#GOD. I could talk about Paul for ages

[transbeamrooikat]

thinking about how its implied that Paul WILL eventually ecologically destroy dune. how in his quest to bring them "paradise" he will destroy their way of living. the way my heart sunk whenever it was mentioned. the way we see how badly water effects the worms

[gremlingottoosilly]

Beekeeping age [Dilf!Konig x fem!Reader]

You're ex-boyfriend is an asshole, so you decided to fuck his hot military dad instead. You're going to find out why his first wife ran as fast as she did, very soon - but Konig is still the best dick that ever happened to you.

CW: Daddy kink(obvi), power imbalance, possessive Konig, perverted Konig, age gap(Reader in her early twenties, Konig in his early forties), mentions of cheating(your ex is a douchebag anyway), slightly obsessive Konig, size kink, unprotected sex.

FIRST PART (can be read separately) AO3

— Why your wife left you, again? 

You stuff your face full of…something. He cooked it – gods did he cook it well. It’s meat and vegetables and spices, and it feels like your dad cooking but twice as good. It feels like pure sin because he says you shouldn’t worry about calorie counts or how fat the meat is, or how good everything tastes fried because he needs his special girl to feel good and healthy and fatten up a little bit, and you…gods, you’re down. Bad. 

You wonder if König’s wife left because she couldn’t compete with his cooking. You wonder if his wife left because he was feeding her too good. 

— Why don’t we leave uneasy questions for later, Schatzi? 

He brushes his hand over your hair, taking in the way you look – dressed up in his shirt, skin covered in bites and bruises from his hold. He can’t see it right now but can almost testify to the way your lipstick was all over his collar – good thing he wasn't wearing his uniform shirt, wouldn’t want to make dorks from Kobra jealous. 

He brings you another plate, he fills your glass – you never knew beer could taste this good, but he whispered something about having his own little homemade brewery for wine and beer somewhere in the mountains, in his Summer house. This man has a hug apartment in Vienna and a Summer house – you think you heard him having enough land to go hunting and to keep bees, and you might have cum a little bit just here and there. 

— I would like to know the story, actually. To not repeat her mistakes, you know. 

— You won’t, Liebling. I can already picture you with a ring on your pretty finger. 

— Not so fast. Maybe I don’t believe in marriage. 

— You’re too young to stop believing in it. 

— Way to talk when you’re the divorced one, sir. 

— Shut it, Schatzen. I can still take care of a good girl like you, ja? König leans in to kiss you, his lips brushing over your mouth – it’s wet and swollen, he bite you quite a few times already, and you feel dizzy just from the way his tongue lingers just a second before going in, taking your arousal even more. His hand gently brushes some hair from your face and you giggle from the sensation of his rough fingers on the softness of your skin. It never failed to mesmerize you, just how seasoned and old the colonel might be – and his hands would still tremble as if he is handling the finest porcelain doll in his hands. He has the expression of an anxious, devoted follower – you are not sure how his wife could left him. If he was looking at you like this every day, even as you go through with pregnancy and a piece of shit kid like Paul, you would die before leaving him. 

— Could you two please stop fucking each other? 

— I thought you wanted to move to dorms.

— This is my house too!

— Not on the documents, it’s not. — You can’t just throw me away, dad! — Your new stepmom needs her space. 

König grasps your shoulder as you try to stop them from arguing again – it’s embarrassing enough that you’re fucking your ex’s dad. Colonel makes it a whole fucking show, parading you around as his controversially young girlfriend, making sure that his son will hear your moans and whimpers as you get fucked at every surface of this apartment. You were wondering if you could ask him to move to the Summer house – even with your college and all. You can take a gap year and write a journalist investigation about lonely veterans and their mastery at brewing alcohol. You can take a gap year and try your best in the new trophy wife gig. König’s hand is firm on your shoulder – you know better than to try and argue with him, the silent recognition of authority loud in your head. You sigh, trying your best to just stop yourself from acting too damn weird. It’s their male thing, and you’re just an intruder in a big T-shirt and old leggings. König said it wasn’t his wifey’s – that he burned all of her stuff when she left. Somehow, you find peace in that statement. 

— How could you even…Jesus fucking Christ, this is disgusting. She is my age! — And the most beautiful girl in the world. I can see why you liked her. — She is my girlfriend! — Schatzi came to me in distress and begged me to take her. I think we both knew you weren’t…the best option. You feel more embarrassed with each second of their conversation. You don’t want to listen, you don’t want to take in their words, you feel like a trophy being discarded between two different winners. You feel like a prized mare on a farm – and they won’t even look at you. Too distracted by the sound of their voices, you eat your dinner in somewhat somber peace because you need to eat, after all, and you really like what König cooks. You like what König does most of the time. All of the time. 

Paul storms off the room after a few minutes of bickering. You feel guilty for not stopping him because he was still kinda your boyfriend. You ex-boyfriend. Your asshole incel-ish ex-boyfriend whose assholless literally made you go and sleep with his dilfy dad, and…god, you feel like a whore. Good. Paul was calling you a whore a lot of the time, you may as well take the new name and plaster it in your new badge. 

König’s hand lingers on your back, caressing it gently. You whimper because you feel bad and you’re still in college, and Paul’s disgusted reaction reminds you that fucking a guy in his forties isn’t the best business decision. Even if the said guy is a retired colonel with shitload of money, even if he still goes to work sometimes, just because he wants to feel cool and shoot guns at bad guys, even if this guy buys you cool gifts and he promised to renovate your car or buy you a new one, and he makes plans and takes you to places that don’t make you feel like begging for attention. 

If anything, you feel like he is drowning you with attention. 

His hand lets go of your shoulder – he was holding you so tight the whole conversation, you can sense the bruises forming on your skin. You lick your lips, and he moves to kiss you again. You feel like drowning, you feel like this is all just a dream – and you’re also drunk because gods, König knows how to make a good glass of…something. 

— You shouldn’t act like this. He is your son. 

He laughs dismissingly. He dismisses a lot of things you said – you think it’s the age difference. You think he is just being traditional, and you don’t want to be too nagging. You don’t want to end up like his wife and wake up from the dear you’ve been seeing. 

König’s lips are soft, and you can look past his hands, taking you too possessively – you can close your eyes, and you can just listen to his accent, smiling as his tongue worms its way into your mouth. He is good, you think – at this whole kissing thing. At this whole “Hi there, I’m a retired old dog and I am fucking the girlfriend of my only son. I’m divorced btw” .

He has experience – you know it when he tucks your lip between his teeth, when he massages your shoulders as you spread your legs already, so wet for him, it’s almost embarrassing. You never slept much with Paul – his poor excuse of a son – it was always never enough lube, it was always never enough attention, he always needed you to shave or to leave your hair to grow a little bit, it was either your perfume being too sweet or you no wearing anything at all. You thought he would have much more fun masturbating to his anime chicks and poor gaming sessions with his friends. 

But König isn’t like this – every time he drops on his knees to eat you out like a man starving, you feel utter and complete devotion. In his tongue, in his mouth, in his teeth as he sucks little marks into your thighs, making sure you will remember it tomorrow when he will ask you to stay for breakfast and then ride you to whatever you need to come next. Last time he promised to drive you to the library, he took a few turns and took you to some restaurant instead. You gushed about not having proper attire, he was still in his half-uniform and rocking dark cargo pants, and he was apologizing every time his fingers hit that special spot in your cunt as he fingered you during the second course of meals. He said that he was so, sorry about not fucking you properly, about having to resort to public displays like this – and you were too high on loving him to care. You still are. — I don’t think we should be…

— He left. Won’t bother us anymore. 

— I’m not in the mood right now. 

— You’re always in the mood, Schatzen. Enough to drive me crazy. — You’re a pervert. Like Paul. 

— He takes on after his father, ja?

It would alarm you how much contempt he had for his own child right now. Then, again, you were the one who dumped his son for the powerhouse of a dad. Maybe it was your daddy issues, maybe it was your dumb reasoning and the summer break that you didn’t want to spend with your family. Good thing you’re spending it with the other. 

König’s face is buried between your legs, his teeth tugging on the soft fabric, forcing your leggings down. God, it feels good – he is so high on wanting you, can’t even wait to take off your clothes properly. You never had a man wanting you so badly before – it’s addicting, it’s crushing, it makes you feel like a goddess among men. Makes you feel wanted, a thing that your ex never did. 

You forget about guilt when he kisses your lower tummy, when his lips trace down to your cunt, taking sharp licks through your panties. You wore them this morning, something from a new lacy set he bought – one of the only ones that weren’t torn off from your body the moment you took them on. He always wanted you to make these little fashion shows for him, making good use of his money – you weren’t a sugar baby, not on paper, you still clutched to the last traces of your dignity, but he did buy you a lot of gifts. 

— S’ pretty for me, Liebling. The prettiest girl in the world.

— I assume after…af..ter your wife. 

You giggle when he frowns, his rugged face filled with concern. He doesn’t like jokes about his marriage – you don’t want to ask him about it because it would mean waking up from a dream you want to experience over and over again, but you heard what Paul was talking about. What his mom told him about. you heard enough to know that kissing a man like König is a safety hazard and a liability that you can’t afford, but it’s warm, and he is rich, and you don’t want to go back to your part-time job this season. You want to be dumb and you want to be young – right now, you’re doing both. — Don’t be so dumb, Schatzi. Although it suits you. 

— I’m not dumb! 

— Nein, you’re not. Just silly. 

— You just call me a different type of dumb. 

— I like it when you’re dumb. Makes you cuter. 

König is awkward and funny, and he buys you things that you could never afford. He is mysterious and kind – to you, not his enemies – and he uses German words randomly in his phrases because he knows the accent, and the pronunciation drives you crazy. You never thought of thinking of yourself as a dilf hunter but, hell, here you are. With his dark ginger stubble – and grey streaks that make you go wild every time you look at him – between your thighs. It’s tickling, and it’s a bit irritating, and he will rub some calming lotion in your skin after this, making sure to cover every inch of your skin with some expensive cream that he knows jackshit about, but you wanted it, and so he went out and bought it. Gosh, you felt dumb even asking him for this. 

He traces his kisses along your thighs, tongue lingers to press against your wet, swollen folds. Flirting in front of Paul made you embarrassingly hot, solidifying you as a shitty, bad, horny person who needs fat cock stuffed in your leaking pussy. You lick your lips, and you tremble when he pushes his tongue inside. He is starving, pushy with all of his needs – makes you almost beg for it, like a pet he took from the street. 

— I want to take you to the Summer house next week. 

You open your eyes, shocked. It’s nothing, really, you shouldn’t be this surprised about him wanting to show off his other properties. You want to check out his wine cellar and how sturdy the furniture is. You want to see if he had deers running around the house. If he had any pictures of his family – and if you could ever hope to compete with his ex-wife. It’s a petty competition, but you don’t have much to do and to think about. It’s obvious the love here won’t last until the end of the break, and you want to get as much from it as possible. Maybe even some hot bikini picks at his pool. He has to have one. — What if I have plans, sir? 

It’s innocent and you play the role well. You think some of your friends wanted to hang out or make a study group for the upcoming semester. You are a good girl at heart, with nice grades and a perfectly played-out future, and not as many working opportunities as you may like, but you could manage with something. Writing a killer essay about your life with a smoke show during Summer would be easy with someone like him. 

He laughs, his hand lightly smacks your butt. You bite your lip and whimper, not accustomed to pain feeling this good. 

— You will change them, little one. For the whole Summer. 

— I wanted to study. 

You moan when he lightly presses his tongue on your swollen clit, kissing and licking it. Slick runs down your legs, and he collects it with his mouth. You whimper again, tears prickling at the edge of your eyes – the sensation is sudden and overwhelming, makes you get your hands in his hair and slightly tug. He groans, pleasure from having you so active, so participating is overwhelming. He loves you, loves you, loves you, adores you. God, you’re beautiful. And so, so restrained – just his special good girl. Only for him. — You can study at our house. 

— You mean you and your ex’s house. 

He smacks you again for the foul language – although you know you didn’t even curse, he is still punishing you. In the lightest way possible, of course, you know you won’t handle anything too harsh – still, you feel nice and warm when he isn’t just eating you out, but also smacks you for speaking in such unpretty words again. 

You don’t even register the way he called the house yours too. All too dumb for this, again. 

— I mean our house, Schatzen. Just you and your daddy, ja? You worry too much about studying. 

— I want a nice job. Without…distractions. 

He slips one finger in your warm, tight hole – even just one digit is enough to make you shiver, clenching it like a sloppy whore. He is big in every way – just two of his fingers are bigger than a normal cock, and no, you didn’t want to compare a son with his father, but even Paul’s cock, as big as it was, was still way thinner than his father’s. 

— Why you need a job? 

— Not everyone are retired military. I need money. 

— You have me. 

— I d…don’t want to be a sugar baby. Sir. 

— I have no problems with being your daddy, Schatzen.

König is build like a powerhouse – when he slips just the tip into you, ignoring all previous preparation because, by god, you both need to feel connected, he is dragging you on top of the table, tossing aside the dirty dishes with remains of his perfectly cooked dinner…and you feel like home. Almost. 

You imagine waking up with his cock every morning, and with the nice cup of coffee only he can make. You imagine him gushing about rebuilding the house and working on his tight and neat desk job at the mercenary company – something about instructing, dumb recruits, only the most elite missions as an operator in retirement, creating strategies and tactics for the warfare – and thinking that, wow, your husband is really cool. You shouldn’t be thinking this because this is just a summer fling. Your relationships with Paul weren’t too serious either, you just didn’t want to be alone. 

König gently caresses your fingers, whispering something about numbers – you think you could recognize the word for a ring a bit later when he was making a call to some friend. In German, of course, you don’t quite understand it, but you worm your warm on his lap like a spoiled cat, purring on his crotch like a good fucking girl. But it was a while later. 

Now, you’re gasping and panting, his cock spreading you open and stuffing you like the poor bird he was cooking for dinner. You know you won’t be able to walk after a short while – would probably have to spend the day at his house, with him cooing and gushing about your sore body while he is quietly proud of himself. If you’re lucky, you could convince him to let you go in the evening. If you’re not, he will ask you to stay the night, and maybe even a bit more, and then he will just get the bag with your stuff from your room in the dorm by himself, and then… — What do you think about getting married in August?

Maybe, you do know why his wife left him. 

[pumpkinbxtch]

Hi!! I loved your aftercare hcs! Could I do a request where the reader is babysitting Estelle for the night since Paul and Sally have gone on a date and Percy comes home and finds reader and Estelle asleep cuddled up together?

girl's night

• the reader babysits Estelle and Percy finds them asleep.

— percy jackson x mortal!reader

warnings: none

a/n: hello! What a nice request, I hope I did it justice. 😭 Also, thank you!

It all started with a:

— Yes, Mrs. Jackson. I'll be there, don't worry.

Because it was your chance to gain Sally Jackson's trust. People who know her know that this opportunity is like gold, something not even a god would dare mess up or decline. But beyond that (since she was practically your mother-in-law), you cared about something else: Estelle.

Your boyfriend’s little sister. She was tiny, still unsteady on her feet, but already full of energy, and you loved the idea of bonding with her from such a young age. So, that's how you ended up agreeing to babysit her for a night while Sally and Paul went out on a date, which you thought was admirable and exemplary, that romance never dies even after starting a family.

You wondered for a moment if life with Percy would be like that too. Despite his life as a demigod and the differences between how you two were raised, you could see his dream of living peacefully, surrounded by his loved ones. You wanted to believe that when he talked about those hopes, you were included, and of course, you were.

You wished he could be with you, but not even Percy knew you were going to babysit Estelle. You saw him too worried about godly issues and his college graduation, even though he was on break. But you knew that life never stopped and you didn’t mind as long as he let you help, even if it was just by listening.

— Darling! — Sally Jackson exclaimed as she opened the apartment door, and you stood there, mouth agape. She looked stunning in a red dress, reminiscent of that movie "Me Before You." Paul peeked through the door while adjusting one of his funny ties.

— Mrs. Jackson — She chuckled, preferring you to call her Sally, but you couldn’t drop the formalities.

They showed you what there was to eat, talked a bit about Estelle’s schedule, but after that, they just looked at you with a confident smile.

— You'll do great, dear — Paul said, kissing Sally's forehead. You couldn’t understand how they could entrust you with their most precious thing without giving strict rules.

— Her bedtime? — The question seemed funny because they just shook their heads.

— Estelle doesn't struggle much with sleep; it’ll be obvious when she’s tired.

And when they left the apartment, you looked behind you. There she was, waving her tiny hand while giggling.

— It's just us, Estelle — You said, sitting next to her as she kept watching something on TV, something more important than your obvious nervousness.

You wondered if she would just watch the screen the whole time, if you only had to give her snacks when she got hungry and make sure she slept at a decent hour. You were pondering this when you felt a tug on your hand. You looked at her, and she was shaking some coloring pages and a worn-out crayon. Where had she gotten that? When?

She said something you wanted to interpret as, "Let's color, and you'll like it, or I'll tell everyone you're no the one for my brother." Well, maybe not, but it felt like that.

You picked her up and took her to the wooden table where the family usually had dinner, making her comfortable with some pillows to adjust her height. But even then, Estelle stood up and started coloring.

You had your own page and couldn’t remember the last time you colored, so your hand moved a bit clumsily, and being so focused, you didn’t see her hand make you go out of the lines. You looked at her, and she grinned widely, but you knew she didn’t do it on purpose; she was just calling you to see her progress, a scribbled bear with at least five different colors. You smiled genuinely and gave her a thumbs-up, which she took as the best critique of her art.

The night went like that, and you never thought such a small child could teach you so much.

When you made cookies, seeing her face reminded you of the joy in just making them, not so much eating them or how they turned out.

When you watched her favorite cartoons, you remembered what it was like to watch something without guilt or the worry that you should be doing something better or more productive.

When she decided she wanted to dance, you remembered that music could be missing, but never the attitude and good moves.

Estelle ended up holding your hand as you regularly straightened the cushions and rug, making sure nothing was too messy. When you smiled, she did too, and she didn’t let go of you all night.

Finishing up washing the dishes, you looked down to see Estelle next to your feet, sitting on the floor playing with some toys while waiting for you. You stopped to watch her for a moment, seeing so much of Sally in her, but also unmistakable traits of Paul, and in her attitude, you saw Percy. Maybe because he was her big brother after all. Estelle brought her little feet together and touched her toes, lost in whatever a child her age might be thinking when you saw her rub her eyes. That was your signal.

— Estelle — You called softly, and she looked at you with sleepy, shiny eyes. You extended your arms, and she got up to do the same, and you picked her up, rocking her, but she seemed to realize what you were trying to do.

— No — She said clearly. You were startled as she hid her face in your neck, clinging to you. You weren’t an expert, but you knew what it meant, so you sat down with her on the couch, placing her properly on your lap.

— It’s okay — You lied, feeling bad about it even though you knew you had to. You put on a new movie to make her think she’d stay awake, but your trick was to make her fall asleep, though you didn’t plan on falling asleep yourself. You hugged her and got comfortable, the best cuddle ever because she kept holding onto you as you slowly closed your eyes.

You never heard the key in the lock, the quiet footsteps on the floor, nor the warm greeting from your boyfriend, who wasn’t expecting to find you cuddled up with Estelle on the couch, sleeping soundly.

— Babe? — He asked softly, checking to see if you were really asleep. He set the keys down and took off his hoodie, dirtied from some... incidents.

His blue eyes scanned the apartment for his mom or Paul but found no sign of them, leading him to realize why you were there. He walked over to you two with quiet steps until he was face to face with an image no one could take from him. Two of his favorite people, seemingly fond of each other, filled his heart with love, and he kissed both your foreheads. Unfortunately, you woke up, and he couldn’t help but pout.

