play.

They were very different, something they both knew, but they never let it bother them, or get in the way of a meaningful friendship, a connection deep enough they no longer had to express their trust, or their loyalty to one another.

Until now, it seemed.

At the bottom of the stairs, rounding the corner to the living room, Jisung came to a sudden stop. Perched on the forest green of the couch facing the fireplace, facing Jisung, Minho sat beside Christopher, the two hovering over a book, notebooks living on either of their laps. Christopher spoke quietly, the soft hum of his deep voice carrying over to the boy though he couldn’t hear what he was saying. Minho’s eyebrows were low, his eyes pointed and focused, paying attention to the man beside him. 

He didn’t look like that when he worked with Jisung. Minho didn’t make this face when he studied what Jisung said, when they read things together, when they reviewed masses. He’d stare at him. Even while Jisung read aloud, Minho would stare at him, at his lips as they moved, at his eyes.The boy would crack jokes that he wasn’t paying attention, but then Minho would recite the passages straight back to him word for word showing him that he was in fact paying attention.

Next to Christopher, a few inches between them, he read the words, he scribbled in his notebook, he nodded while the man spoke. He answered Christophers questions with straight forward answers, not slick comments that weren’t always slick to try to get Jisung to snap, to fly off the handle. Seeing them together this way, working like he and Christopher used to work, a jealousy sparked within him. A jealousy that coexisted with the frustration that Minho didn’t take his work as seriously as he did with the elders, though that could be just it. Christopher was older, Minho needed to impress him, Minho longed to impress him. If he was anything like Jisung, Christopher saying the two were similar, then that was his goal.

Tipping his head up to crack his neck, rolling the joint around, Christopher broke out into a smile when he caught Jisung lingering in the archway of the living room. “Hi, Ji,” he said softly, and Minho barely moved his head, his eyes flickering up to peer at the boy.

Jisung cleared his throat, taking a few steps onto the carpet. “Hi,” he said, tucking his book behind his back. Christopher noticed and chuckled. “What are you guys doing? I’m sorry to interrupt.” Minho lifted his head now, his studious gaze now studying Jisung.

Christopher gestured to the books and released a breath. “Everything we did with you.” Nodding, he said, “Each church is different, the way they go about teaching the bible and spreading God’s word, so, naturally Minho and I are just making sure he’s getting into our flow of things.”

Jisung came closer, teetering off to Christophers side of the couch, dropping his eyes to the books, avoiding Minho’s stare that followed him. “Great,” he said, then lowered his brows as he looked to his mentor. “I did this with Jeongin,” he spoke quietly. 

“And Minho is doing it with me,” Christopher said, giving Jisung his infamous tight lipped smile. Jisung swore Minho hid one as he turned his head away to focus back on his books. As if he could read Jisungs mind, Christopher bobbed his head and said, “We can have dinner tonight, okay?”

A heat rose to Jisungs honey toned cheeks. For some reason it felt humiliating for Christopher to touch on a fact that was unfortunately well known around the house, and now to Minho as well. A cold chill of juvenile washed over Jisung, as if he’d pouted his lips and begged for Christophers attention. To tell the truth, it is what he was asking for even if the words slipped out all wrong. The insinuation had been there, standing right at the scene of the crime. Jisung may as well have screamed the words.

“I’ll give him back soon, don’t worry,” Minho’s tone slithered across Jisungs skin. Meeting his eyes, they disarmed Jisung. Christopher laughed, turning to his books with a shake of his head.

“Come on, we’re almost done for today,” the priest said, running his finger over the tiny words on the crisp page.

Minho didn’t look down. He held Jisung by the gaze, barely blinking. Christopher had begun to read aloud, soft mumbles falling over deaf ears. Rich brown drew over Jisungs composure, drawing down his neck, down his body, where he clasped a hand over his button down and stood up completely straight. He moved quietly, Jisung did, loosening his collar around his throat that tightened while simultaneously making sure all of him was covered. Minho eyed his hand before his gaze dropped to Jisungs torso, staring him down shamelessly. Jisungs skin crawled, like Minho had the power to see beneath what he wore.

A thought that was pushed out as soon as it had shown up.

With a slow blink Minho looked up at him, his lips perking up ever so slightly in a way that made Jisungs stomach tighten.

Minho’s tongue poked between his lips, wetting the pink plushness, and then Jisung…

He turned away with the heave of a breath, not giving him a second look as he stormed from the living room toward the kitchen, hanging his head low, almost running headfirst into Hyunjin who stepped through the archway. Pushing himself to the wall as the boy rushed by without a mumble of apology, Hyunjin watched him hurry out of the kitchen door, heading toward the church. Tucking some strands of his long black hair behind an ear, Hyunjin glanced into the living room, making note of who was sitting on the couch.

