#Devil Came Through Here Trilogy

[devilcamethroughherefanatic]

Okay, here me out

Istg, my cat this morning, Dark was ON the windowsill IN my room, and I got a glimpse of the scene when Teacup in The Cat Lady was on Susan's windowsill when she broke down crying because of Bryan Palmer. Never gonna unsee this

[phantabula-interactive]

Burnhouse Lane (2022) by Harvester Games

[gloomiecutie]

More doodles of my favorite dysfunctional couple

[thecuddlymuffintop]

Tonight, at 7 pm CDT, I am aiming to finish Lorelai for Day 21 of my Spooktober Donothon on Twitch and YouTube.

Be forewarned. Due to the heavy topics displayed in this game, viewer discretion is advised.

If you're up for it, here are the links

Twitch

YouTube

[sarusuke-jet]

mr jet whats your fav viddy game and are you any good at it (also whats droys and levys and pls tell them i say hi)

Man idk I really like rhythm games like Project Diva and Rhythm Heaven and not to brag but I'm REALLY good at them nobody can beat me in Just Dance it's just not gonna happen ‼️‼️

I also really like RPGs I like the Mana series a lot! Levy got me into them honestly she's a big RPG fan but she likes to go for really niche stuff like Magical Vacation and Magical Starsign I think I wanna play them after I finish Echoes of Mana? But Visions of Mana comes out this year and I don't wanna get distracted..................

Anyway Levy is also really into metroidvanias she really likes Ender Lilies and Blasphemous and both of those look uhhhh Scary but she's having fun so that's cool ‼️

Droy really likes social sim games like Animal Crossing and Stardew Valley but he also really likes horror games apparently? He'll be watering flowers in New Horizons and then he'll turn around and play stuff like Forbidden Siren or the The Devil Came Through Here trilogy or Darkwood.

He and Levy will play horror games together and I love my friends so much but I can NOT handle it I will hide under the carpet‼️‼️

also you didn't ask but Gajeel likes to play Soulsborne games. And Candy Crush.

[milkmejae]

The Fragile, Tainted Lamb— p.js

Act I. of Lucifer: The Dark Trilogy

sypnosis: in 18th-century riverfield, a young pillar of faith, guiding his town with unwavering conviction, but when a broken girl seeks solace in his confession booth, his devotion is tested. as their forbidden bond deepens, the line between salvation and sin begins to blur—leading to consequences neither of them could have foreseen.

pairing: reverend! p.js x afab!reader

genre: dark romance, historical, angst, religious horror, supernatural thriller

word count: 12.6k

playlist: here!

warnings: religious trauma, corruption, dubious dynamics, age gap (26 p.js, 19 reader), abuse (physical, emotional, mental, and sexual), supernatural and demonic elements, graphic violence, death, suggestive themes (kissing, touching, no smut tho!)

a/n: okay so here it is! the lore of it all… enjoy! love, mmj. <3 not proofread!

In the beginning, the Lord’s hand shielded Riverfield. Or so the elders claimed.

The town had been built on the bones of the pious, its foundation laid by men who swore their souls to heaven. A church stood at its heart, grander than any dwelling, its steeple slicing the sky like a dagger aimed at the Lord’s own throne. The people of Riverfield were devout. They knew no law but scripture, no justice but that which came from the pulpit. And above all, they feared the wrath of God.

But the devil is not a creature of horn and hoof, nor does he rise with sulfur and flame. No, the devil is a whisper in the dark, a breath upon the nape of the faithful. And once, long ago, Riverfield listened.

For the lamb who loved to be tainted shall always be devoured.

The town of Riverfield was a place where faith was law, where the righteous tread with heads bowed and voices hushed, lest the Lord mistake reverence for pride. The cobbled streets bore the weight of weary souls, men with soot-streaked hands from the mines, women with raw fingers from endless needlework, and children who learned early that joy was a fleeting thing.

The church stood at the town’s heart, its spire a blackened finger against the heavens, worn by years of rain and unrelenting prayer. Every Sunday, its bells sang of salvation, though some believed they also tolled for the damned.

In this town, your name was spoken in whispers.

Born into wealth yet cursed with misfortune, you were a girl who bore bruises beneath silken sleeves, who walked with quiet steps lest the floorboards creak and summon wrath. Your father was a man of means but never of mercy. He owned men the way he owned his hounds, he fed them just enough to keep them useful and beat them just enough to keep them obedient.

To the town, he was an upright man, a pillar of virtue. To you, he was a monster draped in fine linen. And when night fell, and his sins weighed too heavily on your skin to bear alone, there was but one place to go. The church. Not to pray. Not to seek redemption.

But to confess the sins that were not your own.

The Reverend was the youngest to ever take the mantle in Riverfield, but his voice carried the weight of centuries. He spoke with a conviction that made old men weep and young women tremble, his words a gilded blade—cutting yet beautiful. When he preached, the world outside the church ceased to exist.

The first time you saw him, he stood behind the pulpit, clothed in black like an omen.

You should have seen him as all others did; a man of God, incorruptible, untouchable. But even then, you knew that angels did not belong in a place like this. And neither did you.

The church confession hall was small, its wooden walls pressed close, trapping secrets in their splintered embrace. Midnight cast long shadows through the latticed windows, the candlelight flickering as though afraid to burn too bright in the presence of sin.

It was here you came, night after night.

The confessional door creaked as you entered, the scent of aged parchment and melted wax heavy in the air. On the other side of the wooden screen, he waited.

“Speak,” came his voice, smooth as still water. You hesitated. You had never spoken in a confessional before as you never dared to. But tonight, your body ached where it should not, your soul heavier than your silence.

So you spoke.

Not of your sins, but of your father’s.

Not of wicked thoughts, but of bruises hidden beneath fine garments. Not of temptation, but of hands that did not belong to him alone.

The candle wavered. The air thickened. And for the first time, the reverend did not offer absolution. Only silence. A silence that would soon become his undoing.

The second time you came, the night was colder.

Riverfield slumbered beneath a sky thick with clouds, the stars hidden as if unwilling to bear witness. The church doors groaned in protest as you pushed them open, the nave stretching before you in eerie silence. The saints carved into the walls watched with hollow eyes, their painted faces worn from years of prayer, or perhaps from bearing too many secrets.

You stepped into the confessional, and before you could speak, he exhaled.

“You have returned.” A statement, not a question.

Your throat burned. “I have no place else to go.” Another silence.

“Speak.”

You did. And once more, your sins were not your own.

You told him of your father’s new venture—a business blessed by the church itself. The Reverend had laid his hand upon your father’s shoulder that very morning, offering words of prosperity before the gathered townsfolk. You had stood among them, a ghost in the crowd, your father’s grip like iron around your wrist. The reverend had not looked at you. But now, in the dim hush of the confessional, he recognized your voice.

The realization hit him like a blade to the ribs. Yet still, he did not speak of it. Instead, he asked, “Have you prayed?”

A bitter laugh scraped your throat. “Would God listen?” Something shifted beyond the wooden screen. A slow inhale, steady, controlled.

“God listens to all who seek Him.”

“Then why has He done nothing?”

The words hung between you, heavy as the church bells at dawn. He had no answer—at least, not one he dared to give. Instead, he did something worse.

He called you.

Not my child, not confessor.

The syllables of it were heavy with something unspoken. Something that should not exist between a reverend and a girl who had learned that faith alone could not save her.

That night, when you left the church, you swore you felt his gaze upon your back long after the doors had closed.

══════════════════════════

The bruises had not yet faded when you returned.

The wind had turned cruel, a beast howling through the hollows of Riverfield, rattling the bones of the town with icy fingers. The roads were slick with rain, the earth swallowing each step in wet, desperate gulps. Somewhere in the distance, a dog wailed, a mournful sound, as though it sensed some great misfortune hanging over the night like an unspoken omen.

You walked through it all, shoulders squared against the chill, the damp fabric of your dress clinging to your skin. The weight of your father’s handprint still burned across your arm, though the skin had begun to mottle from violet to a sickly shade of yellow. Beneath your ribs, you could feel the deeper aches—bruises pressed into flesh like a cruel signature, a reminder that you belonged to him, that escape was a foolish dream.

The church rose before you, dark against the storm-lit sky, its spire slicing into the heavens like a blade poised to sever the veil between mortal and divine. The iron bell had long since fallen silent, its voice swallowed by the wind, but the doors stood ajar, as if expecting your arrival. And so, you entered.

Inside, the air was thick with the whiff of melted wax and old wood, a solemn fragrance that had long settled into the marrow of the church. Candles flickered along the altar, their flames trembling against unseen forces, as if they, too, feared what lurked beyond these walls.

The saints stood watch along the stone pillars, their carved faces smooth and expressionless. You had long since stopped seeking solace in their gaze.

Instead, you turned toward the confessional.

The wood was warm beneath your fingertips as you slid the door shut, enclosing yourself in the narrow chamber. It was a familiar closeness, the walls pressing in like the pages of a book not yet read to its final chapter.

On the other side of the partition, you heard him shift.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The storm raged beyond the church walls, wind scraping against the stained glass as though it sought entry.

“You are hurt.”

The words did not waver. They were not shaped in question but in certainty, spoken with a weight that pressed into the silence between you. You swallowed against the tightness in your throat.

“It does not matter.”

Something in the confessional shifted—the sound of fabric brushing against wood, a slow inhale, a pause too deliberate to be ignored.

“It does.”

His voice was lower tonight, rougher at the edges. You curled your fingers into your lap, gripping the damp fabric of your dress as if it could anchor you. You had not come for comfort. You had not come for sympathy.

“Will you offer a prayer for me, Reverend?” A beat of silence. “Is that what you seek?” No. No, it was not.

You sought something else. Something you could not name. Something that should not take root within these walls.

But you could not bring yourself to say it aloud. So instead, you breathed, “I seek an answer.” Another pause. A breath, measured and thoughtful.

“Ask.”

Your hands trembled. You clenched them tighter. “If suffering is a trial, why is mine unending?” The words fell from your lips like a stone cast into deep water, sinking into the quiet that followed.

It was not a question for him. It was a question for the heavens, for the God who had turned His face from you time and time again. And yet, from the other side of the partition, Reverend Park exhaled slowly.

“Because suffering is man’s doing, not God’s.” His voice was not cold, nor was it kind. It was simply a truth, spoken aloud in the dim hush of the confessional.

Your vision blurred, not with tears, but with something heavier. A cruel laugh scraped your throat.

“Then why do we pray?” A heartbeat. Then, his voice, softer as though admitting a sin of his own.

“Because sometimes, it is the only thing left.”

The words did not offer comfort, nor did they pretend to. They did not promise salvation, did not weave empty reassurances into the spaces between breaths. And yet, they settled into your bones like something irreversible.

Something that should not have been spoken at all. That night, when you left the church, you did not walk alone. His presence lingered not in form, but in thought. In the way his voice curled around your name.

In the way faith had begun to falter.

══════════════════════════

The night was thick with the remnants of the storm, the wind whispering along the cobbled streets like the dying breath of something ancient. A fog had settled low over Riverfield, curling around the houses and snaking through the barren branches of the trees that lined the path to the church. The ground was damp beneath your steps, rainwater pooling in the uneven cracks of stone, each footfall swallowed by the hush that clung to the town like a prayer unanswered. You should not have been here.

And yet, you came.

You did not run this time. There was no urgency in your stride, no desperate rush to the confessional as if you could spill your suffering into its wooden mouth and be cleansed of it. No, tonight you walked with slow, deliberate steps, your body aching from wounds old and new, your spirit heavy with a weight that even prayer could not lift.

The wooden doors of the church stood open once more, a silent invitation—or a trap. The candlelight flickered weakly within, casting long shadows that danced along the stone walls. The saints stayed as still, seemed to watch you like weeping angels.

You swallowed hard and stepped inside.

The air was thick with incense, the scent clinging to the fabric of your dress, weaving itself into your skin. The wax from the candles dripped slowly, each bead of molten light trailing down in languid descent, as if even the fire had begun to weep. The hush of the nave wrapped around you, heavy, suffocating. And then, there was him.

The moment you crossed the threshold, you felt his presence. It was not sight nor sound that told you he was there, but something deeper, something unseen, yet inescapable.

Reverend Park. Or perhaps, the man you’ve been confiding to. The title was beginning to feel like a veil too thin to hide what lurked beneath.

The weight of your bruises dragged you down as you moved through the church, each step measured, careful. You had not yet spoken, had not yet dared to call out to him. And yet, he knew. He always knew.

The confessional waited, its door slightly ajar. The candlelight barely touched its depths, swallowed by the dark wood, by the secrets that had sunk into its very bones over years of whispered penance. You stepped inside.

