#I think I had to recite memory verses every week or so

[uchiha-gaeshi]

Remembering how I went from Child of God™️ with the strength to resist Wordly Temptations to a hardcore agnostic within a year.

[danniburgh]

Sins of the Flesh (priest!Dave York x f!reader)

Pairing: priest!Dave York x f!reader

Summary:  His mind shouldn’t be on the new catechesis teacher as he cleaned the chalice after handing communion. His thoughts shouldn’t be on the young girl he knew for so long as he blessed the congregation and finished mass.

But you were different now. Something in you had changed. “Lord, have mercy on me.”

Word count: +10.9k

Warnings: religion! catholic religion to be precise, a lot A LOT of religious references and undertones (shot every time you find one lmao), age gap (around 15 years, reader is legal), smut, unprotected p in v, oral sex, breaking of celibacy vows!, catholic guilt, me making divine metaphors... i think thats it.

A/N: first of all this is all @asta-lily​’s fault, she asked why no one had turned this man into a priest and i said “ok ill do it” so i did it, she is to blame. also i wanna say thanks to the pocket wives that encouraged this creation, sorry my loves, this isnt as slutty as yall thought lmao, and thanks to @alliterative-albatross​ who gave me all the bible verses that shaped this story as well. and i wanna thank the creator of this playlist that i listened over and over while writing this, and yeah, sorry for this monstrosity, love you <3

Masterlist // Read on ao3 // ko-fi

comments and reblogs are eternally appreciated 💓

moodboard by @asta-lily

“So whoever knows the right thing to do and fails to do it, for him it is sin.”–James 4:12.

Sunday 1.

Like a piece in a puzzle.

That’s how you fit in.

There, sitting in the middle of a ten people polished wood bench, eyes on the four feet tall crucified Jesus on the wall above the altar, ready for the first sermon you were to hear after coming back home.

Home. That was the name.

That church felt like home.

You were enjoying sitting there, among the children you met a couple of hours earlier when you were introduced to them as their new catechesis teacher, breathing in and out the myrrh incense burning and invading the navel and your lungs, filling them with new energy, getting them ready to feel the love that you were sure was about to pour over you.

You heard your name behind you and you turned around to see Mrs. Stevens, one of your mother’s friends waving at you from two rows behind.

“Hi, honey!” she smiled at you and immediately you reciprocated “I heard you were in town, are you staying this time?”

You drowned a chuckle inside your chest and bit your lip, nodding. Just realizing you even had missed the venomous messages hidden behind the kind words mouthed by old catholic moms.

“Yes, Mrs. Stevens, I’m staying this time.” you replied, the woman lifted her hand a bit to the sky and you smirked to her.

“God bless, I bet your mom is delighted you’re here!” she muttered “I know she missed you terribly all those years you were in that school.”

“It’s called college, Mrs. Stevens,” you reminded the woman, and she rolled her eyes, making you chuckle softly again “but do not worry for my mama anymore, I graduated, I’m staying for good.” you told her, amused at the way she acted as if you staying at home was some godsend blessing.

The organ began to play on the upper balcony behind everyone and you saw two altar boys, carbon copy of each other, almost rushing their way to the altar, and behind them… Father Dave.

You smiled softly at the sight of him as he walked solemnly to the altar, his green chasuble flowing with the air and the movement, there was a thought you had all those years you were away from home because of school, always coming back to Father Dave York: the young priest that decided to stay in the first congregation he was sent to, the one that became a pillar to the community, the holy man that held the direct link to God and that gave you your first communion, the one you missed when you went to attend mass at the church near campus because no one gave the sermons like he did. For some reason, whenever you least expected, you thought of him.

You saw him putting his bible on top of the pressed cloth over the altar, kneel and kiss the center of it and cross himself. And then, after he closed his eyes and muttered a prayer to himself and to God, he opened his deep brown eyes and he looked at you.

“Let us pray.”

Your mouth dried when his deep timbered voice, with the help of a small microphone on his altar, wrapped the entire navel and you with it, he looked at you as he cleared his throat and he opened his arms to the sky, breaking eye contact with you.

“Lord, have mercy.” he murmured, and the congregation replied to his prayer as you struggled to find the air that had escaped your lungs.

As Father Dave guided the congregation through the sermon and through the prayers, all you could see was him.

In some way, there was something different about him you hadn’t noticed the last time you were there; you didn’t know if it was something about his deep voice as he recited the credo by muscle memory, the way he walked from one side of the sanctuarium to the other as he talked about the scripture or the way his hands wrapped around the chalice when one of the altar boys handed it to him as the organ echoed all around the navel, announcing the communion.

You stood up and walked to the back of the line and sighed as he lifted the wafer to the sky, and your eyes closed by themselves when he lifted the chalice and took a sip from the sacramental wine and locked your eyes on him as the line moved.

As soon as you were in front of him your lips parted and he smiled at you softly.

“The body of Christ.” he murmured, his deep brown eyes on yours as they filled with tears.

“Amen” and you opened your mouth.

He put the wined wafer between your lips and his thumb brushed with your chin, making your skin burn as you brought it inside of your mouth with your tongue and forced yourself to walk away from him.

As you returned to your seat with the gold cross that hung from your neck between your fingers and kneeled to pray for the forgiving of your sins, all you could think of was brown, deep eyes, and a soft, brief touch on your chin that burned more than the wax of a burning taper.

Dave felt it.

The way you looked at him throughout the entire service.

And it made him feel different.

When you rose from your seat to walk to the communion line, he saw the way your body moved, almost as if you were floating instead of walking.

He knew you were back, and his heart was happy you were finally home.

But he didn’t expect to see you so changed.

And he didn’t expect the way your eyes had made him feel.

Then you were in front of him, and he smiled because he remembered the first time he handed the body of Christ to you, years and years before.

And your eyes filled with tears as his breath hitched when your lips parted for him as he fed you the sacred soul of the savior.

God, have mercy.

His mind shouldn’t be on the new catechesis teacher as he cleaned the chalice after handing communion. His thoughts shouldn’t be on the young girl he knew for so long as he blessed the congregation and finished mass.

But you were different now. Something in you had changed.

Lord, have mercy on me. He thought as he entered the sacristy.

“Whoever conceals his transgressions will not prosper, but he who confesses and forsakes them will obtain mercy.”–Proverbs 28:13.

Sunday 2.

“Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.” Dave heard your voice next to him and felt the air leave from his lungs. Not you, please God, not you.

You had been avoiding Father Dave for almost the entire week.

And you felt guilty about it.

You couldn’t even look at him in the eyes and not think about those dreams you were having about him.

If God was all love and perfection, why was he tempting you with dreams of Father Dave, his own servant, touching you in places you got shivers from, warming your body with his own, putting his mouth on your skin as you repeated his name like it was the sanctus?

Holy, holy, holy.

Why was God putting inside your head the sins of the flesh you had already asked forgiveness for? Why was he making you desire a forbidden man? A man that was not to be perceived as a man but as the representation of him on earth.

That morning, when you walked into the church to impart the catechesis class, you saw Jesus on the cross and you saw him look at you. And you knew he knew.

All omnipresent, all omniscient, all omnipotent.

You couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Almighty God why were you thinking about him so much?

And the resolution in your mind was asking for forgiveness, you needed to pay penitence for those thoughts you knew you did.

But were you really about to confess to the man you had been dreaming about that he was invading your every thought?

“It has been two weeks since my last confession.” you mumbled, playing with your cross over your neck, Dave breathed in deeply and intertwined his hands on his lap.

“What are your sins?” he asked, closing his eyes as he remembered his own.

Dave was always a man of faith. It was in him from birth. He had been taught and trained to not fall into any temptations and so far his life had been devoted and dedicated to God and only to God.

But your eyes and the way you saw him, and the way your eyes made him feel when they locked on his, had him spiraling down into decadence.

Sometimes, dedicating his life to the word of the Lord made him forget he was still a human, he was still a man.

He had needs.

And he was alright before your eyes. Before your holy eyes were on him.

He had dreamed of them; he had thought of them; he had imagined them when he was in the limbo between sleep and awakeness.

He had dreamed of your lips, of your lips on his skin, he had thought of those lips that just looked like they needed someone to wet them and bring them back to life; he had imagined those lips of yours in places of his body he swore never to use.

He had prayed for them to disappear; he had begged to his God to erase those thoughts of his mind and free them from the temptation that was incarnated in you, in your body, in your eyes that denied to see him when you were in the same room, in your hands as you moved them to teach the children, in your legs trapped in the tight denim of your jeans, in your lips as you smiled to everyone but him, in your entire being, just by existing.

But they had increased, like a tamed flame sprayed with gasoline. He had a fire in his chest, one that was spreading through him as he was closer to you.

He needed them gone; he had sworn to never look at a woman as an object of desire; he had sworn on his life and he had vowed his commitment.

But you were there, kneeling next to him, separated by the thinnest patterned panel, holding the matches and the fuel.

“I’ve been having… improper thoughts, father,” you whispered, closing your eyes and left your necklace alone, clutching your hands together as tight as you could, you felt the aura change and the air grow thicker between him and you, “about a man.”

Dave opened his eyes at your confession and frowned. A man?

He knew you could tell him whatever you wanted; he knew he wasn’t allowed to ask in for details; he knew he was only there functioning as a link for you to get absolved from your sins and you were a young woman granted of free will and enough time to ask for absolution but he wanted to know; he needed to know who that man was.

“He is ol–older than me,” he heard you mumble and his hands tightened their grip on each other “and I can’t have him, father, I–I’ve been having these thoughts about a forbidden man.”

Dave’s mind went reeling, and he didn’t understand why. He didn’t like to assume about the life of his congregation members, he never did, but you were talking to him, after he had been dreaming about you for days, after you two shared something about desiring another man. And he was angry. He wanted to know who. He wanted to know who was keeping your mind the same way you were keeping his.

“He keeps me up at night, thinking of him, that is,” you whispered “I’ve–Jesus,” you let out the air of your lungs and Dave breathed in deeply once more “I’ve touched myself thinking of him.” you said under your breath and Dave felt his chest tug and turn.

“Does this man… know what he is causing in you?” he muttered with a frown and heard you sigh.

“No, I don’t want him to.”

“Alright, child,” he replied after a few seconds, and made a grimace of disgust at the pet name. It felt wrong, and he felt dirty with the word on his mouth, “do you repent these sins?”

“Yes, father, I do.” you closed your eyes at his words and wanted, for once, to be brave and tell him he was the one roaming around your mind. But it wasn’t fair.

“Please, recite in silence the act of contrition,” he muttered to you and you obeyed, feeling your eyes fill with tears.

As he waited for you to finish, he did the same on his side of the confession box

I’m choosing to sin and failing to do good.

“Amen.” you said, and he murmured the word to the ceiling.

“I think the word you do for the church,” he started, and you wrinkled your nose at the thought of him knowing it was you “the devotion you have, and how you repent, you don’t need to pay penance,” he muttered separating his hands and putting two fingers on the edge of the patterned panel that separated the two of you “through the ministry of the church,” your breath hitched as he whispered the words to you, and you saw with teary eyes the shadow of his fingers on the panel “man God give you pardon and peace,” you bit your lip and unclutched your hands, lifting your fingers and pressing it to his as two heavy tears fell from your eyes.

Dave felt the pressure of your touch and felt his hand tremble.

“And I ab–absolve you from your sin.” he said under his breath, pressing back.

“Thank you, father.” you whispered, not moving your fingers. You could feel the warmth of his through it and for a few seconds, you could also feel his eyes on your face.

Dave was the one to break the contact first. Absentmindedly brushing his fingers on his stole as he saw the shadow of you move and get out of the confession box.

He sat there, thankful you were the only one that morning and thinking about what you had told him.

A man of God, a man of hope. He had hoped, even if it was a sin and even if it was forbidden by pure creed and vow, that you were feeling the same as he was.

For a moment, he wondered about those thoughts… Were you thinking about that lucky old man touching you? Were you thinking about that man kissing you? What did that man look like? He wanted to be that man; he wanted to be the one whose touch you desired; he wanted to be that man you thought of as you sneaked your hand inside your underwear at night and brought yourself to pleasure. He wanted to be the one whose kiss you yearned for as your sex ached for attention; he wanted to be the one whose fingers you imagined as your own were buried deep inside you.

He fisted the flesh of his thigh over his dress pants and forced himself to stop thinking of you like that.

Dave stayed inside the confession box for twenty minutes more, praying for forgiveness, as he had done every night since you had been back.

At service, he saw you further back on the benches and he tried not to sneak glances at you as you sat there with your precious eyes on the crucifix above him, avoiding him at all costs.

And at communion, he tried not to brush your soft skin with his fingers as he fed you the wined wafer, failing when his knuckle brushed your cheek, his chest deflating when he noticed the way your face quirked in pain when you muttered Amen at him. Dave tried not to make anything of the fact that you kneeled more time than anyone else on the congregation after receiving the communion.

And when the service was over and he was alone in the sacristy, he tried and failed to not think about your skin, your eyes, your hands and your lips all over his neglected body.

That sunday night Father Dave masturbated in the shower thinking about you with your fingers deep inside you as his mind imagined it was him you thought of when you touched yourself in the darkness of the night and prayed for forgiveness.

He shouldn’t be thinking about you like that.

“Beloved, I urge you as sojourners and exiles to abstain from the passions of the flesh, which wage war against your soul.”–1 Peter 2:11.

Sunday 3.

“Father, sh–shit,” you bit your lip to stop yourself from moaning as your pointer and middle fingers circled your wet clit under the covers of your bed, your legs spread open, the soft cotton of the sheets grazing softly at your inner thighs as you imagined your fingers being one of Father Dave’s, as you imagined him next to you, with his arm above your head as he whispered sweet nothings in your ear and nibbled at your neck while his other hand played your clit like a master pianist. You imagined the hardness of his erection pressing patiently on the skin of your hip, wetting it with pre-semen, making your body burn with the feeling of his warm naked body beside you.

As your other hand played with your nipple you imagined his eyes taking you in, you imagined his lips on your skin, were they soft? you bet they were, and you bet as well his hand would be surprisingly rough for a priest.

“Jesus, fu–fuck.” the knot inside your lower belly exploded with the thought of him and his hand and his body and his lips and his priesthood and you came with a silent scream that made your ears ring for a few seconds and your legs tremble on the bed.

As you hazed out, ready to fall asleep again before your alarm went off to go to work at the church, you felt that familiar guilt cripple inside you and settle in your chest, warming up and leaning against your heart.

Dave was panting, he fisted his hand as he leaned on the tiled wall of his shower and his other hand moved desperately on his cock. The water was still warm, and he closed his eyes shut as he imagined it was your hand on him, giving him the pleasure he was seeking, as he imagined you were behind him, your lips brushing against the wet skin of his back, your free hand around his chest, gliding softly at his skin, making him whimper with your touch.

It was so early for him to be so hot over you again; it wasn’t good for him to give into these desires he had and had been praying so hard and so much to get rid of.

He didn't want to keep doing it and he surely didn’t feel good after it, but his body ached for you, his chest turned every time he thought about you, every time he saw you around the church, he felt the deepest, hottest desire for you and your hands and your body and he just couldn’t help it.

His hand gripped and pumped as fast as he could and he came with a silent groan, opening his eyes as he finished milking every drop of his seed and watched it mix with the shower water and go down the drain. Along with the decency and morality that was left inside him.

You heard your name being said, and you turned around as you finished picking up your things from the small desk you used to teach the catechism; you saw Mrs. Vega, the church custodian, a small, old lady that had known you forever, walking towards you.

“I’m sorry dear, but I want to ask you for something.” she said when you smiled at her.

“Of course, Mrs. Vega, what is it?” you put your small book inside your bag and hung it from your shoulders.

“You see, the little twins that help Father Dave are sick today,” you frowned at the mention of Father’s Dave name but let out a sad sigh at her statement, “and they can’t come help with the service, you’re the youngest of the teachers, could you do it?”

You raised your eyebrows in surprise and felt your stomach churn inside you at the thought of standing next to the altar for a whole service.

“Me?” you asked, your voice in a high pitch as Mrs. Vega reached for your arm and tugged you to walk out of the chapel and into the navel of the church.

“Yes, dear, remember only the youngest get to do it.” she obviated, pulling you with her to the transept and up two steps to the sanctuarium “you only need to hand him the communion things and the holy water, I will prepare everything for you.”

“Why don’t you do it?” you asked in a whisper, not daring to take a step further closer to the altar. Mrs. Vega turned to look at you, and she narrowed her eyes.

“Since when are you shy, girl?” she asked with a teasing smile “I remember you singing in that kiddie choir we used to have and doing it terribly,” you chuckled at the memory and bit your lip “it’s only until the boys get that bug they got out of them.” she palmed your arm, and you breathed in deeply.

You looked up at the crucified Jesus above the altar and silently begged him for anticipated forgiveness.

Dave almost cursed when he saw you standing next to the altar as he walked across the navel.

The thought of who would replace Bobby and Chris on their altar duties didn’t even cross his mind as he was more worried about praying for the boys and sending them some sweets and pleading for the cleansing of his soul after the incident on his shower earlier that morning.

As he stepped up to the sanctuarium your eyes locked on his and he noticed you lips parting when he nodded his chin once at you, he noticed the way you swallowed as you nodded back and for a brief second, his imagination ran wild and made him believe you felt the same way as he did about you.

Even if it was the wrongest thing to think about.

It was like torture.

An hour of torture.

You got to see him kneel behind the altar and kiss the white pressed cloth softly as he stood, as you wanted and wished to be the altar’s cloth he pressed his plump lips on, he crossed himself and you mimicked his movements. And for a brief fraction of a second, as he opened his arms to the sky, you saw him looking at you out of the corner of his eye. And his eyes burned in your skin, they made you feel like your chest was aflame.

The communion time arrived, and he turned to you as you grabbed the chalice with the wine, his eyes locked with yours and you felt them weigh heavy on your body.

Dave couldn't concentrate, he felt on his side the way you were looking at him. It was heavily distracting for him to have you there, in his space, so close to him.

His hands brushed yours when he took the chalice from you and he stood there for less than a second, his fingers on yours. His soft touch and warm skin made your lips tremble with the emotion that touching him gave you. You felt a shiver go up and down your spine and the small hairs of your nape rose as his hands trapped yours.

You caught your lip between your teeth as he broke the contact and you knew he noticed; he looked at your lip as you bit it, and you blushed under his and God’s gaze.

You watched him and he felt you observing him as he prepared the wafers and wined them inside the chalice.

Your throat knotted when he lifted the cup to the sky and you felt your mouth dry as he brought the rim to his lip and his neck strained while he took a sip of the sacramental wine.

Because of the closeness you could see the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed the wine, you noticed a small drop of the crimson red liquid escape from his lips and the way he trapped it with his tongue settled deep inside your belly and leaked through your sex.

The pain of the greatest guilt you’ve ever felt in your short life appeared again and clawed its way inside your chest and to its now usual spot right next to your heart, you were struggling to keep your thoughts at bay; you were looking at Father Dave, right in front of you, doing what he dedicated his life to, and you were imagining him using his hands on your body instead of handling the instruments of the church.

Would he touch you like that? would he treat you with the same delicacy as he treated the body of Christ? would he caress you as softly as he did the chalice? would his mouth be warmed with your taste as it was by the wine he drank?

Dave turned to you and he saw you clutching your hands together, you walked towards him slowly, and he couldn’t stop thinking about the way you moved, almost as if air went through you, as if instead of giving steps your feet barely touched the floor because you were floating.

Everything slowed down, the music of the organ in the balcony, the prayers of the congregation, even the way he moved slowed down so he could focus on your face; on your sweet eyes, those that had brought into him the feeling of humanity, on your soft skin that had scorched his hand when he dared brushed his fingers on it, on your lips, those lips that he couldn’t pray out of his head.

He lifted his hand with the wined wafer, and even the way those holy lips of yours parted was slowed down.

Your eyes connected with his and Dave felt it in his body, deep inside his stomach, the temptation, the whispers of his mortal body as it reacted to your actions; he put the wafer between your lips delicately and pushed it inside your mouth, and then, as if by the grace of God in the heavens, you closed your mouth while he did it, and your lips wrapped softly around the pad of his finger as he pulled them away from you.

And just like that, the world started moving at its usual pace.

His skin tasted sweet. And you spent the rest of the service thinking about what other parts of him would taste like that.

Would his neck taste the same if you kissed it? would his chest feel like that if you nibbled on it? would his lips be that warm or would they be warmer?

Dave’s finger was burning.

He wanted to chop it off his hand just to stop feeling that flesh-eating guilt of enjoying your lips, your soft, warm lips around it, touching his skin, wetting it with the slick of your mouth.

After the service ended and Dave blessed the congregation, he saw you rush to the exit and he felt the sting of the guilt and the sadness. He wanted to talk to you and offer his apologies before you went home.

Sunday 4.

You weren’t there.

And Dave missed your eyes on him.

“I appeal to you therefore, brothers, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship.”–Romans 12:1.

Sunday 5.

As soon as you walked into the church you felt the eyes of all omnipresent beings on your body. As if the desire that burned deep inside your body left marks all over your skin, that could be visible for all those that looked carefully enough.

You heard your name behind you and jumped slightly, startled. You turned around and felt your blood fall to your feet.

“Father Dave,” you muttered, more to help yourself acknowledge the fact that there he was, standing in front of you, out of habit, his white tab collar was the only piece of his attire that hinted the fact that he was a priest. You tried to control your body as you felt instantly that flame inside your chest beginning to spread.

“You weren’t here last week,” he said, hesitating to step closer to you “are you okay?”

You nodded a few times and bit your lip to stop it from trembling.

“Are you sure?” Father Dave asked, and you dropped your eyes to the floor and saw him give a couple of steps towards you, your breath hitched and your entire body began to shiver when you felt his hand on your arm “I’m sorry.” he whispered.

“What?” you looked up to see him and you could notice his pained quirk, his brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed and his lips… those lips you had spent all but two weeks imagining printing themselves and making marks on your skin, on a sad, downwards line.

“Can I please talk to you?” he said again in a whisper and you opened your mouth to reply, but only air came out, “please?”

His deep brown eyes were on yours and you felt your chest turn by the feeling of having him so close. You nodded, and he turned to the sides, as if he was making sure there was no one there, and guided you to the sacristy.

“What are you doing?” you asked, a bit altered when he opened the door and let you in first, followed you and closed the door behind him.

“I just needed to be alone with you for a minute,” he clarified, you let your eyes wander around the small space where he got ready every day for the services instead of letting them settle on him, because you knew being that close to him wouldn’t help your situation at all “I wanted to apologize.”

You frowned and looked at him. He had his back almost glued to the door and his hands together, his thumbs fidgeting with each other.

“Apologize for what?” you muttered, and he sighed.

“I’m–I make you uncomfortable, and I’m sorry.”

Dave felt stupid telling you that, but it was his truth; he spent every free moment of his days when you weren’t near him thinking maybe it was because of him. It would make sense, that you didn’t want to be there because you didn’t like his closeness, that you didn’t want to be there because he was taking advantage of his position to steal glances and give furtive touches.

He understood, but you were an excellent woman, devoted and committed to the congregation, and he knew he needed to stop or you would leave and he would never see you again. And he couldn’t have that.

“You aren–you…” you babbled, and then the look he gave you made you lose your words.

His eyes were all over you. And you could feel them on your skin, how they took you in, how they navigated through your body and every inch of you was immediately on fire.

Then he looked at your face and you swore you could see in his brown eyes the deepest form of devotion there was. And your mouth was agape and your eyes filled with tears and suddenly he was in front of you and his hands were orbiting your face.

“Can I touch you?” he said, and you nodded.

He cupped your face, and you felt his warm, rough hands scorching your skin as you closed your eyes. His warmth started mixing with your own and you could feel him inside you already. It was as if everything you needed in life was already there.

“You don’t make me uncomfortable,” you whispered, closing your eyes as his fingers started caressing the skin of your face, tracing your features “I swear you don’t”

Dave let out a sigh when his thumb traced the edge of your lips and he so wanted to lean down and take them in his. There had been so long since he last kissed someone and he, for a split second, forgot everything about him and the only thought in his mind was you.

“I don’t?” he asked under his breath as a tear rolled down your cheek and he brushed it off with his knuckles, you shook your head and opened your eyes and he felt his heart fill with the purest love he had ever felt in his life “you swear?” you curled your lips up and nodded twice.

“Can I tell you something?” you muttered, looking up at him and losing yourself in the depths of his brown eyes.

“Always.”

You allowed your hands to slide to his shoulders and you let out a relieved sigh. They fit perfectly.

“Yo–you are…” he nodded his chin, his hands still cupping your face softly as his eyes studied your face, you let out a trembling sigh and grabbed as much courage as you had left within you “you are the man I’ve been thinking of all this time.”

Dave widened his eyes and the movements of his hands stopped, he looked at you, searching for any hint of mischief or lie, searching for something that could tell him you were lying, that you were playing with him. But there was none.

“That’s why I wasn’t here last week,” he heard you say as he felt his heart burn with the flames of his desire and love “I was embarrassed after what happened at the communion.”

You looked at him for a second, waiting for the rejection, waiting for him to tell you what you already know, that he can’t for you what you wanted him to be, that he can’t give you what you wanted as his duty was with God and not with the mortals, let alone with a woman.

Father Dave had resigned to the pleasures of the mundane world; you knew that, but you also knew he deserved to know, even if nothing would happen.

“Am I?” he asked you, bewildered after such confession, you nodded and moved your hands to cup his face, a gesture that made him close his eyes. You wondered when was the last time, if ever, he had been touched like that “we can’t” he replied, opening his eyes and leaning in to you.

You could feel his breathing mixing with yours as the implications of his words fell on you.

“We can’t” he repeated, pushing his forehead to yours as you trembled under his touch.

“You want to?” you asked him and Dave asked for guidance in his mind as you started crying and wetting his hands. He nodded, and you sobbed.

“I can’t” he whispered, and you shook your head as he looked at you pouring your feelings from your eyes.

“Kiss me.” you pleaded, looking into his brown, deep eyes. Making him frown.

“What?”

“If you’re not gonna give me anything, at least kiss me.”

His face quirked from confusion to pain in an instant, and you gripped the hold on his face.

“Please, Dave.”

Dave sighed at the way you whispered his name without calling him a father, and deep inside him he was grateful. With you he didn’t feel like a man of god, with you, letting him touch you and touching him back, he only felt like a man. Like the man he never got the chance to be.

“I–I” he started, and you shook your head. Dave looked into your eyes and all the air he had stored in his lungs left his body in a hurry, you were the most precious being he had ever seen, and for a second, he wanted nothing but to make worth the fact he had you in his hands “shit.” he said under his breath.

Dave brought your face up to him and printed his lips on yours, stealing the little air and the close to no coherence you still had in you. You let out a soft moan out of the surprise and out of the feeling of your entire body warming up to his temperature.

His lips were as soft and as wars and better than you had imagined, they were a bit dry and hesitant on yours, but the contact of them with yours made you feel like you were floating away from the realm of the living.

Dave didn’t want to stop kissing you. He didn’t remember the last time he had kissed a woman, and in that moment he wasn’t kissing any woman he was kissing you; the precious being that had been in his mind for weeks and that had never left.

Unsure of his movements, he let you take control of the contact and soon enough you were sliding the tip of your tongue along the seam of his lips, Dave let out a surprised grunt and opened his mouth slightly of you, and you took his lower lip with your mouth. And he let you kiss him all you wanted, enjoying the contact of your slow, wet, warm lips on his less experienced ones until he was sure his lungs were screaming from the lack of air.

When he broke the kiss, he left a small one on your forehead and pressed his lips there and you closed your eyes to feel him settle inside you

“I’m sorry.” you whispered to his neck. And he nodded slightly.

“Me too.”

“But I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman with lustful intent has already committed adultery with her in his heart.”–Matthew 5:28.

Sunday 6.

Your knuckles grazed softly with the sacristy door and you heard the muffled noise of the latch and the door opened.

“Hi,” you smiled and Dave looked at you up and down “got your text.”

“Come in.” he motioned his hand for you to hurry and you turned your head to both sides and walked into the sacristy, closed the door behind you and slid the latch.

Immediately after the door was locked, you felt his hands on your waist and his chin on your shoulder.

“This is why you texted me?” you teased and he moved to let a kiss on your jaw.

“I missed you.” he muttered and turned your body around for you to face him.

“You didn’t.” you smiled at him and wrapped your hands around his neck, grateful for the apparently deliberate choice of him to take off his tab collar.

“Yes, I did, I missed you all day.” Dave leaned towards you and took your lips in his, already knowing, after less than a week’s practice, how you loved being kissed.

His lips were as warm as they always were, his tongue barely present if not just to taste the sweetness of your lipstick, his hands always steady on your waist, and at the end, his forehead on yours, just taking in your breaths with his.

“Mass starts soon.” you said, and he nodded, sliding his hands to your middle back to wrap you closer to him.

“I know.” he left another brief kiss on your lips.

“You gotta get dressed.” you murmured against his lips.

“I know.” he muttered back and kissed you again.

“Want me to help?” you asked under your breath, just for him, as if you saying it as low as you could would stop God from listening.

“Yes, I would love that.” Dave replied and gave into another deep kiss that stole both your breath and made you want to stop the time so you could kiss until your lips fused together.

“C’mon you need to get ready.” you broke the kiss and stepped away from him, making him smile. You wandered around the sacristy and found his tab collar. You sighed and took it in your hands.

Dave looked at you and noticed the way you looked at the soft plastic piece, he walked towards you and raised his hand to grab yours. As you felt his hand on yours; you turned your head to look at him and smiled softly, and you moved your hands, raising them to carefully lift the collar of his shirt and clasp the piece around his neck.

“You okay?” he asked in a whisper, you nodded and bit your lip at the sight of him in front of you.

Dave moved and walked to the small table against a wall with a large bowl of water and you gazed at him as he washed his hands and whispered a few words. You leaned onto the wall just looking at him go to a small cabinet near the opposite corner and took a white, folded linen garment, which he unfolded and you recognized as the long robe he used under all his attire.

He slid it off and whispered another prayer again as he let it fall and graze his ankles. His eyes went to you and you smiled at him, he next grabbed a green square that you also recognized and you walked to him and took it out of his hands.

“Let me do it” you whispered, and he nodded, you unfolded the long stripe that was the stole and found its middle, Dave crouched a bit to help you and you let it fall around his neck over his shoulders.

“Return to me the stole of immortality,” he whispered, looking at your eyes, your throat dried at the deepness of his voice “which I have lost in the sin of my first parent and although I, unworthy,” he continued and took your hand in his “approach thy sacred mystery grant to me everlasting joy.”

You gripped his hands and felt your throat knotting around itself.

“Why are you praying to me?” you asked under your breath. He cupped your chin with one hand and brought you close to his face.

“You’re holy.” he whispered and left a soft kiss on your lips.

“Stop it.” you chastised him and he shook his head, giving you a soft smile that you reciprocated immediately.

You turned to the table and saw a long, golden cord and you took it.

“Not that one.” he muttered, and you frowned.

“Why not?” you saw him taking a deep breath as he took it from your hand and left it back on the table.

“The cincture… it means chastity and continence.” he replied under his breath and you let out all the air of your lungs as he took his chasuble and put it on without looking at you.

