#Early learning centre cleaning

[satoruhour]

need reader to have a confession with priest!geto about how they feel guilty for touching themselves late alone at night and priest!geto helps them by just fucking their brains out as a “penance” for their sins.

yes, i’m okay in the head btw! (lie)

AU REVOIR, O HEAVEN !

wc: 12.2k

warnings: DARK CONTENT, SLOW BUILDUP, CORRUPTION, priest!geto, fem!reader, age gap (reader is in early 20s, geto in late 20s), long descriptive fic that goes in depth of christian lore, lots and lots of christian references / metaphors / analogies, comparison to Satan’s banishment and fall from heaven, religious themes used in inappropriate ways, questions of religion and life, multiple scenes of f! and m! masturbation, fingering, clit stimulation, virginity loss, both f! and m! receiving oral, cumshot, praise, degradation, spitting, sex in a religious place, p -> v sex, unprotected sex, creampie / breeding kink, multiple rounds, n*sfw under the cut

for a small town like yours, it was a no-brainer that everyone knew everyone; and everyone’s drama as well. from the baker’s daughter being a whore to the mayor of the town being sacked for purposes that have since been twisted by word of mouth. that was another thing: word got around fast, and it was particularly suffocating in a conservative town such as yours. people were not outright about the obvious choices they favoured, but there was the older generation who were not shy to turn down progressive ideas.

because of that, the previous priest was kicked out because of the misuse of funds from mass collection and offertory. it was one thing to see a bunch of notes missing from the sack and the money counter but it was another thing to see that money going into funding a new strip club that was opening in the next town over.

it was simply unheard of, and the parishioners basically gave him a free ride to that very strip club by excommunicating him from his own church. it was unbecoming of a priest, especially in such a small congregation that everyone made sure the new priest to transfer here was a God-honouring one.

you hope he was. you’ve always felt the obligated need to serve your god and your parents. always the good girl, following the Ten Commandments, saving yourself for marriage. it was the natural order of a christian, and you could only hope that you’d get even a fraction of the eternal life they preach about in mass. but lately you’ve been having some . . thoughts, and you pray that this new priest could help you immensely, even if you had to do a hundred Hail Mary’s at the pews.

it was peculiar, the first time it occurred to you. the area where your body separates into two and forms two legs — the centre of it all, the middle where Eve had it covered in statues and paintings with a leaf, the middle where you had only learned of it in anatomical drawings. you knew what the vagina, cervix and the ovaries were, but seeing the convergence of pink and maroon between your legs confused you, even scared you.

and the next was when you’d had a guy come up to you whilst doing up your university application, saying something along the lines of how cute you were, would you like to grab a drink some time? and you were left dumbfounded and unable to answer. you let your eyes travel over his features, of the exposed arms of his button up shirt and the thickness of his forearms, you let your eyes skim over his plump thighs before you’re asked “are you okay?”

“n . . no sorry, i already have a boyfriend.” you lie through your teeth and all the guy does is sigh before walking away — but now you’re left with a bigger problem . . why was the thing between your legs throbbing? you swear you can feel your panties getting wet as well, but you aren’t quite sure why.

that night you’re lying in bed with a lewd website shining right in your face, as you’ve laid here for about two hours already, going through in your head whether you really wanted to do this. your hands had been clean, untainted from the moment you were born, but you imagine going to university and knowing not a thing about sex and that makes your whole body burn in embarrassment.

you chicken out and fall asleep.

“honey! come down here, i want you to meet someone.” your mother calls out to you, running about like she usually does. she’s always overworking — caring for the newborn, cooking the meals, cleaning the place. why don’t you ask dad to help sometimes? / nonsense! he works so hard and deserves a break! i don’t mind. / but he just lazes around at home after work . .

you’re pleasantly surprised to find a long-haired man at your front door, clad in a thick and loose turtleneck sweater with a gentle smile on his face. that uncomfortable feeling returns to your core and you land a hand to your stomach to calm the churning that’s happening.

“hello, and you are?”

you’d never think you would see one of God’s angels on earth in actual flesh in front of you. you’re convinced God is looking over you and you think you might see heaven when that silky voice repeats himself again.

“hi, kind miss, are you alright?”

“h . . huh? oh! yeah, uhm— who are you?”

your mother smacks you on your shoulder and sidles up to your side, holding onto your arm a little tightly that it hurts just a bit.

“don’t be rude!” she whisper-shouts to you, “this is geto suguru, and—”

“and i’m the new priest for the church.”

that catches you off-guard. he’s the new priest that was just transferred over? he looks anything but a holy man of God, what with his long hair and gauges in his ears; if you didn’t know any better you would think he was the one paying for the strip club instead. he seems to read your mind.

“i know i look . . a bit of a delinquent, miss, but i promise you the word of God is what i strictly live by. i honour and praise him with all that i can.”

“ah, i’m sorry if you thought i thought that way, father.” you mumble, giving him an awkward smile that he misses because he’s too busy focusing on the way you say father. you’re prepared to close the door on him already; the pulsing sensation between your legs isn’t fading and your whole body feels like it burns in hell. you rub your thighs together for some sort of relief, nothing.

“that’s usually the response i get, so i thought i would preface it first.” a little laugh leaves geto’s lips and if it wasn’t for you holding on for dear life on the door, you definitely would’ve buckled under your knees. “no hard feelings.”

“he’s a charmer, ain’t he?��� there’s another sheepish laugh from the pastor at that. “told me he’s been going around giving cakes to all the people as a way to thank them for letting him take over the church.” your heart melts at that — he looked so hot and had a heart of gold, too?

“what cake did you get us, father?” you blurt out and you have no time to take it back, but the preacher doesn’t seem to mind. you also don’t seem to mind that barrier of authority that was established ever since he‘s introduced himself as the new priest of the church. it felt . . friendlier, less intimidating than the previous. it was probably mostly due to him not wearing his cassock or collar, though.

“chocolate.” that one word possibly ignited every nerve in you. the smooth lilt in his voice paired with the slight smirk. it was detrimental. you were going to hell, you were condemned to eternal damnation.

“how’d you know i liked chocolate?”

he shrugs, “lucky guess.” wrong.

he had come around the day before already, but you were too distracted with work and pressured with a deadline that music drained out everything else — one look at your side profile and the hard-working first year university student was all it took for geto to return again today with another cake of your liking. oh! you’re such a sweet one for asking what flavour we like; frankly, my dear boy, my husband and i don’t really eat cake but her . . loves it for some reason. i wonder where she gets the sweet tooth from, honestly.

geto could only thank his saviour that your mother had promised not to tell you he already came around yesterday. and it looks like she didn’t.

“i should get going, miss . .”

“(y/n).”

geto simply nods his head, resisting the urge to call your name pretty and only manages a decent call to your mother. “mrs (l/n), i’m heading off, thank you for having me. (y/n).”

you return his smile, hesitantly, inching the door close with immense difficulty — you wanted to see him walk away with that imposing height of his, of the proper gait he carried himself with and the politeness in which he greets people of the town.

that night you locked yourself in your room, muttering out some dumb excuse of having to study for a test when in reality you were more interested in the feeling between your legs. it both excited and scared you when you first find a comfortable position on your bed, stalling for a good half ’n hour before the clinking cutlery of dinner happening downstairs had brought you to your senses. there were countless articles open in your safari tab, none of which helped your growing dilemma — a tear in the Red Sea between the sin of pleasure and the liberation of acting on it. you felt like Moses, treading in the centre, on the fence.

one last text made you yelp out loud.

[8:03 pm, read]: R u coming down 4 dinner?

it was your mother, as if she knew what was happening behind doors.

[8:03 pm, delivered]: nope, sorry mummy. need to study for this test, its important !

[8:05 pm, read]: Alright, alright. I left out a serving of what we cooked tonite. Heat up if u need to with the microwave O.K.? Don’t sleep so late!

you simply favourited her message, losing all motivation from before; until your mind crosses over dinner and goes straight to that chocolate cake, and then to the person who had brought it.

“Farewell happy fields / Where joy forever dwells: Hail, horrors, hail.”

“geto . . geto suguru.” the name feels foreign. it does sound like a countryside name but it felt like he had come from the city instead. “geto . .” you sigh, letting your hands tremble and move along your body. they brush over your chest, over your nipples and you recoil a little from the strange feeling. they harden under your touch as you continue to repeat his name.

each murmur of his name is a step farther from God, dipping your toes into the waters of hell as your fingers travel lower, lower, lower. you press a finger against your clit unknowingly, and you let out a loud moan; you immediately slap a hand over your mouth.

but the pleasure’s too much, and so you try again. one hand goes back to your nipples, squeezing your tits and playing with them while your fingers rub pathetic circles along your core.

“su . .” you gulp. “geto—”

you pant softly to yourself as you continue to rub your clit, messy, inexperienced circles in whatever shape or form. as long as it felt good to you, you were doing it. you made sure to keep your moans in as your hips bucked into your hands, back arching off the bed in needy movements. your hands were getting tired, clutching at the bedsheets.

long hair, built physique, crucifix on his neck. funny, you never noticed that before, but now you imagine it clearly, dangling over your face. you’re imagining geto fucking you, thrusting his cock into you as he groans out your name.

you’re at the end of your tether, feeling the deep plunge of your body in Satan’s lair the same time you cum for the first time in your life and your body shakes so violently. you flail around on your bed, bite into your shirt, anything to keep you quiet from the immense orgasm you had just felt. your pussy clenches around nothing and your hand aches so much it might fall off, but it just feel so damn good that you only have a minute’s rest before you’re rubbing at your clit again.

scooping up a little of your cum, you marvel at the clear liquid, sucking on your finger to try the thing that’s always drenched your panties. and soon you’re conjuring the image of the long-haired priest yet again, never really studying for that test you made up or even eating dinner — all you do is rest and come again, each time more wrecked than the last time.

you dreaded going to church the next morning.

it had slipped your mind that service was to continue once geto has gotten settled down in the rectory, a small outhouse at the back of the church that had been revamped. you’re not sure on how father geto was able to get it done up so fast but, you’re not one to question.

with the short walk to church, you regret not eating the night before, groaning softly at the discomfort of your growling stomach. what you were more worried of though, was what would happen to you once you stepped foot in the church. was your body going to go up in flames? were you going to get ridiculed by the townspeople? were you going to get called out by father geto in front of everyone?

“what’s gotten you so worked up?” your father was walking behind and smoking, as always, not giving a shit about your mother and the newborn.

“nothing . . just, wondering if i got everything in my head for my test.” your mother coos, and your baby brother in the carrier thinks it’s because of him. he babbles into your mom’s shirt, giggling.

“you’ll do fine, honey,” the reassurance worried you only more. you were lying outright — you had no test, you weren’t even studying, you were busy—!

“i raised a smart girl, didn’t i?” you can only manage a smile, reaching the church within minutes. taking the chance to mutter a short prayer and a plea, you take a deep breath and that light from above Lucifer’s kingdom seem to call out to you again.

stepping into the simple but cozy church, you dip your hands in holy water. Father, Son, Holy Spirit along your forehead, chest and shoulders before you trail behind your mother, suggesting places for you to sit at the back. she only waved your hand away, pointing towards the front. we always sit at the front! why the sudden change? / nothing . . maybe thought we could switch it up a little.

the mass starts after a few minutes of waiting, and you have the luxury of wallowing in your self-pity and guilt for those few minutes, trying to get the very filthy imagery of father geto above you, father geto between your legs, father geto himself out of your head. you fail, it’s only amplified when the bell rings and the congregation stands up.

everyone waits in anticipation for the new priest in this small town, hoping he won’t disappoint them like the last one. but they already seem to be in good spirits as he makes the entrance down the very short church. two altar boys follow behind him in the procession, accompanied by an organist and a duo of choir singers, straining to have their voice heard over the loud instrument. he’s already made some friends, nodding to the excited kid who whispers and the shy girl who waves her hands at him. but while everyone feels anticipation in hopes of a good sermon, dread is only making your legs feel like lead, you feel lightheaded, dizzy even.

because whatever you had imagined last night was him in his sweater get-up, and it just now sinks in what a disgusting thing you were doing as you watch the rich purple of his chasuble sway alongside his stole — the very image of him in his priest robes (in Lent season too, not to mention) — meant to deter you from more thoughts, only fed your desires.

geto suguru made being a pastor look so natural, and attractive, that it was almost criminal.

“good morning, brothers and sisters, how are we all doing this morning?” there’s a few murmurs around, but geto doesn’t falter, instead pressing on with his very convincing, beautiful speech; as does he with the rest of the mass. he conducts himself with as much professionalism as he can, handling the Eucharist with proper hands, giving a sermon whilst giving you too many eyes, distributing Holy Communion with a gentle, accepting smile; your skin burnt when he handed you the body of Christ, a soft inaudible “amen” hanging off your lips.

father geto was all the talk after, some hanging around to catch a minute of geto’s time if they could and you were no different, purposely looping your arm through your mother’s and slowly down your pace.

“goin’ out for a smoke.” your father gruffly tells the three of you, two of which understands better. your newborn simply cuddles deeper into your mother’s breast, humming softly into the nap.

“’kay.” it was opportunistic, now, as your eyes flit around the place to find geto talking to two older ladies. he’s politely bent down to reach their heights better, chasuble now removed and simply in his alb, one patting his shoulder and the other giggling. you think you imagine it but his eyes dart over to you for a moment and then off to the other parishioners.

“how are you two lovely ladies doing?” you hear him before you see him and the voice startles you a little, jumping back from brushing your baby brother’s almost non-existent hair.

“fine.” it comes out kurt and abrupt and you burn when your mother nudges you like yesterday.

“think what she means is that we’re perfectly fine. how was your first mass?”

father geto looks around the church, recalls the altar boys, ingrains each church-goer into his head, “i hope the congregation likes me.”

“oh, nonsense! i’m sure they do,” your mother reassures. she was always good like that, putting others before her and making sure they see the best in themselves, “that was a very riveting sermon you delivered.”

“yeah—! yeah, i . . really enjoyed it, father geto.”

a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, “did you now?”

you nod, and he continues, “you enjoyed me telling you that sin was revolting?”

when he phrases it like that . . you swallow, “isn’t that what God’s whole schtick is?”

and that makes father geto laugh, because for such an innocent flower like you, you make it sound like you were forced to go to church and made to learn the basis of why God exists and now you just don’t know what to do with it. it’s common for people at their university age where they’re exposed to more views and mindsets, to question the religion you were born in and think about what it meant to be tied to a god you didn’t even really know existed, and when that happens, Christianity turns stagnant and boring.

“yes, pretty much, miss (y/n), but His schtick also involves forgiving anyone who has sinned against Him. after all, that’s what He died on the cross for.”

“y . . yeah, i know, father geto.”

you only realise now his purple chasuble matches his eyes, eyes that swirl with the colours of amethyst. they’re much brighter in the parish lighting, and they hold your stare much longer than yesterday. there’s the tugging feeling at your stomach again that goes right down to your centre and it throbs; your eyes flutter and blink to get you out of your head.

“good that you know . . of course, it’s not an invitation to sin. self-restraint and chastity still exists,” you hate how he puts an emphasis on the latter word, because he could be referring to anything, “but we need not be worried for our lives. we only need to pray and repent in prayer, and God will have mercy on us.”

but well, if God didn’t want you to sin, how then can he explain creating such an attractive person? if God valued his followers’ self control, why did he have to plant such lewd, inappropriate thoughts of his preacher in your head?

father geto could probably see your dilemma with how hard he was staring at you, and he only makes it worse by putting his larger hand on your left shoulder. it descends deeper to your upper arm and the skin there ignites—

“i hope you liked the chocolate cake.”

you manage a small smile, “haven’t had the chance to try it, sorry, father.”

“don’t apologise.” you forget your mother and baby brother is even beside you with how he talks to you. you’d love to be on his chest, hearing the deep rumbling of his voice or even have his hands be somewhere else but your arm. you don’t know how simply talking to you has got him doing everything in his power to restrain himself; not even a prayer from God could help.

“The mind is its own place, and in it self / Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.”

what you don’t know, either, that the hand on your shoulder was between his legs just last afternoon, trying so hard not to sneak under his cassock. he could barely keep his moans in, palming his bulge from above his robes at the mere thought of you. no touching means less sin, right? he comes to that pathetic conclusion easily, so all he does is bury himself in the outhouse after distributing his cakes, hips positioned over his pillow and he grinds.

the feeling for father geto was so archaic, been so long since he’s given up his life to God right after graduating university. all the carefree times that he’s experienced — drinking in dorms, going to parties, getting some nice quick fucks in between exams — were going to stop for good. but that doesn’t mean he stopped lusting.

lust. one of the seven deadly sins, a weak point for father geto’s journey as a pastor. it’s obvious now too that he hasn’t really left his older ways, bucking his hips into the fabric of his pillow. he thinks of you, your sweet little eyes and your cute outfit at home, he thinks of your face twisted into pleasure as he’s positioned between your legs.

father geto twitches, friction against the underside of his cock feeling so good after years and years of holding back — with a pretty face to think of, too. his hips ruts in short thrusts, desperate for that high and he chokes on a moan imagining your sweet voice begging to cum. and so does he, shooting such a large, hot load into his underwear that even his cassock is stained with his cum. but unlike you, he’s already thinking of his next round — if he’s doomed to die by lust, then might as well go all the way.

father geto spares a glance towards the door just to be safe before flipping over on his back, and pulls his robes above his lower half. the sight is dirty, underwear painted a darker colour and cum sticking to every part of the fabric. once he wraps a hand around his cock, geto is gone, pumping it so fast he might have gotten a burn along his length but it’s all rewarded by the second quick orgasm he reaches — spurting ribbons of cum all over his holy garments.

it’s why he didn’t have time to write a proper sermon for the morning mass. he was up all night, stroking himself — just, from the thought of you.

it was father geto’s turn to have uneven breaths as you asked if he was okay, hand on your shoulder shaking. but the visions of last night is overtaken quickly by his need to impress the other parishioners, and so he gives you a tense smile.

“enjoy the cake.” it sounded like an innuendo if you’ve ever heard one, but you mutter a soft thank you, before heading off back home with your family. that contact with your shoulder is all you can think of, giddy at the warmth of his hand and eyes.

“baby, could you open the door for me?” your mother calls out to you, hastily wiping her hands on her apron and abandoning the kitchen to tend to your crying baby brother.

“ok, mummy!” the doorbell’s been rung twice now, jogging a little to the door to prevent the person from waiting. you didn’t think to look through the peephole, a tight-knit (conservative) community made you trust anyone, opening the door to find father geto standing in front of you.

“o-oh. hi, father . .?”

he was dressed in his roman collar, a black shirt with a white strip around the neck and some black jeans. it wasn’t as casual as the first day, and it still held an ode to God even on a weekday.

“hi, (y/n).”

“ohhh! it’s father geto, come, come!” your mother bellows throughout the house, baby brother on her hip as she bounces him to get him to stop wailing. “are you hungry already?”

geto displays a meek smile, “a little, mrs (l/n), since you mentioned how big of a feast you were cooking.”

your mouth drops in recognition; was that why she was so preoccupied for the whole day? doing the maximum in the kitchen not just because it was for your father’s recent promotion at his job, but also for dinner with father geto.

“you’re having . . dinner with us.” it’s more of a statement to yourself than a question to the priest, but he still catches on and assists you by closing the door himself, and taking off his shoes. already, he looks part of the family, looking like a hard-working husband coming back from his job to you. instead, he’s answered the vocation of priesthood, and not matrimony.

“it looks like i am.” it’s such a sly comment, like he already knew the effect he had on everyone. this sucking up was just to get every church-goer to like him more, and it’s working.

geto is charming at the dinner table as he is at the parish, cracking jokes that make both your parents and you laugh, talking about his university life and telling a myriad of stories that he’s gone through.

“what did you major in in university, father?” it felt such a weird question, especially with an honorific attached to something that you were doing at the moment — it felt out of place that someone so close to your age was already pursuing a lifetime commitment of serving God.

“my studies focused mostly on philosophy and theology. i minored in linguistics.” there’s a chorus of ooh’s that echo throughout the table, cleaning up the last bit of food on his plate before he continued. “i’m currently going more in depth for latin, which is a stunning language, beyond those who say it’s dead and should stay dead.”

that only makes him hotter, and you cross your legs beside him, looking at him from the corner of your eye at you play with the last meatball on your plate. the sauce leaves a trail of red from the tomato, somehow mirroring the murder of your old self — or what you thought it was. it was more of a knife wound, a cowardly stab in the arm.

that dinner with father geto only deepened your sense of guilt.

it was the way the priest was quick to stand just as your mother does, offering to help with cleaning up the dinner table. even when she brushes him off, he insisted, answering for her when he only silently takes the plates to the back. all your mom does is shake her head with a smile, letting you help as well. your father just watches curiously, entertaining the baby with his canned alcohol.

“i’m embarrassed i can’t fight back against you well enough to stop ya from cleaning up at my own house,” your mother confesses, already having used her last breath to tell him to not help with the dishes as well. you scrub at a stain on geto’s plate over and over, a stubborn one at that until you finally are able to get it out. it still leaves a faint red glow, though.

“it’s nothing, really, mrs (l/n), i’m happy to help whenever.” father geto’s eyes rake over your figure as you clean alongside your mother, heel bouncing up and down; to non-existent music or in impatience he wasn’t sure.

she just takes the soapy plate from your hands with a laugh, “c’mon, it’s okay, my dear. go entertain father geto.”

it was the way his courtesy shined through when he doesn’t enter your room until he has gotten verbal confirmation from you, guiding him in with a uneasy hand as he looked around your quaint little space. it was filled with photos, some plants, tons of research papers and a messy table to match, but all he did was reassure you. you take note of his flowing hair and the laid back hairstyle he liked to don when it wasn’t for mass.

“how is university treating you?” you’re stuck on being completely honest and lying with every answer, but father geto has a face that makes it difficult to lie to.

“it’s . . alright, i guess,” you settle on your bed, crossing your legs and hoping he wouldn’t pick up any of your essays. thinking is manifesting, though, and his hands naturally go for the paper with the many red markings on the front page.

“Paradise Lost? by Milton?” ah. that paper. you shoot up from the sheets before he can read it, because frankly your thesis in that paper was weak and wasn’t well supported, but you still believed it deeply. you were just having a little bit of trouble straying from your reverence for God. you only manage to clutch the top of your paper, but geto is adamant on reading it, piqued by genuine curiosity.

“the retelling of Milton’s Paradise Lost humanises the experience of Satan’s (or Lucifer’s) fall from glory . .” he trails off, reading over your evidences and analysis. you feel like you’re being read like an open book, laid out bare for vultures to pick at and for God to enumerate your sins until you felt no shame.

with his head still tilted down, father geto has to look up through his lashes and bangs, seemingly making you cower more and more in your spot as the unsolicited advice for your essay dies down on his tongue. the size of his hands has you hypnotised, and he decides it’s against his own values to give feedback about a text he so childishly brushed off when he was in university, even if he had to read it to complete four years in the seminary. geto places a hand upon yours and the heat is dizzying; you can’t help but think if he was just normal person, instead, holding your hand like this.

it was the way he let you explain yourself a little better through your own words. it was a premature essay, anyway, made to test out your close reading and citation skills. but he found your interpretation of Milton’s poem to be much more insightful than he expected it to be — you think maybe, your understanding of the text grows the more you learn about your body, how you like to be pleasured; you feel like Lucifer.

“i . . don’t necessarily think you are born into evil. it’s multi-faceted and loaded, this question. God our Father would do anything but create evil willingly, it’s just unfortunate that the people that bring up their offspring contribute to the shaping of their identity and outcome.”

“then, how . .” your lips twist as you think of a way to word the question, “how would that justify evil existing? wouldn’t the fact that evil is developed somehow meant that God created evil in some shape or form, in the first place?”

father geto rushes to answer but—

“why did he have to create the serpent that tempted Eve in the first place? couldn’t he have just left them alone in Eden?”

“...there to dwell / In adamantine chains and penal fire / Who durst defy th' Omnipotent to arms.”

you frown, not expecting the other to answer but instead just wallowing in your thoughts. you never thought the talk with father geto would turn into some philosophy lesson, but the more you chatted with him on the bed, the more the conversation seemed to steer that way.

your own faith wavers in the night, a quietness settling over the two of you like a cloak of stars. the mass of each star weighs heavily with your questions up in the air until you faintly hear his answer.

“i don’t . . know, miss (y/n).”

“ah! no no— sorry to dump everything on you, father geto,” you scratch the back of your head, “it was just passing thoughts. i’ve never thought to think of this before.”

it was morbid, it was macabre. it was like looking over and seeing a skeleton in your place instead of flesh and skin and yet each question after question ignites something in him that no one has excited before. he can already feel lust influencing the other six, pumping through his veins at a life void of God, void of religion, a free place to think of the omnipotence of a higher being that no one was sure really existed.

“it’s okay . . it’s natural to ask. it’s natural to inquire. God,” he nods like he was in a trance; the word feels weird on his tongue, “God would want this.”

that night you did anything but sin, clutching the essay between your hands and digging your knees into the floor with elbows on your bed until they ached and you prayed. you wished blessings on your family, you wished blessings on the parishioners, you wished blessings on father geto and you wished eternal damnation on yourself.

there’s a heavy pull on your heart when you go to sleep a few minutes after and the dream you have of your body turning to soot and burning with each feet into flames makes you crave salvation all the more — like all a bad dream, it will be fine as long as you pray, and pray, and pray.

but the flesh desires what the heart denies: the more you ‘hang’ with father geto (by God, he was perfectly okay with that word when you let it slip to your mother. he merely throws up a peace sign in a ‘cool’ way and then immediately cringes, but it makes you laugh), the more you find yourself attracted to his morals, to his ideals, to the natural way in which he exists. he could speak for hours on end, voice sounding like birdsong and a chilling breeze all at the same time.

his voice did wonders in your head, as well, coaxing you into betraying your own code; and you betray it easily. that phantasmic voice leaving you to remove your top and pinching your nipples as soft little moans leave your mouth. the imaginary sway of his crucifix above your face while you harshly abuse your clit and dip a finger into you for the first time. the feeling is so foreign and weird that you shamelessly think of the slight lilt of his voice helping you: “it’ll feel better soon, (y/n). c’mon, finger your pussy for father geto.”

father geto had a natural talent for talking and preaching. that downturn of tone like hitting a dead-end when he holds a point above your head (“but”) and then resolves it into perfect cadence like chords ending a phrase when he proposes a solution (“God will take care of everything”). he does it so much you think he’s rather convincing himself more than he’s convincing you, though.