Strike two.

‘Joe Valery got along by watching and listening and, as he said himself, not sticking his neck out. He had built his hatreds little by little—beginning with a mother who neglected him, a father who alternately whipped and slobbered over him. It had been easy to transfer his developing hatred to the teacher who disciplined him and the policeman who chased him and the priest who lec-tured him. Even before the first magistrate looked down on him, Joe had developed a fine stable of hates toward the whole world he knew.’

Jisung’s fingers clasped the edges of the book tighter, his bottom lip making its way between his teeth. In a corner of the silent sacristy, under the sunlight from the window above him, he nested in the safety of his comfort room. In the endgame of his book now, something roiled within him. An ice cold energy broke into his chest, a familiarity, an old friend.

‘Hate cannot live alone. It must have love as a trigger, a goad, or a stimulant. Joe early developed a gentle protective love for Joe. He comforted and flattered and cherished Joe. He set up walls to save Joe from a hostile world. And gradually Joe became proof against wrong. If Joe got into trouble, it was because the world was in angry conspiracy against him. And if Joe attacked the world, it was revenge and they damn well deserved it—the sons of bitches.’

That chiling energy spread, invading his gut, every vein. It hit him like it did the very first time he read these words.

‘Joe lavished every care on his love, and he perfected a lonely set of rules which might have gone like this: 

1. Don’t believe nobody. The bastards are after you. 

2. Keep your mouth shut. Don’t stick your neck out. 

3. Keep your ears open. When they make a slip, grab on to it and wait. 

4. Everybody’s a son of a bitch and whatever you do they got it coming. 

5. Go at everything roundabout. 

6. Don’t never trust no dame about nothing. 

7. Put your faith in dough. Everybody wants it. Everybody will sell out for it. 

There were other rules, but they were refinements. His system worked, and since he knew no other, Joe had no basis of comparison with other systems. He knew it was necessary to be smart and he considered himself smart. If he pulled something off, that was smart; if he failed, that was bad luck.’

Jisung snapped the book shut, tossing it beside him. It hit the carpet with a gentle thud. Threading his fingers into his loose curls, he tucked his knees into his chest and rested his elbows atop them. A lump lodged into his throat suddenly, one he gulped away successfully though it still brought tears to his eyes.

Side eyeing the book on the floor, Jisung took a shaky breath before he reached for it, shifting onto his knees, opening the roughed up pages to his place. Reaching behind him on the window ledge he palmed for a pencil, one rolling into his grasp. Pressing the lead to the page he circled Joe’s rules, all seven of them.

For years these rules have lived in his mind. These words have been stuck in his head. He pressed the pencil into the paper and circled them again. The letters struck him just as hard this time around, now that he had this secret, one that festered with shame. A guilt hung from his ribs, encapsulating his heart. He circled the words again, the lead digging into the paper. Sucking in a breath through his teeth, tears slipping from his round cheeks onto the leafy paper, he circled and he circled and circled until the lead tore a hole through the page and the door to the sacristy creaked open.

Tossing the pencil aside, book flying with it, Jisung hurled them as far as possible from him, he cried aloud and buried himself back against the wall, sheltering himself with books and fabrics and chests and boxes. Hands covering his eyes, he sobbed into them, fingernails digging into his scalp, his fingers clawing at his curls.

Footsteps came closer, a slow stroll that Jisung couldn’t pick up on. He could barely hear over his hurried breath, the whines he tried to keep to himself. Pulling his legs into himself, leaning over his knees like he once was, he heard the sound of a swipe and then the fluttering of pages. The urge to jump to his feet and tear the book out of the hands of whomever had interrupted him roared within him, but Jisung couldn’t seem to move. He was frozen. Paralyzed in a feeling he hadn’t had in years.

The pages stopped flipping. Words were being read. Six steps forward, and Jisung had been wrapped in their energy. They crouched down in front of him, Jisung unknowingly having ceased his crying since the book left the floor. Peeling his hands from his face, his tear stained cheeks and his puffy eyes, a gust of air is stolen by his lungs.

Minho, staring down at the back cover of the book, wearing the smallest grimace, flickered his eyes up to Jisungs when the boy took his shield down. Silence surrounds the two, but between them, some sort of understanding.