“Dave.” you called, and he lifted a hand to you as he said the last prayer. When he finished, he looked at you and as if he read your mind, he smiled at you and shook his head.

“Don’t,” he whispered, taking you again in his hands and pulling softly so your head rested on his shoulders “don’t apologize please.”

“I need to,” you mumbled against the light fabric of the green chasuble “I’m keeping you from your vow.”

Dave grabbed your shoulders and pulled you away from his body, his hands slid to your face and you gripped his wrists as he brought your face to his.

“You’re not doing anything, my love,” he muttered the last words directly on your lips as he stole a few kisses from your trembling mouth “you’re perfect,” he panted out and you shook your head “I’m doing this because I want to, please understand it,” he kissed you again, a bit more desperately “you’re the most divine creation I’ve ever laid my eyes and hands upon,” he whispered rapidly on your lips “and I want you to be mine.”

You gasped as the words left his mouth, and he gazed at you.

“Dave...” you started, but he didn’t let you finish, he wrapped his arms around you and brought your body to his, tightening the embrace as he thought of the implications of what he just asked.

Dave lifted his eyes to the ceiling and for the first time in years, with you slowly wrapping your arms around his waist, exactly over the place the cincture was supposed to go around, and the sweet aroma of your perfume inundating his senses, he felt really close to heaven.

“I want you to be mine too.” you whispered into his ear, and he smiled, leaving a kiss on top of your head.

“How beautiful and pleasant you are, O loved one, with all your delights!”–Song of Solomon 7:6.

Sunday 7.

You stirred on your seat again, the organ was playing the latest song before Dave would bless the congregation and wrap up the service and you were nervous.

You glanced at the crucified Jesus above him and you felt his eyes on yours; you felt him shove his holy hand on your chest and as the last notes of the song inundated the navel, you felt your throat sting with the green tint of your deep guilt, but at the same time, the rest of your body drown with the red warmth of your love and desire for Dave.

Is it worth it? you heard inside your head and your immediate response was yes.

Eternal damnation in exchange for a few hours of love. It was condemnedly worth it.

The service was over and you stood up with the rest of the congregation; you talked with a few people on your way out of the church and slowly and patiently you waited for everyone to disperse.

You walked around the gardens outside the church and slid between the gate that marked the beginning of Dave’s small house inside the church grounds. You rummaged around your small bag and pulled out the key he had given you earlier and with nervousness and the familiar guilt settled next to your heart; you let yourself into his house.

You turned on the lights. The space wasn’t big, but it wasn’t small and everything around smelled like him. For a priest’s home, the place lacked religious imagery, and you automatically chastised yourself for thinking about his priesthood again.

You sat on the loveseat next to the door as you waited for him and got dragged inside your head again; you talked about doing that throughout the week and you had agreed it was something you both wanted. But your head sent you through an unwanted train of thought and you sat there, thinking about the future. Something you hadn’t talked about.

After all, he would still be a priest and you would still be a young member of his congregation. You could spend time with him and let you love him and let him love you as much as you two wanted, but in the future… what else was there for you?

You could never ask him to leave his habit for you, you could never ask him to leave his life for you, you could never do something like that to him. But you were unsure if something like that had any other path but failure.

The door opened and there he was, unclasping his tab collar and dropping it on the end table as you rose from your seat and walked to him. He smiled at you and his hands found his place on your waist.

“You’re here.” he said, not surprised but relieved.

As he took off his attire in the sacristy and walked to his house from the church, he had a few minutes to think about what he was about to do. He didn’t allow himself to overthink it because if there was something he knew was that he wanted it; he wanted it more than he had wanted anything in his life. He couldn’t explain it even if he tried, but he knew there was something about you that made him feel human, there was something about you that made him feel like he belonged somewhere, maybe the way you talked to him, maybe the way you kissed him, maybe the way you always seemed to understand the moral and spiritual dilemma he was in. He didn’t know, but he knew that he loved you, even if he wasn’t supposed to, even when he wasn’t allowed.

And as he thought of it, love was one of the laws of the God he represented, and he felt it deeply.

“I’m here.” he pulled you to him as you wrapped your arms around his neck and nodded.

“Thank you.” you closed your eyes and bit your lip, shaking your head at him.

You felt his lips on yours as they re-discovered your kisses and his hands roamed to your middle back to press your chest to his.

You were amazed by how fast he had learned how you liked to be touched, how you liked to be kissed and caressed, as if he was just trying to commit to memory everything you ever wanted and he wanted to do it to you to please you.

Dave slid his hands from your back down to your hips and moved you softly to the side, without breaking the kiss he snaked his hands to the back of your thighs and lifted you. You smiled in his mouth and wrapped your legs around his waist as he walked to his bedroom.

When you crossed the doorframe you started leaving small kisses on the skin of his neck and he sat on the edge of his bed with you in his lap, you were already feeling the hardness growing inside his pants and his hands started grazing up and down your thighs as he let you taste his neck how you best pleased.

Dave was in a haze. He understood then the power of physical touch combined with deep love; it enhanced the sensations, the flame inside his chest was burning him from the inside out with a deep desire he was sure he had never felt before, and you were there, moving slowly on his lap as you devoured the skin of his neck and kissed slowly around his jaw.

“Dave,” you whispered as you licked his earlobe and pulled out a shiver from him, he hummed in question “touch me.”

He didn’t hesitate on questioning where, his hands roamed all around your body, they were big and warm and they were rough; you cupped his jaw with both hands and took his lips in yours with a wet, open-mouthed kiss that he followed as his hands snuck inside your shirt and you moaned softly at the feeling of skin to skin.

You moved out of his lap and stood up in front of him, Dave let out a soft whine at the sudden loss of your weight on his body but stopped when you moved his legs open and stood between them.

“Take off my shirt, please.” you told him, not in an order but he obeyed, he grabbed the hem of it and lifted it, you raised your arms and felt his lips on your rib side as you finished taking it off and dropped it on the floor behind you.

Dave put his hands around your torso and licked your skin experimentally, which made you gasp at the feeling of his wet tongue against your skin and he smiled to himself, doing it again and nibbling on the same spot softly.

His hands slid to your waist and without being told to he unbuttoned your jeans and dragged them down slowly, his eyes directly on yours. You smiled at him with your reddened, kiss-swollen lips and he felt your smile settling inside his lower belly, his cock twitching inside his pants.

You put your hands on his shoulders as he helped you out of your shoes and jeans and when you were there, standing in front of him only in your underwear, he swore there wasn’t anything more divine than your body.

You sank on your knees and your hands landed on his thighs, Dave’s throat clutched and his chest turned as you smiled at him and your hands slid to his belt, you raised your eyebrows as if asking for permission and he nodded a few times, leaning backward into his hands to give you space for you to do whatever you wanted to him.

You unbuckled his belt and opened his pants, his breath hitched when your fingers hooked to the hem of both his pants and his boxers, and then he lifted his hips for you to pull them off him. Dave smiled when he saw you bite your lip at the sight of his hard cock resting on his abdomen. It did something unexpected on what he thought was his dead ego, but he loved the way you looked at it.

“Take off your shirt.” you said and again, without it being an order, he obeyed. Unbuttoned it as quickly as he could and slid it off his shoulders as you leaned over his lap and took his erection on your hand, your thumb grazing softly the tip and he threw his head back between his shoulders.

“Oh, my love.” he sighed out as you started pumping slowly and when he closed his eyes, you licked the underside and wrapped your lips around the tip, making him gasp.

You took it slowly, enjoying the taste of his pre-cum as it came out of him, pumping the rest you couldn’t fit inside your mouth with your hand.

Dave forced his eyes open and moved his head down to watch you, he shivered when he found you already looking at him; he moved his hand to your face and with his knuckles caressed your cheek, making you smile with his cock inside your mouth.

For him, looking at you on your knees between his legs was like looking at a sacrosanct painting; your lips around him taking as much of his length as you could, your saliva dripping from his dick to your hand, bobbing your head up and down as your eyes, those holy eyes that never left his, it was a pleasure he never thought he would get in his earthly life.

He felt himself close to cumming, and he pushed your head softly upwards, you rose from your knees and clashed your messy lips onto his and he wrapped his arms around your waist, his large hands roaming around the skin of your back. His fingers played with the back of your bra and he broke the kiss for a few seconds to unhook it and help you slide it off, you smiled when he sighed at the sight of your breasts in front of his face and he pulled you flush against his head, taking a nipple in his mouth.

The warmth of his mouth and the wetness of his tongue around the soft skin of your nipple made you cry out his name softly and arousal gathered between your legs. One of his hands rested on your other boob and kneaded delicately as you fisted his hair in your hand. Dave moved his mouth to your other nipple and lapped at it before trapping it inside his mouth, you pressed his head to your chest and let out a moan when his teeth grazed your nipple as he released it.

“I wanna taste you.” he muttered against your boob and you smiled at him, nodding.

He moved you softly to lie down on the bed; the sheets were cool and soft and he stood on the edge, taking you in again, studying your body.

He leaned down to you and you opened your legs to make space for him; he hovered over your body and kissed you again, softly, as if you were back in time to the first kiss he gave you in the sacristy, as if he wasn’t about to devour your body.

His kisses traveled from your mouth to your neck and your chest, he left one in each nipple, making you laugh, he left a trail of them over your belly and one over your belly button. As he kissed your abdomen and your thighs, you looked at the ceiling and you smiled at whoever was watching.

Dave took the hem of your panties on his fingers and you lifted your hips for him to slip them off you, you lifted your legs and he unhooked them from your ankles, grabbing your calves and opening your legs again. He gulped when he saw your wet, expectant pussy right in front of him and looked at your flushed face. He leaned down and left kisses around your thighs without breaking eye contact.

“Guide me.” he whispered and left a kiss right over the hood of your clit, making you moan.

You nodded once, and he looked at your pussy, opened the lips gently with his fingers and blew on your slick folds, making you shiver. He flattened his tongue and licked from your slit to your clit, tasting your arousal, moaning at the richness of it.

You slid your hand to your clit and looked at him.

“Here.” you mumbled, circling a few times to show him how. He had told you he had sex before his ordination, because he didn’t want to go into his holy orders without having experienced it and wondering for the rest of his life what he had missed, but he said it wasn’t as good as he thought it would be and before you, he thought he would never know. So you had to show him what you wanted and what you liked because his experience wasn’t vast.

Dave did as you showed and you moaned out loud, the pads of his fingers were warmer and bigger than yours and he was handling you so delicately you were already on edge.

He kept licking and circling your clit and then, without a second thought, he moved his fingers away and started circling your clit with his tongue.

“Oh m–my god,” you fisted his hair, pushing his face into your pussy and he pressed your hips onto the mattress, looking at your face with your mouth opened in pleasure and your eyes closed shut “Dave ke–keep doing that baby,” you pleaded and he did it, and started playing the pad of one of his fingers on your slit, making your hips buck slightly he saw you pant and smiled when you slid your free hand to play with your nipple so he added a second one to play with your entrance “inside, put them inside.” you said under your breath and he pushed his fingers slowly inside your cunt, making you let out a long moan of his name, he started pumping and curling his fingers inside as he had imagined you doing it all those weeks ago while touching himself in the shower and closed his eyes to hear you moan his name as he brought you closer and closer to pleasure.

He moved his fingers faster inside of you and hand fisted and pulled his hair as your moans became tamed screams and he thought of them as the most pious symphony that he and only him had the sacred pleasure to hear.

You wrapped a leg around his shoulders as you felt the knot inside your belly explode from his ministrations and you chanted his name over and over as he worked you through your orgasm. You panted for a few seconds and opened your eyes to the sight of Dave licking his fingers clean. You smiled at him and released his hair to motion him to come to you; he hovered over your body again and you put your hand on his nape to bring him to you; you moaned softly at your own taste and you felt it smile on your lips.

“What?” you asked in a whisper.

“Did you like it?” he asked back on your lips, you nodded and cupped his clean-shaven jaw, leaving a deep kiss on his lips.

“I loved it,” he smiled, and you wrapped your legs around his waist and felt his cock brushing lightly against your folds. “make love to me, Dave.”

You saw his smile widen, and it was his turn to nod to you, he kissed you again while his hand worked on aligning himself to you; he slid the tip through your folds and you gasped on his mouth when he found your entrance and started pushing in.

He did it slowly, no rush; he wanted to feel you in every inch of his cock; he wanted you to feel him and every ridge and vein of him as he found his home in you.

You nipped at his lip as he bottomed up and smiled when he stayed there, inside you, enjoying the wait for your body to acclimate to his, you looked into his eyes and you felt it.

You felt how you two fit together like pieces of a puzzle.

As if his body was made for you and your body was made for him.

It felt right.

It felt sacred.

Dave started moving at a calmed pace and you with him, quickly finding a rhythm where your hips moved almost in unison and he thrusted into you deeply every time he moved. He was supporting his weight on one arm next to you while the other gripped your hip and helped you with the tantalizing dance you both were having.

He hid his face in the crook of your neck when your hands moved to his back and you pulled his body down to yours, his chest gliding yours and his hips circling as he thrusted faster into you.

Dave moaned into your neck when you scratched his back as his thrusts became pounds.

“Harder, please, baby, harder.” you whispered into his ear and he listened, driving into you as fast as his body allowed, the noise of his skin clashing with yours and the wetness of you leaking around his cock flooded the room and his moans grew louder and you dug your nails into his skin chanting his name as you got closer and closer to your second release.

“Yo–you’re a goddess,” he muttered into the skin of your neck as his cock grazed your cervix, his hand wrapped around your hips and he lifted your ass for him to thrust deeper, making you moan his name loudly “you’re m–my go–goddess.”

You slid your hands to his ass and fisted his buttcheeks, pushing him further into you.

Dave felt his orgasm closer and closer every time he drove into you and your warm walls started to clench around him with the closeness of your orgasm, he nibbled the skin of your neck and clutched his eyes shut tighter when his body started to stiffen as he pounded into you; he muttered your name a few times like a prayer he never knew he needed to make, and it sounded right, your name in his voice as he drove himself and you to climax, his own name on your sweet voice as you begged him for everything he had in himself, it was all right, it was all correct, there was nothing wrong, how could he had felt so guilty about it when it was the most perfect, most righteous, most sacred, most heavenly action he could do.

You in his arms, your hands on his body, his cock inside your cunt, you wrapped around him begging him to cum inside you, everything about it was all he could have asked for to feel like he was in heaven. He had almost said no to feel it, and he bursted inside you at the same time as you broke in pieces around him, thinking that he would rather live his life with you around him than his afterlife in heaven.

“I love you.” he muttered against the skin of your neck and you opened your eyes after riding the high of your orgasm and looked at the ceiling.

You frowned when you heard his words and when you remembered what he said to you before he came, and as you turned to the side to see him that red warmth you had felt earlier disappeared almost completely and the bright green taint of the deep guilt inside you washed over your body and your soul.

He looked at you and narrowed his eyes. His expression changed as he realized you weren’t going to answer his confession.

“Dave,” you whispered and his face changed, his brow furrowed and you saw his jaw tighten “what did we just do?”

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[m-m-m-myysurana]

WIP Wednesday

Ok I got tagged by @blarrghe like at least 2 weeks ago to share a wip. (I’m sorryy!) I am notoriously bad at this sort of thing. So anyway it is actually Wednesday for me now and look who has a WIP to share!! 

This is a snippet which will, in some form or another, make it into my long fic, A Cage We Share eventually. But it insisted on being written right now ty! Kept me up last night until it was out on the page. First rough draft of course so be kind ;)

Neria and Zev spend an evening in the Dalish camp after resolving the conflict between the Werewolves and the elves. 

A Night to Remember, (1500 words)

It was like no performance he’d ever seen. The singer was not dressed in any elaborate costume, nor did he even hold himself above the others, instead he sat close to the fire and sang into it. There were no instruments backing him up, though he did not seem to need it, his voice rang out clear and strong. Some sang or hummed along softly, harmonies and echoed lines fading in and out around them. From the cadence and verse, it seemed to be a story. Zevran recognised the name of one of the elven gods, though he could not pick out enough words to make sense of it. Neria’s eyes sparkled in the firelight as she listened with rapt attention. 

“What does it mean?” he whispered.

Neria looked over and smiled softly before leaning in to whisper next to his ear, “It's the Charge of Andruil. My father used to sing it. I don’t know that I’ll be able to translate it with much grace, but I can try.” 

Zevran nodded, and she settled closer to him, leaning her head on his shoulder. He kept very still, as if any sudden movement might scare her off. He felt more than heard her low words as she echoed the song. Her translation was spoken, not sung, but her voice was no less beautiful for lack of a melody.

“Remember my teachings, Remember the Vir Tanadhal: The Way of Three Trees That I have given you.

“Vir Assan: the Way of the Arrow Be swift and silent; Strike true, do not waver And let not your prey suffer. That is my Way.

“Vir Bor'assan: the Way of the Bow As the sapling bends, so must you. In yielding, find resilience; In pliancy, find strength. That is my Way.”

More voices joined in, and soon it seemed the entire camp was reciting the verse. Not every voice was as strong or beautiful as the first, but together in harmony it did not matter. As the sound filled his ears, an emotion he could not name expanded in his chest, swelling until he felt it might burst right out of him. 

“Vir Adahlen: the Way of the Wood Receive the gifts of the hunt with mindfulness. Respect the sacrifice of my children Know that your passing shall nourish them in turn. That is my Way.

“I am Sister of the Moon, Mother of Hares, Lady of the Hunt: Andruil. Remember the Ways of the Hunter And I shall be with you.” *

When the man finished, and Neria had echoed the last line, there was no polite applause or bows taken as Zevran had expected. A moment's silence passed, in which Zevran felt sure everyone would hear how wildly his heart beat. Then a drum was struck behind him, and he startled, whirling round to face it. The man pounded the drum a few more times, then began a rhythm that had many quickly cheering and standing. Neria stayed where she was on the log they were sitting on, so he remained with her. She twisted around and watched, delighted, as more of them joined in, bringing out more drums, tambourines, bells and fiddles, something that looked like a lute but wasn’t quite, and instruments he had no names for. Others joined in with the voices, not singing any particular lyrics he could pick out, just adding to the ever changing melodies with their voices. People started dancing, forming circles around the fire, and soon the camp was thrumming with the music so that even his heart seemed to beat to the rhythm. 

Neria swayed her head from side to side, eyes gleaming as she clapped along. Zevran stood, grinning as he held his hand out toward her. 

“Shall we?” 

“Oh, but I haven’t danced in years!”

“Shocking! I think it's time we remedied that, don’t you?” 

Neria laughed and let him help her up. He had not even had time to release her hand before a woman had his arm and was pulling them both along toward the dancing. With little ceremony, she broke a space between two dancers who, once they realised what was happening, very happily made space for the three of them. The dancer’s movements didn’t cease once as they attempted to join the circle, and the ensuing chaos created much laughter. The woman wrapped Zevran’s arm around her shoulders and wrapped her own around the woman beside her. A taller man wrapped his arm around Neria’s shoulders and Zevran shifted his arm under her arm and around her waist. 

Zevran had danced before, many times, though it had been nothing like this. Most dances in his country were made for two people, even in groups the dancers were in pairs. And of course most of the ones he had learnt had a focus on romance and seduction. These movements were made not in any effort to appear graceful or attractive, and indeed he was neither of those things right now. He stumbled over his feet many times as he attempted to copy the steps. They seemed to constantly shift and change, he would only just begin to pick up on one set of movements before they had moved on to another. Neria laughed, stumbling nearly as much as he did. She, however, seemed to pay no attention to what her feet were doing, instead her eyes were up and her head thrown back, as if she were simply feeling the music. 

It took him a while to realise the voice closest to him was hers. He had never heard her sing before, her voice was low and soothing and sweet like honey. Something glimmered on her face, reflecting the dancing light of the fire. Tears? Once he noticed he could not tear his eyes away. This was the happiest he had ever seen her, and yet she was crying. It confused him, but he did not dare interrupt. 

Soon the circle broke apart, though the dancing did not cease. He and Neria were separated, and he was guided through a sort of weaving dance. Each person he passed linked arms with him and spun before sending him off to the next person. This continued until he was quite dizzy, laughing as hair flew out of his braids. 

Then suddenly it was Neria who was swinging with him. He knew the next part meant he had to let go, but he didn’t want to. So he held on, using their momentum to throw them out and away from the fire. Neria screamed with laughter as they whirled, spinning wildly until they were some distance from the other dancers. 

He wrapped his arm around her waist, bringing her closer as he slowed them down. When they’d finally stopped, Neria’s grin was wide and open, and both of them breathed heavily. Their noses nearly touched, and couldn’t help but remember the last time they were so close. Heat flushed through him unexpectedly, and something sparked in her eyes, a look he recognised from that night. They were out in the open, the whole clan could see them if they looked the right way, but he couldn’t care less. He dared to lean into her lips and was delighted when she responded with far more enthusiasm than he’d expected. There was a loud whoop followed by whistling and laughter, but Zevran did not want to pull away to see if it was aimed at them.  

The kiss was clumsy, all teeth and breathless laughter, but in that moment he wouldn’t have had it any other way. She pushed her hands into his mess of hair, destroying what remained of his braids, and he tugged at her waist until their bodies were flush against one another. Her foot caught on something, and she stumbled, falling against his chest. He was still so dizzy that they both went over. He caught himself before they hit the ground, and managed to lower them down, almost gently. Neria lay on his chest, wide eyed for a moment, but then she burst into a fit of laughter, rolling off of him and onto the damp leaves. He couldn’t help but join in. 

After some time their laughter faded as they focused simply on breathing again. Neria looked up at the sky, and Zevran followed her gaze. Framed by the clearing in the tall trees, clouds had parted to reveal a glimpse of the night sky. For a second he was taken back to the time he’d spent stargazing with Talisen and Rinna, out on the roof of their tiny, crumbling apartment. Those nights were always accompanied with so much cheap wine that his memories of them were hazy and faded. This night he hoped to keep clearly in his mind for as long as he lived. 

“Thank you.” Neria whispered the words so quietly, he wasn’t sure he was meant to hear them at all. 

He turned his head to look at her, watching her breath rise and fall as she stared up at the stars. A soft smile tugged on her lips, and her lashes came to rest on her cheeks as she closed her eyes, more peaceful than he had ever expected to see her. 

No, he would not let this memory fade.

*The song was adapted slightly from this codex entry about Andruil.

You can read about the beginning of Neria and Zev’s relationship here! <3

[headcanontheshitoutofsoulsborne]

Bloodborne Chain 2

Original prompt: The day of Laurence' transformation.

@mrslittletall

It was time for the usual morning mass and Laurence was feeling terrible.

In truth, he had felt terrible for a while now.

His body had been plagued with fevers that made him feel like he burned from the inside and he swore, sometimes it even felt like he managed to melt things he touched.

He was suffering from intense nausea that he couldn't stave off... sooner or later he would end up in front of the toilet, or any other receptacle he could reach in time, and vomit out whatever he had eaten prior. The worse thing however, was that the vomit was uncomfortably hot and he sometimes had the feeling that he was throwing up literal lava. Judging by how red it looked, it may have been true, but Laurence still desperately hoped that it was just blood. Which was more than unsettling in its own right, but would be a lot better than what he feared it was.

The last symptom and the one that made him absolutely sure about which sickness he was suffering from, was the hunger... the desire to bite into anything vaguely human shaped and the times in which he had wanted to dissect a corpse and found himself having stuffed a finger in his mouth... or worse.

His hands were concealed by gloves. It was usual for him to wear gloves anyway, but in this times and days, he never removed them, because of his prolonged finger nails that reminded him very much of claws.

It was more than clear for Laurence that he was infected with the beastly scourge, the plague that had befallen Yharnam all this years ago and he didn't know just how much time he had left.

However, his poor state wasn't a reason to neglect his duties and so he stood up on the gallery to hold the mass like every morning and recited the prayer, until he was at the last few verses.

“Remain wary of the frailty of men.

Their wills are weak, minds young.

Were it not for fear, death would go unlamented.”

Almost done. Laurence took a deep breath and raised his voice to speak once again.

“Bless us with-”

A sharp pain stopped his words and he clasped a hand at his chest, where his heart was. That... that never had happened before. At the same time, the nausea washed over him. Oh no, not here, not in the open, with all the citizens and all the church ministers watching him.

Already they stared at him, clearly confused why he had stopped. He couldn't... couldn't stay here. Clasping his other hand over his mouth, he turned around to run... only managing a few steps before his body forced him to throw up right where he was, hot reddish vomit seeping through his fingers and hitting the floor with a sizzle.

“Vicar, what was that?”, he heard a voice next to him, one of the church ministers. More voices joined in soon.

“Your grace, did you just...?”

“...That looked like blood...”

“Are you feeling alright? Should we prepare a blood ministration?”

Laurence didn't feel ready to speak. He had the feeling when he opened his mouth, that the rest of his breakfast would make it out. He raised a hand, the one that wasn't clasped over his mouth and dismissed them. He didn't need any help. He just needed to be alone.

Before anyone could say something, Laurence was making a beeline to his office, shutting the door behind him with a loud noise and then... vomited out the rest of his breakfast into a bucket he had positioned there just for this case. I was filled with a little bit of water, to cool down the far too hot vomit. Even now he could see how the water in the bucket started to steam.

After he was done, Laurence wiped his forehead. The fever was back. He took a few steps back and then practically fell into his chair that was lined up with his desk. His breathing was slow and heavy and he needed a few minutes to even think about pouring himself a glass of water and washing the bad taste in his mouth away.

He looked down at his desk, where his notes were strewn everywhere. How long had he worked last night? Desperately trying to find a cure that he hadn't managed to find for years? Laurence removed his gloves and looked at his hands, seeing that his fingernails had prolonged even more over the night.

How much time had he left? Weeks? Days? Hours maybe?

He raised his head and got up, stepping in front of a mirror that was standing in his office. The claws were not the only clue. He could see the fangs, when he bared his teeth, small, but they were there, as well as his left eye which had started to collapse. One of the earliest signs of the scourge.

His gaze wandered to his door. After what happened just now, he shouldn't let himself be seen like that. He went to his door and turned the key in the lock, letting it stick before going back to his desk, where he sat down with a frustrated sigh and started to sort through his notes. As long as he still had time, he at least had to try. He wouldn't succumb to the scourge that easily.

As Laurence sorted his notes, his hand brushed against a certain item. He picked it up and stared at it.

A failed experiment from the early days of the Healing Church. A rune with which they had tried to control the beastly scourge, to at least let these people remain their humanity, if not their form. He knew that it was futile. The rune wouldn't help him, it would probably simply speed up his transformation.

Why did he have it still here? He didn't know. Maybe he had tried to base the cure around it. Laurence didn't remember. His memory was often hazy nowadays and so he brushed the rune to the side, instead reading up on the notes he must have worked on yesterday evening.

There must be a base to start somewhere. He only needed to find it. Wishing to be able to better concentrate, Laurence hooked himself up on a blood ministration. He would need the focus.

He almost missed the knock on his office door.

That Laurence had suddenly left the gallery mid prayer had been a cause of concern for Ludwig. He knew that Laurence hadn't been feeling well lately, as hard as he tried to hide it, but that had been the first time he had actively run away before having spoken out the adage to its end.

While everyone else present was starting to leave after a brief confusion, either going to their shops, workplaces or starting their duties in the church, Ludwig made his way up to the gallery, where he found the church ministers in the middle of a heated discussion.

“Excuse me, what happened here?”, Ludwig raised his voice to drown out their argument. “Where is Vicar Laurence?”

“Ah, Sir Ludwig, we were discussing this just now.”, one of the church ministers replied, while several others stared at Ludwig, making him feel like a whole row of eyes stared at him. “He seemed to be in pain and then threw up... it looked like blood.”

Ludwig had shouldered his holy moonlight sword as usual, but when he heard that, his grip around tightened and his eyes widened. “He did WHAT?! Why has nobody followed him?”

“He gave us a sign that he would be fine and you know how he is.”, the church minister said. “He would have just sent us away. We were actually just discussing how we could approach him about the issue, because...”

The church minister pointed at the ground and Ludwig could see that there was clearly a hole burned in the ground, an acidic smell coming from it.

“Is that where he...?”, Ludwig asked and before he could finish his sentence, the church minister nodded.

“Yes, where he threw up.”, they finished for Ludwig.

“That's not good... it's literally burned. I will go and try to talk to him. You stay here. Don't do anything withOUT my approval.” Ludwig waited until all of the church ministers gave him a bow and then made his way to Laurence' office with an uneasy feeling in his stomach.

As he stood in front of it, he took a deep breath and then knocked at the door. “Laurence? I am going to come in.”, he said and tried to turn the handle, only to notice that the door was locked. “Laurence? Open the door, please.”

Laurence froze as he recognized the voice outside the door. The voice of Ludwig. Ludwig was the last person Laurence wanted to have in his office right now. He was a Hunter. He would recognize the signs, the signs that Laurence successfully had hidden from Ludwig for so long, by having him pushed away and shut out, a behaviour that he still didn't know why Ludwig tolerated it. He had been horrible to him and still, Ludwig would come and just tell him that it was alright, he would wait until Laurence felt better.

Only that Laurence knew he wouldn't get better, not when he wouldn't find a cure. So Laurence raised his voice and said: “I am fine, Ludwig, I am busy. Just go away. Please leave me alone.”

Ludwig couldn't come in and see him, he would notice the collapsed eye, the fangs, the prolonged fingernails. He would be forced to kill Laurence at the spot, as was the rule for church hunters, no one infected was to be left alive, but Laurence didn't want to force Ludwig to do this. Especially not when he had failed to make Ludwig hate him. Why had his boyfriend to be so kind and understanding?

“Laurence, I have been considerate with you for weeks now.”, Ludwig said. “I know you aren't feeling well and that you don't want much company, but... you have thrown up blood today at the morning mass. Blood that was hot enough to burn a hole in the ground. Laurence, whatever it is, that ails you, you don't have to go through this alone. Please, let me help you.”

Laurence felt a sharp stab in his chest at his words. This time it hadn't been from the scourge. He knew it was because Ludwig would be willing to stay with him and help him out and he wished so much that he could get into his arms and confess everything to him, but Laurence knew that he couldn't.

He couldn't let Ludwig know. He had to try and use all the time he had for finding the cure. How much he wished to just tell Ludwig the truth, he could, he just had to open the door and leave him in and confess about his ailment to him, but... he couldn't. Ludwig was the most loyal hunter of the church. He wouldn't stop because it was Laurence and Laurence knew that the action would break his heart.

“This none of your business.”, Laurence said, as cold as he could manage, even though he felt hot tears drop down his face. Not as hot as his vomit, but still hot enough to steam when they dripped on the ground. “Leave me alone. You can't help me.”

“Laurence, please.” Oh, Laurence just hated how pleading Ludwig's voice was. “You haven't been yourself lately. Please let me help you. I want to help you, but how can I help you when you don't let me be part of your life?”

More tears forced their way out of Laurence' eyes as he got up and walked towards the door and extended a hand, leaving it on the handle. He just had to unlock it and let Ludwig in and... no, he couldn't. He shook his head and sank down in front of the door, with his back to it.

“I... I can't...”, he sobbed, not being able to hold his tears back. “I just... can't...”

“Laurence, are you crying?!”, Ludwig shouted and frantically tried to turn the handle, several clicking noises proofing that his efforts were fruitless. “Let me in, Laurence, please.”