The partition was thin. A fragile barrier between you and him, between salvation and sin.

“I feared you would not return.”

His voice was quieter than the night before. Not the voice of a man offering scripture, nor of a reverend speaking of righteousness, but something else. Something human.

You swallowed, fingers tightening in your lap. “Did you wish me not to?” A pause. A moment that stretched too long, the silence between you thick enough to drown in.

“No.” A single word, spoken with the weight of something that should never have been admitted aloud.

The candlelight wavered, a breath of wind slipping through the gaps in the wood. Somewhere in the church, a drop of wax fell from its wick, the faint sound echoing through the empty nave. And still, he did not speak again. So it was you who did.

“My father—” The words were fragile, breaking as they left your lips.

The man inhaled sharply, and though you could not see him, you felt the way his body stiffened, as though bracing for a revelation he already knew would be cruel.

“Tell me,” he said, quiet and firm.

You clenched your hands, pressing your nails into the fabric of your dress. You had spoken of your father’s sins before, had spilled them into the wooden mouth of the confessional night after night, and yet each time, the weight of them never seemed to lessen. This was different.

“I am to be sold.”

The hush that followed was not empty. It was thick, oppressive, trembling with an anger not yet given voice. You did not need to explain further. He knew. You knew that he knew.

The confessional creaked. A movement too quiet for the cavernous space, yet loud enough in this moment. You heard the shift of fabric, the sound of fingers pressing against wood. A breath. Deep and slow.

As if he were fighting something within himself. When he finally spoke again, his voice was quiet. Steady.

“The church will not allow it.”

The certainty in his tone sent a shiver down your spine. It was not the voice of a reverend.

Not the voice of a man who merely offered prayers for suffering souls, whose only power lay in the sermons he preached to the masses. It was a vow. As the words settled into the silence between you. You had not come here seeking salvation.

But perhaps, salvation had already found you.

After the night, morning mist curled through the alleyways like a living thing, sinking into the cracks of the stones, filling the air with dampness that settled deep into your bones. Riverfield had always been a dreary place, its skies perpetually heavy with cloud cover, its rivers swollen with the endless cycle of rain that fell as though Heaven itself mourned for the town. Yet, even beneath its gray expanse, the world moved on.

The morning after your last confession, you walked these streets with a hollow chest, moving like a ghost in the body of a girl not yet dead. The sky was gray above, heavy with the promise of more rain, though the clouds had yet to break. Horses clattered past in the narrow lanes, their hooves spattering mud onto the skirts of passing women, who barely spared you a glance as they bustled about their morning business.

And still, beneath the murmurs of merchants and the scrape of carriage wheels against stone, you heard it—

"The church will not allow it."

It had been the only promise anyone, or the church, had ever made to you. And yet, what could it possibly mean?

You had whispered of your father’s sins into the shadows of the confessional before, had bared your bruises to the void in the hope that God might take pity, that Heaven might intervene. But never had Reverend Park—spoken in such a way.

Had he meant it? Will the church be your long lost salvation? Or had it been nothing more than a moment of faux care, a blasphemous slip of emotion in the face of cruelty? You did not know. There was no saving you.

It was early evening when the reverend took the pulpit.

The church was filled, as it always was, with men and women lined in careful rows, hands clasped, lips moving in quiet prayer. The air was thick with the scent of burning tallow, with the dampness of coats still heavy from the morning mist, with the faint breath of incense curling toward the rafters like unseen hands reaching for God’s mercy. And there, at the altar, stood him.

The sight of him was jarring.

Gone was the voice from the confessional, the one that had spoken in the hushed tones of something unholy, of something that could not be allowed to exist beneath the house of God. Gone was the quiet wrath you had felt in the darkness, the weight of his breath between wooden slats. Here, he was the reverend. The man of God.

His hands were steady as they rested upon the pulpit, his gaze unwavering as he looked out over his flock. The candlelight kissed the sharp planes of his face, flickering against the gold of his robe, the deep indigo of his collar.

He looked untouched by the night before, untouched by you.

══════════════════════════

There was an undeniable sanctity in the way light touched the church at dawn.

Riverfield’s sky was forever heavy with gray, but on rare mornings, when the mist had not yet swallowed the land whole, the sunlight broke through in slivers, cascading through the stained-glass windows in fractured hues of gold and crimson. It draped the altar in warmth, made the old wooden pews glow with something akin to divinity, illuminated dust motes that hung suspended in the still air, like remnants of prayers that had never reached the heavens.

But you did not look at the light. You only looked at him.

He stood before the pulpit, his back to you, his posture rigid in its usual restraint. His stance was pristine as always, untainted by the soot that clung to the townsfolk who knelt before him. He had not yet donned his stole, a sign that the sermon had not yet begun but even without it, he bore the weight of the priesthood in the way he stood, in the way his presence commanded something both reverent and fearsome.

He was a man who spoke of God with conviction. But today, his hands trembled.

Not enough for the congregation to notice. Not enough for the devout women in their lace veils or the kneeling men in their threadbare coats to whisper among themselves. Not enough for his brethren to cast wary glances his way. But you noticed.

You always noticed.

He had seen you before the service began—watched as you slipped into the church through the side entrance, the shadow of last night’s confession still lingering over you like a shroud. He had seen the faint bruises beneath your sleeves, the way you had hesitated before kneeling at the back of the church, not daring to take your usual place near the front. He had seen everything.

And now, as he spoke, his voice steady, his words scripture-bound, his hands betrayed him.

“Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.”

His fingers curled over the edge of the pulpit.

“The Lord is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” His nails pressed into the wood. “The righteous cry out, and the Lord hears them. He delivers them from all their troubles.” A pause. A moment of silence so brief, so fleeting, that only you caught it.

Then, he exhaled, his grip loosening, and continued. You bowed your head, closing your eyes. The sermon went on, but you heard nothing.

Your father had woken before dawn. His mood had been calm—too calm. He had touched your shoulder with the same hand that had bruised it only hours prior, had smiled in a way that made your stomach twist. He had spoken of new opportunities, of business ventures, of debts that could be settled in ways that did not require coin. And you had known.

It will happen soon.

You felt it in the marrow of your bones, in the way the air in your home had thickened, suffocating and stale. There had been no morning meal, only silence, only his sharp eyes watching as you pulled your shawl around your shoulders, as you stepped out into the streets, as if he were ensuring you would return by nightfall. You had walked to the church with a purpose that was not devotion.

Reverend Park knew it.

Even now, as his voice rang through the chapel, as the final prayers were spoken, as the congregation crossed themselves and stood, preparing to leave, his gaze found yours. Not immediately. Not in a way that others would notice. But you felt it.

Like a hand on your wrist. Like a weight pressing into your chest.

You remained kneeling long after the halls were emptied. You remained still as the whispers of townsfolk faded into the cold morning air. You remained even when the last of the clergy had retired, their robes sweeping against the stone floors as they disappeared beyond the sanctuary doors.

Only when the heavy wooden doors groaned shut did you rise. And only then did he move.

The moment the last echo of footsteps died, he stepped down from the altar, his boots soundless against the worn floor. The vast emptiness of the church seemed to shrink with every step he took, the cold air thickening with something unspoken, something undeniable. When he stopped before you, the world itself seemed to still.

“You were not at home last night,” he said, voice quiet, but firm.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your sleeves. “No.” He studied you, gaze heavy, searching. “Where did you go?” You swallowed.

“Here.”

The candlelight cast flickering shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles, the controlled tightness in his jaw. His hands, once trembling before the congregation, were now perfectly still at his sides.

“You are lying.” It was not a question. Your breath stilled in your throat. He exhaled, closing his eyes briefly, as if steadying himself. When he opened them again, something darker had settled within them.

“I will stop it, I am certain.” You knew what he meant. You knew there was no need for him to say more.

Even before last night’s confession, even before the bruises, even before the weight of your suffering had been whispered between the wooden slats of the confessional, he had known. And he had already decided. You whispered, voice barely audible.

"But you are not God."

══════════════════════════

It was midnight.

The wind howled against the church’s stone walls, slipping through the cracks of the stained glass and snuffing out candles in its wake. It carried the scent of damp earth and dying leaves, the remnants of autumn clinging desperately to a world that would soon be swallowed by winter’s cruelty. The air was thick with cold, pressing against your skin like a warning, like a whispered omen of something unseen. And yet, you were here.

Kneeling before the confessional, your breath shallow, your fingers trembling against the worn wood of the bench.

It was always midnight when you came.

When the town lay sleeping, oblivious to the secrets buried beneath its soil. When the miners had long since drowned themselves in whiskey, their pockets emptied in the taverns and their sins forgotten in the arms of women who did not know their names. When your father, if the Lord was merciful, had passed out in a stupor, too far gone to realize you had slipped from the house, your shadow swallowed by the night.

It was the only time you felt safe.

The wooden lattice separating you from him was thin, but sturdy. The flickering candle within his booth cast shadows against the screen, turning him into something less than a man, something more than a ghost. He was not supposed to be here at this hour. The priests had long since retired to their quarters, their duties finished for the night. But he had waited for you.

And now, the weight of his presence pressed against you, more suffocating than the cold.

"Speak."

The single word cut through the silence, low and restrained. Your lips parted then hesitated. What was there left to say?

Had you not already spoken it all? Had you not already laid yourself bare before him, before the God he served, before the empty chapel that bore witness to every whispered confession, every desperate plea, every unspoken prayer?

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

The words left your mouth automatically, instinctual, like a habit you had never truly understood. A breath. "You are not here to confess." The candle wavered. You swallowed.

His voice remained steady, but you could hear it beneath the calm, beneath the practiced detachment, beneath the guise of divinity. A tremor.

"Then why are you here?" The question was a trap. And you walked straight into it. "Because you listen." A breath of silence stretched between you.

Because he listened. Because he knew. Because he had seen the bruises that lined your skin like ink-stained scripture, had heard the unspoken agony beneath your voice, had understood what no one else in Riverfield dared to acknowledge.

Because he had become something more than a reverend to you. He had become something close to salvation. You heard him shift, the wood beneath him creaking as if it, too, wished to speak.

"Your father?" Two words. The only two that mattered.

You exhaled, your breath turning to mist in the frigid air. "He has found a new way to profit from me." The silence that followed was suffocating.

You could not see him through the screen, but you felt it, the way the air around him darkened, the way the space between you seemed to hum with something dangerous, something unholy.

"What way?" Your fingers curled into your skirts, nails pressing into the fabric. "You already know." It was not an answer.

It did not need to be.

A sound so soft, so quiet you almost thought you imagined it. A sharp breath. A tightening of fingers. A shift in posture.

Anger.

Not the righteous fury of a man of faith, not the tempered indignation of one who serves the Lord—but the wrath of a man. "You must leave." he said, voice taut. "And go where, Father?" You almost laughed.

"Anywhere."

He was grasping for something, for a solution, for a way out that did not exist. You only smiled, bitter, exhausted.

"You think God will protect me?" A heartbeat. Then, so quiet you almost did not hear it. "That," The admission stole the breath from your lungs.

He was a man of God. A shepherd of the Lord. A reverend who stood before his people each morning and spoke of divine justice, of mercy, of the Almighty’s unwavering love.

And yet, here in the darkness, hidden behind the thin lattice of the confessional, he uttered the one thing no man of the cloth should ever admit.

"Only God could not answer." God would not protect you. Not from this. Not from the monster who shared your blood.

Not from the town that turned its head, that whispered behind their hands, that would rather let a girl be devoured than acknowledge the rot festering beneath their own roofs. Not even from himself.

The candle sputtered.

You inhaled, the scent of melting wax thick in your throat. "Then who will?" A breath. A hesitation. A moment of silence so heavy, so deafening, you thought he might not answer.

"I will."

It was not a promise. It was a testament. Something neither of you had the strength to stop.

The night passed, sun cast its golden net over Riverfield, bleeding light through the stained-glass windows of the church. The colors stretched across the stone walls, twisting and bending over the altar, warping saints and martyrs into something unrecognizable. The scent of incense lingered in the air, clinging to the heavy wooden pews, seeping into the very foundation of this house of God.

And at the center of it all stood Reverend Park.

His presence was commanding, though he did not speak with the fire and brimstone that others in his station so often wielded. No, his voice was measured, his words deliberate, laced with a conviction that settled over his congregation like a spell.

"To sin is to stray from His grace, but to repent—ah, to repent is to return to the fold, to be welcomed once more into the arms of the Almighty. For He is merciful, is He not?"

The townspeople nodded, murmurs of agreement threading through the room. Their eyes clung to him, to the solemn set of his features, to the way his hands rested atop the pulpit—strong hands, steady hands.