Blinking as he took in his wet lashes, Minho bounced the book in his hand and shook his head subtly. “Joe is shot and killed at the end of his story, you know that right?” He spoke gently, not an ounce condescending. Jisung, clenching his jaw tight, nodded. Minho looked down at the book, his fingers dancing over the cover. “You believe in him, in his rules?” His fierce gaze would’ve struck Jisung down if it were eleven days ago. “He’s not a good guy, I’m genuinely shocked you’ve spent so much time analyzing his character.” Minho sat down in front of Jisung, holding the boy's attention. “He’s a criminal, an escaped criminal. He takes advantage of a dying woman and her assets, and then shows off the fact he’s still very much a criminal, that he’s not changed, that he is and alway be what he was made out to be from the very start.”

Jisung found himself breathing steadily. Minho kept talking, rambling on about the character and every character involved with him. He held so much knowledge of the novel, too much, like he’d read it extensively like Jisung had himself.

“You’ve read this?”

Minho nodded. “Several times.” Popping his brows, he flipped through the pages aimlessly. “Cannot believe that you’ve read it, too.” Mumbling to himself, lowering his voice, he said, “Han Jisung, reading about betrayal, liars, manipulators, whores…” The two met eyes right when Minho knew the boy would speak up. “I know,” he cut him off before he could get any words out, “But, it says words like that right in the text.” Minho dropped the novel to the floor. “You’re the one who brought it into the church.”

Jisung’s lips were stuck shut.

“Why were you crying?” Minho asked, his tone soft, filled with knowing. “The book?” Jisung nodded. “Why?” The boy didn’t move. “For what reason?” Jisung clasped his arms around his legs. “It’s a story full of tragedy after tragedy. I figured you were more of a Wizard of Oz type of man.”

Jisung blew air through his nose harshly. “That’s a children's story,” he muttered, squinting his eyes, and Minho smiled. Jisungs heart sunk into his gut.

“I read it when I was twenty, I quite enjoyed it,” Minho said, proud of himself, tilting his chin up. Jisung couldn’t help but crack a smile at his face, the man's goal achieved without Jisung even knowing. “This is a Han Jisung I don’t know.” Looking at him square, Minho narrowed his eyes and took a breath. “A side of you I didn’t expect.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jisung whispered, glancing down at his knees. Minho scooted closer to him, making his head lift quickly in surprise.

“But, I will,” Minho said, nodding. Mirroring the way Jisung sat, he thinned his lips and flickered his eyes between the boys’. “Those weren’t cries over reading literature, those were cries that have been hurt. That have gone through pain.” Jisungs lip crinkled, and Minho nodded again. “You heard my story hours after meeting me, and I’m willing to go through it again. You can trust me, Jisung.”

“There’s nothing to know,” he whispered.

“I highly doubt that.”

Jisung released a sigh. “I swear.”

Minho pulled in a sarcastic gasp. “Strong words to support such a weak argument. Han Jisung, you expect me to believe-”

He snapped. “Why do you always do this?” Minho froze. “To me, you only do this to me. What, is it because I’m younger than you are? You’re a couple years older so you get to tease me like this?”

“Jisung, I didn’t-”

“You did,” the boy sneered through a laugh. “I’m not living out the rest of our lives like this, Minho. Stop doing this to me.”

It fell quiet, the only sound Jisung could hear was the pulsating of blood in his ears. Quickly regretting his outburst, he did feel ten times lighter. Minho didn’t look away, instead he smiled.

He smiled.

“Feel better?” he asked, and Jisung couldn’t help himself.

“Yes,” he whispered.

Minho bobbed his head, the smirk still evident of his victory. “Want to talk to me now?”

Threading his hands through his hair, pushing the curls from his forehead, they stayed flipped backward and Jisung watched Minho’s lips part in real time. All amusement washed away, he gaped toward Jisung, his jaw snapping shut only when the boy's brows twisted together.

It reminded Jisung of earlier, in the living room, where Minho sat on the couch beside Christopher. The moment that fueled half of the cries that bled from his lips. It frightened him, the way Minho looked at him. Jisung has never seen a pair of eyes so alert, yet so soft. So gentle, yet so powerful. So satisfied, yet starved.

Minho could read his mind, he had to have been able to hear every thought flowing through Jisung’s head. His chin tilted ever so slightly to the right, a subtle movement Jisung could pick up on because he was staring at him too. A weight tugged at his heart, no, tugged at his stomach. Minho’s pretty eyes blinked, they moved to Jisungs lips, and back up again. He sighed, pressing his fingers into his skin.