“No.”, Laurence said, his voice coming out strained. He took a deep breath and then shouted: “Just leave me alone and don't come back!”

“...”, there was an audible silence in front of the door. “I can't force you to open the door...”, Ludwig said and he must have removed his hand from the handle, because it went back to its original position. “But I won't leave you alone either. Just... please tell me what's wrong. Please, Laurence, just give me a <i>chance.”</i>

Laurence didn't reply as he got up, gaze on the ground, wiping away the fresh tears in his face.

<i>If I let you in, you have to kill me.</i>

The unspoken words hung in the air. Laurence couldn't bring himself to say them. He also couldn't bring himself to tell Ludwig to leave him alone anymore.

“Sir Ludwig, there have been beast sightings at the outer rim of cathedral ward!”, a hurried voice sounded, not belonging to Ludwig obviously.

“In broad daylight?! They are getting more and more brash.”, Ludwig gasped. “Laurence, I have to go, but I will come back and then I want for you to talk to me.”

There was around half a minute of silence before Laurence could hear footsteps that moved away from the door. Soon, they faded and Laurence took one step towards his desk, when the pain from earlier hit him again.

With a cry, he fell to his knees, doubled over in pain. This pain certainly was worse than earlier, he felt like he got ripped apart from the inside. Alongside the pain, he felt an itching sensation on his head, so much that he wished he could move and scratch his scalp open. It continued until the itching sensation became a new wave of pain, so intense as if something, anything wanted to force its way out of Laurence' head.

He spent a small eternity in this agonizing pain when it stopped as sudden as it had started. Breathing heavily, Laurence got up on his knees, staring at the splotches of blood on the floor, already sizzling into the carpet. He raised a shaky hand to touch his face and found blood. He couldn't remember getting injured, had he self harmed in his pain?

He slowly got up on his feet and limped to the mirror in his office, stopping before he even was in front of it. He didn't need to come closer to see what was wrong as his hand shot upward to confirm what he saw.

Antlers. He had grown some antlers, that now adorned his head, a thin stream of blood accompanying the place where they had forced their way through.

“I might have less time than I thought...”, Laurence gasped as he went a few shaky step to his desk and let himself fall down on his chair.

He could as well use this time and try to see if he at least managed to find a base for the cure. If he would transform and had to die anyway, he wouldn't just take it with his head bowed, he would scream and fight against it.

So Laurence straightened himself up, took a deep breath and then started to work.

An hour or two later, Laurence had scattered a variety of documents over his desk. Ideas where the beastly scourge came from. The first idea and the one he had followed the longest had been that it escaped the labyrinths. They had seen beasts down there and it felt like the most logical thing, that after they got unsealed, the sickness that was responsible for the beasts in there would be able to come out.

Though, they never had learned how the people down there had transformed...

Another idea had been that it was the fault of the vilebloods, but that couldn't be. As much as Laurence loathed, the beastly scourge had been there before the vilebloods had come into Yharnam and it didn't vanish once the executioners had been done with their job. The vilebloods had been beasts of their own, but that was a thing that Laurence couldn't blame on them.

A third theory, a theory that Laurence always had dismissed immediately, was that maybe the blood could be at fault. That instead of getting them closer to ascension, that humans would regress and that was the cause of the beastly scourge. Laurence had tested the blood rigorously and had been sure that it wasn't the case, but.. right at the moment he was staring at the newspaper story about Old Yharnam.

He remembered that night far too well. Finally having acquired enough umbilical cords to summon a Great One, one of the ascended, he had stepped outside and done the ritual, seeing as the Great One came from the moon. He had stepped forwards to ask her his questions, when Gehrman suddenly appeared and said something to the Moon Presence... and that had been the last time Laurence had seen Gehrman.

Shortly after, the worst hunt that had ever happened took place. Almost everyone in Old Yharnam had transformed. It had to be the influence of the moon, Laurence thought, as he stared out of the office of his window during that night, seeing the blood red moon in the sky.

In the end, Old Yharnam had to be burned down and sealed shut before the beasts would spread into the other parts of the town. Shortly after it happened, the blood red moon vanished and the longest hunt ever had been over... and Laurence had come out of it as a broken man, even though he didn't let it shine through.

Now that he looked at the article again, he noticed something. The article mentioned the sickness that had ailed Old Yharnam during that time.

Ashen Blood... in truth it had been a poisoning caused by the church. It hadn't been exactly on purpose, but the Old Yharnam citizens had been stubborn and when Laurence had learned that the poison of their research had leaked into the groundwater, he hadn't ordered for them to stop, instead he had brought the holy blood to Old Yharnam, to cure all these people and sold them on the holy blood.

A large amount of people had gotten the blood at the same time.

A large amount of people had transformed into beasts at the same time.

How could he have been so blind?!

Laurence shot up and practically ripped his current blood ministration out of his arm, a small stream of blood running down his arm, the wound closing shortly after, the healing effect of the blood taking action.

Laurence cleaned his arm from the blood and continued to think. That couldn't have been the only cause. There must have been a second cause. Not everyone who took the blood transformed. He himself had taken the blood almost daily for years and he was transforming only now.

Maybe it really was the moon...

Whatever it was, the blood certainly was one of the causes. Of course they could prevent further cases by ceasing to use the old blood, but that would be difficult.

Yharnam was reliant on the old blood. The whole town was based around it. If he would take it away, then the whole town would collapse. He would need a lot more time to figure out who to take the blood away from Yharnam.

The safest bet would be a cure, then they could keep using the blood without fearing the side effects...

Laurence sighed as he noticed that his train of thoughts involved the future, a future that he certainly wouldn't live to see anymore.

Though... with one of the causes figured out, he had a base to at least start. He leaned over his desk to search for a few more documents when the pain came back and this time it was paralysing. He fell down with his chair and convulsed on the ground for what felt like it was a really long time, paired with the same itchy sensation he had felt earlier, paired with an intense pain in his arm.

When the pain ended, he was lying there, gasping for air. It took him a few minutes to get up again. As he looked down on his hands as he propped himself up, one of them wasn't human anymore.

He could see long claws coming out from far too long fingers, the whole hand covered in shaggy fur and as his gaze followed his arm, he could see that it extended to it. His whole left arm had transformed into something so utterly inhumane that he wanted to retch.

Instead he walked the few steps to the couch and flopped onto it, cursing when he bumped his new antlers and then staring at the ceiling.

With the realization earlier about the old blood being one of the causes for the beastly scourge, his initial thoughts had been about how to handle this whole mess.

Now that his own transformation had completed another step, he had become aware that he had doomed Yharnam.

“All I wanted to do was help...”, he murmured, surprised that his voice still sounded human instead of beastly screeches leaving his throat. “I just wanted to help...”, he repeated, as if he wanted to convince a listener that wasn't there.

If only he had thrown the blood away once Master Willem had warned him about it. He probably owed the old man an apology. An apology that he would never be able to speak out. Was the old geezer even still alive?

As Laurence stared at the ceiling, he thought about all the friends he once had and had lost one way or the other, but almost all of them had left his life related to the old blood.

Caryll, who refused to study the old blood and had stayed in Byrgenwerth for their own studies about conversing with the Great Ones.

Maria, one of the best hunters he had ever seen, who got so disgusted with her own actions that she had chosen to take her life instead of living on with the guilt. She had been one of the most vehement defenders of the theory that the blood could have been at fault.

Gehrman, the first Hunter that Laurence had ever employed, the one he had lost to the Moon Presence. No, he had lost him earlier even, when his heart broke into a thousand pieces after Maria's suicide.

Micolash, his best friend and rival, who had become more and more recluse, stopped helping Laurence with the blood ministrations altogether and vanished one day to never be seen, but Laurence knew about a group that was antagonistic to the Choir and while he himself didn't fully trust them himself, the only person in charge of a group that would be able to mess with the Choir was Micolash.

Only Ludwig was left... and Amelia, his adopted daughter and future Vicar, and he had done his best to push both of them away in the last weeks. Especially Ludwig. That Ludwig still wanted to speak to him, baffled Laurence, he had been nothing but an asshole to him lately.

Laurence let out another deep sigh as he rubbed over his forehead, with the far too large beastly hand, feeling hot and sweaty. He could stay here and self loathe until he ran out of time... or he could get up and write down what he had found out so that Amelia and his church ministers could continue his research.

The most important thing would be to wean Yharnam from the blood. Laurence slowly got up. He had to make peace with the fact that he would die soon, maybe he already had made it, but he at least didn't want to leave Yharnam to ride into its certain doom.

It was difficult getting back to his desk. His vision seemed to swim and blur in front of him. Had he gotten up too quickly? No, it was the advanced transformation.

Just as Laurence had sat back down and straightened a piece of paper, taking up a pen to write down his last will, there was a knock on his door.

He froze briefly, asking himself if Ludwig had come back already? If, he would just send him away again. He needed to write his last will and after that... well, he probably would surrender and let himself be taken out before he became a danger to the church.

It wasn't Ludwig however. The voice outside of the door belonged to one of the highest ranking church ministers.

“Your grace, open the door. We have reasons to believe that you have been afflicted by the beastly scourge. As sad as this observation makes us, you know our rules and there can't be an exception, not even for you.”

Pinpoint the cancer and rip it out of Yharnam... Laurence remembered his own words about the matter.

Laurence opened his mouth to speak, to tell them that he would come to them later, that he needed to be alone now, but he was shaken by a horrible coughing fit. There even seemed to come smoke out of his throat... They certainly couldn't see him, when they would see him like this, they would execute him right away and he couldn't let that happen.

Couldn't they have discussed for half an hour more? All these boring meetings and today of all days they came to a conclusion early.

“Vicar Laurence, if you won't open the door, we will have to break it down. If you have nothing to hide, you will be able to open the door just fine, won't you?”

Damn. Laurence glared at the door, cursing his church minister in his mind with a dozen profanities in the span of a few seconds. He cleared his throat and finally managed to speak.

“I wish to be alone right now. I have urgent business to attend to and it can't wait only because of your outrageous accusations. I will make time for you later.”

So that they could execute him... Laurence cringed at the thought, but the church ministers didn't take his words. Of course, what had he expected? If he hadn't anything to hide, he could have just opened the door.

“Break the door down.”, the church minister ordered and Laurence knew that they had a hunter with them, probably multiple. He stared for a few seconds as the door got repeatedly knocked with a blunt object and only when it started to splinter he stared down at his still very blank last will.

In his panic, he wrote down the first thing that came to his mind.

“Fear the old blood.”

Just as he had finished writing, the door burst open and he could see a dozen church ministers as well as a few hunters out there. They stared as much as him as he stared at them.

His appearance was proof enough that he indeed had been afflicted with the beastly scourge.

“Vicar Laurence, you are hereby under arrest!”, the church minister announced in a clamorous voice and Laurence could see how the hunters stormed inside his office.

“Wait!”, Laurence said, both hands in the air, showing that he wasn't armed. The hunters stopped and looked at him, the church minister behind them having scrunched up his face.

“Don't show mercy just because he used to be our vicar.”

Speaking in the past of him, right in front of him. Laurence didn't had time to be offended though, he needed to tell them.

“Please listen to me!”, he said and then his world seemed to stop as his heart skipped a beat and the pain came back full force, in such a force that he couldn't speak anymore, only scream... a scream that didn't even sound human anymore.

From the corner of his eye, he could somehow see how the hunters started to move in his direction again. Laurence brushed over his desk... where was it.. his last will had been just in front of him, but which paper was it? It must be the one with fresh ink, but... he couldn't find anything with wet ink... instead, his hand closed around a small object.

It was the rune. Beast's Embrace. In the back of his mind he knew this was a bad idea. It had never succeeded before, but maybe it would help him regain his sense for long enough so that he could tell them about the dangers that the old blood possessed and how to handle Yharnam after his death.

Laurence embraced the rune with his beastly hand and concentrated on the arcane prowess inside of it... feeling how his pain eased down at first, he already was opening his mouth to speak, when his whole body felt like it would burst.

<i>Failed.</i>was the last conscious thought Laurence ever had, when his bones shifted and his veins popped, rearranging his body in a way that should be physically impossible. He heard how his clothes ripped open when he started to grow, he could feel the itching sensation of fur covering his skin accompanied by a blinding pain. Laurence couldn't see anything anymore, he only heard some shouting in the distance. He wanted to open his mouth to scream, but only a garbled screech came out of it as Laurence realized that his face had twisted into a snout with a row of razor sharp teeth.

He was crouched on the floor, with a claw on his hand... hissing because of the pain... He could smell blood... his blood... It hurt so much, so very very much... But, there was the smell of flesh... human flesh and he felt hungry... so very very hungry... maybe the flesh would help him ease the pain.

He took a step towards a smell and felt a new pain, sharp and annoying, at his leg and when he looked down he saw his attacker. He raised his hand and flattened them in an instant, the sweet smell of blood filling the air. He raised his hand to look at it, the urge to lick the blood clean of it strong, when a second sharp pain hit him.

Growling, he stepped forwards, glaring at the ones in front of him. He rose to his full height and let out a blood curdling screech, as he raised both of his arms into the air and then his fur ignited into fire.

He had to feast... that would stop the pain... it would stop the hunger... he had to hunt them down! With a second screech, he lunged at the first human that was dumb enough standing in front of him.

Once Ludwig returned to the church, it was on fire. With a gasp, he jumped off Midnight, his horse, and ran towards the entrance, stopping when he saw a black robed church hunter stare fearfully at the church.

“Hunter! What happened? Why is the church on fire? Why aren't you helping with evacuating?”

“Sir Ludwig, thank the blood that you returned! It's Vicar Laurence. He... turned. He had the scourge and hid it and now he is the most gigantic beast I have ever seen. He already has killed and devoured a dozen black robes! It was him who ignited the church, he's literally on fire! He's... he's out of control!”

The church hunter took a few steps back after his rant and took a deep breath before he fell down to his knees and... seemed to pray. Ludwig could hear how he called for the aid of the Great Ones, faintly, when his own mind raced.

He had heard them, the words of the black robe. He had been very clear about it. Laurence had turned... his Laurence did have the beastly scourge, the one he loved more than anything in the world, the one who had done his damn hardest to not let Ludwig be part of his life for the last few weeks.

<i>Oh!</i>

It had been so obvious, but Ludwig had decided to ignore him.

Laurence always had eaten his food without saying a word, but had vanished shortly after and often Ludwig had seen him come out of the bathroom wiping his mouth.

He did have increasingly fevers, sometimes they seemed to be getting so worse that he felt like he was on fire.

He never had taken off his gloves.

He had stopped to see Ludwig altogether for the last three weeks, telling him that he was busy and not feeling well and didn't want to get his ailment to spread to him because the holy blood had troubles with healing it.

“Laurence... why haven't you told me...?”, Ludwig said, tightening his grip around his holy moonlight sword before he rushed into the church. Even though he knew that the black robe didn't have any reason to lie, even though he had seen the signs, signs that his past self had ignored, a part of him still wouldn't believe that it was Laurence after he had seen him with his own eyes.

Inside the church, there was chaos. Smoke, flames and rubble. Ludwig covered his mouth and nose with his shawl and approached a group of black robes that tried to free a trapped blood saint from a column that must have fallen on her leg.

Ludwig easily lifted the column and after the blood saint had been safely pulled out, he grimly said: “Where?”

With a shaking hand, one of the black robes pointed deeper into the church. Another one added in a low voice: “Follow the flames...”

Ludwig was doing exactly that.

He actually did find a beast inside the church, in one of the conference rooms where it was busy trashing chairs and tables. The black robe hadn't lied, that was the tallest beast he had ever seen. Easily seven meters or more.

Knowing how small and scrawny Laurence was, Ludwig barely could believe that the beast could be him.

The beast was literally on fire. It wasn't because someone had ignited it, it's fur possessed a fiery quality on its own. When it screeched, a sound that made Ludwig cringe and wince, he could see burning hot magma gathering in its throat.

The left hand was mutilated into a giant claw, far larger than the right claw. The snout was filled with a row of razor sharp teeth and a set of large antlers grew out of its head.

In the corner of his eye, Ludwig saw two black robes approaching the beast, their weapons raised while the beast was distracted smashing and igniting another chair, but the moment their attacks connected with its rear, it stopped and turned around.

Ludwig had never been faster to join a fight, his holy moonlight sword blocking a hit of that immensely large left claw. The force was enough to even knock him several feet back.

“Leave!”, Ludwig ordered the black robes. “Help with evacuating the church! I handle things here!”

The two of them were on their feet in an instant and ran towards the direction of the grand cathedral, while Ludwig eyes his foe.

Could that really be Laurence?

There was a glimmering of gold in front of the chest of the beast.

Ludwig's eyes widened as he recognized what it was.

The Vicar's pendant... Laurence would always wear it, every single day. There was no doubt.

“Laurence...”, Ludwig choked out, feeling tears form in his eyes, tears that didn't had time to spill, because Laurence used his moment of hesitation to hurl him into the next best wall.

Ludwig was blinded briefly by pain as one or two of his bones cracked. He slammed a blood vial into his tight and stood up again, he was the captain of the church hunters. He was used to receiving injuries like this. Nothing that the blood couldn't handle.

...Laurence had always said this.

Upon seeing that his prey had escaped him, Laurence screeched and his large claw came rushing down once again on Ludwig. Ludwig stepped to the side, a technique that Gehrman had taught him. A technique that each Hunter should master, or they wouldn't stand a chance against the beasts they fought.

“Laurence...”, he said again, now feeling the tears in his eyes spilling. “You aren't recognizing me anymore, do you..?”

No, of course not. Nobody had ever come back after transformation. There was only one thing Ludwig could do right now.

Give him a swift death.

Ludwig dodged another swipe of that large claw and propelled his sword into Laurence' right leg. He screamed in pain and... what sounded like frustration.

Ludwig removed his sword and saw far too hot blood gushing out of the wound, igniting the carpet around them.

“You didn't want for it to be me...”, Ludwig murmured to himself as he circled around Laurence, who growled and spluttered at him. Ludwig had always thought that the beasts still looked a tiny bit human. It was no different with Laurence, as grotesque as his body had become, the way he still kept himself upright on two feet and the way he mostly used his claws for attacking... it was one of the most uncanny things about being a hunter. The knowledge that once this wretched abomination had been a human.

It was different when it was his own lover and the head of the church though.

“You didn't want that I had to kill you.”, Ludwig finished his thought. “I would love to make it painless for you, but...”

Ludwig's voice trailed off as he was unable to finish the sentence. He knew that he had to strike Laurence down, he knew that he had to inflict a mortal injury on him to stop his rampage, but... it felt so hard to take the next step. Ludwig looked down at his arm and saw that he was trembling.

That had never happened before.

The arm holding his sword was trembling.

Next thing Ludwig felt was an intense pressure around his chest as Laurence' claws enclosed around his body and lifted him up in the air.

Ludwig stared at Laurence' face.. the face that wasn't his boyfriend's anymore. That was the face of a beast. A beast that would kill anything that crossed its path. A beast that was a danger. For the church, for Yharnam. A beast that had to be taken out.

As Laurence opened his mouth Ludwig wrestled his right arm free of his grip and then drove the sword deep into the open maw of him.

A garbled screech was to hear. Ludwig tried to shove the blade even deeper inside, but get hurled against the wall before he could even properly grab it. This time he had been prepared however and managed to endure the impact with minimum damage.

Laurence was howling in pain, bringing both claws up to his snout, fumbling for the sword stuck in his maw. Ludwig rolled himself up and put a safe distance between him and Laurence, as he managed to remove the sword and hurled it towards the same wall Ludwig had impacted with, blood gushing out of the wound. Blood that looked a lot more like lava.

Ludwig's feet carried him over to the place where his sword had landed. He grabbed for it and as his hands enclosed it, he could see the little lights. His guiding moonlight.

“My guiding moonlight... are you sure about this?”, he said, but he didn't have a reason to not believe its guidance. It always had been right. Ludwig turned around and looked at Laurence, who, in the meantime, had recovered from the pain, blood seeping out of his mouth as he growled in Ludwig's direction.

As he saw how Laurence set up for a lunge, he took the holy moonlight sword with both hands and directed it towards Laurence. He concentrated on the little lights and he was sure about it, they guided him towards a specific strike.

As Laurence executed his lunge, Ludwig ran towards him, following the little lights, jumping in the air shortly before Laurence' large claws let the ground shake and while Laurence was open, he rushed down and drove his sword into his skull, right where his eyes normally would have been.

He could hear the skull cracking as Laurence shrieked in pain. Ludwig landed on the ground, a hand still on his sword as Laurence started trashing around. Ludwig held on for dear life until Laurence laid on the ground, exhausted. Ludwig used that time to remove his sword, wincing in pain as far too hot blood gushed over him and made his skin blister. As long as Laurence was still stunned on the ground, he had to act quickly. Ludwig took a big swing with his sword and let it crash down on the wound.

Laurence cracked skull broke with an audible sound and he twitched for a few seconds.

Then, he stopped moving altogether.

Ludwig slowly approached Laurence. He didn't appear to be breathing anymore. It was over.

All the adrenaline of the fight left him at once. He felt tears streaming down his face. He collapsed on his rear, vaguely aware that the fire the room was coated in wouldn't stop burning and he likely would be reduced to ashes soon if he didn't move.

Nothing of it mattered to him in the moment however. He itched closer to Laurence' dead body, hugging the giant beastly skull, not caring that his burns got even worse as his tears freely fell down and produced steam on Laurence' still hot body.

“Oh, Laurence...”

@palepious

@thefatladysang All the Channels of the City Streets

The sun blazes before them, its visage cracked and marred by the stark outline of the tree branches, bare of all leaves save for those foolish enough to try and cling to the long dead branches. Against the light, Ludwig narrowed his eyes, squinting at the figure before him.

“He doesn’t understand, you see?” the figure says and Ludwig nods in reply.

“I know. Were it up to Provost Willem, the Old Blood would never see the light of day.” The figure nods and lets out a snort of annoyance at the mere mention of the Provost.

“The old fool is sorely mistaken. The Old Blood is meant to be feared or restricted.” He turns, facing the woods and the city beyond them. “The power to cure the sick, heal the wounded, alleviate the suffering of others…” He pauses and Ludwig finds himself breathless at the sheer generosity and selflessness of the man’s vision. A better life for the common man, a hopeful future for those who had none… His back is turned towards Ludwig, but the other man knows that his exhilaration and hope mirrored on the other’s face.“This was a miracle meant to be shared with Yharnam. Not hidden away in Byrgenwerth for the rest of eternity. I don’t see how Willem could be so blind to the good it could do.” Ludwig nods, despite the fact that the man cannot see his agreement. The man turns, the burning rays of dying sunlight framing his youthful face and bright green eyes as full of hope and exaltation as Ludwig had imagined it would be and he finds himself breathless in the face of such beauty once again. “You’ll join me, won’t you?” There’s no hesitation in Ludwig’s answer.

“Of course.”

“You won’t betray me?”

“By your side, I will happily remain.”

And so they left, heading westward towards the burning sun, towards Yharnam, towards their vision of the future…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The afternoon sun climbed higher above Yharnam, occasionally filtering through the heavy clouds and into open windows to warm the inhabitants within and flitting over the hunched form of Ludwig as he trudged through the candlelit halls of the vicarage. Hunts were never easy and last night had been no exception. Whatever plague had birthed the beasts seemed to be spreading as the days went on. More and more beasts were popping up in the city and Ludwig couldn’t help but wonder if there would ever be an end to them. He and his men had found four stalking the streets earlier and they’d had to pull no less than two away from an older, obviously ill man unfortunate enough to have been caught without shelter. It was the thought of the long limbed and uncannily thin man’s gratitude, his wide smile and look of relief as Ludwig and his hunters had rallied to his aid had been worth everything; worth every sore muscle, worth every imaginary pound of weight in his limbs, worth every twinge of exhaustion after nights filled with more and more hunting and less and less sleep.

That being said… he thought as he came to a halt before a small but ornate looking door. It’s not only the Hunters who have been kept busy… His fist tightened around the medallion emblazoned with the crest of the Healing Church clutched within, It had been a token of gratitude from the older man, an attempt to repay the Hunters for their services. He’d claimed that it was the most valuable thing he owned, that he’d etched and engraved the image himself, and that it might fetch a fair bit of coin. The very idea of selling it was enough to make Ludwig scowl as he raised a gloved fist, knocked on the door and was met with only silence. He tried again. Still no reply. It was only with the third knock that the sound of irritated grumbles and the creaking sound of a body vacating a bed reached his ears. Good. He was finally awake. The heavy door inched open and Ludwig was greeted with a steely glare and tousled blonde hair that seemed to glow golden in the flickering light of the hallway candles.

“What do you want?” Laurence grumbled and Ludwig couldn’t help but give the rumpled looking Vicar a fond smile.

“Do I need a reason to visit an old friend, Laurence?” The man’s eyes narrowed further as the door began to close in Ludwig’s face. Apparently a reason was required. Luckily, Ludwig had one. He reached out to catch the door and Laurence sighed rather impatiently. “I met a man in the city during the Hunt earlier. His name is Alban Kent.”

“And?”

“He’s very ill and in great need of blood ministration.” Laurence blinked once, then twice as a shade of incredulity began to mingle with the impatience on his features.

“You’ve disturbed my rest to tell me that?” He practically hissed the words out and while Ludwig’s smile remained tense, it remained in his face nonetheless.

“It’s nearly noon Laurence! Surely you haven’t been sleeping all this time!” He boomed out a laugh as though the two were sharing a simple joke between friends. Laurence did not join in his laughter and Ludwig’s guffaws eventually died down as he looked, really looked at the man before him; his mussed hair, the dark circles beneath his eyes, the rumpled bed shirt, the fact that he was still wearing a bed shirt at this hour. “Have you been sleeping all this time?” Laurence sighed, closing his eyes and shaking his head as though trying to dislodge the conversation itself.

“Very well.” He muttered. “Next time you see this “Alban Kent,” kindly inform him that he’s been granted entry through the Great Bridge to the Cathedral Ward.” Ludwig for his part, was so caught up in the state of the other’s well being that it took him a moment to realize what Laurence had said, and another moment for him to remember why he’d sought out Laurence in the first place. He nodded again and promised to promptly pass the news along to Alban Kent, eyes never leaving the Vicar’s face as Laurence bid him farewell and attempted to pull the door closed. Ludwig’s hand didn’t budge.

“Are you feeling well, Laurence?”

“I’m fine Ludwig.” He snapped as he wrenched the door out of Ludwig’s grip with a strength that did not match his slight frame and harrowed appearance. “I only require rest. Something you seem insistent on keeping me from at the moment.” The candles in the hall sputtered and flared, deepening the shadows on Laurence’s face as he glared at Ludwig with such venom and contempt that the Hunter found himself rendered speechless. It was in this pause in their conversation that Ludwig could finally take in the other man’s appearance, the deep and dark circles beneath his eyes, the way his frame seemed almost impossibly gaunt, wondering why he had failed to notice it before now. He looked haggard, not at all like an indolent and slothful man who was merely annoyed at being disturbed from an unnecessary sleep. He truly did need to rest…

“My apologies.” Ludwig bowed his head and turned to leave when he felt a smaller, bony hand land on his arm.

“No, I needn’t have snapped at you Ludwig.” All the scorn and disdain had left Laurence’s voice, leaving the man sounding only regretful and exhausted. “I’m tired. That’s all.” The fond smile returned to Ludwig’s face as he turned back towards the other man, placed his hand over Laurence’s gave, what he hoped, was a comforting squeeze to it.

“Then I will leave you to it. Get some rest Laurence.” The Vicar said nothing, merely pulled his hand back from Ludwig and closed the door with a resolute thud, leaving Ludwig in the hallway staring after him. He hadn’t noticed the state of the other’s well-being until now. Had he been besieged by some form of illness? Were the duties of maintaining and leading the Healing Church wearing on him? Was it the threat of the Beast Plague? When had Ludwig become so busy hunting and slaying beasts to realize that Laurence was not well whatsoever? What if treatment was impossible? What if-

Ludwig gave a shake of his head to interrupt the thoughts plaguing him. Such events were not things that he could afford to think about in that moment. As the Vicar of the Healing Church, Laurence would surely receive treatment for whatever was vexing him. He had beasts to hunt, a medallion to return, and a Yharnamite to find and bring to Cathedral Ward. With that, ignoring his heavy exhaustion and the feeling of muscles twitching beneath his skin, Ludwig turned and strode down the hall.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was several days later and the moon hung high and wide in the evening sky, occasionally blurred and obscured by the low hanging clouds above Yharnam. Citizens were asleep in their beds, the city streets were almost empty and peaceful. And then the shrieking howl of a beast pierced the night as it’s massive body barrelled through the streets, the Hunters of Yharnam close behind. One broke away from the group in a desperate sprint, weaving through the cobblestone streets after the monster until he lunged forward, axe digging into the muscle and fur of the beast’s leg, drawing a spray of blood that splashed against the walls and windows of the surrounding buildings. The beast made a sharp turn. Yellow eyes blazed bright with murder, its muzzle lunged forward and fangs dug into the neck of the unfortunate hunter, sending a greater torrent of red ichor into the air as it began to tear into the man. A gurgling scream rose from his open throat as the rest of the group backed away, reluctant to interfere at the risk of their own lives. All at once, a strange green glow lit the alleyways and a beam of what appeared to be moonlight made solid blazed forward and into the beast, knocking it backwards onto the stones of the streets. It did not rise.

Panting, Ludwig rolled his shoulders and straightened, the glow of his sword dimming as though to mirror its owner’s exhaustion after the chase. This was the fourth beast they’d encountered that evening and the night was still so young. There was no telling where the other beasts were lurking, where they could be hiding or how many were holed away within the city. He rolled his shoulders again, wincing slightly as the muscles in his arms twitched beneath his skin. For the moment, his men could rest, recuperate, and-

“Behind you sir!”

The sound of shattering glass and splintering wood rose in Ludwig’s ears. Heeding the warning, he ducked forward into a roll, turning the second his feet were firmly affixed to the ground. The sword, once again glowing an ethereal green, swung upwards, carving through the beast’s chest and arching upwards to nearly cleave it in two. It was over in less than a second and Ludwig simply leaned on his blade and tried to catch his breath, now covered with the deep red blood of the beast.

“Where the hell did that one come from?” He gasped, feeling muscles shudder beneath his skin from the excitement. His group of Hunters looked at each other.

“It almost seemed as though it sprang from inside the house, sir.” It was the man who’d shouted the warning. “I saw it through the window behind you, bounding towards it like, well like a beast.” Gathering his breath, Ludwig fought against the heaviness in his shoulders and straightened to clasp the other man’s shoulder, giving him a fatigued, but grateful smile.

“You have my thanks.” He murmured, giving him a pat before striding forward towards the body of the beast. It was thinner, more gaunt than the one they had been chasing throughout the streets. The thing was smaller overall with two legs that almost looked as though it could be bipedal. The torches flickered again and caught the glint of something silver within the fur of the Beast. Perplexed, Ludwig bent forward, trying to ignore the ache in his knees to part the coarse hair and get a better look at-

At the silver medallion emblazoned with the crest of the Healing Church…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The moon, still wide and white as a smile hung much lower in the sky when Ludwig arrived at the heavy wooden door once again. He raised a fist and hammered it against the wood as though trying to knock it down with his bare hands. The reply came much sooner this time, more grumbles and noises of complaints. Ludwig heard them, but at the moment he couldn’t quite bring himself to give a damn. There was a creak and the ever familiar sight of an annoyed, somewhat sleepy looking Laurence came into view as the door opened.