“perhaps this parable that Jesus uses tells us rather to look within ourselves, to look within the vineyard that is us. the owner have done everything: kept the roots tied so it would not be trampled, making sure they get all the sunlight and water it needs, yet . .” he pauses a little, looking at the almost full parish now that he’s won over the hearts of your town. his eyes flit down to you at the second pew, shooting you a quick smile.

“and yet he yields sour grapes. we pray, we act civil and diplomatic, we are giving, but are you truly doing it for the glory of God? is that maybe why we only get the sour grapes — not satisfied with the ‘thank you’ after doing a favour or silence from God after praying daily?”

geto looks over the last bits of the scribbled sermon, a little more coherent than last week, but still done with thoughts of you. there’s multiple smudges of his words that he has to squint and stutter a bit, caused by the frantic cleaning of his cum upon the paper.

“we all . . naturally expect things back, but to be Christian, to be a follower of Christ, we would have to abandon all thoughts of that.” father geto’s mind wanders to last night as his eyes look for you again. “we would need to be generous, to be kind without needing anything in return.”

father geto integrates into the church easily, shown in how his sermons capture the hearts of many. albeit, they never really take in the true meanings of the preachings he gives, but it’s enough for geto if they nod and mutter amen like fools in mass; whatever they do out of it is out of his hands.

but along the many preachings he does, there is one subject he fears approaching: lust, the one thing that threatens the downfall of his vocation and yet he cannot get enough of it. each walk and meeting with you only heightens his desire, makes his cock throb beneath his robes. each sunday he wishes he could split his soul in half — one as the confessor and one as the confessing — and repent in the confessional box.

“today’s gospel from Mark, chapter 6 talks about lust, briefly.” there’s a shake in his voice, eyes now scrambling over the congregation to find you in a much more revealing top contrasting with the out-of-place cardigan you have on. he’s sure it was mrs (l/n) that had made you put that on before you left the house; the house where he’s memorised the placement of your shoe rack and how your door creaks when it’s opened too quickly. geto is so fucked.

geto clears his throat before continuing, seeing you adjust your body for a moment, “King Herod is tempted by his flesh when he sees one of Herodias’ daughters dancing, so much so that she tempts him to commit murder. a clear beheading, just from giving into her body, and when she asks of him, he delivers like a dog. this calls us to truly think of the desires that we possess. they need not be sexual,” soft whispers emerge, a taboo subject, “they can also be related to money, to power.”

“lust for more things turns into greed when we act on that initial lust,” geto is sweating by now. he pulls lightly on his collar when you press your arms together in retaliation and he has to look away from the way your tits perk up so perfectly.

you had to know what you were doing, surely. partially — you were feeling cold, but you stifle a smile when you realise how geto’s eyes linger a little longer on you, or rather your chest, before he coughs and continues,

“when we are driven so terribly by the feeling that we abandon all morals just to please this person, thing on earth is when we tread into dangerous territory. no earthly possession must make you feel this way,”

the irony settles in his bones after he says it and his dick twitches at the thought of having you under the podium right now, sticking his fat cock down your throat while you struggle to keep the gagging noises to a minimum.

“no matter . .” a gulp, “how rewarding the aftermath must be.”

father geto knows you both are braving the edge of God’s merry kingdom. it is just a matter of who falls first.

“your place is in the kingdom of God, meant to fulfil eternal life with Jesus and the Lord which is what we all should be keeping in mind and working towards, ignoring all the distractions that will soon fade and die off.”

geto coughs again in the mic and breaths shakily, finally tearing his eyes away from you before he concludes the sermon and eases into the Offertory and Eucharist. he buries himself so deep in the procession in order to get you out of his mind, and it’s shown in the haste in which he carries the mass. it feels like he rushes so much that even the day outside follows too, because evening seems to arrive earlier than usual.

the sun sets outside, illuminating the altar. it taunts you like reminding you of the beauty of your faith; it deepens the need developing in your core.

“body of Christ.” you can faintly hear it being repeated over and over at the front, just a few steps away from your turn and you wish you weren’t standing behind your dad’s hulking figure so you could actually prepare yourself for father geto. you’re greeted with his cascading hair tied up into a bun and the cup containing Jesus’ body, gold and shining. you see your stretched reflection before your eyes snap back to the pastor in front and you will your hands not to hail routine.

instead, you stick out your tongue for the father to put the communion on and you take in the little panic of his hands and the choked sentence of body of Christ. his eyes drift down to your pink tongue, to the small twitch it does when he places the host on it and he cannot wait for you to get out of his sight, lest he be overtaken by the sin he particularly preached about just minutes ago.

“any test to study for tonight, darling?” your mother asks after dinner, meaning to ask after seeing you be so fidgety like you needed to be somewhere.

“uh . . no, not exactly, but i do have something i need to do.”

“oh! what is it, sweetie?” she doesn’t read your expressions, you mannerisms, so you were safe from that, but you willed your voice to not break. your body is on fire, you needed to quell your needs, now.

“just— i promised father geto i would meet him later for a confession, since he’s so busy, he could only propose a late timing,” no, you didn’t. either way, you give a reason, explain yourself before she can speculate, works every time.

“oh, okay . .” she trails off, seemingly unaffected, “just don’t get home too late, alright, darling?”

you nod even though she’s too focused on the dishes, pressing a hand to her back in thanks and she carries on, carefree, while you sprint to your room. lock the door, get your phone out.

“ . . ings turns into greed when we act on that initial lust . .” the words recorded just hours ago leave the phone speakers on a low volume, already lighting a flame in your pussy when your hand brushes over the microphone and he stops at the same time, “when we are terribly dri . .”

you sigh loudly when your hand starts to make its way down to your centre, rubbing slightly to the sound of his voice. your clit is just begging to be touched, begging for your inexperienced hands flicking your nub in every which way. impatient, your hands dip into your cunt and your jaw drops open at the intrusion of your fingers, just as your eyes widen and your imagination has never worked as well as it does now.

you can see geto’s amethyst eyes boring into yours, you can see his hips fucking into yours and yet it doesn’t give you the same kick as you think it would — you’re fucking yourself with your fingers even faster, circles on your clit increasing in speed and messiness and you smear your juices all around.

“father— father geto—” it was pathetic, the way you moaned for a man of God, but the feeling of your cunt clenching around what you wished was his dick was too good, the coil in your stomach still feeling rather uncomfortable but welcoming and you’re unravelling with a silent scream soon, back arching off the sheets.

“s . . suguru, f-fuck,” the swear word feels weird on your lips, as with his first name, but the trembling of your virgin body is so delicious that you just keep rubbing and rubbing, taking so long to come down from your high as your pants get heavier and heavier. and then his face starts to fade off, eyes turning into lilac air and you’re glancing towards the crumpled essay on your bed with guilt festering in your chest.

“ . . mptations of the flesh are childish, are temporary. they lead you to do foolish things that have no place in the kingdom of God. we may repent and put it past us but the memories that our tainted bodies possess, they remember the sinful things that you did.” the recording of father geto dies out as with his powerful conclusion, speaking so loudly into the mic that it screeches with feedback, you remember. you don’t even know where the guilt builds up from, in your torso and your heart, despite questioning the faith you were in for all your life.

if God did not want us to sin, why did he create temptations and ask us to pray for forgiveness?

you roll over and remove your fingers with a small whine, taking up your phone and opening up the contact with father geto hesitantly. it was meant to be a strictly professional exchange like the conversations he’d had with many other parishioners: updates on the church, changes in mass timings, but your chat was filled with questions from you and answers from him. you didn’t dare ask him anything out of the faith.

[9:37 pm, delivered]: uhm. father geto? are you there?

oh god, it’s you. the you who on the second walk around the town exchanged numbers with him because he found your thoughts so intriguing.

[9:39 pm, read]: Yes, Miss (Y/N). What is it?

you take a deep breath. better to ask for that confession, you couldn’t risk your mother asking about it tomorrow.

[9:40 pm, delivered]: is it alright to have

[9:41 pm, delivered]: can i come over to the church, for a bit

father geto straights up in the rectory, getting closer to the socket where his phone was charging and hovers over the screen. his hands are clammy when typing a response and he manages it in about three minutes.

[9:44 pm, read]: Of course, my dear. The doors of the church are open for the congregation at any time.

bidding goodbye to your mother, you stay on the lit path to the church and you’re bathing in anticipation, too excited to see father geto that you bump into a dark shadow. almost resembling a hard wall, hands emerge from its sides to clutch at your biceps.

“miss (y/n), what is it? what has gotten you up so late at night?” if he was still in university, he would’ve laughed at how he asked that question. hundreds of texts of u up? that mimic the nature of the question right now. 

“i was hoping . .” you ignore the tingly feeling of the way in which his hands leave goosebumps along your biceps and then to your forearms. finally, they clutch your hands between his, meant to be like a warm hug but instead is like fire, licking at your fingers and wrist like you’re at the stake. “i was hoping that i could, request you for a confession?”

the priest across you swallows with a nod, swiftly putting a hand across your back to lead you to the booth. you both could’ve done it perfectly fine in the pews, sitting across each other. “the confessional is where we will feel the strongest compulsion of Christ. come,” he answers your question before you can ask it, “take your place on the kneeler behind the curtains.”

father geto showers in the same sea of anticipation when he makes sure you’re okay before heading over to his side of the confessional. he’s imagined this scene over and over — you on the pew kneeler, breath warming the velvet curtains — he cannot help the bulge that forms.

the first words he speak behind the curtain shock you, voice sounding so close yet so muffled and distant.

“come, now, (y/n), make the Sign of the Cross with me.”

Father, Son and Holy Spirit

upon your head, chest and shoulders you do it, taking a deep breath before you start. “bless me, father, for i have sinned. it has been . . about five years since my last confession.”

geto nods, the soft carry of your voice in the late night having an effect on the priest. the hold he has on the crucifix of the rosary is so tight it makes an indent on his skin, the only thing on mortal flesh to keep him from falling.

“What though the field be lost? All is not lost; the unconquerable will, And study of revenge, immortal hate, And courage never to submit or yield.”

your thighs rub together, hot breath sending chills down your clutched hands and down your arm as you ponder over the things you’ve done — “i’ve . . lied to my mother at times, to my friends when they ask me where i’m from. i have stolen money for my own needs, n-not— that high of an amount but um . . still a fair amount.”

“what did you need to buy, sweetheart?”

the name surprises you, but you simply ignore it. “i wanted new clothes — was all the rave at uni when the girls wore miniskirts and little tops. unfortunately it didn’t suit me.”

geto swears under his breath when the image of you in such skimpy clothing infiltrate his thoughts. his curiosity overtakes him; overwhelmed with emotion, he never had the chance to see what you were wearing before he pulls back the curtains and hopes your eyes are closed and they are: pulled tight with quivering eyebrows. there, like a sinning Christian is you in a thin camisole, cleavage showing beneath your arms. he peers lower, gasps softly to himself when you’re wearing a skirt.

“father? father, what’s wrong?” you think you hear the swift swoosh and the rings of the miniature curtain clatter.

“n—nothing is wrong, miss (y/n). are there any other sins you want to confess?”

you swallow, “i . . i’ve wished misfortune on my father.”

not the sin he was hoping for but he wasn’t surprised; his head moves in understanding. he had seen your father — merely a ghost in the house and hardly contributing to fostering the family. it goes against what Mary and Joseph stands for as the Holy Family, but father geto has seen a lot of absent fathers and incompetency to truly be taken aback anymore.

“i’ve also . . i’m not sure whether to tell you this, father geto.”

your breaths were all you could hear in the silence of the church, an eerie quietness settling as if the critters and animals of the earth strived to listen to your ultimate sin, too. Beelzebub, Asmodeus, possibly even Lucifer himself clawed themselves up from hell to eavesdrop.

“of course you can, my dear.” the wind through the wooden confessional box sounds like the hisses of the three demons, like they have had holy water sprayed on them from the mere sounding of his voice; but they look hopefully for a server of Christ to fall exactly like they did.

“it’s, related to my body, father. i,” gulping, you continue with a prompt from the other, “i’ve had this growing need, like, one has when they’re hungry. they have the need to fill their stomachs. or— or a sudden pain you have to massage yourself through, like a cramp in the arm of sorts.”

“well . . is it your torso or your arm?”

“it’s . .” you spare a glance towards your centre under your very, very short skirt, the familiar pulsing of your clit turning more and more prominent. “it’s related to my pussy, father.”

you hear a choke from the other side, and then you realise your choice of words.

“ah— m-my bad! i meant my . . vagina, father geto.”

“no— no u-uhm, the previous term was fine. could you describe what you did? how far did you go so i c-can . . give you the appropriate penance?”

behind the curtains, geto have already started palming his bulge, massaging the ache in his length that still continues to grow and harden. the way you describe is so terribly innocent and unknowing, a deepening urge to corrupt you running through his veins.

“i played with um— my breasts, first. i pulled up my top and felt around my nipples, but i got impatient and . .” geto hangs on to every word of yours, shifting to get his robes out of the way. it was just like the first night: his underwear stained with so much pre-cum it’s probably changed the colour of the garment. he peels it away and the lack of restraint leaves him sighing softly while you ramble on—

“i tried playing with that . . thing between my legs.” you recall the quick google search from that first night, “i played with my clit, father.”

geto stifles a groan into his hand just as he starts to stroke himself softly. “y . . yeah, and?”

“i tried to um . . fit my finger in. it was uncomfortable, at first,” you cannot ignore the pull of your core; your hand shimmies past the clasped hands and down to your skirt. you have no panties to swipe to the side: you came here without any. your finger rubs gently at the throbbing bundle of nerves, a soft whine leaving your lips before you remember you’re in the midst of a confession.

“but i . . i got it into my pussy soon enough. and then i put in another finger.” there was a more audible grunt from the other side, the confessional weirdly heating up immensely as you follow your confession: two fingers easily glide in from just how wet you were.

“when?” there’s a strain in father geto’s voice when he asks it, maybe because he was trying so hard to keep quiet. his jaw is locked as he pumps his cock slowly because his tip is leaking so much that even a simple movement would give him away.

“w-wha—?”

“w-when did you first start . . touching your pussy, (y/n)?” hearing a priest say such a lewd word makes you clench around your fingers.

“after you came to deliver t-that chocolate cake . . father geto.”

“f-fuck—” geto squeezes his eyes shut and it’s like he’s a university student again losing his virginity for the first time by the hands of some random chick pumping him. the implied confession has him stroking faster; it was after that trip he made to your house, it was after seeing you stand at the door like a good little girl, it was because of him, right? right?

you snap back the curtains and your mouth waters at the scene: father geto hunching over the little window that separates the two of you and his head hung low; his cassock gathers around his hips and his cock— good Lord, his cock was so big, clutched tightly between his left hand. his tip was weeping, an angry red as it continued to push out globs of pre.

“f-father!” geto doesn’t seem to care, giving you a drunk and nonchalant glance as he continues to stroke his shaft. he knows it’s wrong, doing this in the house of the Lord but it feels so fucking good. “y-you—”

you’re at a loss for words, pointing to his exposed bottom, but even though you’re speaking out against him, you can’t help but follow his hand as it moves up and down like a spell. his eyes are simply pleading, hips bucking up and you would think he was a parishioner instead. shaking in the presence of God, in the presence of you—

you stick your hand past the squeezy window, drawing his interest and before you know it you’re blindly bumping into his erection. there, he silently grabs your hand, guiding it to his shaft. he uncomfortably leans down to look at your face, eyebrows still furrowed but your tongue stuck out and his dick twitches in your hand.

“s-shit, baby . .” geto swears under his breath, and again when you pull on his dick to the window. uncomfortably his body lightly slams against the partition, a soft thud coming from the booth as his head collides with the wood, “(y/n) . .”

he can’t see you, but he can hear you. “may i, father geto?”

you don’t wait for his answer, gauging mainly from the heavy breaths coming from above you. they really do need to change the confessional, too, because you can clearly hear every word he mumbles out from the holes in the partition.

“shiiit—” when you kitten lick his tip, collection the pre-cum that continues to leave his tip, and it feels better than his Rite of Ordination and when he finally got to host his first mass. it’s better than that prophetic dream he has of God calling him to serve Him and the churches in the city with church-goers of boring faces and predictable stories.

here was a rural place, a place where he never expected such a pretty girl to practice the Christian faith, only to falter in the presence of a pastor. he’s gotten such a cute little slut to corrupt. you start to bob your head slowly, unsure of what to do apart from putting his cock on your mouth. your teeth grazes his skin a little and he hisses.

“no teeth. suck in your cheeks,” he cannot see you but he wishes he can, and he knows you listen to his advice when he feels only the smooth glide of your mouth and he wishes it was your pussy that you fingered.

“going deeper, darling,” geto grunts when he pushes his cock past your mouth and into your throat, the sweet gag you do making him dig his forehead deeper into the uneven wooden partition. he can hear your struggling sounds, the muffled moans with his cock down your cavern. but he cannot go any longer without seeing you and reluctantly he pushes you off, still holding your hand and you seem to catch his drift soon enough.

you’re as eager as him, bouncing off the kneeler and leaving your side of the booth, and you’re opening the door to his. the reality of the situation fully sinks in, geto standing there with his cock dripping with your saliva and your camisole pulled down under your tits.

“oh . . baby,” geto coaxes you into him, under a little spell of his when you trail in a light as a feather. you don’t resist his hands pushing you down to your knees, and just like earlier, you’re sticking your tongue out and the priest looks at you from under hooded lids.

“did you touch yourself to me, little girl?” it comes out stronger than intended but you seem to like it, even when your answers are cut off by him slapping his tip on your tongue. it’s so heavy, his cock, and thick too that you can help but suckle on it when you get the opportunity.

“ever since that day, father geto.” you look drunk, swirling your tongue around the tip and continuing to talk, “i . . i imagine you above me and sometimes i dangle my crucifix thinkin’ it’s yours.”

a small laugh escapes the priest. “did you now?” it’s reminiscent of the time where you praise his sermon. his laugh is cut off as you continue to suck him off, hands still confused. he helps you by bringing your hands to the places you can’t reach and you follow like second nature. “dirty fucking slut, aren’t you?”

“i promise i didn’t know anything before this . . father.” you look up at him through your lashes, big doe eyes proving every last bit of your innocence. aht, partially. you did watch a video of this chick blowing her boyfriend, cumming with your own fingers in your throat, wishing it was geto’s cock in your mouth instead.

but having a real cock in your mouth? it was divine, better than the body of Christ in melting on your tongue. your ministrations speed up, the obscene noises of you gurgling reverberating in the wooden box late at night. it would be even worse at the altar where it would echo everywhere.

“y—yeah, baby, that’s it, that’s it . .” his eyes are shut tight, intoxicated on the way your warm mouth feels. you whine into his shaft, tears forming at the corners of your eyes from how deep he was in you.

“mmf— mmph!” your moans sends vibrations up his body, interrupted when geto thrusts his hips into your mouth suddenly and your nose meets with his pubes, eyes rolling back from the muskiness of his body. it smells like incense and sweat, filling your senses as he keeps you right up to his hilt.

“ohh . . fuckfuck fuucck—!” the father pulls you off to let you breathe, pleasantly surprised when you start pumping him violently, tongue stuck out again. there’s a hint of light from the outside that highlights the pinkness of your tongue and he’s never wanted to cum this badly before.

“i’m cumming— baby, baby, i’m g’nna c-cum—” there’s a long, drawn out whine from father geto upon feeling the warmth of your hands stroking his cock so obediently, resting his tip on your tongue where you’d willingly drink his cum like wine. geto shoots his load into your mouth and is the loudest he’s ever been; he doesn’t care who hears him, he doesn’t care if he gets transferred out tomorrow, all he wants to think about is you on your knees and your nipples hardened from confessing to him. he’d like to bet that your pussy was drooling too, hips bucking into the soft skin of your hands.

some of his cum gets onto your face and on your lips, and geto almost cums again when you use his tip to smear his seed around your face, sucking lightly on his tip.

“dirty girl . .” he pulls on your biceps to bring you up, and your lips meet instantaneously like you were meant to be separated for eternity, doomed only to meet for one day a year. it’s messy and sloppy, drool drips from your sides of your mouths as your lips merge together.

“was that your first kiss, baby?” father geto can tell by how you don‘t know how to follow his lead, teeth clashing and breathing uneven.

“am i that obvious?” you frown, feeling self-conscious, but geto is quick to reassure you.

“father geto’s going to teach you everything you need to know, alright?” he brings you in with a finger to your chin, hovers over your lips like a tease.

he teaches you everything you want to know and more, like how the front of the church looks like and how cold the marble of the altar feels against your back as he eats you out and the sensations are all too much for you. he teaches you that using God’s name in vain is alright when it comes to moaning out how good he makes you feel and how your penance is whatever he makes it out to be he teaches you how you can take not one, not two, but three fingers up your pussy.

they’re so much thicker than your own, one hand pushing on your shaking thighs to keep them open while his three fingers move in and out of you. you’re leaking so much, your virgin cunt dripping like holy water down the white marble and onto the matching marble floor.

he teaches you his first name and he makes sure you say it.

“su—suguru . . god, r-right there—” he latches his mouth onto your clit, suckling and flicking his tongue impatiently because he just wants to see you cum. your legs stretch out to knock over a candelabra and the clatter of the metal against the ground is enough to wake up a whole village but you. don’t. care.

your hips grind onto his tongue, feeling the borderline painful stretch of his thick fingers in you but they reach all the right spots that you can’t find it in you to care.

“you taste so good—” geto spits onto your cunt and goes back to sucking on your clit, “pussy’s so fuckin’ sweet, holy fuck.” your noises come out of you non-stop as you bury your hands in his hair, finally knowing what you sound like in an unrestrictive space under the apse.

father geto teaches you how to take a cock up your cute, tight pussy, not bothering for a condom when basically all of your clothes have been discarded throughout the night. it’s almost midnight and your mother have fallen asleep on the couch, unaware her sweet, sweet daughter is losing her virginity in the place she was baptised, where she got her first communion.

the first push into your drenched cunt is painful, mushroom tip stretching you out slightly as you clutch tightly onto his forearm, brows knitted together at the girth of his cock.

“been wanting . . to fuck this pussy so bad, baby,” geto grunts it out, obsessed with how his length slowly disappears into you. he can feel each ridge of your gummy walls, hugging him so snugly that there’s several moans that leave his lips, “have you been— thinking ’bout this as much as i h-have?”

your jaw stretches beyond your limit when he eases himself inch by inch into you, thanking the hells below that your vision was finally coming true. above you there’s that same crucifix, sterling silver with amethyst stones embedded into the design, you remember, catching the light of the lone spotlight above the both of you. there’s a similar glint in father geto’s purple eyes.

“all the time, father—” you moan out, pulling him by his necklace to your lips that are more experienced now, each minute that passes is one more atom of your body turning black from the fire that licks at you from below the altar. you kiss the lips of your parish priest, whimpering slightly when his hips buck and you feel the stretch more clearly now.

“is this what Isaac felt when Abraham tried to bind him for a sacrifice on Moriah? helpless, confused, betrayed?”

geto lets out a hum, sucking hickeys into your neck and you think it’s a million times better than questioning a God that never showed himself, who never really had the intentions of the people in mind, who created sin to watch the downfall of men while he enjoys his time in his kingdom.

if this was what was meant by losing yourself to your devils, you would gladly shake hands with Lucifer and hope the warmth of the fire in hell would be a hug warmer than any hug you’ve received by people of the Christian faith.

“well, baby, do you feel helpless?” thrust “confused,” thrust “and betrayed?” thrust

he punctures each word with a snap of his hips and the pain gives way to pleasure and soon he’s already lost in the comfort of your pussy, hips starting a pace easily that emphasises just how wet you are. the echoes of your weeping cunt and the lewd slapping of his balls into your ass is like the bell ringing during mass, loud, resonating, it shakes your whole body.

“mmfuck . . helpless, m-maybe,” you whine out, legs wrapping around his back, “confused, n-not— suguruuu, yesyesyes!”

you try again, “n-not really. betrayed . .”

you feel like a sacrifice, but it was willing, of a confession that has led to this lewd showing of just how much the temptations of the flesh were insanely undeniable. there’s a murmur of i don’t think i can last much longer into your ear, cock driving into your tight pussy so harshly you’re hoping the small altar doesn’t move.

“b-betrayed, i think—” you squeal when father geto angles his hips up and it kisses your cervix just nicely, sending multiple chills down your body. your moans penetrate the holy air, hair splayed out like a painting and geto knows this is better than any Eucharist he’s ever tasted.

you clench around his fat cock, and he twitches, switching to short, pathetic thrusts into your pussy and he cries out your name as he cums deep in you, giving you all of his seed deep in your womb. your breath catches in your throat at the feeling of your first load, the warmth already hooking you in and you pull so hard on his hair he has no choice but to follow your hand.

you let him handle you deep into the night, taking you off the altar and pushing you up against it, entering you again and you brace yourself against the marble.

“s-sorry, sweetheart, you were saying?” he also wants to apologise that he hadn’t made you cum just yet, but your pussy’s so fucking heavenly he just has to be in you again.

“i-i feel a little betrayed,“ you sag over the altar, back arching into his hold. father geto is fixated on the movement of your ass fucking back onto him, “that a priest would break his m-marriage to God for me.”

“i thought they were supposed to be men of God,” you barely manage to form sentences. geto’s laugh at that startles you, as with the hand grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling. payback. you love it, however, a sweet Christian girl turned into a slut, and the last bits of the thread unravels when father geto reaches around to rub your clit.

“’m gonna— cum, suguru—” you whine out, body turning to mush with how hard he rams into your pussy. by now there’s a ring of white around the base of his cock, your juices slowly starting to coat it, too and Lucifer succeeds at sin yet again.

you cannot blame Eve when the serpent is as beautiful and cunning as geto suguru, nor can you blame her when his thick cock just reaches so deep into you, tip kissing your sweet spots and his hand impatiently drawing messy circles on your bundle of nerves.

“that just makes it the best though, right?” geto breathlessly says, “a holy man fucking a virgin raw in a holy place where prayers are said.” your legs are spreading further and further, his sweaty body engulfs yours, you’re dizzy, “you’re too tempting, sweet girl. tempting enough for me to want to abandon priesthood just so i can be buried in this pussy for fucking eternity.”

and you cum, head and heart going a hundred miles per hour as your body trembles in his hold. “there we go, little slut, thereee we go . .” you can feel the chill of the sterling silver into your back and his smile before he orgasms a second time into your waiting pussy, a second, heavy load let go into your pussy. it’s so warm and filling, and you already want more, more, more.

lust for more things turns into greed when we act on that initial lust.