Jisung couldn’t begin to explain what was happening inside of him, he couldn’t pick it apart like he usually could. Everything he’s ever experienced he’s been able to logisticize it, figure out what it meant, know how it would end before the end ever manifested. There had always been a plan, a next step, a foreshadow, some sort of hint that would alert Jisung what came after this, what happened next. Locked in on Minho, the man's gaze softening more than it ever had since he’d met him, Jisung couldn’t think of anything.

He sat before him totally, utterly thoughtless.

“What’s going on in that big brain of yours?” Minho whispered. Jisung didn’t dare to move. Minho’s tongue slipped between his lips, a smirk threatening to break out as Jisung’s gaze dropped to it. “What are you thinking about?”

“I don’t know,” Jisung whispered, his brows flattening over his eyes. Minho moved himself closer, his feet touching the boys gently.

“I think you do.”

Jisung pressed his lips together and inhaled through his nose, letting the air out long and slow. That cold pit that once invaded his being had disappeared at some point, Jisung no longer felt totally empty. “Christopher doesn’t like it when I read this book,” he said, speaking quietly, gesturing toward the novel on the floor. Minho furrowed his brows, glancing to it before giving Jisung his whole attention.

“Why not? It’s excellent.”

“It is,” Jisung breathed. “But, it’s not good for me.” A perk of a brow was answer from Minho enough. Jisung tipped his head back against the fabrics hanging on the wall behind him and sighed. “It doesn’t put me in a good place.” Jisung looked at him again, the two sharing a head nod.

“Why pick it up again if it burdens you?” Minho asked, still as ever.

“I’m not sure,” Jisung shrugged. “I haven’t read it in a few years, since I’ve been here, but I was really attached to it through school. It was the one thing aside from my clothes that I brought from home that was actually mine. I bought this book. It’s mine.” Minho listened, he didn’t dare interrupt, not even as tears slipped down the boy's cheek. “I’d read it every night, I’d pick all these people apart, I’d learn from them, the right and the wrong, I’d take from them because they were there for me when nobody else was around. I gave my all to everyone, all the time. People took, and they took, and not once was I given anything in return, not once did I ever ask for anything in return.” Jisung reached for the book, shaking it in front of him, dropping it onto Minho’s lap. “They never asked for anything.”

“But, they still make you feel this way, why?”

Jisung scoffed, sliding his hands over his cheeks, wiping them dry. Slapping them to his knees, he shot Minho a look and cringed. “Because, Minho, it’s a reminder that nothing is perfect. These people aren’t perfect, life isn’t perfect, everyone around me isn’t perfect, nothing can be perfect, I’m not…”

“I’m not perfect, you know that,” Minho said. Jisung blinked and looked at him, the sorrow in his eyes making Minho frown. “Christopher isn’t perfect, you know that. The other two, I guarantee you they are not perfect. No one needs to be, no one should have to be. If you’re worried what God is going to think, you know that his love for you is absolute whether you’re perfect or not.”

Jisung watched him speak. He watched his lips, the way his cheekbones moved, how his nose scrunched a bit in emphasis of his word. His dark eyelashes brushed over his porcelain smooth skin, his complexion clear and bright. In the setting sun through the windows, his being was washed with warm hues of fading color, like that first day Jisung brought him into this room, his favorite room. He watched him speak, his words filling that extra space the chilling cold once occupied.

“You aren’t perfect, Han Jisung,” Minho continued, “But you come pretty damn close.” He glanced upward and waved a hand around, pointing to a small statue of the Blessed Mother. “Forgive me,” he said, and Jisung cracked a laugh. “I don’t know who turned you into this,” Minho turned back to Jisung, sitting forward, crossing his legs under him, “Or, if you did this to yourself, but you need to remember how incredible you are.”

“My parents,” he whispered so low Minho didn’t even hear him.

“Hm?” the man questioned, brows pulling to the center of his forehead. “I didn’t-”

“My parents,” Jisung said, nodding his head once. “The people who raised me, that is until they sent me to the all boys boarding school in Sainte.”

“The Preso Academy,” Minho mumbled.

“Yes, I was thirteen,” Jisung said, and Minho cringed. “I don’t know why they sent me, they never really gave me a reason, but if I had to make one for them, or to ease my mind, which it did, I used to tell myself it was because I looked like my mother and acted like my father. They didn’t know what to do with that, so they gave me to the school.” Confusion crept onto Minho’s face, and Jisung hummed. “Right, that part, gosh I haven’t told this to anyone since I started working here. My parents, the people who raised me, they’re my grandparents.”