“I can accept you waking me in the afternoon Ludwig, but this-”

“The Old Blood is causing the Beast Plague.” Immediately, Laurence perked up, eyes going wide with shock and Ludwig could practically see his spine stiffen as he was grabbed and pulled into the bedchamber. The door thudded closed behind them and Laurence began to busy himself with the tinderbox, hunting around the room for a candle. The match was struck, a weak flickering light came into existence and Laurence gestured towards the bed, silently imploring Ludwig to sit.

“What have you found out?” He inquired, much calmer than he’d been in the hallway. “Tell me everything.” And Ludwig did. He told him about his encounter with Alban Kent while on a hunt, about how he’d been given the medallion as a form of payment and had returned it during Alban’s visit, how he’d been on a hunt barely an hour earlier only to encounter the beast wearing the pendant. The whole time, Laurence’s expression never changed. Occasionally, the Vicar would nod in acknowledgement, but there was no fear, no rage, not even a response to any of Ludwig’s statements. He was silent while Ludwig explained his findings and remained silent for several moments after Ludwig had finished. On any other topic, Ludwig would have allowed him the time to quietly think, to turn over the information he’d been given to formulate a course of action and how best to implement it. But this was a different matter altogether. Ludwig needed answers, needed some sort of plan, and Laurence just sat there, hands folded together beneath his chin, staring into the flickering candle and said nothing.

“Well?” Ludwig demanded.

“Well what?” Laurence’s tone was smooth, even, almost unconcerned. And Ludwig felt his blood boil.

“Well you need to stop Blood Ministration immediately!” He roared, rising from where he’d been sitting on the bed to stride forwards towards the other man. “If the Old Blood is responsible for creating beasts, we need to stop treatments and-”

“Ludwig.” The Vicar barely even needed to raise his voice and Ludwig found himself cut off. Voice betraying nothing about his thoughts, Laurence continued.“Are you aware of how many Yharnamites come to the Cathedral Ward for Blood Ministration a day?” The words hung heavy in the candlelit air between them as Ludwig’s jaw hung open for a moment or two.

There was no way-

There was no way Laurence could even think that-

“Laurence-”

“Almost fifty Ludwig. Every single day. And that is simply the people we treat for day to day ills and injuries.” Heedless of Ludwig’s attempted interjection, Laurence gazed over the tops of his folded hands at the Hunter. “Have you any idea how many of them have been genuinely cured of their illness and ailments?”

“Laurence, you’re not-”

“All of them Ludwig. Every single person who comes through the Cathedral Ward leaves in almost perfect health every time.” No, he couldn’t be thinking- “What do you think would happen to those if your little discovery were to be disclosed to the populace of Yharnam? What would happen if we were to stop Blood Ministration altogether?”

“The Beast Plague would cease and the people would no longer be threatened!” Ludwig roared once again, muscles coiling and writhing beneath skin in his anger. He paid them no mind and continued to advance towards the First Vicar. “You can’t honestly expect me to-”

“All the efforts and accomplishments we’ve been working towards will be undermined!” His voice had raised slightly, rage barely noticeable but for the few who had known Laurence, truly known him, for years. He stood slowly, full height barely coming up to Ludwig’s chest, but by God did he make good use of every inch. “You claim you want what is best for Yharnam? The Old Blood has ensured that the city thrives, that its people can be healed and made well no matter their standing or station. Do you truly seek to undermine all our efforts Ludwig?”

“Of course not. But if you-”

“And you are worried for nothing. We are already working towards a solution to the plague.” Laurence finished his rant, fixing Ludwig with an icy glare as though daring him to continue the argument. To his credit, Ludwig didn’t so much as flinch, fixing Laurence with a glare of his own.

“What solution?” Laurence did not flinch either at the question, but there was a distinct lack of an answer as well that did not go unnoticed. “What kind of solution are you working towards Laurence?” The other man did not answer some time. Seconds, minutes, hours may have passed by before Laurence finally broke eye contact to turn his gaze out the window towards the pale moon. For a moment, he said nothing and Ludwig wondered if the two of them were destined to remain in silence for the rest of eternity. And then…

“The Choir has made contact with Ebrietas. They’re close to a revelation regarding the nature of the Beast Plague and how best to stop it.” The reply was said to the window, Laurence still refusing to meet his gaze, as though anticipating Ludwig’s reaction and the subsequent look of distress mingled with outrage.

Ebrietas.

“You’re relying on that-” Ludwig cut off, swallowing around the lump that had suddenly risen in his throat at the mere mention. He’d only seen the Daughter of the Cosmos once, back when the Healing Church had still been young, back when using the Old Blood as a medium for healing and medicine had been a revolutionary idea. It had only been once, only the briefest of glimpses. But what little he’d seen had remained with him for weeks, months, and would likely remain with him until he died.

And Laurence wanted to rely on her- on it, for help with the epidemic ravaging their city. “Your plan is to rely on that thing!?” He hissed, advancing towards Laurence, the rage bubbling beneath his skin nearly tangible. “Making deals with beings man was not meant to comprehend? Endangering the lives of the citizens of Yharnam?” HIs anger and frustration with the other man burst forth and Ludwig surged forward, gripping Laurence’s upper arms tightly and giving him a rough shake that lifted Laurence partially off the floor. “What are you thinking Laurence!?” There was no response as Laurence continued to gaze out of the window. The man’s apparent indifference to Ludwig’s outburst enraged Ludwig even further and he nearly found himself overtaken by the urge to rip the other man limb from long limb when he noticed the Vicar’s eyes, yellow sclera glazed and glassy. And Ludwig felt a cold sense of dread come over him as the pieces began to fall together. Yellow eyes, long limbs, a persistent fever, the strange way his face had grown gaunt and longer in the time since the founding of the Church... “Laurence?” The eyes closed as Laurence drew a quivering breath.

“Their lives are not the only ones at risk, Ludwig.” He murmured, eyes still glassy, still refusing to meet Ludwig’s. “The best way to study the effects of a substance on the body of humans is to experience said effects yourself after all.” Laurence smiled, gave a rueful chuckle as though the two of them were simply conversing as two old friends, as though Ludwig’s fingers and body hadn’t gone numb causing his grip on Laurence to loosen just enough for the Vicar’s feet to touch the floor once again. And still he continued speaking. “If Ebrietas is not forthcoming, then my own experiences with the plague should be rather enlightening.” He finally looked up, finally met Ludwig’s eyes and gave a rueful, almost sad smile. “Don’t give me that look Ludwig.” He gently admonished the other and Ludwig vaguely became aware that his face had contorted in a look of despair. “If all else fails then…” He swallowed, nonchalance taking on a newly unearthed fear at the unspoken certainty of his future. “Well, I’ve trained Amelia for this exact scenario. She’s a worthy successor already…” He trailed off, looked off towards the moon through the window once again and left Ludwig to stew over the night’s revelations.

He’d been foolish really. The conclusion of Laurence’s fate should have been obvious to Ludwig from the moment he’d realized where the Scourge of the Beast came from. The Old Blood caused the Beast Plage, and Laurence, as the First Vicar of the Healing Church and pioneer of Blood Ministration itself, had naturally been partaking the blood as far back as their days as students in Byrgenwerth. Had that not been how they’d discovered its medicinal properties? Or rather, how Laurence had discovered its medicinal properties? Had Laurence known? Had he known of the Beast Scourge the entire time? Or had the information made itself known to him at a later time? Through his continued contact with that thing beneath the Cathedral? Or had Laurence simply noticed the pattern between those who contracted the affliction and the patrons of the Healing Church? Thousands, millions of questions bouncing around Ludiwg’s head, vying to be spoken, practically tumbling over themselves to be the first out of his mouth. And yet, the sight of Laurence, looking haggard, uneasy, and more scared than Ludwig could ever recall seeing him in the time they’d known each other, rendered every single question and query silent. What could he say? What words could possibly offer comfort to a man who knew he was destined for a fate that would surely be worse than death for a man sworn to eradicate plague and disease?

“With how much you’ve been sleeping well into the afternoon she’s practically running things already…” Though despondency did not leave his face, Laurence managed a brief chuckle and a smile at the comment.

“That she is…” He murmured in reply. For a moment, the two said nothing, just standing in the warm, sputtering glow of the candle on the bedside table as they tried to keep their wits, tried to pretend that all their work wasn’t for nothing, trying to pretend that one of them was not only a few steps away from a horrific fate. And then Laurence looked up, finally meeting Ludwig’s brown eyes with his own, now yellow eyes. “You’ll stay with me, won’t you?” The question was softly asked, Laurence’s voice quivering with an insecurity he would rather die than show the masses of Yharnam. “Until the end?” And with a final squeeze to the other’s shoulders, offering comfort rather than consternation, Ludwig replied with his own miserable smile.

“Of course.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He’d been returning from another nightly hunt, exhausted and covered in the blood of beasts when he saw the strange glow through the spires of the Cathedral Ward. Smoke was billowing into the night air from deeper within the ward. Ludwig only had a moment to take in the horrifying sight, had only a moment to wonder what had happened, whether the Clerics had been evacuated, whether Laurence was safe or not, before another Hunter was running towards him, eyes wide and panicked. Ludwig ran forward to meet him, expecting news of the fire, what had caused the blaze, if it was an accident or deliberate. The Hunter wasted no time, calling out to him immediately.

“There’s a Beast! In the Cathedral Ward!” Ludwig felt his blood freeze. Whatever he’d been expecting, it certainly hadn’t been to hear that they were under attack. With no hesitation, Ludwig gripped the hilt of his blade, accelerating and calling over his shoulder.

“Where is it?”

“It’s in the Grand Cathedral.” The Hunter called back, struggling to keep up as the two of them ascended the stone steps. The streets were deserted, sparks and embers dancing in the air around them as Ludwig could feel the air grow thicker with heat as they approached the Cathedral. Were the beast and the blaze connected somehow? A thought suddenly occurred to Ludwig and he felt his stomach drop to the stones beneath him. The blaze was visible now, even from the low level of the Round Plaza, he could see the edifice of the Great Cathedral, partially obscured by the flames that threatened to consume the entire Ward. Pausing for the first time that night, he turned to the Hunter.

“Where is Laurence?” The Hunter paused, a look of confusion spreading across his face, likely due to Ludwig’s use of the Vicar’s given name. Ludwig however did not have the patience for such things. “Do you know where the First Vicar is?” A look of horror crossed the other man’s face and he turned his gaze towards the stone steps leading up to the currently burning Cathedral.

“I, I heard that he’d gone to the Great Cathedral to pray but-” He may have said something afterwards, or perhaps he’d simply cut the statement off right there. Either way, Ludwig heard nothing over the ringing in his ears the news brought. Laurence had been in the Cathedral. The Cathedral that was now engulfed in flames. The burning Cathedral that a beast had last been seen in…

With a shake of his head, Ludwig grit his teeth and clutched the hilt of his blade so tight he could feel his knuckles turn white. He had to think, had to focus. Laurence was likely-

The Church would-

“What about Amelia?” The Hunter’s head shot up, taken aback by Ludwig’s sudden question. “Where is she?”

“I heard she was taken to the Church of the Good Chalice.” He replied. “Far as I can tell, she’s safe, sir.” And with that, Ludwig let out a shaky breath. Laurence may be-

Laurence was probably-

Even so, the Healing Church would rebuild, would rise from the tragedy under Amelia’s guidance. So long as she was safe, so long as she could lead, they would recover.

But they would not do much with a Beast burning down the Great Cathedral.

Gripping the hilt of his sword once again, Ludwig turned and faced the other Hunter.

“Gather as many men as you can. We can’t let it escape!” The Hunter gave a nod and almost ran off before a look of uncertainty crossed his face, nearly making Ludwig scream with impatience.

“Sir it- It’s different somehow. I don’t think we can-” And Ludwig was gone before the other could speak any further, bounding up the stairs towards the blazing Cathedral, heedless of the flames and scorching heat surrounding him. The doors were wide open, flames licking the stone entryway as Ludwig peered inside. Even partially obscured by heat and fire, Ludwig could see that the Hunter had been right. This Beast was different, far bigger than the others he’d encountered previously. Nothing to be done about it. Clenching his eyes, Ludwig dove forward, leaping into a roll through the flame and coming to his feet on the heated stone floor before the beast.

Steeling his eyes, Ludwig ignored the beast and cast his gaze around the interior of the Cathedral, looking for some sign of Laurence. There was nothing. No blood on the floor, no tattered pile of clothes, no blood-soaked body lying somewhere in the corner. For a moment, only a moment, he allowed himself a small sigh of relief. Either Laurence had escaped, or…

And then his eyes fell on the Beast.

It easily dwarfed him, nearly reaching the upper levels of the Cathedral while standing on its hind legs. Shaggy grey fur covered a body that was wreathed and alight with flames. At the sound of feet hitting stone, the thing turned its mangled antlered head towards him, drew itself up to its full height and bellowed, long and guttural. Its breath stank of rot and decay and blistered impossibly hotter than the inferno surrounding them. It was a monster of a Beast, a devil that had crawled out of Hell itself and brought damnation with it.

And Ludwig swung his blade wide, green glowing against red and orange to slice into the open maw of the Beast.

There was no telling how long the two exchanged blows. The Beast lunged forward and Ludwig rolled away. Ludwig rushed forward to try and cut legs and the beast would bring its heavy arm down before he could get within range. They sliced, stabbed, swung and danced around each other until Ludwig was panting and sweating with exertion. The heavy robes of the Church Hunters may have protected him against the worst of the beast’s attacks, but the warmth had become unbearable and he could feel his head swim. There was no sure way of telling how the beast was faring, but it was covered in shallow cuts with what appeared to be liquid fire seeping through them. It roared once again and lunged towards Ludwig, but its movements were slower, more fatigued. It was wearing down. Just a few more strikes, just a few more moments, just-

And with a great burst, a beam of moonlight shot forth from the sword to pierce straight through the torso of the monster and with a great shriek of pain its upper body flew through the air leaving the legs and hindquarters to collapse onto the floor. It clawed its way towards the doors, howling and shrieking in agony and defeat. Ludwig rushed forward, sword raised high and poised to strike the final blow when the beast turned its head and roared at him, sounding almost pitiful. The blaze around them had dimmed, as had the fire lighting the beasts eyes. Without their glow, Ludwig could see that they were the yellow of beasts; lucid, clear, and bright with an intelligence that did not suit its bestial nature. Bright yellow eyes that Ludwig was certain he’d seen somewhere before in a dimly lit room in the flickering light of a candle. Eyes that had once glowed a bright, intelligent green before the blazing light of the setting sun…

“Laurence?”

And the beast blinked, eyes narrowing before widening as they fell on Ludwig’s form, frozen against the dying flames. Its- his- The Beast’s eyes widened in recognition and it gave a piercing, agonized. More and more liquid fire sizzled on the slowly cooling stone floor as it began to claw at its own head, howling and shrieking in a maddened agony.

And in his mind, Ludwig could almost hear the frantic, panicked voice of the First Vicar.

“You’ll stay with me, won’t you?”

Teeth clenched and eyes hardened, Ludwig strode forward. His sword was no longer glowing with Moonlight, but still raised, still poised to strike. Laurence- no. He could not afford to think of this, this thing as Laurence. The Beast that had never been Laurence continued to growl and shriek as he approached. Limbs thrashed across the ground, swinging wide and missing Ludwig by mere inches. He continued on.

“Until the end?”

The Beast continued to growl, even as Ludwig drew closer, even as he came to stand right next to his- it’s head, even as the pointed end of the sword hovered above one open yellow eye.

“Of course.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Seemingly hours later, the other hunter who had split from the Plaza will through the Cathedral doors, a dozen hunters in tow, each expecting to see Ludwig in the jaws of some enormous flaming beast. Instead, they will find him standing triumphant over its massive corpse, covered in blisters and burns and with a hollow look in his eyes and news of the death of Laurence the First Vicar on his tongue. They will never know what occurred during the battle, Ludwig will refuse to speak of it. No one will know how he spent the past few moments, cradling the head of the Beast in his lap, tears soaking into fur as the fire around them died, wondering how it had come to this. How had Laurence, the Vicar of the Healing Church, had fallen to Beasthood. And if Laurence had been the first to go, how much longer did Yharnam have. And no one will know until much later that as Ludwig had wept and mourned, he’d felt something foreign, something monstrous and sinister, slithering beneath his own skin…

@dragonbasket

@maskofconfusion

Ascendance. This was the true goal of the Healing Church. Hidden under layers of selflessness and generosity to Yharnam’s citizens, the pursuit of godhood spun the cogs of their civilization without ever being seen. The Church stood as a beacon of hope and prosperity to the people, with it they had no fear of illness, of injury, of death. The people put their unquestioning faith in the miracle blood and obliviously trusted the Church to uphold their promises of security until it was too late.

The moon hung in the sky above Yharnam like a blooming rose. It bathed the streets and rooftops in a blanket of crimson light and reflected off the stained windows of the Grand Cathedral like the glint in a wolf’s eyes.

The Church had abandoned its people. While the red moon rose higher in the night sky, the upper echelons had blocked off the Great Bridge, effectively spelling the fate of anyone still on the other side. Those of the Church had closed its doors and hidden themselves away, leaving the helpless citizens of Yharnam to the claws of the beasts it helped create.

Said beasts ran through the city like a swarm of locusts. With gnarled, matted fur and bloody claws and wild eyes they tore through people and homes like a knife through butter. It was a culling. The cobbled streets were wet with the blood of women and children and the men trained as hunters even though they never stood a chance.

There were still those who attempted to fight, those with the hope that it was only a matter of time until they were saved. They stood fast in Old Yharnam and acted as a last line of defense. But even then, the Old Hunters too fell to the merciless strength of the beasts. On that night Old Yharnam was set ablaze as a last resort, and any hope of pushing back against the beastly scourge was turned to ash along with it.

It was on that night that Laurence, the first Vicar made contact with the Moon Presence. In his lust for cosmic knowledge and desperation for salvation from the monsters he helped create, he too became a horrifying beast.

It was on that night that Ludwig the Holy Blade upheld his duty to the Church and took up his sword of moonlight, slaying Laurence where he stood. No longer a man, but a beast.

Ludwig dashed up the stairs to the Grand Cathedral. He’d already spent too much time that night fighting a losing battle. Countless numbers of his students and fellow hunters had lost their lives to the beasts roaming the streets. They’d had to give up even pretending they could protect the citizens from the vicious creatures, eventually retreating to preserve their own lives. After all, if the hunters all died here, would there be any hope left?

He passed by whimpering children and weary mothers on his way up the stairs -he was surprised they even made it this far- with his eyes forward and shoulders squared. He knew there was nothing he could do to help them short of inviting them into the cathedral, and even that was only open to the public during the day for blood ministrations and prayer. They wouldn’t be allowed to stay there regardless, those days were over.

So he moved on. He pushed the heavy doors open and closed them without looking back.

“Ludwig, I see you’ve made it right on time.”

Standing at the far side of the cathedral with his back to the entrance was Vicar Laurence, the founder of the Healing Church as they knew it. Laurence was a man Ludwig respected greatly, a man he found strength when standing beside him. It was more than he felt he deserved, for him to have found a light in the crushing darkness they all lived in. But he’d slowly been learning that selfishness was the only way to survive anymore.

Though even in this nightmare they lived in Laurence still had not given up. He was fully devoted to his cause, so devoted that Ludwig felt compelled to stand by his side as he saw it through.

“It’s almost nightfall, Laurence, I hope whatever you’ve got to say is important.” he sighed. “The state of things out there is getting worse and worse, it would not be wise to ignore. There’s nearly nobody left.”

Laurence spun around away from the altar and clasped his hands together in excitement.

“My dear Ludwig, I believe I have made the discovery of a lifetime. The solution to all of our beastly problems! The gateway to a greater self!”

Laurence was all but vibrating with anticipation as he waited for Ludwig to approach him at the altar. He excitedly rearranged various items on the surface and motioned for Ludwig to hurry closer.

Ludwig reached the scholar and peered around his shoulder at the mess of what could only be described as things on the wood of the altar. There were what looked like masses of flesh and mummified extremities and strange plants- He couldn’t even begin to guess what Laurence had in mind for these ‘materials’.

He carefully stepped away from the altar and drew Laurence back by his sleeve to meet his eyes. “Laurence, have you gone mad? Miracle blood is one thing, something I’m willing to believe in, but this?” his voice lowered, “You worry me, Vicar.”

Ludwig wanted to rationalize what he was witnessing. He wanted there to be a straightforward answer from Laurence to explain the horrific things he was collecting, but he feared that there wasn’t going to be one. How could there be? And that’s what he was worried about. He was worried that Laurence was getting into something he shouldn’t be, something he couldn’t handle.

Laurence laid a hand over the one still grasping his sleeve. “I need you to trust me, hunter.”

Ludwig could feel himself caving. Inside, he knew he was never going to stand in the way of Laurence’s progress. While Laurence and his ideas sometimes confused or worried him, he knew that he did indeed trust him. He trusted him completely, and that thought used to scare him, but now it was a fact he was resigned to. He would follow Laurence to the very end, be it a happy one or just another nightmare.

Ludwig nodded, letting go of Laurence’s robes and standing back.

Laurence reached out to squeeze his hand lightly one last time and smiled. “Thank you, Ludwig. This is something I could not do without you.”

Laurence then turned back to the altar and laid his hands upon it. He ducked his head and whispered words too low for Ludwig to hear.

Ludwig watched, stunned, as the air around his comrade shimmered and shook. His mind could barely comprehend the way the energy in the room turned solid and flowed. The mirage-like form floated through the air around the altar, reaching down from the high ceilings of the church to ensnare the man beneath it. All Ludwig could do was bear witness as the form seemed to coil around Laurence the way a snake would its prey.

Laurence was lifted into the air, his body silhouetted by a red halo of light cast through the stained windows behind him. In stark contrast to Ludwig’s creeping terror, the man before him looked delighted. He looked up and past something the other could not see and reached out his hand in offering.

Ludwig broke out of his stupor to call out to his comrade, fear and confusion lacing each syllable. He could barely comprehend enough of the scene to question it, almost begging for any kind of explanation.

“Don’t you see, Ludwig? There’s no need to be afraid!” Laurence looked away from empty air to address the frantic man below him. “Our time of fearing everything but the shadows beneath our feet is over, soon it will be our time.” He flung his arms out at his sides as the being coiled around him became corporeal. “Witness me, dear friend, for I have beckoned the Moon!”

Laurence’s raving grew more spirited, gesturing wildly seemingly in an attempt to quell Ludwig’s fears. He tried to assure him that they would live on, thrive, even ascend together.

Ludwig knew they couldn’t.

He reached over his shoulder and grasped the hilt of his blade. The last thought that went through his head as his sword lit up like a glowing sea was how much he wished they could.

@fateoftheundead

[starlocked01]

Look Alive, Sunshine

AO3 Link

Dukexiety Week Day 7- Music WC: 1.8K Summary: Remus picks Virgil up from his dorm in the middle of the night to combat an old fear. Content Warning: Swearing, Panicking, references to past suicidal thoughts

@dukexietyweek

A/N: This is actually in the same universe as When Can I See You Again? which is the first dukexiety story I wrote featuring Soul mark timers, lots of miscommunication and drama, and fun. And fight club. If you've liked this week's oneshots, maybe give WCISYA? a try ^_^ Thank you everyone for reading along and sharing this week <3

Despite Remus' progress with Dr. B. and despite over a thousand nights with no incidents, Virgil still could not shake his fear of the Xs. He hadn’t seen them in years, but some nights Virgil stayed up to watch his soul mark countdown the seconds until Remus could reassure him he'd lost sleep for no reason.

Most of the nights when he stayed up watching with growing anxiety, Virgil didn't even try to text Remus. His boyfriend needed the sleep and would just worry when he woke up until Virgil finally rolled out of bed and answered his reassurances. Tonight was too much. Tonight, not even the steady passage of time promising he'd see his soulmate the next day was enough to allay thoughts of horrific unforeseen accidents.

Tonight Virgil texted his soulmate at quarter to two am and watched as the numbers changed without warning.

00:05:17

Five minutes. Virgil gulped and couldn't help but feel like he'd fucked up. He glanced at his phone several times, bewildered by the lack of an answering text, but mostly watched his wrist counting down.

At about the two-minute mark he finally realized he should probably get dressed and grabbed a pair of skinny jeans to struggle into. He struck his foot on the corner of the bed and bit his lip hard to avoid waking up his roommate. Virgil quickly shrugged on his hoodie and shoes before checking his wrist again.

00:00:10

He laughed to himself at the near deja vu feeling, walking over to the window to watch for Remus’ car in the parking lot.

To his surprise, there was a knock at the dorm door instead. Virgil jumped and rushed over to the door, cracking it open just in time to glimpse his soulmate grinning out in the hallway.

"Remus! What are you doing here?" Virgil asked in a hissing whisper, sliding out into the hallway and shutting the door as quietly as possible, "do you know what time it is?"

"Uh yeah, babe. 2 am. You're the one who sent a distress signal, what was I supposed to do?" Remus answered at his normal, too-loud volume, wrapping Virgil in a tight hug before the smaller man could answer or object.

"You coulda just told me you were alright," Virgil grumbled, hugging his soulmate back tighter anyway, "do I want to know how you got in?"

"The desk worker recognized me and let me in. Don't worry, I would only break in if mildly inconvenienced," Remus grinned, starting to pull Virgil with him down the hall, "so why are you up so late? You weren't waiting for me to croak, were you?"

Virgil started to respond but stopped before he got a syllable out. That was what he was technically doing, even if he dreaded that very thing more than anything. "I- don't make it sound like I would ever want that! I just… got worried."

Remus tugged Virgil closer to his side, "I'm okay. And I'm not going anywhere, worrywart." He waved briefly at the night guard and ushered Virgil outside, "c'mon. We're gonna fix this."

"How? You're okay tonight but what about tomorrow? How do I know you're going to be okay every night? What if-" Virgil gulped, not wanting to vocalize his worst fear.

Remus stopped just outside the door and turned to Virgil, "come on, Virgie. I always call when it's a bad day. And I haven't had one in a while."

"Yeah, but what if-"

"If I had a bad day, I'd call. C'mon. We've gotta get your mind off this," Remus murmured, pulling Virgil towards his car.

Virgil huffed but followed Remus easily enough, sliding into the passenger's seat as Remus scanned through a pile of CD cases.

“Oh my god, you still have those?” Virgil asked, a bit surprised to see his old emo collection.

“Of course I do. One of the best your-birthday presents I’ve ever gotten,” Remus giggled and picked the album he’d been looking for, “I get that you get scared. When I die you can listen to The Black Parade and mourn me, but tonight we are gonna Look Alive, Sunshine.” Remus started the car and fed the CD to the center console before backing out of the spot and zooming out of the parking lot.

Virgil hummed happily, giggling as Remus recited the initial traffic report along with Dr. Death-Defying, “I love Danger Days. Remember how you convinced the DJ at Prom to play this song?”

“How could I not? He only did it because of your pouty little baby face back then,” Remus teased, earning himself a smack on the shoulder, “what? He certainly wasn’t doing me any favors.”

“You’re an ass,” Virgil chuckled.

“I’m your ass,” Remus corrected him, headbanging along as he drove.

“So where are we headed, ass of mine?” Virgil asked just over the music, watching as streetlights and neon signs advertising closed stores flashed by.

“Nowhere special,” Remus replied carefully, pretty quickly turning into an empty parking lot and pulling into a space as far from any lights as he can.

“Yeah.. not kidding about that... Is this a bookstore?”

“Bookstore parking lot.”

“Okay, why a bookstore parking lot?”

Remus didn’t answer, just unbuckled and tried to squeeze between the front seats of the car to the back. Virgil watched in amusement until Remus managed to push himself through and got settled in the back.

“C’mon. You do this for me all the time, now it’s your turn.”

Virgil laughed and turned the key to the battery-only position in the ignition and locked the car doors before following Remus, sliding back to the back seat a touch more nimbly. He settled into Remus’ lap and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you,” he murmured, settling in as Remus wrapped his arms around him and started singing along with the music.

“If that's the best that I could be? Then I'd be another memory. Can I be the only hope for you? Because you're the only hope for me,” Remus sang softly to Virgil, running fingers through his hair.

Virgil sniffed and sang the rest of the verse, “And if we can't find where we belong we'll have to make it on our own. Face all the pain and take it on because the only hope for me is you alone,” he tried to relax and let Remus’ presence reassure him that neither of them was going anywhere without the other, “is it weird to say I wish you were around more often?”

Remus stopped humming along with the music to hug Virgil tighter, “not weird at all, V. You’ll graduate soon and we can move in together. Then you’ll really be sick of me.” he smiled and kissed Virgil’s hair, “we’re so close to forever, love.”

Virgil sighed and began to sing along again a few songs later, “we can leave this world, leave it all behind. We can steal this car if your folks don't mind. We can live forever if you've got the time,” he buried his face in Remus’ chest, almost wishing they could just start driving tonight and never looking back.

“My pretty little heart attack in black hair dye,” Remus giggled, “you gotta finish school first so I can just kick Roman and Remy out.”

Virgil laughed at that, “as if you’d ever kick your brother out.”

“Easier done than said. I’ve lived with that asshole for far too long already,” Remus replied pointedly, “you know, we can work out transportation if you would perhaps consider moving off campus next semester.”

Virgil sat there silent in consideration. The only thing really stopping him from agreeing was the wall of anxieties over moving in with his boyfriend and living off-campus and paying rent and having to find a job in between homework and classes. It was a lot to figure out, not even considering the implications of actually moving in with his boyfriend. What if Remus did something crazy like suggesting they get married? What if everything changed and he didn’t like it or get used to it? What if nothing changed and he still woke up at 2 in the morning from dreams of Xs despite falling asleep in Remus’ arms? What if-

“Virgil- where’s your head, Stormcloud?” Virgil’s thoughts were interrupted by the question and a soft steady tapping on the back of his neck.

Virgil sighed and shook his head, “sorry. It got away from me. I kinda want this moment to last forever. It’s safe and predictable.”

“An abandoned parking lot is not life, sweetheart. Trust me, I love how safe this is. I love holding you and knowing nothing can happen to you while we’re here. But life doesn’t happen in safety. We can face it together, we always will. But we do have to go out and face it eventually,” Remus spoke softly, letting his voice mingle with the music.

“You’re here now. You’re here and real and not going anywhere. That should be enough. Why isn’t it enough?” Virgil asked in a small voice.

“Because you care. Your love isn’t limited to this moment,” Remus laughed softly, “your love has saved me before, so don’t you dare try to limit it now.”

“I- oh wow, Rem, I am so sorry,” Virgil caught himself and sighed, “I think I get it now.”

“Oh? Figure something out?” Remus asked quietly, continuing to tap on Virgil to the beat.

“I haven’t been trusting your love. I’m an asshole,” Virgil shook his head, “ of course I won’t wake up and find Xs. You love me. I’m so dumb for not trusting that because of course you’re not going anywhere.”