“aw,” father geto coos at your fucked out face, flipping you around to give you a sloppy kiss and forcing himself to his knees just to watch his cum drip out of you, “does she want more?”

“always, father.” you answer with a drunken smile, putting a leg on his shoulder. again, your finger hooks around his crucifix, and you drag the priest down deeper into hell, somewhere father geto would‘ve always ended up.

somewhere where he would renounce his priesthood and worship something, and someone: you.

“Better to reign in Hell, then serve in Heav'n.”

a/n: LOOOONG MAN WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS. also i put the author’s note at the bottom this time bc i wanted to format of the fic to look the best without my goofy words ruining it! hope you guys liked it :) / tagging @crysugu @omgeto @kazushawty @suguruplsr @hydrovillette @slttygeto @hyomagiri @jabamin

part two ✶

[mapileonxputellas]

Beckham II: 2 That Day

Part 2 is here!!!!!

Short one for this part but I think some context is needed before I bring us back to the present day!

Hope you enjoy! Also in this the third place game doesn't exist.

(Part 1 can be found here x)

2nd July 2019, England vs USA, World Cup Semi-final

25th minute – 1 - 1

“This is a real battle out there isn’t it Sue?” Jonathon Pearce broadcasted to the UK, all eyes on the England team trying to defeat the US. Though they had gone behind very early on, an Ellen White leveller had brought them back onto even terms.

“It certainly is, you can see how much this means to all the players out there. None of this England team have ever experienced an occasion like this before but they seem to be carrying that emotion well.”

Out on the field it felt like an out of body experience. Before this the biggest game you’d played in would have to be a substitute appearance in an FA cup final, now you were starting the semi final at a World Cup. You were 19 and felt like the whole world was watching you.

At the start of the tournament you hadn’t been expecting to start but when Jill Scott picked up an injury in the round of 16 you’d stepped into the starting position next to Keira and never looked back. Receiving praise back at home for the level-headed game you played but still managed to bring out that touch of David Beckham in you.

It was a free-kick in the quarter-final that really brought you to the forefront of the nation. A slick ball which soared into the top corner of the net leaving their goalkeeper stranded and left everyone open-mouthed at home. You were never a nobody but now you were here to stay. Your Instagram following doubled and whenever you left the hotel in the past week the camera had never left you. The pressure was on.

“Fucking hell.” You swore coming up to take a corner for England nestled into the corner of the ground flooded with US fans.

“Nepotism trash!” “Daddy not here to hold your hand!” “Can’t even kick a ball!” “Weak!” “Spineless!”

The insults were flying in from every angle, everything was covered in the thirty seconds you had to wait to take the corner, of course your dad was mentioned but so was your appearance in the media. Newly turned 19 and yet it seemed like you were still the five-year-old girl who had her father carry her everywhere. Everyone just presumed you were an innocent little baby who couldn’t put in a tackle, you hated it.

But now was not the time to let that frustration out. Now was game time when nothing else mattered.

Your in-swinging corner found Millie on the edge of the 6-yard box but she couldn’t quite get the connection on it to trouble Naeher, instead giving her an easy catch but you could feel it coming.

The only problem is now there was now a break on. A quick release from the goalkeeper had set Lavelle free, Keira had stayed back but you couldn’t leave her one on one with Morgan in the centre.

You had one second to make a decision.

One second to work out how to stop her. You could try and get further back but you knew you had to stop it at source.

You were known for your pace so you had no trouble getting back to her but Lavelle was known for her trickery and skill.

In your head you made the best decision you could. You followed the rules you played football by and trusted your instinct.

That was where the world as you knew it slowly began to fade away.

“Oh that’s a nasty one from Beckham there and Lavelle seems seriously hurt.”

You thought it was clean, in fact you were sure of it. The contact with the ball was clear sending it flying out of play, you didn’t touch her other than her leg coming into yours as she came over the top of you and yet as she rolled around on the floor it was like the opposite had happened.

Suddenly you were surrounded by players in red, all screaming at you. “What the fuck did you do that for?” “Learn that one from your daddy did you?”

Millie came to stand in front of you, trying to block you from the players as Steph and Lucy surrounded the others at the referee.

“She didn’t touch her.” Millie defended you. “Tell your own player to stop cheating.”

You thought that would be the end of it. Tempers flared, emotions were high and you would get on with the match again. When the referee reached into her pocket you were convinced it was to calm everyone down, a booking usually helped to send a message out but when you saw it was red and it was flashed in your direction it was like time stopped.

“It’s a red card for Beckham, just like her father that name has once again come back to haunt England.” Jonathon commentated. “It’s a long way back for them here.”

You couldn’t believe what was happening. “Go and have a look yourself.” Millie shouted at the ref to overcome the noise in the stadium. “It was a clean tackle, she didn’t touch her.”

“The contact was enough to endanger the opponent. It’s reckless, dangerous and that it is a red card.”

“VAR has got to overturn this.” Sue Smith pointed out. “She’s nowhere near her opponent, it’s not even a yellow card.”

“When you make a challenge like that you bring about a decision from the ref.”

“But that’s what VAR is here for, to show the referee what actually happened. Beckham has arguably been one of the players of the tournament and yet she could be remembered for just this moment.”

It could have been minutes, it must only have been thirty seconds that you stood there. Waiting for some to tell you it had all been a big mistake. Apologies would come and you’d be able to restart the game.

Instead VAR confirmed the red card. You’d been sent off in the most important game you’d ever played in, maybe would ever play in.

This time though it felt like the impact hit you immediately, looking back it was probably the reason you hated showing any emotion now. Your teammates tried to comfort you as the tears started to come but the guilt was already too much, you couldn’t bare to be around anyone right now so pulling your shirt over your face you walked back inside. Every step towards that sideline felt like you were wading through quick sand, the boos from the US side ringing in your ear as you tried to head to the tunnel.

Before the match had begun your brother had FaceTime’d you, at the time you imagined looking up at them at the final whistle, perhaps celebrating with them. Now you couldn’t face looking where you knew they would be sat. The disappointment from yourself was too much to handle right now never mind disappointing your idol, your father.

You can vaguely remember Karen Carney coming out to meet you on the touchline, a kiss being pressed to your head and a little muttering of “keep it together” in your ear. Maybe it was for the best that everyone else was busy trying to reshuffle the pack a few sympathetic faces were thrown your way but you knew football didn’t have time for sentiment. Maybe it was also for the best that Phil didn’t even look your way, your favourite kitman met you to head back into the changing rooms with you but the rest didn’t even bat an eyelid at you.

It was only when you got inside, when you were all alone that the emotion fully came out.

The anger, the pure sadness, the hatred you felt towards yourself. It started that day and it felt then like you’d received a life sentence. A life sentence hating yourself.

……

“Phil, a lot happened out there today. Can you tell us your overriding emotions right now?”

“Oh I’m just proud of every dingle girl out there who competed to the very end. They gave it their all tonight and this result shouldn’t tarnish their pride in themselves or in each other. They stuck in the game when it seemed like other people threw it away.”

“We can’t shy away from Y/N Beckham, what were your thoughts?”

“As football players we know that every tackle we put in can lead to a card and she made that decision. It’s hard because I know the talent is in there but talent can’t be everything.”

“Do you think it should have been a red?”

“Like I said the referee was put in a position where she had to make the decision. We can all wish for different outcomes on the pitch but sometimes we just have to accept them.”

“How is she doing now?”

“As a team we are all very disappointed right and I think it’s the team we should be focusing on right now.”

“Fucking bullshit.” If this was your own bedroom perhaps you would have thrown the remote at the TV, instead you calmly had to just turn it off.

Maybe it wasn’t the best decision to turn on the TV when you got back to the hotel room. England had lost in the end, going 2-1 down to an Alex Morgan winner, they’d given it there everything but it just wasn’t enough.

In the two hours since the game finished you couldn’t count the number of times you’d cried. Firstly on your own, then with some of the girls, then on your own again on the bus and yet not a single word had been said. You knew you’d never be able to say sorry enough times and they knew it was no use telling you anything right now. Though you were crying it was almost as if you were blank inside, you couldn’t take in anything else right now. Your usual spot on the bus next to Keira was left vacant, instead you found a little corner and tried to kid yourself and other that you were asleep when how could you be with all the thoughts swirling in your mind.

Your phone lay switched off on the other side of the room, that interview being the first real insight you’d got into any opinions on the matter. He was right, he might not have said it outright but it was obvious he blamed you. When Phil brought you in for your first senior camp fans were concerned about favouritism but if anything it was the opposite. He had this almost saintly view of your dad and you would never be anything compared to him.

You knew he would be worried, he tried to protect you from everything growing up but now he was powerless. Yet even knowing that you couldn’t bring yourself to switch the phone on, answer any of the messages or calls you’d received before you turned it off on the couch.

It was all too much.

…..

The plan was always for you to spend the 2 weeks you had off after the weekend in the south of France, a quaint villa in the middle of nowhere which you’d had since you were a child. This place was one of the only true places you could just be yourself. You could vividly remember the holidays there once a year being the only time you felt truly free. Your father would spend every second of the day just being a father and your mother could show you her true self, the fun and carefree woman she was away from the pressures of the public eye. This was the place where yourself, Brooklyn and Romeo would spend hours on the beach with a ball and jumpers for goalposts, where you all taught Cruz to ride a bike and Harper to swim. This place meant so much to you.

It felt wrong to tarnish this place with the thoughts you had right now.

That’s why when you touched down in London the following day instead of rushing back to your apartment to pack and meet your family at the airport, you sat, staring at the clock. Time passed, they would have waited for you to arrive and slowly realised you weren’t coming. They would probably be worried and it was for that reason only that you finally turned your phone on. The messages flooded onto your lock screens, dozens of missed calls came through but you ignored them all simply sending a message to your mum claiming you were fine and didn’t want any company right now, only one of those statements being true.

Maybe you should have expected the phone call that immediately came up from your father but they also should have expected your immediate response, decline.

You always thought you were quite strong about the media. You’d grown up with famous parents, you sadly were used to comments about every aspect of yourself from your appearance to the way you spoke. In your time at Chelsea you’d had your fair share of stick from the fans about your place in football but before this you’d proved everyone wrong.

People called you dumb, you passed all your exams and were studying part time for a degree.

People commented on your appearance, your friends and family’s comments opposed that.

United fans taunted you in an FA cup match, you stuck the ball in the top corner and celebrated right in front of them.

All those times you’d known they were wrong and could do something about it. All that media training and yet in that moment you broke the number one rule and opened Twitter.

The results were more horrendous than you ever could have imagined. Not only were there comments about your performance, but they also came for your family, your friends, yourself. The death threats were constant, every other comment on an article link were suggesting this was punishable in unimaginable ways.

Instagram though more concentrated felt worse when you checked a post from your best friend outside of football, comments were left under her post for even just being associated with your name. Taunting her, taunting you and threatening the both of you. Not only had you disappointed everyone but now you were putting those you loved in danger.

Leaving Instagram, blurry eyed and shaking like a leaf, twitter was opened once again. You couldn’t stop and the more articled you read, the more the panic started to set in. People knew where you lived from media pictures, it wouldn’t be long before they came here again. You lived in a gated community but they’d find a way in. You’d never be alone.

Your throat was closing in, it was becoming harder to breath as you panicked more. The only thing you could do was phone the only person who would understand.

“Dad…. dad I need you.”

……

Everyone probably thinks they have the best family but in this moment you knew yours were the best. Thirty minutes on from that phone call you were in your old family living room, curled up in blankets next to your mum and dad, eating homemade chocolate cake and listening to your sister talk you through her week. The biggest drama in which being a girl who took the last apple juice carton and left her with orange juice, which to an eight-year-old felt like the end of the world.

You hadn’t even said another word on that phone call before your dad was ordering you to pack a bag and promised he would be with you in less than ten minutes.

“Why didn’t you go to France?” Your thoughts came out. “We were meant to go.”

“Like we were ever going to leave you here alone,” Your dad chastised you. “I know you well enough to know you might not have needed us in that moment but we were always going to be there when you did.”

“I didn’t mean to do anything, I thought I made the right decision and now people are threatening me. They’re going to find me.”

“They’re not.” Your mother immediately comforted you. “I’ve watched enough football over the years to know tackles like that are made every week and they never get punished. Football is a game, you live for it but it’s a game and people sometimes forget that. You were a big reason England even got to the semi-final and people need to remember that.”

“What did your teammates say?” Brooklyn asked from the next sofa with my other brothers.

“I haven’t spoken to them.”

“What? You flew home with them this morning.”

“I can’t look at them. They’re all sad because of me, everyone knows it, they were always on the back foot because of me and now they’re going home.”

“Millie messaged me this morning.” Brooklyn said. You were of course very close to the Chelsea girls and they’d met your family more times than you could count. You remember they exchanged numbers before you went away on a summer camp one year just in case they needed to contact your family. “She asked me to look after you, they’re not upset.”

“They’ll never admit it, at least not to my face but how can I play with them again after all this.”

“They’re your friends.” Your mum implored and she was right. You were the youngest in the world cup but yourself Leah, Keira and Georgia had formed a little England squad bond. Your sensible and often shy nature balancing out their craziness.

“They’re better off without me. I need to get out of here.”

“Out of where?”

“Out of England, I can’t stay.”

[lokisprettygirl]

Rain to his Fire (Modern! Daemon Targaryen x Female Reader) (Non Canon 80s Au) (18+)

Series Masterlist

Chapter 1

Summary: In 1985, you were assigned as a custodian in the King's Landing Psychiatric inpatient and wellness center after your mother's passing. Your job was mundane and boring, but that was until a new patient arrived, a young man with a wild and eccentric personality, harbouring a secret that will change your life forever.

Warning: 18+, discussion of mental health (it's a fic based in a mental health facility), the fic would contain several mentions of several disorders like mpd, did etc, if something triggers you don't read, smoking.

“Room 393 needs cleaning up, new guy is coming” you heard your supervisor Mona so you sighed and quickly nodded. Working as a custodian in a mental health facility wasn't ever really a dream job for you but you didn't have any option at the moment. Your mother had worked all her life for the center and when she passed, as per her request beforehand, the job was immediately offered to you, and you had debts to pay so you couldn't really deny that offer.

At thirty you didn't really see your life heading towards anything better anyways and you didn't really despise working here. Helping people feel good at times. Your job wasn't limited to cleaning services, you would often get assigned to patients who needed a caregiver for physical and emotional needs.

King's landing psychiatric inpatient and wellness center was a six floor building at the outskirts of London, it was established in 1955 and your mother had started her job the same year, it's been thirty years now and two years since she had passed, she was living nearby because she was married and had a child, you on other hand didn't want to travel back n forth so you chose to live here itself as a permanent live in staff of the wellness center.

You were accustomed to seeing patients coming in for various disorders, most were delusional at worst or suffered from some sort of dysphoria. However, the patients at the King's Landing Wellness Center were not usually considered dangerous and you had never felt threatened by any one of them except a few women who lashed out at you and pushed you around last year. But with time, you had learned to provide them with the care and attention they needed instead of judging them for the outburst.

“Are you listening y/n?” You snapped back to reality as Mona called your name and gathered your cleaning cart to go fix room 393, there was this girl that had just gotten released from the facility, Tanya, she was a shy, quiet girl in her mid twenties with a debilitating case of multiple personality disorder.

You mostly kept to yourself at the facility as you didn't want to get involved or too overly attached with the patients.

The moment you took the mattress off to deep clean the bed, you discovered a piece of paper underneath. Curiosity got the better of you, and you decided to open it. Once you saw the writing on the paper, a feeling of unease coursed through your body, the words seemed almost ominous

“They are going to hurt me. I know, I'll never get out of here, if you find this please make sure to check up on me please”

You sighed before you folded the paper and placed it inside your apron quickly before it would get lost. What did she mean you wondered? The centre was under the supervision of three doctors. Doctor Vis was a man in his early forties and he was the most feared of all three because of his unorthodox methods of treatment but the other two doctors, Lisa and Darren seemed more approachable.

As you made your way out of room 393, you saw Doctor Vis standing in the hallway, having a conversation with another man. The other man stood with his back against the wall while Doctor Vis stood uncomfortably close to him, he was handcuffed so you assumed that he was being aggressive in his therapy session, as you walked past them you looked at the man briefly and normally you'd have looked away but this time you couldn't for some reason, he had a shiny silver hair that you had never really seen on a man before and it caught your eye immediately. The uniform he had on wasn't a surprise as it was a dress code for the patients, a white shirt and same coloured trousers.

His eyes met yours briefly and he smirked so you looked away immediately ,

“You didn't tell me you hired such beautiful chicks around here to be your servant-” Daemon had barely finished his sentence before Vis grabbed his collar to warn him. Vis looked as you walked past them and turned to make left into the hallway, disappearing out of their sight.

“Don't make this more difficult than it already is you moron”

Dr. Vis escorted Daemon into the room where he was immediately uncuffed. With the doctor now gone, Daemon let out an angry roar before throwing the chair into the room's window, shattering it into pieces.

“New guy is here” you mumbled as you reached the canteen. The rest of the staff members, including those from the pantry and cleaning services, were already gathered at the table. Shyla, who was the same age as you approached you. But in contrast to you, Shyla appeared to have a backup plan in mind after her tenure here.

“Oh god have you guys seen him, he's really hotttt in a really weird way”

You gulped as she said that, she always lived on the edge, it was unprofessional and unethical to talk about patients this way. Besides, he wasn't hot at all.

“Cut out with the heart eyes girl he must be a cuckoo to be here”

Another woman, Dina , intervened as she whispered very quietly, you didn't appreciate her language but then she wasn't wrong, sane people didn't come here.

“Hey y/n, new patient broke the window in 393, clean it up”

Mona suddenly entered the canteen so you sighed but then you were left feeling confused.

“How did he break it? Those windows are supposed to be unbreakable” you asked her curiously as the windows in the patient's room were specifically designed to withstand extreme conditions and were built to be unbreakable for security reasons.

“Don't question what's and how's, do your job girl” she glared at you so you picked up your cleaning cart again.

As you entered room 393, you spotted the new patient on the bed, seemingly engrossed in a book. Your brow furrowed as you took in the sight of the debris of shattered glass scattered around the room. Quickly, you grabbed a broom and began the cleaning process, starting from the corners to ensure that you picked up every last shard. As you swept, you couldn't help but feel puzzled as to how the window was broken in the first place,

“You shouldn't be doing such things, they are not afraid of sending violent patients to the lone ward” you mumbled so he looked up from his book and then glanced at you from top to bottom before he let out a snicker.

“Awnnn do you get paid to offer advice around here or cleaning is your only area of expertise?”

You glared at him as he said that but you remained calm, you couldn't raise your voice with patients even though you had been wanting to do it for a long while now.

“Sir im just-” you cringed internally as you addressed him as sir, it wasn't a norm but then you didn't really know his name yet. He had changed out of his uniform so you couldn't even read the name tag.

“Do your fucking job girl and get out”

You cut back on your words as he spoke rudely to you, perhaps he was admitted for extreme anger issues, whatever it was you just wanted to get out and not see him at least for a day.

You missed Tanya, she was a sweet girl, and you hadn't forgotten the note you had found under her bed this morning but then she wasn't exactly stable in her mind, people often scribbled down their most intrusive thoughts in their free time, and there was abundance of that around here. Besides you had bid her goodbye, she had hugged you warmly and she seemed happier for once.

During the lunch service you saw his smug face again as he sat down in the corner of the cafeteria, his eyes met with yours and he gave you a small smile but you didn't return it. Though you didn't want to take his words personally, he was dealing with something and that's why he was here.

“Mrs Rodriguez, are you finished with your food?” You asked the elderly lady so she snapped out of her thoughts and nodded but as you raised your hand forward to pick up her plate she grabbed your hand,

“Simon thinks i should eat less” she mumbled almost fearfully and your heart clenched for her, Simon was merely a figment of her imagination.

“Well he's wrong because you are eating as much as you should” she let go of your hand and smiled as you said that to her. When you reached around his table you noticed that he hadn't even touched his food,

“Are you going to eat sir? Your half an hour is almost over” you asked him so he chuckled. New patients in the center had strict rules and regulations to follow during the beginning of their treatment.

“Who should I be asking around here for a smoke?” He asked you and your brows furrowed.

“That's not allowed, i will help you with a nicotine patch if you're feeling restless -” he rolled his eyes as you said that.

“I don't need that shit” he grumbled under his breath so you looked at the time. Looking at him you couldn't really tell what actually was wrong with him, well besides the anger issues obviously, he seemed almost normal, almost self aware which really wasn't usual around this place.

“Please finish your food, dinner service is around 8 and a man of your size won't get any nutrition from the snacks we offer during tea time” you spoke a bit sternly and the corner of his mouth curved into a small smile.

“What's your name y/n?” He asked you so you looked at him baffled, he clearly read your name on the badge and he said it as well.

“I don't know your name either” you mumbled politely so he gave you a smile

“Daemon”

“Have an easy day Mr. Daemon, first few days are always difficult” you ultimately grabbed his plate as you left because he didn't seem to be in any mood to eat at the time.

Around evening as you finished your shift you made your way to your room at the fourth floor to take a shower and relax a bit. You took out the note you had found under Tanya's bed and placed it inside your cupboard safely, a part of you continued to feel uneasy about this thing, another was thinking about Daemon.

Why was he there? What had he done? You were not allowed to enquire about these things unless or until you were told the information by the authorities.

Daemon couldn't really sleep at night, how could he? He was locked up in here and was being treated as if he was crazy but he knew what he was and he wasn't delusional about it either. Even as sleep came for him he had a horrible nightmare that had him tossing and turning in his bed again so he woke up and stepped out of his room quietly as the room was starting to suffocate him. That's when he found the window at the end of the corridor and that was all he needed.

Around 2 at night, you were enjoying a peaceful moment to yourself on the terrace of the building, taking a break with a cigarette. As you were absorbed in your own thoughts, you heard a loud thud sound from behind you. Startled, you jumped and quickly turned around, only to find the new patient, Daemon, standing there. You couldn't believe how he had gotten there, he didn't have the key to the door and you clearly remembered locking it when you had gotten in. The terrace was strictly off-limits to patients for obvious reasons.

“What..are you doing here, you can't be here mister” you almost sounded frantic and kind of scared to be honest. And why didn't he have a shirt on? It was freaking cold out here. And why was he so freaking ripped?

“Hooking me up with a bloody nicotine patch when you got this sweet thing right here?” he asked you as he approached you so you took a few steps behind you until you had hit the ledge. You quickly threw the cigarette butt on the ground and crushed it under your flip flops before he could attempt to steal it from you.

“Now that's a waste of a good cigarette” he almost seemed offended with his brows furrowed and scowl on his face.

“Look, don't come near me alright?” You warned him so he crossed his arms and stepped closer to you despite your warning.

“I'm not going to harm you, I can, don't get me wrong.. but I won't”

Was that supposed to make you feel better?

“Please come with me, let me take you to your room .. please”

As he heard your gentle voice his teeth gritted together. “Please just listen to me ..it's only best for you” You brought your arm forward to grab his forearm but you flinched away as soon as you had touched his skin.

“Are you sick? You're burning like a furnace” You asked him worriedly so he scratched his scalp before he looked around and took a deep breath “And how did you get here?”

“I'm not sick, do I look sick to you?” He asked you so you shook your head but that was pointless, if he was a regular smoker, perhaps he was feeling the withdrawal.

“Just one puff, I'll be indebted to you forever darling, please, what do you want me to do beg? I can beg on my knees .You want that?..”

“Ohhh shut up for god's sake -” You cut him off mid sentence as he started to ramble but the stupid smirk on his face was still there. “I'll lose my job Daemon -”

“Nobody will know”

“I can't do it.. please understand please..”

He sighed and the pleading look on your face made him willing to listen to you ultimately.

How did he even come up here? You had come via the main entrance and it was locked from inside. As you escorted him back to his room, you mumbled a quick good night but he suddenly grabbed you by the shoulders and pushed you against the door, your heart was right into your mouth at the moment for several different reasons, you had been pushed over by several women at the facility but never a man, especially not a man like him who seemed so strong and so unstable. If worse comes to worse you knew you wouldn't be able to defend yourself.

“Daemon let go of me” you mumbled sternly but his hands were on your upper arms, holding you tightly still. He wasn't hurting you, not yet at least.

“Shhhhh shhh shhhh” as he whispered in your ear you were going to scream but nothing came out of your throat, not even a squeak, you feared that he was going to touch you inappropriately, if this wasn't inappropriate as it was, but then he placed his nose on the crook of your neck and took a sniff. Like a wild animal he sniffed you, literally.

One sniff, two sniff, and then one two three at once, you couldn't help but wonder why you weren't feeling as uncomfortable as you should have in a similar situation.

“What are you doing?” You asked him gently to not aggregate him so he looked you right in the eyes before he cupped your cheeks and stared at your lips, his nose rubbed slightly against yours before he closed his eyes, grunted a little and finally stepped away from you. His chest was heaving from breathlessness, same as yours as you both stared at each other for a moment. What the hell was that?

“Get out lady”

He mumbled so you immediately got the fuck out of there, you were looking behind every step of the way to see if he was following you but he wasn't. At the end of the corridor you stopped as suddenly, your feet came in contact with a piece of fabric on the floor, and when you bent down to investigate, you realized it was Daemon's shirt but it was completely shredded in several pieces - the same shirt he had worn this evening.

The realization left you feeling even more puzzled and disoriented. How had he managed to enter the terrace when it was locked from the outside. It seemed impossible. It was impossible. Or perhaps there was another way? Or maybe you were going crazy yourself? Now that was possible.

As your head hit your pillow you ran your fingers over your neck, right where he was sniffing, he seemed so...so primal in that moment, so animalistic, if that was the right choice of word. Did you atleast smell good? God you hoped so. Or not. He was a patient, you had to keep that in mind, he had issues.

The next morning while Daemon was away for his therapy session with the doctors you decided to clean up his room, he had left you feeling a bit unnerved last night with his strange behavior but you weren't really scared of him and then you wondered why you weren't scared of him after what he had done.

The iron bars on his window were the first thing you had noticed as you had entered the room. As you heard loud footsteps approaching the room you quickly collected your stuff to prepare to leave.

As Dr. Vis entered with Daemon he looked at you and spoke politely “Will you please step out ?” Vis asked you so you nodded immediately.

“Yes doctor, I'm almost done” you grabbed your cart and walked past them, your eyes met with Daemon and he seemed angry, but also really sad? His eyes were read and teary, such a contrast from his snarky demeanor yesterday.