Minho maintained a steady composure, shifting only when Jisung needed him to. Giving him a nod, he scooted closer, their legs now touching.

“I never knew my real parents, I was always told they split as soon as we came home, days after my birthday,” Jisung said. “My mother was fifteen, my father barely a year older. They left me with my grandparents, this was when they lived in Soro, but shortly after ending up with me they moved down here to Avida.”

“And then they sent you to Preso all the way up in Sainte,” Minho said.

Jisung took a slow blink. “They did. We spent all the years before practicing this religion. It was all we would do, all we would talk about, all we would read or listen to. We went to mass as many times a week as we could, and God forbid I didn’t sit still the entire time.” Taking a breath, he shrugged. “They beat it into me, God, Jesus, Christ. They sheltered me, they disciplined me, they sent me to bed in tears, but, they gave me the greatest gift I could’ve ever received.”

“Were you ever able to come home?” Minho asked.

“Holidays, the summer, the normal school breaks,” Jisung nodded, “Yes, I was. But, I tried to spend that time in the church, here.” He glanced at the door that led to the sanctuary. “I’d sit in the pews in the back, just to listen.” Minho narrowed his eyes, watching as Jisungs began to pool with light. “I’d walk here, rain or shine, through the snow, and I’d sit back there, in my soaking wet clothes, for hours. The choir rehearsed a few times a week, I’d show up for that.”

“You’d sing?”

Jisung let out a laugh. “Gosh, no, I’ve never even tried. I just… liked to listen. I still do. The music, it makes me feel good. Reminds me of those endless hours I’d spend here.” He lowered his eyes. “Because I didn’t want to go home.” Looking up at Minho, he pursed his lips. “Horrible, isn’t it? They put a roof over my head, they fed me, they taught me about Jesus, and I couldn’t spend any of my time with them.”

Minho shook his head. “Not at all,” he said, and Jisung screwed his brows together. “You’re surprised to hear me say that, really?” They both laughed. “What did you expect me to say? That you’re terrible, you’re going to Hell because you were a teenager who didn’t want to sit at home all day with his parents. At least you were in a church, Han Jisung, I was hiding in alleyways with broken bottles.”

Life experience.

“What was it like?” Jisung whispered.

Minho rolled his eyes. “Horrific,” he uttered. “I don’t think I want to get into it right now, I finally got you to talk to me about something else other than how amazing Christopher is.” Jisung thankfully laughed, easing Minho’s heart. The boy reached out and tapped his knee, Minho almost snatching his slim wrist, but held himself back.

“He is amazing, Minho, but now I know I no longer need to remind you,” Jisung smiled.

Smiling with him, Minho looked away, toward his lap, his eyes straying toward the book that sat on the floor beside them both. “Jisung,” Minho began, lifting his gaze to the boy, “You said the last time you read this was around the time you started here.”

“Yes,” he sighed, following Minho’s line of sight to the novel. He became aware of how close Minho had gotten since he’d sat down. He felt his heart rate pick up. “If your start was anything like mine, dealing with the three men in that house, then I know that it couldn’t have been easy to give them your story,” Minho met his eyes. “I know you may be holding some things back from me because I’m not Christopher, though I hope you’ll share it with me in the future, but, a conversation with Hyunjin must’ve not been easy.”

Jisung clenched his jaw and shook his head. “I do not like to talk about it.”

“Fair enough,” Minho nodded, “I just… Can I ask you this?”

Sitting forward, his legs pressing into Minho’s, Jisung whispered, “You can ask me anything.”

Inches spread between their noses. “You say they never ask anything of you, the people within these pages,” he paused, and Jisung bobbed his head, “Have you tried to escape through them because of me? Because of what they’ve asked you to do?”

“Minho,” he sighed, glancing away for all of three seconds, “No, it’s… Okay, yes, but it’s more than that.”

“Because of what I’ve said,” Minho whispered, his eyes catching Jisungs, holding them with a newfound strength. “Because I’ve taken you to that place where you fear imperfection. For two years you’ve been able to control it all. I know the men in the house don’t force you to talk about it, I doubt they even ask you about it.” Jisungs lips had parted somewhere amidst his words. The intensity in which he spoke accelerated his heart faster. It wasn’t in vain, he didn’t spit venom in his face, he caressed his feelings in understanding. “You’re awful at hiding things, you wear your thoughts on your face, ever since I’ve gotten here you’ve been struggling.”

Minho moved closer, if it were even possible. Jisung’s heart rose to his throat. Trying to ease his breath, the air moved through him short and rushed.