Remus chuckled, “now you’re getting it, V. I know you can’t help worrying, but you’ll at least let me prove it when the worries get too much?”

Virgil sat up carefully, “I didn’t want to bother you with it before. Goodness knows we both need the sleep, but I think next time, I’ll just reach out like tonight.”

Remus smiled and pulled Virgil back down, “you said it yourself. We need sleep. So sleep, mister. We’re not going anywhere until morning.”

Virgil laughed and feebly tried to push away, “nooo not in the car! At least let's go find a bed.”

“Aww but that’s no fun… unless..”

“Sleep. It’s nearly 3 am. We are gonna find a bed, either mine or yours, and go to sleep.”

“Boo,” Remus pouted but reached to unlock the car, not trusting his ability to climb back upfront.

“Love you too, boo,” Virgil grinned and leaned down to kiss Remus properly, quickly getting lost in the contact. Remus pulled him close, willing to spend the rest of the night that way until the second to last track of the album began and his speakers started blaring a distorted version of the American anthem. They broke apart, laughing together at the awkward background music. Then they managed to kiss the whole way through Vampire Money before climbing out of the back seat and back upfront.

“Alright. Let’s go home. Maybe I can convince you to make it home better from there,” Remus grinned and started up the car again, driving off towards the apartment as the CD restarted the album from the beginning.

[mxvladdy]

Good hell, your True Form series is the absolute best! (and totally canon for me tbh). I saw that we can drop you a prompt and I wanted to ask, if you can do one where the obey boys comfort an Mc who lost someone dear to them? It's totally alright if you dont want to! I hope you are having safe and healthy days!

Thankie anon! I hope you are well too! My condolences if you have lost someone ;.; I hope you like this and I’m stoked you like my True Form series!  

Diavolo

Loss is not a new concept to him. Like many on the student council, he is well versed in it. The emotional strain can be numbing, and was numbing to him at one point in his life. He can’t really remember it now though. When was the last time he actually felt grief over a fallen companion?

But humans are different. Time is a scant commodity to mortals. Lose could stick to a human for their entire lifetime. When you come to him he is distraught. He hates seeing you in any form of discomfort. The best he can offer you is his undivided attention and shoulder if you need it. He is actually full of comforting and wise words from all the lifetimes he has experienced.

If you need time topside he’ll arrange a portal for you and you just take all the time you need. His program is not more important than family in his eyes. If you would like him to accompany you then he shall gladly. Sends the biggest, yet most tasteful flower arrangement to the funeral home and to the gravestone.

Barbatos

Probably has the hardest time relating to such a concept. The finite idea of time is something he struggles to conceptualize. Unless he physically wipes someone from the planes of existence he can, to a certain extent, simply find them in another stream.

He knows not to offer or bring up that idea to you. You don’t ask him to either. His abilities have ironically a time and a place. This situation is not one of those. It upsets you but there is nothing you can do about it.

He will distract you instead, taking you on errands and shopping trips around the Devildom. He will indulge your human curiosity under his watchful eyes. Then, he will take you to the kitchens and brew you something strong. If you need to vent while he cooks please feel free, he wants to listen. Nothing you say or do will pass through this room.  

Solomon

Being human, and yet not, he understands the most out of everyone. He has loved and lost a great deal in his lifetimes. Some of which is still a raw wound on his heart. He is very much someone who will avoid talking about his feelings or things that dredge up his past failings.

If you come to him he will give you coping skills and drag you around the Devildom to take your mind off of your thoughts. He’ll take you for walks or to the woods. Is it dangerous? Yes. But the distraction of self-preservation has always worked for him.

During all of this, he will check in on you. If none of his tactics work he’ll cave, taking you to sit on the nearest comfortable surface. He’ll ask you little things about them or your relationship and reply in kind, albeit stiffly. It’s-nice. Some human bonding he didn’t expect. In a way, you both console each other.  

Luke

He’s an angel in training. He can help! Simone has been teaching him! He’s excited but knows he has to tone it down. He’ll recite all the verses and words of wisdom he’s picked up from Simone and Michael.

He’ll sulk a little if it doesn’t help. Well, that’s fine, he will just have to study harder for you! Till then he’ll try other methods. He’s goto is homemade cakes and hugs. He will want you to help baking (he can’t reach the top oven shhhhh).

You naturally take over after a while, and as time in the kitchen progresses you teach him a few recipes that your late loved ones had taught you or were their favorites. It makes you feel better, it’s cathartic. The smell reminds you of home. Luke will memorize each recipe and will make them for you whenever he thinks you're feeling down.

Simone

The first to offer you his condolences and a warm hug. He is very vigilant of you and your mood for weeks after you had confided in him of your loss. His words of wisdom and experience with working with souls were more comforting than with Luke.

He will ask Diavolo to take you outside of the Devildom. Just you, Luke, and himself. You may pick where. Whether it be the mortal realm or the celestial one. If you decide you want to go back home to visit your old stomping grounds then that is where they will go.

You lead him around your familiar territory, pointing out where you and yours would hang out. He’ll buy you things from their favorite stores if you allow it. Humans are sentimental and if a little bobble or trinket will soften the pain in your eyes then it is worth more than gold. Will visit the grave with you to place the things you bought on it. If you allow it will pray from them too. 

Lucifer

He lashes out at first when you come to him. It makes him feel vulnerable, his pack mark is infused with your storm of emotions. He brushes off your feelings and bristles at you trying to seek comfort in him. Familiar loss is a very touchy subject to him and bringing those feelings back to the surface for him hurts in ways he does not want to remember. It takes Simone politely (or not) reminding him it’s not about him and perhaps swallowing a bit of his pride would help you both.

He will come to you in the dead of night. He just opens up and talks to you. He’ll sit on the floor of your room with his back resting on your bed and share memories. You both laugh and recount the good, bad, and some ugly memories. You give each other great words of advice and comfort too. You fall asleep holding his hand with a soft smile on your face. Your tears have dried up hours ago. He leaves you to rest feeling lighter and closer to you in the long run.

If you invite him to the wake he will join without hesitation and hold your hand the whole time.

Mammon

He will cry with you. Seeing you like this makes him think back to the fall, it’s a lot for him. He’ll take you out drinking. It’s how he copes aside from gambling and other reckless things. Turns you into the responsible party of the night. It keeps you busy though that's for sure and side-tracked. Though, he will notice when you are uncomfortable and dips from the casinos to lead you somewhere quiet. He’ll pass a bottle between the two of you and talk about anything that comes to mind. He is bad at opening up in public. But alone and drunk, he has a bleeding heart.

He slips into his big brother persona pretty quickly once you two are alone. He may be a goofball around the others but he can be serious when the time calls for it.

He will ask all sorts of questions about them. He wants to know all about them if you are willing. He loves learning about your life and wants to make it better if he can. He will listen with rapt attention and interrupt only to laugh or ask a question. He swears over a greasy plate of food he bought you both at Hell’s kitchen to sober you that if you want him at the wake just ask.  

Leviathan  

For someone who usually stumbles over his words when you come to him for comfort, he is surprisingly eloquent. He’ll be uncomfortable with physically comforting you until you expressly ask for it.

He’ll try to distract you with video games and asinine conversations while you rest your head on his shoulder and watch. If you’re ok with it he’ll also drape his tail across your lap. The best hug he can give you while his hands are busy with his controller.

He wasn't very close to Lilthe compared to some of the other brothers but he’ll exchange little funny memories he has with you or some cringe-worthy ones to hear you laugh. Between the dim light of his room and the blue glow of his fish tank, you chat until you fall asleep. He doesn’t mind and lets you doze, still filling the dead air with little stories.

Satan

Ah...You have his sincerest condolences. It pains him to admit it but he has never truly felt loss for someone before. Things, yes. A loss of a good book, either stolen by Mammon or destroyed in a fit of rage by himself. He knows that feeling-but those aren’t the same and he knows that it is an ill-suited comparison.

He’ll lend you his ear though. Listen to whatever you have to say, or if you need to cry it out. His arms are always open for you. If you get angry he can help with that.  He knows how to channel it all to be productive or temper it so you don’t burn yourself out while you process your emotions. 

He-like Levi- will give you sage advice or find just the right words of comfort you need. During the school week if you need a break he will gladly take extra notes or turn in your assignments for you while you take some time off. He will give you some books from his personal library too after an off-handed comment about your late loved ones' favorite genre or author. They are yours if they make you happy.

Asmodeus

Sympathy tears like Mammon. He’ll listen with rapt attention and coo over you. Very touchy when he senses you are troubled. He’ll stroke your hair and let you dumb whatever weighs heavy on your heart. Hugs are the best way he knows how to comfort you.

He doesn’t try to distract you from your grief or your emotions. He knows all too well what happens when one bottles up their emotions for too long. Nasty business that. But, if you want a distraction just ask. He'll give you one. Something nice and (hopefully relaxing) maybe a night out perhaps? Or if you want to stay in he’ll pop in a movie or playlist of your choice and stay quiet. You spend the night in enjoying the physical closeness and no need to express yourself or exert energy trying to vocalize your feelings. He’ll bring out his best snack for the movies too, only the best chocolates and dried fruits for you to munch on.

If you have to plan the funeral or wake he will be there every step of the way if you want him to. He can take the reins if you are just too emotionally drained to do it. If you have ideas or plans for it he will follow them to the letter, no questions asked.

Beelzebub

It’s a lot for him. Even though his sister’s death was a millennia ago it’s still fresh in his mind. But he is strong and will do anything in his power to be there for you. The best way he knows how to cope with such pain is to exercise. If you want to, he will take you to the gym and train with you. Let you tire yourself out on a punching bag or weights.

He doesn’t have many words to say so he will just listen. The best partner for this really, you could go on for hours and he would just sit there and truly listen. He won’t judge how you cope, whether it is wailing or you just trying to act normally around campus. He will be a little bit more clingy after you tell him the news. He knows the tells of a breakdown from his twin so he wants to make sure you are not close to one.

If you invite him to the wake he will stay in the back and offer emotional support. Afterward, he’ll walk you around the local neighborhood and ask questions sporadically about how you're doing. Back at school, he will take notes to you and homework if you don’t feel like going in person.

Belphegor

Stays up with you at night if you can’t sleep due to stress or sadness. You can stay up in his room with him as long as you like and do whatever you need to get through this. Stay up or sleep with him though the day is fine. Though, if you stay up too long he will use the pack mark to make you rest. He keeps a close eye on you like his twin does.

He keeps you up in his attic room with him during the school day. Online classes are a thing and he will keep you content and warm with him till you feel up to snuff. He is smart but just lazy, though if you just can’t get the work done he’ll do it for you to turn in. Whatever, you need a break anyway.

He will fill the dead air while you rest with stories of when he would venture to the human realm with his siblings. He likes to hear stories of your childhood and adventures you had with your loved one too. He won’t offer to go to the human realm with you for the wake. But he will give you an elegant star themed decoration for the gravesite if you allow it.

[mrslittletall]

Title: Fire and Ashes Fandom: Bloodborne Characters: Laurence the first Vicar/Ludwig the Holy Blade Word Count: 7.052 AO3-Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32196505

Summary: Laurence has been sick with the beastly scourge for a while already and he knows that he will transform soon if he doesn't find a solution...

(Author's note: My entry for the Soulsborne Chain Game I host on my headcanon blog @headcanontheshitoutofsoulsborne. I wrote the starter entry for it. Please check out the completed chain here. Everyone did such a great job and deserve the praise.)

It was time for the usual morning mass and Laurence was feeling terrible.

In truth, he had felt terrible for a while now.

His body had been plagued with fevers that made him feel like he burned from the inside and he swore, sometimes it even felt like he managed to melt things he touched.

He was suffering from intense nausea that he couldn't stave off... sooner or later he would end up in front of the toilet, or any other receptacle he could reach in time, and vomit out whatever he had eaten prior. The worse thing however, was that the vomit was uncomfortably hot and he sometimes had the feeling that he was throwing up literal lava. Judging by how red it looked, it may have been true, but Laurence still desperately hoped that it was just blood. Which was more than unsettling in its own right, but would be a lot better than what he feared it was.

The last symptom and the one that made him absolutely sure about which sickness he was suffering from, was the hunger... the desire to bite into anything vaguely human shaped and the times in which he had wanted to dissect a corpse and found himself having stuffed a finger in his mouth... or worse.

His hands were concealed by gloves. It was usual for him to wear gloves anyway, but in this times and days, he never removed them, because of his prolonged finger nails that reminded him very much of claws.

It was more than clear for Laurence that he was infected with the beastly scourge, the plague that had befallen Yharnam all this years ago and he didn't know just how much time he had left.

However, his poor state wasn't a reason to neglect his duties and so he stood up on the gallery to hold the mass like every morning and recited the prayer, until he was at the last few verses.

“Remain wary of the frailty of men.

Their wills are weak, minds young.

Were it not for fear, death would go unlamented.”

Almost done. Laurence took a deep breath and raised his voice to speak once again.

“Bless us with-”

A sharp pain stopped his words and he clasped a hand at his chest, where his heart was. That... that never had happened before. At the same time, the nausea washed over him. Oh no, not here, not in the open, with all the citizens and all the church ministers watching him.

Already they stared at him, clearly confused why he had stopped. He couldn't... couldn't stay here. Clasping his other hand over his mouth, he turned around to run... only managing a few steps before his body forced him to throw up right where he was, hot reddish vomit seeping through his fingers and hitting the floor with a sizzle.

“Vicar, what was that?”, he heard a voice next to him, one of the church ministers. More voices joined in soon.

“Your grace, did you just...?”

“...That looked like blood...”

“Are you feeling alright? Should we prepare a blood ministration?”

Laurence didn't feel ready to speak. He had the feeling when he opened his mouth, that the rest of his breakfast would make it out. He raised a hand, the one that wasn't clasped over his mouth and dismissed them. He didn't need any help. He just needed to be alone.

Before anyone could say something, Laurence was making a beeline to his office, shutting the door behind him with a loud noise and then... vomited out the rest of his breakfast into a bucket he had positioned there just for this case. I was filled with a little bit of water, to cool down the far too hot vomit. Even now he could see how the water in the bucket started to steam.

After he was done, Laurence wiped his forehead. The fever was back. He took a few steps back and then practically fell into his chair that was lined up with his desk. His breathing was slow and heavy and he needed a few minutes to even think about pouring himself a glass of water and washing the bad taste in his mouth away.

He looked down at his desk, where his notes were strewn everywhere. How long had he worked last night? Desperately trying to find a cure that he hadn't managed to find for years? Laurence removed his gloves and looked at his hands, seeing that his fingernails had prolonged even more over the night.

How much time had he left? Weeks? Days? Hours maybe?

He raised his head and got up, stepping in front of a mirror that was standing in his office. The claws were not the only clue. He could see the fangs, when he bared his teeth, small, but they were there, as well as his left eye which had started to collapse. One of the earliest signs of the scourge.

His gaze wandered to his door. After what happened just now, he shouldn't let himself be seen like that. He went to his door and turned the key in the lock, letting it stick before going back to his desk, where he sat down with a frustrated sigh and started to sort through his notes. As long as he still had time, he at least had to try. He wouldn't succumb to the scourge that easily.

As Laurence sorted his notes, his hand brushed against a certain item. He picked it up and stared at it.

A failed experiment from the early days of the Healing Church. A rune with which they had tried to control the beastly scourge, to at least let these people remain their humanity, if not their form. He knew that it was futile. The rune wouldn't help him, it would probably simply speed up his transformation.

Why did he have it still here? He didn't know. Maybe he had tried to base the cure around it. Laurence didn't remember. His memory was often hazy nowadays and so he brushed the rune to the side, instead reading up on the notes he must have worked on yesterday evening.

There must be a base to start somewhere. He only needed to find it. Wishing to be able to better concentrate, Laurence hooked himself up on a blood ministration. He would need the focus.

He almost missed the knock on his office door.

That Laurence had suddenly left the gallery mid prayer had been a cause of concern for Ludwig. He knew that Laurence hadn't been feeling well lately, as hard as he tried to hide it, but that had been the first time he had actively run away before having spoken out the adage to its end.

While everyone else present was starting to leave after a brief confusion, either going to their shops, workplaces or starting their duties in the church, Ludwig made his way up to the gallery, where he found the church ministers in the middle of a heated discussion.

“Excuse me, what happened here?”, Ludwig raised his voice to drown out their argument. “Where is Vicar Laurence?”

“Ah, Sir Ludwig, we were discussing this just now.”, one of the church ministers replied, while several others stared at Ludwig, making him feel like a whole row of eyes stared at him. “He seemed to be in pain and then threw up... it looked like blood.”

Ludwig had shouldered his holy moonlight sword as usual, but when he heard that, his grip around tightened and his eyes widened. “He did WHAT?! Why has nobody followed him?”

“He gave us a sign that he would be fine and you know how he is.”, the church minister said. “He would have just sent us away. We were actually just discussing how we could approach him about the issue, because...”

The church minister pointed at the ground and Ludwig could see that there was clearly a hole burned in the ground, an acidic smell coming from it.

“Is that where he...?”, Ludwig asked and before he could finish his sentence, the church minister nodded.

“Yes, where he threw up.”, they finished for Ludwig.

“That's not good... it's literally burned. I will go and try to talk to him. You stay here. Don't do anything withOUT my approval.” Ludwig waited until all of the church ministers gave him a bow and then made his way to Laurence' office with an uneasy feeling in his stomach.

As he stood in front of it, he took a deep breath and then knocked at the door. “Laurence? I am going to come in.”, he said and tried to turn the handle, only to notice that the door was locked. “Laurence? Open the door, please.”

Laurence froze as he recognized the voice outside the door. The voice of Ludwig. Ludwig was the last person Laurence wanted to have in his office right now. He was a Hunter. He would recognize the signs, the signs that Laurence successfully had hidden from Ludwig for so long, by having him pushed away and shut out, a behaviour that he still didn't know why Ludwig tolerated it. He had been horrible to him and still, Ludwig would come and just tell him that it was alright, he would wait until Laurence felt better.

Only that Laurence knew he wouldn't get better, not when he wouldn't find a cure. So Laurence raised his voice and said: “I am fine, Ludwig, I am busy. Just go away. Please leave me alone.”

Ludwig couldn't come in and see him, he would notice the collapsed eye, the fangs, the prolonged fingernails. He would be forced to kill Laurence at the spot, as was the rule for church hunters, no one infected was to be left alive, but Laurence didn't want to force Ludwig to do this. Especially not when he had failed to make Ludwig hate him. Why had his boyfriend to be so kind and understanding?

“Laurence, I have been considerate with you for weeks now.”, Ludwig said. “I know you aren't feeling well and that you don't want much company, but... you have thrown up blood today at the morning mass. Blood that was hot enough to burn a hole in the ground. Laurence, whatever it is, that ails you, you don't have to go through this alone. Please, let me help you.”

Laurence felt a sharp stab in his chest at his words. This time it hadn't been from the scourge. He knew it was because Ludwig would be willing to stay with him and help him out and he wished so much that he could get into his arms and confess everything to him, but Laurence knew that he couldn't.

He couldn't let Ludwig know. He had to try and use all the time he had for finding the cure. How much he wished to just tell Ludwig the truth, he could, he just had to open the door and leave him in and confess about his ailment to him, but... he couldn't. Ludwig was the most loyal hunter of the church. He wouldn't stop because it was Laurence and Laurence knew that the action would break his heart.

“This none of your business.”, Laurence said, as cold as he could manage, even though he felt hot tears drop down his face. Not as hot as his vomit, but still hot enough to steam when they dripped on the ground. “Leave me alone. You can't help me.”

“Laurence, please.” Oh, Laurence just hated how pleading Ludwig's voice was. “You haven't been yourself lately. Please let me help you. I want to help you, but how can I help you when you don't let me be part of your life?”

More tears forced their way out of Laurence' eyes as he got up and walked towards the door and extended a hand, leaving it on the handle. He just had to unlock it and let Ludwig in and... no, he couldn't. He shook his head and sank down in front of the door, with his back to it.

“I... I can't...”, he sobbed, not being able to hold his tears back. “I just... can't...”

“Laurence, are you crying?!”, Ludwig shouted and frantically tried to turn the handle, several clicking noises proofing that his efforts were fruitless. “Let me in, Laurence, please.”

“No.”, Laurence said, his voice coming out strained. He took a deep breath and then shouted: “Just leave me alone and don't come back!”

“...”, there was an audible silence in front of the door. “I can't force you to open the door...”, Ludwig said and he must have removed his hand from the handle, because it went back to its original position. “But I won't leave you alone either. Just... please tell me what's wrong. Please, Laurence, just give me a chance.”

Laurence didn't reply as he got up, gaze on the ground, wiping away the fresh tears in his face.

If I let you in, you have to kill me.

The unspoken words hung in the air. Laurence couldn't bring himself to say them. He also couldn't bring himself to tell Ludwig to leave him alone anymore.

“Sir Ludwig, there have been beast sightings at the outer rim of cathedral ward!”, a hurried voice sounded, not belonging to Ludwig obviously.

“In broad daylight?! They are getting more and more brash.”, Ludwig gasped. “Laurence, I have to go, but I will come back and then I want for you to talk to me.”

There was around half a minute of silence before Laurence could hear footsteps that moved away from the door. Soon, they faded and Laurence took one step towards his desk, when the pain from earlier hit him again.

With a cry, he fell to his knees, doubled over in pain. This pain certainly was worse than earlier, he felt like he got ripped apart from the inside. Alongside the pain, he felt an itching sensation on his head, so much that he wished he could move and scratch his scalp open. It continued until the itching sensation became a new wave of pain, so intense as if something, anything wanted to force its way out of Laurence' head.

He spent a small eternity in this agonizing pain when it stopped as sudden as it had started. Breathing heavily, Laurence got up on his knees, staring at the splotches of blood on the floor, already sizzling into the carpet. He raised a shaky hand to touch his face and found blood. He couldn't remember getting injured, had he self harmed in his pain?

He slowly got up on his feet and limped to the mirror in his office, stopping before he even was in front of it. He didn't need to come closer to see what was wrong as his hand shot upward to confirm what he saw.

Antlers. He had grown some antlers, that now adorned his head, a thin stream of blood accompanying the place where they had forced their way through.

“I might have less time than I thought...”, Laurence gasped as he went a few shaky step to his desk and let himself fall down on his chair.

He could as well use this time and try to see if he at least managed to find a base for the cure. If he would transform and had to die anyway, he wouldn't just take it with his head bowed, he would scream and fight against it.

So Laurence straightened himself up, took a deep breath and then started to work.

An hour or two later, Laurence had scattered a variety of documents over his desk. Ideas where the beastly scourge came from. The first idea and the one he had followed the longest had been that it escaped the labyrinths. They had seen beasts down there and it felt like the most logical thing, that after they got unsealed, the sickness that was responsible for the beasts in there would be able to come out.

Though, they never had learned how the people down there had transformed...

Another idea had been that it was the fault of the vilebloods, but that couldn't be. As much as Laurence loathed, the beastly scourge had been there before the vilebloods had come into Yharnam and it didn't vanish once the executioners had been done with their job. The vilebloods had been beasts of their own, but that was a thing that Laurence couldn't blame on them.

A third theory, a theory that Laurence always had dismissed immediately, was that maybe the blood could be at fault. That instead of getting them closer to ascension, that humans would regress and that was the cause of the beastly scourge. Laurence had tested the blood rigorously and had been sure that it wasn't the case, but.. right at the moment he was staring at the newspaper story about Old Yharnam.

He remembered that night far too well. Finally having acquired enough umbilical cords to summon a Great One, one of the ascended, he had stepped outside and done the ritual, seeing as the Great One came from the moon. He had stepped forwards to ask her his questions, when Gehrman suddenly appeared and said something to the Moon Presence... and that had been the last time Laurence had seen Gehrman.

Shortly after, the worst hunt that had ever happened took place. Almost everyone in Old Yharnam had transformed. It had to be the influence of the moon, Laurence thought, as he stared out of the office of his window during that night, seeing the blood red moon in the sky.

In the end, Old Yharnam had to be burned down and sealed shut before the beasts would spread into the other parts of the town. Shortly after it happened, the blood red moon vanished and the longest hunt ever had been over... and Laurence had come out of it as a broken man, even though he didn't let it shine through.

Now that he looked at the article again, he noticed something. The article mentioned the sickness that had ailed Old Yharnam during that time.

Ashen Blood... in truth it had been a poisoning caused by the church. It hadn't been exactly on purpose, but the Old Yharnam citizens had been stubborn and when Laurence had learned that the poison of their research had leaked into the groundwater, he hadn't ordered for them to stop, instead he had brought the holy blood to Old Yharnam, to cure all these people and sold them on the holy blood.

A large amount of people had gotten the blood at the same time.

A large amount of people had transformed into beasts at the same time.

How could he have been so blind?!

Laurence shot up and practically ripped his current blood ministration out of his arm, a small stream of blood running down his arm, the wound closing shortly after, the healing effect of the blood taking action.

Laurence cleaned his arm from the blood and continued to think. That couldn't have been the only cause. There must have been a second cause. Not everyone who took the blood transformed. He himself had taken the blood almost daily for years and he was transforming only now.

Maybe it really was the moon...

Whatever it was, the blood certainly was one of the causes. Of course they could prevent further cases by ceasing to use the old blood, but that would be difficult.

Yharnam was reliant on the old blood. The whole town was based around it. If he would take it away, then the whole town would collapse. He would need a lot more time to figure out who to take the blood away from Yharnam.

The safest bet would be a cure, then they could keep using the blood without fearing the side effects...

Laurence sighed as he noticed that his train of thoughts involved the future, a future that he certainly wouldn't live to see anymore.

Though... with one of the causes figured out, he had a base to at least start. He leaned over his desk to search for a few more documents when the pain came back and this time it was paralysing. He fell down with his chair and convulsed on the ground for what felt like it was a really long time, paired with the same itchy sensation he had felt earlier, paired with an intense pain in his arm.

When the pain ended, he was lying there, gasping for air. It took him a few minutes to get up again. As he looked down on his hands as he propped himself up, one of them wasn't human anymore.

He could see long claws coming out from far too long fingers, the whole hand covered in shaggy fur and as his gaze followed his arm, he could see that it extended to it. His whole left arm had transformed into something so utterly inhumane that he wanted to retch.

Instead he walked the few steps to the couch and flopped onto it, cursing when he bumped his new antlers and then staring at the ceiling.

With the realization earlier about the old blood being one of the causes for the beastly scourge, his initial thoughts had been about how to handle this whole mess.

Now that his own transformation had completed another step, he had become aware that he had doomed Yharnam.

“All I wanted to do was help...”, he murmured, surprised that his voice still sounded human instead of beastly screeches leaving his throat. “I just wanted to help...”, he repeated, as if he wanted to convince a listener that wasn't there.

If only he had thrown the blood away once Master Willem had warned him about it. He probably owed the old man an apology. An apology that he would never be able to speak out. Was the old geezer even still alive?

As Laurence stared at the ceiling, he thought about all the friends he once had and had lost one way or the other, but almost all of them had left his life related to the old blood.

Caryll, who refused to study the old blood and had stayed in Byrgenwerth for their own studies about conversing with the Great Ones.

Maria, one of the best hunters he had ever seen, who got so disgusted with her own actions that she had chosen to take her life instead of living on with the guilt. She had been one of the most vehement defenders of the theory that the blood could have been at fault.

Gehrman, the first Hunter that Laurence had ever employed, the one he had lost to the Moon Presence. No, he had lost him earlier even, when his heart broke into a thousand pieces after Maria's suicide.

Micolash, his best friend and rival, who had become more and more recluse, stopped helping Laurence with the blood ministrations altogether and vanished one day to never be seen, but Laurence knew about a group that was antagonistic to the Choir and while he himself didn't fully trust them himself, the only person in charge of a group that would be able to mess with the Choir was Micolash.

Only Ludwig was left... and Amelia, his adopted daughter and future Vicar, and he had done his best to push both of them away in the last weeks. Especially Ludwig. That Ludwig still wanted to speak to him, baffled Laurence, he had been nothing but an asshole to him lately.

Laurence let out another deep sigh as he rubbed over his forehead, with the far too large beastly hand, feeling hot and sweaty. He could stay here and self loathe until he ran out of time... or he could get up and write down what he had found out so that Amelia and his church ministers could continue his research.

The most important thing would be to wean Yharnam from the blood. Laurence slowly got up. He had to make peace with the fact that he would die soon, maybe he already had made it, but he at least didn't want to leave Yharnam to ride into its certain doom.

It was difficult getting back to his desk. His vision seemed to swim and blur in front of him. Had he gotten up too quickly? No, it was the advanced transformation.

Just as Laurence had sat back down and straightened a piece of paper, taking up a pen to write down his last will, there was a knock on his door.

He froze briefly, asking himself if Ludwig had come back already? If, he would just send him away again. He needed to write his last will and after that... well, he probably would surrender and let himself be taken out before he became a danger to the church.

It wasn't Ludwig however. The voice outside of the door belonged to one of the highest ranking church ministers.

“Your grace, open the door. We have reasons to believe that you have been afflicted by the beastly scourge. As sad as this observation makes us, you know our rules and there can't be an exception, not even for you.”

Pinpoint the cancer and rip it out of Yharnam... Laurence remembered his own words about the matter.

Laurence opened his mouth to speak, to tell them that he would come to them later, that he needed to be alone now, but he was shaken by a horrible coughing fit. There even seemed to come smoke out of his throat... They certainly couldn't see him, when they would see him like this, they would execute him right away and he couldn't let that happen.

Couldn't they have discussed for half an hour more? All these boring meetings and today of all days they came to a conclusion early.

“Vicar Laurence, if you won't open the door, we will have to break it down. If you have nothing to hide, you will be able to open the door just fine, won't you?”

Damn. Laurence glared at the door, cursing his church minister in his mind with a dozen profanities in the span of a few seconds. He cleared his throat and finally managed to speak.

“I wish to be alone right now. I have urgent business to attend to and it can't wait only because of your outrageous accusations. I will make time for you later.”

So that they could execute him... Laurence cringed at the thought, but the church ministers didn't take his words. Of course, what had he expected? If he hadn't anything to hide, he could have just opened the door.

“Break the door down.”, the church minister ordered and Laurence knew that they had a hunter with them, probably multiple. He stared for a few seconds as the door got repeatedly knocked with a blunt object and only when it started to splinter he stared down at his still very blank last will.

In his panic, he wrote down the first thing that came to his mind.

“Fear the old blood.”

Just as he had finished writing, the door burst open and he could see a dozen church ministers as well as a few hunters out there. They stared as much as him as he stared at them.

His appearance was proof enough that he indeed had been afflicted with the beastly scourge.

“Vicar Laurence, you are hereby under arrest!”, the church minister announced in a clamorous voice and Laurence could see how the hunters stormed inside his office.

“Wait!”, Laurence said, both hands in the air, showing that he wasn't armed. The hunters stopped and looked at him, the church minister behind them having scrunched up his face.

“Don't show mercy just because he used to be our vicar.”

Speaking in the past of him, right in front of him. Laurence didn't had time to be offended though, he needed to tell them.

“Please listen to me!”, he said and then his world seemed to stop as his heart skipped a beat and the pain came back full force, in such a force that he couldn't speak anymore, only scream... a scream that didn't even sound human anymore.