As the door slammed shut, you found yourself in a state of morbid curiosity. So instead of minding your own business as you should have, you pressed your ear against the door instead, hoping to catch a glimpse of what was going on inside. Why did he look so sad?

“You had promised you wouldn't start with the absurdity right off the bat” Dr. Vis yelled at Daemon and that bothered you. Why was he yelling at a patient like this on his second day?

“Absurdity? You think me speaking of my true self is absurd?” Daemon asked the doctor and you didn't understand what was happening, what was he suffering from?

Dazed and confused as you reached the staff area Shyla walked around the table with a smirk on her face so you finally gave in.

“What?”

As you asked her she slammed her hands on the table in a dramatic manner.

“I found out why the new guy is here”

You weren't the one to gossip but you really wanted to know why Daemon was there? Why was he here? What was hurting him?

“How did you find out?” You asked her to seem disinterested as you didn't want to make your interest apparent.

“I have my source girl” she patted herself on shoulders so you crossed your arms together.

“Uhuh and what did your source tell you?”

“Well you're not ready for this-"

“Just spill it already” you chuckled as you spoke but the way she was stalling had only gotten you more curious.

“He thinks..now listen to this..he thinks he's a dragon” she mumbled excitedly so you stared at her all perplexed.

“What?”

“The new guy believes that he's a human dragon hybrid or something like that.. unbelievable right?”

Oh well!! That was a big problem huh.

👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀

[spaghettificationandpretzels]

The Hollow Men

Part 1, part 2

Part three of The Way the Stars Love the Heavens series.

Contains: Fluff, slow burn, unresolved feelings, angst, violence, blood, death, a cliffhanger. Not beta read, likely full of mistakes.

Follow #the way the stars love the heavens for updates

2.9K words

This is the way the world ends

You stood in the briefing room with all eyes on you, and Price had a smile a mile wide on his face. Your translations were front and centre, and your laptop, which someone must have collected from your office, was open on the table. Price nodded a greeting to everyone as they walked in, then gestured towards you. "The boys gave me the rundown but I want to hear it right from you."

You blinked, unsure of what he was talking about. "It's all in the files sir, I'm not quite sure what more I can offer." There was that look from Ghost again, the same one he gave you when you stopped yourself from telling them about the American theory.

Price nodded. "We all know how thorough your work is y/n, that's not the issue here. I want to hear what you think, not want you know."

You took a deep breath, there was no point in protesting again. "He's in his late thirties to early forties, from the south and highly educated, but it came late, my guess is in the military. He acts like he likes the person he's talking to but he doesn't and judging by the last few communications, he's planning something big." 

Price reached into his vest and pulled a memory card out. "So far, all your translations have been from text right?" You nodded, and he continued. "How long would it take you to translate a disguised voice?" 

He handed you the card and you understood what he was asking. "A few seconds, I wouldn't even need to do anything, there's software that will clean it." You placed the card into your laptop and started the programs, and a stillness fell over the room as it worked through the file. 

The speakers popped to life, and a voice came through them. "Yeah, yeah, I get you. But now that it's done, I'm not going to be his bitch boy anymore." 

"You were right, love." Ghost turned to the group, his eyes hard and filled with anger. "That's Graves." 

Soap had told you everything that went down in Las Alams, you knew this was serious. "Umm, I'm going to go, I'm probably just going to get in the way now." 

"You'll stay right where you are." The only time Ghost had been that curt with you was the first time you met, and it lasted a total of two hours. "Who do you think he's talking to?" 

You thought for a moment, going back over all his conversations in your head. "I think it's someone on the outside, someone he complains to. And I think the person he's referring to is now very dead or about to be." 

You were waiting for the blow up, for someone to finally crack and for the rage to pour free. After everything they went through, you could only imagine how they felt. 

"I need to contact Los Vaqueros and let them know that Las Almas might be in danger." You understood why Alejandro was so upset, after the dust settled with Hassan, the 141 returned to Las Almas to finally stamp out the cartel. Alejandro and Rudy only agreed to join now because they knew their home was safe. 

Price nodded. "Go, we'll send some axillary men. We don't want you and Rudy to go home just yet." He swallowed and turned back to you. "Is there anything else you can tell us? I don't care how small it is."

You took a deep breath, you weren't used to being this important. "I know he's planning something. At first, he seemed unsure of himself, like he was figuring everything out but after a while, that went away. It would take me hours to explain word choice and syntax and punctuation, it might be time you don't have."

"Then you better talk fast because we need to know whatever's in your brain." For the first time, you wished Ghost didn't have so much faith in you.

****

They never interrupted, but the questions came thick and fast, and the more they learned, the more complex the questions got. It felt like you were teaching them linguistics and psychology all at once. But the room got tenser the more you talked, and there was clearly something they were understanding that you weren't. By the time you were done, they all looked ready to kill.

"I'm going to take all of this to Laswell, you should be ready to roll out at a moment's notice." Price's tone was short, you had no idea what was going on, and he left in such a hurry that you knew something was wrong.

"Did I do something wrong? Please tell me I didn't neglect to tell you something important?" Your thoughts started to race, something very serious was going on.

Soap shook his head. "No doll, you didn't. You've been a big help, really." When he saw that his words brought you no comfort, he kept going. "You wouldn't have known the stuff you told us was important unless you had worked with Graves. Really, y/n, you're a lifesaver."

You breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. "Oh thank God, I was really starting to like this job."

The room let out a chuckle and everyone started to pile out, just as you crossed the threshold, Ghost turned to you and stopped you with a hand on your shoulder. "I'm posting men outside your office and dorm when we're not here and I don't want you taking your morning walk alone anymore." His tone left no room for argument.

"Am I in danger?" It was the last place you'd expect to be at risk, despite the circumstances, you had always felt safe on base.

He shook his head. "No, but I just want to make sure. Graves is a bad man and if he thinks you helping us will end him, he will do anything to stop that." You understood what he was saying, trust no one. "I'll assign them personally, you don't need to worry about that." 

You nodded. "Ok then. Thank you for listening to me today, it really means the world to me that you guys think what I have to say matters." 

You could see the smile in his eyes as he reached up to brush your cheek with the back of his hand. "We'll pick up that other conversation, love, I just gotta deal with this first." 

You truly hoped whatever they were doing wouldn't take long, you might explode if you had to wait any longer to tell him the truth about how you felt about him. "I'd like that." 

****

The base was a rush for hours before you saw Ghost again and when he knocked on your office door, he wasn't alone.

"Y/n, this is Denise Peters and Arin Moss. Moss will be on the day shift and Peters will be on the night shift. You do not leave their sight." It was a small base and you had talked to both of them before, they both seemed alright. Peters was a little too arrogant for your tastes, but none of that mattered, if Ghost trusted them, so did you.

You nodded. "Alright. Maybe it will be good to have an extra pair of hands."

He smiled, waved them away and closed the door before sitting on the corner of your desk. "I think we have something to talk about love?" He paused and reached up, pulling his mask free as he leaned in close. His umber eyes looked over your face, and you placed a hand on his cheek as he brought his hand up so he could stoke your face.

You were too caught up in the moment to utter the words, he already knew anyway, he made that much clear every time he looked at you. "We do."

You leaned in closer, resting your forehead on his as you brushed his nose with yours. Your lips touched in a barely there graze and his hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck as he shifted to pull you closer. You were stuck between confessing and finally kissing him but it seemed Simon had made up his mind because your lips brushed again as he went to speak. "Y/n, love. I love.."

"Ghost wheels up in ten." You glared at the flung open door, Price was standing there stock still, staring at both of you, his eyes going back and forth as he figured out what to do.

Simon had pulled away from you and was pulling his mask back over his face when you lost it. "You have the worst fucking timing known to man, did you know that?"

He nodded and glanced at the floor. "It seems so." His face fell and he gave you an apologetic look. "There's no time to continue your conversation, I'm sorry."

He left and Ghost followed, his hand lingering in yours as he went. "I'll be back soon love."

You nodded. "Yeah, be safe." You daren't say the words, it felt like bad luck.

****

It had been three long days since they left, with only a few words over the radio since and to say you were over it was an understatement. Arin Moss was a jovial young man who could talk for hours, he made Simon being away easy. But Peters was only just tolerable, he kept his distance and spoke when spoken to, which got lonely after a while, no one wants to feel like their company is a chore. Despite everything, you understood why Simon assigned him to you, he picked up on every detail, and you never needed to tell him something twice.

Tonight was no different, you were in the small kitchen getting a snack while he stood against the wall eating an apple and you must have said two words to each other since he started his shift. "You seem busy tonight?"

You blinked away your shock and nodded. "Yeah, I'm working on an old stone tablet, I tend to get lost in the dusty stuff."

He let out a single laugh. "Why didn't you go into archaeology?" The sudden interest in you felt strange but there was no one else to talk to, the 141 section of the base was always quiet.

You snorted. "I have a PhD in it, I'm just better with languages." Had it been one of the guys who had asked, you would have given more detail but something told you Peters wasn't interested in an explanation.

"Wow. You're a smart women, I can see why Ghost likes you so much." That struck you as odd, he normally worked in another building and unlike most bases, there wasn't a lot of gossip going around. 

You took your grilled cheese out of the sandwich press and turned it off before offering him half, along with a question. "What makes you say that?" 

He flashed you a slight smile. "He's put two men on you to keep you safe, he wouldn't do that if he didn't care about you." 

You nodded. "I guess you're...." 

BANG BANG BANG 

"What the hell was that?" He looked around and handed you back the plate. "I don't know but I'm going to go see what it was. Stay here." 

He ran off and you went to sit down and eat but before you pulled out your chair, there was another bang, louder this time, then alarms started to go off. 

The base was under attack. 

The chuff chuff of a helicopter sounded overhead and your heart started to race, and the air was filled with the sound of gunshots. Another bang, this one had you getting up and to shut and lock the door, it sounded like a door close by had just been broken open. Then more shooting and men yelling, it was getting closer and closer. 

The guys had told you what to do if this ever happened, grab the closest weapon and use it on anyone you didn't recognise, so that's what you did. You went to the draw and, grabbed the longest knife you could find and waited. It didn't take long, the light flickered and you saw men rushing by in the door's small glass window before the lights went out and you were bathed in almost darkness that made it hard to see anything. 

You protested at first when the 141 wanted you to join them while they trained, you had to meet basic firearms and hand to hand proficiency to work on the base, you could look after yourself. But right now, crouched behind the door frame, ready to stab the first person through the door, you were grateful they had insisted. 

There was no call out as the footsteps got closer and you knew what was coming, the handle twisted and the door opened and you lunged. You topped your class in Biology, you didn't need anyone to tell you where to aim the knife. The feeling was strange as the knife went into his neck, hard and soft all at once. He made a strange sound and you shoved him away from you, the blade staying in your hand as he fell. 

Your eyes had adjusted to the dark by now and you looked down at the man, he was reaching for his gun but his hands were failing him and with one more beat of his heart, he was dead. The adrenaline racing through your veins made it hard to feel anything but the urge to run but you were aware of the wet metallic stickiness that was clinging to parts of you. 

There were more gunshots, the muzzle flashes lighting up the hallway as they went off. You went over to the body and grabbed what you could, his custom helmet and vest were out of the question but his crackling radio would at least help if more were coming, so would his gun. 

You had to get out of the kitchen and walking through the door wasn't an option, neither was waiting but you didn't have the chance to think because another round of gunshots went off and then there was another flash of movement in the hallway and the dead body in the room had stolen the element of surprise. 

You didn't get the chance to raise the gun before you were bodyslammed into the kitchen counter. "You struggle and I hurt you." You didn't listen and a swift kick to his groin had him going limp and doubling over. You thought fast and grabbed the sandwich press before swinging it down onto the unprotected back of his neck. 

You threw the appliance down on his back and took your only option and ran, but he had recovered and yanked your ankle hard, you managed to grab the edge of the table to soften your way down. He pulled himself towards you as you tried to pull yourself away but it was too late and he was pissed. "I told you I hurt.." 

BANG

Someone grabbed the back of your shirt as the body fell on top of you and pulled you up, it was Peters. He looked at the other body on the floor and gave you a nod. "Good fucking work." He listened to his cracking radio and looked around. "We need to go now."

You nodded. "If you can get me to my office I can get us out, there's an old service door behind the shelves."

He placed a hand on your shoulder and all but pushed you out the door. "I think I can but you stay behind me, and if I'm shooting at something, you shoot too."

It felt strange to accept that so readily, killing was easier than you thought it would be. You had made it halfway down the hall before it started away, it was hard to suppress the urge to duck as the shooting roared behind you, even more so when Peters shot a man who popped up out of a connecting hallway in your path.

There were bodies everywhere, both sides, and it struck you as strange that you were almost at your door with only one encounter. "What's going on?"

He didn't glance back. "What do you think. We're almost there."

You didn't relax when you reached your office, even as he cleared the room so you could go inside. You ran over to the shelving and he helped you push it aside. A few hard pushes on the door got it open and he pointed his gun down the tunnel as he looked both ways before waving you in.

There was even less light here, and Peters' flashlight and the one you had taken from the dead man only did so much. The door shutting didn't give you any relief, they had to have had the blueprints and it was only a matter of time before they came looking. For a moment, your thoughts drifted to Simon, you hoped he was on his way back here but deep down, you knew that communication would have been the first thing they took out.

Your mind raced to find something that told you who these men were but there was nothing, the dead man's uniform and the bodies around the hallways didn't have any patches on their vests, just grenades and magazines.

You paused in the hallway and looked at to the door as your blood ran cold. "What is it?"

You swallowed, you hoped your lie was convincing. "Nothing, I'm just worried about the guys."

The clicking of a holster told you he didn't buy it.

"What gave me away?"

Part 4

@chaos-4baby

[residences-of-the-darkforest]

Dark Forest Resident: Berrypaw

Aliases / Nicknames: Brat, Bratpaw, Annoying Flea

Gender: tom

Sexuality: bisexual

Family: unnamed mother, unnamed father, five unnamed littermates

Other Relations: unnamed mentor

Clan: ThunderClan

Rank: apprentice

Characteristics: talks back, childish, shameless, bold

Motive to Harm: fun

Number of Victims: 1+

Number of Murders: 0

Murder Method: N/A

Method of Harm: disrespecting his leader, disrespecting StarClan

Known Victims: Specklestar, StarClan in general

Victim Profile: his leader, his ancestors

Cause of Death: crushed by fallen branch

Cautionary Tale: ??

Story:

He learned early on that the best way for cats to pay attention to him was to annoy them.

Play games? Only works if they have the time and until they're tired.

Flicking their ears or sticking out his tongue at them? They'll be so irritated that they'll stick around him.

He was born in a large litter of six healthy kits, and that was a lot of divided attention for his parents. Berrykit started acting out because of frustration at not being soothed or spoken to enough by his mother or father. The moment he did something bad, he was scolded, but all he could focus on was that his parents were paying attention to him.

Berrypaw focused on training and, not including the occasional prank or joke, was professional when he was alone or only with his mentor. But the moment there was a peer around or more than two other cats, he put on his smirk and began his prodding.

The bigger the crowd, the better. He loved being the centre of attention, it didn't matter if that attention was negative.

This all culminated in his final, big joke: saying "I don't" to the Clan leader instead of "I do" during his warrior ceremony.

Immediately he was met with anger and gasps. No one thought that it was funny, but that didn't matter. Berrypaw thought it was funny, and a big smile spread on his face as he looked up at his flustered and annoyed leader.

Specklestar pressed on, asking if Berrypaw knew what he was doing, asking if he was sure. As Berrypaw kept confirming, Specklestar's questions became more serious. She asked if Berrypaw knew he was disrespecting his leader and StarClan, then if Berrypaw was sure he wanted to continue with his attitude, reminding him that StarClan was watching.

Berrypaw put on an innocent face, saying that he knows he's not ready to finish training, so why is everyone putting up such a fuss? He's just being honest.

Eventually the meeting ended and Berrypaw was punished with cleaning out the elder's den and cleaning the dirtplace until after everyone else was asleep.

Then he curled up in his nest in the apprentice's den--unusually cold and quiet with all his littermates now sitting vigil.

He was about to drift into sleep when he heard creaking from above. Then the den roof collapsed.

Additional Information:

--His littermates were the first to hurry to the apprentice's den because they were already up.

--The branch would have fallen even if StarClan was not disrespected--they did not cause it to fall. But had Berrypaw not ruined his own ceremony, he wouldn't have been in the apprentice's den at that time, and would have survived.

--Base: F2u Apprentice Base by KouNavi48 on DeviantArt

[renlyslittlerose]

Do you have any thoughts or ideas about obi-Wan’a pov or thought process when he and anakin met in moonlight serenade?

The entire time i was just squealing. They’re too cute 🥰 that part where obi-wan was rubbing the patch on anakin’s shoulder just 😍☺️🥵 lol

I can do you one better, peach 💖

Catullus, or Ovid? - (2k)

---

“You’re bluffing.”

Obi-Wan glanced up from his set of cards to look at Vos from across the table. Next to him Koon fussed with the buttons on his cuff, cards already abandoned. A small pile of peanuts lay in the centre, lint stuck on a few shells after they rolled in the sticky drops of beer that accumulated across every surface of the messy pub. Nearby a group of American paratroopers started singing a rousing rendition of ‘Glory, Glory, What a Hell of a Way to Die.’

Koon started humming along.

“I thought bluffing was part of poker,” Obi-Wan said idly.

“It’s an American tradition,” Vos said.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem is you’re a Brit - you’re not supposed to be good at this game.”

Despite Vos’ cutting words, he was grinning.

“I could be telling the truth,” Obi-Wan remarked. He sat back in his chair, finger tapping the back of his cards.

Vos shook his head and tossed a few more peanuts into the pile. “You’re definitely bluffing.”

Obi-Wan shrugged and added to the pile. Another moment passed before they both set their cards down on the table. Obi-Wan couldn’t help his laugh when he saw Vos’ expression.

“I believe this is what you American’s call a ‘flush’,” Obi-Wan said.

“It seems he wasn’t lying,” Koon said. He started cleaning his glasses, a small quirk to the corner of his lips as he rubbed the white cotton against the dense lenses.

Leaving Vos to his griping, Obi-Wan grabbed the peanuts and pulled them toward his already substantial pile. He’d only just learned the game a few months ago when the American’s started arriving, bringing their gambling and music to lighten the somber mood of the motherland. He couldn’t say he was particularly fond of poker, but it was a fright better than billiards - a game that Obi-Wan was decidedly terrible at.

“Another round?” Vos asked, voice rising above the sudden burst of sound coming from another corner of the pub. Obi-Wan glanced over Koon’s shoulder to see someone - he wasn’t sure which branch - had fallen from their stool and was receiving quite the ribbing.

“I should head out soon,” Obi-Wan said, counting his peanuts. He had a meeting early in the morning, his Lieutenant Colonel not understanding the term ‘leave’ unless it was his turn to offload his duties on to others.

“You can’t quit now - not when you’ve got all my peanuts!” Vos cried out.

Obi-Wan was about to tell Vos he’d just have to win them back another time, when a gust of air hit the table. He glanced up from his winnings to see two airmen walking into the pub, shoulders hunched as they tussled their way toward the back corner toward a fellow airman who’d been guarding his table for the last fifteen minutes. Obi-Wan was about to go back to his peanut counting when he caught sight of the slimmer one of the group.

He was tall and broad chested, filling out the Russian blue uniform like he’d grown up in it. The sharp angles of the material wrapped around his waist and draped across the swell of his behind, crisp and neat trousers dropping down to well polished black boots. Looking back up, Obi-Wan caught sight of the man’s profile, and almost dropped his peanuts when the man took his cap off and tossed it carelessly on to the table.

Obi-Wan was immediately struck by how classically beautiful he was. His profile was elegant, as if it belonged on a coin from ancient times, his nose regal and lips plump and full, pressed into a pretty little pout that Obi-Wan wanted to study further. His hair was a beautiful honey brown, curls barely constrained by the pomade he’d applied, the firm gel making his hair shimmer beneath the yellow light of the pub. But perhaps most beautiful of all was his eyes - a deep blue that sparkled when he smiled, his attention fixed on the men at his table as they tucked into their pints that had begun to go flat.

He looked like he’d been plucked from the Iliad and dropped into Piccadilly, refined and elegant but still human, still slightly bent.

“Kenobi?”

Obi-Wan blinked and looked back at Vos. He quirked a brow and sat back, peanuts abandoned.

“Are you alright?” Koon asked.

Obi-Wan smiled tightly and coughed behind his hand. “Just had a revelation, nothing to worry about. How about another round, hm?”

They played a few more games, Obi-Wan keeping his attention half on his cards and the rest on the man in the corner. He was on his second pint, and there was a delightful shade of pink to his cheeks that poked out from beneath the bronze of his skin. Obi-Wan wondered what it would be like to press his nose against his temple and feel his curls tickle, or what it would be like to hold his narrow waist beneath his hands, tugging, pressing, pulling him in closer.

Obi-Wan then wondered if the man had ever been to the sorts of parties that Obi-Wan attended, held in the halls of permanent bachelors, a copy of Plato’s Symposium left on a table, rich spirits thick on their pallets, cigar and cigarette smoke heavy in the air with the sound of male voices carrying through the space. He then wondered if the man would like to attend such a party.

Eventually the man rose from the table, elbowing his way toward the counter. A spike of excitement shot through Obi-Wan then, quick and jittery, the same sort of sensation Obi-Wan felt just before he squeezed the trigger on a rifle.

“I’m feeling parched,” he said and rose from his seat.

“You’ve still half a glass,” Koon said.

Obi-Wan waved him off, attention fixed on the man as he leaned against the counter. Slipping up next to him, Obi-Wan bumped their shoulders together, dragging the man’s attention away from the bartender. Or rather, the boy’s attention. He was younger up close, skin perfectly smooth and unblemished, cheeks still a delightful shade of pink. There was a little beauty mark on the corner of his chin, a beautiful little thing that marked him as something other than an immortal trickster god, come down to tempt and tease and pleasure.

“Terribly sorry,” he said.

For a moment Obi-Wan almost regretted approaching him. He was young, Obi-Wan feeling his greys just looking at him. But then their eyes locked and that little jolt hit him again, and he wet his lips before speaking again. “Are you alright?”

The boy hesitated, plush lips parted in surprise. And then he spoke, and Obi-Wan felt his chest squeeze at the sound of his voice, soft and delicate and so terribly rapturous.

“Yeah, sorry. I was just… caught of guard.”

Obi-Wan leaned in closer, wanting to hear more of the tone of his voice, feel it against his cheeks and lips, suffuse his breath with his own. His accent was light and clean, charming in a way that Obi-Wan had come to appreciate after hearing it for the last several years. Obi-Wan had never visited Canada, but he wanted to now - wanted to go and see where this marvelous creature had been crafted, his body formed from bronze with gold for lashes and inset with lapis lazuli for eyes. He wondered if the boy held the same figure as the statues of old - with strong thighs and a soft belly, still supple from youth.

Qui-Gon had once told Obi-Wan he was a terrible romantic, his head stuck in the ancient agora. At the time Obi-Wan had been offended - he was nothing if not practical, grounded, chained to the earth. But seeing the airman before him, primped and polished in his uniform, cheeks pink with merriment and drink, lips still parted in a soft pout, Obi-Wan was beginning to realize that perhaps Qui-Gon was right about him all along.

The boy’s beauty was only heightened by his impertinence, his remarks quick and sharp, followed by his humility as he stuttered out an apology. Obi-Wan pressed in closer as they waited for their drink, and couldn’t help but raise a brow when the boy presented his assortment of coins to him, trying to play coy.

“I get all mixed up trying to figure out your coin system. Mind helping me out?” he said, voice still just as soft, just as pretty.

A moment passed where Obi-Wan thought he was just oblivious to the tone of their conversation and the heat in his gaze. Maybe he wasn’t curious about Catullus, but was more partial to Ovid. But then they locked eyes, and Obi-Wan knew that this was an attempt. Perhaps not the most graceful, but still enticing - exciting in a way that made Obi-Wan’s heart beat a little faster.

“I’m quite sure you know which ones are which by now.”

He touched the boy then, fingertips sliding across his palm, collecting the appropriate coins. The boy watched his movements, and Obi-Wan noted the pinkness in his cheeks had gone even darker.

So Catullus it was…

“I’m a slow learner…” the boy said, as if Obi-Wan would fall for another lie.

“Not if you’re a pilot, you’re not.”

Their drinks arrived and Obi-Wan grabbed his, grateful for something to hold on to. The boy sent him a small smile that threatened to uproot him from the very ground. It was as if a Jerry’s bomb had gone off nearby, Obi-Wan’s ears ringing, the very basis of his being shaken. For a second he thought he might pitch into the bar, but he steadied himself with the drink and thanked the boy for it, before going back to his table.

He ignored Vos’ lingering looks.

“Are you alright?” Vos asked.

Obi-Wan nodded and drank half his pint in one go. The bitter malt grounded him further, but it also emboldened him. He needed to know the boy - needed to touch his skin and feel the fine downy hairs along his thighs. He wanted to taste the sweat on his skin, along his neck and down his collar. He needed to see and admire the hallowed places of his body, touch and mark and bite the supple flesh on offer.

He needed to know him in all his glory.

With that final thought Obi-Wan pushed up from the table and grabbed his cap.

“It’s been a pleasure, gentleman, but I’ve really got to go,” he said.

“Pleasant evenings,” Koon said.

“You owe me another game when we’re both in town,” Vos said.

Obi-Wan nodded and slipped out the door, catching the boy’s intense eyes from across the way as he did so.

He didn’t have to wait long - just long enough for his nerves to settle and his heart to beat faster, a thunderous thing against his breast that made him feel like a young man all over again, inexperienced and hopeful. When the door opened, spilling light into the darkened streets, Obi-Wan thought for a moment it would be someone else coming through the door. But then the flash of blue and the peek of golden hair from beneath an officer’s cap caught Obi-Wan’s eyes, and he couldn’t help but smile as the boy stepped into the dark to join him.

He held his hand out, and sighed softly as their hands locked, palms flush together.

“Glad you came,” he said, and he realized he sounded out-of-breath. “I realized I never properly introduced myself. I’m Major Kenobi, but you can call me Obi-Wan.”

The boy smiled, Obi-Wan catching it in the dark. “Flying Officer Skywalker. But most call me Anakin.”

Anakin.

He could feel Anakin - his name, his presence, his very being - sink into the very marrow of his bones, and in an instant Obi-Wan knew that Anakin would be a touch he’d never forget; a sound he’d never lose the tune of; an experience he’d never grow tired of.