— Sorry — You mumbled, blurry-eyed and disoriented from your nap, realizing it was Percy. He was smiling, kneeling at your level.

— Percy — You murmured, rubbing your eyes and feeling another weight on your chest, going rigid as you remembered. Your boyfriend noticed your fear of waking her. He extended his arms and picked up Estelle so you could get up normally.

— Having fun without me? — He asked with his sister on his chest, rocking to keep her in the land of Hypnos. You stretched, smiling sleepily.

— There was no way to tell you — He nodded, seeing your phone on the carpet, feeling a bit bad for not being able to carry a phone to stay in touch. He often spent days away, and no one knew where he was, not even you.

— I’ll put Estelle to bed — He whispered, and you nodded, struggling to keep your eyes open in his direction, making him chuckle. Before leaving, he leaned in with his sister in his arms to kiss you.

— Be right back.

You nodded and stood to check the living room. You only had to straighten the cushions and put the chairs back in place before Percy hugged you from behind. At his touch, you hummed, feeling a wave of sleepiness brought on by the calm of having him there, finally safe.

— Hey — He greeted, still whispering, and you rested your head on his shoulder, giving him enough space to plant a warm kiss on your neck. With no immediate response from you, he held you tighter and kissed your cheek, wanting to support you so you didn’t have to put in so much effort.

— I’m okay — You said, realizing what he was trying to do, but he quickly lifted you bridal style, making his way back to the couch.

— Shh, I’ll take care of you. — He soothed while sitting with you, and you wrapped your arms around him, sharing your sleepiness. You rested your head on his chest, and he pulled the blanket from the corner to cover you both.

You sighed calmly, almost falling asleep when you sniffed your boyfriend's shirt once, twice, three times. Groggy, you kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear

— You smell like monster, Percy Jackson — He smiled, and you mirrored it.

— Things got tough — He said slowly, resting his cheek on your head, almost stumbling over words.

— Hmm — You hummed starting to fall asleep, and you both did it.

[tending-the-hearth]

favorite "chalice of the gods" moments, in no particular order

spoilers below!!!

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percy and annabeth having the same setup for iris messaging, and having cute little sign-offs when they say goodbye to each other

grover going to percy's swim meets 😭😭😭

annabeth and sally's relationship, they adore each other so much

PAUL AND ANNABETH'S RELATIONSHIP LIKE YES GIVE THAT GIRL A SUPPORTIVE AND PRESENT FATHER FIGURE

just... annabeth being a jackson-blofis even before percy proposes

annabeth not making and blue desserts because it's percy and sally's thing and she sees that as something sacred!!!

percy being bitter about the recommendation letters!! let him be a bit of a bitch!!!

percy, annabeth, and grover having a regular smoothie place that they go to 😭 they're best friends your honor

i kind of wish we got more of the trio as eight-year-olds, like those are babies and i need to see more of grover trying to play-fight with percy

grover admitting that he's scared of percy and annabeth going to california!! he doesn't want to lose them!! y'all mind if i sob?????

50% of percy's internal monologue being about how cool and amazing annabeth is

the way the trio just trusts and supports one another???

annabeth hanging out with juniper, idk why, i like thinking about the two couples going on double date picnics <3

percy embracing old age 😭😭😭😭 and seeing himself growing old with his two best friends 😭😭😭 the way i was bawling my eyes out

annabeth being worried about percy's reaction to sally being pregnant because of her own bad experiences with her half-brothers and her dad and percy knowing exactly where her mind was going like YES PLEASE give me more percabeth reading each other's minds

percy talking about how he could never see himself with anyone other than annabeth because they've known each other for so long but also because they're bonded in a way no one else understands 😭

annabeth never saying luke's name after the Titan War and the trio still struggling to talk about him, my beloveds 😭 give them therapy please

the mention of jason talking about wanting to have kids with piper and grow old with her... how dare?????

the sheer amount of percy and grover moments... i missed them so much... they're platonic soulmates!!!!

idk i said it before but the way this book just felt like "the lightning thief"? the trio being all sarcastic with each other, joking and teasing one another, being comfortable with each other in a way no one else understands?

ALSO PERCY CANONICALLY CONFIRMED AS THE AUTHOR OF THE BOOKS IN-UNIVERSE THANK YOUUUUUU

in conclusion i love this book so very very much

[purplelupins]

Lamb

|Midnight Mass|

Father John Pruitt/Father Paul Hill x Fem!

Reader

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI

Word count: 13.5K

Summery: An entire life of being a good girl was a difficult cross to carry...especially in a tiny town with 127 residents on a good day. You kept the town fed and spirits as high as you could, but when a new face steps off the afternoon Breeze, things around you start to change; you don't even know you're in the eye of the storm.

Warnings: nsfw, reader is religious, religious symbolism, ideology, explanations and general conversations of religion, age gap (like this man is 80 technically and he watched reader grow up, and can remember reader as a little girl so if that’s creepy to you then go no further), stalking, manipulation, murder (hello have you seen the show?), drinking of blood, hunting of a person, grief, description of animal death, reader is described as blushing, character death, non consensual help showering, guilt and god maybe more but I think that’s it…this is not really a fix it fic

I invite you to listen to the playlist I made that goes along with the story.

Notes: **please read** This story is told partially from John Pruitt's pov and partially from readers, as such, when it's John's (Paul) it will refer to him as John, seeing as he had no need for the alias when it's from his pov. But when it's from readers, she will be referring to him as Paul Hill. Thank you!

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Crude oil is destructive to say the least. It is thick, and cloying; dense and dark and it holds no mercy for anything it touches. It kills and pollutes and fuses itself to anything it touches like some dependant parasitic bond. Not that it knows any better.

At one time, Crockett Island was a home off the Eastern coast to close to 500 residences. There was a harmony and calmness to that time; back when the island had summer visitors, and talks of an airport, and no one had to worry about how to pay for their groceries or if they could afford to pay for house repairs after a bad storm. Back when people were alive and helped eachother and laughed.

As the Breeze approached the marina of Crockett Island, there was a passenger who stood outside, leaning against the railing as he remembered Crockett when it was a secret haven. Then that horrible accident…Now, it was more akin to a shelter to the last 127 souls who remained. The brisk maritime wind tousled his black curled hair and flickered into his eyes.

Not that he minded too terribly- he didn't mind much of anything.

John Pruitt sucked in a full breath of the sea air- something he hadnt been able to do in decades when his old self's lungs had began to weaken. It nearly brought tears to his eyes to have been blessed with this second chance as he took in the mass of land before him. His home. His duty. John knew what he had to do. A needle of anxiety poked at him as he hoped his large cargo was still safe in the hold of the small ferry. Of course it was, but he couldnt help but worry until it was safely tucked away in the rectory.

His gift.

“I’m here to help…just here to help…” He repeated in his head.

The ferry lurched as it docked, though his sturdy frame barely flinched. John blinked, and adjusted his satchel one last time before coming to the off-boarding ramp. He slowly and shyly looked at the other passengers, and had to press his tongue to his teeth to keep from acknowledging a familiar face that stood only a few feet from him.

Riley Flynn.

It had been years since he had seen that face, and he felt a swell of happiness at the prospect of having another addition to his flock to receive this gift he so eagerly wished to bestow upon them. He could hardly wait to see each face and see them properly with his rejuvinated sight. See how they’ve grown and aged. He couldn’t wait to help them.

John stood off to the side after exiting the boat as he waited for his trunk.

"Whatcha waitin' for?" Came a gruff voice that John knew well.

He turned to see the island handyman, Sturge, and a small smile pulled at his cupids bow, "My trunk…should be the largest thing on there I’m afraid." John said.

Sturge huffed a little, but nodded, "Yeah its comin', you need a hand gettin' it to where your goin' we got a..." The man droned on about helping the man transport his precious cargo, but unfortunately John had inadvertently tuned him out after something had caught his eye; someone to be precise.

It was the shrill chime of a bicycle bell that had initially drawn his attention, though now he was entranced by the young woman riding the very bike that had made it.

The same wind that had combed through his own hair was now blowing yours back as you came to a stop by the small marine building for the fishermen; a large parcel was fastened to the back of your bike. In fact you were so engrossed in calling to the fishermen on the dock, while unfastening the goods from your bike that you didn’t notice the supposed stranger with his brown eyes glued to you. Staring at how the men approached you and tried to sneak a look at what you brought for them; of course he also was not blind to the evident leers you recieved from the same men. Men he knew were married and had children who he had baptised over the years.

Yet here he was practially on their same level as he watched you; transfixed by the way your hair would get caught in the breeze, and how your cheeks were a lovely pink from the cold. how you had a certain incandescence to you that brought up the spirits of the worn down fishermen.

In John's old age, he hadn't been able to see you properly since you were born; cataracts and dementia coupled with a few other ailments made you into a foggy memory for him, even now. But he knew you. He knew you had been a lovely little girl, and had decided to remain on the island and open a small bakery; John could recall Bev mentioning it a few times that you made food for the Crockpot luck each year. He remembered thanking you...not that he could properly appreciate your gift. You were a familiar face to St. Patrick’s, too.

It was only now that he could recall baptising you some twenty years ago when he had just broached 60 years...and he could see what a stellar young woman you had grown into.

Beautiful.

John had mumbled something to Sturge about only needing help to get out of the marina, and his hand gripped the top of his bag absentmindedly as his eyes flickered over you handing out pastries and sweet treats to the men.

You smiled so brightly that it truly must have been one of the many gifts you were given in life from God. Your calling to brighten up the cloudy days of Crockett island.

A patch of sunlight.

As John pulled the crate up the stairs to the rectory and pushed it across the floor, the solitude finally let him start to think. He knocked on the trunk twice, and slumped against the side as his mind began to wander. John Pruitt had been a priest for well over 60 years; he had seen and heard and dealt with just about every scandal, thought, sin, doubt and joy you could think of. Which was why he knew that there was a divine reason behind your delivery to the fishermen coinciding with his arrival.

It was no random coincidence that your face was among the first he saw upon returning. God’s plan was at work, and John felt anticipation fill him at the thought.

You were a good girl, just like your parents raised you to be, and it wasn’t as if you had a reason not to be. You had made a comfortable life after your family had either left or passed. Moving was expensive and you liked the quiet. It was a simple life and an easy one. Habitual and concise.

You went to church on Sundays and attended daily mass with Leeza. She loved your cinnamon rolls, and you liked to sneak a few into her bag. John remembered noticing that after daily mass one day. It made his chest swell with what he told himself was pride and admiration; not pining and adoration. It excited him to see someone so full of life, even if it was quietly. But that excitement was a double edged sword, after all it too made the Father dread it when he felt it in him. That excitement would settle low in his stomach and make him lose his train of thought.

A test. It was all a test.

The first time you saw the man was when you were leaving the dock that morning. It was strange to see a new face on Crockett, let alone a handsome one at that. You had wished you were heading in his direction so as to give him a welcome; he had such a large trunk with him that you wished you could have given him a hand too. But alas you were needed in the opposite way back down Main Street.

You petalled down the road, and dropped off a few more deliveries down the island to the elders who couldn’t venture too far. Your routine every other day from 10:30 in the morning for an hour.

John knew that too. He remembered feeling someone cycle past him with a soft greeting everytime he visited town after mass. Everything was starting to click back into place as his memory was replenished.

You finished your route, and hopped off your bike as you came to the little bundle of shops in town.

You knew Monsignor Pruitt was returning the next day, and you found yourself hopeful that he hadnt exhausted himself…you were also excited for Bev to calm down after weeks of her relentless, poor moods…and that was saying something for a woman who already lacked a pleasant temperament. The Monsignor always seemed to calm her…perhaps it was that she was able to abuse his position for herself-

You took a deep breath to calm yourself as your temper flared at the thought.

The following day, Saturday, was your day to yourself. Your little shop remained closed until Sunday afternoon, and your appreciation for the downtime was great. You took extra time for yourself, and sat down to read that book that you had promised to read last year; tried a new recipe for dinner and baked yourself a fresh batch of cookies. It wasn’t terribly interesting, but it was easy, and you liked that.

As you brushed your hair out for sleep, your thoughts wandered to that strange face you had seen exit the Breeze the day previous. You wondered if he was visiting someone or if he was some kind of inspector for the island…so little happened on Crockett that new faces were so obvious. You were surprised no one had mentioned him during your day at the shop.

You shrugged it off.

It wasn’t your business.

The rosary you clutched as you prayed beside your bed dug into your skin as you squeezed it unconsciously. Some nights your worship came with difficulty…you mind wandered and you wondered if you were doing the right thing…praying to the right god. Not that you would tell anyone that.

You didn’t sleep well that night. Somehow you repeatedly awoke every few hours to a deep sinking in your gut and prickle up your neck that kept you from returning to sleep. The restlessness had you surrendering just before dawn, and you wrapped a thick blanket around yourself as you sat in front of your window that just peaked over the water. Your bleary gaze was heavy, though you felt yourself sober when you swore you saw a dark figure move into the thick bushes. You jumped, and felt your blood freeze, but when you leaned a little closer to look out, there was nothing but the gentle sway of the trees in the wind. It was so easy to dismiss what you had seen as simply your tired mind playing tricks on you.

You rubbed the heels on your hands into your eyes, and sighed as you stood.

Coffee. A coffee was needed.

The dirt road was muddy with the approaching storm that would be on the horizon in a few days. You hoped this one wouldn’t be too damaging.

You followed behind Leeza with Dolly, and told them what you had baked that morning for your shop, while Erin and Wade listened; enjoying how the air smelled of petrichor and pine. There was a comfortable chatter amongst everyone as they grew happy to welcome their Monsignor back to Crockett.

You sat yourself in the middle, in the same seat you always took. After months of Father Pruitt being gone, you routine was beginning to settle again.

The small organ began playing, and you stood to start singing with everyone else, but then as the alter boys passed you and you watched them, there was an unfamiliar voice behind them. You slowed your singing as you were once again distracted; sure enough, there was a much younger man who passed down the aisle in a gold chasuble and his hands held in prayer.

That same man from the dock.

You felt confusion fill you, and evidently you weren’t the only one as the churchgoers exchanged confused glances with eachother. You looked over at Wade, hoping he might look a little less confused as the mayor, but he mirrored every other face.

Knowing you weren’t getting any answers from your peers, you directed your attention to the pulpit as the stranger walked up to it.

“Good morning,” the man began, “I know I’m not who you expected to see this morning. I’m Father Paul Hill, and I was sent by the diocese to fill in for Monsignor Pruitt. Just know that I’m only here to help, and I look forward to meeting you all.”

You blinked in surprise at his explanation, thought you supposed it wasn’t entirely strange- just unexpected. Had something happened? You remembered how so many islanders had advised the Father not to make the journey, and now you were wondering if you all should have insisted harder.

The man looked a little nervous, but hopeful as he looked around to his new flock. But as his gaze passed over yours, you noted it paused for a moment. You smiled a little a him in hopes that it might make him feel a little welcome, and you briefly wondered if he recognized you from the marina.

There was a lilt to his strong, low voice that made you listen. He was compelling and direct; certainly not what you were used to with Monsignor Pruitt. He had always been a wonderful preacher, but for the last decade, he had grown slow and drawling.

You remembered your mother saying something about “It’s not about the sermon or who’s giving it, it’s just about being reminded of god and our mortality in this life.” And while you had always agreed with the sentiment, there was something about being invigorated while at church that was making your fingertips tingle.

You could already tell that Father Hill was appreciated amongst the churchgoers. There was a softness in their weathered faces as he spoke, like he was indeed connecting them to God.

As everyone filed in for the sacrament, you fell in line and felt your palms start to sweat. A part of you was thankful that Bev was there to provide the wine and your…replacement; you didn’t want to have to stop the church proceedings just to explain why you couldn’t drink the wine.

The discovery of your ethanol allergy had come as a distressful lesson when you had first drank the sacrament as a child. You still remembered what a fuss everyone made and how you had been rushed to Dr.Gunning who had only graduated from medical school recently. From then on your Monsignor had been very understanding and blessed your separate cup of grape juice every mass from then on.

When you accepted the wafer, and accepted the smaller cup from Bev, you noted in the back of your mind that the priest before you looked a little shaken as you drank. You paid it no mind- he was new and he likely had his quirks.

But it was no quirk. The Father felt his shoulders sink, and blood drain from his face as he watched Bev hand you that cup. He felt his idiocy fill him, then the subsequent dread and horror that followed his realisation.

You couldn’t drink the communion wine.

You never had.

A flash of the first day you tried it made his head hurt as he recalled how distraught your mother was upon learning what had happened. He tried to push the worried expression on his young face away but he was sure it was now more of a grimace.

You couldn’t accept the gift.

Panic clouded Johns mind as he continued to give the sacrament to each of the islanders. The devil on his shoulder proposed that it simply wasn’t your fate to be given the gift. But John had learned to ignore that horned heathen well, and he knew he must do something to guide you with the rest of his flock.

No lamb left behind.

As you filed out to leave, you walked behind Annie Flynn and her son Riley.

He had left years ago when you were still in your mid teens, and he didn’t exactly leave a lasting impression on a teenager. They stopped for a moment to speak with the new father, and while you wanted to say hello to the pastor, you hated to linger and get in people’s way; you knew you would see the Father again, and so you went to skirt around Annie, but as fate would have it, their conversation ended quickly, and the older woman took you by the arm as her son left.

“This is the beating heart of Crockett herself!” She beamed at you while you stood there suddenly locked in conversation with the young priest.

Annie had always appreciated your positive attitude and good nature. You found yourself always trying to cheer her up on her worst days while she worried herself sick about her husband and her son on the mainland. She was a mother through and through, and you often held her as a place-holder for your own flesh and blood since you saw your family only a couple times a year since they moved away.

And Annie seemed content with that. She had always wanted a daughter. The way she gushed about you then to the Father and introduced you had you trying to brush off the praise with a few failed “Oh no I-“ and “I’m not-“ and so forth. Your flushed cheeks had another agenda entirely however when you finally looked up at the Fathers gaze.

It was those soft brown eyes of his that struck you first. So focused and yet so…sad. Like he might cry at any moment. You wondered if his eyes stung.

He was handsome in a weathered, timid sort of way; couldn’t have been more than mid forties. He looked as if he had seen years of life beyond his age. Perhaps years of absolving sins had taken a toll.

“She is our baker here on Crockett…helps liven up the plain variety of food we have.” She half joked, thought it was mostly truth. Crockett was a place of bread and butter- basics. So a treat of some kind was greatly appreciated, and you were happy to deliver just that.

“Ah yes…the Monsignor mentioned his love for your pastries.” He smiled genuinely and nodded as if recalling being told, “I’ll be sure to stop by.”

There was a boyishness to him that endearing enough to settle your nerves.

Your eyes widened in surprise, “He did?” You asked.

You were certain Pruitt wouldn’t be able to recall something so insignificant in his declining health and old age. It had only been a few years that you had been running the shop, and you knew he hadn’t been fully coherent long before that. A poetic connection between him and Crockett Island you supposed.

Father Paul seemed delighted by your shock though, and the crows feet around his eyes deepened, “Yes he was quite adamant I assure you. I believe you’re also a regular face I will be seeing and that it may just be you and Leeza at times.” He added.

You clasped your hands in front of you to keep from fidgeting.

“I- well I try to be.” You looked away timidly, and shuffled your feet as Annie smiled at you. You weren’t used to someone being so passionate about small things- let alone a man.

“Oh she’s just modest.” The older woman said.

Father Paul chuckled, “Modesty is a virtue. Now, I noticed you weren’t able to drink the sacramental wine, is there something I should know?” He seemed so curious and invested.

You nodded, “I’m afraid I’m allergic to something in wine- ethanol. I���ve always been given plain grape juice instead…the Monsignor was always kind enough to have it ready. I hope that won’t be a problem-“

Father Paul shook his head as he rushed to put your mind at ease.