From the corner of his eye, he could somehow see how the hunters started to move in his direction again. Laurence brushed over his desk... where was it.. his last will had been just in front of him, but which paper was it? It must be the one with fresh ink, but... he couldn't find anything with wet ink... instead, his hand closed around a small object.

It was the rune. Beast's Embrace. In the back of his mind he knew this was a bad idea. It had never succeeded before, but maybe it would help him regain his sense for long enough so that he could tell them about the dangers that the old blood possessed and how to handle Yharnam after his death.

Laurence embraced the rune with his beastly hand and concentrated on the arcane prowess inside of it... feeling how his pain eased down at first, he already was opening his mouth to speak, when his whole body felt like it would burst.

Failed. was the last conscious thought Laurence ever had, when his bones shifted and his veins popped, rearranging his body in a way that should be physically impossible. He heard how his clothes ripped open when he started to grow, he could feel the itching sensation of fur covering his skin accompanied by a blinding pain. Laurence couldn't see anything anymore, he only heard some shouting in the distance. He wanted to open his mouth to scream, but only a garbled screech came out of it as Laurence realized that his face had twisted into a snout with a row of razor sharp teeth.

He was crouched on the floor, with a claw on his hand... hissing because of the pain... He could smell blood... his blood... It hurt so much, so very very much... But, there was the smell of flesh... human flesh and he felt hungry... so very very hungry... maybe the flesh would help him ease the pain.

He took a step towards a smell and felt a new pain, sharp and annoying, at his leg and when he looked down he saw his attacker. He raised his hand and flattened them in an instant, the sweet smell of blood filling the air. He raised his hand to look at it, the urge to lick the blood clean of it strong, when a second sharp pain hit him.

Growling, he stepped forwards, glaring at the ones in front of him. He rose to his full height and let out a blood curdling screech, as he raised both of his arms into the air and then his fur ignited into fire.

He had to feast... that would stop the pain... it would stop the hunger... he had to hunt them down! With a second screech, he lunged at the first human that was dumb enough standing in front of him.

Once Ludwig returned to the church, it was on fire. With a gasp, he jumped off Midnight, his horse, and ran towards the entrance, stopping when he saw a black robed church hunter stare fearfully at the church.

“Hunter! What happened? Why is the church on fire? Why aren't you helping with evacuating?”

“Sir Ludwig, thank the blood that you returned! It's Vicar Laurence. He... turned. He had the scourge and hid it and now he is the most gigantic beast I have ever seen. He already has killed and devoured a dozen black robes! It was him who ignited the church, he's literally on fire! He's... he's out of control!”

The church hunter took a few steps back after his rant and took a deep breath before he fell down to his knees and... seemed to pray. Ludwig could hear how he called for the aid of the Great Ones, faintly, when his own mind raced.

He had heard them, the words of the black robe. He had been very clear about it. Laurence had turned... his Laurence did have the beastly scourge, the one he loved more than anything in the world, the one who had done his damn hardest to not let Ludwig be part of his life for the last few weeks.

Oh!

It had been so obvious, but Ludwig had decided to ignore him.

Laurence always had eaten his food without saying a word, but had vanished shortly after and often Ludwig had seen him come out of the bathroom wiping his mouth.

He did have increasingly fevers, sometimes they seemed to be getting so worse that he felt like he was on fire.

He never had taken off his gloves.

He had stopped to see Ludwig altogether for the last three weeks, telling him that he was busy and not feeling well and didn't want to get his ailment to spread to him because the holy blood had troubles with healing it.

“Laurence... why haven't you told me...?”, Ludwig said, tightening his grip around his holy moonlight sword before he rushed into the church. Even though he knew that the black robe didn't have any reason to lie, even though he had seen the signs, signs that his past self had ignored, a part of him still wouldn't believe that it was Laurence after he had seen him with his own eyes.

Inside the church, there was chaos. Smoke, flames and rubble. Ludwig covered his mouth and nose with his shawl and approached a group of black robes that tried to free a trapped blood saint from a column that must have fallen on her leg.

Ludwig easily lifted the column and after the blood saint had been safely pulled out, he grimly said: “Where?”

With a shaking hand, one of the black robes pointed deeper into the church. Another one added in a low voice: “Follow the flames...”

Ludwig was doing exactly that.

He actually did find a beast inside the church, in one of the conference rooms where it was busy trashing chairs and tables. The black robe hadn't lied, that was the tallest beast he had ever seen. Easily seven meters or more.

Knowing how small and scrawny Laurence was, Ludwig barely could believe that the beast could be him.

The beast was literally on fire. It wasn't because someone had ignited it, it's fur possessed a fiery quality on its own. When it screeched, a sound that made Ludwig cringe and wince, he could see burning hot magma gathering in its throat.

The left hand was mutilated into a giant claw, far larger than the right claw. The snout was filled with a row of razor sharp teeth and a set of large antlers grew out of its head.

In the corner of his eye, Ludwig saw two black robes approaching the beast, their weapons raised while the beast was distracted smashing and igniting another chair, but the moment their attacks connected with its rear, it stopped and turned around.

Ludwig had never been faster to join a fight, his holy moonlight sword blocking a hit of that immensely large left claw. The force was enough to even knock him several feet back.

“Leave!”, Ludwig ordered the black robes. “Help with evacuating the church! I handle things here!”

The two of them were on their feet in an instant and ran towards the direction of the grand cathedral, while Ludwig eyes his foe.

Could that really be Laurence?

There was a glimmering of gold in front of the chest of the beast.

Ludwig's eyes widened as he recognized what it was.

The Vicar's pendant... Laurence would always wear it, every single day. There was no doubt.

“Laurence...”, Ludwig choked out, feeling tears form in his eyes, tears that didn't had time to spill, because Laurence used his moment of hesitation to hurl him into the next best wall.

Ludwig was blinded briefly by pain as one or two of his bones cracked. He slammed a blood vial into his tight and stood up again, he was the captain of the church hunters. He was used to receiving injuries like this. Nothing that the blood couldn't handle.

...Laurence had always said this.

Upon seeing that his prey had escaped him, Laurence screeched and his large claw came rushing down once again on Ludwig. Ludwig stepped to the side, a technique that Gehrman had taught him. A technique that each Hunter should master, or they wouldn't stand a chance against the beasts they fought.

“Laurence...”, he said again, now feeling the tears in his eyes spilling. “You aren't recognizing me anymore, do you..?”

No, of course not. Nobody had ever come back after transformation. There was only one thing Ludwig could do right now.

Give him a swift death.

Ludwig dodged another swipe of that large claw and propelled his sword into Laurence' right leg. He screamed in pain and... what sounded like frustration.

Ludwig removed his sword and saw far too hot blood gushing out of the wound, igniting the carpet around them.

“You didn't want for it to be me...”, Ludwig murmured to himself as he circled around Laurence, who growled and spluttered at him. Ludwig had always thought that the beasts still looked a tiny bit human. It was no different with Laurence, as grotesque as his body had become, the way he still kept himself upright on two feet and the way he mostly used his claws for attacking... it was one of the most uncanny things about being a hunter. The knowledge that once this wretched abomination had been a human.

It was different when it was his own lover and the head of the church though.

“You didn't want that I had to kill you.”, Ludwig finished his thought. “I would love to make it painless for you, but...”

Ludwig's voice trailed off as he was unable to finish the sentence. He knew that he had to strike Laurence down, he knew that he had to inflict a mortal injury on him to stop his rampage, but... it felt so hard to take the next step. Ludwig looked down at his arm and saw that he was trembling.

That had never happened before.

The arm holding his sword was trembling.

Next thing Ludwig felt was an intense pressure around his chest as Laurence' claws enclosed around his body and lifted him up in the air.

Ludwig stared at Laurence' face.. the face that wasn't his boyfriend's anymore. That was the face of a beast. A beast that would kill anything that crossed its path. A beast that was a danger. For the church, for Yharnam. A beast that had to be taken out.

As Laurence opened his mouth Ludwig wrestled his right arm free of his grip and then drove the sword deep into the open maw of him.

A garbled screech was to hear. Ludwig tried to shove the blade even deeper inside, but get hurled against the wall before he could even properly grab it. This time he had been prepared however and managed to endure the impact with minimum damage.

Laurence was howling in pain, bringing both claws up to his snout, fumbling for the sword stuck in his maw. Ludwig rolled himself up and put a safe distance between him and Laurence, as he managed to remove the sword and hurled it towards the same wall Ludwig had impacted with, blood gushing out of the wound. Blood that looked a lot more like lava.

Ludwig's feet carried him over to the place where his sword had landed. He grabbed for it and as his hands enclosed it, he could see the little lights. His guiding moonlight.

“My guiding moonlight... are you sure about this?”, he said, but he didn't have a reason to not believe its guidance. It always had been right. Ludwig turned around and looked at Laurence, who, in the meantime, had recovered from the pain, blood seeping out of his mouth as he growled in Ludwig's direction.

As he saw how Laurence set up for a lunge, he took the holy moonlight sword with both hands and directed it towards Laurence. He concentrated on the little lights and he was sure about it, they guided him towards a specific strike.

As Laurence executed his lunge, Ludwig ran towards him, following the little lights, jumping in the air shortly before Laurence' large claws let the ground shake and while Laurence was open, he rushed down and drove his sword into his skull, right where his eyes normally would have been.

He could hear the skull cracking as Laurence shrieked in pain. Ludwig landed on the ground, a hand still on his sword as Laurence started trashing around. Ludwig held on for dear life until Laurence laid on the ground, exhausted. Ludwig used that time to remove his sword, wincing in pain as far too hot blood gushed over him and made his skin blister. As long as Laurence was still stunned on the ground, he had to act quickly. Ludwig took a big swing with his sword and let it crash down on the wound.

Laurence cracked skull broke with an audible sound and he twitched for a few seconds.

Then, he stopped moving altogether.

Ludwig slowly approached Laurence. He didn't appear to be breathing anymore. It was over.

All the adrenaline of the fight left him at once. He felt tears streaming down his face. He collapsed on his rear, vaguely aware that the fire the room was coated in wouldn't stop burning and he likely would be reduced to ashes soon if he didn't move.

Nothing of it mattered to him in the moment however. He itched closer to Laurence' dead body, hugging the giant beastly skull, not caring that his burns got even worse as his tears freely fell down and produced steam on Laurence' still hot body.

“Oh, Laurence...”

[inb4belphienaps]

boundaries (continued)

<pt. 1> warnings: mention of nightmare (bugs), suggestive dialogue (?) word count: 1383

later that night, as you lie in bed staring at the ceiling, you try to picture where the butterfly had gone. something tells you that it dissipated, faded into the air after you'd returned your attention to him.

you recall the intensity with which he'd looked at you and you clench your jaw. the color of his magic is that of his eyes. a wonderful mixture that reminds you of sunsets over the water, where the sky melts into the land and the horizon becomes blurred.

beautiful. he's beautiful.

overwhelming at times but not in a way that deters you. had he been a tad more impatient or a pinch more entitled, you reason that you would've thought twice about helping him.

it was odd. how alluring he could be, how alluring he is. or perhaps you were doomed from the start. he's easy to talk to and you find yourself rambling every now and then. he never really interrupts you, if only to ask a question regarding an aspect you'd neglected to mention.

did he only show interest because of his circumstances? were you only preferable in lieu of the silence he had to endure alone?

you remember the feel of his lips. the way his breath had tickled your palm and you shiver. if you were to allow yourself to imagine, how would his lips taste, you wonder.

as you close your eyes in a bid to find out, you slowly drift off to sleep.

while belphie settles in under his covers, he concludes that he'd been far too pessimistic. you were open to letting him in, within reason. he'd scrapped the plan when he'd realized how you received him.

the way you didn't jump to conclusions or assume things on your own (so unlike a certain someone else he knew). the way you'd seemingly wanted to believe him, even before he'd started to explain himself.

he'd forgotten humans could be like that too. naïve and willing and...pure? he shakes his head. he'd never liked that word as an angel and now as a demon, he disliked it all the more. it was the connotations. except, he didn't know what other word to use to describe you. had his days in the devildom led him astray?

you'd been receptive to his kiss, he recollects with some semblance of embarrassment. it'd felt right at the time. yet as he turns the lights off, he wonders what he would've done had you not been as yielding.

and then, as if on cue, his mind reminds him of That Plan. he mulls it over briefly. and his desire to know whether you'll dream of him tonight because of what happened wins.

so he relaxes, shuts his eyes and lets his magic spread. slowly, from the cracks in the walls and through the gate, this attachment he'd formed to you, helps to guide him.

he's able to reach you and a rush of excitement causes him to pre-emptively enter your room. his vision isn't as clear as he'd like it to be, given the limited amount of power he could use with lucifer's enchantments in place.

it's comforting to see you asleep. he definitely would've foregone the effort had he found you awake.

although he's tempted to feel out the bits and pieces of your room, he focuses on your figure and lets his magic seep in.

entering dreams usually requires a minute amount of exertion and depending on the dream itself, he's often able to emerge in the background of the scene taking place. it helps when he's trying not to disturb the person dreaming. and in this case, that's the last thing he wants.

he recites the verse – once, twice, thrice for good measure.

the first thing that greets him is the sound of music. dreams, however confusing and muddled they could be, were only perceivable if they were felt. the tune is soft, and he takes a step forward, opening his eyes to a forest of some kind.

sunlight wafts in through the tree branches, bouncing off of leaves and droplets of what he gathers to be water (despite their honey-like nature). there isn't much movement aside from that. as if the landscape were frozen in time.

walking along a hazy path, he comes to a clearing and finally, he sees you. there you are, ankle-deep in a river of sorts, swaying and twirling in the middle of a kaleidoscope of butterflies. they're dancing. with you, it seems.

a lovely dream, he thinks. entirely innocent when compared to the types of inclinations he'd been hoping to find.

he follows your line of sight and he sees that the sky is painted mauve, dotted with clouds of pink and blue. awfully quaint. he catches a droplet falling from an elm and he watches it burst in a manner quite unlike normal physics would suggest.

it continues. weeks pass of him doing this, invading your dreams, and your suspicions grow ever nearer to the truth.

on one particular night, you're left feeling distraught.

this dream had been personal. it'd manifested in the human world. at home in fact, in the comfort of the house whose layout you knew like the back of your hand. concerns that plagued you played out like segments of a movie haphazardly thrown together.

anxieties and concerns weaved their way in. and so did belphie, apparently. he'd shown up during a rather horrible instance, when you'd curled up on the floor and tugged at the carpet, which had fallen apart in your hands.

only, it wasn't carpet. it was hair. and there hadn't been solid ground underneath it. instead, critters with thousands of legs and pincers that 'click-click-click'-ed emerged, crawling their way onto your hands. before you could scream, he'd pulled you away. and the scene had dissolved to the two of you lying together in bed.

you'd kissed him on those pretty lips. gone as far as to admit something to him too.

and so when you return to the attic to confront him, you're afraid of the consequences.

"how long?"

he looks at you with hooded eyes, not a hint of emotion betraying him. he needed to know where you stood first.

"how long have you been coming into my dreams like that?"

you hold up the charm solomon had lent you, the round gem inside it still glowing.

"i thought- why...why would you do that?"

"i only did it recently. after you told me you dreamt about me."

your mind reels to conjure up the memory of that day. the day you'd come to him slightly tipsy (again, thanks to solomon's certain 'privileges') and you'd made a fool of yourself. shame flares up in your stomach and you avert your gaze.

he'd argue otherwise if he knew that that was how you saw it.

"fuck. i thought you'd forgotten."

he snickers. and you have a half a mind to throw the charm at him. if only you knew how long he'd really been invading your dreams for.

"i wanted to see what they were about."

you tense at that. quickly stuffing the charm back in your pocket, you cross your arms.

"those are my dreams, belphie. what if you'd seen something...terrible?"

"if by terrible, you mean us christening the bed, then i'd have to say i disagree."

the blush on your cheeks has him grinning.

"that- please! i- i'd never-"

you pause at his expression. he sees you consider it, the thought fleeting through your mind in real time.

"okay, maybe, maybe i'm more perverse than i'd care to admit. but. and there is a but. it still doesn't give you the right to do that."

he chooses his next words very carefully and lowers his voice.

"not even when it means that we could meet in your dreams?"

another pause. you were too honest. he could read you so easily like this, how that offer makes you reconsider. you were beginning to become incredibly fond of him already, weren't you?

"i hate you."

he laughs unabashedly and you smile despite yourself.

"i pick the time and place though", you quickly add.

you think he's only nodding in response until he catches your eye and leans in, pressed up against the metal to say, "of course".

[teamhappyme]

a series of promising events (1/5)

aaron hotchner x female! reader

word count: 7.9k :)

a/n: hello hello hello! this is my first hotch fic, and the first of three parts (edit: it’s actually 5 now lolol). it’s going to cover 8 (maybe 9?) events over the course of several years, so it needed to be broken up in the most rational way possible. this is my baby, and has been in the editing process with my lazy brain since september. please, please, please, let me know if the timeline or anything is confusing to you! i have a tendency to under explain things (as my profs will testify to), and i don’t want y’all to be confused. i hope whoever stumbles across this enjoys!

also, big shoutout to @winterscaptain, you are a gift to the world, tali. i am in love with the ajf universe, and that shit inspired me to polish this piece up for the tumblr verse to see. 

alright friends, here we go.

link to part 2: here

**** 

June 2005

You wouldn’t forget your first day in the BAU for as long as you lived. It was forever ingrained in your memory, the good, bad, and embarrassing moments all stored away. Stored away that is until Derek Morgan decided to dredge it back up as you passed your six month mark on the job. 

Derek, Prentiss, Reid and yourself were finishing up paperwork in the bullpen after an unusually slow friday. You were usually the first one done, earning a groan from the doctor across from your desk. They all envied your English degree and professional writing skills. 

“Hey bobo,” The nickname Derek had assigned to you was named after your alma mater, and extremely annoying. “Remember your first day, when I tricked you into doing Prentiss and my paperwork for almost two weeks?” You shook your head, not having to look at Morgan to be able to hear the smirk in his voice. “Do you think I could trick you again?”

7:47. Thirteen minutes earlier than you needed to be. Yet the room full of agents you were supposed to join was already filled. You liked these people already, they were punctual and functioned in the morning. 

You pushed one of the glass doors open with your ballet flat, juggling your box of office supplies while keeping your crossbody balanced on your shoulder. The sound of fingers pounding on keyboards, phones ringing on loop welcomed you into the BAU. Along with a shove to your back, causing you to lunge forward. You felt something cold run down your back, cursing yourself for wearing a white blouse.

“Are you alright?” You looked up to find a tall mop of brown hair and big brown eyes looking down at you. “Well, I’m a little damp.”

He nodded while looking at your box full of sticky notes and pens. “You must be y/n l/n. I’m Dr. Spencer Reid. We’ve been taking bets on what time you’d arrive. And you beat us all with your extreme punctuality.” You laughed. “Sorry to let you down. It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Reid.” You extended your hand for him to shake, but he just stared at your extended limb.

“Yeah, he doesn’t do that sort of thing.” The new voice came into view, shaking your hand that was meant for Reid. He was tall like Spencer, but was lean with a smile on his face. Confident. “I’m Derek Morgan. When JJ told us the new recruit graduated with an english degree, I expected someone with tweed elbow patches and big round glasses.” 

“You’re an english major? Statistically speaking, only three percent of the agents that have been recruited for the BAU didn’t have any background in law enforcement or field experience.” This wasn’t the first time you’d been questioned at the FBI for being a liberal arts degree profiler. Your english degree and your fresh age of twenty five left many people to dismiss you through your time in the academy. But you got used to it. 

“Sorry to disappoint your stereotypical profile of an FBI agent,” You started, shifting your weight between your feet, now uncomfortable and a little embarrassed in front of your new co-workers. 

“Oh I didn’t mean it as an offense. I-” “He’s a genius, but he lacks some social cues. You’re the first girl he’s been around that’s his age in the workplace.” Morgan added and Reid elbowed his ribs. You covered the smile on your face as the two of them started to quietly bicker. 

“Let the poor woman go and settle in at least before you harass her.” A brunette woman in a black pant suit came walking toward you. She had a stern face while looking at the two men, but when she turned to you, her face softened into a smile. “Special Agent Emily Prentiss. You do not understand how happy I am to have another woman out in this bullpen.”

You laughed as she led you to the empty desk across from Dr. Reid’s. “Welcome to your new home.”

“Thanks.” You placed your box down before taking the place in. “I’m supposed to meet with SSA Hotchner,”

“Agent l/n,” All heads turned to the man descending the stairs into the bullpen. He was taller than the other two, and that was saying a lot since they practically towered over you. He had a clean boys haircut, paired with a suit and tie. No question that this was the unit chief you were to report to. “I’m SSA Aaron Hotchner. Welcome to the BAU.” He shook your hand before looking at the others. “JJ’s ready to debrief in the conference room.”

And just like that, the three agents sprung into action, leading the way to the board room. “We can go over the particulars when we get back from Nebraska. You ready for your first case?”

His face didn’t change, no change of tone in his voice. He lived and breathed for the BAU. Until you noticed the wedding band on his left hand. It was always the first thing you looked for when you met someone new. It was shallow and patriarchal, you knew, but it was instinct. And it put you at ease knowing there was someone out there he was doing this for. Someone he didn’t have to hold this demeanor around. 

“Ready.”

“Funny. But if you have any other insults to give, direct them to the head of the english department at Bowdoin. Mention that you’re talking about y/n l/n, with the 4.0 GPA.”

Prentiss led a slow clap as Derek shook his head. 

“I think that’s what the kids are calling a ‘mic drop’.” Spencer added and you couldn’t help your laugh. “Alright kid, why don’t you get out of here before we inevitably find ourselves back.”

You turned off the lamp on your desk and grabbed your crossbody and backpack. “Have a good weekend guys. And Reid,” He looked up, and you laughed as he pushed his hair out of his face. “Please recite the old testament for these two if they mock me while I’m gone.” He gave you a mock salute as Prentiss flipped you off on your way to Hotch’s office. 

In the six months you’d been here, these three people you shared the bullpen with had quickly become the siblings you never had. Morgan acted as your annoying older brother, constantly picking on you and Reid. Not only were you the newbie, but you were now the youngest, only a year behind Spencer. Emily Prentiss on the other hand, was the protective older sister you always dreamed of. She was confident and held her own against the male dominated team, but knew when to be soft spoken and caring with victims and the team when needed.

And then there was Dr. Spencer Reid. The smartest person on the planet, in your book. Sure, he was a little socially awkward and didn’t know when to stop listing off all the stats he knew, but you understood. He was consistently the youngest and smartest person in every classroom he walked into. There weren’t many people that wanted to get to know him without bullying him or picking apart his eidetic memory. Despite the problematic first encounter you shared, the two of you stuck together considering your combined intellect and young age. He taught you the ins and outs of the BAU, and helped you get accustomed to D.C. Although, Spencer himself hadn’t really ventured out into the city in the four years he’s been here. So the two of you tried to see as many things as you could in the rare weekends that you weren’t working a case. You worked your way through a third of the smithsonian's, and saw the Declaration of Independence. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t get a little emotional while looking at it. Spencer had called you a nerd, and you didn’t mind one bit. 

You walked up the steps to Hotch’s office, case reports in your hand from this week. The blinds were open, you could see him working through the stack of files on his desk. Despite the exhaustion written all over his face, his sport coat was still on, tie still impeccably tight around his neck. Even when he was in private he kept up the put together facade.

You knocked on the door, and heard a quiet ‘come in’ as you twisted the door knob. “L/n,” “I have my case reports from this week.” “Just place them on my desk.”

“How much longer are you here for?” He let out a sigh while closing the file in his hand. 

“Another hour or two.” You opened your mouth to respond, but he beat you to the punch. “And before you offer to stay and help me, I don’t need any help.”

“You just don’t want to listen to me singing Coldplay under my breath.” He huffed out a semblance of a laugh. A month into your bout here, Morgan had accosted you on the jet on the way home from Milwaukee. None of you had slept in three days, and you were currently enthralled in your new mp3 player and Coldplay's newest album ‘X&Y’. After the third song, a paper cup was thrown at the back of your head, followed by a ‘I’m trying to sleep, bobo’ from Derek. It was a habit of yours that you had yet to kick. 

“That’s part of the reason.” “I knew it.” He opened another file, and you took that as a cue to wrap up the conversation. You rummaged through your purse, looking for the blue envelope you sealed this morning. 

“Um, I also wanted to drop this off. It’s for Jack, you mentioned he was being Christened this weekend.” You placed the card on top of the pile of paperwork, your cursive handwriting on top. “I was going to get him a stuffed animal or some type of toy, but he’s only three months old and wouldn’t know the difference. This check may be the penny that helps you guys afford Harvard.”

A real laugh escaped his lips now, as he picked up the card. “Thank you, y/n. You didn’t have to do this.” You smiled. “I know, but I wanted to. He’s a cute kid.” 

He looked at the framed picture of Jack on his desk, then back up to you. No one else had mentioned the Christening after Hotch first brought it up. He was quiet, and only liked to talk about his family if he initiated the conversation. You could tell you were the only person who had reached out like this, with a simple gift. 

Hotch had been the hardest person to get to know in your time here. Despite Morgan saying there are no secrets kept among the team, you knew these people had their demons. And Hotch certainly had enough both professionally and personally. You didn’t want to push the professional boundaries, but you always wanted to be present in the lives of people that you shared time with. To let them know you were thinking of them, and cared for them. It was probably your most damaging personality trait.

“I’ll let you finish your work so you can get home at a reasonable hour. Tell Haley I said hi.” He nodded. “I will y/n. Have a nice weekend.”

****

December 2005

You pride yourself in the fact that you haven’t shot your weapon in the year you’ve spent with the BAU. It meant that you were successful at connecting to these people’s emotions, despite the asterisk next to their name labeling them as a serial killer or sadist. Guns were there to protect you, and they were always the last result. But as you pulled up to a log cabin in the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania, you had a feeling your record was going to be broken.

The team was working a case where six bodies, two adult males and four teenage males, were found mutilated, along with a cut from sternum to belly button. It was the first case you worked that had no female victims. A small victory, in your mind. But, it was also the first case you worked that the profile of the unsub fit a sixteen year old girl, who had most likely been assaulted as a young child. When children were involved, the team acted differently. They were failed by the people that were supposed to care for them, they were consistently hurt with no one to turn to. And as a result, they would spend the rest of their lives paying for it. 

You, Prentiss, and Hotch got out of the suburban, strapping the bullet proof vests onto your bodies. Thanks to Garcia, you had found the unsub’s location once she turned her cell phone back on. A cruiser pulled up behind you guys, two more cops falling out. 

“Prentiss, you take the two officers down with you to the exterior basement access. L/n and I will take the main floor.” Hotch ordered as he pulled his gun from his holster. 

You could feel the anxiety rising in your chest, but there was no time to calm it down. You barely had enough time to strap on your vest. 

“Ready?” Hotch looked at you before taking another step toward the cabin. You nodded, pulling your own gun from it’s holster. “Ready.”

You followed him up to the front porch, announcing yourselves before kicking the door in. You cleared the living room as Hotch cleared the dining room and bathroom, leaving you both to meet up in the kitchen. 

That was where you found her. You saw her first, hiding half of her face behind the rifle that she had pointed at you. She was trembling, dried tear streaks left on her cheeks. She was petrified. 

“Stephanie Moore?” Her grip on the gun tightened at the mention of her name as you heard Hotch’s footsteps get closer. “My name is Y/n L/n, I’m with the FBI. I don’t want to hurt you Stephanie, but I need you to put the gun down.”

Hotch joined you on your left, both of you directing your weapons toward the young girl. “I did what I had to do to survive. They took everything from me, every last shred of dignity I had. I wasn’t going to let them kill me.” You never thought it would be possible for your heart to break while listening to an unsub. But this tiny girl standing in front of you, with her whole life ahead of her, it just hit you too hard. 

“I know you did, Stephanie. You were so brave and so strong. Not many people could survive what you did.” She started to loosen her grip on the rifle, you were getting through to her. “I’m here to help you. I want to put an end to all of this.”

You glanced at Hotch and he gave the slightest nod, giving you the okay to take a step forward together. “I couldn’t let them get away with it.” Ever so slowly, the gun started to lower in her hands. 

“You’re doing great. Just a little lower and this will all be over.” Before she could completely lower her weapon, you heard the storm door to the basement slam shut. 

Stephanie jumped, raising her weapon back up in her hands.

“You said you were here to help me!” She exclaimed, the gun pointed at you as Hotch took another step forward. “I am Stephanie, but other members of my team are trying to help the boy you took.”

Fresh tears started to fall down her cheeks and you knew you were losing her. “Y/n,” 

He whispered to you and she moved the gun from your chest to Hotch’s. “Shutup!”

“Stephanie, hey, look at me,” She shook her head, continuing her stare at Hotch. “He’s in on it, he has to be!”

“He’s not! He’s my boss, trust me, Stephanie.” You heard the safety go off, and before her foot landed as she took her first step towards Hotch, you emptied two rounds into her chest. He rushed forward as she fell, kicking away her gun and checking her pulse. Nothing. 

You lowered your gun as your breathing increased, looking at the lifeless sixteen year old lying in front of you. A hand covered your mouth as you realized what you’d done. 

You killed her. 

You remembered what it felt like to be sixteen. Struggling to find your identity, wanting so desperately to be noticed by someone. For anyone to reach out and help you. 

But you took that away from her. You ended her life before it even began.

“Are you guys okay?” You heard Prentiss come up through the basement, but your eyes were closed as she entered the room. “We’re good. Y/n took the shot.”

Hotch stood up and dared a look at you, taking in your grief stricken state. “Did you find the boy?” 

“Yeah, he’s gonna be fine.”

Before Emily could greet you, you ran to the corner of the room, heaving up whatever was inside your almost empty stomach. Your throat burned as you threw up for a second time, vaguely registering two people calling your name.

“You’re okay, y/n,” Prentiss approached you, gently resting a hand on your back. You coughed a few more times before a towel was being rushed to your side. “It’s okay.”

The whirring of more sirens forced you to open your eyes and straighten up from your sick position. Prentiss had eyes filled with concern, not letting go of you until you gave her a slight nod. She handed you a water before she exited the house, letting two uniforms in. They went straight to Hotch, asking questions and looking over the body before their eyes landed on you. You felt exposed, like you were the one lying lifeless on the ground for all to see. You took a few deep breaths to get your breathing under control, and tore your gaze away from Stephanie. 

Hotch finished his conversation with the officers before walking over to you. “Hey,” He rested a hand on your shoulder, and you couldn’t help but flinch. “It was a clean shot, but protocol states they have to take your gun and badge as well as give a statement to IA.” You nodded, taking your badge from your pocket. “They’re gonna take you back to the station and do an interview. This should all be wrapped up in a few hours. We’ll meet you back there, alright?”

You glanced up at his big brown eyes, warm as they bore into yours instead of their usual slanted nature. “Okay.”

The two officers escorted you to their patrol car, taking your badge and gun before you got in. You felt naked without them, like you were a nobody wandering the streets looking for someone to help, or looking for someone to help you.

It was a good thirty minute ride to the station from the cabin, and when you got there a detective from IA was already waiting for you. They led you into an interrogation room where they already had Section Chief Strauss hooked up through video call. Great. 