"Yet mercy," he continued, "is not without consequence." A hush fell over the crowd.

"For as it is written—" he turned a page in his Bible, though he had no need to read it, the words already engraved into his mind, "—‘He who sows iniquity will reap sorrow, and the rod of His wrath shall not spare the wicked.’"

His gaze swept over the sea of faces before him, their expressions tight with reverence, with fear, with guilt. They clung to his words as if they were lifelines, as if they alone could absolve them of the sins they buried beneath their tongues.

Hypocrites. Liars. Cowards.

They who closed their doors at night and pretended not to hear your suffers. They who smiled at your father in daylight and ignored the bruises on your skin. They who claimed to be good, god-fearing folk yet let wickedness fester beneath their very roofs.

His jaw tensed, but he did not waver. "Be not deceived, for the Lord is just."

And so he thought is He.

══════════════════════════

He saw you again that afternoon.

You stood in the courtyard outside the church, staring out toward the lake. The water was still, the surface catching the early winter sun, glinting like fractured glass. The breeze carried the scent of damp wood and decaying leaves, rustling through your hair, the edges of your cloak trembling against your frame.

You did not look at him when he approached.

"Reverend." Your voice was soft, yet distant.

"Child."

A silence stretched between you, thin and delicate as spun glass. "I listened to your sermon today," you murmured.

He studied you, the way your hands were clasped before you, fingers tangled together, knuckles pale from pressure. "And?" You inhaled. Exhaled.

"‘The rod of His wrath shall not spare the wicked.” You murmured whilst giving a subtle smile. His breath stilled. "You were speaking of my father." It was not a question. Still, he did not answer. Your fingers clenched.

"And yet, the wicked still walk free."

He turned his head slightly, following your gaze toward the town. The streets of Riverfield stretched beyond the churchyard, where merchants bickered over coin, where children played at their mothers’ feet, where men gathered outside the tavern in the golden haze of the afternoon. And somewhere among them, your father stood.

Living. Breathing. Unpunished.

He looked back at you, his expression unreadable. "You do not believe in justice?" Your voice was raw, heavy with something he could not name. "I do not believe in waiting for it."

He had seen you on your knees before him in the confessional, voice trembling, eyes wide with something close to desperation. He had seen you pray for deliverance, for salvation, for something more than the life you had been given. Now, you did not look like a girl waiting for salvation. You looked like a girl ready to burn the world down.

Later that night, the church was empty.

He had dismissed the deacons. The halls were silent, the candles burned low. The pews stood empty, the echoes of prayers still clinging to the air like the ghosts of a thousand whispered sins.

He knelt before the altar. And for the first time in his life, he did not pray for guidance. He did not pray for clarity. He did not pray for strength.

Instead, he whispered your name. He prayed for vengeance.

══════════════════════════

The church breathed as if it were alive. The cold stone walls, thick with the weight of centuries, held within them the whispered prayers of the lost, the forgotten, the forsaken. Shadows flickered against the vaulted ceiling, bending and twisting with the dance of candlelight, the flames struggling to stave off the encroaching darkness of midnight.

The air was damp, laced with the scent of burning tallow, aged parchment, and the lingering trace of frankincense from the evening mass. And in the thick of that darkness, you came.

The wooden doors groaned as you slipped inside, the sound swallowed by the vast emptiness of the nave. The floor was cold beneath your bare feet, stone biting against flesh as you stepped forward, each movement tentative yet deliberate. Your nightgown clung to you, damp with the mist that rose from the lake outside, its hem stained with dirt and decay from the uneven path you had taken through the backroads of Riverfield. A path well-worn. A path only traveled by the desperate. By you.

He saw you before you spoke. He had been waiting—though for what, he could not say.

A flicker of candlelight caught in your eyes as you lifted your gaze to meet his. There was something there, something fragile, something hollow, like the last ember of a dying flame. And yet, beneath it, beneath the weariness, beneath the resignation, there was steel. A quiet, unyielding defiance.

"You returned," he murmured, voice a low timbre that carried through the silence.

You hesitated. Not out of doubt, not out of fear, but out of something heavier, something unspoken. Your fingers curled into the fabric of your nightgown, knuckles paling from the pressure.

"You knew I would." He did. Wordlessly, he stepped aside, allowing you to enter first.

The confessional was suffocating.

The walls, thick with carved scripture, seemed to close in around you, the weight of divinity pressing against your shoulders like a yoke. It smelled of old wood and dying wax, of dust and something deeper, something that could not be named, only felt.

You sank to your knees, the polished floor unyielding beneath you. Through the latticework, you could just make out the outline of him, the heavy black of his robes blending into the shadows, a specter behind the screen. The candle between you flickered. Your breath trembled as you spoke.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."

He did not answer immediately.

His hands. Those hands, the same that blessed the sick and anointed the dying rested against his lap, fingers curled into his robes as if to steady himself.

"What weighs upon your soul?"

A silence stretched between you, thick as the fog that crept over the lake at dawn.

"I wish my father dead."

The confession cut through the stillness like the blade of a guillotine. He did not breathe.

Somewhere, beyond the safety of these walls, the world continued. The wind stirred through the trees, the village lanterns guttered, the river whispered secrets to the shore. But here, in this hollowed chamber of God, time stood still.

The man did not flinch. Did not recoil. Did not condemn. "Is it a sin to wish harm upon those who have done evil?" Your voice, once quiet, now held something beneath it. Something sharp. Something jagged.

"You seek justice," he said.

A pause.

"I seek freedom." The words trembled in the air between you, delicate yet unwavering. He swallowed.

He had seen you on your knees before him in this very place, voice shaking as you whispered your father’s sins into the dark, confessing not for yourself, but for the man who had carved ruin into your flesh, into your soul. He had seen your hands tremble as you wiped at the tears you refused to shed, had heard the bitterness in your voice as you asked why God had made you His lamb, only to lead you to slaughter.

This was not a plea. This was a declaration. You were not waiting for salvation. You were demanding it. His fingers curled tighter into his robes.

He should have told you to repent. Should have whispered of mercy, of patience, of the divine will of the Almighty. Should have reminded you that justice did not belong to men, but to God alone.

"Then we shall find it." You stilled.

The candlelight trembled between you, the only thing separating the two of you from the edge of damnation.

Your fingers pressed against the latticework, as if reaching—though whether for him, or for the promise buried in his words, he could not say.

It should have terrified him.

"Your sins are forgiven."

But in the silence that followed, in the way his breath did not steady, in the way your fingers still lingered against the carved wood, you both knew this was not forgiveness.

This was the beginning of a wrath.

══════════════════════════

The night stretched long and cold over Riverfield, the wind carving through the trees with a mournful howl. The church stood against it, ancient and unmoving, a silhouette against the moonlit sky. Within its walls, the air was thick with incense and something heavier—something suffocating.

The great wooden doors groaned as they parted, their hinges wailing like a dying thing. The flickering candlelight trembled as the cold seeped into the stone floors, whispering against the pews, against the altar, against the man kneeling before it.

The Reverend knew you had come before he even turned. The moment the air shifted, the moment the world itself seemed to still, he felt it—felt you.

And when he turned, his breath caught.

You stood before him, bare and trembling, your skin a canvas of bruises and scars that told a story far more damning than any confession. Your arms wrapped around yourself, not in shame but in an attempt to shield against the cold that had long since settled into your bones.

But it was not the cold you feared.

It was the silence. The way he looked at you—not in horror, not in disgust, but in something far more dangerous. Something that burned.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."

Your voice was a whisper, a breath against the stillness, and him who had spent his life bound by scripture and devotion—was suddenly uncertain of his faith.

"What weighs upon your soul?"

He spoke the words because he had to, because they were all he had left to hold onto. But you did not answer.

Instead, you stepped forward, the candlelight casting long shadows across your skin, illuminating every wound, every mark, every piece of you that had been stolen.

Bare and nude.

You knelt before him, your bare knees pressing into the cold stone floor, your hands resting in your lap like a penitent before judgment. But there was no judgment in his gaze. Only fire. Only fury.

"I am unclean." The words should have shattered him. Instead, they ignited him.

"Who did this to you?"

His voice was low, raw, trembling with something barely restrained. Your fingers curled against the fabric of his robes, but you did not answer. You did not need to. He already knew.

Your father’s sins had long since poisoned these walls. They clung to the air, thick and rancid, pressing against his skin, seeping into his lungs. He had heard them spill from your lips night after night, whispered through the confessional screen like a prayer, like a plea. But never like this.

Never with your body as the proof. "It was not your sin to bear." A silence. A tremble. "And yet, I bear it still."

Something in him snapped.

Jay was not a man of violence. He had built his life on discipline, on faith, on the quiet understanding that suffering was a burden one had to endure. But this—This was not suffering.

This was desecration.

His fingers trembled as they reached for you, hesitant, reverent, as if afraid that even the gentlest touch might shatter what little remained of you. But when you did not pull away.

When you only looked at him, wide-eyed and waiting—he cupped your face in his hands. "God does not forsake the broken."

You laughed. A small, bitter thing. "Then where is He, Jay?"

You called his name for the first time yet he had no answer. Because in that moment, he, too, no longer believed.

The weight of it all—the rage, the grief, the helplessness, became unbearable. And so he did the only thing a desperate man could do.

His lips crashed onto you.

It was the unraveling of everything he had once been. Your fingers fisted in his robes, pulling him closer, and for the first time in his life, Jay did not pray.

It was a storm that had been brewing for years, a tempest of unspoken words and buried emotions, and now it roared within him, unchecked and unrelenting. His chest heaved, his hands trembled, and his vision blurred as the world around him seemed to dissolve into a haze of despair and desperation.

He could no longer hold it back, no longer contain the torrent of feelings that threatened to consume him whole. And so, in that moment of raw, unbridled vulnerability, he did the only thing a desperate man could do.

It was not gentle.

It was not the kind of kiss born of tenderness or affection. No, this was something else entirely—something primal, something feral. It was fury, a sensual wildfire raging unchecked, devouring everything in its path. It was anguish, a deep, aching sorrow that had festered for too long, finally breaking free.

His lips crashed against yours with a ferocity that left no room for hesitation, no space for doubt. This was not a plea for comfort or a request for solace. It was a demand, a declaration, a reckoning.

His hands gripped you with a force that bordered on painful, fingers digging into your flesh as if he feared you might vanish if he let go. Your own hands responded in kind, fisting in the fabric of his robes, pulling him closer, tighter, until there was no space left between you. The world outside ceased to exist.

There was only this—the heat of his breath mingling with yours, the taste of salt and desperation on his lips, the sound of your hearts pounding in unison, a frantic rhythm that echoed the chaos within.

For the first time in his life, Jay did not pray. He did not seek forgiveness or guidance or redemption. He did not bow his head in supplication or whisper pleas to a higher power. No, in that moment, he turned away from the divine and embraced the profane.

Not out of ignorance or compulsion, but willingly, deliberately. He sinned with every fiber of his being, with every beat of his heart, with every breath that passed between your lips. It was a sin born of longing, of need, of a hunger that could no longer be denied.

And as he kissed you, as he poured every ounce of his pain and passion into that single, searing moment, he felt something inside him unravel. The carefully constructed facade of who he had once been the dutiful, the righteous, the restrained, shattered into a thousand irreparable pieces. What remained was raw and real, stripped bare of pretense and propriety. It was a man undone, a man reborn, a man who had finally stopped fighting the truth of what he wanted, what he needed.

“I can’t— I can’t take this anymore,” he choked out, his words raw, unfiltered. His eyes, dark and stormy, locked onto yours, searching for something. Absolution perhaps? or maybe just an end to the torment. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me? What you do to me?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came. What could you say? The air between you was electric, charged with unspoken tension, of stolen glances and suppressed desires. He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, his breath hot against your skin.

“You don’t get to speak,” he growled, his voice trembling with barely restrained emotion. “Not now. Not after all this time. You don’t get to tell me it’s wrong, or that we can’t, or that we shouldn’t. I’m done listening.”

“I’m now damned by your being.”

You gasped into his mouth, your fingers instinctively tangling in the fabric of his robes, pulling him closer, tighter, until there was no space left between you.

“Jay—” you managed to whisper, his name a plea, a protest, a prayer. But he silenced you with another kiss, deeper this time, more desperate. His hands moved to your face, cradling it as though you were something fragile, even as his lips devoured you with a hunger that bordered on violence.

“Don’t,” he murmured against your mouth, his voice rough, broken. “Don’t say my name like that. Not unless you mean it. Not unless you want this as much as I do.”