“-no no not- not in the least I assure you. Your presence and dedication is more than enough…you still receive the lords blessing even if it is from a sweeter drink.” He mused.

“Thank you, Father.” You replied and looked down again so as to hide the warming of your cheeks again.

Annie smiled and hugged you, “Well then, not to cut this short, Father but I’m starting my shift in a half hour. I’ll see you then?” She asked you.

You nodded, “Sure will. I’ll make us some coffee. I’m sure the sheriff could use some too.” You called after her as she walked away and bid the father farewell. Leaving the two of you to stand together. You turned back to Father Hill as he towered over you, and fought to find something to say as your nerves kicked in. You were usually good at finding conversation but you felt like you were a kid being forced to talk to some family member your mom insisted you knew.

You took a deep breath. “It was-“

“I hope-“

You both spoke over each other, and both looked at one another apologetically. You shook your head and smiled a little to ease his embarrassment, “Please you first, Father Hill.”

He looked at you for a moment for confirmation to ensure that he wasn’t being rude then he began again, “I was only going to say that I hope to see you here again…it’s enlightening to see a youthful face in a church.” He grinned- a curl of his dark hair falling over his forehead as he looked down at you.

You returned his grin, though yours was a little forced in comparison.

Attending church was a routine ingrained in you since childhood, and now it was just something expected of you. You knew the day you didn’t attend would make the talk of the town and you were never in the mood for Beverly to come knocking on your door to berate you.

You could still remember a couple years ago when you were sick and she brought you a batch of soup for you to help…the offer had been kind enough, but the soup itself had made you want to curl into a ball and chew on a dead seagull.

“I assure you.” You echoed his words from earlier, and he smiled. “I’ll see you soon. Enjoy the rest of your day, Father.” You said, and slowly stepped past him.

He turned his body to follow you. John told himself it was manners to speak to someone with your whole attention, and while that was true, he simply needed one last proper look at you before you left.

“Likewise, y/n.” He called to you as you walked down the steps. Out of your peripheral, you could see Bev still bending by the ear of one of the community members, and you made quick work of sending her a tight smile then hurrying along the path to the road. She returned the forced expression; not that she knew you forced it. Practice makes perfect.

The hairs on the back of your neck began to stand on end as you descended the hill from St. Patrick’s. There was something in the back of your mind that told you not to look behind you, but against your better judgement, you did just that. A pair of soft brown eyes were trained on you as you walked.

The Father’s stare startled you and made your stride stutter.

He was intense and direct. He wasn’t like most of the islanders, and he made you uneasy somehow, but regardless, you cast him a friendly wave, and continued on your way- but that same prickle on the back of your neck simply wouldn’t let go.

John watched you go until your head disappeared down onto the main road and out of sight. He felt his nerves pick up as he said his last goodbyes and returned inside the church. He sat amongst the pews and stared up at the four walls around him. The weight of the gift he was tasked to reveal was growing heavy. He wished so badly to bestow this marvel to every dedicated church goer, and he would.

To every single one except you.

Why you?

Certainly you were in some way special; that had been revealed to him when it had been your face for him to first see upon returning.

Fate.

But if that were the case then surely your way to salvation should be easier…yet here you were unable to accept it; all because of an allergy.

John sighed as he made up his mind to proceed as he did with the rest of his flock. He hoped you wouldn’t taste the blood in your juice tomorrow- if you did he would simply have to find another way for you to accept it.

No lamb left behind.

The walk into town that usually brought you so much peace now came with an impending sense of foreboding. You knew that nasty storm was nearly at your doors, but storms had never bothered you too much. No, there was something in the air that made you all too aware of your heartbeat, and your breath and how your skin felt. You barely paid attention to anything around you as your leisurely pace unconsciously changed into one of hurry.

It wasn’t until you had just passed by the general store, and didn’t respond to Hassan’s greeting that you snapped out of your trance.

“Y/n? Y/n you alright?” He called to you as you strode right past him.

You nearly jumped out of your skin.

“Sh-sheriff, I’m so sorry…” you stopped in your tracks and furrowed your brow as you fought to find an answer for your odd attitude, “I’m…I think I’m just a little out of it today.” You laughed.

The Sheriff glanced you over for a moment, then nodded slowly. “There’s a fresh pot inside.” He tipped his cup filled with black coffee to you. He was a nice man. Exhausted…mistreated, but caring.

You smiled and nodded, “I’ll come by in a few minutes. Thank you.” You hoped your smile would reassure him. You didn’t need to worry an already stressed father and someone you would consider a friend. An awkward older friend who needed a break but a friend nonetheless. “Want an eclair? Got a few extra that I made this morning.” You asked.

He shook his head gently, “If I didn’t know better I’d say you were trying to give me my own form of insulation for winter.”

You gasped in faux shock, and shook your head, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The pebbles and dirt crunched under your boots as you stepped up to the little entrance of your bakery beside the general store. As soon as you stepped inside, you suddenly felt a little safer…at ease. As if you had anything to be afraid of.

You suddenly felt very silly.

Ridiculous.

There had only been one change that day, and that was the charismatic Father Paul Hill.

Had you become so sheltered on that little island that you were afraid of a stranger coming into your community? Surely not.

No. You hadn’t felt fear in the man’s presence so who would you feel it now?

Ridiculous.

Stop it.

You closed your eyes and did your best to clear your mind of any ominous thought and any thought about the new Father.

Out of sight. Out of mind. Not your business.

You strode to the back of the shop and prepared your morning deliveries; it was always the same. It was easy. And you knew it was appreciated. Feeling important was a virtue in a small community that was run into the ground.

Making people feel cared for made you happy.

The day came and went just as it always did, but you couldn’t help but feel like the island had turned a little off its axis. Like something had just nudged it into a slight other direction. Your suspicions were only enforced and justified when almost every one of your regulars mentioned the new pastor to you as they selected their desired sweet or savoury treat from your display case.

“Such a striking young man.”

“Too modern.”

“Nothing like our dear Monsignor…but I can’t say I’ve stayed so engaged during a homily in years.”

“How long do you think he’ll stay?”

“Where do you think he came from?”

And so on.

You had hoped any mention of the man would remain in your own thoughts, but it was as if he had swept through the town like a stiff winter breeze.

By the time you sold your last cheese bun and lemon tart, and closed up shop, there was a very real wind that surged right down Main Street. The cool air pricked right through your thick tights under your skirt and made you made a mental note to dig out some warmer ones.

That storm was due that evening. It had been the talk of the town all day, right after the endless conversations of the invigorating preacher. Once you had gotten home, you felt it start to push up against your boarded windows. The wind howled, and the lights flickered as the sky darkened outside; you took that as a sure sign to light a few candles.

There was something ethereal in the light from a candle. So beautiful. If you caught the flames out of the corner of your eyes, sometimes it looked like they had little halos.

You smiled softly at the thought.

You never stayed up late on storm nights. In fact you slept earlier than usual. You knelt beside your bed and clasped your hands in prayer.

“Father, as I lie down for sleep tonight, wash over me with the warmth of Your love. In Your mercy, soothe my pain, whether in my body-“ you paused your recitation when that familiar prickle began its way up the back of your neck like it had for the past two days. You listened intently, but there was nothing but the wind.

“-mind or soul. Grant me a restful night of sleep so that when I awake, I'm strengthened to do Your will. Amen.” You decided against thinking too much of the unease, and settled under your blankets and closed your eyes.

You didn’t dream that night. In fact it felt as if you had merely shut your eyes for a moment before you were opening them again at the sound of your alarm.

The storm had blown itself out by the time you took your wooden shutters off your windows. There was a sliver of light coming over the horizon as you peered out at the water. You stared at it intently, and clenched your hand into an absentminded fist.

You tried the lightswitch in your kitchen, and praised the lord that it worked. You wondered if Sturge had been up even earlier than you to fix the power lines.

The outside of your house was a mess complete with a crab trap hanging off your fence. Nets, ropes, bushes, clothes, coolers, toys riddled the streets as you walked in the dim light to your shop. But then after only a few minutes, your nose picked up a smell. You were used to the strong smell of the ocean, especially after the storms, but this was different. You started towards the beach, and nearly gagged when you got closer. You had to cover your mouth once you stood on the sand.

From left to right, the beach was littered with the corpses of cats. You knew there were quite a lot on the island, and had seen the odd dead feline, but this was as if something had wiped out every cat and dumped them by the shore.

Anxiety filled you as you stared.

“Oh my-…”

You spun around to see Hassan standing beside you; uniform half buttoned and a bag over his shoulder that you knew had his lunch. The two of you exchanged looks of distress, and you visibly started to shake the longer you looked.

“What…what would…Hassan what-…” you looked up at the man, and he only shook his head. At a loss for words.

“Cmon. I’ll walk you in. Gotta…gotta call the mayor.” He wrapped an arm around your back to direct you away from the mess, “We’ll take care of it.”

You nodded and followed his lead away from the beach and into town, but you found yourself remembering that prickle up the back of your neck that night, and wondered if it had had anything to do with the slaughter. Was there some predator that had somehow made it onto the island without anyone knowing? Was someone going around killing cats? Had the solitude of Crockett Island finally made someone snap and rip every feline to shreds?

The call of your name cut through your thoughts.

You looked up and saw that you were ex standing outside your shop, and the poor man who had walked you there looked even more distressed at your quietness.

“Thank you…thanks Hassan…I’ll…let- let me know if you find anything out.” You said quietly but gave him a small smile of reassurance.

“I will. Take care okay?” He said, and you nodded, but he was already disappearing up the steps into the general store.

You nodded to yourself, and unlocked your shop and stood inside.

Then you took a deep breath.

And got to work.

By the time 8:30 came around, your nerves had calmed, and your nose was filled with a far more pleasant smell of muffins, and tarts and sourdough.

You brushed off your hands, and bundled up the deliveries for that day, then quickly locked the shop up and left for mass. As you walked, you found yourself ever so slightly reluctant. Nervous like your first day of school.

It wasn’t until you heard the sound of Leeza and Annie behind you that you snapped out of a daze that had settled over you.

“Good morning, dear!” Annie called to you as you stopped and waited for them.

“Morning. You all survived the storm just fine?” You asked politely and began walking with them.

“Oh we were fine. Just a breeze.” Annie said good-naturedly, “Sure was strange what with all those cats this morning though hey? Heard Dolly saying they’re still trying to work out what happened.” She said a little hushed.

You nodded, “I know…the Sheriff and I found them this morning…scared me half to death…”

“They’ll figure it out I’m sure.” Annie dismissed the conversation; you could tell she was worried. She always worried.

Not wanting that to be the last conversational subject between your little group, you changed the subject.

“Anything exciting happening at school today?” You asked Leeza.

She shook her head, “Nah…but I think we’re starting on this project that I’m excited about…” the girl began on a tangent regarding her science project. It was nice to listen to someone prattle on about something that would be insignificant in a few years…it was somehow refreshing. Somehow you felt like an older sister to Leeza, and having her confide in you so honestly about mundane things made your heart swell.

The three of you entered the church, and just as always, you sat in your usual spot in the middle, across from Leeza and Annie. And you waited.

“Our processional hymn this morning is number 400 in the red hymnal. “Holy, Holy, Holy.” Please rise. “ came the voice of Father Hill from the door of the church.

A shiver made you twitch, and you blamed a draft in the church. You stood just as you always did; not needing the hymnbook but still holding it out of habit.

You sang, and kept your eyes trained on the text as the Father passed, his hands pressed in prayer as he walked up to the pulpit and continued his routine. You could feel the heavy presence of Bev Keene permeating the air, and you subconsciously ground your teeth. You knew if she had her heart in the right place, she could be a magnetic, beloved member of any community.

But sadly she didn’t have a heart to have it in the right place to begin with. Soot and malice was what sat beneath that gold cross she wore.

“Before he was given up to death, a death he freely accepted, he took bread and gave you thanks…”

Your eyes glazed over at you listened to that voice of his. Not that you weren’t hearing his words, or the message behind them; you were paying attention. But just like being read a story by your mother at bedtime versus a babysitter you had only just met, there was a certain comfort to be found in the former. Yet somehow, where Father Hill ought to have been less comforting, he brought great solace to his homily. It felt as if he was the one you were so used to listening to. Somehow he had eased himself into the Monsignor’s shoes seamlessly and had begun to preach his own gospel that melded with the tone you had become accustomed to since childhood and lulled you into a safe haven of worship.

“…He broke the bread, gave it to his disciples, and said…”

There was an effortlessness in his sermon. You wondered if he had started preaching very young.

With only 4 islanders in the church to worship, Father Hill stepped down from the pulpit and began offering the Body and blood of Christ to each. He saved you for last, you noticed, and for good reason as he retrieved your smaller cup and returned to you. You cupped your hands in front of you, and waited dutifully.

“Body of Christ, y/n.” Came that gentle voice of his like he cared deeply that you accept the blessing.

His long fingers graced the pads of yours so slightly as he placed the wafer on your fingers, and you failed to hide the hitch of your breath as you murmured “Amen.”

Then as he held your small cup for you to drink from, you failed to see how his gaze caught the sight of your pink tongue peaking out just over your teeth as you went to drink. John didn’t know why he noticed that; he supposed he noticed many small details now. Seeing your tongue now must have reminded him of any smaller animal with its mouth open- a small rabbit, a mouse, a cat, a-

A lamb.

The juice tasted strange that morning and somehow thicker than usual. You wondered if it was just in your head after being so shaken from the cats…

Annie took it upon herself to walk Leeza to school that morning, which left you to exit the church alone. On a day like that with the sun shining, you found coming out of the house of God almost ethereal. The light poured in through the single-paned windows and illuminated the dust particles that drifted so gently.

Once you stepped outside, the fresh air filled your lungs and you let yourself smile easily up at Father Paul as he stood patiently.

“Good morning, Father Hill.” You said, craning your neck to look up at the man.

“The beating heart herself!” He smiled, reiterating Annie’s analogy of you.

A good memory.

And a good sense of humour.

The warming of your cheeks was obvious , and John felt a little tug in his chest at the sight of it. Little flower pedals colouring your cheeks.

“She- I’m…”you tried to find a way to humble the dramatic compliment, but failed, “I hope you made it through the storm alright, Father. One hell of a welcome.” You said, trying to redirect the conversation, and to your mercy, Father Hill went along with it.

He nodded.

“It was quite nice actually. Being plunged into darkness almost feels like a renewal of some kind.” He said thoughtfully as his mouth seemed to threaten to tug into a smile.

“Quite sobering.” You agreed, “I’m glad it didn’t chase you off. Don’t know how many times I’ve seen someone buy a summer home here then flee the moment they have to endure a storm.” It was true. A little funny too.

The Father chuckled and nodded, “A fearsome thing to behold, but still a reminder of our creator…the power or lord holds, whipping storms against our rocks and shores just to knock on our doors and say hello. Almost reassuring.” He rambled a little.

You tilted your head, “That’s a very thoughtful way to look at it. Certainly more poetic than what you’ll hear from most of the locals.”

“And what would they say?” He shot back playfully.

You breathed out a laugh.

“One too many curse words for my liking, Father. And a couple confusing analogies.” You said.

Father Hill chuckled and somehow you half expected him to pat your head and tell you to run along. The Monsignor used to when you were a child so it wouldn’t be entirely foreign.

“Well we all have our ways of dealing with hardship-“

“Ah you’re still here, y/n!”

During your conversation you hadn’t noticed how the two of you had come to shift closer to one another; but when that cutting voice of Bev Keen startled you, you took an instinctive step away from the man with whom you had been speaking.

You forced a polite smile, “I am. Just asking how Father Paul made it through the storm-“

“The rectory has always been just fine.” She shot at you with a tight smile as if trying to end your time there quickly.

John could see your lips pull down so slightly into a tiny frown when Bev cut you off; he felt a flicker of irritation. Odd.

You recovered, acting like she didn’t mean any harm. “I’m sure it has. But just because a place is safe doesn’t remove fear. The Father here seemed to have handled it just fine though like you said… “In the storms, winds and waves, He whispers “fearnot” for I am with you.”.” You smiled up at the Father, and he returned it gently.

“Psalm 107:29…truer words could not exist for Crockett Island.” Father Paul said fondly to you; he had a way of speaking to those around him like there was a bubble around the two of you as you conversed. Like nothing else could take his attention from you.

You took in a breath and clasped your hands in front of you when you could feel the gaze of Bev scorching you, “Well thank you for a lovely service today Father, Bev…always a pleasure.” You said to both, but only made it several steps before Father Paul called after you.

“You’re always welcome here.” He said you name so gently. You noticed too that his tone was almost pleading…perhaps encouraging. Did he think you would stop your routine one day?

“I appreciate that Father Hill!” You smiled and waved as you turned to continue on your way; Paul’s lingering stare and Bevs look of distain following you as you went.

Your ear ached as a pull in you almost forced you to turn around and look back at St. Patrick’s again…but you didn’t. Somehow you felt it was in poor taste to do so. You had been startled by being watched once, and you were certain your nerves would not benefit from it again.

Instead, you hurried along, and made it down to the bakery quickly. You waved at a few locals who entered the general store and unlocked your door to grab your deliveries for that day. You always felt a pang of sadness when you looked at your list of houses and saw old customers crossed off; having passed or moved, but you supposed you ought to feel joyous for those who remained.

One by one you completed your deliveries. There were only 15 houses to visit, give or take a few from day to day. You treasured those houses.

You peddled up to one of the houses you frequented, and grabbed the order you needed. You almost bounced up the steps and knocked. It didn’t take long before the door was opening after the voice inside called that they were coming.

You were then met with a familiar face.

“Good to see you. Morning going alright?” Sarah Gunning was always a little direct, but kind. You supposed a good doctor ought to be both.

You nodded as you handed her the two loaves of bread and bundle of fruit cakes. “Not too bad…was a little shaken by the…uh…the cats this morning but nothing a sunny day like today can’t fix!” You assured her. “How’s your mother?”

Sarah nodded, “I heard…smelled it too. She’s alright, thank you y/n.” She took the package from you and gave you a tight smile.

“Good…see you soon.” You chirped, and began backing down the steps.

You turned around and strode out the front yard, but sighed when you noticed one of the straps that kept your goods in place at the back of your bike was loose. You knelt down and retied it. You supposed everything on this island was falling apart just a little.

When you straightened, however, you gasped and nearly toppled over. “F-Father Hill! I’m so sorry-“

The man stepped back a little.

“Im sorry I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” He put his hand up to show he meant no harm, face apologetic.

“No…no that was on me, I’ve been a little in my head lately.” You said, having a hard time meeting his gaze.

“We all can be a little distracted.” He said. A slightly awkward silence fell between you, but it was he who broke it. “You know the Gunnings well?” He asked, and nodded to the house behind you.

You followed his gaze and nodded, “Not terribly, but I remember seeing Mrs. Gunning in church when I was a kid…I just deliver to them now. Mrs.Gunning’s health hasn’t been the best for years and her daughter Sarah cares for her…I just try to help out where I can.” You smiled.

There was something nagging at you though. Something odd. Of course you hadn’t fully realized that this stranger already knew who lived there; you were so used to everyone knowing everyone.

You did notice how the man before you shifted when you mentioned Sarah’s mother. He seemed almost a little more compelled to listen.

“That- that’s kind of you.” He stumbled a little over his words, “Giving to those in need that’s very selfless…a trait that can be hard to come by though we all possess it.” Father Hill forced a smile that crinkled the sides of his eyes.

“We all have traits in us that we can chose to embrace or not. Good and bad, Father.”

His smile turned a little more genuine then. “Ah yes, the never ending duality of man.”

“ “Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come into the light for fear that their deeds will be exposed.” John 3:20.” You quoted a little absentmindedly as you saw Beverly pass by on the main road. The distraction kept you from seeing how the man towering over you had his eyes go wide, and looked away for a moment.