“Jisung, I’m sorry I took you there,” he whispered. “It wasn’t my intention to put you back into a bad place, if anything I wanted to be able to move you forward to a good place, that’s why I’m here.” The boys watched one another, Minho trying his hardest not to smile as Jisungs eyes danced over his face. His eyes widened more than they normally would be, a sappiness hanging within them. Shining, glistening, the deep cinnamon Minho could taste. “Please, forgive me, and let me help you.”

Silence. Beating hearts. Quick, curious, longing breaths. Full lips, a chiseled nose, beguiling eyes. What would it feel like to reach out and hold him in his hands?

Jisung squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head, scrunching his brows into a mess that mirrored the one in his head. Sucking in a shaking breath, he released it with a gasp as Minho took a hand to his jaw, thumb hooking around one side of his chin, turning him back to face him. Opening his eyes, shock flooded his irises. The soft skin of his thumb drug across his skin, then it touched his bottom lip gently, tentative yet so confident. 

“You beautiful boy,” Minho whispered. Jisung went numb, his touch was electric. “Don’t worry,” he narrowed his eyes with a subtle nod. “I feel it, too.”

masterlist ✞ talk to me ✞ ao3

huge thank you & shoutout to @minkieater for always reading before something is posted and supporting me always <3

you do not have permission to copy or translate my works without my consent.

[dropletpetals]

The One Always Left Behind

(feat. Kaeya)

❥⁠Synopsis: He was one of the first to be chosen as Your vessel. He was happy, being used, being useful, and being showered by Your attention, but he can't help but wait for the other shoe to drop.

❥⁠Content Warnings: SAGAU, cult au, religious themes, abandonment issues, angst

❥⁠Author's Notes: Was taking a break from the event and was reading Kaeya & Diluc angst on ao3 then the next thing I knew I was writing this

Kaeya remembered being abandoned, being placed with a mission and expectations, as a spy, as the last hope of Khaenri'ah. But he could forget, for a moment about those things when he was welcomed by Mondstadt and the Ragnvindrs with open arms.

But the thought was always in the back of his mind. When the day comes, can he choose between his duty and his adopted family? Can he choose between the father who abandoned him, a ruined nation that he is the hope for, and a family that loved him, a warm city that he had come to love and protect?

But then Crepus died, and all he could feel was—

Relief.

Shame.

Grief.

Guilt.

Kaeya remembered vividly well the day he acquired his Vision, but all the same he wishes to forget it. It was a common saying that to receive a Vision was to be acknowledged by the Gods, but to him, it was just a stark reminder that his momentarily bliss and happiness had come to an end.

He had chosen to protect Mondstadt, and had finally stepped out of his adopted brother's shadow, one that he was so formerly afraid of doing.

He had replaced Diluc as the Cavalry Captain, became a spymaster—ironic, considering what he is—and all was well for the few years that Diluc was away.

And then he came back, and the all too familiar guilt had also came back. Especially when he saw that Diluc was not the same as back when they were younger.

But then again, couldn't he say the same for himself?

Perhaps that was why he couldn't help but prod and tease Diluc, if only to get a reaction from his once brother, even if it's only irritated growls and annoyance.

Kaeya remembered when he had first seen and met the Traveler. How interesting they were that they didn't hesitate to chase Stormterror away from a city that they're not affiliated with and couldn't help but be both grateful and suspicious.

Grateful that they saved Mondstadt and being suspicious why did they in the first place. But meeting them himself, he could asses that they really just wanted to help, no ulterior motives. But that doesn't quite reduce his suspiciouns, or his questions.

Where did they came from? What are their motivations? And later he would wonder, how can they wield elemental energy without a vision?

Kaeya remembered the instance he was chosen to be a vessel. He was both afraid and in awe, feeling his body be guided by an unworldly being, feeling this mind-numbingly blissful warmth as he traversed in one of the Four Winds Temple.

It was only after—when Amber and Lisa had expressed that they had felt the same—that he had found out from the Traveler that it was You.

Kaeya was not much of a believer of the Gods, but You were always the exception. For all that of Khaenri'ah hate the Gods, You were the sole exception. They worshipped and believed You, but only You. Not Celestia or the Archons, just You. And he was not an exception.

He barely remembered the prayers and rituals that Khaenri'ah had in honor of You but he remembered the Mondstadt traditions that Crepus had taught him.

Even to this day he did them, with some traditions he could remember from his homeland. He even blatantly wears Your symbol, showing off his devotion.