You could feel the tremor in his hands, the way his body shook with the effort of holding back, of keeping himself in check. But there was no restraint in the way he kissed you—no hesitation, no guilt. It was fury and anguish, passion and pain, all rolled into one. It was the unraveling of everything he had once been, everything he had once believed.

“I’ve tried,” he whispered, his lips brushing yours as he spoke, his breath hot and unsteady. “I’ve tried to be what they wanted, to do what was right.”

Your hands slid up his chest, gripping the front of his robes as if to anchor yourself, to keep from drowning in the intensity of him. “Jay,” you said again, softer this time, your voice trembling. “This is—this is a sin.”

He let out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh and broken. “Then let me sin,” he said, his voice low, desperate. “I’m ready to burn for this. Let me burn for you.”

And with that, he kissed you again, deeper, harder, as if he could erase every doubt, every fear, every boundary with the heat of his mouth on yours. His hands slid down to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel the rapid beat of his heart, the way it matched your own. For the first time in his life, Jay did not pray. He did not seek forgiveness or guidance or redemption. He sinned—willingly, deliberately, with every fiber of his being.

When he pulled away to speak, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps, he whispered, “I don’t care anymore. I don’t care about the consequences, or the rules, or the damnation.

"If this is a sin, then let it be mine. Let it be ours.”

You stared at him, your chest rising and falling as you struggled to catch your breath. His eyes, dark and intense, bore into yours, waiting, daring you to pull away, to reject him. But you didn’t. Instead, you reached up, your fingers brushing against his cheek, and whispered, “Then let it burn.”

And just like that, the last thread of his restraint snapped. It happened again, and this time, there was no hesitation, no guilt, no fear. There was only this—only him, only you, and the sin that bound you together.

You were his salvation and his damnation, his solace and his torment. And in that kiss, in that sin, he found a kind of peace. A fleeting, fragile peace that was as beautiful as it was devastating. For he knew, even as he held you, even as he lost himself in you, that this moment could not last. But for now, for this one stolen instant, he allowed himself to forget. He allowed himself to feel. He allowed himself to be.

He sinned.

He sinned voluntarily.

══════════════════════════

There were no angels in Riverfield.

The town sat beneath a sky that had long since turned its back on salvation, wrapped in a silence that swallowed confessions whole. The church stood at its heart, a beacon of faith for those who still clung to the notion that their sins could be washed clean, that their suffering was not in vain.

But Jay knew better.

He had spent his life in devotion, kneeling upon cold stone, whispering prayers that tasted of ash, pressing scripture into the wounds of the damned and calling it salvation. He had worn the cloth, sung the hymns, held the hands of sinners as they wept beneath the weight of their transgressions.

Yet here he was now, kneeling before a girl who had never been given the chance to be anything but forsaken. And for the first time in his life, Jay could not find the words to pray.

You knelt before him, bare and trembling, after the passionate moment both of you shared after the sinful kiss committed.

The candlelight mixed with light from outside casting golden shadows over your skin. There was nothing holy about the way he looked at you—nothing sacred in the way his hands hovered above your shoulders, aching to touch, to soothe, to rewrite the story carved into your flesh.

He had spent nights listening to your voice spill through the confessional screen, whispered and broken, speaking of sins that were never your own. He had memorized the way your breath hitched when you spoke of your father’s cruelty, the way your voice wavered when you spoke of the men who had stained you, the way silence had become your greatest confession. But he had never seen it.

Not like this.

Not with his own eyes tracing every bruise, every scar, every wound in your naked body, stitched into your very existence. The church should have felt like a sanctuary. Instead, it felt like a tomb.

"Come with me."

His own voice startled him. The words had slipped from his lips without thought, without reason, without the hesitation that should have stopped him.

You lifted your gaze to his, searching, questioning, your fingers curled in the fabric of his robes as if afraid that, at any moment, he would come to his senses and leave you behind.

"Where?" Jay exhaled slowly, his hands finally coming to rest upon your shoulders. His touch was light, almost hesitant, as if afraid that the moment he held you, you would turn to dust between his fingers.

"Away from here."

It was madness. Blasphemy. For the first time since he had taken his vows, Jay did not care. Your breath was unsteady as you nodded, the movement small, almost imperceptible. But it was enough.

It was all he needed.

He rose to his feet, pulling you up with him, his grip firm yet careful, the weight of his decision settling heavy upon his shoulders. The church loomed around him, its vaulted ceilings stretching endlessly above, its stained-glass windows casting fractured light upon the stone floor. He had spent years within these walls, preaching salvation, offering comfort, speaking of mercy. But there was no mercy here.

Not for you.

Not for him.

The doors stood before him, heavy and foreboding, the last barrier between the life he had known and the damnation he had chosen. He did not hesitate as he reached for them, his fingers curling around the worn wood, his pulse thundering in his ears.

But before he could move, a taunting voice echoed throughout the halls of the place you considered your salvation.

"Reverend."

The voice was sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade against flesh. His entire body went rigid. You stilled beside him, your fingers tightening around his wrist, the blood draining from your face in an instant.

Slowly yet hesitantly, Jay turned.

A figure stood in the threshold of the church, backlit by the pale glow of the moon, broad shoulders casting long shadows across the stone floor. The scent of tobacco and damp earth clung to his clothes, mixing with the pungent stench of sweat and liquor.

Jay did not need to see his face to know.

Your father.

The weight in his chest twisted, sharpened, became something molten.

The man stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his heavy boots echoing through the cavernous hall. His eyes were not on Jay.

They were on you.

Jay had never known true fear until he saw the way you flinched beneath his gaze.

"What is the meaning of this?" Your father’s voice was measured, steady, almost amused. But Jay heard the venom beneath it, the quiet, simmering rage that coiled just beneath the surface.

Jay moved without thinking, stepping between you and the man who had carved bruises into your skin. His pulse roared in his ears, his hands trembling at his sides, caught somewhere between restraint and the unbearable urge to strike.

"She is under my protection now." The words fell heavy into the silence, final, damning.

Your father’s gaze flickered—dark, unreadable. He smiled. It was not the smile of a man caught in his sins. It was the smile of a man who knew he had already won.

"Is that so, Reverend?"

Jay did not speak. He did not need to. The air had already shifted.

The walls seemed to close in, the flickering candlelight casting twisted shadows that stretched and slithered like specters of judgment. The silence pressed against his skin, thick and suffocating, wrapping around his throat like a noose. Your father tilted his head, exhaling a slow breath.

"Then may God have mercy on you both."

You swallowed thickly, the sound too loud in the empty hall. The weight of your father’s final words settled deep within your ribs, pressing, suffocating. There would be no mercy.

Not for you. Not for him.

You turned slowly, your gaze drawn to Jay like a moth to the last flickering ember. His shoulders rose and fell with the force of his breaths, each exhale sharp, measured, as if restraining something that threatened to spill forth, unholy and damning. Your fingers curled in the folds of his cloak.

"Jay."

The name was a whisper, barely audible above the crackling candle flames. Still, it was enough. His shoulders stiffened. A sharp breath. And then slowly, he turned.

The sight of him struck something deep within you. This was not the Reverend Park the town had come to know.

Not the man who stood at the pulpit every Sunday, draped in robes of purity, voice steady as he spoke of sin and salvation, of fire and forgiveness.

No. The man before you now was neither saint nor shepherd.

He was a man undone.

His collar hung loose around his throat, the pristine white of his sleeves marred by the press of his own nails. The candlelight cast shadows beneath his eyes, sharp angles carved into his features, darkened by something raw, something desperate.

His gaze met yours, heavy with something unspoken. And then, he moved.

Before you could take another breath, Jay was kneeling before you. His fingers trembled as they reached for you, ghosting over your wrists, your shoulders, your bruised collarbone. He did not touch. Did not press. He merely knelt. Kneeling as if in prayer.

Kneeling as if you were something holy.

His lips parted, his breath warm against the air between you. "Forgive me." Your pulse thundered.

"For what?" Jay exhaled, the weight of the night pressing into his bones. "For what I am about to do."

Then he kissed you. Again. Amidst the turmoil both of you are in. You felt it then. Not just the kiss—but him.

The man beneath the cloth.

The man who had spent years binding himself to a doctrine that no longer held meaning.

The man who had spent too long listening to your suffering, powerless, until the chains of his faith had snapped beneath the weight of something far greater. You.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath ragged.

"I will not let him, them, get a hold of you."

Your vision blurred. Whether from exhaustion, from the kiss, from the overwhelming weight of it all you did not know. But you believed him. You had to.

Because if he did not save you, God wouldn't either.

══════════════════════════

It was now midnight when you found your figure still within the sacred hall, a home to where a man was once a saint.

The chapel smelled of old wax and damp stone, the scent thick in the stagnant air, mingling with the lingering traces of frankincense and rot. The candlelight flickered against, casting shadows that stretched long and thin, like the fingers of something reaching, waiting. Outside, the wind howled through the trees, its voice a hymn of something ancient, something cruel.

You sat motionless in the front pew, draped in his cloak, its heavy fabric swallowing your form whole. The fire from the dwindling candles illuminated your bare shoulders, your collarbones, the bruises that bloomed across your skin like wilted violets. The church was cold, but you did not shiver. You had long since stopped feeling the bite of the wind, the sting of the night air against your flesh.

It was not the cold that unnerved you.

It was Jay.

He stood before the altar, his back to you, head bowed, hands braced against the wooden surface as though seeking strength from a God who had long since abandoned him. His breath came slow, measured, but his fingers twitched against the grain of the wood, knuckles white from the force of his grip.

The iron crucifix lay before him, its edges dulled by time, its weight a symbol of a faith neither of you could cling to any longer. Jay had pulled it from the altar minutes ago, the clang of metal against wood still ringing in your ears. The action had been slow, deliberate, a quiet betrayal of everything he had once sworn to uphold. And yet, no lightning struck him down.

No unseen hand of divine wrath smote him where he stood.

Perhaps God had already turned His gaze away from Riverfield or Jay had never truly been His to begin with.

The silence between you was vast, an expanse neither of you dared to cross. You knew what he was thinking. You had seen it in his eyes, in the way his hands trembled when they touched you, when he traced the bruises left by hands that were not his own. Vengeance.

It was not a holy thing.

"Jay," you murmured, voice hoarse from hours of silence.

He did not answer but you knew he was listening.

You rose slowly, bare feet silent against the cold stone floor as you approached him, the weight of his cloak dragging behind you. The wind rattled against the stained-glass windows, the candles sputtering in protest. The church felt different now—less like a house of worship, more like a tomb.

He turned and saw your figure approaching. “You were resting—”

"We don't have ample time," you whispered.

Jay exhaled sharply through his nose. His fingers flexed against the altar, but he did not turn to face you. "Are you ready to leave?" he looked at you, glimose of sorrow in his eyes. "Let’s get you out of here." he said.

"Anywhere but here."

The words felt empty because you both knew the truth. There was no escape.

Not from Riverfield.

Not from the noose they had already woven for you.

Jay straightened slowly, turning to face you. His dark eyes were unreadable in the candlelight, shadows carving hollows beneath them. His expression was calm, but there was something feverish beneath it, something unhinged.

"They will come for you at dawn."

You did not flinch. You had known this from the moment the rumors had begun, from the moment whispers of your name were spoken in hushed tones behind church doors, behind the walls of homes where once-pious men and women sharpened their knives in secret. They would not be merciful.

They never were.

"And you?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper. Jay studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. The candlelight danced across his features, casting shadows that made him look both ethereal and monstrous all at once.

A chill crawled down your spine.

There was something final in the way he said it. Something damning.

Jay turned, reaching for the heavy iron cross that lay upon the altar. His fingers brushed over its surface, the Latin scripture engraved into the metal catching the flickering light. The weight of it did not deter him. If anything, he seemed stronger beneath it, as though he had already resigned himself to the path he was about to take.

"Do you believe in salvation?" he murmured. You did not answer.

Because the truth was, you did not know.

Faith had never been something you could afford to keep. It had been stolen from you, buried beneath bruises and whispered prayers that had never been answered.

Jay’s grip tightened around the cross. "If there is no salvation," he said softly, "then there is only retribution."

The weight of his words settled deep in your chest, pressing against your ribs like a second set of lungs.

You stared at him, searching for the man you had met in the quiet of the confessional, the reverend who had spoken of mercy, of redemption.

But that man was gone.

Jay stepped forward, closing the space between you in a single breath. His hands found your face, fingers ghosting over your jaw, tilting your chin upward. His touch was hesitant, reverent in a way that had nothing to do with faith.

You could feel the war waging within him, the push and pull of divinity and sin, of righteousness and ruin.

"They will not take you," he said again, firmer this time. "I will not let them." And then, he knelt.