You both stood there for a moment, then you ducked your head a little and pulled your bike towards yourself. “Well Father, I’ll leave you to it.”

Father Hill nodded, and pursed his lips ever so slightly, “Good to see you…”

You slowly walked past him and back to the road, but stopped when he muttered something that you wondered if he meant for you to hear.

“Thank you.” He said.

You looked back at him, brows pitched in confusion.

“For…taking- taking care of everyone.” He ended his sentence a little weakly, and you tilted your head a little to the side. An odd man.

“It’s my pleasure.” You decided on. It seemed to be what Father Hill wanted or needed to hear, and you both parted ways.

You paused at Main Street, and turned to look up at the Father as he ascended the stairs to the Gunning house. This time, it was his turn to glance back at you as you watched him. You waved and smiled, and didn’t wait for his response before you were pedalling away.

John had been standing just out of view of Sarah when he had said goodbye to Leeza, and saw you knock on Mildred’s front door. He stayed there, enjoying how much life you held inside you. Youthful and magnetic. Of course the ease in staring at you had nothing to do with the fact that your dress swayed around your legs and picked up so slightly in the wind.

He watched how startled you were by him when he approached you…so cautious yet so trusting. A lamb weary of wolves just looking for her Shepard.

I will be your Shepard sweet lamb…let me. Bend for me…for God.

Then that quote…oh you were no mere lost soul. No you were thoughtful. John felt excitement fill him at the thought of how you would benefit from his gift. He would be lying if he said you saying his true name didn’t startle him. A coincidence, of course.

Then when he turned back and saw you already watching him. Then that peak of your thigh when you hopped onto your bike…John was…

John was distracted.

An ideal lamb to guide yet so concerning. Not a blind lamb…no you were good. You were caring, and strong. Hopeful…hopeful like a man overboard who knew he had to weather swell after swell of water but kept treading water because he knew he was strong enough despite his muscles wanting to give out.

Instead of staying afloat like that man, John lost his breath.

Then he gasped in the salty sea water and breathed you in. Gulped you down his throat like a greedy boy to nourish his body and fill his lungs.

The next morning was thankfully an uneventful one.

Hassan and Wade had managed to get the dead cats cleaned up by the evening of the day before, and you weren’t sure when the last time was that you were so happy to have nothing happen.

Until that evening.

You were fairly proud of your abilities to make delicious confectioneries for Crockett island, and as you stared down your journal of recipes that sat in your lap, you pondered which to chose for the approaching Crock-potluck. You knew there would be a great deal of food already there, but you also knew that something freshly made for desert changed an atmosphere fast.

You were just looking through your various cookie and sweet bread recipes when a knock on your door made you jump. It was rare that you had visitors, especially at this hour. Certainly Erin had come by numerous times for slow walks around the island in the evening from time to time, and then Annie sometimes ran down to your house if she needed an ingredient…but somehow you felt that the person knocking was neither.

It was soft and timid.

You uncurled yourself from your nest of blankets on the couch, and strode to your door, then opened it with a pleasant smile on your face. It faltered only a little once you saw who was standing there.

“I- I uh…I’m sorry for this intrusion so late but I have a favour to ask of you if I may.” Came that low rumble of the man’s voice as he stood in the dim light of your porch.

You blinked, “What can I do for you Father?”

Father Hill shifted a little- an awkward smile on his face as he looked to the side as he stalled.

“This is my first uh- Crockett Po- crock-“ he stumbled a little and you smiled.

“Crock-potluck.” You corrected him.

He laughed a little, “Yes. And I wanted to have something to bring. Something my mother ingrained in me as a boy and well I was hoping if…if you could lend a helping hand so to speak.”

You bit at your cheek to keep from smiling too wide at his request. Here was this man likely twice your age, taller than most trees, fumbling with his words when he preached for a living. He was endearing.

“Well Father…it is getting late.” You started, and his face instantly turned to that of a kicked puppy.

His eyes softened, and the corners of his mouth tugged down so slightly.

“Oh- of- of course how silly-“

“-and I was going to make something for the potluck anyways…so having an extra pair of hands would be a godsend.” You finished.

John chuckled and stared you in the eye when your nose scrunched up so slightly at your tease.

Funny girl.

“Come in, please…make yourself at home.” You ushered him in. You were thankful that Bev didn’t live near you lest she see her dear Father Hill enter the home of a young woman alone.

Of course, John knew that you were indeed preparing to make something. Just like most islanders, you kept your drapes open even at night, and while he had just meant to take an evening stroll and check in on you- his dear lamb- John had found himself standing just outside your window watching you for well past a half hour. You flicked through that book of yours that John remembered seeing on your counter just two days ago when you had tested a recipe from it. You hadn’t seen him that night either. So domestic and sweet in your own space…

It was only when he snapped out of his trance-like state that he felt a little perverse in his current situation and told himself that he must have a reason for being there so long.

Thus the need to make something for the potluck.

John Pruitt had never made something for the potluck.

But he would not just leave your house that night after watching you through your window.

No. No he had a purpose for being there.

Of course he did. Why else would God have guided him there on his walk?

It wasn’t as if he was subconsciously drawn to your little home.

A moth to a flame.

You watched the older man remove his boots, and unzip his grey hoodie, and remove it to fold it neatly onto your couch. He looked so domestic and human.

“We’re going to make a cult classic, Father…I hope that’s alright. Safer for large numbers.” You explained as you flipped to your browned butter chocolate chip recipe. You slowly walked into your kitchen as you reviewed what you needed, and Father Hill trailed after you.

“This might take a couple hour- oh!” You started to say, but jumped when you turned around and bumped right into his chest.

He chuckled, “I think I might need a bell on me…I’m afraid I have a talent for startling people lately.”

You waved it off, “It’s just me…I’m just- I…” you sighed and looked up at the man as he waited patiently for your explanation, “Can I…can I be completely honest with you, Father Hill?” You asked a little timidly.

He nodded- open and calm, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

You sucked in a breath, “You’re…well you’re a new presence here on the island…a welcomed one! But because you’re new…you startle a lot of us because we’re simply not…used to you. We’ll get there but in the time being…I think that’s why. I’m- we…we’re glad you’re here.” You stumbled and then when he smiled softly at you you suddenly worried that you had offended him, “I’m…I’m sorry I don’t think that came out right…”

“No no please…it makes perfect sense given how isolated the island is…I take no offence.” He said good-naturedly and waved his hand.

You sighed, and looked down, “Alright well…let’s get started. You might want to roll your sleeves up though it can get messy, Father.” You perked up as you changed the subject, and began to walk to your counter where you had already taken out a mixing bowl and, whisk and measuring cup.

“I am at your disposal, young lady.” Father Paul came to brace himself against the counter edge beside you, looking down at you thoughtfully.

You felt a blush rise to your cheeks, but kept your head down enough for him to not see, “Can you get me the butter from the fridge? Should be on the door.” You asked, and pulled out a small saucepan.

He nodded, and retrieved the butter for you. As he looked for it, you glanced over at him, and found your eyes drawn to his exposed forearms from him rolling up his sleeves. You looked away almost instantly, embarrassed for having been looking at your priest like that.

“You know this is the first time I’ve done this. Gotta admit it’s a bit exciting.” He said as he popped the butter beside you on the counter proudly.

“Baking is always fun…especially when things turn out yummy.” You smiled and put two large cups of butter in the heated pan. It started to sizzle. “We brown the butter to give the cookies a sort of nutty flavour…makes it a little tastier even if they’re just chocolate chip cookies.” You explained. He watched over your shoulder, enrapt.

“Did you always want to do this?” He asked you.

You blinked, “The- the cookies-?”

“No.” He laughed, “No, being a baker.”

“Oh. Well…not exactly. I grew up here and when you grow up in Crockett you have a lot of time to think…sometimes too much. I guess I knew I would end up doing something here and when I got older I got into baking and in my spare time I got really good at it…took years but before I knew it I was graduating and had a pretty fortuitous hobby. It was actually Dr. Gunning who suggested it.”

“Sarah?” Came his voice behind you.

“Yeah, Sarah was in the general store when I was there to get some milk and we got to talking…I had made her mom a few loaves of bread that she used to like and Sarah said I should make something out of my skill. And here I am!” You laughed, and stirred the butter as it browned and thinned.

“Wonderful…” he said softly.

You nodded, “She’s a nice lady. You’ll get used to her- just a little direct. Think it comes with being a doctor.” There was a moment of silence between you; only filled with the bubbling of the butter, “Alright, can you go into the freezer and pull out the flour, and measure out 3 cups of it into the bowl there?” You asked the man behind you.

“I certainly can.” He confirmed.

“Oh! Can you get 4 eggs as well?” You asked quickly.

He hummed and looked through your fridge for what he needed, and placed everything by the bowl. The counter was so much lower for him that he almost had to hunker over with his height to work.

He looked so…normal. It was sweet. A little odd to see your pastor baking with you but it was nice. Somehow it made him feel more human than just a man who absolved your sins and blessed you every morning.

The two of you worked together, and you came to find that Father Hill was eager to learn. He was methodical and took his time to do things right. Listened. Before you knew it there was a massive bowl of cookie dough on the counter and your oven was full of baking sheets.

“Each sheet should only take about 15 minutes so this shouldn’t take more than another hour.” You said, “If- if you need to take off I can finish-“

“A good man does not abandon his task, not to worry.” His tone was stern but he was smiling. You returned it.

“Well…” you breathed as you looked around for something to do, “I can put some music on if you like? You’re welcome to look around.”

He nodded, and you went to find something to listen to, “This used to be my family’s house. I’m afraid I only have their old records…Hope that’s okay?”

“More than.” He called out to you as you went into the living room.

You flipped through a few envelopes, and settled on one from Jeff Buckley. It was mostly slow, and you could still talk if you wanted to. You set it up, and as the needle sat atop the vinyl, a calm song began.

“Who’s this little ray of sunshine?”

You turned and followed Father Paul’s voice. He was standing in front of a few picture frames hung on the wall that you kept from when your family lived there.

“That was me.” You laughed, “That was right before Easter I think…I was 5.” You said thoughtfully.

“You looked happy.” He smiled.

I was. You thought.

“I loved Easter. Mostly for the chocolate…” you both chuckled a little, “But…now it’s just the time of year that I like. Spring. Revival…blossoming of plants, birds chirping…everything just seems so much more alive. The world starts to hum with God’s greatness during Easter, I think.” You thought aloud, then looked up at Father Hill once you ended your musings.

He was already watching you; hanging onto every word.

He remembered how much you enjoyed Easter. “One more chocolate, Monsignor? Pleeease?” He could still hear that little voice.

“What do you think, Father?” You asked him.

“I have to agree.” He hummed. You noticed that his eyes were almost glassy-that same teary look you had noticed when you first met him. Like he may weep.

“I think Monsignor Pruitt was partial t-

DING!

You both jumped apart and looked behind you at the sound of your timer sounding.

Had it been 15 minutes already?

You both returned to the kitchen and you began removing the sheets of golden treats. “If you can put them on the cooling rack while I take them out that’ll help a lot, Father.” You smiled.

“They turned out so nicely.” He mused as he followed your orders, “I supposed I shouldn’t have expected anything less from you.”

You laughed a little, “It’s just trial and error until you figure out your best method.”

Modest girl.

John grinned at you from the corner of his eye while you placed the last hot sheet on the counter.

The two of you continued the routine until the last round was in the oven, and you were starting to feel more at ease with the man. Almost playful. He certainly was a young priest, and every bit a red blooded man; his humour was dry, and he smiled easily. His laugh was infectious, though you could tell he didn’t do it often. You supposed the church wasn’t exactly a place rich with humour.

The record had nearly finished after almost an hour of listening, and the two of you were leaning against the kitchen counter listening. You swayed gently to the music, but then perked up when a favourite of yours began to play.

“I love this song…” you muttered under your breath and turned your head in the direction of the living room.

John looked down at you in recognition of what you had said, but in the low light of your kitchen, and the softness in your face, he couldn’t help but be reminded of being young. Not just himself but the island. Back when the people who were not partners used to be children he had baptized. Back when there were dances in the old town hall that had since burned down decades ago.

You reminded him of…a better time.

An easier time.

You were so occupied in your little bubble, that it took you a moment to notice Father Paul coming in front of you with his hands out.

You looked down at his palms, then up at him, and he waited patiently. You slowly placed your hands in his, and he pulled you away from the counter and began to sway with you. So gentle, then he tentatively brought your hand up to his shoulder and he brought his other hand to your waist; guiding you through a little dance.

Neither of you said a word.

Not there was anything to say really.

Somehow the two of you just felt very…human.

Your neck hurt from looking up at his dark eyes, but you didn’t stop. He watched you just as closely as you moved slowly through the room in small circles.

“…You know I used to be alone before I knew you…and I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch, and love is not some victory march. It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah…”

The smell of baked cookies surrounded you, and you almost laughed at the absurdity of it all.

But in that moment, it didn’t feel absurd.

It felt like two kindred souls enjoying some shared time. Any obligations or expectations melted away as you felt the warmth from his hands meld into your tendons and heat your sinew. His fingers holding yours felt more akin to a cradle and his breath between you was like smelling your childhood.

Your heart ached.

Perhaps it was that no one had held you in years. Let alone danced with you.

Hugs and pats on the back were about the extent.

“…and it’s not a cry that you hear at night, it’s not someone whose seen the light, it’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah…”

The two of you slowed until you came to a standstill in the kitchen, simply standing less than a foot from eachother. When the timer dinged this time, neither of you jumped away. The sound certainly brought you down to Earth, but somehow you only found yourself staring up at the man. You weren’t altogether confused, though you were curious and a little nervous.

Why had he done that?

Why did you do that?

You had felt so comfortable…like this was an old friend of yours who you had just seen again after years apart.

John gazed down at you…his mind rich with turmoil and deep contemplation. When he had taken your hands in his, it had been as if God had moved through him.

Compelling.

Like God had told him to embrace the good of the past, and remember what he was working towards. To restore exactly that.

After a few breaths, Father Hill released your hand, and you both quietly walked to the oven.

The last batch now sat on the cooling racks, and you sighed.

“I’ll pack these up and bring them by the rectory before service tomorrow, Father.” You broke the silence.

Father hill nodded, “Thank you my girl.” He said softly.

You nodded and looked down at your hands, “Thank you for your company.” Then looked back up at the man before you.

He tilted his head to you as if to tell you that you were welcome or that it was his pleasure.

He slowly unrolled his sleeves, and you picked his sweater up for him from the living room.

You almost felt bad to watch him go. It might have been nice to talk to him for a few hours more.

He finished tying his boots and graciously took the sweater from you, and slipped it on over his collared shirt.

“Goodnight, y/n.” He murmured as he opened your door.

“Goodnight, Father.” You whispered back.

He stayed a moment longer, and smiled gently at you, then he was gone.

You stood in your doorway, watching him go, and as he left your sight, you found yourself returning to your senses. A wave of embarrassment chilled you when you realised what you had just done. Yet somehow you didn’t feel entirely guilty. It had felt as if some kind of blanket had enveloped the two of you just like when he conversed with his flock after mass- a bubble around you.

You packed the treats away after cooling, and silently went to sleep. You didn’t let yourself dwell.

-

“It’s great to see so many of you here today. But I do have to ask, why not every Sunday? Christmas, Easter, I get that. But there’s also always an uptick around the start of Lent. Why is that? What’s so special about today? Ash Wednesday, beginning of Lent. It’s hardly a crowd-pleaser.The beginning of repentance, making amends for our sins. Sin. This darkness, this blackness that spilled into us. That darkness, we wear it on our forehead today. Just a smudge of it. Uh…A smudge of death, of ash, of sin for repentance. Because of where this is all actually heading, which is Easter. Rebirth, resurrection, eternal life. Life that rises again…” Father Paul stood before you at the pulpit, presence commanding as ever.

“Even out of blackness, love rises again. Even out of sin. And this island, it will rise again. Even out of disaster, rebirth, restoration, eternal life. Jesus sees you. Sees you, best of all, and he sees you true. Because, don’t forget, who did he seek out? Who did he turn to, to build his church?His apostles. Jesus’ first disciples, they were fishermen. One of his first miracles, right? The nets are empty, fishermen desperate. Jesus says, “Put out into deep water and let down your nets for a catch,” and when they pulled up those nets, a bounty of fish.” You could practically feel the worshipers buzz around you as their heart rates picked up, just like yours.

“He sees you. Oh, yes, he sees you, brothers and sisters, and he will resurrect this island, and he will again fill your nets. It’s great you’re here today, but please keep coming back. Those doors, they’re always open, as the gates are always open. You just bring yourself. God will do the rest. As Psalm 60 tells us, “God, You have rejected us, You have broken us down, You have been angry. Restore us again.” Do you know what psalms are? They’re songs.The word psalm from the Greek psalmoi. It means “music.” Songs of prayer. Songs of praise. That’s who we are. That’s who we must be. That’s what it means to have faith, that in the darkness, in the worst of it, in the absence of light and hope, we sing. “Restore us,” we sing to the sky. And He will, my friends. He will. That same hand that dealt you your hardship, that same hand will make you whole.”

A single tear fell from your eye. God works in mysterious ways, and you could almost feel God working through Father Hill that day. As if God truly was trying to tell you that he was there with you. And Father Hill spoke as if he knew something good was to come- as if God had shown him.

And you believed him.

As you stood, you could hear Annie trying to urge her son to accept the cross of ash, and you gave her a small reassuring smile when she filed in behind you.

“Y/n remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” The preacher murmured to you. Your face was bright that day, happy. John suppressed a smile.

“Amen.” You said quietly, flicking your eyes up to his. He stared down at you steadily, calm as ever.

“Bless you my child.” His was was low and serene.

It was a peaceful stroll down to potluck. You watched as birds started to flit in the trees and chirp; bees starting to buzz, the gentle sound of the shore. Rebirth.

You checked behind you every so often as you walked in case you saw Father Hill; you had brought the cookies to the rectory that morning before service, and when you had offered to help carry the three large containers after, the Father had declined.

You had insisted.

But he insisted harder.

It was wonderful to see the islanders enjoy the little festival. Sharing with each other and laughing. It didn’t happen often. It was as if everyone pushed off their exhaustion just to enjoy that day. Problems could wait until the next day.

You made your way through the locals that you knew well, and stopped a little longer with some. Annie stood with Ed, and you noticed them smiling; perhaps it might seem like a strange thing to notice, but you knew all about Ed’s troubled back, and how their marriage was a little exhausted…it made your heart glow a little to see them happy. Most everyone seemed happier if you were honest, and it wasn’t just that day.

Your legs began to ache after a half hour, and you took to the edge of the festival to sit. You liked this. Watching everyone around you.

“Mind if I join you?” You looked up to see Father Hill walking over to you, a cup of juice in hand.

“Please do.” You scooted over to give him a little more room.

He sat with a soft grunt.

“You did your hair different.”

You turned to him. And your lips parted in surprise, “Wha-“

“I’m sorry- I noticed during communion. Just came to mind.” He said a little awkwardly though no less sweet.

Your mouth fell open a little, “I did. First day of lent…I like to do a little extra for it.” You rambled.

John smiled at you.

You looked pretty.

Not that he could say that.

But you did.

“The crockpot luck…I hear it’s a yearly staple for the island.” Father Hill said to you as you both looked out over the festival.

You nodded, “Sure is…”

John turned to you then; your tone was a little more reserved. Like you weren’t saying all you wished to.

“You’re not a fan of it?” He asked curiously.

You thought for a moment. “Can I be-“

“Honest?” He cut you off. Echoing your words from the night before.

You smiled, “Yes.”

“Please do.”

“I-… Lent is supposed to be a time of fasting and repentance and prayer…I just…it seems strange to have a festival on Ash Wednesday.” You said quietly.