The questions they asked were pretty straight forward, nothing that couldn’t be answered by a crime scene report from the technicians. But the government insisted on interviewing cops involved in shootings, just in case it wasn’t legal. As if anyone wanted to deal with the psychological repercussions of taking another’s life. 

It took them nearly an hour and a half to get through the interrogation. In part due to you almost throwing up a third time as Strauss asked you to repeat the moment you shot Stephanie. They gave you a few minutes to regroup, some ginger ale and crackers from the vending machine to help settle your stomach. They took your fingerprints last, letting Strauss finish up with the bureaucratic discussion.

“That’s all for now Agent L/n. We’ll debrief tomorrow morning when you’re back in Quantico.” “Yes ma’am. Thank you.”

They led you out of the interrogation room and back through the lobby leaving you at the conference room your team had been set up in the last three days.

The white boards were still littered with images of the victims, crime scenes, and the unsub. Piles of evidence were scattered along the table, and you tried to resist looking through them again. You knew if you went through the images of the mutilated boys again, you wouldn’t survive the emotional turmoil. But you needed to know that you made the right choice, the only choice to prevent more families from going through the same pain and suffering as the Corbins. 

You turned to the white board, glancing at the first victim. Connor Corbin was fifteen years old, on the varsity soccer team, and involved in musical theatre. He was cousins with the teenager that abused Stephanie. She targeted all the men in her abusers life, letting them know what he did to her. Wanting them to understand the pain she’d had to endure because of their ignorance.

You looked through the rest of the victims, the abusers two younger brothers, father and uncle were among those killed. The boys were only twelve years old. You brought a hand up to cover your mouth, remembering meeting their mother on the first day you were here. JJ was the one to speak to her, as the communications liaison, most people trusted her with being the most empathetic. That fact was up for debate, in your opinion. She was a wreck, and JJ needed help comforting her from Morgan. But you understood, boy had you understood. Her whole family was killed. 

“Y/n,” You jumped, startled by the new voices in the room. Hotch, Spencer, and JJ had arrived back at the station. “Did they clear you?”

You nodded as Spencer walked over to you. “Yeah, Strauss just wants to debrief again tomorrow morning.” “Of course she does.”

Section Chief Erin Strauss is a hardass and not the biggest fan of the BAU. “Did they give you your piece back?” Your hand immediately flew to your left hip, void of your gun and holster. “No, I completely forgot about it.” You went to move toward the door, but Spencer laid a hand on your forearm. “It’s okay, I’ll get it.” He gave your arm a comforting squeeze before leaving the conference room. 

You spared a glance at Hotch as you started cracking your knuckles. “JJ, why don’t you call the airstrip, tell them to get the jet ready.” “Yes sir.”

In an effort to keep your mind busy, you started to take down the pictures from the white board, erasing all Reid’s notes in his barely legible handwriting. The boy had three PhD’s, yet couldn’t figure out the concept of penmanship. 

“Are you alright?” “Fine.” You pulled an empty manila folder out, stuffing Connor’s pictures in. “You don’t have to clean this up for them.” “I know.”

He sighed. “Y/n, stop.” His voice was stern now and you dropped the files. “I asked if you were alright.”

“Why wouldn’t I be alright, Hotch?” You crossed your arms over your chest, letting a breath out. “We found her, we saved her from hurting anyone else, and we brought closure to Mrs. Corbin. Case closed, the BAU gets to go home.”

Your eyes started to water but you refused to bring your hands up to wipe them away. You wouldn’t let them fall. “We’ve all been where you are right now.”

“I’m confident that you’ve never felt what I’m feeling before.”

“Try me.” He didn’t flinch, his hands remained in his pockets, stare heavy on your own. 

“When JJ presented this case to us, that two teenage boys and their fathers had been murdered, it was a no brainer for all of us to take it. Two twelve year old boys dead, two more teenagers missing, how could we not take it? But then we got here, and we met with the victims' families, we learned the boys' backgrounds, the unsub’s profile.” You scoffed, not sure who you were angered with at the moment. “This girl was raped by a seventeen year old boy and his father for two years, and we’re still supposed to treat her like a monster, like Tim Vogel?” You shook your head. “I’m not condoning what she did, but, can you blame her? And then we went in, and she had a gun raised at us. I would’ve been able to talk her down, I know I could’ve saved her if she didn’t have the gun.”

“But she had a gun.” You nodded. “She had a gun and it was raised at you. And I didn’t even flinch to take the shot. All it took was two seconds for me to forget her pain, her trauma, and reduce her to a sick serial killer.”

Even though that’s what Stephanie ultimately was, you didn’t want to accept it. Because she was a person before she went through all that pain, she was someone’s daughter, who was involved in gymnastics and softball, and had stuffed animals scattered across her bedroom. God, were you ever going to forget what she looked like?

“Feeling guilty about taking someone’s life is a good thing. It means your human, that you care.” Hotch freed his hands from his pockets, taking the file you packed out of your grip. “You’re not like them, y/n.”

You dared a glance at him as you felt more tears spring to the surface. Those big brown eyes could tell a story all on their own, and right now, they were pleading for you to believe him. You would try. 

“Got the goods.” Spencer came back in, your gun and credentials in hand. “They really had the audacity to I.D. me, as if we hadn’t just worked a case with them the last seventy two hours.” 

He got you to laugh, which served you enough cover to wipe your eyes dry. And out of the corner of your eye, you thought you saw a rare smile cross Hotch’s face. 

But Aaron knew there was more to your guilt than just this little girl. He was the leader of this team, it was his job to know the people he was in charge of like the back of his hand in order to keep them safe. And in the year that you’d been here, he noticed how reserved you were. Too reserved and too broken for a twenty-six year old. How you took on the giver persona to hide the fact that you were terribly closed off to others and your emotions. You would be the first to offer help, to be a listening ear, or lend your shoulder to cry on. But you never accepted it from anyone. Not that you had to, until today. 

When Hotch started to notice you and Spencer growing closer at the three month mark, he was excited. Proud, even. He knew you were struggling with the gruesome cases (he knew you threw up after every crime scene, despite your best efforts with barf bags and travel size mouthwash) and hoped you could share your burdens with the young doctor. But it seemed like they only grew in time, like the smile on your face. Hotch just hoped you knew your limits.

“Gather whatever else you guys need for Quantico. Wheels up in thirty.” Reid nodded for both of you as Hotch left the conference room, presumably to find JJ. 

“Everything okay in here?” He asked as you continued to empty the white boards, this time at a faster pace. Of course he had noticed the red rim on your waterline and the red tip on your nose. Spencer could read you better than anyone else, regardless of being a profiler or not.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Just talked through the case.” His feet stayed nailed to the ground, yet his eyes continued to stick to the back of your head. You sighed and stopped moving, turning to face him. “Spencer, I can feel you boring holes into the back of my head.”

He had a sheepish smile and ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry. We have copies of all this back at the office, I already faxed it over to Garcia. Why don’t we spend the next twenty eight minutes searching for a good burger before the flight home.”

You smiled. “Okay. As long as I can get a vanilla shake, too.”

****

May 2006

Growing up, you always wanted an office job. A boring nine to five with your own cubicle, a script to follow when your phone rang and a customer needed help. You’d have a generic wall calendar pinned on the particle board, sticky notes littering your monitor screen, and maybe a few pictures of pets and future family. It was safe, predictable, and what you were constantly told all you would be capable of.

Now, as you’re sitting on the FBI owned jet with your six special agent coworkers, you can’t imagine living that life you once dreamt of. 

It was nearing two a.m., and you were two hours into the flight home from Los Angeles. Reid was passed out on the couch, Prentiss and JJ in the same state of mind in the cluster of four chairs, legs spread out. Morgan and Rossi were sitting across from one another, each listening to their own playlists. And by the way Rossi was tapping his fingers against the arm rest, you knew it was some genre of opera. 

This left you in the back of the jet, staring out the window as you passed over Nebraska. You always had the map up on your screen, wanting to know every state you passed over. No matter the case, you always looked forward to the plane ride. It calmed you, oddly enough. 

“Not tired?” Hotch took the seat across from you, handing you one of the two cups of tea. “Plane rides are too exciting for me to catch any sleep.”

You took a sip of the hot drink and your face scrunched out of instinct. You never liked tea, but you tried it again and again when people assured you that it would calm you down. It never worked. 

“You could just say no,” He added and you smiled. “I know. But my taste buds may change one of these times.”

He took a sip out of his own cup, no change of expression on his face. You couldn’t help the chuckle that left your lips and his eyes narrowed on you. 

“What?” 

“Well, you may enjoy the taste, but it seems like it’s calming chamomile effect has never worked on you, either.” “We’re not supposed to profile each other.” 

“Then don’t even think about rattling off excuses of why I’m not sleeping.”

He looked down at his cup, slowly nodding his head. “Well if you don’t want to talk about what’s really bothering you, because I know it’s not sleep, I can bore you with Jack’s sleep routine we have to stick to.” You smiled. “You know that I’m the only one on this team that would actually be interested in Jack’s sleeping routine. Hell, anything with that chubby little baby would interest me. Bring it on, Hotch.”

It was no secret that Jack Hotchner was your favorite person on the planet. Not only was he the chubbiest little nugget you’d ever seen, he was the result of two of the strongest people you knew. 

The first time you met Haley, she was six months pregnant with Jack, begging Hotch to leave the office early for a date night. You made the afternoon walk up to his office, dropping off some files for him to sign when you first saw her.

“Come on, Aaron. This baby is going to be here before we know it, and who knows the next time we’ll have any alone time will be.”

Before he could respond, you knocked on the open door. Both of their heads snapped over to you, and a red blush of embarrassment spread across your cheeks. “Sorry to interrupt, sir. Just dropping off some reports for you to sign off on.”

You smiled at the petite blonde woman while placing the files on the desk. “It’s okay l/n. This is my wife, Haley Hotchner. Haley, this is Agent y/n l/n, she started about a month ago.” She smiled back at you, extending a hand to shake. 

“It’s nice to meet you, y/n. I’ll leave the agent part out, it makes you sound like a robot.” She said and glared at her husband before placing her hand back on her growing belly. You laughed once you heard Hotch let out a breath, knowing he wasn’t offended with her joke. 

“It’s nice to meet you too.” The smile only grew on your face as you looked at her, admiring her own belly. “Congratulations on the baby. It’s always exciting to bring a baby into the world.”

“Thank you. If only my husband thought going out with me was half as exciting, he would’ve been gone a half an hour ago.” “Haley!” He was more than surprised that she would speak so cavalierly while at the office, especially around someone he had barely gotten a chance to know yet. But the two girls only shared a laugh.

“Hotch, why don’t you go. I can hold things down around here.” “Y/n, it’s not your responsibility to. And quite frankly-” You dropped a file to the desk, boldly interrupting your bosses statement. You were only acting like this because you knew his wife deserved half the attention he gave to this place. “It’s a friday night, and your beautiful, pregnant wife is asking you to go to dinner with her. JJ and I will be here if anything comes up, I’ll even redirect your calls to my desk.”

“I like you.” Haley said with a smile, gently squeezing your shoulder. “She means business.”

Hotch let out a sigh, reluctantly grabbing his briefcase and punching a few buttons on his phone to make sure his calls went to you. “You or JJ call me immediately if I’m needed.”

“Promise. Now go have fun.” He gave you the smallest smile as he grabbed Haley’s extended hand to him. “Thank you, y/n. I owe you one.” Haley said as they exited his office. But you weren’t looking for a favor in return. You did this to make them happy, and you always felt better when those that surrounded you were at their best.

But Haley did end up paying you back. She asked you to babysit the first night her and Hotch went out after the baby was born. Apparently, she was impressed with your background in social services that Rossi had drunkenly let slip at the office christmas party. And only you would get excited to babysit a poopy baby, for free. And you continued to do it as many times as they needed you to.

You earned a smile from the reserved unit chief, and raised a fist in the air. “I’ll have to add that to the team tally sheet. I’m now tied with Reid for the lead in making you crack a human expression.” “Doesn’t matter who’s in the lead, you’re all behind Jack.” He quipped back and you returned his smile.

You looked back out the window of the jet, the view of any terrain was quite literally clouded. You could see the moon reflecting on the puffy clouds, and you knew then and there you could be converted to a night person if you could look at this view every night.

“I wanted to check in with you, about Randall Garner.” You looked back to your boss, eyes glued to your own, an earnest gaze in them. “With what happened last time-”

“Last time it was a sixteen year old girl. This time it was a psychotic father who was torturing his child. There’s a broad spectrum.”

“So you don’t feel guilty about taking his life?” The way your stomach flipped at the mention of your actions merely hours ago should have worried you more than it did. 

“Of course I feel guilty.” You quipped back, and quickly looked around to make sure you didn’t disturb anyone else. Hotch didn’t even flinch. “I didn’t take this job to play God. I wanted to help people, I wanted to stop people from getting hurt. To be on the other side of the heartbreak.”

Before transferring to Quantico, you worked as a social worker in Brooklyn for three years, straight out of college. You saw first hand the horrors and trauma that came with being in the foster system, and you wanted to help children going through the same situation you had. 

This became your life, even after you escaped it. And one day, it became too much. You needed a fresh start, to make a change and help people from a different platform. And with your degree in English, and minor in psychology, the BAU seemed to be a perfect fit for a new career. 

“Why did you leave DCFS?” It irked you to no end how his voice stayed so calm when he was clearly agitated. Especially since the silky smooth tone had talked you off an emotional ledge one too many times.

“Why are you interrogating me? Strauss said it was a clean shot, that she was proud to have a man like that dead and accounted for.” A direct quote from the ever emotionless section chief. If only she had any field experience, she would understand what this job was like. “Besides, I’ve been here for a year and half. You should have my file memorized by now.”

“Half of your file is sealed. Strauss must have a soft spot for you.” You actually laughed at that. Strauss most certainly did not have a soft spot for you. She was however under orders from the Attorney General of New York to keep my file sealed, no matter my employer. 

“My sealed file has nothing to do with the actions I took tonight.” You uncrossed your legs now and turned your body to face him. This conversation wasn’t ending any time soon. “If I needed help grieving this process, I would ask for it, Hotch. I’m fine.”

He wanted to believe you. More than anything else, he wanted to believe that you had found a routine that helped you forget the daily horrors you saw. But he knew that you were the last to leave the office every night, he knew you drove home with the light on in the backseat of your car every night. Deep down, he knew you weren’t fine. 

“We don’t ever truly know the people we work with. Despite the fact that we say there are no secrets in this unit, we all have our own demons we hold onto. I know you’re not fine, y/n.” You let out a strained laugh as you started tapping your foot anxiously against the ground. 

“I do though.” For the first time tonight, Hotch had no idea what you were talking about. His furrowed brow only made your throat tighten. “I know every single one of these people’s secrets. They confide in me because they know about my past with DCFS. Everything I knew was confidential, and it ate me up inside not being able to tell anybody the horrors these children go through.” You ran a hand through your hair; the flood gates were open. You feared there would be no turning back now. “It started out as me just wanting to get to know them. I wanted to be liked, and I wanted to trust my coworkers. And then overnight, I became Father l/n, sworn to secrecy by the Parish of the FBI. I’ve become a suggestion box, papers filling me up to the top and no one is coming to empty me out. 

“But I can’t even be mad at them,” I said as my eyes started to water, remembering what Spencer said to me two months into our friendship. “Spencer told me I’m the only person that’s ever listened to his problems without suggesting that he see someone to talk to. He said I was the only person that’s ever laughed at his stuffy jokes without making fun of him. I can’t be mad at them for confiding in me in their time of need. But I’m just,” You tried to smile as a tear rolled down your cheek. “I’m just really overflowing.”

Aaron Hotchner was lucky enough to have never experienced a heartbreak in his life. He met Haley his junior year of high school, she was his first and only girlfriend, hurling him into a life of love and happiness, sparing him any pain from loving someone too much. But as he watched you break in front of him, feeling so overwhelmed by the responsibility to be everyone’s rock, to be everyone’s source of light, he experienced his first heartbreak. And he was sure he never wanted to feel it again.

“So confide in me.” You didn’t think his tone could become any softer. His baritone voice had already been strained to keep from waking the others, and he somehow became even softer. But you shook your head, quickly bringing your hands up to wipe the tears that fell down your face. “Why not?”

“Because you’re the boss. You have all of us to worry about when we’re in the field. You have Strauss breathing down your neck, waiting for one of us to screw up.” He rested his elbows on his knees, slightly leaning toward you. “Most importantly, you have Haley and Jack that need you to be their confidante. That beautiful family needs you to be there when you’re not here.”

“Y/n, if you can’t come talk to me when you’re drowning in your own thoughts, I’ve failed you as a boss.” He sighed at your continued silence. “I can’t force you to open up. But I can’t watch you give and give and give without earning a reprieve of your own.”

So the two of you sat there, in a deafening silence, as you counted the seconds passing by. You were both too stubborn to pull away first, because that would be admitting defeat, and this conversation would end then and there. You counted to one hundred and eighty seconds, three minutes, when you finally got tired of staring into the endless brown eyes of Aaron Hotchner. 

You thought carefully about what you were going to say, what you would reveal in the magic that covered the two a.m. air. And no matter how hard you tried to in those one hundred and eighty seconds, you could not keep your eyes from watering.

“I grew up in foster care.” You started, scanning his face for any judgements. You weren’t going to find any. “The last, and most permanent foster parents I had were horrible. It was basic shit that happened to every kid in foster care, nothing scandalous enough to get them to be turned in. But their birth son,” You swallowed, trying to resist the urge to pick your fingernails. “He moved back in with them when I was fifteen. He was a loser, and he started to take a share of the subsidy checks. I heard him in the living room one night with Charlotte, one of the younger girls that lived there. She was only twelve, and I found him pinning her to the couch, a knife to her throat. And I just snapped. I lunged at him, knocking him off of her. It’s all blurry now, except for when I stabbed him in the throat.” My hand scratched at the side of my neck, subconsciously finding the spot I stabbed him. “He died before the ambulance got there. Charlotte and I both gave statements, and it was ruled as self defense. But the statement still lives in my file, and with some convincing, I got Strauss and DCFS to keep it sealed.”

In all honesty, Hotch didn’t know what to expect when you decided to open your mouth. But he never would’ve guessed this. Not from the doe eyed kid that never forgot a birthday, that got everyone a donut and coffee on Monday mornings. Not from the kindest person he worked with. 

“You know that took a lot of courage to get out, so it would be nice if you could say something.” You started to panic, wondering if he saw you as a monster, as a killer.

“You were the oldest one there, weren’t you?” Your eyes widened, how did he know that? “You grew up quick and took on the role of the parent for those younger kids. You wanted them to be safe, stay innocent for as long as they could.”

You finally tore yourself away from his gaze, starting to become too strong. Baby steps. 

“None of us had a family. I tried my hardest to shelter them from those people and make a family out of the five of us. And it worked. Because all four of them still reach out and tell me how successful they are.”

“But they don’t feel like your family.” You had a sad smile and looked back up at him. 

“Do you ever stop profiling?” He mirrored the smile you gave him. “No, they don’t. But I was old enough to understand that they needed each other more than I needed them. Besides, I found a pretty weird family to take me in.”

You earned another laugh from Hotch as you made a check mark in the air, referencing the team tally. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, searching through the cash and cards he had in there. 

“What are you doing?” He pulled out a thin wallet picture and turned it over to you. It was of him, Haley, and Jack on his first birthday. “You’ve got more than one weird family to belong to.”

He extended the picture to you, but you shook your head, the anxiety forming a pit in your stomach. “Hotch, this is your family. I can’t,”

“You can. And this family wouldn’t be half as happy as they are in this picture if it weren’t for you and everyone on this team.” You smiled down at the picture, Jack had frosting from his birthday cake all over his face. You reached out and took it between your fingers. “You’re a giver, y/n. You wear your heart on your sleeve and exude more empathy than we know what to do with.” You let out a laugh as you pulled out your own wallet now, tucking the picture in one of the plastic sleeves. “It’s time you learned how to accept the love you give.”

It was deep, too deep to be coming from your boss on the private jet at two in the morning. But he was more than just your boss, and they were more than just your team. And this job, boy this job was so much better than sitting in a cubicle, answering questions from a recited list.

****

[h-e-l-l-b-r-o-k-e]

Touch [B.H. x you]

Request:

Inspiration: Hands Across The Sea by Modern English

Words: 1828 Warnings: none.

Written Date: 3/16-31/2020 Posted Date: 4/4/2020

[MASTERLIST]

Scratched up skateboard wheels rolling across the pavement fluttered through the three-inch crack of the front door as Billy sat at the kitchen table. He’ll be met with a stern lecture from a mustached lip if a fly managed to wander into the home like a tourist upon their first breath of the A.C. at a hotel lobby, but Billy had much more important business to intend to. Report cards were just around the corner and with his sweet talking skills, Billy’d convinced the math teacher into giving him a passing grade if he turned in 200 solved problems by the end of the week.

He had seven days. Seven whole days to answer some textbook questions that they’ve gone over in class. It should have been easy, except it wasn’t. Billy was failing the class for a reason. Day five only had two hours left of sunshine, yet Billy’s currently stuck on problem forty-six. With each tick of the clock mounted behind him, his frustration grew.

One of his temples rested in the cup of his left palm as he beat the eraser head on the other before tossing the pencil at the book pages. Words were merging into numbers and numbers were blurring into letters.

Fuck it, he thought, I’ll just ask for a tutor. Yet he knew if he kept this mindset he’d fail, receive a smack across the back of his head, and still wouldn’t seek out a tutor.

He could hear the skateboard’s wheels beat relentlessly against the cracked concrete while Max explained the footwork behind the technique to you, who was sitting on the grass with your white cane last he check. Jealousy picked at the nerves in his forehead as frustration clenched his eyebrows together.

His mind began running off of the book pages and onto the blue sports car in his driveway. Would he have enough for the wash and the wax. Would there be enough leftover for a tip? Billy was an asshole to a lot of things, but he knew what it was liked to be stiffed.

Page 267 was beginning to give him more trouble than it was worth, and those pointers the geek with the lisp in his class gave weren’t helping at all. The rim of one of Susan’s good glasses touched the plush of his bottom lip, the cool water streaming down the well of his parched throat―

A gasp bordering along a yelp burst through the door, clawing its way into his ear. He nearly choked on his drink; some loose water dribbled down his chin.

Pushing out of his chair and the table he was leaning on, not caring if the polished hardwood caught a couple scratches, he was out the front door in five seconds.

Under the shade of his palm, which he planted against his eyebrows to fend off the sun’s brightness, he scanned the situation for clues.

His step-sister’s skateboard lied planted on the other side of the street. Upside down. Wheels spinning lazily under the shade.

The little redheaded runt’s wide eyes met his. Laced with alarm. Her bottom lip wobbled in search for words. Her hands held out below her…toward you, who was slowly lifting yourself by the skin of your elbows.

Raw. Blood beginning to clot around the loose gravel that clung to the wounds.

Billy marched through the grass, nearly tripping over your forgotten cane. “Max, what’d you do?!”

Max took a deep breath, crouching down to you. Her small fingers brushed your palm before helping you to your feet. “I’m sorry.”

As soon as you were back on the safety pads of your feet, Max turned to face her fuming step-brother.”I didn’t mean―”

His hand landed on her slender shoulder, shaking her like an earthquake rattles a brick foundation. “No, of course you didn’t mean to, you little twerp.”

A couple specks of spit landed across her freckled cheeks and nose, prompting her to screw up her face in mild disgust. “She wanted―”

“How many times do I have to tell you? You need to be careful with her, she’s―”

“Stop talking about me like I’m not here, Billy.” You dusted off the debris from your stinging cuts. “I’m blind, not fragile. How many times do I have to tell you?”

You would have walked off in the direction of his house if only you knew wherever the hell it was. Trying to land that kickflip Max had spent the last half hour explaining to you really messed with your sense of direction, but you weren’t about to tell them that. Your mother didn’t call you a stubborn mule for nothing plus you were getting really sick of Billy thinking you were weak, so you turned around and started stalking off without the aid device your parents payed for.

“Y/n, where are you going?” Billy called after you. “You can’t just leave.”

“Watch me!” You called over your shoulder, continuing your trek into the unknown.

Billy watched you walking down the street, and for once he appreciated living down such a long road miles away from the populated center of town. If it wasn’t one of his neighbors pulling into their cracked driveways after a long 9-to-5 shift or pulling away for a hearty meal at Benny’s Diner, cars rarely ever raced down this street.

Turning to Max, his grip loosened on her shoulder. “Grab your board and get inside.”

Max didn’t argue. Out of the two of them, Max had a more leveled head. She knew she could just check out the damage on your elbows and apologize again once Billy convinced you to come back into their comfy abode. Yanking away from her older step-brother, she ran for her precious skateboard.

“Babe, come on,” Billy tried to reason with you as his long legs neared you. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. You just―”

His warm hand gently latched onto your arm, turning you to face him. “I just what, Billy? You know people here either pity me or they stand feet apart from me like I’m made of glass,”the pressure in the center of your forehead begins to make itself known in the form of a headache, “I just thought things…here…were different.”

“They are, babe.” His chin bounced with quick little nods to reassure you. Sometimes he forgot that you couldn’t see these small actions. “Okay? They are. Max was teaching you one of her stupid tricks, and I just freaked, okay?”

Memories flicker through your mind, sounds and touch alike. When one of the mean girls at school had purposely stuck her foot out in front of you for taking “her man” away, you had bashed your head against a locker and were knocked out cold. You had woken up moments later in Billy’s arms as he carried you to the nurse’s office. You hadn’t bent over and died when the concussion symptoms came at you in full force; you had just taken the standard amount of sick days at home. Not any less and, definitely, not any more.

Other memories came at you, but none were as extreme as the concussion. Yet, with each scrape or nick that life threw at you, Billy reacted like blood was seeping through your clothing at an alarming rate or your lungs were restricting from lack of oxygen. Whatever it was, Billy acted like it was the end of the world for you.

“I didn’t cry when I fell off a tree branch and broke my arm in fourth grade, “ you began the recited verse you’ve told almost every member of your family, “so, I’m not gonna cry because of some stupid scuff marks on my elbows. I’m fine.”

“But, when I was sitting at the kitchen table, loss in thought, I heard it.” His thumbs were stroking the bones of your cheeks. “I heard you fall, Y/n. How was I supposed to know it wasn’t anything worse? When my dad first introduced me to Susan, Max walked around in crutches after a bad skateboard landing snapped her shin bone.”

You sighed, allowing his outlook on the situation widen the scope of your mind. Maybe you were being a little too harsh on him. After all, you couldn’t pour salt to the sizzle off the worry that ate you up inside whenever Billy decided to hang out with one of his pals. It would steal the sleep from you knowing he’d be driving around drunk. Him cradling you to the nurse’s office and you phoning him to make sure he made it to his bedroom safe were two sides of the same coin.

“I’m surprised Susan still lets her ride around on that thing.” His fingers carded through your hair. “I was just scared the same thing might of happened to you, or worse.”

“I understand, Billy.” You spoke so softly, Billy wasn’t entirely sure if it was just one of your breaths. A shuddering gasp forced its way out of your throat as you fought off the burning sensation of tears from the corner of your eyes. “I just get so frustrated sometimes.”

Your face met the soft cotton of his shirt as he brought you into the protection of his arms. “I know, baby,” He kissed the crown of your head. “I’m sorry I overreact sometimes.”

You sniffled a couple times before pulling away from him, “It’s okay.”

His lips brushed against the center of your forehead first then dipped his head to land another on your plump lips, but your fingers caught him. “You still have to apologize to Max first before you can kiss me.”

He took a deep breath. “Deal.”

Your fingers fumbled for his before before successfully latching on. You sighed as your palms melded together like ironworks as Billy led the way to his house.

As you both grew closer a loose thought struck you. “Wait. Don’t you still have homework to do?”

A/N: I hope I did alright in characterizing a blind reader.

[southeastasianists]

It had been two days since Hafiz last heard from Iani.

He knew that Iani’s parents had a history of abusing them [Note 1], and was worried for their safety. He’d tried everything — text messages, WhatsApp messages, voice calls — but received no response from Iani. It was as if they’d suddenly upped and left. Now his last resort was to make an unannounced visit to Iani’s house to make sure they’re safe.

Hafiz had a plan in mind. He would bring food to Iani’s house and pretend that they’d made dinner plans. It was something they did often, so he thought that that would make for a believable cover. At the back of his mind, however, Hafiz knew that this cover would be blown if something bad had really happened. Yet a half-baked plan was better than none at all.

Hafiz knocked on Iani’s house door and waited for someone to answer it. He heard some voices behind the door, but before he could make out what they were saying, the door cracked open. Iani’s mother greeted him with a strained smile, and Hafiz could see Iani’s father peering at him behind her. Hafiz knew that something’s not right.

“Hello aunty, uncle! I bought dinner for Iani, are they at home?” Hafiz said.

“No, but come in first,” Iani’s mother said, and ushered him into the living room. Iani’s father opened a Qur’an and started reciting a few lines of scripture to Hafiz. Once he was done, he passed the Qur’an to Hafiz and asked him to recite the same verses. It was an odd request, but Hafiz obliged; he knew why they were making him do that. After the ritual was completed, Iani’s parents told Hafiz that Iani had been admitted to the Institute of Mental Health (IMH) for emergency treatment of a psychotic breakdown. What they left out was that Iani’s breakdown was caused by “conversion therapy” sessions they forced upon Iani.

Hafiz rushed down to the hospital immediately. After two days of radio silence, he finally saw Iani again. But his feeling of relief was soon washed over by a commotion that erupted from Iani’s family members — they weren’t expecting any visitors. Iani winced at the noise and pulled Hafiz aside.

“Help me,” they whispered to him. “Break me out of here.”

Iani had been close with their parents since they were young. But things turned quickly and unexpectedly when Iani was 16. They were accidentally outed as lesbian [Note 2] to their parents, and before they knew it, the elders in Iani’s extended family started getting involved in organising “conversion therapy” sessions.

Iani’s grandmother and uncle came over to their house one day. It was clear right away that this wasn’t just a normal social visit; Iani only saw their uncle at larger family gatherings and celebrations. Their uncle is an Ustaz — a male Islamic religious teacher — and he made Iani sit in the corner of the living room. He then began calling out to an “evil spirit” in the room, and asked it to speak with the group.

It was a confusing experience for Iani, because while he made it look as if he were speaking with an “evil spirit”, it soon became clear that he was speaking directly to Iani. He asked a range of questions, and most of them were phrased to get the answers that he wanted to hear.

“Are you sad often?” he asked.

“Yes,” Iani, who had a medical history of anxiety and depression, answered.

“Do you feel like your parents don’t understand you?” he followed up.

“Yes,” Iani, whose parents wanted to put them through “conversion therapy”, replied.

The questioning went on for a while, but he never asked Iani (or the “evil spirit”, for that matter) anything about being lesbian. Instead, the questions were generic enough — as if by intention — that most teenagers at Iani’s age would answer the exact same way.

At the end of the session, he declared that Iani was possessed by a jinn — an evil spirit in Islamic mythology. The jinn, he explained to Iani’s parents, was responsible for influencing Iani’s sexuality and needed to be expelled from their body for them to become “normal”.