The sight of it stole the breath from your lungs. Jay, the reverend, the man who had spent his life preaching salvation, was kneeling before you. Not in prayer. Not in repentance.

In devotion.

His hands trembled as they found your hips, his forehead pressing against the soft plane of your stomach. His breath was warm against your bare skin within his cloak, his grip tightening, as though grounding himself in the reality of you, of the flesh and bone that they would soon try to take from him.

"May I?" he whispered, voice breaking. You weren’t sure if he was asking for yours, or for God’s. But neither of you were worthy of forgiveness anymore.

You lowered yourself to him, fingers threading through his dark hair, your lips brushing against his forehead in something that felt like a benediction, like a farewell. A mistake. A promise.

A damnation.

Jay tilted his head, and before you could think, before you could stop him—He kissed you again, the man is now drunk by you. Not with hesitance. Not with restraint.

With reverence.

With ruin.

His lips pressed against yours, fervent, desperate, his hands pulling you closer as though he could carve your existence into his own, fuse your souls together before the world could rip them apart. The cross clattered to the stone floor beside you, its weight nothing compared to the weight of what you had just done.

The air in the church was heavy, thick with the weight of unspoken prayers and the ghost of fading divinity. Jay stood before the altar, his silhouette dark against the candlelight, his fingers curled so tightly around the iron crucifix that his knuckles had turned white.

He had not spoken after, deep in his thoughts. Neither had you.

But the silence between you was not empty—it was heavy, suffocating, a thing with teeth that gnawed at the remnants of faith still clinging to the air.

The cross in his hands was a relic of the town, an emblem of righteousness, of judgment. For years, it had loomed over the church, its presence a reminder that salvation came only to those who were deemed worthy. You had never been worthy.

Neither had he. Not anymore.

Jay exhaled slowly, lifting the cross from its place above the altar. The iron groaned under his grip, the candlelight catching on the engraved Latin script at its base. The words should have burned his hands. Should have turned his flesh to ash for even daring to think the thoughts that now ran wild through his mind. But no fire came.

No wrathful hand of God struck him down.

Because, perhaps, God had long since turned away from this town.

"Are you afraid?" Jay asked, his voice quiet. You hesitated. "No."

"You should be."

A bitter smile ghosted his lips. He turned then, setting the iron cross down upon the altar. The weight of it echoed through the empty church, a sound like the tolling of a funeral bell.

Your funeral. His funeral.

Jay’s fingers trembled as he reached for you, barely brushing against the edge of his cloak that still draped over your shoulders. His touch was hesitant, like a man standing at the precipice of damnation, unwilling to take that final step—but knowing he must.

Only that, in the next moment, you were in his arms, his hands cupping your face, his breath mingling with yours. There was no holiness in the way he held you now no reverence, no restraint. This was desperation. This was surrender.

"I’m sorry," he whispered, though you knew not whether he was speaking to you or to the God he had just forsaken. And then, he kissed you for the last time.

"Stay behind me." The iron crucifix gleamed in the dawn light. Jay exhaled slowly, his eyes meeting yours one final time.

“Remember Y/N, I do not regret you.”

He gave you a soft, fragile smile and a peck in the head before he turned to the doors. He knew that your escape was too late.

Both of you enjoyed being sinners a bit too much.

And outside, the wind howled, carrying with it the first echoes of a town readying itself for your execution.

The doors trembled beneath the weight of their fists. Wood groaned, hinges shrieked, and beyond the threshold, the voices of Riverfield roared with righteous fury.

"Witch!"

"Harlot!"

“Spawn of Satan!”

"Whore of the Devil!"

Their words clawed through the thick air, each syllable sharper than the last. The chapel had once been a sanctuary, a place of absolution—but now, it was nothing more than a tomb, waiting to be sealed.

Jay did not move.

He stood before you, the iron crucifix clutched so tightly in his hand that blood seeped between his fingers. His other hand extended slightly, a silent command. His posture was rigid, unyielding, carved from something harder than faith, something far more dangerous than devotion.

"Jay," you whispered.

He did not turn to you, but you saw his throat bob as he swallowed, saw the way his jaw clenched as though grinding down the very bones of his conviction.

"Do you trust me?"

"Yes." You did not hesitate.

They surged forward as one, righteous fury burning in their eyes. Everything happened in a flash.

Jay turned, grabbed you by the wrist, and pulled you away from the altar. "Run, take the back!" he commanded, voice as sharp as the blade of a guillotine.

You did not run. You could not.

The moment your feet hit the altar steps, a rough hand seized your hair, yanking you back. A scream tore from your throat as you were dragged down, your nails clawing against the stone, against Jay’s cloak—he turned just in time to see.

His eyes went wild.

"Let her go!" His voice was no longer that of a reverend, no longer a vessel of the Lord’s word. It was guttural, animalistic, like the wail of something dragged from the depths of the abyss itself. But they did not let you go. They pried you from his grasp.

Jay fought.

You saw him through tear-blurred eyes, his body crashing into them like a storm of flesh and fury. He swung, he struck, he tore through them with something unholy, something more terrifying than the wrath of God Himself. But there were too many.

A dozen hands pulled him back in, believing he would have a change of heart, their voices rising in a deafening chant of condemnation.

"Blasphemer!"

"It’s not too late to change, sire!"

Jay’s cries were drowned beneath them.

You were dragged toward the entrance, toward the torches waiting outside, their flames licking hungrily at the night air.

You knew what this meant. You knew what was coming.

As they restrained him within the church, they bound your wrists with rope, the coarse fibers biting into your flesh as they dragged you through the chapel doors. The torches burned bright against the night, their flames snapping with hunger as the mob swarmed forward.

Their eyes wild, bloodthirsty, did not belong to men of faith. No, this was no righteous condemnation. This was pleasure. This was revelry.

"For her sins, she must burn!"

"The Devil’s whore must be cleansed!"

You thrashed, but their grip was iron, their purpose unshakable. The crowd swallowed you whole, a sea of robed bodies, faceless beneath the fire’s glow.

And behind them at the chapel doors, stood Jay. He couldn't not move. He couldn't speak.

The holy man of Riverfield watched as they took you from him, his expression void of the mercy he once preached. His robes were torn, his hair disheveled, but it was his eyes that unsettled you the most.

Gone was the warmth, the flickering ember of devotion.

The pyre loomed beneath you. The wood was dry. The ropes tight. You did not cry out when they bound you, though the fibers bit into your wrists, cutting through flesh.

"For the sins she has wrought upon our holy men, for the corruption of their souls, let the Lord’s judgment be swift!"

A roar of approval. The torch was brought forth. It was too late.

The flames kissed the kindling beneath your feet, a slow, eager hunger consuming the wood. Smoke curled into the night, thick and suffocating. The heat licked at your skin, blistering, searing— your dead and lifeless body slowly being burned, just like the devil you are.

A man stood within the chapel, watching you burn from afar. A slow, vile smile curled his lips.

"I always knew you'd rot in Hell, girl."

He was not dressed in the filth-stained garb of a miner, nor did he carry the stench of liquor upon his breath. No, tonight he was draped in the robes of the devout, his mouth twisted in a righteous snarl, his boots tracking mud upon sacred ground.

It was your own father. Taking pleasure as you succumb to your untimely demise.

As the fire swallowed your breath, a sound reverberate. Something raw. Terrible. It was not the crowd. Not the roaring flames.

It was him.

Jay. The reverend fell to his knees.

His scream split the heavens.

The earth seemed to shudder, the flames stuttering for a moment as the sky so vast and endless was torn apart by his grief.

The masses stilled. Something shifted.

The air thickened, heavy with something unholy. The torches flickered. The wind ceased to howl. The shadows beneath the chapel stretched—dark fingers curling against the ground, growing, writhing.

Jay’s breath came in ragged gasps. His hands clenched at his robes, his head bowed as if in prayer. But this was no devotion. This was no plea to God.

This was despair, tainted and rotting.

Something in Jay snapped. He did not speak. He did not hesitate.

He moved.

With a speed that should not have belonged to a man of the cloth, Jay brought the iron crucifix down upon your father’s skull. A sickening crack split the air.

Blood splattered across the chapel floor, a crimson arc against candlelit shadows. Your father staggered, eyes wide, mouth agape in shock before he crumpled to his knees. His hands clawed at the floor, twitching, gurgling noises spilling from his lips, but Jay did not allow him reprieve.

A second strike.

A third.

By the fourth, your father was no longer moving. And then, he laughed. A low, broken thing.

"Fools," he whispered. The priest took a step back. The sky once empty, began to bleed.

A deep crimson poured into the night, staining the clouds, darkening the stars. The chapel’s bell, though untouched, began to toll. He lifted his head.

The saint of Riverfield was gone.

In his place stood something else. Something monstrous. "Did you think God would answer you?" His voice was quiet, but it cut through the stunned silence like a blade.

No one moved.

The flames crackled, but they no longer burned just the pyre. They spread.

Leaping from building to building, licking at the village like a beast unchained. The iron cross in the priest’s hands blackened, the metal fastenings melting, searing his skin.

Screams erupted. But Jay did not hear them.

He saw only you.

Your body—limp and fragile within the fire’s embrace.

In his place, a man unraveling at the seams, his face twisted in something more than grief, more than agony. He had lost you.

The world had taken you from him. The moment they took you away from his embrace, Jay did not pray to God. He prayed to something far worse.

And whatever it was, it listened and answered.

The bells tolled and it was then, as the weight of the world collapsed upon him, that he made his choice. He stepped into the flames. He stood within the inferno, the flames parting for him like the Red Sea.

Your now half-ash body lay at his feet, untouched by the world’s ruin. The fire had taken you greatly yet gently, as if it, too, mourned what had been lost.

The remnants of his cloak that you wore curled into soot, the marks of your suffering forever etched into your lifeless skin. He dropped to his knees. The heat did not touch him. The screams did not reach him.

He reached out, trembling, fingertips brushing against your cheek.

Cold. Jay’s breath shuddered.

His whole life, he had devoted himself to the will of God, had walked the righteous path, had kept his hands clean of sin.

But where was God now? Where was the mercy?

His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palms, drawing blood. His head tilted toward the heavens, but there were no stars. No light. Only the darkness. Only silence.

He laughed.

"If you will not bring her back to me—through the curse of darkness bestowed upon me," His voice wavered, a whisper lost beneath the crackling embers.

"I will find another vessel who will."

taglist: @fancypeacepersona

© milkmejae 2025

[nalyra-dreaming]

Hello! Hope it’s okay to message. I saw your post about Marius and the paintings in the series/trailer but I’m dumb and don’t understand them. Can you explain them screenshots of when they’re in the trailer and series? Thank you so much

Hey!

Of course!

So in episode 2 we see Daniel in front of a painting.

Armand: "It's Venetian. A contemporary of Tintoretto's." Daniel: ""Marius de Romanus." Never heard of him." Armand: "Little of his work survives. Mr. de Pointe du Lac covets the rare."

Now. it's probably important to know here that Marius is Armand's maker, and he painted him quite a few times. (Armand also was an icon painter in his mortal life, in the book, we'll see how they'll spin it here, though the art in that one shot in the trailer is very interesting.)

Supposedly Armand thought Marius dead for long periods of time. However, given that we're in a mixed timeline, and that there are indisputable elements of the last trilogy in the show (Fareed, for example.) I believe that we are looking at the show's version of "Trinity Gate". And in the Trinity Gate era Armand was more than aware that Marius was indeed not dead. In fact there had been reconciliation. For me the painting on the wall of that apartment indicates that a certain reconciliation between must have happened already. I cannot see Armand look at his maker's painting when he still harbors the negative feelings he must have felt after it all came down.

In the trailer we see this guy, played by Justin Kirk, who I think will be/is Marius. He says: "You should fear the other one."

And right afterwards there is a shot of Louis hurling his glass with blood at a painting.

However, that is not the painting by Marius (that would be behind Louis there). This is "Rembrandt's "The Storm on the Sea of Galilee" (something which Assad Zaman cheekily posted ages ago^^).

Here you probably need to know that after the "chase" of the Devil's Minion arc (so when Armand hunted Daniel across the globe and eventually fell in love with him) there was a phase, where they hunted down art thieves. And kept the art.

That is stolen art from Daniel's and Armand's time together on the wall.

Edit: @cbrownjc pointed out that the timeframe of the theft doesn’t match the likely DM timeframe. So the painting might be from after DM! (But still stolen art^^)

And Louis throws blood at it in obvious frustration.

In the story referenced through the painting Christ calms the storm after his disciples panic, and he admonishes them: "Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith?"