He nodded, “Perhaps a little unorthodox.”

“I think I’ve always found it just…a little odd. Our Monsignor was the one who came up with it, you know? Coined the name. I just…I can’t help but wonder if his theology was a little…uh…off.” You mused, looking down at your hands.

Father Hill regarded you for a moment, and nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“I know you didn’t know him…he was a nice man…but…he was- is just a man. Man has his faults.” You shrugged, then turned to the man beside you, “No offence, Father.”

He chuckled and sipped at his cup, “None taken. I appreciate your candour.”

You pursed your lips.

You weren’t usually so unguarded.

You shouldn’t have said that.

Why did you say that?

This was the second time you had inadvertently said something to insult him within 24 hours. You felt shame start to rise in the back of your throat.

“I don’t want you to worry about offending me, y/n. I’m a friend and an ear to listen…if ever you want to talk.” He said, staring out at the sea of people, then back at you.

You sighed and nodded, “Thank you, Father. You’re very kind.”

He smiled.

Then you remembered something, “Father?”

“Hm?”

You shifted a little awkwardly, “I want to first thank you for maintaining my uh…specialized sacrament, but I just wanted to ask- have you changed the juice?” You asked him.

He thought for a moment, “I don’t believe so. We just got a new shipment…I can check if it’s any different…why?”

“It…it’s just…it tastes very strange. Almost metallic. I don’t know how else to describe it.” You thought back to how the taste stayed in your mouth after only a sip.

John shifted in his seat. You knew. He would have to find another way of give you the gift.

“I’ll find another one to give you. Not to worry.” He said, and patted your hand.

“Thank you, Father.” You chose not to dwell on him touching you.

“Well, I should return to my flock…trying to get to know everyone.” He said, then pushed himself up off the bench.

You nodded. You knew he was only temporary, but it was kind of him to try and get to know the members of the community while he was there.

He was charming and approachable, it wouldn’t be hard for him.

“Of course, enjoy!” You called after him. He waved back at you, and you scrunched your face up as the sun hit your eyes.

You sighed to yourself and after an hour, you began to make another round of the park. The town had truly lucked out with such a beautiful day for such a special day. After such a nasty storm just a few days ago, it was surprising.

You watched at the sun started to lower in the sky. Things were starting to wind down, and some had began to return home-

“Pike!”

You whipped your head around in the direction of the scream. On the other end of the park, you could see a crowd forming. You knew Pike was Joe Collie’s dog, and by the sounds of it, there was nothing good happening. You knew he was old, and loud, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly. You hoped he hadn’t bitten someone.

You crossed the field in just a couple minutes, and when you came to stand in the crowd, you felt yourself grow lightheaded. Pike was laying in a puddle of foamy bile and blood- the light leaving his eyes. You could hear Joe accusing Bev, and saw Sarah knelt over the dog…it was horrible.

“Alright everyone…back up.” Hassan waved his arms to try and disperse the crowd. Everyone began to walk away, and you could feel a solemnness come over the islanders. Like somehow they had all been snapped out of a trance and remembered their troubles.

You pursed your lips, but ultimately backed up as well. You wanted to help, but you knew there was virtually nothing to do. Pike was dead.

You kept to yourself for another hour, the as the afternoon dragged on, you started to collect the now-empty containers that had once held the cookies.

“Thanks for that, y/n.”

You looked over at Wade who was taking one last helping of…something brownish. A casserole of some kind.

You smiled, “Oh it was no problem. It was actually a group effort between the Father and I!”

His brows shot up, “Really?”

“Yeah he wanted to bring something. Wasn’t that nice of him?” You picked the empty containers up.

“Yeah…he- he seems like a real nice fella.” He mused, moustache twitching.

You nodded, “This was great, Mr. Mayor. See you Friday?”

He chuckled- you knew he was just fine with Wade, but you also knew he liked when people used his title- made him feel important. And you did your best to remind each person of their importance when you could.

“See you Friday, sweetheart.” He conceded.

You waved him off, then began your way back home.

John stood on the edge of the park watching you go. He had initially taken the spot to gaze at Sarah, but his gaze had been drawn when you were speaking with the mayor.

They really did love you.

And he understood why.

He watched you disappear down the road, dress fluttering in the wind.

•••••••••••••••••••

@littleredwritingcat @zaunite-leo @f4er1e-g1rl @purplemotif @vampyre-kin @professional-sinner @hamishlinklaters @spacechupss @pansexualpamandabear @ebiemidnightlibrarian

[ginnysgraffiti]

Paul Atreides x reader? Where the reader does not believe in the prophecy of the Lisan-al-Gaib or in any god or Messiah that they say will come, to which Paul is interested in her but also feels anger because the reader does not show fear or submission, and when inquiring about why she has no faith in anything she reads or gods is because she went through many horrible things and when she prayed for it to be a nightmare but it never happened, and that's why she believes in nothing but herself.

thanks for the request! sorry if i hadn't answered before :(

PAUL ATREIDES x yn.

your people lived on arrakis under one name: the fremen. people who have inhabited arrakis for many millennia, originally arriving after an interplanetary diaspora.

your planet became the center of immense interests of the empire following the discovery of the powerful drug called melange or spice, capable of significantly extending the length of human life and increasing.

you have been trained in guerrilla warfare since childhood, reason why you're considered among the best fighters in the universe, the only ones capable of holding your own against even the emperor's ferocious sardaukar.

people can comfortably call you interstellar nomads who follow a particular philosophy, people who live together in desert tents and who are more like a big big family or army.

therefore, you don't hide the fact that you get along very well, despite the fact that fremen have challenging, ambitious characters, and you often want to prove our superiority by fighting or calling sandworms.

if someone has already heard the famous prophecy "blessed be the creator and his water" well, that's you, these are the fremen. that's your prophecy or the thing people think you believe in. or at least, your people believe in.

you worship shai-hulud, the sand worm, a gigantic and dangerous creature that populates the deserts of arrakis and is the source of the spice cycle. your religion, like almost all those of the primitive worlds of the empire, was profoundly influenced by the bene gesserit missionaria protectiva.

if you ask stilgar, he will answer you by saying he believes in the arrival of the messiah, of the lisan al-gaib. so please, don't ask stilgar.

lisan al-gaib, in your fremen language, "the voice from the outside world".

in later use the name messiah specializes to indicate the "anointed one" par excellence, sent as a savior of the fremen, the chosen people, and to turn the desert into the green paradise it used to be. this is how stilgar would happily explain it to others.

bullshit.

the biggest lie you've ever heard.

you have waited ages for the messiah, and the only conclusion you managed to get was that even foreign people made fun of you all by saying they were the famous messiah you had been waiting for. really funny, right...

"the walker of the golden path" they say, just they don't know how much you have suffered or how different you feel about your people's adamant beliefs.

you know paul since a few weeks, and you hated every second of it, and you knew he did too.

at first you avoided him, dodged him or threatened him with your eyes as if he were an harkonnen. or, if you were in a bad mood, you ignored him completely, especially when he entertained stilgar with inappropriate and absolutely not funny jokes but that made the whole for-dinner-tent laugh.

you knew that everyone was at his feet, that they would even lick the sand he walked on.

you often heard your fremen friends talking or chatting about him, and you could have sworn some of them even wondered out loud of it would be to have sex with him.

you had never thought of paul as someone to have sex with, mostly because you hated him on principle.

for the first week you loved showing off your fighting moves when he looked, or throwing barbs at him to shut him up.

you knew that he was intimidated but also angry towards you, that he was curious about your people, and therefore you could show yourself superior anyway. you wanted to crush it like a desert fly and rejoice while it dies under your sole.

then, everything changed.

it was afternoon, and the wind was gently blowing, but not enough to make the sand rise.

he was a little too snuggled up next to you, on the highest dune you could reach from the fremen camp.

at first, you didn't even like the idea of starting a conversation, but paul was the one who talked first.

he told you about his visions first, about his nightmare correlated, about the mental torture he had to kneel upon when he used to live on caladan, because everyone thought he was the kwisatz haderach.

he told you about his training, his father's death and how he felt so alone, abandoned by the little people he loved and betrayed by the ones he barely knew.

something about it woke up a new feeling inside your chest. you felt understood.

and he was not there forcing you to go on your knees and pray the messiah and his rise to power.

he was simply chatting, his eyes almost tearing, playing with some sand in his right hand.

he wanted to understand you, to understand why you were the only one who refused to believe the prophecy and yet the only one who captured your attention.

your mind returned to the morning where a few of your friends wished to have sex with him, but right in that moment, when the sun was melting under the dunes, far away, you could only wonder how plump and soft his lips could become against yours.

that same evening, you got confirmed paul atreides was the best kisser you had ever known.

in your tent, with a slight scent of spice and body

skin and sweat, he held you close as if you were

his only lifeline, as if you were about to become

small microscopic grains of sand, and he would no longer be able to hold the right ones in his hands.

you stood there, under his slim and perfect body, stroking his curls in a slow and sleepy gesture, until he closed his eyes and let his cheek rest against your breasts.

messiah or not, you believe he was the love of your life.

[actualmermaid]

Since I've spent the last month-plus neck-deep in queer Christian history research, I ended up with some thoughts™️ about "classical" Western homoeroticism vs. Christian homophobia.

Liberal Christian apologetics sometimes do a very annoying thing when asked to explain the homophobia in the New Testament epistles. Because it's real, it's there, and homophobic Christians take it as the Unquestionable Word of God. So obviously we have to do something about it.

The liberal explanation tends to go something like this: "the epistle writer is talking about the abusive and exploitative homosexual acts that were common in ancient Rome, not the loving/egalitarian/mutually respectful relationships that gay people are able to have today." And it's so frustrating because there is SOME truth in this. We and Paul both know that the Greeks and Romans were notorious pederasts and slave-abusers. And that's bad! It's super bad. I do agree that Paul/the epistle writer is condemning abusive behavior using language and frameworks that would have been available to him at the time. Deciphering the social context of the epistles can get messy.

But the annoying thing is this: it is not affirming to suggest that all gay people in the past were either abusers or their victims, and "we're more enlightened now" is a lie. We are not smarter than the Greeks. We are not more civilized than the Romans. We are not more pious than the medievals. (Hello there, Roman Catholic sex abuse scandals.) And there have always been gay people who have defied all odds to have loving, egalitarian, and mutually respectful relationships with each other, even if we do not know their stories or their struggles.

This is kind of the crux of John Boswell's "controversial" thesis: gay people have always existed, even if they had to conceal themselves and their relationships behind various protective structures. (I actually haven't read any of his books yet, so I'm not going to engage too deeply with the nuances of his arguments.) When people try to dismiss him, I suspect it's because they don't notice or appreciate what he probably noticed. I have a hunch that Boswell's arguments are not super intersectional and focus mostly on the privileged sphere of people who left written records in the Middle Ages, but hey, serious LGBTQ Christian history research has to start somewhere. I'll withhold judgment for now. But I do think he was totally right about one thing: Saints Sergius and Bacchus. They were totally a gay couple until somehow proven otherwise, IMO. The reason I think he was right is because he was able to notice the "classical" aesthetics of homoeroticism in their legend even though it might not obvious to people who don't know what they're looking for. Straight people reading the legend are like "there's nothing gay about this" and gay people are like "wow, this story is pretty gay."

If you've ever looked into Western gay history, you've seen two words: erastes and eromenos. This means "lover" and "beloved," the two sides of a classical Greek pederastic relationship. The Greeks did actually recognize an age of consent and had ideals of proper behavior that regulated these relationships, but these were still usually relationships between a teenage boy and an older man, which isn't great. They also had all kinds of weird ideas about the politics of penetration and so forth. The Greeks and Romans didn't really think that two people could really be equal to each other--in any relationship, there was always one who was sort of subordinate to the other. So it was "weird" for two social equals to be in a gay relationship, as opposed to one with one partner who was already "established" and was "showing the ropes" to a younger guy who needed some wholesome manly instruction. We may not be better, smarter, or more enlightened than people in the past, but we do have the ability to critique them and try to identify the harmful behaviors that we've inherited from them, so we can do better. We've come a long way since the days of erastes/eromenos relationships, but one thing has stuck around: the classical aesthetics of a "manly guy" and an "idealized youth" in love with each other.

Apropos of nothing, here's a photo of John Boswell and his longtime partner Jerry Hart. They were within a year of being the same age.

So anyway, this brings us back to the legend of Sergius and Bacchus. The version that Boswell translated takes great pains to show how Sergius and Bacchus were equals in every way. They're both Roman officers, they're about the same age, they sing in unison, and are united in the egalitarian love of Christ. However, they are still just a little bit unequal. Sergius is of a slightly higher rank than Bacchus.

To be clear, this whole legend is a literary creation, and it's got a bunch of Byzantine propaganda in it. It's not history, it's mythology. Whoever wrote it down would have been familiar with erastes/eromenos dynamics, because these were everywhere in classical antiquity. So they made sure to specify all the ways in which Sergius and Bacchus were equals, but took a firm position in ye olde fandom top/bottom discourse.

Throughout the legend, Sergius acts, and Bacchus is acted upon. Bacchus is killed first, and Sergius is temporarily demoralized. Bacchus then appears to Sergius in a vision encouraging him to stay strong. Sergius is so steadfast that they can't torture him enough to make him recant his faith, and he is beheaded. Even straight couples are not usually said to have been reunited in heaven, but Sergius and Bacchus are.

So, knowing that Sergius is the erastes and Bacchus is the eromenos in this story, we can start to notice it in iconography too. It's not always consistent, but sometimes icons will have Sergius' cloak curling protectively over Bacchus' head, or one of them taking a slightly more "authoritative" posture, etc.

Above all, they are always depicted as true equals--sometimes they almost look like twins.

Increasingly, modern icons are being made that explicitly communicate the idea that they were a gay couple. The one on the left was created by Robert Lentz, a Franciscan friar, for Chicago Pride in 1994. The one on the right makes the classical homoerotic aesthetic super explicit, and is by far the most sexually-suggestive "traditional-style" icon I have ever seen lol. Shoutout to this artist.

So to sum up: John Boswell knew what the fuck he was talking about. Also, none of this excuses the homophobia in the Christian scriptures or the homophobia that Christians continue to perpetuate. However, knowing what to look for in art and writing helps us understand that gay people were not magically granted the ability to have egalitarian relationships in the modern world, and THAT leads us away from problematic apologetics.

[silamander]

do you have any hatchetfield headcanons you’d like to share???

HOHOHOHO I COULD KISS YOU (/p)

- Peter gave Ted an “I ❤️ hot moms” shirt for Christmas one year.

- Boy Jerry applied for the Hatchetfield Gazette to help support Girl Jeri during her pregnancy.

- Paul has the gift and it’s predicting the future (kind of a sixth sense/precognition), hints on why he always knows/feels like something bad will happen. But that power is so small and weak because he never unlocked it or used it as a kid.

- Ted and Dan Reynolds were best friends in high school, everyone either had trouble telling them apart or thought they were twins.

- Duke has a cat named Holly. He can't exactly explain why he chose that name. Maybe it reminded him of something…

- Becky Barnes has freckles (cause I think it fits her)

- Barry Swift sleep-walks.

- Paul can't drive. He either calls a taxi or just walks around Hatchetfield like an NPC, head empty.

- Professor Hidgens is a former member of PEIP. Also he and General McNamara used to date, no I will not elaborate.

- People think that Becky “isn't as hot as she used to be” because back in high school she was always dressed up and would wear makeup almost everyday since she was cheer captain. She’s gotten rid of that habit after graduating but now people perceive her as “less hot” because god forbid a woman age and stop doing shit for the sake of being performative anymore.

- Nibbly's tongue flicks out of his mouth to taste the air like a snake when in his true form.

- Peter was a Greek mythology kid. Something about him screams "I read percy jackson way too much as a kid”

- Richie had a glee phase (no I will not elaborate, and neither will he if you ask him about it).

- Steph’s ripped jeans had small holes in them when she bought them and her dad made fun of her for buying something already broken so she made the holes bigger out of spite.

- Wiggly sleeps in sand like a squid. Like literally just buries himself in there, completely submerged.

- Pokey is trying to prove himself to his older siblings, and has a minor inferiority complex. So that’s why he needs to take over every timeline, to show he’s worthy.

- Hailey hates confrontation. That's the reason she's still "friends" and roommates with Zoey. It's not worth the effort or the fight.

- Gary Goldstein is the biggest Reality TV fan in Hatchetfield (except Zoey, she's a close second).

- Grace is the type of girl who says she hates drama and gossip but she knows all the drama at Hatchetfield High.

- Tom and Becky would often stargaze on the football field back in their high school days, especially after the big games. Stargazing together became their way to unwind and talk, without people listening in on every little thing being said and spreading rumors. Not like they would dare do that to two of the most popular people in school.

- Officer Bailey and Miss Mulberry are engaged (which is why they went to see Workin' Girls together).

- PEIP gives its agents training on how to do dramatic speeches and cryptic advice.

- Wiggly manifested an entire castle in the black and white for him and his siblings to live in.

- Karen and Mark Chasity sleep in separate beds like some sitcom couple from the 60’s. Grace thinks this is totally normal and is shocked and appalled to learn that it is not.

- Max's mom disappeared after being crowned Honey Queen when Max was around 5-6. She wanted the prize money to support her family because Max's father was laid off from his job.

- Ethan taps his fingers on literally every surface ever to whatever song is in his head. He has 100% rick rolled people this way.

- Max has two snaggletoothed incisors which is why people swear to god he has fangs.

- Paul uses his phone like a grandma, he puts on the glasses to read and everything.

- Ted reads romance novels. He’s a former geek turned sleazeball- you know he reads the smuttiest novels ever and calls them “his research”. He refuses to read any book with the friends to lovers trope because it’s too upsetting to think about.

- Back in college, Ted was a lot like AC!Pete. He was nerdy, sweet, and a little awkward but he still had some confidence and smugness. Basically him and Jenny were a lot like Steph and Pete in Abstinence Camp.

[violettavonviolet]

Percy Jackson fic rec's

All fics are finished and amazing! The word count goes up as it goes, all fics are completed, I've added the ships and ratings but do make sure to read the tags!

Fic's marked with a star haven't left my brain since I read them

Deep Sea Fury

HumbleservantofHypnos

Summary:

Someone stabbed Tyson’s eye, and Percy is unable to stop himself from going unhinged.

Nemesis had talked to him, whispered in his ear that the rule should be the same for everyone. An eye for an eye.

1.8k gen

Percy's Questers' Quests

WardofWinters (QoLife)

Summary:

Hi! I’m Percy of Questers Quests, where all Quests are dedicated to Kronos the Titan of Time, what can I do for you today? Mhm, okay, I understand, yeah we can do that, do you have any questions? -oh why do we dedicate our Quests to Kronos? Well, that’s because I’m sick and tired of my relatives harassing me. Anyways! We’ll have that Quest done for you by the end of the week, thank you for your business!

3.5k Genfic

Blood in the Wine *

mrthology

Summary:

“It’s a good thing that father of yours is so protective of you,” Dionysus said, joining the demigod on the beach the next night, looking cautiously out to the lapping waves to gauge his uncle’s mood.

The demigod blinked, eyes bright despite the lack of light.

Dionysus ignored his surprise and studied the demigod carefully, noting the faint hint of gold exuding from his skin.

Ah. Well then.

He could remember noting the same sheen to his own skin millennia ago now. Jackson was on the precipice of something, and only time would tell if it were madness or greatness.

——

Percy’s on the edge of something. Dionysus notices, even if Percy doesn’t want him (or anyone) to.

4.5k Percy/Dionysus

A Godly Quest

CaffeinatedFlumadiddle

Summary:

Paul is like… eighty percent sure that some of Percy’s so-called "quests" are all one big hoax. He isn’t able to prove it until he goes to Taco Bell at three in the morning.