“Shall we go for a walk?” he asked, their hands still touching, still locked tight like both were afraid they’d slip away if they did.

Anakin nodded. “I’d love that.”

[melhive]

Oh, the Sawamura siblings. Better than anyone, they have trained Daichi to become a great captain and to just zen-mode in order to enjoy his food.

Daichi's notes on the four:

• Ayame (彩芽) is barely a year younger than Daichi and she seems to have been born with all the emotional perception he lacks, having always been his crutch to "undense", as she says. She got very comfortable on the middle sibling role and to an unknown can appear to be lazy and distant, repeating "not my problem" and minding her own business, usually accidentally napping where she shouldn't. She is actually the most perceptive of the five, even if she uses her powers to bribe and blackmail the others into doing her chores ("oh, mom wouldn't like to know you got into another fight, Fuu", "Dai will be so upset if he discovers your cats destroyed his socks, Nao", "DAIKI WHERE IS MY BAGPACK", "Ok, I'll make your bento today, Dai, but you'll make my bento for the entire next week, take it or starve") and to make snarky comments on the others. As amazingly as it might sound, Ayame is an excellent listener and at the cost of some favour she can even give incredibly touching insights to anyone's problems. She usually calls Daichi "Dai", or "Daichi" when it follows a disappointed note, or "Dainii" when she's using her most sarcastic superiority jokes. Though she rarely oversteps on those, Daichi is sure she does it more for the humour than to hurt anyone. She used to be in the pingpong club during Junior school and Daichi remembers she was really good at it. She changed into being part of her student's council when she entered high school, where she could sharpen even more her entrepreneur skills, never loosing an opportunity to make a good business out of anything. Probably better than any of the youngers, Daichi knows how hard working she is, choosing a competitive school, very driven by all that ambitious Sawamura soul inside of her, and even if she tries to deny it he knows she also does it to help their family and friends out. As a fact that she started to learn how taxes work right at the start of her high school to help their mother business, which both scares the hell out of him and makes him swell with pride. That being said, never let Ayame in possession of any of your secrets or you'll end up being her slave forever.

• Daiki (大輝) is the elder twin, even if everyone thinks he's the younger giving his very cheerful nature. He loves being the centre of attention and in general can be perceived as, well, a bit too much. Perfectly dramatic for the drama club he's part of since forever, with an incredible capacity to never shut up no matter how early or late, his theatre years helped him to develop a very charismatic and joyous personality, sweet words that lets him get away with almost anything, if you're not his family. Because at home everyone knows better than to fall for the smiles that try to cover his little sense of consequences. Daichi knows he's a good kid and is proud of him, even if he has to listen to him talking about all the newest school gossip. He might have given up to remember al his friends names because Daiki seems to know everyone and their mothers on his school, though opposite of Ayame, he just likes to know and passing the information forward. Daiki usually calls Daichi as just "Dai", and Daichi narrows his eyes when is called "Dainii" as it proceeds a headache. Typical human hurricane, usually gets in trouble for being impulsive and always ends up getting into bickering, specially with Ayame who has the most energy to spat back. Daichi learned to just zone out and let him talk, only bothering to do the older brother voice when he discovers Daiki overstepped himself (again). Too distractive, he can't be trusted around fire and knives, so he ends up having more laundry and cleaning chores to compensate his inability to contribute to everyone's bento. At the end of the day he just wants to connect to people, crack some funny jokes and entertain everyone. And 1k likes on his videos.

• Naoki (直樹) is the younger twin and the complete opposite of Daiki. Daichi actually thinks Naoki stands out for being very opposite of everyone in the house. Poor Naoki craves time alone and a bit of silence, doesn't have the Sawamura brand stamina, is very bad at being awake before lunch, stresses far to easily (to Daichi's worry) and actually finds joy in the slowness. Daichi thinks Naoki has the soul of those old Edo poets that spent the day admiring gardens and writing haikus about flowers. Even Daichi knows that's partially from having to be constantly besides his sun-storm twin, not finding the space to put his thoughts out and introspecting everything. Ayame keeps reminding him to spend some time alone with Naoki so he can feel cared about, she also does it but apparently the quiet Sawamura has Daichi as a role figure. The only sibling who calls him "Dainii" without second intentions, Naoki is the main reason why Daichi knows so much about fish. When younger used to read a lot about the ocean and constantly asked to go to the aquarium. Because of the intense contrast between him and the other four, people mistakenly assume Naoki is shy and helpless, and if Daichi knows something about him is that he's neither of those. The Sawamura in him hardly needs any protection, usually not caring for provocations nor being intimidated by brutality, Naoki has a low social battery but also has good friends. Is capable of mastering any skills his curious mind gets interest for, specially things that take their time and dedication like cooking or tea brewing. He can, nevertheless, get easily overwhelmed by time sensitive things and stresses when things go out of his control. He used to be part of the nap club on the school he attends with his twin, but lately he has decided to sacrifice his energy for the cooking activities, which Daichi selfishly always volunteer to try out his efforts. Needless to say that's a sibling competition and none of them hold back on compliments for the chef.

• Fuyumi (不由美) is Daichi's incognita. If Daiki is a sun storm, Fuyumi is a supernova. If Naoki has Daichi as his model, Fuyumi seems to have made Daichi her nemesis and he can't figure why or how. She just seems to be contrary to anything he does or try to do to get closer to her. Once he tried to give her all those colourful hair things her classmates all wear and he remembers Ayame also used to love, but Fuyumi just hated them and Daichi can't figure what he has done wrong. The youngest Sawamura is like a wild cat, a bakeneko herself. She has all those cute new clothes but she prefers to wear the twin's old rags, refuse to let her hair to be controlled by elastics, is in constant need of band-aids, seems to enjoy being called "little monster" by Daiki (which lets Daichi exasperated, why would she like that??) and is rarely found clean or not stinking something ominous. How can a child be so intensely against any sort of domestication? The provocations seems to be very directed at Daichi. She is actually capable of socialize (in a way too aggressive manner to Daichi's taste) and live with the other siblings, but the moment Daichi tries anything it's like a bomb explodes. Ayame says it's because Daichi has a dense and authoritative aura and that frustrates Daichi even more, neither of those are things he can turn on and off, he just is like that! The youngest has even managed to make their sibling dinner time silent for an entire awkward minute by announcing she thinks volleyball is stupid. Daichi buried his face on his hands, Naoki covered his mouth in exasperation, Daiki got miraculously wordless, Ayame simply raised an eyebrow but neither couldn't find words to fill the silence. Fuyumi looked self satisfied. She isn't a complete lost case, even tough the others have to remind him more than the other way around. Fuyumi helps taking very good care of Naoki's cats and even Kintaro. She doesn't neglect her house chores and doesn't let anyone take easy on her either, unless she is tasked to do anything near Daichi, a lesson they all already learned to avoid. She gets constant complaints from school about her aggressive behaviour, yes, but her fights are always good intended and coming from a very well adjusted moral compass considering her age. She learned all the low words reading Daiki's manga and isn't shy at all to use her arsenal of cocky offenses, but where her words fail, her actions always proves she's willing to help everyone and not let any unfairness pass by her. Unless it's Daichi related, that is. He has a feeling Fuyumi is going to grow into those unadjusted sukeban punks and fears for his life (his worries are very correct).

Twitter post

More on the siblings OCs: Sawamuras introduction Sawamuras comic Fuuyumi hates volleyball but does she?

[sirowsky-stories]

The Flowers Always Know

Chapter 9 - Spaghetti Fixes Everything

Description: Working at HQ wasn't just challenging, it was threatening to completely burn you out after just the first few days. Of course, it didn't help that you were so stressed you forgot to eat most days.

**Beware! Author chooses NOT to display warnings on the individual chapters of this story. Read at your own risk!**

Rating: Mature 18+ONLY Word Count: 4657 (1649 words added) Masterlist (this story)

   The weeks passed way too quickly after that.    You couldn’t understand how the clock reached 8pm so damned fast every day, you never seemed to be even halfway done with your tasks, even though you arrived a half-hour early and worked at least three hours late every single day, including weekends.    As if you’d been dropped into a black hole, and time had gotten warped, no matter how many hours of work you put in, it never seemed to add up to anything.

   You’d quickly learned two things on your first day. One, that your predecessor had left so abruptly he hadn’t even cleaned out his little wardrobe. And two, he had not kept his house in anything resembling order.    How the man had been able to get anything done, at all, astounded you. There was no order or structure to be found in his wake, and when you’d complained about it to Mrs. Moreno a couple of days later, she’d completely stumped you by saying:

   “Yes, well, now you understand why I wanted you to take it.”

   You’d sort of frozen in place right in the middle of transferring a file from one stack to another, with the shock of realizing she’d actually paid you a sideways compliment, but then she’d immediately ruined the moment by adding:

   “So, stop dilly-dallying and get that mess sorted out already.”

   You’d felt a lot less guilty about calling her horrid, then.    That was about two weeks ago. Or was it three?    Shit, what day was it now? You genuinely had no idea.

   Marcus had tried to stay in touch with you, popping his head in whenever he passed by your office, and calling or texting if he hadn’t found or seen you in too long.    While he was technically still working in the field, he didn’t go on every mission, electing to oversee and direct things from the control centre instead. So, most days he was just a few floors and corridors away.

   But you just never had the time to actually talk to him. When he stopped by, you were almost always heading out, or on the phone, or in a meeting. And while you always answered his calls and texts, the replies were short and mostly just apologetic.    And since you always worked late, and got up extra early, there wasn’t really any free time to just hang out either.

   In short, thus far, you were not very happy with your job.

   But today had been the worst one yet. You’d been in meetings all day, not even having enough time to squeeze in a tea-break in between, much less lunch.    You’d also managed to piss off two reporters, damned near broken your toe when you’d bumped into a railing, walked straight into a poor assistant on his way to deliver a bunch of documents to someone, sending them flying across the hallway, and just when you’d given up and decided to call it a day, the fucking phone rang.

   You had just gotten out of the chair and put your jacket on. Ten more seconds and you would’ve been close enough to leaving that you wouldn’t have bothered to answer the damned thing. But you did.    And to put the cherry on top of this disaster of a day, the person calling was a designer friend of yours who you’d reached out to for help on a project involving the supers’ children.

   He was calling to let you know that unfortunately, despite already being a week into it, he wouldn’t be able to do it. There’d been a family emergency, and he had to pull out. Which effectively meant you’d have to start over.    And of course, that project was the one thing with a deadline which simply could not be pushed. Andy had been your first choice to help you with this, and you’d been so thrilled when he’d agreed, because you knew he’d understand what you were looking for.

   You’d been tasked with creating something like a gym-hall for the powered kids at the local schools, because they needed physical exercise as much as the next kid, but they could so easily hurt the normal children. But of course, the budget wasn’t great, and Management wanted you to do as much as you could with existing buildings and materials.    And that’s where Andy had sprung to mind, because he was a genius when it came to material and repurposing.

   But this was also why you were now in serious trouble, since no one could do what his mind was capable of, and Management was expecting your proposal within the next week.    The clock was already after 6pm when you got the call, and since you’d gotten used to working until eight or nine, you decided you might as well get started on trying to salvage this right away, rather than go home and still not be able to sleep because you’d be stressing over it.

   You took off your jacket and sat back down with a heavy sigh, then reached into your desk to retrieve the project file.    It was thick and heavy and slammed down on top of your desk with a thud. You opened it to the first page and started to look over what would have to be scrapped, and what could possibly still be utilized, already knowing you weren’t gonna be out of the office until past your bedtime, with such a thick folder to get through.

   So, hunched over your desk, leaning on your elbows with your head resting against one palm, tired, starving and completely engrossed in the papers in front of you, you never heard the light knock on the door, or when it clicked open and then closed again.    You didn’t notice the slight ruffle of clothes, or the presence of another person in your space, you just wanted to get this done so you could go home and crash.

   But you did notice the warmth of his arms as they came around you from behind and pulled your back into his chest and didn’t let you go again. You noticed his breath on your neck before he kissed it, slowly and ever so softly.    You noticed when he pulled you up and out of the chair and turned you around so that he could hug you properly.

   The file and the problems which were stacked a mile high on your shoulders, all disappeared when he brushed his lips against yours and that heat instantly flared somewhere in your chest and abdomen.    You made no attempt to control yourself, at all, letting your exhausted body decide for itself what it wanted right then, resulting in what you could only describe as another attack.

   The heat surged through you until every single inch of you felt red hot. You kissed him with every bit of passion and desire you were capable of, while your hands made their way to his belt and tugged his hips closer.    And he responded in kind, lifting you up on your desk and parting your legs with lightly quivering hands. You were wearing a skirt today and he pushed the fabric back all the way to your groin, before settling himself flush against you, letting you feel his arousal.  

   And damn, did he feel good.

   He broke the kiss to allow you both to breathe, and nuzzled into your neck, but when he felt you flex your hips against him, he growled and lightly bit your shoulder as his hands started squeezing and massaging their way along the outsides of your thighs.

   “Hermosa… if we keep this up for much longer, I don’t know if I can uphold my promise to take things slow,” he cautioned, with an unexpectedly feral vibration to his voice.

   “Mmh… You started this,” you retorted, receiving another growl as you ran your tongue along his jawline, tracing back towards his mouth to kiss him again.

   “Sweetheart…” he tried again, after very reluctantly pulling away from your lips, “Either ask me to stop now, or this office will be christened in bodily fluids in a moment.”

   For a few seconds, you were confused, because surely, you’d somehow been transported to a bedroom by now. That was where your head was at…    But no. A quick glance around revealed the mental image to be fake, and the dull cappuccino-coloured walls and sound absorbent ceiling to be the reality you were still mercilessly trapped in.    And that killed the mood like sand poured over a campfire.

   “Okay. Stop,” you grumbled, disappointed to have to leave the fantasy.

   He instantly pulled back and loosened his grip on you, but kept his hands on your thighs, and your hips close together, possibly to hide his very obvious erection from anyone happening to walk in. Like Anita…    For a minute, you just looked at each other’s blown pupils while trying to calm your breathing down, then he smiled.

   “Hi. How was your day?” he politely inquired, trying to distract himself most likely, but he couldn’t have chosen a worse question.

   “Ugh… If you ever need to quell my desires, trust me, that’s all you need to say.”

   And you weren’t kidding. The frustration, exhaustion, stress and general feeling of inadequacy slammed down on you like a concrete slab, and suddenly you felt impossibly heavy.    He noticed the shift in your energy and took his hands off your thighs, snaking them around your waist instead. He stared intently at you for a beat, and you could almost see his mind working to try and figure out which level of exhaustion would lead you to say that.

   “Oh, preciosa. You’re trying too hard. Ask for help, delegate, don’t try to do it all by yourself.”

   “I do delegate, Marcus. Fuck, some days all I do is delegate!” you exclaimed, throwing your hands in the air with hopelessness. “But that asshole, Turner, left behind a bigger mess than anyone even realized, so no matter how much I get done, there’s always another fifty problems left.    And now Andy bailed on me, which means I have to start all over again on the schools, which of course has the shortest deadline of everything I’m working on, and which was the one thing I thought was handled.    I really don’t know what more I can do?”

   You sagged against him, resting your forehead on his chest, wanting so badly to cry but you were somehow too spent even for that.

   “I can’t do this. I’m so tired,” you whimpered, and he started softly running his hands over your back again.

   “Why do you think I have sofas in my office? Naps are your friend, my dear,” he hummed, but you scoffed at that.

   “I haven’t even had time to eat today, when exactly am I supposed to-…”

   “What do you mean, you haven’t eaten?” he cut you off with a dead serious look and his voice was suddenly sharp against the quiet of the room. “Since when?”

   Taken aback by his sudden shift in temperament, it took you moment to remember you were supposed to reply, and then you had to try and recall when exactly you’d last eaten something.

   “Uh… Yesterday, around 7pm, I think. I ordered something. No wait, that was the day before…” you fumbled, genuinely unable to remember, and the Heroic was apparently most displeased with this.

   “Ne creo en mis oidos…” he said, in a tone you interpreted to be incredulous.

   You had no idea what the phrase meant, but he sounded almost angry as he untangled himself from your legs and reached for your jacket.    Sitting there on your desk, you couldn’t help but shrink a little at the thought that he was probably angry with you, even if you didn’t understand why. And you were so exhausted that even such a small thing was enough to make you want to run away, when you would have normally just challenged him.

   “Come on, hop off the desk, you’re coming with me,” he declared then, holding the jacket out for you so you could just slip your arms into it once you were off the table.

   “I can’t just leave all th-…”

   “Sweetheart, I admire your loyalty to your work,” he brusquely cut you off, “but get your ass off that desk right now.”

   Not even bothering to ask why or where you were going, you simply did what you were told, and he slipped the jacket on you and led you out of the building, having to help you stay upright by keeping an arm around your waist the whole way to his car.    You dozed in and out of sleep as the vehicle hummed its way along the roads, having no idea where he was taking you. But at some point, you must have fallen asleep for real, because you woke up to the passenger side door opening, and him reaching over to unbuckle you.

   “Hey, we’re here. Come on,” he beckoned, and when you looked out in front of the car, you saw a house which wasn’t yours, but didn’t think any more of it as you forced yourself to get out of the car and let Marcus drag you to the front door.

   “Hey, dad. You’re late,” a voice called out as soon as you stepped inside.

   “Hey, sweetie. I know, I’m sorry, but I had to help a friend,” he answered just as the person the voice belonged to came skipping into the front hall.

   Oh… His house, of course. Where else would he go at the end of the day?    His daughter. Possibly the most adorable human being you’d ever seen. If only you’d had the strength to greet her as politely and warmly as she did you.

   “Welcome to Casa Moreno. You’re the first woman my dad has ever brought here, I’m very impressed,” she smiled and winked at you, and you so wished you could’ve played along.

   “Missy,” her father cautioned, but half-heartedly at best, and his daughter knew it.

   “What?” she countered, sounding innocent but defiantly crossing her arms, daring him to try and deter her from enjoying what was apparently a rare moment for these two.

   “She’s exhausted, and I’m pretty sure she hasn’t eaten in anything between twenty-four to forty-eight hours, so just be nice, please.”

   “I am being nice; it was a compliment,” Missy tried to deflect, feigning absolute innocence, but it got her nowhere.

   “Don’t even try that with me, young padawan. Go set the table,” he ordered, before following her into the kitchen where he raided the fridge for leftover spaghetti and meatballs.

   You couldn’t help but smile at them as they continued bantering while they worked. But you got so lost in their lovable conversation that you didn’t even remember to ask if you were invited to sit down, and after a minute, the room started getting darker. Which was odd because the sun had already set, hadn’t it?    Still, it kept getting darker, until you realized it was all in your head. But by then you were already falling.

   You woke up to an extremely worried Marcus fidgeting with wet towels and… Was that a blood-pressure machine?    Then, out of nowhere, you suddenly felt completely panicked. You practically bounced up to sitting on what was apparently their living-room sofa, and immediately scrambled yourself into a tiny ball in the furthest corner of it.    Your entire body was shaking with fear, but you had no idea why.

   “Dad… What’s wrong with her?” Missy whispered from the other end of the sofa, and she sounded so worried.

   “It’s okay, sweetie, she’s just scared,” he tried to reassure her, but she was a smart girl, and this had apparently truly rattled her.

   “Of what? She was fine a minute ago.”

   “I’ll explain later,” he said, meeting her eyes so she’d know he meant it, but also using the moment to move back and give you more room before he tried to reach past your fears. “It’s okay. I promise you’re safe. You’re not trapped, you can move, you can talk, you’re not lost in the darkness.    You’re right here… with me.”

   His honey-soft voice soothed you, making you wonder how he could know exactly what to say to help you?    How did he know it was the darkness that had scared you? You hadn’t even realized it yourself until he’d said it.    At those last two words, his current came flowing through you, and it was like a balm, moving through your nerves, coaxing them to relax.

   “Hermosa,” he finally whispered, not with expectation or pressure, but as though the word was an invitation for you to have a safe haven within him.

   Willing your body to move again, you crawled towards him, and he helped you by meeting you halfway and then hugging you so tightly.

   “It’s okay, hermosa. You’re safe, I promise,” he mumbled into your cheek, and you tried to stop yourself from shaking but it didn’t work.

   “I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened,” you cried, still too tired for the massive cry that was still clawing around inside your chest, looking for a way out.

   “You just got lost. We all do sometimes.”

   “What’s wrong with me?” you asked, your voice breaking with too many emotions to name.

   But Marcus pulled back to look at you then, and there was something very reassuring about how much he seemed to believe in what he said next.

   “How many times do I have to tell you, sweetheart? Surviving what you did was impossible. Did you really think something like that wouldn’t stay with you?    There’s nothing wrong with you. Being afraid of things that have seriously hurt you isn’t wrong, it’s wise. You were trapped in darkness for a long time, feeling helpless and weak. It’s only natural for you to be scared when faced with those same sensations again.”

   There was nothing wrong with his logic, you just couldn’t understand where the depth of his insight was coming from.

   “But… how did you know that that’s what I was feeling?”

   “I was with you all the way, remember? I saw every stage of your recovery. Every hurdle, every obstacle, and every victory, big and small. I know you,” he said, shifting one hand up to your face to catch the tears as they finally began to fall.

   If you’d had a crush on him before, you were now certain that you absolutely loved this man. And you really wanted to tell him about it, but perhaps not in front of his daughter, still standing by the end of the sofa, when he clearly hadn’t told her about you yet.    Not that there was much to tell, it wasn’t like you’d even been on a single date yet, you’d just… made out.    You sighed and closed your eyes, leaning your cheek into the comforting warmth of his palm. This really had been a terrible fucking day.

   “Hey, you still have to eat something, or you’re gonna collapse again,” he gently reminded you, while beginning to rise.

   You let him help you to your feet and over to the kitchen where he sat you down at the table before getting back to re-heating the leftovers.    Having fully expected Missy to keep a safe distance after watching you have a breakdown, you were quite surprised when she brazenly came to sit next to you instead, plopping down in her chair as though this had been the most normal, inconsequential evening ever.

   “So, you’re the one,” she pondered, but with that cleverness children had to their tone when they were equal parts curious and sure about what they already knew.

   “Huh?” was all you responded, confused by the notion that she would know anything about you.

   “The one the mad scientist… hurt,” she elaborated, and it sounded like that little pause was her catching herself before saying something else.

   It made you wonder how much she might understand about what had been done to you, and whether what she’d been about to say might’ve been something like “tortured” or “killed”, either of which would’ve been technically accurate, but perhaps harsher to hear.    The mere fact she’d stopped herself said a lot about her maturity and sensitivity towards others, and it softened something inside your chest as you listened to her continue to explain.

   “Dad wouldn’t tell me too much about it, but I read some articles and I saw a few of the news reels,” she confessed, quietly, in the hopes her father wouldn’t overhear and scold her for circumventing his efforts to protect her from the horror of it. “And he did tell me how you were so sick no one knew if you’d ever wake up. And then when you did, he said he needed to help you because he seemed to be the only one who could.    He wasn’t home much for those few months.”

   She finished on a thoughtful note, but it made you terribly sad and regretful.    You’d known that Marcus had needed Anita’s help to look after her while he’d helped you, but you’d had no clue of how extensively he’d been absent. Now that you thought about it, though, you could remember countless evenings of his diligent efforts, never hesitating to keep working well past his regular hours if he felt it was needed.    All for you. Which made it feel like your fault.

   “Oh… Missy, I’m sorry.”

   “No, no, that’s not what I meant!” she hurried to correct you, and you felt like it was important to her that you understood this. “It’s not your fault, of course it isn’t.    What I’m trying to say is, I’m really glad all his efforts helped you in the end. Cause dad… Well, he was so sad all the time you were in the coma, until he started being able to help you, and then it was like… he came alive too.    It means a lot to him, you know. That you made it.”

   Her father had his back to the two of you, while he worked on the leftovers, so you couldn’t see his face. But you were close enough that he should’ve heard most of this conversation, and something about the stillness of his movements told you he had, and that it was probably affecting him deeply.

   “I couldn’t have done it without him,” you replied, a little louder to be sure he heard it, before turning your full attention back to his daughter. “And I’m sorry you had to see me freak out like that before. I’m not normally this… fragile.”

   “It’s okay. We’re all allowed to have bad days, right?” she chirped, and you chuckled, but entirely without humour.

   “Yep. I just wish I could have a good one someday soon. Or I think I might really break.”

   You’d turned sombre and serious again, and if anything, you’d have expected her to not know what to say to that.    But contrarily, her eyes brightened, and a sly smile filled her face.

   “I’m sure my dad can help you with that too,” she grinned, actually cocking an eyebrow at you as she got up from the table.

   She then skipped over to a flabbergasted Marcus, the poor man too flustered to know how to react, hugged him goodnight and then disappeared down the hall, having already had her dinner at a reasonable hour.    You watched her disappear down the body of the house, realizing with both joy and dread, that you already loved his kid as well.

   “Um, I’m really sorry about-… She’s nev-… I’ve never seen her behave like this before,” he stammered once she’d left, clearly seriously rattled by Missy’s not so subtle attempt at matchmaking.

   “Don’t worry about it. I think she’s amazing,” you reassured him, and he threw a nervous glance over his shoulder, visibly relaxing when he saw the earnest smile in your eyes.

   You wondered if some part of him had been anxious about the two of you meeting, or thought you might not like her, for some inexplicable reason. Which then made you think it was possible he hadn’t just not brought any women home before, but possibly not even gone on a date since the loss of his wife.    Because you couldn’t think of any other reason he’d be so nervous about all this.

   Once he’d recovered, he brought the plates over and all but ordered you to dig in, while he did the same.    You didn’t really feel all that hungry anymore, mostly you just wanted to sleep. But with each delicious bite it was like your body began to remember it actually needed this stuff, and you ended up helping yourself to another large serving.    Which Marcus heartily approved of.

   “Now, that’s the appetite I’m used to seeing with you,” he grinned. “Feel better?”

   “Loads,” you admitted, noticing how a full stomach seemed to have made so many of your troubles seem a lot smaller.

   You leaned back in your chair once the last bite was swallowed, holding your glass of water and taking slow sips, when he reached out and took your other hand, resting on the edge of the table.

   “Hey. You can’t skip meals. I don’t care how hard you’re working, without fuel you will crash, that’s just a fact,” he admonished, and you stared at your empty plate, feeling like a kid being scolded for skipping class.

   He squeezed your hand, looking for a response and when he didn’t get one, he pushed his chair back and turned his whole body towards you.

   “Look at me, hermosa,” he demanded, and you did.