Given that (I'll just call him that until proven otherwise) Marius just talked about who Daniel needs to fear in the previous scene? Definitely not a coincidence :)

I also do not think the "presence" of Marius behind Louis on the wall there is any coincidence. (But it cannot be seen, and that is definitely no coincidence either, imho.)

Marius has been foreshadowed, and quite heavily, imho. He is also necessary for both Armand's and Lestat's backstories.

It's... too early I think to fully analyze what it means. It could mean Daniel has fully remembered and he and Armand are in their own little bubble (after all Louis seems to be alone there). We'll see.

Last but not least:

This - there's paintings.

Has Armand started to paint again? Has he shown Louis his paintings? Does he make himself vulnerable there for Louis, and Louis... accepts the invitation? Bites him there? Turns him to kiss him?

I would actually love that.

Because that would be a huge step for Armand. Huge. Cannot be overstated. Because Armand, too, carries lots of trauma. (They all do.)

[rollinouttahere-writes]

I decided to write an alternate ending to Spandam confronting Doflamingo. The thrilling conclusion to the Spandam fucks around and finds out trilogy.

Warnings for violence, body horror, torture, death, and Doflamingo using his devil fruit in egregious ways.

Warlord meetings could be mildly amusing and entertaining to a point. An opportunity to annoy other warlords and Sengoku or terrorize some lowly marines was a grand old time in Doflamingo's book.

Today was not one of those days where he could enjoy such trivial pleasures. He had too much on his mind. He didn't want to be here at all and only showed up on the off chance that they might let slip some information he wants. Much to his chagrin, nothing of note came from the meeting. His dear niece wasn't mentioned once.

With his mood already sour, he didn't care enough to turn around when he heard someone behind him yelling. No one here would dare to speak to him that way, so he knows it's not for him, and thus not important.

At least that's what he thought until someone grabbed the bottom of his coat and yanked on it.

A vein bulged in his forehead and an eye twitched. Whoever was stupid enough to do this wasn't going to be around long enough to do it again.

Doflamingo whipped around with an unnaturally wide smile on his face, ready to see who had just volunteered themselves to be some prime stress relief for him.

Far beneath him was a pathetic whelp of a man that he had recently become familiar with through his investigating. Spandam was glowering up at him with stiff posture enforced by the brace around his torso. It would appear that he's graduated from using a wheelchair. Such a shame that he won't be able to enjoy that for long.

Stooping down, Doflamingo leered at the man, "What do you want?"

"You know exactly what I want!" Spandam snapped at the warlord with a shocking level of confidence given that he didn't have so much as a single Cipher Pol guard dog with him. "I know that you know where Nubia is."

Much to Doflamingo's absolute chagrin, Spandam was wrong. Despite his best efforts, even he had been struggling to track her down. Those Straw Hat Pirates moved awfully quick, he'll give them that. As soon as he thought he had them, they were popping up somewhere else entirely. But Spandam didn't need to know this. Doflamingo chuckled, "And if I do?"

Spandam was visibly incensed by the response. His lip curled up into a snarl, "You need to disclose anything and everything you have on her to me! She is a wanted fugitive, and I'll see to it that you lose your warlord privileges if you're hiding her!"

The threat was completely empty. A Cipher Pol Chief didn't have authority over who was and wasn't a warlord. Even if he did, Doflamingo wouldn't care. He was powerful enough to not need the protection granted by the status.

Doflamingo laughed loudly, relishing in the palpable anger on Spandam's face. "I have nothing to tell you."

"Do you have any idea what that little demon did to me?!"

"Oh, yes. I'm very aware. I've never been so proud." Doflamingo chuckled as he recalled first reading the leaked medical records that he got a hold of. Truly, he didn't think Nubia had that in her, but it was a very pleasant surprise. It only made him want to have her under his care more.

Spandam was seething and noisily grinding his teeth. The ones he had left, at least. "Proud? Proud?! We'll see how proud you are when I've gotten my hands on her and reduced her to a screaming, sniveling brat begging for the mercy of death! And I w-!"

The tangent was cut short as Doflamingo forced his strings through Spandam's lips and pulled them tight. Muffled screams came out of his victim as he clawed at his mouth, desperate the pull out the strings. Even with his mouth sewn shut, his screams were surprisingly loud. It would be a shame if he anyone heard this and tried to cut the fun short...

Carefully manipulating his strings, Doflamingo forces them down Spandam's throat and into the laryn. He scream and writhes in pain, before being silenced when the strings wrap around the vocal cords and squeeze them tight.

Finally, Doflamingo was seeing the terror that he had been craving. He could tell that Spandam was putting together that Doflamingo had no intention of killing him quickly.

Doflamingo grabbed him by the brace and wrenched him up off the ground, noting how the man's eyes roll back from the pain of having his already severely damaged spine jostled violently. How cute. It was about to get so much worse.

Strings tapped into his spine, but instead of stopping there, he pushed them in deeper. Spandam flailed and tried to reach behind himself to pull them out, but that was put to rest quickly with the help of the parasitic strings taking control of his arms and forcing them to grab onto the two bars at the back of the brace instead. And pull.

The vocal cords were vibrating intensely from within his clutches, but were unable to make a sound. His strings slithered down the spinal column, wrapping around each and every vertebrate and searching for the broken ones. This was easy enough given that the metal rods stuck out like a sore thumb.

Doflamingo's grin split across his face and he brought Spandam up just enough to be at eye level with him, "What was it that you were going to do again? Reduce Nubia to 'a screaming, sniveling brat begging for the mercy of death'? That's what you said, yes?" Doflamingo paused as if Spandam could actually answer, mostly just to humor himself.

A malicious laugh crackled out of him as he saw the pleading desperation in Spandam's eyes grow more and more frantic. Doflamingo sneered at the pathetic display and ground out one last sentence, "If you're going to make threats, you need to be strong enough to face the consequences of them."

With that said, the strings tighten around the metal rods in his spine and rip. Them. Out. The bones they were once embedded in crack and shatter in response, and he can feel broken blood vessels soaking the strings. Spandam's body flails wildly for a few seconds, then jerks violently.

Without even touching the heart, Doflamingo can feel the cardiac arrhythmia clearly. The heart's rhythm couldn't regulate itself, not with the the strain it was under. Abruptly, it stopped, unable to cope with what it was being forced to endure.

Spandam's body spasmed a few times, then went limp. Doflamingo scoffed and dropped the dead body to the ground. Of course this weak coward would go into cardiac arrest and die just when things were getting interesting.

Still... Doflamingo couldn't deny that he felt much better now after blowing off some steam. How grand that the CP9 Chief had one moment of usefulness in his life.

The warlord turned on his heels and to resume the walk back to his ship, leaving the body to be discovered by whomever happens upon it first.

[nerdyspeechy]

Six Song Soundtrack game

Tagged by @laelior. Thanks <3

Rules: Make a new post with links to music and/or lyrics describing the following: 1. An event that defines your character's past; 2. How your character sees themself; 3. How others view them; 4. Their closest relationship (platonic or romantic); 5. A major fight scene; 6. End credits song.

This was much harder than I thought it'd be. Some of these are from the playlist I created as I try to write my Shepard's origin story. The others are from a playlist I created while I was trying to figured out who I wanted my canon Shepard to be as I played through the Mass Effect trilogy and read some great fanfics.

An event that defines your character's past: "Lost in Echos" by Caskets

I think I lost my mind Everything I knew came falling down Anything I build comes crashing down I'm pleading "God, not now" Save me from my sins before I leave Free me from this weight so I can breathe

2. How your character sees themself: "Crooked Melody" by Holding Absence

I know someday the jury will call And they will say that I am a fraud An imposter, a liar, deep down, I'll know That I agree with them

3. How others view them: "Panic Station" by Muse

This was the hardest one to come up with, and I eventually settled on this. I don't think it quite fits the prompt, but I liked the vibes, so here we are.

4. Their closest relationship: "All Comes Crashing" by Metric

For all I know This might be my last night If that's how it goes, there's no one I would rather be lying beside When it all comes crashing

Obviously I had to include those Shenko feels.

5. A major fight scene: "Seven Devils" by Florence and the Machine

Holy water cannot help you now See, I've come to burn your kingdom down And no rivers and no lakes can put the fire out I'm gonna raise the stakes I'm gonna smoke you out

6. End credits song: "Leave the City" by Twenty One Pilots

The burning is so low it's concerning 'Cause they know that when it goes out It's a glorious gone It's only time before they show me Why no one ever comes back with details from beyond ..... In time, I will leave the city For now, I will stay alive

I'm just tagging anyone who sees this and want to play along. Music is my favorite thing, and I'm always looking for new things to listen to. Don't be shy!

[histoireettralala]

Victor Hugo on Talleyrand's death

For @empirearchives who was interested, here's a translation of Victor Hugo's text about Talleyrand's death. My thanks to @microcosme11 for her help <33

Choses Vues, Victor Hugo

1838

Talleyrand

19th of May

In the Rue St-Florentin, there is a palace and a sewer.

The palace, with its noble, rich, and dull architecture, was long called "Hôtel de l'Infuntado"; today, we read on its front door: Hôtel Talleyrand. During the fourty years he lived on this street, the last host of this palace might never have set eyes on this sewer.

He was a stranged, feared, and considerable character: his name was Charles-Maurice de Périgord; he was noble as Machiavel, a priest like Gondi, defrocked like Fouché, witty as Voltaire, and lame as the devil. One could say that everything limped with him: the nobility which he had put to the service of the republic, the priesthood he had dragged on the Champ-de-Mars then threw down the drain, the marriage he had broken by twenty scandals and by a voluntary separation, the wit he dishonoured through vileness. This man, nevertheless, had grandeur.

The splendours of both regimes were mixed together inside of him: he was prince of the old kingdom of France, and prince of the French Empire.

For thirty years, from the depth of his palace, from the depth of his mind, he had just about led Europe. He had let the revolution call him "tu", and had smiled at it, ironically of course; but it had not noticed. He had approached, known, observed, pierced, stirred, upturned, delved into, mocked, intellectually fertilized all the men of his era, all the ideas of his century, and there had been a few minutes in his life when, holding in his hand the four or five fearsome threads that moved the civilized universe, he had had for a puppet Napoleon the First, Emperor of the French, King of Italy, Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine, Mediator of the Swiss Confederation. Such was the game this man played.

After the Revolution of July, that old race, whose grand chambellan he was, having fallen, he found himself standing on one foot and told the people of 1830, sitting, bare-armed, on a pile of cobbles: Make me your ambassador.

He had received Mirabeau's last confession and Thiers' first confidence. He had said himself he was a great poet and had made a trilogy in three dynasties: Act I, Buonaparte's Empire; Act 2, The House of Bourbon; Act 3, The House of Orleans.

He had done all of this in his palace, and, in this palace, like a spider in its web, he had attracted into it and taken successively heroes, thinkers, great men, conquerors, kings, princes, emperors, Bonaparte, Sieyès, Mme de Staël, Chateaubriand, Benjamin Constant, Alexander of Russia, Wilhelm of Prussia, Francis of Austria, Louis XVIII, Louis-Philippe, all the golden, shiny flies who buzzed in the history of those last fourty years. The whole sparkling swarm, fascinated by this man's deep eye, had successively passed under the dark door that bore, written on its architrave: Hôtel Talleyrand.

Well, the day before yesterday, 17 March, 1838, that man died. Doctors came and embalmed the corpse. For this, like the Egyptians, they first withdrew the bowels from the belly and the brain from the skull. Once done, after they had transformed the prince de Talleyrand into a mummy, and nailed this mummy in a white satin-lined coffin, they withdrew, leaving upon a table the brain, that brain which thought so many things, inspired so many men, built so many edifices, led two revolutions, fooled twenty kings, contained the world.

Once the doctors were gone, a valet entered, he saw what they had left. Hold on! they forgot this. What to do ? He remembered that there was a sewer in the street, he went there, and threw that brain into this sewer.

Finis rerum.

[devilcamethroughherefanatic]

Drawing Ideas

I need drawing ideas for The Cat Lady characters, Downfall characters, and Lorelai characters (I already have Susan, Mitzi, and The Queen of Maggots from The Cat Lady)

[the-twelve-daggers]

🏴‍☠️ ⤷ Davy Jones: The Truth Behind The Ruthless Villain

Several of the pirate characters in the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise were based off of or inspired by one or a mix of real-life pirates, most of whom sailed during the Golden Age at the beginning of the eighteenth century when the franchise itself was set. This applies to the movie's mystical characters too, like Armando Salazar and Hector Barbossa.

However, concerning the initial trilogy's villain, this is a bit of a grey area.

Whilst there are various myths and direct sources linking to the origins of concepts like Davy Jones' locker and Jones' ship The Flying Dutchman, the actual man himself has very vague historical links (unless, miraculously, he was based on The Monkees singer, which I highly doubt).