5k gen

Sand Dollar Child

withay

Summary:

There's far too much divinity in Percy Jackson. It oozes from him, to the point where he's sometimes mistaken for Poseidon. Percy doesn't know this yet. All he knows is that this nereid is asking to borrow five drachmas.

6.4k percabeth gen

Of All That Breathe and Crawl Across the Earth

mrthology

Summary:

"All of you demigods are bred for war, for me," Ares said. "That's just a fact of life." He took another drag of his cigar, then snuffed it out on the bricks near Jackson's ear. "You're chess pieces to move as we want, and nothing more."

Jackson laughed, his voice echoing in the small alleyway in a way no mortals should. "I'm surprised you even know what chess is," he snapped. He grinned, all sharp teeth and eyes that saw far too much. "I thought that was more Athena's area. You're just carnage."

Ares tightened his grip, wanting to see the boy squirm. Jackson reminded him of someone from millennia past, a Hero still loved by the ages. Ares wished he could place who.

—

Ares takes notice of Percy Jackson. Even he isn't sure if it's a good thing, not when his very presence seems to bring back memories of things best left forgotten.

8k ares/percy mature

I know the end

Ghxst_Bird

Summary:

Ever since Tartarus there’s been something… strange about Percy. They all know it, they’ve all seen it. Obviously the gods know about it, too, but they’re about as helpful about it as Charybdis in a swimming pool.

Nico just hopes Percy will stop glaring at everyone who looks at Nico or Jason the wrong way… and preferably tell his godly relatives to not threaten doom on them all every time Percy so much as scrapes his knee.

8.3k genfic, percy&nico&jason

Get Under Your Skin Just Like A Bomb That's Ready To Blow

ashilrak

Summary:

“That was a mistake,” Ares says, walking beside him. “You’re not one to abandon your post. This is going to eat at you.”

Just like every other time he’s spoken with Ares, Percy is vibrating with anger. How dare Ares tell him what’s best for him. At his sides, he tightens his hands into fists tight enough he’s sure he’s drawn blood.

“What’s it to you?” he spits out.

“You’ve got war in your heart, boy,” Ares says. Percy can’t see his eyes because of his sunglasses, but he’s sure they’re glowing red like charcoal. “I can taste it.”

—

Or: Percy's struggling without a war looming over him, and who better to help him find his purpose than the God of War?

9k Ares/Percy explicit

What’s in a Name?

anxious_tofu

Summary:

Percy didn’t realize at the time that when his boyfriend came up to him one Friday afternoon with his coffee order in hand and a nervous grin on his face it was the beginning of the end. 

After six months of dating, Apollo brings Percy to meet his family. This proves to be a mistake.

-----

All human/meet the family AU. Crack taken too seriously/ attempt at humor.

10.2k perpollo teen

The Burden of Our Mortal Misery *

mrthology

Summary:

“Get up,” Dionysus ordered.

Percy ignored him. As they always did, memories of Tartarus crept back, a hold on him that never quite left. Falling, falling, falling. Always falling, never quite clawing his way back to the surface.

Dionysus hauled him to his feet, hands a burning brand.

Percy panted and met his eyes, barely able to stand under the force of the god's divinity. He wondered if this was what people meant when they talked about the myths, why people loved and worshipped the gods and feared them in turn. Percy had never seen them as people to revere and love. They were cruel; petty. They had done nothing but treat Percy like a pawn in their schemes, then thrown him to the proverbial wolves once they’d been done with him.

But he thought he was beginning to understand. He felt tiny before Dionysus, insignificant. It was more of a comfort than Percy wanted to admit.

“What’s happening to me?”

—

Percy had left something of himself down in Tartarus, and he didn’t think he’d ever get it back. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

12k Percy/Dionysus teen

The Drowned God

robindrake93

Summary:

It's Hermes job to summon all of the gods to the summer solstice meeting...and that includes the newest one: Percy Jackson. From that moment on, Percy's life changes forever. Again.

17k Percy/Hermes mature

Walking Backward Into My Own Myth

mrthology

Summary:

"You should have ascended years ago," Zeus said without preamble, looking down at Percy. The other Olympians, even his father, remained silent, watching the proceedings with uncharacteristic solemnity.

"I said no years ago," Percy snapped, rage making his voice tremble and hands shake. "I didn't want to be a God then, and I want to even less now. I've seen how horrible eternity is."

"You would defy the fates themselves?" Athena asked softly, leaning forwards with narrowed eyes. She looked more godly than Percy had ever seen her, to the point where it was nearly unbearable to look at her face. Percy did so nevertheless, glaring at the Goddess he'd lost almost all respect for.

"You had children die today," he snapped, desperate to return to Camp. "Annabeth could still die—hasn't she done enough?"

———

Or, Percy keeps living the same horrible day over and over and over again, regardless of what he does. Eventually, something will have to give. Percy just isn't sure what.

19k  gen

Until you break, until you yield

Sappho_of_Space

Summary:

Despite everything that Percy did for the gods, he was still being used as a pawn. When an opportunity arises that Zeus can't ignore, Apollo will stop at nothing for his lover to return to his arms.

If people die in the process, that's not his problem.

27.4k Perpollo

Set in Stone *

CaffeinatedFlumadiddle

Summary:

“Find Medusa?” Percy spluttered, trying and failing not to sound indignant. “Nobody wants to find Medusa. You run into Medusa while trying to retrieve your uncle’s stolen lightning bolt and then mail her head to the gods after she keeps talking about how your eyes are like your father’s.”

From behind him, Piper raised a single finger. “When you mail what to whom?”

Percy glanced over his shoulder to give her a shrug. “Don’t worry about it. I was twelve,” he said before turning back to where Gabe was still fighting against the ropes binding his hands together. “Do you have any idea what to do with him?”

Nico leaned over, craning his neck to better peer at the hot sauce that still stained Gabe’s face despite the years of statue-ification. “Um, we could see if your dad wants to turn him into a fish or something?”

Percy grimaced. If Gabe Ugliano was a fish, then he’d be forced to hear the man’s voice in his head for years to come. But also, he could maybe mount him on a wall, so perhaps it wasn’t an entirely terrible idea.

Or

Medusa’s sculptures are mysteriously coming back to life. Percy doesn’t think murder is an unreasonable action given the circumstances.

38k gen abuse via Gabe

Fishing in Alaska *

CaffeinatedFlumadiddle

Summary:

“This… this would qualify as a mental breakdown, right?” Triton asked, frowning over his shoulder to where Percy was still fuming in the corner. The lady at the counter curiously glanced over before lifting a questioning brow. “My brother – half-brother, technically, I have much better breeding – decided to run away from home to where our father can’t reach him and now he won’t leave. And now I can’t leave unless he leaves,” Triton continued. Percy opened his mouth to object that wasn’t what happened at all, but the tyrant only waved a hand to silence him. “He’s seen war or whatever, so if you could maybe just drug him then I’ll throw him into a suitcase and we can be out of here by the Summer Solstice!”

Silence. Finally, the woman cleared her throat and turned to Percy.

“I’m guessing he’s the one you want checked into the mental hospital?” She asked. Triton gasped as Percy punched the air in victory.

“Aha!”

Or

Getting in trouble works a little differently when your parent is an all-powerful god. Sometimes you have to escape to the land beyond gods and get your immortal brother turned human to drag you back so you can be exploded a million pieces. You know, normal teenage stuff.

112k gen Percy&Triton

The Hero Unsung

SomePsychopomp

Summary:

“Oh gods,” Percy thought, “I got fucking isekai’ed.”

---

Thrown back in time and tossed onto the scorching shores of ancient Greece, Percy becomes the unwilling center of attention for an entire army. One destined to sail for Troy and wage a ten year war. If only they could appease the gods keeping them far from their destination first…

Meanwhile, Percy will have to make allies fast while navigating a pantheon of deities who have not yet been tempered by time. Because here, it’s not just the kings who have taken a terrible interest in him; Percy will soon learn just how painful the attention of a god can really be.

135k percy/achilles/patroculus

HAUNT ME, THEN— *

ashilrak, mrthology

Summary:

Percy collapsed once he reached the porch and looked up to a rickety ceiling fan. A moth darted around the light, drawing his attention. It was easier to focus on it than on what had happened. His mom, the strange recollections that dogged the edges of his memory, Grover, everything.

A stern and familiar man looked down at him, concern and apprehension written across his face.

“Hello, Kassandra.”

———

Or, when Apollo cursed Kassandra before the Trojan War, it didn’t go as planned. Now, millennia later, Apollo and Kassandra are still stuck in an endless cycle of death and rebirth. Percy Jackson doesn’t know why people keep calling him Kassandra, or why he’s plagued by memories; all he knows is that he didn’t want to be a demigod.

270k perpollo & Percy& Will

[littlestarbigsky]

outsiders week - darry

@outsidersweek

today’s a hard and scary day for my american friends (i’m right there with you, trust me) but i planned on posting this today and i hope it can bring some joy where it is much needed. i hope you all are taking care of yourselves today and if you need a friend, my messages are open🩶

sooo my little brother (he’s almost 17 but be quiet) got hurt wrestling this week (he’s okay but dear god he scared me) so naturally i had to inflict darry with a football injury. this is when he’s in high school soo im imagining him at about 14 here :p

“follow my finger,” the trainer instructed, and darry blinked rapidly to clear the dots from his vision.

he couldn’t remember the last time someone had knocked him so hard. sure it was a rivalry matchup, and sure the kid had gotten a penalty for it, but darry was surprised he was still conscious. he didn’t really remember what exactly had happened or how long he had been laying on the field, just that it had taken both paul and their coach to get him up and off to continue the game.

paul was lingering behind the trainer, his brows furrowed, watching darry anxiously. darry vaguely seemed to remember jumping in front of paul. nobody messes with his quarterback.

he felt pretty stupid. go figure, paul and darry had been waiting for their chance to play all season and it was the first time their coach had let the freshman play, and he managed to get himself plowed in the first five minutes.

“darry!” he heard someone yell from behind him, but his neck was hurting a little too much to turn around. he thought it sounded like his dad, but he couldn’t be sure, there were so many voices and it was like his senses had been dialed to eleven. paul seemed to catch eyes with someone and he hurried over in the direction the voice had come from.

darry tried to watch where he was going but the trainer grabbed his face and forced his focus back onto his stupid human tests. it didn’t last too long, though. within a few seconds, his mama was shoving the trainer out of the way and grabbing at darry.

“are you okay? what happened? oh, baby, you scared us to death,” she pulled back and held his face in her hands.

darry almost opened his mouth to say something, but the words felt far away and strange in his mind. he blinked slowly up at her, trying to communicate to her telepathically that he was okay, that she didn’t need to worry. it felt like a lie, but she shouldn’t need to worry about him.

“oh sweetheart…” she hugged him to her. the pain in his head started to build and he squeezed his eyes shut, partially to block out the bright stadium lights, but also because he could feel tears brimming in his eyes.

when she let him go, she patted his shoulder and went over to where the trainer was already talking to his dad. it took about five seconds for something very solid to launch itself into his arms.

“be careful, pony!” darry turned his head to see soda anxiously chasing after their brother. it was only around then that darry realized that it was ponyboy that was hanging off of him, and he wrapped his own shaking arms around his brother. he could feel pony trembling against him.

he wanted to tell pony he was okay, he wanted to say that he didn’t need to worry, but he just couldn’t. words still felt mixed up and confusing, so he let go of his 8-year-old brother and pushed him back a bit. pony’s eyes were glassy and darry felt the ache in his head migrate to his heart as he realized how badly this had probably scared pony, who was already way more anxious than any kid his age had business being. he gently rested their foreheads together for a second before pressing a kiss to his hair.

“are you okay?” soda asked, sitting down next to darry on the bench and leaning up against his side. darry just threw an arm over soda’s shoulders and pulled pony into another hug.

it was a mark of how badly the hit had scared them that they were so close and clingy with him in such a public place. soda, now 10 years old, had slowly been growing out of needing hugs from his big brother as much as he used to, and pony, ever soda’s shadow, was beginning to pull back as well. but there they were, huddled up with their big brother on a football field.

after a few minutes, their parents came back over and their dad kneeled down in front of darry.

“well junior, we’re gonna have to go to the hospital. the trainer is pretty sure you’ve got a concussion,” he said sadly. ponyboy made a small squeak, and their dad grabbed one of his hands and smiled. “oh, but it’s gonna be alright, kiddo! darry’s brain just got rattled around a little bit. if he were smart like you, his brain would be bigger and it wouldn’t clunk around so darn much. but it’s all gonna be okay.”

darry knew their dad was just kidding around, and part of him knew that ponyboy was well aware that concussions didn’t work that way, but the anxiety in his chest seemed to lessen when ponyboy giggled.

their dad wrapped an arm around darry’s shoulder and helped him to his feet so they could head to the car. mama came back over and grabbed pony and soda’s hands to start walking with them to the bus stop to go home. pony looked sadly back at darry, dragging his feet as mama guided him along, and watched soda throw a few nervous glances back at him.

darry felt like he was going to collapse when they finally got home, and he was pretty sure that had nothing to do with his concussion. he practically fell into mama’s arms and gladly let her hold him close on the couch while his dad explained what had happened at the hospital. darry would most likely be out of football for the rest of the season, and he wasn’t allowed back at school for a few days.

“but it still could have been worse,” mama kissed his head gently as she smoothed his hair back. “i know this is lousy, but you’re gonna be alright, baby, it’s all gonna work out.”

darry just nodded. she was right, he knew it could have been much worse, but he was still having a hard time being grateful. he could still barely speak. he’d been able to get out a few words in the hospital, but he was still having some trouble stringing his thoughts together.

there was a creak from down the hall, and all three of them turned around to see ponyboy in his train pajamas and wrapped in a blanket standing in the doorway. his face lit up as he saw darry, running over and jumping into darry’s open arms.

“you’re okay!” pony cried, his voice muffled against darry’s jersey, which he was still wearing from the game.

darry held his baby brother as tight as he could, pressing a kiss to pony’s soft auburn hair. he could feel the tension he’d been holding in his shoulders easing.

“be gentle, pony,” their mother scolded, but there was no real malice in her voice. “darry’s had a long night, sweetheart, how about you head back to bed? soda will probably give you lots of snuggles and dad will come tuck you in.”

pony looked up at darry sadly and squeezed him tighter.

darry opened his mouth slowly, “can pony stay with me, mama?”

mama looked shocked for a moment, but seemed to fold under the pressure of both of her boys silently pleading with her to let them stay together, “…okay, pony, go get your blanket while darry gets changed.”

darry headed back to his room and slowly started to change his clothes, keeping his overhead light off in favor of his aching eyes and wincing while he stretched his sore shoulders out. he looked at the bed and almost shed a tear with how welcoming it seemed after the night he’d had.

there was a soft knock at the door and it opened a moment later. pony had a blanket in his hands and let out a huge yawn. darry couldn’t help but laugh at him a little bit.

“c’mon, kiddo, you look like you’re gonna fall over,” he smiled meekly, and pony hopped up onto the bed, plastering himself to darry’s side when he laid down.

“that was really scary.”

“what? me getting hit?” darry asked, and pony nodded anxiously. “oh, baby, that was nothing.”

“but you got hurt. you were laying on the field. soda and i were so scared…”

darry’s breath hitched in his throat, guilt building in his chest. he pulled pony closer to him, finding comfort in feeling his steady breaths.

“it’s football, it happens. i’m gonna be okay, though. you heard dad, if my brain were a little bit bigger it wouldn’t have happened at all.”

pony thought for a second, “i can read you some of my books if you think that would help…”

darry laughed, “i’ll let you know, but i think now it’s time to go to sleep.”

pony snuggled impossibly closer, “mm, okay.”

by the time mama came in to say goodnight, they were both already asleep, and when she came to wake up darry in the morning only to find soda squeezed in next to pony, she couldn’t bring herself to wake them up just yet. she waited in the doorway and watched the rise and fall of their chests, pony sandwiched between his brothers.

the world could wait, they needed each other.

[ciaomarie]

Part 6: What Then?

It's over kids! The longest and final chapter is done. Chris Storer & Co. are probably going to put our beloveds through it in S3, but until then let's enjoy our low-key angst and romance. Post Season 2, Canon-Compliant, swoony, girly, fluffy. A happy-ending obviously.

After 10 years of grinding himself into dust Carm’s body began to surrender. About a month after The Bear’s opening, he came down with a cold that turned into a low-grade fever, a bitter cough with lime green mucus, night sweats, and mind-numbing exhaustion. After two days Sydney and Fak showed up to his apartment and dragged him to the emergency room. It was pneumonia and dehydration. The young male doctor muttered that his lungs sounded just like his father’s, a 40-year smoker. Yes, pneumonia was the primary reason, but a man Carmy’s age should be in better shape. He was out of commission for a whole week. The regret of letting down The Bear crew so soon after the Friends and Family fiasco motivated him to make a couple changes. First, he allowed himself only one emergency cigarette a day, which he needed less and less. Second, he went outside on Mondays, when the restaurant was closed. If the temperature was over 30℉, he took the train or walked to a park. His favorites were Humboldt and the Garfield Park Conservatory. Today he had come to the latter with his sketchbook and pencils in his backpack. Since the renovation he had continued drawing.

As he went towards to his favorite bench, he noticed a slender woman walking ahead of him. Her height, long swishing braids and jacket were identical to Syd’s. He compulsively began jogging towards her. Before he could call out her name, the woman pounced on a tall lanky man in front of her, wrapping her arms around his waist. Carmen had the sensation of being pushed off a diving board unexpectedly, his stomach pitching forward, unable to breathe much less scream before slamming into the water like a brick. The man turned and picked up Sydney up, planting a kiss on her mouth. He spun her around and…she wasn’t Syd. Thank God.

Carm made his way to the bench and hunched over, his head in his hands. She wasn’t Syd he recanted over and over until the feeling of relief gave way to self-reproach. This time it wasn’t her, but one day it would be. Would he be able to live with that? Uncle Jimmy’s warning not to be an overthinking manichino flashed in his mind. It was time to do something. He took out his sketchpad and began thumbing through it, an idea beginning to take shape. Hopefully, it wouldn’t scare Syd away.

The following Monday Sydney was in her cousin’s salon getting her entire life. Her microbraids were taken out, her hair was washed, deep conditioned, her scalp massaged, and now she was getting box braids put in. They were accented with delicate gold hair cuffs. She drowsed in the chair, with an almost empty to-go container of jollof rice in her lap, as her cousin and another hair stylist quietly discussed the latest season of Love is Blind.

“Sydney babe, would you ever go on Love is Blind?” her cousin, Ashley, asked in a louder tone.

Syd startled and rubbed her eyes.

“Never. That’s insane.”

“I got a message on IG that it’s coming to Chicago. You live and breathe your job so when are you going to meet somebody? Maybe your soulmate is in one of those pods!”

“Why don’t you apply then? You could find “love” and get more exposure for the salon.”

“Same for you and your restaurant ma’am, but I have a man.”

“Since when?”

“Since three months ago. His name is David, he’s a chemical engineer and the son of you know, Ms. Jumoke, she goes to the African church on Mackinaw…St. Paul.”

“Yeah, I remember her. Her sister used to watch me when my dad worked nights.”

“Anyways, back to you. Are you dating anyone, or should I send you the show application?”

“I don’t think love is blind. Have you seen the people they cast? Nobody too unfortunate-looking gets on. It’s so shallow.”

 “Ha! You’re one to talk. You have a very distinct type…white boys with tats and muscles.”

“Ashley, there’s been two of them. Like, that’s not a pattern.”

“No, three! This boss, no “partner”, of yours, had Sydney written over him. The family never sees you anymore.”

“I came to lunch at uncle and auntie’s last month! Besides, opening a new business is like having a kid. You know this.”