   “You. Can. Do. This,” he articulated, believing every word himself. “Find a way to do it on your terms. Find a way to make the tasks fall in line behind you, don’t let them try and climb onto your back and stack themselves on top of you. Force Management to hire you your own assistant if that’s what it takes.    You’re stronger than this, I know you are. Stop trying to shape yourself into a manager and start making the manager shape itself from you.    My hermosa doesn’t let a fucking job dictate her life.”

   Yes, everything he said was good and made you want to believe it. But in the end, all you really registered was one thing.

   My hermosa.

   You put your glass down and leaned over to kiss him, and for the first time, you didn’t lose control. You just kissed him. Warmly, lovingly, with your hands on his cheeks. And he just kissed you back. With no demands, no expectations.    But as much as you loved the intimacy and the comfort of being so welcomed by him, your body had been fed a huge meal and all remaining strength was now being rerouted to handle all that nutrition.

   He noticed how limp you were getting even before you did, and quickly helped you to your feet before you fell asleep at the table. Then he practically carried you to a bathroom, where you found some extra reserve of strength to brush your teeth and use the toilet, before he brought you to a bedroom. There, you flopped down on a soft and cool bed while he took off your shoes and helped you get under the covers.

   “I’d ask if you want me to help you undress, but I might get ideas,” he whispered while he pulled a few errant strands of hair back from your face.

   You could hear the smile in his voice, and you wanted to say something clever in return, but you were only seconds from unconsciousness by then, so all you could manage was a less than sexy grunt.    The last thing you were aware of before you succumbed to the blissfulness of sleep, was his lips brushing against your temple, and a whisper to sleep tight.

[incoherentbabblings]

Thinking about Tim’s attachment to Steph when he sobbed for her not to leave him in WIBF. 😭😭😭

Could you give your two cents in that scene?

Oh gosh it's been a while I had to go back and reread the fic because I couldn't... remember.

But! Okay.

In the fic they have gone through everything pre-New52 had to throw at them, plus Take Back the Cake I wanted to write about Tim and Steph who are sort of at the end of their tether? Like, Tim thinks a lot in the fic along the lines of 'I can be happy if we can just get over this finishing line' - the line being marriage, of course. He's falling into that trap which he does sometimes of thinking sequentially.

If I do A, then I can do B. And once I've done B, I can be C, which is good.

But life doesn't work like that, and he's doing the thing were he forgets that Steph has her own motivations and interpretations of their shared history that don't necessarily match up with his.

So Tim's trying to convince himself that he's totally fine, totally healthy, no trauma, no lingering unresolved issues etc. And then he goes and gets concussed and Steph is having fun adventures with Damian and Hugo Strange is writing invasive and creepy things about his family and the girl he's sort of pinning all his 'I'm fine' emotions on. And it's just upping the emotions and logic is falling to the side and he begins spiralling.

And from Steph's point of view, she is sort of buying into the same idea right? Look how far we've come we're in a much better place now a clean slate etc. etc. even though she is still hiding things from Tim which she probably shouldn't, but at the same time she's trying to include him in her problems and be honest with him and yeah, move forward with her life with him as a unit, whereas Tim is really struggling with reciprocating.

Then there's the 'welp time to commit a murder bit' which... well. This is pre-New 52 Tim right? He knows its a bad idea to kill because he has seen firsthand where that goes for him. But he also can be really blase with the rule, especially as he gets older. And Steph has been threatened and he is this close to being happy so is incredibly desperate.

So I wanted to write him out of his mind a bit with stress and trauma (mental and physical) and just that primal fear of being left alone because she has done it to him before (again he's not thinking about why she left in the first place, centring it all on himself), and this time its over a moral issue that she used to be fine with (crime of passion) so it shows how far she has gone up, versus how far (in Tim's mind) he's gone down. So feelings of inadequacy spike and he has his wee breakdown.

Steph is caught off guard, completely. She genuinely thought they were moving forward and things were good and - if things were bad, or approaching it - that the two would talk about their issues and work together, like how she tries to in the early art of the fic. She learned her lessons, no more shouldering things alone. A problem shared is a problem halved etc. etc... But she isn't his nanny, or his caretaker, or his morality chain. It's not fair on her.

...So yeah. I think that was what I was going for. :|

[enchi-elm]

Gosh. The hardest part of planning to write a tallster fic is realizing how much history was condensed for the sake of the show, and then the deeper you start reading (which is still relatively surface) the more you struggle whether to write historically accurate or lean into the fact that it's already not and instead write something that passes as 'appropriate' for the time-period. How the hell do you do it (awe)?

Hello, Delightful Human!

Casual blog readers, this Delightful Human left a truly wonderful comment on my huge Tallster multichapter and now seeing their username always makes me smile.

First of all, from this ask it sounds like you yourself are embarking on a historically accurate (ish) Tallster fic, to which I give you my most heartfelt encouragement and <i>sincere</i> condolences.

I really didn't know what I was getting into with Wind and Water. When I wrote Chapter 1, naive and with good intentions, the only historical understanding I had of the American Revolution was what was presented in the TV show. Not being American myself, it was never covered in school, nor had I ever been interested in it until I saw my two rogue boys swashbuckling across the screen playing at being spies.

So I know intimately the dilemma you present. Once I started delving, and oh boy, did I ever delve, I realized it was going to be impossible to present every aspect of the events I wanted to highlight in a way that captured properly and respectfully every point of view I wanted to include. To this day, I don't know about the major campaigns before and after Valley Forge, nor the greater political context of Washington's position and relation to Congress. (You know who does? @tallmadgeandtea)

To me, it was always more important to stay true to the emotional core of the story, and for that, I realized my ignorance wasn't as big a stumbling block as I thought. Nobody knows what's going on in a war, not <i>really</i>. Most of the events you're writing about were experienced through very very narrow perspectives. Ben is trying as hard as he can to figure it out, and even he gets it wildly wrong, endangering the people he loves most. On a personal level, on a soldier level, on a Caleb-and-Ben level, the things that were going to impact them were the things I prioritized learning about. And I leaned into the chaos. Centuries later, we still don't have clear answers and almost all the investigation comes from the Patriot side of the war. Getting it 'clean' and 'correct' was no longer the objective. Mess and confusion are central to any conflict.

So the setting became really important. The Frontier, the forests, the hills. The feel, the cold, the sensory bits. (I also played a stunning amount of Assassin's Creed III while I was writing, which may or may not have helped with some of the scenes.)

And honestly, I got a lot wrong. About two years into writing You've Caught Me Between Wind and Water, I submitted an early chapter of it to a writing critique group and was promptly informed just how much bigger and more industrial the Valley Forge encampment was than how I'd envisioned it. I pulled in elements of that knowledge into subsequent chapters, gently massaging the portrayal of the camp in my narrative. Wasn't until about Chapter 9 that I started reading Joseph Martin Plumb's account of the war, at which point it really sank in just how <i>miserable</i> and dire a soldier's experience was. So then that helped fuel Shepherd's characterization, and Reggie and Freddie and Stanley.

So, the short answer is:

Keep the emotions front and centre. The rest is just very clever window dressing, really.

Read as many historical sources as you can and learn when to draw the line and make executive decisions (maybe Washington didn't give Ben an earful about the horses <i>this month</i>, but it did happen and so it could have happened). People haven't really changed in millennia, so make them human before you make them historical figures. Remember that it's your story and you can include anyone you want (and indeed, restore them to their rightful status and importance, cough cough, "Han Yerry", cough.)

Try not to pull your hair out, but remember it grows back. Talk to people who know better than you and read other stories that are historically accurate but don't centre the history. Personal favourite examples from my circle of friends (who I have to promote whenever I can because I think they're all amazing) would be Lucyemers' Bewitching Precision, CrepuscularPetrichor's May 1792, LadyTP (@ladytp)'s ....Lady, where did Seven Autumns go??? I can't find it on AO3! Also ASheepsLife's Who could resist Deliverance and of course, the most historically accurate one I know about, Cchambers' The Summer Soldier and the Sunshine Patriot.

And thank you for asking your question! Hope this helps.

[brigdh]

I used to write weekly reviews of what I was reading and post them to tumblr, but then I fell out of the habit. However, I did manage to finish some books last month, and maybe you will enjoy reading my thoughts?

The Centre by Ayesha Manazir Siddiqi. A thriller set in modern-day London. Anisa, a Pakistani immigrant from a wealthy family, dreams of translating great works of literature, but is stuck doing the subtitles on Bollywood movies. Her white boyfriend Adam speaks eight languages fluently, perfectly, like he was born to them. At first Anisa is only jealous, but then she learns that Adam is hiding a connection to the Centre, a mysterious organization that promises to teach anyone any language in only two weeks – for a price. And, well, who wouldn't be tempted? But visiting the Centre is only the beginning of Anisa's uncovering a whole host of secrets, as she meets and grows close to the Indian woman of her own age who runs the place; she and Anisa fall instantly into a close friendship which reveals some of Anisa's own missing pieces.

Anisa is a fabulous character – sympathetic and self-centered, unreliable and occasionally awful, trying her best but so often (like most of us) just justifying her own lack of action. The writing is fantastic, compelling and funny and sad and precise. Right from the first page, I had trouble putting it down.

The mystery of how the Centre does what it does is obvious from fairly early on, but I didn't feel like that was a problem. The drive of The Centre isn't so much about answering the question of "how?" but that of "what now?" Knowledge (of a language or of anything else) is power, but access to power is complicated by race, gender, sexuality, class, age, and so many other factors, all of which come into play. Anisa – and the other characters, and readers ourselves – want to remake the world for the better, but can she do so by using the tools of the powerful? Or would the act of using their tools change her into just another copy of them? The Centre doesn't answer these questions (and to be fair, how on earth could a single novel do so?), but the way it raises them and the dilemma it poses to Anisa is just so good.

Hugely recommended, and I can't wait for Siddiqi's next book.

Gilded Needles by Michael McDowell. A historical thriller set in 1880s New York City, focused on the rivalry between two families: the Stallworths and the Shanks. The Stallworths are upper-class, respectable, and include a judge, a preacher, a would-be politician, and a fashionable hostess of ladies' committees. The Shanks are sordid criminals, and include a fence, a prostitute, an abortionist (which, you know, I don't have much of a problem with, except that she cares less about her patients actually surviving the procedure and more about getting paid), opium addicts, and lesbians. They come to one another's attention when the Stallworths decide to lead a 'clean up the slum' operation to boost their own political prominence, which unfortunately happens to focus on the Shanks's neighborhood and ultimately causes the death of three of the Shanks. Black Lena, matriarch of the Shanks family, seeks revenge, and vows to kill three of the Stallworths in return.

This novel is better categorized as a thriller than as horror, which is unfortunate because I wanted something scary to read for Halloween. But despite that, it's hugely compelling, a real race of devious motives and sinister plots and squalid historical detail. Not a single character in the book is remotely likable, and despite their outward differences, the Shanks and the Stallworths are united in finding the very concept of morality irrelevant and laughable. The Shanks come out ahead as slightly easier to root for because at least they seem to like one another, whereas the Stallworths hate one another as much as they hate the poor, the unpopular, and the pathetic. Gilded Needles is a bit like watching a reality show, where everyone is terrible but you still have a great time throwing back popcorn as they tear the competition to bits.

A ton of trashy fun in a historical setting? My very favorite kind of book.

[brexiiton]

Why Russia fears the emergence of Tajik terrorists

By Richard Foltz

Mukhammadsobir Faizov, a suspect in Friday's shooting at the Crocus City Hall sits in a glass cage in the Basmanny District Court in Moscow. (AP: Alexander Zemlianichenko)

It has emerged that the four gunmen charged in the murder of at least 139 concert-goers at Moscow's Crocus City Hall theatre were all citizens of the small post-Soviet nation of Tajikistan in Central Asia.

Does their nationality have anything to do with their alleged terrorism? Many Russians probably think so.

Tajikistan, a landlocked country of 10 million sandwiched between Uzbekistan, Afghanistan and China, is the most impoverished of the former Soviet republics. Known for its corruption and political repression, it has chafed under the iron-fisted rule of President Emomali Rahmon since 1994.

There are estimated to be well over 3 million Tajiks living in Russia, about one-third of the total Tajik population. Most of them hold the precarious status of "guest workers," holding low-paying jobs in construction, produce markets or even cleaning public toilets.

While Russia's declining population has led to increasing reliance on foreign workers to fill such needs within its labour force, the attitude of Russians towards natives of Central Asia and the Caucasus region is generally negative.

It's similar to the American stereotype about Mexicans so infamously expressed by Donald Trump in 2015: "They're bringing drugs. They're bringing crime. They're rapists."

Non-Slavs are systematically discriminated against in Russia, and since 2022 they have been disproportionately conscripted and send to Ukraine to serve as cannon fodder at the front.

This photo was taken in April 2015. A Tajik migrant municipal worker carries Russian national and Moscow city flags to decorate a department store near Red Square in Moscow. (AP: Alexander Zemlianichenko)

Tajik exclusion

As I have described in a recent book, few nations in history have seen their standing so dramatically reduced as the Tajiks have over the past 100 years.

For more than millennium, the Tajiks -Persian-speaking descendants of the ancient Sogdians who dominated the Silk Road - were Central Asia's cultural elite.

Beginning with what's known as the New Persian Renaissance of the 10th century when their capital, Bukhara, came to rival Baghdad as a centre of Islamic learning and high culture, Tajiks were the principal scholars and bureaucrats of Central Asia's major cities right up to the time of the Russian Revolution.

The famous medieval polymath Avicenna was an ethnic Tajik, as were the hadith collector Bukhari, the Sufi poet Rumi, and many others.

But as the most significant purveyors of Central Asia's Islamic civilization, Tajiks were seen by the Bolsheviks as representing an obsolete legacy that socialism aimed to overcome.

This photo was taken in 2006. Residents of Dosti, a town in southern Tajikistan, press against a fence seeking government compensation for damages caused by a strong earthquake. (AP: Sergei Grits)

The Tajiks were virtually excluded from the massive social and political restructuring imposed on Central Asia during the early years of the Soviet Union, with most of their historical territory, including the fabled cities of Samarkand and Bukhara, being awarded to the Turkic-speaking Uzbeks who were seen as being more malleable.

Only as late as 1929 were the Tajiks given their own republic, consisting mostly of marginal, mountainous territory and deprived of any major urban centres.

An impoverished region

Throughout the 20th century, the Tajik Soviet Socialist Republic was the most impoverished and underdeveloped region of the former Soviet Union, and it has retained that unfortunate status since independence in 1991.

From 1992-1997, the country was plunged into a devastating civil war that destroyed what infrastructure remained from the Soviet period. Since that time, Rahmon has used the threat of renewed civil conflict to vindicate his absolute rule.

The spectre of radical Islam emanating from neighbouring Afghanistan - where the Tajik population considerably outnumbers that of Tajikistan - has provided additional justification for Rahmon's repressive policies.

In today's Tajikistan even those with a university education find it almost impossible to earn a salary that would enable them to build a normal family life.

A Tajikistan family bakes bread in their home in the village of Dakhana Kiik. (AP: Sergei Grits)

Disempowered and humiliated by the system, they are easy prey for radical Islamic preachers who give them a sense of value and purpose.

The added backdrop of financial desperation makes for an explosive cocktail: one of the suspects in the recent Moscow attacks reportedly told his Russian interrogators that he was promised a cash reward of half a million Russian rubles (about US$5,300) to carry out his alleged atrocities..

Terrorism as desperation?

Normal, sane human beings everywhere are horrified by terrorist acts regardless of how they are justified by their perpetrators, and the long-suffering people of Tajikistan are no exception.

One of the four terrorism suspects Saidakrami Murodali Rachabalizoda sits in a glass cage in the Basmanny District Court in Moscow. (Reuters: Yulia Morozova)

But unfortunately, the conditions under which a small number of extremists can perceive the psychopathic murder of innocent civilians for cash or ideology as an attractive option show no signs of abating.

Russia's laughable attempt to somehow link the Moscow attacks to Ukraine is a clumsy diversion from the consequences of its relations with Central Asia.

[millythegoat]

Cody Gakpo has perfect Liverpool mentor in Roberto Firmino — Virgil van Dijk

By James Pearce

Virgil van Dijk believes Liverpool striker Cody Gakpo has the perfect mentor in departing “legend” Roberto Firmino.

The January signing from PSV Eindhoven lit up Sunday’s 7-0 demolition of Manchester United as he struck twice during a dazzling attacking display from Jurgen Klopp’s side.

Gakpo flourished in the false nine role that belonged to Firmino for so much of Klopp’s reign and Van Dijk is convinced that working with the Brazilian on a daily basis is rubbing off on his fellow Dutchman.

“It’s a very difficult position to play, but he learns from one of the best each and every day with Bobby Firmino,” Van Dijk said.

“I think that position of a false nine is Bobby Firmino’s. He’s the one that showed over the years how difficult it is for any other player to perform it, and also how hard it is for others to defend it.

“The winter isn’t an easy time to come to a club but Cody is settling in very well. He has to keep going, keep the confidence, keep the belief.  I think he will be fine for this club. He’s a fantastic player.”

The commanding centre-back was delighted by Liverpool’s relentlessness in the second half as they repeatedly tore United apart. Darwin Nunez scored two headers and Mohamed Salah also helped himself to a double as the Egyptian eclipsed Robbie Fowler’s club record of 128 Premier League goals.

“Very clinical. I think a lot of the goals were world class,” he added.

“The first one, the whole build up was outstanding. Cody cutting in on to his right foot, a quality finish.

“Darwin is causing chaos all the time with his speed, his passion and also with quality. And Mo showed why he is so important for this football club. He’s so influential with everything that’s been going on in a positive way over the years and hopefully he can keep that going.

“For him to be the all-time Premier League top scorer for Liverpool is something no-one should take for granted. He definitely shouldn’t and I won’t. He should not just brush it off because it’s something special.”

The biggest show of emotion was reserved for when Firmino swept home Liverpool’s seventh goal — two days after informing the club that he will leave when his contract expires this summer.

“You can’t deny how important he’s been for the success that we’ve had,” Van Dijk said.

“But as a human being as well, he’s a great guy and I wish him obviously all the best after the summer. For now, we still have targets to reach and he knows that and he wants to make sure that we fulfil them as well. He’s been so influential and he should definitely be remembered as one of the legends.”

A historic win was built on a solid defensive display as Klopp’s men kept a fifth successive clean sheet in the Premier League. However, Van Dijk says it will count for little if they don’t kick on and secure a top-four finish.

“I think especially the last three games gave me personally a very good feeling, the way we committed to defending and enjoying that clean sheet. Even when you are 4-0, 5-0 up, I think that’s the message to make sure that you don’t concede and stay focused. That was very good,” he said.

“We shouldn’t just brush this off like it’s any other day. We won 7-0 after the difficult season that we’ve had. You should be able to stand still and enjoy that a little bit, but on Monday it will be gone. Then the focus will turn towards Bournemouth (away on Saturday). That’s the reality and that’s the life we all live.

“It will be tough: 12.30, early kick-off, always difficult there, small stadium. We should be full of confidence but let’s be humble and ready.

“We should not take these results for granted but there are many more games to play in order to get what we want. In this case, that’s Champions League football.”

[serenailith]

the silent sounds of loneliness (best of my love)

for the @dreamlingbingo​ 

Square: c5 - turn over a new leaf (combined with march monthly prompt haunted by regrets) Word Count: 11454 Ship(s): dream of the endless/hob gadling, johanna constantine/rachel moodie Warnings: none Additional Tags:  alternate universe - human, age gap, age difference, hob gadling loves dream of the endless | morpheus, dream of the endless | morpheus loves hob gadling, though he doesn’t want to admit it, canonical child death (though in a different manner than canon), recluse!dream of the endless | morpheus, uni student/errand boy!hob gadling, anal sex, rimming Summary:

When Hob lands a job with Helping Hands, it's a dream come true for a poor uni student. He loves what he does, and he likes to think he's good at it. The only thing he isn't so sure about? The client. He hasn't seen nor spoken to the mysterious Morpheus, a reclusive man only doctors have seen over the last seven years. But between a sudden surge of courage and a lot of luck, everything changes.

In only six months, he learns more about life and love than he ever thought was possible.

Link: on ao3 masterlist

Hob stares up at the enormous house stretching before him. Mansion, really. He wraps a hand around an iron picket and lets out a low whistle. Early morning sunlight glints off massive windows, white brick surrounding the glass a sharp contrast to the dark grey masonry of the exterior. Large slabs of stone make up the walkway to the covered veranda. With a slow breath to steady his nerves, Hob walks to the gate and digs the keys from his pocket.

Unity Kincaid had warned him that the client is, for lack of better terminology, a recluse. No one besides his doctors had seen hide nor hair of him in seven years. Hob has no idea why–he hadn’t bothered to ask. What business is it of his? All he needs to worry about is doing a good job and getting paid. And damn, he can almost taste the influx of money from the job. It’s more than he’ll ever have made in one cheque.

It takes three different attempts before he locates the correct key for the front door, but find it he does. Twisting the key in the lock, he glances over his shoulder then pushes open the door. Dimness spreads before him. He inhales deeply before stepping inside.

A shiver races down his spine. A heavy silence lingers in the air, oppressive and suffocating. Hob can smell nothing but the faint hint of a cleanser and disuse. He takes another step, pushing the door closed behind him, and comes to a stop in the centre of the grand foyer.

On either side of the foyer are massive sets of ornate doors. He wonders where they lead, but he knows better than to go exploring. Unity said there would be a tablet waiting for him, and there it is, resting on top of the end newel of the sweeping staircase. Twin banisters curve outward as they stretch up the sides of the stairs until they reach a landing that overlooks the foyer. He gazes up into the darkness for a long moment then decides it isn’t worth trying to figure out what’s upstairs.

He digs out his phone to check the onboarding email Unity had sent, finds the six-digit passcode, and types it in. The only four apps on the device are the calendar, the camera, a photo gallery, and a to-do checklist. The calendar holds a schedule–doctor appointments in red squares, medication pick-ups in blue, his days off in sunshine yellow. The checklist has a list of tasks that need doing and which Hob is expected to do: Shop for groceries and essential items, pick up medications when needed, let the doctors in and show them out whenever the client has appointments. (Here, Hob snorts. What privilege must this man have that he can afford in-home doctor visits?). He’s also to clean the house but never go into two specific rooms: The one at the far end of the upstairs corridor and the one across the hall from it.

Hob’s curiosity grows instantly. What lies beyond those doors, then, that needs to be kept a secret? An urge to find out nearly overtakes him, but he manages to shake it off. Unfortunately, he already has one foot on the third step and is poised to continue up the stairs.

No, you bloody idiot. Keep to the rules. He needs this job too damn much to break the rules already–or ever. Sighing, he straightens his spine and goes back to the email. It says to check the gallery, so he does. The only photo is of a blueprint of the manor, each room except the forbidden ones marked and labelled in squared letters. The forbidden rooms have large Xes overlaid.

He studies the map for a moment longer then points himself in the direction of the kitchen. He might as well explore what he can, while he can.

It takes longer than he expected, but Hob finally feels like he’s memorised the layout of the manor rather well. At least, enough that he doesn’t think he’ll get lost in five seconds flat. The solarium, as notated on the map, had been his favourite room of all. Warm and full of sunshine, it made him want to sit down and never leave.

He makes his way back to the kitchen and plucks a piece of paper off the refrigerator door. He’d seen it on his walkthrough but decided to wait until he was finished to read it. Spidery letters spell out a list, this one of groceries. Hob wonders why this client doesn’t just order delivery. It’s a lot cheaper and faster.

But then again, if they’re as reclusive as Unity claims, of course they wouldn’t want delivery. The delivery people usually want to hand off directly to the recipient. Whoever this client is, Hob is rather jealous. They have wealth, and they have privilege. Too bad his twenty-year-old self doesn’t have the same.

Hob tucks the list into his pocket and heads to the front door. He might as well get a jump on his list of tasks. Whistling quietly, he locks up the house and ambles down the walkway to his car. The beat-up vehicle struggles to start before coming to life with a roar; Hob winces. This is a nice-with-a-capital-N neighbourhood. His lemon of a car doesn’t belong here, and there is no reason to draw attention to himself.

Shopping goes as well as it could. The email had stressed the importance of getting exactly what was on the list, down to the brand name and quantity, so Hob spent an inordinate amount of time comparing product to list. Three workers asked if he needed help, but he’d waved them off politely. How could he have explained his new boss is apparently the most particular person he has ever even heard of?

By the time he leaves five hours later, Hob has done fuck all. He’d gotten the groceries, sure, but there wasn’t much to clean and no medications to pick up. Easy money, he thinks, as he drives home, the wind slipping in through the open window. A bead of sweat drips down his back, pools at the base of his spine, and he squirms a bit in his seat. He really needs a new car, one with air-con. Thankfully, this job will make saving up easy.

Johanna and Rachel are already waiting at the New Inn by the time Hob arrives, freshly showered and ready to relax. Rachel waves him over, knowing full well he’s already seen them in their usual booth, and gestures to Alan for a new round of drinks. It’s a testament to how often the trio drinks here that there are no questions asked as to what they want to drink. Hob slides into the bench across from the women and swipes the pickle from Johanna’s plate. She scowls but doesn’t bother punishing him.

They all know she wasn’t planning on eating it.

“How was your first day?” Rachel asks, all but bouncing in her seat.

She’s been more excited about Hob’s new job than he has, and he’s been damn excited. Mostly about the prospect of money. Maybe now he can pay for nights out with his friends instead of Jo always paying the tab. She never complains, not really. Despite the gruff, acerbic facade, she’s quite a lovely woman, especially when Rachel is involved.

Hob still wonders how the two met in the first place. Rachel is vibrant, open and kind and always quick with a smile. Johanna is the complete opposite towards everyone who isn’t her girlfriend. They’ve never told Hob the story of their meeting, and he’s long stopped asking. Doesn’t stop him from imagining different scenarios, each more unlikely than the last.

Accepting the glass of whisky from Alan, Hob tells Rachel the truth: The day was uneventful, and he hasn’t yet met the client. “Ms Kincaid told me I probably never would, to be honest.”

“How the fuck does that even work?” Johanna asks. “Did he just ring in one day and go ‘Yeah, I need an errand boy to come ’round for a few hours and do what I refuse to do with my own two hands’?”

“I have no idea,” Hob replies with a laugh.

And he doesn’t. He’s new to this; he’d only applied at Helping Hands on a whim. A lark, truly. Hob couldn’t say where he even heard of the agency, but he had decided to throw in an application along with the seventy others he’d filled out. It’s a sad state of affairs when even retail won’t hire a willing applicant.