But, nonetheless, let us look through the theories...

Davy Jones: The Welsh Pirate

One story suggests that the Davy Jones character came from the frightful pirate David Jones, who sailed during the 1630s in the Indian Ocean. However, there is little known about him, which only makes this concept even more unclear.

"During the 1630s, a pirate captain named David Jones sailed through the Indian Ocean, but many historians believe that he was not famous enough to be remembered for quite a long time." [Kouachi, Mecheri & Zerrouki 25]

There are also rumours of a Welsh pirate Dafydd Jones, though it is unclear if these are the same two people. Either way, there is too little known about the figure(s) in order to make strong connections. But, having said that, if the myths of his ruthlessness are true, there is definitely a connection that can be made to our contemporary Davy Jones.

Davy Jones: The Pub Owner

A slightly stronger theory that has been circling around is the figure of a London pub owner, who would drug and/or heavily intoxicate his customers and sell them to ship captains, where they would wake and find themselves unwillingly in the middle of the ocean, or technically, 'Davy Jones' Locker'.

Some stories go on to say that Jones eventually became bankrupt, stealing a ship and becoming a pirate himself. He would sail around the Atlantic, keelhauling or decapitating other crews as well as locking them to their sinking ships.

Unfortunately, I couldn't find any direct references to quote, but I have linked some articles below that discuss this theory.

Davy Jones: The Prophet

There are some rumours that Davy Jones, or at least the origins of his name, derives from Saint David, the patron Saint of Wales, as well as the figure of the prophet Jonah from the Bible, who was swallowed by a whale.

I think it better to include this in the words of W. Pinkerton, in the scholarly journal Notes & Queries in 1851:

During many years of seafaring life, I have frequently considered the origin of this phrase, and have now arrived at the conclusion that it is derived from the scriptural account of the prophet Jonah. The word 'locker', on board of ship, generally means the place where any particular thing is retained or kept, as "bread locker", "shot locker", "chain locker", &c. In the sublime ode in the second chapter of the Book of Jonah, we find that the prophet, praying for deliverance, described his situation in the following words:—"in the midst of the seas; and the floods compassed me about; the depth closed me round about; the earth with her bars was about me." The sea, then, might not be misappropriately termed by a rude mariner, Jonah's locker—that is, the place where Jonah was kept or confined. Jonah's locker, in time, might be readily corrupted to Jones's locker; and Davy, as a very common Welsh accompaniment of the equally Welsh name, Jones, added, the true derivation of the phrase having been forgotten. [Pinkerton 509]

Davy Jones: The Devil

A very early (perhaps even the second after Defoe's writing in 1726) mention of Davy Jones' and his Locker is in 1751, in Chapter XIII of Smollett's The Adventures of Peregrine Pickle. Here, Jones is described as a devilish sort of character, with a terrifying appearance that almost resembles the typical imagery of Satan:

“By the Lord! Jack, you may say what you wool; but I'll be damned if it was not Davy Jones himself. I know him by his saucer eyes, his three rows of teeth, his horns and tail, and the blue smoke that came out of his nostrils. What does the blackguard hell's baby want with me?[...]” This same Davy Jones, according to the mythology of sailors, is the fiend that presides over all the evil spirits of the deep, and is often seen in various shapes, perching among the rigging on the eve of hurricanes, shipwrecks, and other disasters, to which a seafaring life is exposed; warning the devoted wretch of death and woe. No wonder then that Trunnion was disturbed by a supposed visit of this demon, which, in his opinion, foreboded some dreadful calamity. [Smollett 105]

This was then illustrated in 1832 by George Cruikshank, visualising all of the characteristics mentioned above.

Whilst this depiction is rather different to the one we get in the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise, with horns rather than tentacles and blue smoke rather than the classic pipe, it's still interesting to see how Davy Jones was sometimes thought to be as horrifying as we see him now, simply based on his involvement with death at sea.

Overall, I hope that we get to find out more about the initial myths and legends that surround Davy Jones in real-world context, as I think that the information from word-of-mouth stories that we have so far are compelling already. I would love to read more older texts that reference him or his Locker, so that we might gain a better understanding of his place in seafaring history.

CITATIONS:

[Abdenour Kouachi, Ahmed Soufyane Mecheri, and Zina Zerrouki. Tracing The Origin Of The Stereotypical Image Of Pirates. 2021. https://bucket.theses-algerie.com/files/repositories-dz/1921423357564832.pdf]

['Notes and Queries'. Vol. 3, Issue. 86. 1851, pp. 490-512. https://archive.org/details/sim_notes-and-queries_1851-06-21_3_86/page/512/mode/2up]

[Merchant Mariner Guide. Davy Jones: The Legend, The Pirates, and The Flying Dutchman. 2023. https://merchantmarinerguide.com/blog/f/davy-jones-the-legend-the-pirates-and-the-flying-dutchman?blogcategory=History+]

[Famous Pirates. Davy Jones - Legend, Facts and Biography of Famous Pirate. http://www.famous-pirates.com/pirates-facts/davy-jones/]

[Owlcation. Old Sea Legends: The Incredible Story of Davy Jones and His Locker. 2023. https://owlcation.com/humanities/Old-sea-legends-The-Incredible-story-of-Davy-Jones-and-his-Locker]

[Marine Insight. The Real Story Behind The “Davy Jones’ Locker” 2022. https://www.marineinsight.com/maritime-history/the-story-behind-the-term-davy-jones-locker/]

[Smollett, Tobias George. The Adventures of Peregrine Pickle. W. Strahan, G. Robinson, T. Cadell, 1784. https://archive.org/details/bim_eighteenth-century_the-adventures-of-peregr_smollett-tobias-george_1784_1/mode/2up]

[ghostsandmirrors]

19, 20, and 21 for Bucky, Nat, and the Joker!

canon questionare.

it's happened.

this is excessively long and there's probably trigger warnings but I've been typing this for like 3 hours so I have no fuckin idea what the trigger warnings could be anymore. proceed with caution.

19. Should people get into the franchise your writing from, yes or no? Bucky and Nat since they're both MCU, no. fuck that noise. get into the comics or the animated series'. I'm sure they're far better media than the MCU. every single character gets ruined at some point, even your favourite. the only characters they haven't ruined are ones like Pietro and Nat who died before they got the opportunity.

Joker I don't think there's a single source of Joker-related media that I'd say 'absolutely not!' about. the The Dark Knight trilogy is mostly good (not Rises; if you choose to believe the trilogy ends with The Dark Knight, you'll have a better time), the comics are usually pretty good, the animated shows are usually pretty good (idk I watched TMNT as a kid).

go for it. get into the Batverse as a whole and realise that Crazy Quilt is the best villain.

20. If you could sum up your character with one sentence, what would it be? Bucky this was answered here.

Natasha am I salty if I answer, 'the most competent MCU Avenger'? because she kinda is....

Joker 2016 murder clown in 2008.

21. Which song do you feel describes your character the most and why? Bucky it's over for you motherfuckers.

also this was the one that I was like 'this could fix me' about, I'm pretty sure.

okay. okay. okay. this is going to be very long and the next two aren't because I've had 9 years to marinate in how well this song matches Bucky and how well it describes him and I'm going to cry; I get to ramble about this goddamn song without trying to find motivation to do so by myself. thank you for this gift.

Proper punctuation, too.

The song in question is Jaymes Young's I'll Be Good (2014).

When I first started playing Bucky in 2016, I looked at fanvideos and came across one that has since been deleted with the song, I'll be Good. The song, itself, has heavily influenced how I play Bucky because, from the first moment I heard it, I went, 'is this not just about him?' because listen to me, read these words; some of these lyrics are so goddamn specific and fit so goddamn well.

I've opened that ramble I was going to write in 2023 so I can refer back to that, too. This is effort that you will not see for the rest of this answer, I'll be honest. I don't think that much about Nat or the Joker, but this song in relation to Bucky? I have not stopped thinking about it since 2016.

Also, I will be going through the lyrics and rambling the fuck about it like that, because I find it easier to do things like that than anything else, and I'm reusing a joke from the WIP ramble because it's good; if this is fuckin terrible, I blame the fact that I failed out of high school English Literature (which is analysis and the 'why is the curtain blue' exercises).

We're starting at the beginning.

'I thought I saw the devil, this morning,/looking in the mirror, drop of rum on my tongue,' and we disregard that last bit because Bucky can't get drunk, but the rest of it? Mirrors being a consistent source of problems for Bucky? His self-dehumanisation that absolutely turns himself into an evil monster instead of a victim? The decision that he must be a terrible person--if he's a person at all--because there's so much blood on his hands (this returns later!)?

Peak. Peak song. Peak Bucky. I could stop here, but I'm not going to.

Also we get a little bit of 'I need to do better and be better' which is my Bucky's motivation for existing after Endgame, so we get to acknowledge, 'I'll be a better man today,' which is at the end of the first verse and is the consistent goal that Bucky is striving for; being a better man, reaching an unreachable goal that he's set for himself (this is explored more here). His version of 'better', for himself, is perfection and no human can ever reach perfection, so he's doomed to forever see the devil when looking in the mirror.

The chorus feels very CA:CW!Bucky, to me? Not even, necessarily, just my version but CA:CW!Bucky as a whole, because he spends two years between TWS and CA:CW learning himself and becoming himself and trying to figure out how to live whatever the fuck this life is that he's got the pieces of. So we have, 'I'll be good, I'll be good,/and I'll love the world like I should,/yeah, I'll be good, I'll be good,/for all of the times that I never could,' and a man who is trying to figure out how to be good, how to be better, how to be a human being who can make up for the actions he was forced to do and the lives he was forced to take, how to 'love the world like [he] should', how to help others where he can and be a benefit to the world instead of a hinderance.

The next verse is when I was like, 'oh this is just about him huh?' because like what the fuck do you mean we have… I'm going to quote first, then ramble because otherwise I'm going to take this all out of order. 'My past has tasted bitter for years now,/so I wield an iron fist,/grace is just weakness,/or so I've been told,/I've been cold, I've been merciless,/but the blood on my hands scares me to death./Maybe I'm waking up today.'

Mothers and fuckers of the jury, is this or is this not Bucky fuckin Barnes. 'My past has tasted bitter for years now' because he has nightmares and he has probably thrown up because of those nightmares and stomach acid isn't a nice taste, it's bitter, but also in the less literal sense, he is a little bitter about his past. He's a little bitter he didn't get to have a normal life, he didn't get a choice to fight, to become The Winter Soldier, to live into the future that he kinda wanted to see and kinda was curious about (this is also talked about here), and while he tries not to be bitter about it all and not to feel bad because he survived and so many people didn't, so many of his fellow soldiers didn't when HYDRA took them as prisoners and forced them to work, so many of them didn't survive Zola's experiments because they were too weak to work so how were they going to be strong enough (physically) to survive any changes? but it's hard not to be bitter when the acknowledgement that you never had a choice hits and it's like 2am and you're tired and you're trying to sleep but then you remember that even staying home wasn't a choice you were allowed to have and it's gotta feel bitter, it's gotta bring a bad taste with it, probably a few tears, because it's not fair and it's never been fair and now he just has to live with it because everyone elses' choices have influenced and controlled his life more than his own have and I want to cry.

'I wield an iron fist' feels a little too… obvious? I think his first arm is titanium, I read somewhere one time, but close enough.

But then we get to the lines I put on his main aesthetic edit, the lines I'm pretty sure I used to put on his signatures back when I'd write him on Jcink. 'I've been cold, I've been merciless,/but the blood on my hands scares me to death./Maybe I'm waking up today.'

The Winter Soldier, by necessity, is cold and merciless because weapons don't have feelings. To quote the most recent angst thread, 'weapons don't weep and assets don't want,' so of course The Winter Soldier, a weapon and an asset, has to be cold, has to be merciless, has to not be bothered by the blood on his hands in both a literal and metaphorical sense, because if this weapon can weep for the loss of the lives he's forced to take, he's not a weapon, he's a person, and it's far harder to be a shithead when you actually consider your target as a person.

This can be turned into political commentary so easily and you should all be glad I'm not doing it.

And the blood on his hands probably does scare him to death. The ghosts in his memories and the feeling that his arm isn't his, it's theirs, and is such a heavy source of pain and suffering that it feels almost toxic absolutely scares him to death, and I think after the end of TWS, sometimes those thoughts wake him out of the brainwashing and memory wiping a little better than anything else. I think, maybe, when he's in some shitty apartment in an American state, and he goes to wash his hands, there's sometimes a flash of blood in his mind and it just pushes them out a little more, it just forces Bucky Barnes--the most unlucky man to have ever lived--forward a little more, and there's a chance it always has, but he was never allowed to acknowledge it or show it in any way in the past because weapons don't weep and he has definitely wept about this.