“Sure, but when I had dinner at your restaurant and you introduced us, he complimented you for five minutes and then followed you to the kitchen like a whipped puppy.”

Sydney grinned biting her lower lip and covered her eyes. Her cousin stopped braiding and hugged her.

“Aww…my baby cousin is finally going to get some!”

“ASHLEY!” Sydney groaned pushing off her cousin’s arms.

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop, but I am happy for you. He is sexy. That neck is thicker than a tree stump.”

Sydney who had just taken a sip of her sweet tea, spat it out all over the mirror.

“That’s on you, Ashley!” she choked out between laughing and coughing.

When she was able to contain herself, she tried to reel her cousin back in. Talking about romantic potential with Carmy gave her too much pleasure. If he was content with the status quo she didn’t want to get her hopes up.

“Nothing really is going on. We’re business partners and we’re pretty good friends and it’s probably best we keep it that way.”

“Yes, and he gave you an equal share in the restaurant out of the friendly kindness of his heart.”

“You know, I think he would do that, because I’ve put in so much work, but it did feel like it was something more, at least his Uncle Cicero or Jimmy seemed to think so.”

“Girl, watch out. His sister and an uncle like you!? Would you take his last name, hyphenate, or keep Adamu?”

“Ugh, I’m not going there with you! Shouldn’t you be done with my hair by now?”

“If you want it done right it’ll be 2 more hours. If you don’t…30 minutes?”

“Fine, take your time but please let me sleep.”

Sydney closed her eyes, admiring her self-control. She hadn’t told Ashley that Carmy asked her to come by The Bear this evening. He was reworking a few old dishes. The invite was made at the end of the night a few days ago while they were turning off the lights. She said yes as they pulled down the last switch and she couldn’t see his expression, but she heard him exhale loudly as if he feared she’d decline. Sometimes they meet up on Mondays to network with vendors or collaborate on menu ideas, so this wasn’t out of the ordinary. However, she intuited he was hiding something again like when he and Nat surprised her with a share in the restaurant. This time she didn’t pester him for details, knowing that it was probably worth waiting for.

When Syd arrived home at 3:00 pm she could’ve folded laundry and watched an episode of Psych, but she decided to pretend this was a date; well, like she was preparing for a date. It was a long time since her last. She had entered the Convent of Failed Dreams after Sheridan. Then The Beef/The Bear became her world. The light blue cuffed jeans and stripped white and mint green button-down shirt she was wearing was more than appropriate for a food brainstorming session. However, Carmy’s mysterious attitude might be concealing more great news. She might as well look good when and if he had some.

She took a luxuriously long shower, shaved, and rubbed in her mandarin-scented body oil. Then she entered slowly sifted through her closet considering a red jumpsuit, or just nicer jeans and a blouse when her eyes fell on her marigold-colored shirt dress. It was knee length, comfortable, but chic and the color made her complexion pop. She paired it with a brown and gold oval buckle belt and brown flats because she might be standing in the kitchen for hours. After a short struggle she decided to keep the top two buttons of her shirt dress open. It was only a collar bone, not cleavage. Then she considered makeup. She hated wearing a lot of it; her skin felt suffocated with foundation. She did her brows, applied mascara, a little mineral powder, a smidge of highlighter on her cheekbones, and finished with the Fenty “Hot Choclit” gloss bomb her cousin had given her as part of a set for Christmas. Her new braids with the gold cuffs made the look even better and Sydney couldn’t help admiring herself more than usual in her floor-length mirror. She felt so delicious that she ordered an Uber rather than sit on the train. She would take it later or maybe Carm would give her a ride home.

Just before she could lock the door Emmanuel came up the stairwell, his face lighting up.

“My baby girl, you are stunning! Where are you headed?”

“Thanks, daddy. I’m just going to the restaurant. Felt like dressing up for once.”

“So, is it a staff meeting?”

“No, just working on some recipes. I gotta go. My Uber’s waiting.”

Emmanuel leaned against the door and nodded with a sly smile.

“Oh okay, I see. Tell Carmen I said hello. Have fun!”

Sydney’s eyes widened and she ran down the stairs waving goodbye. Her voice couldn’t be trusted.

When the car arrived at the restaurant, the sky was overcast, the evening darker than usual for the time of year. She let herself in and observed the layout. The lights were low, and the back center booth was set for dinner, with a single table candlelit. She could see Carmy in the kitchen already sautéing something. She was headed towards him when he looked up, seeing her through the window and rushed to meet her in the front.

“Syd don’t-” he began before he was immobilized by the vision before him.

Sydney was similarly taken with him and marveled at how often they were of the same mind. Carm was wearing a crisp button-down blue shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the shirt tucked into dark navy pants, and he had gotten a haircut. Somehow it made his eyes stand out more. The sides were moderately tapered, his hair on top remained almost as long as before, and one of his rogue curls was damp against his forehead. He was perspiring, apparently having been cooking for a while.

“Nice haircut”, “You look amazing” they began at the same time and laughed nervously.

Carmy started again, beating his trusty spoon against his palm.

“So, the food is almost done. Just have a seat over there and I’ll be right out.”

Sydney nodded, a little confused and excited for this change of plans. She sat in the booth and noticed the speakers were playing The Teskey Brothers’ “Take My Heart.” She leaned back and closed her eyes letting the lyrics wash over her, her emotions stirring with that sweet ache.

“Take the time to notice what you really need, 

You’ll find it’s a little more simple, than what you thought before,

But I can say for certain that I’ve got more than I ever had before,

By remembering the little things that make my heart warm.

So take my heart and cut it into two,

After all the only thing missing from me was you,

You’re all I want, you’re all I need, you’re the air I breathe,

Cause after all the only thing missing from me was you.”

“Hey, are you good?” Carmy asked  approaching the booth with their plates.

Sydney sat up and cleared her throat.

“Yes, I’m good. I really like that song. Reminds me of-“

 “Otis Redding?”

“Yeah.”

Carm carefully placed the plates on the table.

“Well, speaking of throwbacks, I made-”

“Pork confit with onions and rhubarb!”

 “Yes, and after we’ll have Milk and Honey.

Sydney bit the inside of her mouth trying to absorb what seemed to be happening.  Carm muttered something about getting their drinks and went to the bar for their club sodas. Sydney remained mute, not knowing if she should ask him what this meant now or let it play out. “Don’t get ahead of yourself”, she admonished her heart.

He returned to the booth with their drinks and encouraged her to start, rubbing his chin as she put the first bite in her mouth.

“That’s it Carmy. Maybe even better than the first time,” Syd purred the pork melting on her tongue and some of her anxiety with it.

He blushed and began eating too.

“It is pretty good. Eleven Madison Park taught me a lot.”

The meal was mostly silent except for the occasional ejaculation over some element of the dish. Carmy couldn’t help gazing at Syd, taking in each detail, and rejoicing in the whole. The dip above her collar bone that rose and fell whenever she swallowed, made his head swim. Her lovely face was absolutely regal framed by her new box braids. Syd’s brown skin glowed in the candlelight and a heavenly citrus scent emanated from her. Whenever her eyes caught his obvious staring, he was too filled with gratitude to look away. Sydney’s eyes were soft and filled with kindness for this dear, lovestruck man. He looked helpless. In moments like this she remembered her capacity to build or obliterate him at will.  “Go with the flow” she reminded herself.

After they finished the main, Carmy took their plates and returned, with dessert, Milk and Honey. Syd lit up at the sight and when she tried it a wave of surprise flitted across her face.

"Is that mango? I didn't taste it at first, but then it like...bloomed at the back. Wow!"

"I thought it could use a Sydney twist. You always grab the mango lollipops off Sug's desk."

She resumed eating her dessert. Carm noticed everything about her. She'd played the Teskey Brothers, once or twice while they cleaned after a service, comparing them to Otis.

The Milk and Honey was devoured too soon and just as she wondered what else was on the agenda, Carmy took their bowls and returned with a package tied with twine. He set it in front of her, hands trembling, and sat a little further away than before. Syd perceiving his anxiety didn't raise any questions. She untied the string, removed the wrapping paper, revealing a red leather hand-bound notebook. The cover was engraved with her initials. On the first page was one of Carmy's drawings. It was a curbside view of The Bear. Several lined pages followed, then a drawing of the grapes in bone marrow broth. This alternating of lined pages and his pictures continued throughout the thick notebook. There were more pictures of their recipes, the various designs of her head scarves, and some were of her in different attitudes. In one she was leading expo with the confidence of Napoleon, and another was a portrait, her chin leaning on her hand, with a faraway expression in her large brown eyes. There were several others, so perceptive that Sydney felt naked. Adored. The final picture was surreal. It was a profile of Carmy's head the entirety of which was filled with Sydney wearing a hopeful smile and the scarf and shirt she'd worn her first day at The Beef.

She couldn't stop looking at it, her index finger tracing the lines.

"Sy-d" Carmen croaked his voice thick.

Breaking.

She looked up to find red-brimmed blue eyes searching hers.

"Come here" she breathed and no sooner than she blinked he was at her side.

"Syd" he tried again. Hyperventilating.

"Say more", she gently commanded smoothing his hair back before taking his hand in her lap.

This disarmed him, and he grinned in surprise. That was his line.

"Okay."

Breathe

"I want you Syd. I want to be with you.”

Breathe

“I want to do everything with you or not at all."

Then for the first time he wanted to say the words that had been a weapon for most of his life. They either were forced on him or yanked from him. His mother thought those words meant meekly submitting to her abuse. For Mikey it was cutting him off, so he wasn't exposed to his self-destruction. He never got to say it all. Claire believed it was part of a script. If he would only play his role and ignore who they were underneath, those words would become true enough.

Now, he had a new idea about those words, and they were wrapped up in this beautiful, talented, funny, tender, generous, stubborn, loyal, woman. His friend.

Suddenly they didn't hurt. He continued leaning to rest his forehead on hers.

"I love you."

Sydney blinked slowly as if in a trance, tears dropping to their joined hands.

Carm didn't move, but his face was filled with concern.

'Syd, are you-" he started to ask. Then he was spinning.

Sydney kissed him.

His neurons habitually used to process grief, anxiety, and small doses of happiness, trembled with the unusual amount of joy coursing through him.

Sydney was delirious. Her only thought was, he loves me.

Carmy couldn't close his eyes. The curve of her soft cheek so near his made him want to cry.

Then he did, for Sydney said,

"I love you, too."

[yinandyanglifestyle]

I went to Sydney for Alphonse Mucha

by: Icie

One thing to know about me, I was an interior design major back in my home country. I absolutely sucked at it, but I fell in love with Art History. In that minor, our professors taught us about different art styles through the ages and bit by bit I saw the progress of art through the ages. I loved the OG Gothic Style, Romanesque, was disillusioned with Baroque and Rococo from the west... It was too Western focused and it didn't interest me as much (because I was an Asian kid) until we got towards the end of the 19th century where the grandparents of weebs (of which I am a part of) hailed from and Japonisme was a thing. Japonisme inspired so much beautiful art and it triggered a domino effect that ultimately led to Art Nouveau where Alphonse Mucha was a main character.

This was it. My favourite art style! I can never go back to loving other art styles after discovering Art Nouveau. It spoke to me about how feminine it was and it awakened something from my mostly masculine soul. I wanted to see more of these beautiful girls surrounded by flowers and stars, wearing kimono-inspired clothes in pretty pastels. The macaroni hair only added to the romanticism of it all. This is what love is like, but in art form!

Fast forward to 2024, The Mucha Foundation collaborated with the Art Gallery of New South Wales to host over 200 of this master's works which was "the most comprehensive exhibition ever seen in Australia of this visionary artist's work". I had to see it. I needed to see it! I am a big fan of Mucha and Art Nouveau, and one of my dreams was to go to Paris, Brussels, and Prague for all of the beautiful swirly-whirlies. Being a Brisbanite, I was exited. Please come to my city! Please, please, please! But AGNSW said "sorry, it's exclusive to Sydney."

Dammit. It's off to Sydney I go. I donned my Sailor Moon dress, packed my bag for a 3 day trip with my partner just so I could see this legend's works and boy, I was not disappointed. I learned to love Mucha and his works even more. We landed in Sydney, didn't check in our hotel, and went straight to the main quest:

Outside, they had this big banner of Mucha's name. Inside was this glorious area that showcased Summer (left) and Rose (right). Oh wait, the exhibit is next door. So we went to the more modern building, down two floors, bought tickets, and enjoyed the art.

In the newer building next door, I was treated to pre-art nouveau Mucha. We learned about what his life was like before his popularity. He designed some clothes for a theatre, hung out with everyone's buddy Paul Gaugin, Ludek Marold and Annah the Javanese. The tour guide said, "if he wasn't a painter, he would've been a great photographer".

Then we were treated to the meat of the exhibit: the Sarah Bernhardt stuff, his lithographs, his sketches, but what struck me most were his concept art to reality. (Excuse my phone's shadow. For some reason, AGNSW decided to put these works on a 45° angle under bright lights. The girl beside me even said "fucking glare!" and I wholeheartedly agreed.)

We were treated to so many wonderful works and I cried when I saw parts of Le Pater. I'm an atheist but this made me think that maybe there is a god. Maybe. But still, beautiful artwork that left me speechless.

I got to stand next to my favourite work of his: White Star. Joy!

At the end of the exhibit, the tour guide talked about how Mucha who was somewhat influenced by Japan, now influenced Japan. Now we come full circle with anime and manga characters depicted in art nouveau styled paintings and posters. Oh boy, we had our Lord Yoshitaka Amano's works in the gallery as well. I was so lucky to see works of my two favourite artists in one day!

It was almost 2PM by the time we finished the tour. We spent at least 4 hours in the gallery after landing just because I fangirled and was willing to spend money on Mucha. Yeah, I bought stuff. A reproduction of Alphonse Mucha's original "Documents Decoratifs" which focused more on his industrial design work (jewellery, cutlery, furniture etc) which I rarely see on the internet, a set of badges and make-up from Japanese brand MilleFée.

I went to Sydney for Alphonse Mucha and it was worth it. I end this rabid fangirling with the parting words of the Art Gallery of New South Wales' tour guide: Mucha's style has never been as well loved and as well represented as it is in Japan.

[woodswallow]

RammWear

As I once stated in this post, I feel close to my favourite Rammstein members Richard, Paul and Schneider when I wear clothes that are inspired by their (stage) outfits. I love wearing my R+-merch of course, but for me this is a more subtle and everyday-method to have a bit of them with me :)

So, over the past 3 years, I was inspired by their style, bought clothes (sometimes secondhand) that resembled theirs and tried to mimic their style. Of course not every part – I only wanted stuff that I really liked, not for the sake of imitating them. I wanted clothes that are also MY style, but are inspired by theirs.

So lovely @vulnerant-omnes gave me the idea to do a little RammWear fashion-show, where I am showing my „ot3 <3“-style. Here's a first part of it:

First: My Richard-stage belt :D Daaamn, I LOVE it so, sooo much and I'm so proud of me that I found something, that resembles his stage-belts so nicely, but having also a bit more of a alternative/boho-style to it. It's real leather and is purely decorative, so not a real „belt“ - but it does accentuate the butt quite nicely – just like Richards ;D

Here's a reference picture, in case someone doesn't know what I'm talking about:

Second: My hommage to the Paul Landers stage outfit!

My god, I love his stage outfit so damn much! It fits him so well and in my opinion is very flattering to his body. I love all the pouches and the decorations, it has a very unique „industrial-/end of the world-style“, like from another planet. I searched for ages to find something that resembled this outfit and especially the pants. I found the original designer (Demobaza – damn cool, incredibly expensive!) and also a copy of that, which was „only“ half the price, so still damn expensive...and it didn't fit right, I was so sad... but I took some pictures anyway. So these are the copied stage pants, I send them back because they were too tight on my stomach:

But then I found a very nice second hand biker jacket in sweatshirt style. When I wear it with my favourite grey jeans, it gives me some Paul-Landers-stage-outfit-vibes...what do you think? It's definitely not a copy, far from that. But I'd say it's a low budget hommage, very my style and definitely made for everyday wear – which was very important for me. I don't want to buy stuff which looks great but I never wear. My mum complimented me on that jacket and I really love it :D

Third: My Schneider-necklace and Richard-ring!

Schneider has worn this necklace for years now. I saw it on him during concerts, photo shoots and even on private pictures. It must mean something to him. And I personally am a big fan of jewellery that is with you everyday, that you never take off. Like it's belonging to you. I have the feeling it's like that with Schneider and this necklace. I did some research about the type of necklace, it seems to be an anchor chain. Mine is made of titanium, very lightweight. I love the grey, not shiny colour and how it's unisex looking, not too feminine but also not too massive or "manly".

In the picture is also my Richard-ring. You probably/maybe know this very early VIVA-interview from 1995:

There the cameraperson has a really weird way of filming, and once he/she zooms on Richards hand. I noticed that ring and liked it very much, I think it suits Richard very well. Unfortunately I've never seen it on him again. But still, he wore it at that time. I found a similar one, it has some ornaments that his doesn't have, but I really love that ring – have worn it for almost 2,5 years straight now, everyday and I feel naked without it.

Please let me know if you're interested in seeing more like this (a „like“ on this post counts for me ;). I have some more R+-inspired pieces and could make another one or two posts :) !

[angelofacidx]

Self indulgent drabble

Dark! Soap x reader

CW: Alcohol use, gaslighting, cnc.

Local shitty dive bars around whatever base he’d been stationed at became almost a second home to Johnny. He liked the predictability, the dinginess, and the burn in his chest of the night’s pick of the poison. The entertainment was nice too, a few pretty girls to bed later or a brawl started between two intoxicated sweaty men. What more could he want?

Soap wasn’t used to big cities. Scratch that. Big American cities. He found himself right at the heart of one after a mission involving some high profile bastard, rather easy to hunt down and giving him time to kill. After all was said and done his hotel room was still paid for and his flight back to base didn’t leave for another two days. A quick google search of the area brought up more bars than he’d ever seen in his life with a myriad of pretentious names and neon banners.

It wasn’t long until Johnny found himself standing outside between two crimson velvet ropes in a line full of people and dressed down in his civvies. The music vibrated the walls loud enough to seep outside, the bass of some shitty Sean Paul song already setting the prescient for the night. He had half a mind to try another place until your form burned itself into his brain. A short black glittery dress, the hem ending just below the swell of your ass. Long lithe legs and calves flexed from being stilted on black heels. Fuck, you were a vision.

Eavesdropping on your conversation let him know you were already tipsy, one of your friends calling you “Sooooo crazzzyyyy tee hee” for killing off the last of her Tito’s before the group had left the house. It was apparent the more he soaked you in, the glossy eyes and slightly mussed hair. The way you stumbled slightly on your heels just standing like a foal taking its first steps. Johnny could work with this.

He stalked behind your group for an hour or so, watching the drinks flow and your inhibitions slipping further and further. The DJ in this place knew how to work girls your age. The trashy Y2K dance music and alcohol made your hips sway in circles as you held onto your friends shoulders and half screamed lyrics at each other. The ministration held his attention, making his eye twitch slightly and his brain short circuit. He wondered if you could ride cock like that.

He gets the courage to approach you then, tapping your shoulder and taking you out of your trance as you turned to face him. His eyes drifted from your face to your tits for a moment before refocusing back to your eyes. Behave, Johnny.

“Hey! It’s been so long since I seen ye! Jason’s mate.” Johnny said with a big smile, his eyes trustworthy as he prayed to god the generic American name would make a connection somewhere in your brain for him to prey on.

He watched you study his face in silence, trying to place him but the alcohol doing no favors to jog your memory.

“Wait. Bri’s ex Jason or Jason from the frat?” You slurred, eyes still scanning his face and figure.

“Bri’s ex. Can’t believe I ran into ye here.” He said with an assured nod, reaching out to hug you.