But Unity had taken a chance on a twenty-year-old with only handyman work on his CV. She’d warned him she was unwillingly, reluctantly throwing him to the wolves: “Everyone else I have has been dismissed by this particular client.”

Hob was–is–confident in his abilities to keep this job. He doesn’t scare easily, and he’s been told he is quite the charmer.

By the time the pub closes down for the night, Hob has spent four hours drinking and chatting with Johanna and Rachel. He goes with a woman named Claudia to her flat and doesn’t leave until half-six, when she kicks him out so she can get ready to go to class. They don’t bother exchanging numbers; they both know what the tryst was. It was merely a way to pass the time and satisfy needs, and nothing more.

Hob has to admit, as he’s walking back to his own rundown studio, he kind of misses the structure of a class schedule. He’d failed due to lack of attendance. Working two jobs made it impossible to have any time for something so trivial as schooling. There’s a small part of him that regrets not trying harder, not asking his parents for any sort of assistance. They would have helped without hesitation, but his pride had gotten in the way.

He wanted to be self-made, to make them proud of how hard he worked to reach the top.

He’ll never make it. He’s not naïve enough to actually think he will. But it’s a pleasant enough dream.

The manor is silent as it was the day before when Hob arrives. He locks the door behind him, just like the list of rules told him to, and checks his email for the day’s tasks. First up is sorting the post that waits in the box at the end of the walkway. He isn’t entirely sure what’s ‘important’, but he sets aside anything that looks like it may be junk. He leaves the legitimate post in the basket by the front door then turns to his next task: Cleaning.

Hob isn’t necessarily an untidy man. He keeps a clean enough home, he thinks. But here in this mansion, he feels as if he is the most unkempt human being on the planet. The only dust that lingers is the barest coating that he hadn’t wiped away yesterday. Everything has its place and is in said place. He can see no signs of life. Might as well be a mausoleum. He wonders if the client is even still alive, or if they’re actually dead and their estate is merely paying for the upkeep.

“Don’t be daft,” he chides himself as he gathers up the supplies. “Of course they’re still alive. The estate wouldn’t pay for groceries just for them to go to waste.”

Would they?

Hob quickly falls into a routine. He wakes in the morning and showers, feeds the neighbour’s cat while fighting to avoid the claws that swipe at him (one would think Shakespeare would warm up to Hob after five months of this, but no. The feeling is mutual, if Hob’s honest), then heads off to the mansion. It’s easy work, really, and he finds himself bored more often than not.

Two weeks in finds him saying “Fuck it” and baking a—quite frankly—absurd amount of brownies in the kitchen. He’s almost surprised that the client has so much cookware; then he remembers—recluse. He doesn’t get delivery. Wondering what the client makes for themself, Hob washes the dishes he uses and puts them away where he found them.

He leaves half of them in the refrigerator and takes the other half home. Johanna appreciates them, eating six in one sitting. Rachel refuses them, but Hob sees her sneaking a few into her bag before she exits his flat.

The brownies are gone from the refrigerator when he shows up for work the next day. All of them.

The job is as he thought—simple and straightforward. Unity emails on Friday evenings for a recap of his week, and his replies seem to assure her that there are no problems. And why would there be? He never sees the client, so there is no clash of personalities. There have been no complaints about how he cleans or his singing as he goes from room to room tidying up what doesn’t need tidied.

By the end of the first month, Hob can afford to get a new car on lease. He’s almost sad to say goodbye to the hunk of junk he’s called a vehicle for twelve years, but the new one more than makes up for it. It has air-con and heated front seats and windows that actually roll up and down as they’re meant to. He feels like a lottery winner as he drives back to his flat in the powder-blue sedan.

Hob finally learns the client’s name a week into the second month. Morpheus. There is no surname given, and Johanna doesn’t seem bothered by that. Hob doesn’t ask how she found out who his employer is, though he desperately wants to. There’s something about the way she can ferret out information that enthralls him; she always refuses to tell, so he’s learnt to stop asking. Rachel has promised to tell him one day, but Hob has no hope of that actually happening. She’s too loyal to her girlfriend of four years.

Hob should feel weird, uncomfortable, about the fact his two best friends are seven years older than he is. Neither Jo nor Rachel seem to mind that he’s only twenty, though. They treat him like the adult he is, though he can live without all the teasing Johanna does. He loves her as if she were his sister, and it’s all done in love, but damn, she can get mean without intending to. Product of her upbringing, he figures. He’s met her parents once. They weren’t exactly the loving, nurturing type.

It’s a wonder she came out as personable as she is.

He leaves the pub that night with a man named John and is unceremoniously shown the door immediately after. Hob doesn’t mind; the sex wasn’t that great anyway. The September night air steals his breath away as he waits for the ride-share to arrive. He shivers slightly at the cool breeze, tugging his jumper more tightly around him, and curses himself for not wearing his leather jacket like he planned. But Jo always takes the piss out of him for it, says it looks like he’s trying too hard to be a badass. Hob only cares that it’s warm.

Finally, he arrives home at half-three. He makes sure to rate the driver for not getting into an accident on the way or chatting the entire time. Hob’s head hurts now, and incessant conversation would have made it worse. He tosses his keys into the bowl on the table by the door, toes off his trainers, and stumbles toward the couch. Making it to his bed isn’t on the agenda for the night.

He falls asleep almost instantly.

Unfortunately, he only has ten minutes the next morning before he has to leave for work. Not showering is not an option, so he does so in icy water. The water’s just begun warming up by the time he steps out of the shower stall. Cursing under his breath, he speeds through getting dressed and brushing out the tangles in his hair. He’s meant to get it cut for the last two months, but something always stops him. He frowns at his reflection and tells himself to set an appointment as soon as possible.

Hob taps in the tablet’s PIN a mere minute before the hour changes over. Unity had made a big deal about him being on time. He hadn’t known in the beginning that the tablet keeps record of when he unlocks it, but he’d found out quick when she called him up to ask why he was late:

“We try to not make our clients wait.”

In his defence, Hob has never even met this Morpheus fellow. He is honestly beginning to doubt he ever will.

The mansion feels more like a mausoleum with every passing day. There is hardly ever anything to really do: An hour every couple of days is spent cleaning, dusting, and generally tidying rooms that don’t appear to have ever been stepped into. More often than not, though, he wastes away the time by lounging on a couch in the most exquisite study he’s ever seen, reading books he never would have gotten his hands on otherwise. Being a poor uni student doesn’t exactly lend itself to a lavish lifestyle. Hob finds himself jealous of this man he’ll never see.

Wealth, privilege, and access to such fantastic reading material… Hob wonders if Morpheus knows just how damn lucky he is. If Hob had this life, he would never take it for granted.

He certainly wouldn’t have to juggle his studies and his job. He’d be able to forgo one or the other, anyway. Perhaps he wouldn’t. He does like gaining knowledge, and he does enjoy working. At the very least, he likes making money.

Thankfully, Unity assures him that the client knows of his schedule and is willing to work around it, except for days on which there are appointments. Those days, Hob is expected to skip class long enough to do as his job requires. It isn’t much of a sacrifice, really, Hob thinks. It’s only one measly class, and he can easily make up for the time lost.

So it goes. August has faded into September which melts into October. Three months without a single sighting of his boss, and a balance in his bank account that he can actually be proud of. Hob decides to take his parents and siblings out for dinner—and doesn’t even sweat when his dad orders a whisky and his mum two glasses of wine. Hob even splurges on dessert for everyone. They have to share, but it’s an extra expense nonetheless.

He makes a mistake at work. It’s a simple one, inconsequential, though he still must fix it: He does the shopping as he’s meant to, but he forgets to pick up the medication refills on his way back to the mansion. He doesn’t realise it until he finishes putting the eggs in the refrigerator and reaches for the pill-keeper.

The bag with the bottles isn’t on the counter like it should be, so Hob bustles out of the house. The quicker he retrieves the medications, the less likely it is that Unity will find out about his lapse in memory. He doesn’t think she or Morpheus would fire him, especially not since he’s rectifying the mistake, but Hob doesn’t want to take chances.

He makes it to the pharmacy and back in less than an hour. It’s a record, he thinks, considering the massive queue he’d had to wait in. But it’s over now. He can fill the pill-keeper then go home to… do nothing, really. Hob is pathetic enough to have no plans on a Friday. Even Johanna has plans, and she’s the type to stay home because she dislikes people so much.

He opens the little box for Tuesday and reaches for the anti-anxiety pills. The hair on the back of his neck rises, skin prickling, and Hob freezes. Is he going to die? Has someone broken into the manor and he just hadn’t heard? It wouldn’t be that much of a surprise, not with how cavernous the house is.

He fists the orange bottle—he could probably use the pills as a diversion by throwing them in the intruder’s face before rushing them, if it comes to it—before turning around. There in the doorway stands a pale-skinned figure. Wide grey-blue eyes stare back at Hob from under a shock of raven hair. The man’s lips part on a quiet, shuddering gasp, then he’s gone from view. Hob listens to the pattering thud of footsteps on the steps before a door upstairs slams.

Hob isn’t entirely sure, but he thinks he just got his first look at the elusive Morpheus.

He takes his time organising the tablets and putting them in the pill-keeper. If he moves any quicker, he will make a mistake. Morpheus may be a grown adult who can double-check his medications before taking them, but that doesn’t mean Hob should be careless. It would be just his luck that he’ll lose his job over it and never get a better look at the client.

Don't be stupid. He warns himself that it’s a poor reason to want to do his job properly. He should want to do it for the sake of doing it. That has to be good enough.

Once he’s finished, Hob puts the keeper away and unlocks the electronic tablet. He taps the square on the to-do list, waits until the checkmark fills the box, then sets the device aside. There is nothing else to do, so he heads toward the door. He’s just grabbed his keys from the hook when he glances up the stairs.

He wonders what Morpheus does all day, why he hides himself away so much. Surely whatever the reason is can’t be that bad, can it?

Shaking his head, Hob steps out onto the covered veranda and locks the door behind him. There’s no point in speculating on something he will never learn. It’s best to just forget his ruminations and that he’s ever seen Morpheus.

Unfortunately for him, Hob can’t let it go. The memory haunts him for weeks. He dreams about seeing Morpheus for those few seconds. He can’t stop wondering if it’ll happen again. Hob is… He’s almost desperate for another look. He likes what he saw. It wasn’t much—even he can admit that—but it was enough to catch his attention. The eyes… It’s the startling grey-blue of Morpheus’s eyes that Hob sees most in his dreams. They held such depth, and Hob wants to drown in them.

He sighs and reminds himself he’s never talked to the bloke. Hell, he’s barely even seen him. It’s absurd to be so hung up on someone he will never know.

I’m sorry for startling you a few weeks ago.

There. Simple, to the point, and professional. Hob sticks the note to the fridge with a handprint magnet before heading off to hide in the study. He’s made it through the entire collected works of Poe and started on Lovecraft. He has studiously avoided Shakespeare (he still has nightmares of having to perform Romeo and Juliet in year nine, and he really detests his neighbour’s cat), but his to-read pile is growing steadily larger the more he spends time in Morpheus’s study.

Thankfully, he hasn’t been found out, judging by the fact he hasn’t been reprimanded by Morpheus or Unity. So Hob continues to push his luck by rushing through his tasks then slipping through the doors of the study, sitting behind the mahogany desk, and sloughing through the stack of books he’d set aside.

He stops by the shops on his way home to purchase a small square notebook and a pack of pens.

Over the next two weeks, Hob leaves notes pinned to the refrigerator door: wishes for Morpheus to have a good day, ramblings about the weather and the latest news (he isn’t sure if Morpheus even watches the news; Hob hates doing so. It’s always so disheartening). He writes about his days. Once, he even apologises for the enormous aloe plant dying. He thought he’d been taking care of it, but evidently not.

He’s putting away groceries on the second day of the third week of leaving the notes, when he hears footsteps behind him. He tenses, hesitates, then turns. No one is there, but on the counter is a folded piece of paper. His head tilts, and Hob frowns. Had it been there before now, or did Morpheus leave it within the last minute?

Hob shrugs and crosses the kitchen to pluck up the paper. In the same spidery letters as on the grocery lists are the words Thank you for your hard work. At the bottom, Morpheus has written Do not worry about the aloe plant. It was an unwelcome gift from a sibling. I should thank you for killing it.

It’s so stupid that Hob beams and tucks the paper into his pocket. He knows the note means nothing, but it’s something.

Hob goes home with a stronger desire to actually meet this Morpheus, to see his face once more.

He writes even more notes. These are more personal, having been struck with the urge to let this elusive man know about him. It makes no sense—Hob doesn’t know this man, but maybe that’s the problem. Maybe Hob can’t handle the unknown. No, he can’t. He knows that. He likes figuring out everything that life has to offer. His may not be glamorous, but it’s his, and that’s all that really matters. Why shouldn’t he know all there is to know about it?

Dream tells him little in return, though it doesn’t discourage Hob at all. He merely continues writing notes; if he’s become a perfectionist about his handwriting over the last month and a half, no one needs to know. No one needs to know that he spends over an hour rewriting the notes until the words are perfect, letters evenly spaced and legible.

Before Hob knows it, Christmas is on the horizon. He can hardly believe it’s been almost four months since he first began working for Helping Hands and, by association, Morpheus. As he sits in the study a week before Christmas, he finds himself unable to focus on the book in front of him. Does Morpheus have someone coming to visit, or will he spend the holidays alone?

The very idea that Morpheus would be by himself on Christmas is absolutely depressing.

But there’s really nothing Hob can do. It isn’t like he could spend the holidays with Morpheus, though the thought is enticing.

I hope you have a wonderful Christmas. See you in the new year. Hob pins the note to the refrigerator before leaving the house two days before Christmas. Snow swirls around him as he steps out onto the veranda, and he tugs his coat more closely around him before starting the trek to his car. The heating system kicks on as soon as he starts the engine, though it blows icy air for a few minutes. He grimaces and shivers until the air turns warm.

For some inexplicable reason, he glances through the windscreen toward the house. The upstairs window, more specifically. A figure stands there, peering around the curtains. The man’s skin is pale, and the black his hair blends into the shadows behind him. Even through the distance, Hob can see the way his eyes are narrowed.

He raises a hand and waves at Morpheus. Morpheus lets the curtains drop into place.

He spends Christmas at his parents’ and New Year’s with Johanna, Rachel, and a few of Rachel’s artsy friends. Hob knows he doesn’t belong amongst these people—they’re all older, more sophisticated, more educated—but Jo wouldn’t let him leave even if he tried. So he grits his teeth and tolerates the silent judgement.

He also gets very, very intoxicated.

Thankfully, the new year brings a sense of calm. Hob goes to his classes once they start up again, and he goes to work. He falls into the routine easily and rather enjoys it. Unity compliments his work ethic—and the fact he’s gone four months without a single complaint from ‘the client’. Hob is only thankful it’s a phone call and not an in-person meeting; having his boss watch him preen at the praise would be devastatingly mortifying.

The new year also brings an enormous rise in his courage. Hob leaves another note on the refrigerator: May I see you? If Morpheus says no, then it isn’t surprising, nor would it be disappointing. If he says yes… Oh, but then it’ll be a dream come true for Hob. He wonders if it would be anything like his fantasies, where Morpheus would realise Hob is a decent bloke if a bit young, and they’d strike up an unlikely friendship. Maybe Hob would find out why Morpheus stays locked away.

It’s two weeks into the year when the doctor comes. Hob lets her in and sits in the plush chair in the foyer to wait for her to finish. The hour ticks by slowly; he wishes he’d brought a book, but it’s too late to sneak into the study now. He should have paid better attention to the time, since he knew this appointment had been scheduled for today. Thankfully, before he decides to start counting the wavy lines in the marble floor, the doctor descends the stairs and heads for the door. Her trainers squeak on the floor with each step.

“He will have a new prescription to pick up tomorrow,” she says briskly as she passes Hob. “Do remember to collect it.”

“I always do.”

She gives a succinct nod then vanishes out into the freezing January air. Hob watches her get into her car then drive away, before locking the door. When he turns around, he runs a hand through his hair and gazes around the foyer. Something catches his attention, and he nearly shrieks. Thankfully, he clamps his teeth together in time, though he can’t stop the muffled shout.

There, at the top of the staircase, stands Morpheus. He blinks placidly down at Hob, but something in his expression doesn’t ring true. Hob recognises it, has felt it often enough: Morpheus is nervous about something.

“Oh. Hello.”

“Hello.”

Hob suppresses a shiver at the rich, low timbre of Morpheus’s voice. “I, er, wasn’t expecting to see you?”

“I suppose not.” Morpheus squares his shoulders, adjusts the front of his silken black robe. “I have… appreciated your work these past few months.”

“I’ve enjoyed doing it.”

“And your messages.”

“Ah. Those. They’re nothing, really.”

Morpheus frowns, gaze dropping to the floor. “I do not believe that,” he finally says. “They mean something to me.”

“Oh.”

And isn’t that something. Hob tucks his hands into his pockets and very nearly scuffs the toe of his trainer against the floor. He doesn’t, purely out of willpower, but he certainly feels like a child caught unawares.

“Have you enjoyed my study?”

At this, Hob’s head snaps up, and he stares at Morpheus with wide eyes. He knows? Of course he does, Hob’s brain whispers. It’s his house. Why wouldn’t he know what goes on in it? But then, why hasn’t he said anything?

“I—I’m sorry. I know I probably don’t have any right to go in there, I certainly don’t have permission, but—”

“I don’t mind, Mister…?”

“Gadling. Hob.”

Morpheus’s eyes narrow, and he slowly descends the staircase. “And how old are you, Hob Gadling?”

“Twenty, sir. Why?”

“There is no reason beyond curiosity, don’t worry.” Morpheus comes to a stop on the bottom step and scrutinises Hob more closely. Hob barely manages to not shiver beneath the intensity of the stare. “May I ask why you wished to see me?”

“Curiosity, really.”

Hob mentally curses at himself for the answer. Morpheus isn’t some specimen on display, meant only for people to gawk at as if he’s an oddity of some kind. No, he’s a human being with what Hob can only imagine is a good reason to stay away from humanity. Hob is such an idiot.

But… Morpheus is smiling. It’s barely an upward curve of his lips, but it’s a smile nonetheless. “Would you like a cup of tea, Hob Gadling?”

“Of—of course, sir.”

The man turns out to be nothing like Hob imagined but so much more. He carries himself as royalty would, though his fingers tremble as he holds his mug. His words falter on occasion, and he frowns more than Hob thinks is normal. His grey-blue eyes rarely meet Hob’s. He may seem unbothered, imperial, but there’s something beneath the surface that says otherwise.

The pair discusses books that Hob has read, his opinions and philosophies. They talk about Hob’s dislike for Shakespeare, both playwright and cat. Morpheus listens as Hob tells him stories of his childhood he never relayed before.

The hours slip away from them. By the time Hob realises what time it is, he was meant to go home nearly two hours ago. His tea has long gone cold, and he hurriedly swallows the dregs before rising to his feet. Morpheus’s lips turn down in the corners as he gazes at Hob. Hob gives an awkward shrug.

“Sorry, I just—I have to go. I have schoolwork I haven’t done yet.”

“Of course. Have a good night, Hob.”

“Thanks, sir. You, too. And… Thanks for talking to me.”

As Hob exits the kitchen, he thinks he hears, “Thank you for seeing me.” He wants to turn back, to confirm that Morpheus actually said it, but he wasn’t lying. He has too many essays to write and worksheets to fill out. So he clocks out on the tablet and heads to his car.

No one stands in the upstairs window to watch him leave.

Morpheus is waiting for Hob when he returns to the mansion with the medication the next day. Hob hides his surprise; he’d assumed it was a one-time thing, seeing Morpheus. Today’s conversation occurs while Hob puts the pills in the keeper. Hob thinks it should be awkward, doing his job with his boss at the island counter behind him, but it’s easy. It’s easy to let the words flow, more stories of his youth and his family.

Morpheus swallows up the tales eagerly. It’s almost as if he desires to hear about wild escapades and siblings and—

Does Morpheus even have siblings? Hob aches to ask, but it’s outside the realm of professional. Then again, so is chatting with Morpheus like they’re even friends.

Who cares about professionalism when you’ve finally got the chance to talk to the man? Hob cares, so he bites his tongue to stop the questions. He doesn’t ask after Morpheus’s family, he doesn’t ask about Morpheus’s life. He only tells Morpheus what he wants to hear and lets the enquiries fester in the back of his mind.

So it goes. Each day Morpheus is waiting, and each day, Hob has more memories to recall. He tells Morpheus of the time he and Johanna were arrested for public intoxication despite the fact they were only walking to the next street to get to Rachel’s SUV. Of course, the arrest probably had something to do with Jo getting into a physical altercation with a man who was pestering a woman just trying to go about her way. Hob was merely a victim of circumstance, and he paid the price for his best friend’s chivalry.

It isn’t until the week of Valentine’s Day, three weeks later, that Hob finally acknowledges what he’d been trying to deny since he first spoke with Morpheus: Hob is absolutely, undeniably falling for the enigmatic man. There is still so much he doesn’t know about Morpheus, but it doesn’t seem to matter. He yearns to spend more time with the man and to actually hear about Morpheus, though he knows it will never happen. Morpheus is too much a mystery, with too many closely-guarded secrets that Hob will never know. He wants to hear Morpheus’s laugh and know his hopes. Hob doesn’t even care if Morpheus ever tells him why he stays hidden away. He just… wants Morpheus.

He’s woken too often in the night, aching to phone Morpheus or to hold his hand as if they are sweethearts in primary. He dreams of what it might be like to kiss Morpheus, even with the knowledge that it would most likely not be like his dreams. It’s worth the loneliness, Hob thinks when he wakes after a night of imagining far more than filthy kisses with his boss. He at least has enough respect to not stroke himself to completion on the mornings after those dreams.

He only takes cold showers and wills his libido—and desires—to calm.

Everything comes to a head, as is wont to do. Morpheus and Hob sit in the study, both reading to themselves but occasionally reciting passages to share with one another. Hob rises to his feet and makes his way to the shelf that contains the collection he’d read a week ago, the poem that says what he wishes he could say in his own words.

“‘I crave your mouth’,” he begins, ignoring Morpheus’s sharp inhale, “‘your voice, your hair. Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day. I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps’.”

Morpheus closes his book and sits back in his chair. His voice is rough, low, when he says Hob’s name. Hob closes his eyes against the shiver racing down his spine and waits for Morpheus’s next words. Instead, he gets footsteps padding across the room, a soft, cool hand against his cheek.

“You know not what you say.”

“I know enough.” Hob finally meets Morpheus’s gaze. “I dream of you. Nearly every night, you haunt me. I… I don’t know how else to tell you that…”

“That what, Hob Gadling?”

“That you’re what I want.”

Morpheus’s fingers cradle Hob’s chin, then his grip tightens until Hob clumsily rises to his feet. They’re the same height, but Hob feels so much smaller. He shudders when he sees the heat in Morpheus’s eyes, the want in the bow of his mouth. Then that damned mouth is on Hob’s, and the world explodes around him.

With a low groan, Hob presses closer only to be forcibly turned to walk backwards toward the door. The two part only to stumble up the stairs together. Hob registers that they’re tumbling through the door to one of the forbidden rooms, but he gives less of a damn than he thought he would. He’s no longer curious about what lies inside—at least, not at the moment. That’s liable to change the instant Morpheus isn’t causing his blood to boil with nothing more than a tight grip and fervent kisses.

Morpheus wastes little time in steering Hob toward the bed; the two men fall to the mattress in a tangle of limbs. Hob whimpers into the kiss when Morpheus nips at his lower lip. HIs cock twitches in the confines of his jeans, and he wonders if this is how he will die—in the throes of desire and need while his boss (fuck, his boss) devours him whole.

“Are you sure?” he pants as soon as Morpheus pulls back for a breath.

“More than you could know” is the response given on a harsh rasp.

Hob shifts, slides his thigh between Morpheus’s, and drags the older man down for another kiss. This one is just as graceless and filthy and begging for so much. Promising even more. Hob will not leave this house until he’s given Morpheus all he will take. He has been called greedy dozens of times in his life, but this? This is one area he refuses to be selfish in.

So like a teenager, Morpheus ruts against Hob’s thigh, his hands locked in Hob’s hair, and he gasps when one of Hob’s hands slides along his back to dip under the band of his pyjama bottoms. There’s nothing underneath. Hob groans against Morpheus’s mouth and lays his hand flat against Morpheus’s arse, pulling him even closer.

“Fuck, love,” he nearly whines when Morpheus gives a rough tug of his hair.

Morpheus lifts his hips long enough for Hob to slip a hand between them; his cock is hard, leaking, by the time Hob wraps his fingers around the length. He rests his weight on his elbows, fucking into the circle of Hob’s fist as he buries his face against Hob’s throat. He lets out a long keening sound as his hips move faster, and Hob stretches his arm further to press a finger against Morpheus’s hole.

Morpheus comes without warning, with a cry of Hob’s name.

“I—I’m sorry,” he mutters moments later, though he doesn’t move from where he’s sprawled atop Hob. “I…”

“It’s okay. Not a problem at all. I’m taking it as a fucking compliment, thank you very much.”

Hob releases Morpheus’s softening cock and pulls his hand away. Morpheus lifts his head in time to see Hob licking his fingers clean. The whimper he lets out would force Hob into orgasm were he to have been focusing on himself at all. As it is, he wants nothing more than to continue pleasing Morpheus. His own pleasure can wait.

Except it can’t, judging by the fact that Morpheus is sliding gracefully along Hob’s body. He glances up through thick lashes as his hands make quick work of unbuttoning Hob’s jeans; Hob barely gets his hips lifted before Morpheus is tugging down his jeans and boxers. His hand presses to Hob’s stomach, fingernails scratching lightly, then he takes Hob into his mouth in one smooth move.

“Fuck!”

Morpheus hums around Hob’s cock, and Hob has to clap a hand over his mouth before he shouts again. There is no one else here, no one else around, but it feels taboo to bring attention to what he’s doing right now. With his boss, no less. Maybe that’s what makes it feel so right despite being so wrong. He moans when Morpheus slides a hand between his thighs. Presses against his hole before slipping just the tip of his finger inside.

Just before Hob can leap over the edge, Morpheus pulls away and stares through the dimness at Hob. “Roll over.”