Chorus again after this and then my favourite section. I thought the previous part was, but no, I was wrong, it's this bit. This section is my favourite for Bucky and in general because the lyrics are just… so good.

'For all of the light that I shut out,/for all of the innocent things that I doubt,/for all of the bruises I've caused and the tears,/for all of the things that I've done all these years./Yeah, for all of the sparks that I've stomped out,/for all of the perfect things that I doubt.'

I wish I was doing this as a video essay because I would have a screenshot of the lyrics and be pointing at them like, 'do you see this shit?! Do you see this Bucky Barnes-ass verse?! Look at this motherfucking section, then look me in the goddamn eye and tell me that it doesn't suit him.' I would be generally unhinged for the rest of this ramble, too, though, so maybe it's better that this is typed because the amount I have wanted to gnaw on anything that exists in this universe is… too high, actually.

'The light that I shut out' can easily be him not believing that he deserves kindness or warmth or forgiveness until he's been 'a better man' and made up for those decades of blood and murder. It can be him not feeling like he should have sympathy or empathy given to him because his victims have it worse--in his opinion--by being dead. 'The light' can be anything good or nice or gentle or sweet and he shuts it out by denying that he needs it or wants it or deserves it. This also applies to the 'innocent things that I doubt'; my Bucky, in any thread where a Steve is trying to comfort or sympathise, doubts that kindness. Steve is the innocence that he doubts, because Steve is, overwhelmingly, innocent of guilt. He's not had the past that Bucky has, so Bucky views him as innocent and good and that light that he shuts out.

The brusies and the tears feels obvious; actions as The Winter Soldier. Admittedly it's worse than bruises, but we're working with what we've got, and that is then 'the things that I've done, all these years,' and then 'the sparks that I've stomped out' (sparks being people, being lives, being entire stories that could've happened but didn't because they died).

'For all of the perfect things that I doubt.'

For my Bucky, this is any time he doubts those around him or argues against their opinions of him, because compared to him, they are perfect, in his opinion. I'm repeating myself because yous need to understand how much my version of Bucky seems to fucking hate himself like 50% of the time. The other 50% is apathy or trying to see the good in himself because it'd make those around him happier if he did and he knows it, so he tries to be good (the chorus is back after this and it's 'I'll be good') and then tries to see that good and it doesn't work because what others see as 'good', he sees as 'what's expected of a human being', and thus that warped perspective breeds that idea at the beginning, of seeing the devil when looking in the mirror, seeing an evil monster, because that warped perspective gives him horns and now I'm referencing an entirely different song that isn't even on my Bucky playlist.

It's a good song, though; check out Monster by dodie.

Anyway, that is my ramble about I'll be Good by Jaymes Young and why it's my peak Bucky song. Thank you for coming to my TED Talk, I guess.

Now I'm going to let the universe down.

Natasha I... have not got a single song that I think is peak Natasha. I used Nightmare by Halsey for her aesthetic edit but it isn't peak Natasha. I would need to look for a song for her and put in a lot of thought to find one, I'll be honest.

I said in the last one that 'we both just work here' and I meant it, so I have to disappoint with this answer.

The Joker There isn't a peak Joker song, in my mind. I'm very attached to Stuck in the Middle, but I don't think it necessarily suits him. Play With Fire by Sam Tinnesz (feat. Yacht Money) fits in terms of lyrics (and is a good song) but I don't think the vibes are quite right for the Joker. Especially not TDK!Joker.

The general feeling is very laid back, so while danger does get Joker high (seen in-film because every hint of danger that he laughs at is related to The Bat breaking his no-killing rule and the idea of succeeding in that is the actual thing that 'gets [him] high' instead of just the danger but the addrenaline rush likely doesn't stop that feeling at all) and he does 'love to watch their castles burn', I don't think it's peak Joker. I think it has to be more strange sounding or faster.

So we go to the next option, which is Freak by Sub Urban. Again, highly recommend. Let's be honest; if it's here, I like the song generally and recommend it.

This time, the vibes are very good and some of the lyrics work, but not all of them. This is where the, 'a creature sick as you should be put down' lyric from this edit comes from, though, and that is... incredibly Joker, if only because of the ending of The Joker graphic novel in which Joker is described as a disease, 'probably the one that built the first city' (I used part of that monologue in this edit).

Also there's lines like, 'please, don't hide your imperfections nature,' and 'not temptation, you're my creation' which... Harley Quinn. That's... That's how he feels about Harley Quinn. You can't convince me otherwise. There is no love from Joker, only the feeling that she's his 'creation', his little wind-up doll that he sets off in the right direction and watches to see what'll happen.

I think I said while plotting with someone that I don't think TDK!Joker would be physically abusive to Harley because he feels more like an emotionally neglectful kind of abusive and I think those two lines fit that.

Also 'you're wasting, you're wasting all/your talent on an audience who sees a freak,' feels very Joker talking to Harley and TDK!Joker talking to TDK!Batman. Maybe this is peak Joker, 'cause a lot fits but... I mean... I have to talk about the third option, don't I? It was also used in an edit.

life is good by angelbaby (the hume collective) feat. Jagwar Twin.

The vibes? Incredible. The lyrics? Weirdly fitting when you consider media other than TDK (which I do, because I'm greedy like that). I will not be doing a full ramble like I did for Bucky because it's 6am and I want to go to sleep, but I will point out a couple of lyrics like I did for Freak (above).

'The world's in flames,/but at least we're having fun,' in a more metaphorical way than is likely intended, Gotham's in flames because chaos and thus J is having fun (and Harley is assumed to be having fun if there's a Harley around).

'Some people tell me I'm strange,/but I like living this way.' This feels obvious. I'm not explaining this. Though the rest of the chorus is, 'my life is great,/but I'm mad,/and I'm sad,/and I'm misunderstood,' and that feels like how he manipulates. My version of Joker goes for the 'I'm just a misunderstood clown' act a surprising amount, because there's a chance it can work and he's very good at it and acting, in general. I think I had an entire plot once that started with that act, which was kinda fun ngl.

'Face down but I can feel my body moving,/is this real or am I in an illusion,' is next and listen... in The Joker graphic novel, he takes a significant amount of pain pills in order to do some wild fuckin shit with glass from a mirror in his finger tips? The more I think about it, the less sense it makes, but it's a cool panel when he reveals it to Harvey or Two-Face, I've never been sure who he was talking to (they seem to be more blurred in that story and it's not told from Joker's POV so I think he's just Like That).

In my brain, it makes sense that the pain meds would eventually hit a point, at least in that story, where he'd be like, 'am I real?' Especially since he talks about 'feeling the carpet being pulled' by Bats and seems to be having an existential crisis at that moment. I'm not a doctor but like... man is not having fun at that moment. I think it's shortly after he finds Killer Croc tied up by the Bat and he's like 'oh, fuck, my hold on this empire's gonna slip again and I literally just got it back' like bro, it's been a week, sort your shit out.

You can tell I want to sleep, huh?

It's fine. This is a short song.

So then we get, 'living in a lie and we can't see the truth' and, I'm gonna reference a comic storyline now.

In 2012, the Death of the Family storyline in the New 52 published. It was published across the Batverse, if I remember correctly, but I only read the Batman ones because I wasn't that into the idea of reading 23 different comic, spread across like 5 different characters' stories. Like, no. I'll read a lot of Joker-related comics and stories but I'm not putting that much effort into it. Anyway, I think it was pretty good and it was interesting and it fuels how my version of the Joker reacts to the Batfam.

All this is to say, that line really feels like his opinion of Bats and the Batfam. He's convinced the fam are bad for the Bat and 'made [him] slow' (physically, also probably mildly misremembered quote) and he wants them gone. That's the entire plot of that storyline, and it really does work for him, and he therefore would view the entire fam as living in a lie, unable to see the truth, especially the Bat because, to him, the truth is that the fam aren't good for him and ruins the little game that they had going, and the fam were 'living in a lie' because it's revealed that the Joker's known who the Bat is for years after he left a card on the Batmobile, I think? and Bruce put it to the glass front of Joker's cell in Arkham (while he was there) and confirmed that Bruce is Batman, and Joker didn't give a shit.

Which I think is correct. I don't think Joker would give one, because he's not truly interested in the face under the mask, since he views the Bat as the man and the Batfam and Bruce and everything else as the mask. Why would he give a shit about the façade? He thinks he knows the Bat's real face; the role of Batman.

I started rambling about Joker instead of the song, but it's interesting and I actually have had a lot of thoughts about the Joker over the years and then dismissed most of them because they were shite.

'Everyone fighting, tell me, which side are you on?/Keep a smile on my face, too happy to choose.' He's always smiling. But also it does often feel like the entirety of Gotham is fighting and there's always the side of the villain of the week vs. the Bat, and the Joker's just like 'I don't fuckin care, I'm busy making some batshit (haha) scheme that will inevitably fail because it's too complicated.'

I'm starting to think that Joker intentionally makes his schemes into failures so he gets manhandled by the Bat and like. I wish I was joking. I've spent a lot of time thinking about the Joker today and I'm just like... so he... he really likes being grabbed by the Bat, right? Like, someone must've confirmed this during their run of the comics or something, right?

Anyway, he's too busy making Joker schemes to pick a side and he's always got a smile on that face.

The last line is 'but at least we're having fun' and like, that's me. It's 6:32am but at least I'm having fun?

I'm gonna die when I wake up in like 6 hours.

[thecuddlymuffintop]

Tonight, at 7 pm CDT, I aim to finish Lorelai for Day 14 of my Spooktober Donothon over on Twitch and YouTube.

Be forewarned: Due to the heavy subject matter tackled in this game, viewer discretion is advised.

If you're up for it, here are the links.

Twitch

YouTube

[evelhak]

Thanks for the tag, @lylakoi. I enjoyed knowing things about you.

Here we go:

5 Songs:

Galadriel by New Better Spring Band, Dalai Lama by Emma Salokoski, HÄN by Saara Aalto, Girl Into Devil by S.J. Tucker, Dips by Daisy the Great. These came to mind first.

Three ships you like: KagaKuro (KnB), Willow/Tara (BTVS), Lorelai/Luke (Gilmore Girls). These three are the most actively on my mind right now.

First ship ever: I'm not sure what I count as shipping. I feel like being invested in a couple while watching/reading a story but never thinking about them outside of it doesn't quite make it. So, I think maybe Toya/Yukito (CCS) or Shiro/Saber (Fate/Stay Night).

Last song you heard: Some folk song my brother was playing on the piano but didn't know the name of.

Favorite Childhood Book: Siniliina books by Silja Frangén. (Blueline? Bluelyn? Not sure how to explain the main character's name in English.) It's a fairy tale novel trilogy about a fairy who travels from the fairy world to the material world as a coming-of-age ritual, in search of their calling, guided by a "locker" in their heart which is shaped like a human. During their journeys, the fairy touches many creatures' and people's lives, sometimes unseen, sometimes forming a truly symbiotic relationship with them, most notably a couple of humans, who the fairy grows with and both mutually shape each other's lives, help each other's self-discovery, leaving a lasting positive impact when their paths naturally diverge. Generally there's some big self-development or family problem the fairy helps the human through, by simply being there. There's some practical magic, sure, but most of it is simply about being a friend who walks by you. These books were read to me when I was five, and the fairy's relationship with a lemming and one of their humans was true soulmate level shit to me, I don't think I still have recovered from them, they were simultaneously so fulfilling and heartbreaking. I also loved how the fairy's calling, or "career" if you will isn't just one clear thing, yes, it's about helping others, but it takes new shape and grows with them all the time, and they aren't limited to being a sidekick, it's always as much about the fairy as it is about the ones they help. These books made me as a person, and they made me a writer. I can now see not all the messages in these books are as good as they could be (particularly how the fairies are essentially genderless but still the ones with male coded names have traditionally masculine jobs and ones with female coded names have traditionally feminine ones, plus some eh takes on alcoholism), but the core of the books is psychologically and metaphorically complex and layered and just full of love, hope, acceptance and bonds in a way that really touched me deeply as a kid and will always move me, and mean the world to me. Also look at the art. It influenced me a lot too.

5. Currently Reading: Psyche in a Dress by Francesca Lia Block

6. Currently Watching: Buffy The Vampire Slayer season 4 (Rewatch count unknown)

7. Currently Craving: To finish several writing and art projects.

No pressure, of course, but I will tag @lilypheria, @anonarat, @misfitmiska, @ni-kol-koru and @myndless88 .