Your breasts squished against his chest in the hug, arms wrapped around your lower back and he was practically foaming at the mouth restraining himself from grabbing your ass. He let go of the hug begrudgingly but smiled with teeth bared when you handed him an extra shot your friend has ordered.

Holy shit. It was that easy. He was in.

As the two of you talked about “Jason”, your job, his “finance major”, and everything in between he fed you drink after drink. Your words and thoughts became less coherent—not like they were to begin with, the aforementioned pregame hit you hard. Your body leaned against him as you danced, your ass grinding into the hard bulge at the apex of his jeans, earning a deep growl.

He wanted to bend you over then and there, grab the soft flesh of your hips and rut into you like an animal in front of God and everybody in that bar. His restraint wore thin with another push of your ass against him, a whine rising to his throat. He took out his phone then, calling an Uber for the two of you.

You were clearly trashed, a potential safety risk to yourself he told your shitty friends. Let him take you back to your house, he’ll even text them when you arrive safely. He knows where you live. He’s Jason’s friend and they can trust him, so they do. With a hand on your lower back ass, he guides you outside to the curb and tracks down the Uber, opening the door for you.

…

The morning light is absolutely blinding. You feel disgusting and sweaty, reeking of alcohol and sweat. Your arm reaches for your bed side table where you pray your phone is only to be met with air. Huh?

You sit up quickly, your head throbbing as you do. Your eyes open slowly and your surroundings are completely unfamiliar. A hotel? You attempt to get out of bed but the pounding in your head and your cunt stop you, muscles betraying you and your throat letting out a guttural groan.

A man steps out from the bathroom then, white towel around his waist and dark hair sopping wet. His face brings back memories of last night; the club, the dancing, getting fingered in the uber, being folded in half as he begged to cum in you even though you told him you weren’t on any contraceptives. That seemed to make him blow his load immediately.

But now with his face clearer than before you can see he is not Jason’s friend.

“Who the fuck…?” You trail off, pulling the blanket over yourself for some form of modest.

“Johnny. Real pleasure to meet ye.” He says with a shit eating grin, moving towards you with the same animalistic look in his eye that he had last night.

[l0stfoster]

Can we hear more about Har-bit childhood? I remember you mentioned his dad being abusive and his mom ignoring it.

Does the gang know about his childhood?

How was he towards his sister during those time and if it effected their relationship later on?

Is there lasting effects?

I love people asking about the backstory/childhood stuff it's so fun. Alright, let's get to it! Everything is below the cut, sorry if some shit isn't worded right, I'm a little out of it today so I'll likely come back to edit this as needed.

General information

- As I've said, Two’s mom is a harpy and his dad is human. Neither Two-Bit nor Molly took after Mr. Mathews, and he wasn’t too happy about that. He left when Molly was around 3 and Two was 13. - I've always imagined Mrs. Mathews being a nurse, so she was constantly out of the house for long shifts and so on, and so forth. She trusted Mr. Mathews since he'd kept whatever malice he felt on the down low.. for the first few years. - I've already said it but I'll bring it back up; Two-Bit constantly had his needs and habits as a harpy repressed by his father. Feathers clipped, he wasn't allowed to preen, etc. Human social norms were super-enforced, and Two or his sister were disciplined harshly for behaving in any way a harpy would. - Harpies crave social bonds or a flock mentality; , something that Mr. Mathews was so thoroughly against agreeing to. He'd also treat them as if they should be human, then get all pissy if they didn't meet that expectation. - His dad was an alcoholic, and unfortunately, that's a trait Two picked up as well. - Mr. Mathews wasn't usually physical, but there were moments. It was mostly emotional and psychological abuse that the kids had to deal with; he'd make tons of derogatory comments about Two and his mom, call them monsters, etc. Neglect was pretty evident too, Two had to learn to fend for himself from a pretty young age and had to learn to care for Molly when she was born. - Speaking of which, Two constantly took the brunt of the responses his father held when it came to Molly's behavior as a literal baby. This is probably where the physical aspects of abuse got the most rampant since Two-Bit defending Molly was seen as having an attitude. - Two-Bit was forced to lie regarding how he was being treated as well, he was told for a long time that he wouldn't be believed, that he was being dramatic, or that Mrs. Mathews would leave. - Ms. Mathews was going to file for divorce once she could afford the financial issues that would follow it, but one day just came home to a quiet house, save for Two-Bit trying to ease a fussy Molly. They haven't seen him since.

Does the gang know about his childhood?

- The levels of knowing about it vary, but Dally and Ace definitely have the best gauge on Two's childhood. Dally had witnessed it a ton firsthand, and Ace got to hear it from Two himself. Darry's also pretty aware of it, as not only did he get glimpses of it while they grew up, but he vividly remembers the nights when Two-Bit would show up drunk and just,, talk. - Steve and Johnny are also pretty aware, they don't know the details, but they know that the guy fucked up enough for Two of all people to shit talk. Hell, Two doesn't hold the same malice that his dad faces towards Paul or even Bev. You need to fuck up bad for Two-Bit to despise you. - Everyone else doesn't know the full details, but it's not hard to make assumptions.

How was he towards his sister during those times and did it affect their relationship later on?

- Their relationship wasn't impacted, if anything their bond was strengthened as Two did everything in his damn power to keep her on the opposite end of their father's wrath. - He would've killed the man with his bare hands if he dared to lay a hand on her. Hence why he continued to defend her, even if he shouldn't have had to; babies are going to be noisy and need a lot of attention, and god forbid a father has to care for their own child.

Are there lasting effects?

- There's a good bit of remaining trauma from Mr. Mathews, yeah. Two covers a lot of his personal angst with his humor and loudness, but things shine through. His sister didn't experience it enough to have a grasp on how bad things were. - There was a lot of deep-rooted shame in Two due to his harpy nature and how his father responded to it. For a good long while, he hated being one. He still longs for his father's approval despite his abandonment but resents the neglect and abuse. The only reason it hasn't prevented him from forming bonds and relationships is because his mother did her damn best to turn it around. - Two-Bit absolutely hates that he drinks. He knows he shouldn't be doing it, and he knows it reminds people (and himself) of his father; but just because you know you're colorblind doesn't mean you can see the colors. Addiction isn't easy to deal with. - Two also gets really aggressive if anyone directs anger toward him or his sister; it's a reflex. His brain associates that loud and violent behavior with his father.

[always-andromeda]

·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐋𝐋, 𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐃

𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐎𝐄𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ✯ Father Paul Hill x Fem!Reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 ✯ 2925

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭 ✯ taboo au + "Everything I've done...every atrocity, it's been for you."

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ✯ okay, I haven't exactly finished a piece in a good while. so this one is sort of serving as a warm-up and if it's terrible (which I have a good feeling it is lmao), I'm gonna have to ask y'all to be gentle on me. I've loved this man for a while now and this is sort of experimental. tl;dr: I am a sensitive little baby right now so treat me as such.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ✯ smut (minors, do not interact), obviously a pretty massive gap in both age and power, depictions of blood and death, could be read as dub con at first (if you squint really hard) but firmly lands on the side of full con, a lot of religious mumbo jumbo (lmao let's ignore the fact that I know almost nothing about Catholicism <3), so much blasphemy, oral (female receiving), a twinge of sub!Paul, and that's all I can think of!! let me know if more is needed!!

(mdni banner template credit goes to @cafekitsune!!)

Behind closed eyelids, all you saw was darkness. And through that darkness came white hot agony. It was practically blinding as it shot up your spine before detonating in your brain. Those little fragments of pain speckled across the inside of your skull.

You wanted to scream, hurl, cry, something. Anything to physically release the intense pain assaulted your nerves. But you wouldn't be granted that mercy. No.

For now, your suffering was confined to this unending darkness. For now, you waited in the void of your own being for the tragedy to subside.

For weeks you anxiously waited for the return of Monsignor Pruitt from his mission trip. Though spending your afternoons looking after the dementia ridden clergyman wasn't exactly your idea of a good time, it was far better than slumming it with Beverly Keane. After all, you were 99% sure that whatever Bev heard managed to make its way all around the island.

Crockett Island was a melting pot of rumors. By now you'd heard the stories; the mythology of the island's residents had woven together to form a complex tapestry. And the longer you stayed, the more you realized how little you desired to be a part of it all.

But you didn't have a choice. Whether you liked it or not, Crockett's citizens had already spun your narrative.

Everyone knew how your mother had taken you away from the island at the ripe age of five years old; saving you the heartache of being raised by an alcoholic father. Part of you had always been grateful for it despite how tough it had been being raised by a single mother who hardly had anything to her name. Yet you couldn't help the guilt that poured into your lungs like cement whenever someone mentioned how much your father had suffered before he died.

Because that was the only way you would've gone back to the island that lived in the shadows of your memory: death. And upon meeting Monsignor Pruitt, it became clear that death would also be the only way you'd want to leave.

The relationship that had bloomed between you and him was a humble one. He'd offered to talk you through your grief which you'd promptly denied. Though you attended services, you weren't much for religion and you weren't about to embrace it fresh off of the death of a father who was practically a stranger. It felt disingenuous.

Finding God is reserved for real tragedies, right?

You'd asked the question like it was a joke.

Monsignor Pruitt had merely tilted his head before replying in that lilting, raspy voice of his: Depends on what you think qualifies as a tragedy.

With a quick eye roll, you'd written the answer off as one of those unbalanced moments of his. Over the course of a few months, you'd become well acquainted with them. Going to services and keeping him company was something to do. Something other than rifling through decades of your father's clutter and further entangling yourself with the community. Something other than being reminded of your own wasted potential.

Strangely, the monsignor felt less like an all seeing eye and more like...a friend. And now, faced with his "temporary" replacement, you were finally certain of what qualified as a tragedy to you.

From the moment Father Paul had addressed the church, you were unsettled. He may have been perfectly kind and personable enough, but his mannerisms edged on the uncanny valley. It was the way he spoke during sermons and how that tone rarely changed during one-on-one conversations. Though he couldn't have been older than thirty, he often held himself as if he'd been around the block more times than anyone could fathom. It was easy to chalk it up to his nature. Of course the man of God had an eerie way of making you feel like a puny mortal.

But Monsignor Pruitt had never made you feel like that. You couldn't brush the thought of the old man out of your mind.

Every time Father Paul attempted to placate your worries, it only pushed you deeper into the depths of distrust. Somehow you just knew he was lying.

And for all of Father Paul's wisdom and mystique, he wasn't a good liar. His tone would shift as he glossed over your concerns with a quick reassurance that Monsignor Pruitt was recovering just fine on the mainland. When you felt brave enough to press him for more, he'd wring his hands or squeeze them into fists. Almost as if he had to physically stop himself from reprimanding you. After all, who were you to question him?

When your eyes finally opened, your vision was overwhelmed by the light. Softly, slowly, the light haloed around the head of a figure that carefully came into view. As your sight sharpened, you quickly realized who stood over you. 

The man you held the most wariness for was kneeling over you. His long face wrought with concern, the alarm bells were already blaring in your muddled mind. But as much as you tried to force the air from your lungs to scream, you could only let out a pathetic, strangled squeak.

That was when he spoke. His voice shook with what sounded like uncertainty, "You mustn't overexert yourself. You're still coming back. But don't worry, you'll be yourself again soon. All in due time."

No matter how much you tried to speak, to move, neither of the actions came to you. All you could do is watch as Father Paul pulled your paralyzed body into his arms and cradled you. And as the potency of your helplessness settled in, you vaguely felt tears prick at your waterline. 

Normally, you would've rather died than allowing yourself to cry in front of someone, especially in front of the father. This time you couldn't control the few tears that slid freely down your cheeks, landing on the father's hand where he gripped your still aching shoulder.

He noticed them immediately and let you out of his grasp long enough to stare into your glossy eyes.

You couldn't quite decipher the intent behind the softness of his gaze. But somehow it was enough to allow the nausea that had slowly been rising in your chest to subside.

Father Paul raised a hand to cup your face. His thumb carefully stroked your cheek, sweeping away the wet trails left by your despair. And whether it was from your sensitivity or the intimacy of the act, you didn't know. But your skin shivered. 

As you gradually regained the feeling in your body, you realized that the first thing you felt after the pain was him. The inherent warmth of his embrace. And in some fucked up way, it was comforting. Feeling like prey, you blinked back the rest of your tears and allowed yourself to soak up as much of him as you could; anything to get rid of the dull pain that plagued your nerves.

You noticed there were tears brimming his own eyes as he smiled softly. "There, you mustn't cry. You've been so brave and in return you've been blessed."

It was then that you began to regain enough cognizance to question what was happening.

Flashes of memory played each time you blinked.

That damned question had been on the tip of your tongue again.

So you found him in the recreational center. There he’d been, on his knees, praying fervently.

Hopefully you're praying for the monsignor's return.

You regretted the words almost as soon as you'd said them. Because as soon as Paul turned, he gave you that dark look that rarely graced his features. This time he hadn't even tried to hide it with his usual discretion.

He merely stared right past you with his eyes wide and pleading. 

You hadn't had the chance to see the thing that attacked you fully. But you felt its teeth at your neck. You felt your own blood dripping from your neck in such a thick stream that the dizziness came almost as soon as you hit the ground. You felt the rough, pale skin of the creature as it smothered you, greedily devouring every ounce of your life.

Of course you were surprised to find yourself lying on the sheets of Paul's bed in his modest home, but that shock was the least of your worries. How were you still alive?

He told his tale as your body mended itself. You didn't know how much time passed. All you knew is that you were enraptured with the sticky sense of dread that was growing in your stomach as he spoke.

You were acutely aware of just how much it sounded like a sermon. How, whether he was aware of it or not, he was pulling out every stop in the preacher's handbook to try and convince you. And if he didn’t sound so convinced himself, you would swear this was deliberate manipulation. But nothing else could possibly explain his youthful appearance and all that he knew. He could recite your history right back to you despite the fact that you’d never once trusted him nearly enough to give it. Only the monsignor knew your deepest fears and your darkest secrets. But this wasn’t your monsignor.

Father Paul was some new beast; an amalgamation of the sweet old man you’d once known, the deceptive preacher who took his place, and some other supernatural force that you couldn’t quite name.

Though you’d only caught half a glimpse of the creature, you attempted to express your terror. That only spurred him on further as he contended that when an angel of the Lord appeared to the shepherds upon the birth of Jesus, it deliberately told them to not be afraid.

But none of that explained himself. None of it allowed you to comprehend how Monsignor Pruitt could've shed decades of life; how the old man could now stand there, blood drying on the bottom half of his face, and look at you as if you were something he could have.

You didn't have to ask. You knew by then that when the creature had had its fill of your blood, Father Paul had pulled the scraps of you away for himself. The thought hit you dangerously and made something deep inside you rumble. Like a natural disaster, this had unearthed a litany of complications that you never could’ve anticipated.

“We are at a crossroads," Father Paul said gently before letting his conviction surge again, “Now, you once said that finding God was reserved for those experiencing tragedy, correct?”

You nodded sagely. 

Father Paul grasped your trembling hands in his own, “Have you not experienced one of life’s greatest tragedies? The ending of it? You fell right over the edge of life and before the waters of death could claim you, He brought you back. Hebrought us together.”

You shook your head in defiance.

“This was meant to happen. This was part of His plan, for our faiths — our lives — to be renewed.”

With your throat still stiff and dry, you croaked angrily, “There was nothing wrong with my life! There was nothing that needed to supposedly be renewed!” 

He raised his voice suddenly, “Why did you come to this island?”

“Because my father died.”

“A father who was no better than a stranger to you,” he recalled your own words quickly. If the monsignor had been wise, Father Paul was as sharp as a knife, taking his jabs at you with complete accuracy. “You didn’t have to come here. You didn't have to make friends with a crazy old man. By the grace of God, you were led here. You were led here so you could be shown this truth; this gift. And you are denying this gift."

You had to admit that your draw to Crockett had been strange. At first you'd attested it to some childhood curiosity. But you'd deliberately put off taking care of your father's run down property, instead opting to spend time walking in the light of Pruitt. In truth, his companionship had been a breath of fresh air. 

Though the people of Crockett adored him, it was always tinged with pity. You'd never pitied him; only admired him for his wisdom and his resilience. 

Paul's expression softened as he held your face in his hands. "Everything I've done...every atrocity, it's been for you." That was when you saw the edges of his wisdom begin to lift and fall away like a second skin he'd crafted over his own vulnerability.

Underneath it...he was simply a man. A man who wanted to save you. 

“Let me give you more. Let me show you how you can trust me," he whispered.

The first kiss inspired an odd mix of emotions in your chest. There was the coppery tang of dried blood on your tongue, strong enough that it took everything in you not to flinch away from his hold on you. But you remembered his reference to the angel and the shepherds.

Do not be afraid.

So you continued, deepening the kiss with a turn of your head. And for all of the worldly experiences Paul had, you became acutely aware that this sort of connection was not among them.

Whether there'd been any true romantic feelings for the aging monsignor, you couldn't quite say. But your fondness of him had transferred to the man before you. Granted, the transfer wasn't smooth, but it was there nonetheless. Somehow it was stronger than ever as he took your hand and brought it to his lips. The kiss he pressed against your palm was slightly tacky with your own half dried blood still lingering.

You brushed a lock of his wavy, dark hair back so you could properly meet his gaze. With the shroud of time having fallen away from his features you could see just how handsome the man was. It was a hesitant sort of attractiveness; as if the banner of God had prevented him from seeing his full potential.

He'd fed on your life and made himself new. And the thought of your monsignor living on in that small way...all because of you? The electric twinges that sparked in your chest were almost too much to bear.

Without fear you devoured him in another kiss. Quickly the mood turned from reverent to ravenous as Paul attempted to keep up with your fervency.

He couldn't remember the last time sin had overpowered his sense of morality. Because he knew in the traditional sense, this was pure sin. No matter how wrong he believed it might have been to let his hands roam your figure, in his bones it was a temptation that finally felt correct. There was none of that hesitance or shame or fear that he'd felt before. The pendulum had shifted on morality and he knew exactly what he needed to do.

Hardly a moment was spared as he tore into the long skirt and the underwear that had kept you modest for far too long. Perfect beauty like this had to be cherished.

So that is what he did. Planted firmly between your legs, he stared up at you with eyes that gently pleaded for permission; for salvation. With your own half lidded eyes, you nodded before spreading yourself open for him.

Like a flower, you bloomed beautifully and Paul groaned at the sight. He could practically feel the thrumming pulse before him as it waited to indulge him. His hot breath teased you and made sparks dance right beneath the surface of your skin. Still you stayed in place, patiently allowing him time to drink in the sight of your folds already puffing and glistening with slick.

Quietly, you heard him mumble something that you only caught the tail end of.

“–forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

It wasn't too long after that when his tongue found a home in that tight, warm crevice. Your hand knitted itself into his dark hair as you searched for something to ground yourself from the overpowering sensation. Something about this new condition of yours heightened every aspect of pleasure.

If you were in your right mind, it would make sense logically considering you'd felt the unbearable pain of your spine shattering and being put back together again. But this was overwhelming in the entirely opposite direction.

You experienced the pleasure on a cellular level as your climax rushed through your limbs. You seemed to feel the vibrancy of every emotion and atom that comprised your being. Nothing was spared from the glory of this blessing. Not your spasming cunt as it contracted around Paul's blessed tongue. Not your heart that was firmly on the track of restoration. And not your mind as it all at once fell apart in time with your quivering thighs. Blood pulsing, every single one of your pores felt more alive than ever as you finally embraced the higher power that had been waiting for you in the shadows all along.

At that moment, you believed it all. From the Angel to Father Paul's divine transformation to the euphoric paradise that enveloped your entire being...it was all real. And most of all, it was all yours. Thanks to the father's grace and generosity, you would create paradise with him. And that seemed possible. After all, with his head between your thighs, you’d both already created one.