But finding out that You made him one of Your first vessel, that You have blessed him with Your warmth, blessed him Your attention, blessed him with strength, he couldn't help but dread for the future.

He enjoys Your attention, enjoys it when You use him with whatever it is that You wanted him to do, enjoys bragging about it with the drunkards at Angel's Share when it came out that the Creator themselves is checking up on Teyvat, enjoys picking on Diluc that he hasn't had his chance yet to be Your vessel, even as he felt both sad and guilty about it.

He was happy, and that scared him, because his happiness always seemed to have a time limit, because the source of his happiness always seemed to leave.

He was scared, afraid, terrified that he will once again be abandoned, be left alone, but it would be significantly worse because it was You.

His father had left him, cruelly and coldly abandoned in a stranger's house, even if came out alright in the end. Crepus had died and it was his fault that he couldn't help sooner. Diluc had left and it was his own fault for betraying his trust and confessing the truth in an ill-timed fashion.

They all had left.

So why wouldn't You?

❥⁠End Notes: This is my official plea as a Kaeya main to please give him some love

❥⁠Q: Speaking of, who's your current main?

[dulcewrites]

Masterlist

Welcome! You can call me Flower. I am a relatively new writer (fanfic wise). This is my side blog so replies/follows will come from dulcelibra. I write basically anything. Fluff, angst etc. So far the fandoms I’ve written for are: Top Gun Maverick, Outer Range, and House of the Dragon. I am open writing for other fandoms so just let me know if you have any request. My inbox is always open. I try to upload or post regularly, even if it is just posting ideas for feedback. That being said, I would appreciate patience. Also I do have works that are ambiguous readers but as a black woman is important for me to represent that in my writing. Please like, reblog, and follow if you see anything you like 🫶🏽🫶🏽

Ao3

Top Gun Maverick

Good Wife: As their marriage goes through a rough patch, Nia finds her reevaluating her relationship with Bradley, and what she signed up for when she said ‘I Do’. Slight character study based on some lyrics from good wife by Kacey Musgraves (Bradley x oc)

Crush Preview

Outer Range

Despite My Better Judgement: Your eccentric but kind hearted best friend tasks you with the duty of throwing “the best bachelorette party ever” in Wyoming of all places. An unexpected night with a brooding cowboy happens.

New Traditions: As the first holiday season in your new home approaches, Rhett and you start new traditions and make promises

Moodboard*

House of the Dragon

Fool Me Once (multi part - finished): Learning about Aemond’s indiscretions hurts more than you thought it would, and leads you to accepting help from an unlikely source (Aemond x reader)

Finding Common Cause (multi part- on going): A little white lie on Helaena’s part lands both Aemond and Myrah in situation they can’t get out of (Aemond x oc)

Blood in the Water (multi part - on going): Some will say that the deaths of Lady Laena Velaryon and Ser Laenor Velaryon, daughter and son of the Sea Snake and Queen That Never Was, were the first cracks in the long standing alliance between House Velaryon and House Targaryen. But most claim it was sudden union between Ser Vaemond Velaryon's daughter and the King's first born son. (Aegon x oc)

Intrinsically Linked: Love and Pain are two sides of the same coin. Fluid and never ending. Laena and Alicent both know that all too well.

Drowned in Love (multi part - paused): Love in painful and all consuming, and the three of them would not have it any other way. (Aemond x alys x oc)

One Step Forward, Two Steps Back (paused): Sometimes Aegon is sure that the Gods like playing tricks on him. Your reintroduction into his life only proves that further (modern hotd au, Aegon centric).

Acquired Taste (paused): Sometimes the hungry grows too strong. Edith and Aegon know that all too well. (Modern au Aegon x oc)

Unnerved: Being at court is a game is a game, and your favorite player is a certain long haired prince (Aemond x reader)

Fire & Desire: Many sacrifices have been made to get Aegon on the throne. Including ones made by you (Aegon x reader x aemond)

Paparazzi: Loving Aemond is cherry pie (modern au Aemond centric)

Gone… But Not Forgotten (request): Aemond and you always had a great relationship. But as the Dance of the Dragons begins and tensions rise, you find yourself on the outside looking in (Aemond x reader)

Promises and Premonitions (request): Since finding out you’re with child, you’ve been having the strangest nights (Aemond x reader)

For You Always: you always knew Aemond had a soft spot for you, but you always just assumed it was him wanting to look out for his brother’s wife. Soon you find out that his devotion knows no bounds (Aemond x reader)

Oc list

[buckets-and-trees]

Hoe’kay, I’ve had a thot 👀 Cedar Trees AU drabble + make it a/b/o 😏

This really just stems from this horny visual that won’t leave my whore mind: Steve scenting Reader’s throat for the very first time 😵‍💫🤌🏻🫡🫠

Oh! Siri!