And who is Hob to argue with that voice, the one that brooks no argument? He does as commanded, yelping when Morpheus's hands tug on his hips. Morpheus nips at the curve of his arse before whispering an order for Hob to place a pillow beneath him. The cool silk of the pillowcase feels wonderful against his overheated skin, and he melts into the chill. Of course that’s when he loses all sense of anything but the press of Morpheus’s tongue against his hole, thumbs holding Hob’s arsecheeks apart. The heat of his breath ghosting along Hob’s flesh, the sparks lighting up along his spine.

Hob has never, never, never been on the receiving end of this, though he’s given plenty of times before. He never imagined it could feel so great. Perhaps, he’d thought, his former lovers had been merely attempting to make him feel as if he was better in bed than reality. He whines and moans and clutches at the bedsheets as Morpheus’s tongue mercilessly fucks into him.

It takes two strokes of a cool hand on his cock before Hob is spilling a release all over Morpheus’s fist, the pillow, and the bedsheets beneath him.

He collapses to the mattress as Morpheus runs a soothing hand down his flank. “Shit, love, I think you’ve done it. I think you’ve killed me.”

“You exaggerate.”

“Well, I can guarantee you’ve ruined me for anyone else.”

“And I’ve not even fucked you properly yet.”

Hob’s cock gives a valiant twitch, and he groans at the words. That’s all he can think about now. How it would feel to have Morpheus fuck him as roughly as he had with his tongue. How amazing it would be to be filled with Morpheus’s cock for as long as he can. He aches for the stretch. He is, as an ex-boyfriend claimed, a slut for a good cock, and Morpheus? Well, he’s got the best one Hob has ever seen.

They lie there together for the next hour, silent and still save for Morpheus’s index finger running up and down Hob’s spine. Hob, for his part, is struggling to keep his hands to himself. He doesn’t want to push before Morpheus is ready; it’s taken months to get to this point in the first place. He’d hate to ruin it by being selfish and demanding.

In the end, it isn’t Hob who demands. It’s Morpheus who leaves burning kisses across Hob’s shoulders. It’s Morpheus who reaches toward the bedside table and extracts a tube of lubricant. He bites down where Hob’s neck meets his shoulder, grinning against the skin when Hob lets out a sharp cry. It hurts, and God, does Hob love it. He wants more. Probably more than Morpheus will give him. Definitely more than is appropriate.

Five minutes of meticulous prep later, Morpheus helps Hob roll onto his back before pushing into him with a tenderness that is at odds with the throbbing in the bite mark left behind. Morpheus gazes down at Hob steadily; the gentle glow of the moon casts stars in his blue eyes, and Hob reaches up with one hand to tug him down for a kiss. It’s softer now, more tame. They share breaths for a long moment before Hob nods once. He’s ready.

He needs it.

He yearns for it.

He craves it, and it hasn't even truly begun.

His legs tighten around Morpheus’s waist, pull him in with each thrust, and Morpheus exhales slowly—unsteadily—as he shoves his hips forward. With a soft sigh, Hob lets his head fall back to the mattress, and he closes his eyes. Morpheus’s cock drags along his prostate, and Hob knows he won’t last. Not with as much as he wants this.

Morpheus moves slowly, a tantalising pace that is just enough to keep Hob on the edge. Hob moans and scrabbles to cling to Morpheus. His fingernails find a hold in the pale skin, and Hob bites down on his bottom lip when Morpheus lets out a bitten-off gasp. His hips move faster, though still too slow, and Hob could cry with it.

Pleas spill from his lips—a litany of babbled desire that hardly makes sense even to himself—and Morpheus leans down to kiss away the words. Hob’s hands slide along the warm body until they press to sharp shoulderblades. One hand continues, cupping the back of Morpheus’s neck, and a burst of hot breath gusts along Hob’s cheek. The laugh goes ignored.

Hob was right, he thinks when Morpheus pulls back, straightens his spine, and fucks into him with a rough thrust. Hob will never find anyone to make him feel like this. Morpheus has ruined him. Sex is good and all, but it’s different with Morpheus. It could be everything, if Hob lets it.

He wants to let it.

He curses when Morpheus wraps fingers around his cock, stroking in time with each thrust that rocks his body; the crooked grin Morpheus sends him brings a boil to Hob’s blood. He groans and bears down on Morpheus’s dick; he’s never cared much one way or the other, but now… Now he wants to feel Morpheus filling him up.

He isn’t disappointed. Not even seconds after he comes across his own belly, he feels the hot spurts of Morpheus’s release. Another splatter of cum drips from the head of his cock at the sensation.

“You, love, are a dream come true,” Hob murmurs shakily before dragging Morpheus down for a kiss, disregarding the mess between them as Morpheus rests over him.

“You are more than I imagined,” Morpheus whispers against his lips.

Hob huffs out a laugh at that. If anyone is more, it’s Morpheus. Morpheus has proven himself better than Hob’s fantasies. He’s starred in many a dream, but none of them have come close to reality. This… This is something Hob will remember for the rest of his life.

He remembers to clock out on time, but then Morpheus drags him back up to the bedroom.

Hob doesn’t leave Morpheus’s bed until near dawn the next morning. He drives home in the grey dark of early morning, aching and devastatingly satisfied. His mind replays the night, the hours spent in Morpheus’s bed, the touches and kisses that lit his nerves anew. He gets home, locks the door behind him, and falls facefirst onto his couch.

He falls asleep to the memory of being full of both cock and love.

A woman stands just outside Morpheus’s front door when Hob climbs out of his car only hours later. She takes a step forward into the weak February sunlight, and he eyes the envelope in her hands. Her wire-rimmed glasses glint golden in the sun; on her face is a severe yet unreadable expression. Hob feels much like a chastised child with no clue what he’s done.

“Mister Gadling, I presume?”

Hob nods then clears his throat. “Yeah. What’s, er, what’s going on?

“Mister Emrys no longer requires your services. Consider this your severance. If you would please return to your vehicle and leave, it would be appreciated.”

Hob gapes but doesn’t take the envelope she holds out. What? Morpheus… Morpheus doesn’t want Hob around? Hob can’t make heads nor tails of the situation. Everything had been fine—had been great—when he’d left. He can still feel the aftermath of everything they had done. But now he’s being unceremoniously evicted from the property for a reason he can’t find.

“Sir?”

He finally pinches the edge of the envelope with two shaking fingers and turns away from the woman. There is no point in arguing, he knows it. She looks like the type of woman to phone the police if the situation calls for it, and Hob refusing to leave Morpheus’s home is definitely a situation that warrants a police presence.

He’d had plans for today, damn it. He wanted to read more with Morpheus, he wanted to—let’s face it, he thinks. He wanted to make love with Morpheus, be the one to push into him so carefully and make sure Morpheus could feel the depths of Hob’s feelings. A month of constant talking, months of notes passed back and forth, and one perfect night is all Hob gets from this ordeal.

He glances through the windscreen. Morpheus stands at the upstairs window. Hob wants to get out of his car. He wants to storm inside and shake Morpheus until he gives answers, until he explains what the fuck is going through his head.

Morpheus lets the curtains drop into place, and Hob feels his heart stutter. Collapse into nothingness.

He manages to drive home and get inside before the tears win the fight. Hob throws the envelope onto the counter before stumbling to his bedroom. He sits on the edge of his bed, head in hands, and lets himself feel all the pain he’d hoped to never feel again. He thought it was bad when he broke it off with Eleanor because he knew he couldn’t handle a long-distance relationship, but this… This might actually be worse.

Jo finds him later that night in the New Inn, already six beers and two shots of whisky in. She takes one look at his face, orders another round, and drops onto the stool beside him. They drink in silence; she doesn’t want to hear his problems, and he doesn’t want to talk about them.

The next morning, he doesn’t remember how he got home.

He phones the Helping Hands office and quits.

He spends the next week looking for a new job during the day and his nights at the New Inn, drinking until he forgets even his own name. Unity sends one final email congratulating him on such hard work, promising a recommendation should he need it for his next job, and apologising for how abruptly his employment with the agency ended: You were such a wonderful employee, and I know the client appreciated all you did for him. Yeah, Hob thinks, Morpheus appreciated it so much, he fucked me and ditched me. The pain starts all over again.

His mum is less than pleased that he lost his employment at Helping Hands—“You worked so hard and did so well, what happened?” His dad only tells him to keep his chin up—“You’ll find something, lad.” Nothing will compare to the job he had. He loved working as what amounted to little more than an errand boy. Even before he ever started writing notes to Morpheus, Hob enjoyed what he did. It was easy work, and it was nice to not have anyone pestering him to work harder. What happened with Morpheus was only a bonus, even though it turned out to be one helluva beautiful mistake.

It takes another two weeks (and asking his parents for rent money), but Hob finally manages to get a job as a courier for a solicitor’s office. He still drinks every night, but Johanna only joins him less than half the time. After the fifth night in a row of destroying their livers, she’d snapped at him without remorse.

“You’re a grown man, Gadling. Either deal with the shit that happened, whatever it is, or keep drinking yourself into a hole. But don’t expect to drag me down with you.”

Rachel perches on the stool next to him one evening, nearly two months after his night with Morpheus. She asks for a martini then crosses her arms on the bar-top. He ignores her and finishes his beer, gesturing for another.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” she starts, rolling her eyes when Hob interrupts her with a derisive snort. She continues without acknowledging the interruption further, “I don’t know what happened, but I’m here if you need to talk.”

“Nothing to talk about,” he snaps.

“Yes, because that was so believable.” Rachel sighs and accepts her drink with a smile at the bartender. When he moves on to the next patron, she takes a sip before setting the glass down. “Have you not noticed that nobody wants to be around you when you’re like this?”

The words hit Hob like a punch to the gut. He squeezes his eyes closed, but the tear slips free anyway. Rachel murmurs low in her throat and tugs on his hand. He stumbles after her to the corridor leading to the toilets. Her arms wrap around his neck, and he lets her pull him into a tight embrace. She doesn’t shush him, doesn’t say a word except ‘That’s it, sweets, let it out’ as he cries. He should feel pathetic, sobbing like this in his best friend’s arms so long after he got his heart broken, but he knows Rachel would never judge him.

Not even Johanna would.

Hob finally manages to blubber out the story of what happened, of how he stupidly fell in love with his boss, slept with said boss, and was pushed aside as if none of it mattered at all. Rachel’s grip tightens, and her voice shakes as she tells him everything will be okay.

“You just need some time, and I need to find this prick and—”

“And nothing, Rache.” Hob pulls back and wipes at his eyes with his palms. “He showed me what I meant to him, and… I can’t change it. I can only accept it. You kicking his arse won’t do a damn bit of good.”

“It’ll make me feel better. And it might even cheer you up.”

“Doubt it, but thanks.”

Rachel sighs and brushes away a stray tear with her fingertips. “Look, Hobsie. No matter what he made you believe with this shit, you deserve better. Okay? So forget him. Stop drinking so much, focus on your schooling and job, and everything will work out. I promise.” Hob only nods in response. She smiles and laces their fingers together. “Good, now let’s go finish our drinks and go home. Jo won’t mind if you stay at ours tonight.”

Jo doesn’t mind at all. However, she makes Hob swear that he’ll make pancakes and waffles in the morning. He does so willingly.

His studio flat is a mess when Hob walks in the next day. Dishes clutter up the countertops, and mugs and empty beer bottles spread across the coffee table. He sighs and heads to the kitchen. He might as well follow Rachel’s advice to get his life in order, starting with this bullshit.

By the time he finishes clearing out the rubbish, scrubbing filth from plates and forks, and washing three loads of laundry, the sun has begun to set, and he actually feels better. Less like he’s on the verge of falling apart, as if one wrong move will shatter him. He finds himself thinking of Morpheus without the agony from before. It’s a dull ache, the ghost of want that has plagued him since After. He finishes sorting through all the post he’s let collect in a pile on the counter, frowning when he sees an envelope with a blank face.

Hob tosses the junk mail into the bin before sliding his finger under the flap. Inside is a cheque and a folded sheet of paper. He doesn’t recognise the handwriting on the cheque, but he remembers now. He recalls the woman handing him this very envelope: Consider this your severance. Hob sets the envelope and cheque on the counter, clenches one hand into a fist, and squeezes his eyes closed at the wave crashing over him. He’d somehow forgotten, in all his drunken hours and time spent working and in school, exactly how that morning had gone. After a moment, he pulls out the folded paper.

The spidery handwriting forces open the rift in Hob’s chest, and he chokes on a broken sob even as he reads Morpheus’s words.

Hob, I am truly sorry for this. You do not deserve what I am about to do. You have been a tremendous help in more ways than you shall ever know. Your kindness has helped heal a wound that has been festering inside of me, eating away at the very heart of who I am. I will never be able to find the words to show my appreciation for all that you are, all that you have done for me and will do for this world. My sincerest apologies for hurting you the way that I am. Forgive me, though I have no hope of ever deserving that forgiveness.

I hope you have stopped dreaming of me. Much like your forgiveness, I am not worthy of it.

Yours, Morpheus

“What a load of shite,” Hob snarls though he can’t drag his gaze away from Yours. “Mine, are you? Mine? Then you better fucking prove it, you prick.”

Deciding that action is better than standing around shrieking curses at the unresponsive air, Hob storms out of the flat and down to his car. Yours. Yours. Yours. God, does he hope it’s true. He hopes it isn’t too late.

He hopes that Morpheus will forgive him should he be compelled to actually punch the man in the face.

A beat-up two-door sits in front of the house when Hob pulls up. He parks behind the compact, turning off the engine with a vicious twist of the key. Praying no one notices him, he stomps up to the front door and reaches for a key he no longer has. It’s an attempt borne of desperation, but he tries the knob anyway.

The door is unlocked.

Someone is going to get fired, he thinks even as he quietly slips inside. The foyer looks the same. Nothing has changed, and that alone hurts Hob’s heart. He’d hoped, before everything went to shit, that things would be different for Morpheus. That he’d make different decisions and do what he could to make himself happy.

Hob had hoped it would be him to make Morpheus happy.

He sneaks up the stairs on near-silent footsteps and stops just at the top. He remembers clearly which door is the one he seeks; he just needs to find the courage. Now that he’s here, confronted with his own stupid idea, Hob isn’t so sure he can follow through. What if Morpheus turns him away again?

“How did you get in here?”

Hob turns to see a young Black woman with a rainbow in her hair. She frowns and walks closer, closing the door to one of the guest rooms behind her. Hob swallows thickly and glances back at Morpheus’s door.

“You can’t be here, sir.”

“I’m not leaving without talking to Mor—Mister Emrys.”

“Leave, or I’ll phone the police.”

Hob closes his eyes at the quiet squeak of hinges. Rose’s gaze cuts to the space behind him, and he stifles a broken sob at the achingly familiar voice.

“It’s quite alright, Rose. I will handle this.”

Rose’s frown grows, but she takes a step back. “Of course, Mister Emrys. I’ll be in the study if you need me.”

As soon as she’s disappeared with one last dark look at Hob, he turns to Morpheus’s door. It’s still open, but the man has retreated further into the room. Hob glances at the staircase, though Rose doesn’t reappear, before slipping inside the bedroom. He closes the door behind him and blinks in the sunlight that pours in through the window.

“That was a shit thing you did.”

Morpheus’s shoulders tense; he stares out at the garden as he says, “I did what I thought best.”

“Your thoughts fucking suck, then.”

“You do not understand,” Morpheus replies, though it comes out a plea.

“How could I?” Hob scoffs, throwing his hands into the air. “You’ve told me nothing. I don’t know whether you have siblings, what your dream job is, anything. Hell, I barely know your name! I literally just learnt your surname the morning after you fired me.”

“And that’s the way it should be. We should never have…”

“Yeah, well, it’s a bit late to take it back, isn’t it?”

Morpheus sighs, raises a hand to press his fingertips to the glass, and keeps his gaze on the world outside. “Would you, if you could?”

“No. Never.”

“You are young.”

Hob snorts, crosses his arms over his chest. “As if you’re some ancient being. You’re only a few years older than I am.”

“A few?” From where he stands, Hob can see the curve to Morpheus’s lips, though he knows it isn’t a kind smile. It’s wry, sharp. Cold. “Hob, I am fourteen years older than you are. There is a wealth of experience I have that you do not.”

Hob gapes for a second. Fourteen years? Shaking himself from his disbelief, Hob approaches slowly and comes to a stop at Morpheus’s side. Neither man looks at each other.

“I don’t care,” Hob finally says. “I enjoyed spending time with you. Being with you. Quite a lot, actually.”

“Though you know so little of me?”

“I like a mystery. Tell me, don’t tell me. It’s your choice. I won’t push. But no matter what, it won’t change my mind about you.”

Morpheus turns his head away, hand falling to his side once more. The drag of his fingertips on the glass causes a squeaking sound to break the silence. After a moment, Morpheus speaks.

“Then sit, Hob Gadling. Let me tell you a tale.”

Hob frowns but takes a seat on the edge of the bed. Morpheus still won’t turn around, and Hob aches to force the man to look at him. To see him, to know that Hob is here and not going anywhere. But he doesn’t. He only listens as Dream talks about growing up in a family with loveless parents who had no time for their seven children. The third oldest ran away at seventeen, and no one has heard from him since. They don’t even know if the brother is still alive after all this time.

“I haven’t spoken to my once-favourite sibling in nearly a decade. We had a massive fight. I hardly remember the cause now, but it is too late.”

“It’s never too late, love. You can—”

Morpheus continues, speaking over Hob with ease, “I met a woman eight years ago, beautiful and kind. Intelligent. We married within the year, and our son was born only ten months into our marriage. Our struggles only grew worse. The distance between us widened.”

Then, Morpheus says, tragedy struck. Their little boy, only four years old, died in a car accident in which Morpheus was driving. Morpheus and his wife could hardly stand the sight of each other after that. Their fighting grew harsher, more frequent. They spoke words they will never be able to take back. She left him three months after the funeral with an empty house and a heart full of blame.

“She has blamed me since. If I am being honest… I have blamed myself.”

“This whole time?”

“Losing a child is devastating enough. To be the cause of that loss, it is unforgivable.”

“It was an accident.”

“I was scolding him, Hob. My attention was no longer on the road, and the last thing I ever said to him were words of anger.” At this, Morpheus finally turns to Hob. His eyes are filled with tears, and some spill over. “Tell me, how does one move past that?”

And that’s a question too difficult to answer. Hob has no words. For once, he is utterly speechless. He can do nothing, say nothing, to assuage the guilt that still wracks Morpheus. He rises to his feet and moves to embrace Morpheus, but the man takes a large step back.

“It is my fault that my son died. It is my fault my marriage dissolved—no, imploded. There is nothing of me to care for.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” Hob pleads. “Let me make my own damn choices.”

Morpheus grins that same cold grin. “And when we end in disaster? What then, Hob, would you feel? Would it be resentment towards me for taking so much of your time, your affections? Would it be the same hatred and blame that Calliope has carried in her heart for seven years?”

“Oh, Morpheus… It will always be love.”

Morpheus flinches bodily, shoulders coming up around his shoulders as if to guard himself against Hob’s words. His expression turns from defiant to wounded, to frightened.

“Leave.”

“You said you were mine,” Hob counters. “In that letter. You said you were mine, Morpheus. So fucking prove it.”

“I wish—”

“I know, I know. You wish me gone. But I wish you to know that I don’t give up on what’s mine. Now prove that you are mine as I am yours.”

“I know of no way to do so,” whispers Morpheus; his voice shatters in the glow of the sunlight spilling across his pale face.

Hob lets out a slow breath. “I do.” He cups Morpheus’s cheek and presses their foreheads together. They share breaths for a heartbeat, two, three. “Let me love you the way you deserve.”

“And if I cannot?”

“Then I’ll love you anyway until you can. I’ll love you enough for the both of us.”

Lacing their fingers together, Hob pulls Morpheus toward the bed. Morpheus goes willingly, lying down under Hob’s insistent hands, and Hob sighs in relief when Mropheus curls into the comfort of his arms once they’re both stretched across the mattress. Morpheus lets out a shuddering breath, and Hob stifles tears of his own as the man he loves falls apart. Sobs shake his entire body; Hob imagines he has nearly a decade of tears to shed, of remorse and agony to work through.

Eventually, long after Hob has stopped keeping track of time, Morpheus calms. His breathing evens out as he drifts off to sleep, his head on Hob’s chest. Hob presses a kiss to the crown of Morpheus’s head and makes a vow to always be there, every step of the way. Fourteen-year age difference be damned.

Hob can be what Morpheus needs.

[tajmeelsblog]

RGS Schools in Riyadh

Reigate Grammar School Riyadh (RGS Riyadh), formerly known as The Multinational School (MNS) is a KG to Year 13 private international school in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. The school opened in September 2020 and on the 8th of May 2021, ADECO (owner of MNS) signed a partnership agreement with the award-winning UK independent school, Reigate Grammar School (RGS). RGS, founded in 1675, is regarded as one of the leading co-educational schools in the UK offering the very best academic education with equal prominence placed on the arts, sport and a rich extra-curricular programme. In the Academic year 2022-2023 RGS Riyadh will operate under the Royal Commission for Riyadh City’s (RCRC) International Schools Attraction Programme. RGS Riyadh will adopt the best RGS academic, pastoral and well being systems and practices. The Reigate Way will be carefully and appropriately interwoven into the fabric of our school here in Riyadh.

Reigate Grammar School - Home

Our Vision

Our vision is to be an innovative, forward thinking international school, leading the global education sector with best practices that provide children the opportunity to be nurtured into global leaders in an environment of inclusiveness, compassion, empathy, cooperation, and competition.

Join to our team: Reigate Grammar School - Join Our Team

About us: Reigate Grammar School - About us

Our Mission

Our mission is to provide high-quality education that delivers a transformative learning experience to all of our students by:

Bringing together exemplary teachers and support staff who work with relevant and advanced systems and technologies.

Creating a safe and stimulating learning environment for our students.

Recognizing students’ wide range of abilities, challenges and growth potential.

Encouraging fellowship, self-confidence, and excellence.

Ethos and Values

At the Reigate Grammar School Riyadh, we aim to:

Have high aspirations for all.

Develop conscientious and global citizens.

Meet each child’s individual needs.

Promote respect and tolerance for others.

Educate the whole child.

Embody Saudi Arabian cultural and Islamic values.

Values are the guiding principles that an organization will be known for and how it will behave. They ask, “What is important to us?”. They are something of worth and held in esteem by all those who are part of the organization.

TheReigate Grammar School Riyadh values are:

Aspirations (Excellence, challenge, effort, attainment, pride, exceeding potential)

Well Being (safety, empathy, care, charity, self-actualization, belonging, inclusion, self-esteem)

Access (Inclusion, meeting the needs of individuals)

Responsibility (pride, loyalty appropriate language/attitudes/behaviors, tolerance, clean environment)

Ethics (Equity, trust, honesty, integrity, care for the environment, Respect)

International Curriculum

We have adopted a British international curriculum and are accredited to Cambridge Assessment International Education (CAIE), an accredited and internationally recognized curriculum.

Our School offers:

Academic excellence with strong pastoral care.

Wellbeing and Happiness at the centre of our holistic approach

One of the most comprehensive and sophisticated learning support programmes in the Middle East.

Excellent, internationally experienced, qualified teachers.

Child-centred and play-based Early Childhood Programmes.

Intelligent integration of information technology.

A wide range of specialist subjects.

Quality Assurance provided by RGS UK

If you are considering the next stage of your childʼs education, you are warmly invited to contact us to discuss life at the Reigate Grammar School Riyadh.

[fslearning]

Nurturing Beginnings: The Role of Daycare Centers for Infants

Early childhood is a transformative stage of life, particularly during infancy. Parents seeking supportive environments for their little ones often turn to daycare centers designed specifically for infants. These centers provide a safe, nurturing, and educational atmosphere where babies can thrive while parents balance their professional and personal responsibilities.

The Importance of Infant Daycare Centers

Infants require constant care and attention, which includes feeding, diapering, soothing, and engaging in sensory activities. Daycare centers tailored to infants excel in offering structured care with a focus on developmental milestones. From fostering motor skills to encouraging early social interactions, these facilities play a crucial role in shaping a child’s growth.

A high-quality infant daycare center, such as First Steps Learning & Child Care Centre Inc., goes beyond meeting basic care needs. They implement age-appropriate activities to stimulate cognitive and emotional development. These activities lay the groundwork for future learning and ensure infants feel secure and valued in a loving environment.

Features of a High-Quality Infant Daycare

When considering a daycare center for your infant, it’s essential to evaluate the following aspects:

Qualified Caregivers: Caregivers should be trained in early childhood education and understand the unique needs of infants. Their warmth and attentiveness are critical in creating a nurturing environment.

Safe and Clean Facilities: Infant daycare centers must adhere to strict safety and hygiene protocols to protect babies' health and well-being. From sanitized toys to child-proof spaces, every detail matters.

Personalized Care: Infants thrive on routines. The center should align its care practices with your baby’s feeding and sleeping schedules, ensuring consistency between home and daycare.

Stimulating Activities: Even at a young age, sensory play and exposure to different textures, sounds, and visuals are essential for brain development.

Parental Involvement: Open communication between caregivers and parents ensures that everyone is aligned in supporting the infant’s development.

Why Choose First Steps Learning & Child Care Centre Inc.?

First Steps Learning & Child Care Centre Inc., located in Ontario, Canada, is a trusted choice for parents seeking exceptional care for their infants. Their dedicated infant program caters to children aged 3 to 18 months, focusing on individualized care and developmental milestones.

Here are some highlights of their infant program:

Nurturing Environment: The center ensures a warm, loving atmosphere where infants feel safe and cherished.

Highly Qualified Staff: With a team of experienced caregivers, the center prioritizes each infant's unique needs.

Developmental Activities: The program incorporates sensory play, tummy time, and gentle interactions that encourage early cognitive and physical growth.

Homemade Meals: Nutrition is paramount, and the center provides healthy, homemade meals and snacks.

Safety First: Every aspect of the facility is designed with infants' safety in mind, from the furniture to the play areas.

The Benefits for Parents

For parents, enrolling their child in a reputable daycare like First Steps Learning & Child Care Centre Inc. provides peace of mind. Knowing that their infant is in capable hands allows them to focus on work or other responsibilities without worry.

Additionally, the center fosters a sense of community by keeping parents informed about their child's progress and offering opportunities for involvement.

Conclusion

Choosing the right daycare center for your infant is a decision that shapes their earliest experiences. Facilities like First Steps Learning & Child Care Centre Inc. exemplify what parents should look for: compassionate caregivers, a safe and stimulating environment, and a commitment to fostering every child’s growth. By enrolling your baby in a trusted daycare, you are setting the foundation for their future success while ensuring their immediate well-being.

For more information, visit fslearning.ca.