If this man....

GOOD LORD

okay

So let's play with this.

If the Cedar Trees AU were an omegaverse...

So King Steven Rogers, strong and dutiful alpha... let's say he's come to his kingdom in kind of an Arthurian way, being chosen by destiny/winning the throne. He's beloved by his people. He spent ten or twelve years on the throne because he was devoted to serving his people, making peace for his kingdom, learning his duties, becoming the king he would want to serve if he weren't wearing the crown. He didn't turn the heads of anyone as a somewhat scrawny adolescent of unremarkable upbringing. Once the crown was thrust on his head, everyone was watching. He was always smart, and he stayed grounded. He also grew into his very remarkable adult alpha male body. (because duh)

Given all of this, he didn't let himself get distracted by the attention. He worked hard not to let himself get taken advantage of by anyone in or out of the kingdom while he was learning how to be king, either. He told everyone marriage was a long way off. Many people tried to argue that he needed to acquire his queen and establish his position with an heir for stability. He said there was nothing the existence of a child could do if there wasn't a stable kingdom for them be born into, and true stability would be achieved by him doing the work expected of him as a king.

Bucky, his number one, his right hand, is the one who assured him (and kept pushing him) that it was finally time to look to marriage - that at this point in his reign, there aren't any excuses of duty that he can make anymore. They discussed - because he trusts Bucky with everything and to keep his head right - that it needed to be a logical political alliance to strengthen two kingdoms, a smart woman who could even possibly be an asset in court and fostering royal relations. And she'd need to be an omega, but Steve both knew AND didn't mind in the slightest that he wouldn't end up with the much romanticized idea of a true mate. It was uncommon enough for someone without a crown, but laughable for a king.

But as alpha and omega dynamics do rely on primal chemistry at least to a point, after initial negotiations had been deemed suitable, there was a day planned for Steve and his delegation to meet you, your parents, and the rest of your advisors/delegation. This took place at a neutral location - another palace with friendly relations to both of you. Things began with a royal lunch, hosted by the king and queen of the land you were both visiting. A chance to break bread and everyone just share a meal and warm up the familiarity.

And then a royal walk around the gardens for the potential marital parties and a chaperone each. Does this sound formal? Yes. Because it was. It was you and Steve with Bucky and someone from your family following ten feet behind, and it took place outdoors because this kind of walk before final negotiations is solely for two partners to test whether or not there's hormonal compatibility, informal scenting, and if it's not going well, the parties are spared having that confined to a room, and anyone can make some excuse of a loose shoe, too much heat, being exhausted, etc, to shorten the walk.

But the walk with you is pleasant from beginning to end. The conversation is nothing deep, and neither of you went in for overly engaging, but it was the kind of conversation that he occasionally experienced with visiting dignitaries who didn't have business with him. Easy, natural.

It's only when he realizes that the two of you are almost back to the palace and he hasn't actually gotten the read on scent compatibility that he worries a little. He has to do something. Pleasant conversation was not the point of this walk.

So just as you re-enter the foyer and are about to part, he takes your hand to politely bestow a kiss over the back of it, it should allow him to scent your wrist appropriately but not overtly.

Only when he does catch your scent, he discovers that it was something floral that he though had been the garden, something so enticing that he holds his breath in that moment, and his hand holds yours a little more tightly, and a second or two longer than expected.

He looks up to your face again, and your lips are pressed together with just a hint of timidity behind the soft curving smile. You are trained - as he has been - to keep an open face, but one that doesn't tell everything. But he can see in your eyes just a hint of a spark.

This will work.

He wants to turn your hand over and truly scent the inside of your wrist, press a kiss to that spot of tender flesh and feel your pulse beneath his lips, that's how much your scent compels him.

But of course he won't do that.

The two of you part, and when Bucky asks if it's a favorable assessment for the final arrangements for the marriage to go forth that afternoon, Steve nods and affirms it.

He sorts his thoughts logically - it's just a very fortunate compatibility. The coupling will be compatible.

He has no idea the two of your are meant for growing together and sincerely enriching each others lives - that you are his true mate.

He still won't even believe it over the honeymoon.

It will be that period after when he realizes he's in love with you, and even being in love, it will still take more time - a few heat cycles and ruts together, and just being together for him to ultimately realize it. And then when he looks back, it will be as plain as day.

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