The session was mentally exhausting for Iani, because they had to suppress a multitude of emotions. First was anger: they felt that their uncle’s mixing of his superstitious beliefs with Islam was insulting to the religion. Then disbelief: Iani didn’t expect their father, who was well-educated, to be so easily swayed by his claims. Finally, betrayal: Iani had just witnessed first-hand how quickly their entire family turned on them.

But the benignity of the first session made Iani let their guard down. In a way, nothing could have prepared them for what’s about to come.

Around a week later, Iani’s uncle returned to perform ruqyah (an exorcism) on Iani. He made Iani memorise and recite verses from the Qur’an, and whenever the recital wasn’t to his liking — whether it’s done too loudly, too softly, or “not smoothly enough” — he would whip Iani with a rattan cane. Iani’s parents draped a heavy blanket over Iani’s body before letting their uncle beat them; they were careful to ensure that he wouldn’t leave visible bruises.

Iani’s uncle also made them perform sujud — a low bow, where one gets on their knees and has their head touch the ground. He then held a lighter to each of Iani’s feet as he recited Qur’anic verses to “cast the jinn away”. Iani screamed in pain from the searing heat of the fire, but their parents only saw that as a sign that the exorcism was working. At the end of the ruqyah, Iani’s sexuality remained unchanged, but their trust in their family shattered completely.

It soon became clear to Iani that the ruqyahs that their parents arranged were meticulously planned to ensure that the perpetrators could get away without consequences. When Iani suffered from a mental breakdown, their parents decided to call in an Ustaz for a ruqyah instead of seeking medical help. The Ustaz came over and restrained Iani while he performed his ritual. But when Iani’s father saw the bruises on Iani’s wrists, he immediately scolded the Ustaz.

“Jangan eh! Nanti orang report police! (Don’t do that, what if they report this to the police!)” Iani’s father shouted.

At the end of the session, the Ustaz told Iani’s parents that the jinn possessing Iani was there to destroy their family. This was a test of the strength of their family’s Islamic faith, the Ustaz said. He added that Iani really wasn’t lesbian, but only became so because of the evil influence of the jinn. This line of reasoning — a repetition of what Iani’s uncle previously mentioned — reinforced the idea that LGBTQ+ identities are inherently “unnatural” and can be changed. The Ustaz went on to instruct Iani’s parents to read the Qur’an together every night, and pray together as a family at least once a day in order to drive the jinn away.

Iani’s parents took his advice to heart and began intensifying their “conversion therapy” practices. Every day, Iani’s mother would force them to listen to syarahan (religious sermons) that focused on the “right” ways women should act, and how they should go about finding “good” husbands. Every evening since the visit from the Ustaz, the azan (Islamic call to prayer) at home would blast louder than before.

Iani’s mother also started performing her own exorcisms on Iani: she would put a metal bowl over an open flame, and claim that doing so would hurt the jinn. The metal bowl in itself had no effect on Iani, but over time, it started triggering memories of previous ruqyahs, and would cause anxiety attacks to set in. It appears that Iani’s mother never realised that she was psychologically torturing her already mentally unwell child. Instead, she earnestly engaged in anxiety-triggering activities, thinking that her rituals were working, and that they were somehow helping her child “get better”.

Soon after, Iani’s father made them watch a documentary about the story of Lut [Note 3]. The story of Lut is often quoted by Muslims to demonstrate God’s disapproval of homosexuality. At the end of the documentary, Iani’s father told them that being gay is wrong. This was the first time he made his stance so explicit. Iani was enraged, and argued that Allah also warned against rape in the story of Lut.

“Rape is everywhere, but being gay isn’t,” Iani’s father responded. “That’s why being gay will always be the biggest sin.”

As a survivor of childhood sexual assault, Iani felt like a knife was plunged into their chest. Iani’s father knew about their childhood trauma and how much it affected their mental health. Yet it seemed like he still believed that sexually violating someone else was more acceptable than being gay.

Iani’s existing mental issues, coupled with their parents’ relentless “conversion therapy” practices, meant that they spent considerable time with therapists at IMH. And even though Iani had been vocal about their parents’ abusive behaviours — even telling their therapists that their parents should be the ones receiving treatment — no serious action was taken against their parents. The responses Iani heard back were often along the lines of: “They only act like that because they’re muslims”; “They’re doing this for your own good”; “Some parents are like that”.

Even when a therapist was willing to talk to Iani’s parents about their “conversion therapy” practices, they would find themselves powerless in countering their beliefs.

“I’ve told your parents about sexuality and how it can’t be changed,” the therapist told Iani. “They know that what they’re doing is wrong.”

“So why won’t they stop?” Iani asked. “Why do they keep doing it?”

“They told me that they’re not stopping because they want to be better muslims.”

Iani is much older now, and no longer lives with their parents. They never reconciled with each other, and their relationship remains strained. Though it’s been many years since their last “conversion therapy” encounter, Iani hasn’t fully recovered from the trauma. Listening to azans could trigger anxiety attacks. Hearing someone say “Allah” would bring back memories of being beaten up by their uncle.

The concept of a jinn causing homosexuality might sound unique to Islam, but its main tenets are very similar to other “conversion therapy” beliefs. For one, a core idea behind the jinn’s possession is that people aren’t naturally LGBTQ+, but are influenced by external forces to be so. On top of that, the exorcism of the jinn is just another way of asserting that people’s sexualities can be changed. In those regards, “conversion therapy” practices across religions [Note 4] are more similar than they are different.

It’s important for us to understand that there is medical consensus that “conversion therapy” practices don’t work, and can cause long-term harm on participants (page 115). As we can see from Iani’s story, “conversion therapy” can lead to trauma that deeply affects the mental health of participants.

Many countries have taken action to protect people from the harms of “conversion therapy”. Taiwan has fully banned “conversion therapy” practices, while Germany has done so for minors. Other countries such as Canada, Israel, New Zealand, and the UK are considering legislation that would make them illegal.

Yet “conversion therapy” remains legal in Singapore. Many other teenagers like Iani may continue to be subjected to abusive ruqyahs and face long-term psychological damage. On top of that, Singapore’s domestic abuse laws allow parents to punish their child, so long as it’s done to “correct” the child’s behaviour (s64). This legal loophole means that many parents may be able to continue enlisting the help of Ustazs for “conversion therapy” with no consequence.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

To the Light of Day || Solo

TIMING: Early morning, after the destruction of Constance

SUMMARY: Morgan tries to lay her pain to rest.

CONTAINS: brief mentions of parental abuse

The snow was coming down hard enough to bury White Crest as Morgan walked home from the outskirts. The sirens had quieted and the Christmas lights all switched out. The only sign it was morning came from the ring of church bells as a midnight service let out and oblivious churchgoers turtled out to the parking lot in their puffy coats. From where she stood, Morgan could see the flicker of Advent candles, the Christian bastardization of her Yule log. Morgan watched a pimply twelve year old snuff them out one by one until the last of the faithful left and the door shut for the night. She walked behind the straggling flock, head bowed against the snow as it fell harder. She wanted to imagine what being a part of them would be like, just one of the humans, lighting a candle against her fear and praying en masse to a big nice dad in the sky who would whisper while you slept that everything was okay and for your own good, just you wait and see. But Morgan had never known anything close, and she didn’t deserve much of an escape right now, did she?

When she was little, Morgan spent Yule with her parents gathered around a row of three tapers nested into a log holder, one for each of them to burn all night and day. Her mother lit the candles because Morgan ‘didn’t do it right’. Her dad picked out the prayers from the family grimoires or wrote something more personalized to the family on his own. And Morgan agonized over whether she should wish for snow or a new friend or a pony. They were together and apart keeping this sweet, wonderful secret winter holiday from all the boisterous Christmasers. The room never erupted with the sound of their poetry recitations, the songs her parents picked to honor the day changed from year to year, so she never grew a familiar, cuddly attachment to any tunes except for the verses of ‘The Holly and the Ivy’ they stole for themselves. When Yule became just Morgan and Ruth, the candlelight seemed dimmer, their voices barely rose at all, and her dad’s old prayers rang hollow without his intentions to power them. The darkness of the longest night grew heavy in a primeval way that reminded Morgan that the first Yuletides were made to make sure the sun wouldn’t abandon humanity for good. It was the kind of dark that you could drown in, the kind that broke your shoulders to strain against. Morgan felt that old, cruel weight of the night wrapping around her now as she walked. She didn’t have a yule candle log for herself this year. After dying and the various breakdowns that followed, merrymaking and yuletide seemed like more of a pipe dream. And peace, after what she’d done? Morgan scoffed bitterly at the thought.

“It’s not about the candles, pumpkin,” Ruth’s voice said. On their first solstice without her dad, Ruth had fumbled their last match, and it was too icy to run to the 24-hour pharmacy for more. Morgan fretted so hard conjuring up a fire to replace it, she’d scorched the candles and ruined their old log. Ruth grabbed her hands before she could do anything else. “It’s still Yuletide. The sun is still coming back.”

“But it’s not the same! What’s the point of the ritual if we can’t even get one stupid candle going to pretend like this is going to get better!”

Morgan couldn’t remember what her mother had said to that. She only knew that afterwards she’d left the room and cried, missing her dad and the kind of life where you didn’t hold your breath for the next crisis and just did things. At sunrise she went out to the window to watch the return of the light and found her mother in the backyard, praying in a stone circle she’d cast the mundane way, reciting the charge of the Goddess...

Morgan trudged through downtown until she came across Al’s. Half the rainbow lights strung around the awning were burnt out, and the inside was dead except for the lonely old man Morgan always saw in the corner. The old TV in the upper corner was switched to one of those fireplace broadcasts, where the flames never dimmed and the lights shined on glass baubles just right. Morgan couldn’t help but stop and watch. It wasn’t the best picture quality; what billows and whispers she imagined coming from the flames were more from her memories of better, brighter fires. But it was the first fire Morgan had seen all season, and it brought tears to her eyes.

Could you wish on a yule log if it was fake? Was it an affront to the ancestors or the spirits if you paid homage through pixels? Morgan laughed hopelessly. The spirits she knew had been pretty clear about what they wanted her to do, and after tonight, wishing on a crappy TV probably ranked really low on the list. What would she wish for anyway? A fucking do-over? Morgan pressed her fingers to the frosted glass, staring as hard into the screen as possible. “I’d do it all different if I could,” she whispered. “If anyone could just tell me how to make it stop hurting without passing it off to other people or--fuck, killing random nobodies who never did anything. If I could just know how we’re supposed to…” Morgan quieted and shut her eyes, realizing that for all intents and purposes, she was talking to herself. She had lied, threatened, stolen, maimed, and killed for her pain. And here she still was, carrying it like a growth in her chest she couldn’t excise. What do I do? If someone could just tell me what to do, tell me how this stops. I don’t care what else I have to do as long as we can all stop hurting...

But the universe didn’t speak to you in words, it didn’t speak at all. It just worked. It moved. Energy cycled through you and around you and sometimes if you were lucky and alive, you could move it back. But it’s not about the light, pumpkin, Ruth said again. Morgan reached for her in her mind, to that soggy, miserable Yule and the purple sunrise that came after, and the words her mother had said to the reborn sun.

To thou who thinkest to seek Me, know that thy seeking and yearning shall avail thee not unless thou knowest the Mystery: if that which thou seekest thou findest not within thee, thou wilt never find it without.

“Fuck,” Morgan whispered. Could it be that simple? Was that something she was allowed after death? She opened her eyes. The TV had been switched to some Christmas cartoon, but that didn’t matter. Morgan resumed her walk, swift and purposeful in a way it hadn’t been before. She didn’t stop until she made it to the cemetery on the East End, where the weeds were always a little too tall and the stones a little grubby with moss. Morgan played the words in her head on herself, burning with longing.

She was dead, her nerves were smothered in death, she couldn’t grow or age or shift along the wheel of life the way the living did, but she grew a new hand for every one she lost. Her body frayed and sagged closer to the earth it could never rest in when she got hungry, but maybe that wasn’t a mark of betrayal. Maybe it was a reminder from the earth, a hand on her hand, a bridge between the flow of the world and the place where she dwelled in between. Maybe it was a rope to keep her connected. Maybe the dead could still pray. She had come back this far, hadn’t she? She’d done it wrong and twisted and broken all over again, but she could walk and burst through the rickety gate and carry herself to the highest mound in the place and brush back the snow gathering over the graves. She had enough sense to be sorry and scared. She had enough of her self to wonder.

Morgan cleared the snow away until there was a body sized patch of brown grass to lay in. She fell face forward and dug her hands in deep. Please… If I am still a part of you, please…

The ground was hard with death, but the deeper Morgan dug her hands in, the softer it grew. Layer by layer, into that place where life only slept, like the day during the long night. Was that her? A night, a season, moving slowly until her sense of light came again?

If that which thou seekest thou findest not within thee, thou wilt never find it without.

Let me, Morgan whispered in her heart, the words no longer a question. I need you to let me. And I need you to take this. She crawled up to her knees and dug her nails into the fabric of her sweater. She worried at the threads, thinking of the memories that had twisted around her heart every time she’d had a chance to let Constance leave this plane for good and said no. Yelling at the paramedics while her dad was wheeled away, her mother’s nails cutting moons into her neck and shoulder as she dragged her down the hall, the pole in her stomach and how her head flashed with pain every time she tried to move, the coffins lowered into the ground, the phone calls unanswered, the weeks lost to laying in bed because there was no point in getting up when it was all going to get ripped away again, the loneliness, the sting of every lost friend and broken hope… Morgan pulled on herself, shuddering as she let the hurt cut her on the way out, as sharp as if they’d been made fresh. In her mind, she made them into one braided cord, plain and riddled with knots and kinks in the fibres. She pulled, letting the other awful little things stick and tangle into it. When she could think of nothing else she pulled again, feeling the claws at the end of the hurt clinging to her.

Let me give this to you for safe-keeping, she silently asked the earth. Take this in lieu of my body. Let it decay in its own good time and nourish something else. Because it’s going to take me away from you and myself and everything I love. I trust you not to use this for any ill. You have held me up this far, and you will hold me further still, my dear, old Earth. Even Morgan’s wildest imagination and most desperate devotion couldn’t unhook every cord binding her to her hurt, but some of them gave, root and all, and fell into the ground. She piled the dirt she’d loosed over the spot her mind’s eye conjured the fallen cords. There was nothing to forgive, because the earth didn’t weigh value like that, only poison and barbs that needed to be worked out. Only healing for the holes the cords had left in her, rest for the girls she’d been and was no longer, and courage for the woman she wanted to be from now on. Someone who touched others with understanding before spite, who guarded the world against her hurt, who stood up for as many people as possible and not just her friends, who was kind and soft and forgave as much as her soul could bear it. Someone who could mourn and atone for the hurt she spread instead of brushing it off. Someone her past selves could be proud of and mystified by. As day follows night and spring follows winter, keep me steady until I find my own light.

“So may it be,” she said, promising herself even more than the ground at her feet. By the time Morgan finished, the dark had washed away to a pale gray. Through the veil of snow clouds, Morgan was sure she saw a white silhouette of the newly turned sun.

[rokutouxei]

the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

ikemen vampire: temptation through the dark theo van gogh / mc | T | [ ao3 link in bio ]

The challenge seemed pretty simple: to try to befriend the university bookshop’s most sour employee, Theo van Gogh. As a literature major with a boatload of book recommendations on her back, it ought to be a simple task indeed. But as she uncovers what lies between Theo’s pages, the more she finds it harder to become closer to him without having to put the feeling directly into words. What can she learn from Theo about what it means to stay—and how can she teach Theo about what it means to let go? | written for ikevamp big bang 2020!

[ masterpost for all chapters ]

CHAPTER 21 OF 22

—The heartbeat is actually the sound made by the heart valves closing. If you, my love, ever hold a stethoscope to my chest I will tell you to listen for the silence in between. What is and what will always be yours is the sound of my heart finally opening.

- "Letter to the Editor", Andrea Gibson.

--

interlude ii

--

In the span of time between understanding and acceptance, Theo half-writes a million letters, all of them suffering the same kind of fate: undelivered. The email gets deleted, the text erased, the sheet crumpled, set on fire. There are too many words he doesn’t have the courage to say, and fuck, he’s not a literature major, after all.

He’s only the arrow shooting forward, not the bow pulling back towards itself.

But every second he spends lost in the memory of her leaves him splitting open, so for the first time in what feels like centuries, he unfolds what he’s kept in his heart the size of his clenched fist. Allows its beating space to unravel. And when he doesn’t have the vocabulary to put it into words himself, he borrows—borrows from others until he finally finds the ones that will feel just right tell.

Until they’re finally just right to tell.

The first letter he ever writes her, he composes outside the gallery of his brother’s exhibit, on the opening day. He’s crouched on the stone steps with a book in his hand, a little poetry book Arthur had dropped by for him earlier that day. For what, the bastard refused to say, but he had that look on his face that Theo hates: that Arthur knows exactly what he’s doing it for.

The first of his letters are spiteful, the words he borrows barbs, promises he doesn’t intend to keep when he rewrites,

I shall forget you presently, my dear, So make the most of this, your little day, Your little month, your little half a year

onto a sheet of scratch paper, one he ultimately throws into a bin before he’s even felt like he’s begun writing anything.

He gathers his heart a little closer for the second one, highlighting a verse in shaky yellow while he’s on a bus ride out of town, on the exhibit’s closing day.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; For nothing now can ever come to any good.

But it is not enough. And even after that, there are an innumerable number of letters that still are not enough. He borrows from everyone he’s learned from her: Shakespeare, Frost, Whitman, Dickinson; he borrows from new names, Allan Poe, Silverstein, Neruda, Keats, Siken; he borrows from poetry, from fiction, from plays. From philosophers, from writers, from artists. The words never seem to be enough to cross the gap between what he’s said and what he should have.

He writes the ten-thousandth letter with his heart beating in his chest so loudly he can barely hear his breath,

And I lean down towards you with muscle and wing, as if to a grave stone, (I put the years to sleep)

my lips seek yours... like spring.

longing, the sear of it, the idea of having touch so warm under his skin the world feels all too cold. He misses her like he would a lost limb. He reads the poem over, and over, and over again until he cannot deny it, and when he does not have the will to deny it he sets it on fire, instead.

Arthur asks him why he’s making it so much harder on himself, asks him why he’s putting himself in all this agony for nothing—Arthur talks like he knows everything. And maybe he does, the fool that he is. “Just call her,” the flirt says, “Call her from my number, send her a message—" But Arthur doesn’t know what happened, doesn’t know what it felt like in that rooftop, the words hanging in between him and her, unsaid, said, told in their heads—but never out loud, not enough to make it come to life.

To make it real.

To make it seem like Theo isn’t just writing a story in his head.

One where she’s only an unwilling participant.

Letters are the one thing Theo can hide behind, besides poetry. He can pour his entire heart in that little sheet of paper, tell her all that he wanted to but never could—send it away, and then not have to wait, expecting a response. He considers it the same as writing a message, stuffing it in a bottle, and then throwing it out in the open sea. It would be great if she finds it. It would be great if she’s moved enough by it that she writes back, that she forgives him, that she continues to wait for him even if she’s already so far away.

If only he could get it right.

The millionth letter doesn’t make it past his desk. He hears the poem from a phone in the bookstore: two literature majors reading from a book on the shelf, reciting the lines, Theo barely hears it over their gasps, but when he does he scrambles to put it into writing, thinking, this is it, maybe this is the one that’ll get me across, says,

It well may be that in a difficult hour, Pinned down by pain and moaning for release, Or nagged by want past resolution's power, I might be driven to sell your love for peace, Or trade the memory of this night for food.

takes the pen in his hand and nearly tears the page when the poets say:

It well may be. I do not think I would.

Theo is on his headphones for the rest of the afternoon, hiding in the stockroom stacking books.

He sits and negotiates, negotiates, negotiates with himself over and over again, like this was a case, like this was a business deal, instead of something else, something that’s less rigid, less in-boxes, one without protocol. Arthur tries to talk him into it. Vincent tries to talk him out of it. In, out, of what, Theo doesn’t know anymore, their voices fading into the back of his mind when he begins to really think about this.

About her, about her hands.

About his.

Sometimes, at night, in bed, before I fall asleep, a poet once wrote, I think about a poem I might write, someday, about my heart.

Theo does the same.

Much to his dismay, however, the world does not fall in around him, does not close him off from the outside world no matter how hard he tries, no matter how much it seems like that’s what ought to happen. The semester rolls on. The exams are still hard. The Halloween Party is still the same talk of the university as it did a full year ago, like the world hadn’t turned upside down for him since then.

The universe had even granted him the most effective way to wallow in his pain, the new girl in their little friend group (the one he was only in because of her) whose heart was a mirror of the girl he’d loved. Why is it that those that do so poorly in romance tend to flock together like recognizing the uneven parts of themselves? She is drunk and talking about someone else, but when she speaks about letters the same way she used to, something in Theo’s heart cries out.

Too bad he still doesn’t have the words.

The closest Theo gets to what he wants to say comes in the form of old memories, a scribble of a haphazardly written note on a piece of clean café napkin, in her handwriting, no, there’s no mistaking it. Heart by heart, Louise B written in familiar cursive. A note from a lost time slipped in a returned book, perhaps on purpose, perhaps on accident. He turns the search terms over and over until he finds it, a rush of air exiting his lungs when he gets to the end:

Now that I have your heart by heart, I see The wharves with their great ships and architraves;   The rigging and the cargo and the slaves On a strange beach under a broken sky. O not departure, but a voyage done! The bales stand on the stone; the anchor weeps Its red rust downward, and the long vine creeps   Beside the salt herb, in the lengthening sun.

Now that I have your heart by heart, I see.

But he doesn’t hasn’t ever had it, not since she’d left, so he doesn’t send it.

Theo doesn’t cry. There is no reason to, he thinks to himself, nothing to be upset about, not when it’s him holding himself back, when this was all his fault. He only sits quiet, repentant. He doesn’t make any mention of her, and when she is mentioned, he doesn’t say a word.

What worth are words now?

This goes on for weeks. And it seems like an eternity later when Vincent catches him sitting in the dining room with that same idle look on his face, that same dull expression, he steps into the light of the older brother Theo has always seen him to be, the older brother he’s always hoped to be—and puts a hand on the shoulder of his lost younger brother, eager to lead him home.

“Theo?”

“Broer.”

Vincent’s voice is soft. Patient. “What are you looking for?”

“I don’t have the words for… this,” Theo says, gestures vaguely at his heart, like pained. “I don’t know where to look for them anymore.”

And his brother smiles like he knows all the answers. (Theo believes Vincent has all the answers.) “There is poetry everywhere, Theo," he says, sounding awfully like her, "Your eyes are focused on the wrong things.”

Like a flash of lightning, he hears it: in the lilt of her voice, the tinkle of laughter, her voice like thunderclouds rolling over a sunlit summer. The poem that found him, instead of the other way around.

You.

Theo immediately goes out to find fancy stationery he knows she likes and gets his best fountain pen and writes; the weight of honesty pins the words solidly onto the parchment. Theo had not known metaphor until that moment, had not understood what it meant when whatever a sun will always sing is you was written, until—

Until it was his heart that was chanting it.

And the day after, he delays the inevitable: seals the letter with glue, sticks a stamp on the upper right corner of the envelope. Theo slips it into the to-mail box without a word, and then exits the post office like he hasn’t left his heart there for sending.

[pongnosis]

I’m sorry to bother you again but are there any little scenes/headcanons that you never got to add into Devil? What are your favs?

It’s absolutely not a bother! The answer will probably be a little disappointing, though. There were a ton of ideas that never made it in, but the vast majority of them remained a line or two in my notes. Of the stuff that actually got written ... most of what I never got to add in was stuff where the plot took a different turn - things like the bare bones/main scenes of the alternate ending where Alex chose the CIA options, or snippets of an AU where Yassen chose to break Alex and turn him entirely into Orion after Santa Catarina. Bits of some of it got reused elsewhere if possible, and the rest of the discarded scenes are generally stuff that just ... didn’t fit in. It was too slow, too detail-heavy, or just didn’t quite fit the flow of the chapter. Most of the important scenes and headcanons made it in (with the exception, I believe, of the undercover agent on Santa Catarina - that was Nathan, Johann’s bodyguard, who was with the CIA, but it never fit into the fic to mention it.)

If you do feel in the mood for Yassen deciding to break Alex ‘for his own good’, I’m happy to share! It’s less of a rough first draft and more a collection of main scenes that I had to get down in writing before it would leave me alone. It’s somewhere on the discord server, too, but ... way, way back. God knows where. Warnings for Yassen deciding to break Alex through isolation:

Alex wakes up in an unfamiliar room wearing nothing but loose trousers and a t-shirt. His last recollection is leaving Malagosto with Yassen; refusing to stab someone to death, accepting however many weeks in Dr Three's care, and Yassen telling him he won't have to -

- And nothing. Drugs do weird things to memories sometimes; resistance to interrogation taught him that. It could have been days ago. It could have been hours. He has no way of knowing.

There is no daylight in the room, no windows, just the constant, low, artificial light of the lamps. There is no running water anywhere. There's a toothbrush and toothpaste and a sink, but no tap. There's a chemical toilet and disinfectant gel with a horrible, hospital-like smell to it, but nowhere to actually wash his hands. No shower. Nothing but a plastic jug of water and a cup that goes with it. To Alex's best estimate, it's enough to last a day and not much more.

The door is locked. Alex tries it twice, just to be sure. He can probably fit a single sheet of paper between the door and the frame but that's it. The walls are solid and probably soundproof.

It doesn't feel like Dr Three's style, though Alex could be wrong.

He has no idea of the time but he stays stubbornly silent. He won't beg to be let out, he won't talk, and whoever is behind this – Yassen, it has to be – can just go screw themselves.

With no shoes on, he's smart enough not to kick the door.

Eventually he settles down, resting against the wall. There's nothing else to do. The floor isn't comfortable but then, neither is the wall. His mind, already bored, is happy to supply any number of horrific possibilities as to why he's there. Alex is sure that's Yassen's plan in the first place and makes a pointed effort to ignore them.

He starts by mentally reciting every country and capital he can remember. Then he tries in alphabetical order, followed by doing the same in French, Spanish, Russian, German.

He can remember a surprising amount of song lyrics when he thinks about it, which just makes it all the more annoying when there's part of a single verse that he can't recall.

Alex spends a long time trying to remember the first lines to Total Eclipse of the Heart, and considering how many times Jack's played the damn thing -

Alex has just started on his third attempt at trying to remember all of Bohemian Rhapsody when the door opens and Yassen steps inside. Alex is on his feet seconds later, stiff and sore and furious.

Then he takes a closer look. There's something about Yassen's body language that has Alex instantly on edge. Something that reminds him of … he's not sure, but he knows it's nothing good. Gentle, almost.

“Orion,” Yassen greets, breaking the silence.

“Alex.” Probably not the best time to be stubborn, but Alex doesn't care.

There is something in Yassen's eyes – pride, pity, resigned determination – and he touches Alex's chin lightly. “Not anymore.”

Alex sneers. “What, you didn't have the heart to just shoot me, so you'll lock me up?”

“Something like that,” Yassen agrees.

----

Alex gets the point when he lets his anger get the better of him and hurls the jug at the door and calls Yassen every name in the book.

There is no food or water that evening, night, whatever time it is. The floor is still damp but dries fast in the dry, air-conditioned atmosphere. Alex goes to sleep thirsty and wakes up with a mouth that feels like sandpaper and saliva that acts like glue.

He doesn't work out that day, just does slow, careful stretches that won't make him sweat.

He's hungry, too, but the thirst is overwhelming. When the door finally opens sometimes in the 'evening' and Yassen appears with a new jug of water and a plate of nutrition bars, Alex doesn't move.

Yassen doesn't put it down but arches an eyebrow in a silent question, and Alex knows without being told that if he gets it wrong, Yassen will leave again.

A healthy adult can go for a week or more without water. Alex isn't an adult but he knows Yassen will have a good idea of what he can handle, and two days without water probably won't kill him.

Yassen's words to him before his first meeting with the executive board comes back to him, unwanted.

Be respectful, obey, never argue.

Yassen doesn't care that he's the one that locked up Alex. He doesn't care that Alex has every right to be angry and throw a fit. He doesn't care that Alex is a teenager and not exactly known for forethought and rational actions.

Thirst battles with pride. Yassen never moves. Finally the man seems to lose his patience. It's more a minute shift of muscles than anything else, but Alex can read it just fine.

Alex swallows. “- I'm sorry,” he says before he can stop himself, before Yassen can leave, and his words sound hoarse to himself. They make his throat hurt, too.

Yassen nods and holds out the water, and Alex accepts it very, very carefully. He forces himself to drink slowly – there's plenty, but he doesn't want to waste it – and when he puts it down, the plate is on the floor, and Yassen is gone again.

--------

The nutrition bars are vanilla flavoured; the cheap sort that's made of chemicals in a lab somewhere and added to everything from discount candy to the sort of milkshakes that come in plastic jugs.

By day five. Alex is ready to throw up from just the smell of chemical vanilla. It takes longer to eat those bars every day. The only reason he manages is because of hunger and the fact that if he doesn't, the smell will stick.

He dumps them in the chemical toilet in a fit of anger on day six. He gets no food on day seven. None on day eight. By the time day nine rolls around and he finally gets food again, that vanilla smell is the best thing ever.

Alex gets the lesson loud and clear.

Be respectful.

------

Yassen greets him with 'Orion' every time but says little else. He answers if Alex asks, but only sometimes. If Alex gets angry, Yassen will leave. If he stays respectful, he will have company for at least a little while.

Yassen calls him Orion. Alex corrects him. It becomes a habit, though Alex's heart isn't really in it. He's tired and bored and lonely, and it's not like Yassen doesn't know about his objections.

On day eleven, Yassen appears with the usual food and drink, for a given definition of the term.

“Orion.”

Alex wonders why he bothers. For the first time, Alex can't be bothered to correct him, too tired to care.

“... Whatever.”

-------

The reading material that appears is Dr Three's most recent work, a two-thousand page monstrosity on torture.

Alex doesn't want to read it but the boredom has become a creature of its own, gnawing slowly at his sanity.

He opens the book.

It takes him three days to finish it. When he does, Yassen spends a long time testing him, question after question on what he's read, and Alex answers to the best of his ability. It's better than the silence.

There is fresh fruit with his dinner that night; apples, grapes, sweet oranges. Alex forces himself to eat slowly and savour it. He eats everything but the stems and peel – and honest, he even tried a bite of that. At least it's not vanilla.

He loses track of the days eventually. He's not sure how. He got to twenty-something and then … forgot. Lost count. Was it twenty-two or three? His mental calendar break down after that. It's not like that matters, either. He's not getting out any time soon. Maybe never, some deep, dark part of his mind acknowledges.

[theoriginalladya]

27 100 ways to say I love you for Caleb x Kaidan

from this list

on AO3 here

Some Caleb and Kaidan set in ME1 prior to their romance, actually.  Still, small things lead to bigger ones, right?  Set right after Virmire.  A bit sad maybe, more bittersweet, but in the long run I think it works well.  Under cut due to length.

~~~

After dismissing the others, Caleb can’t exit the comms room fast enough.  Between the disastrous outcome of the mission and the lack of sensitivity on the Council’s part, he is absolutely livid.  It takes every ounce of willpower within him to keep from cursing up a blue streak and losing his temper – in Irish, just to be safe, but he still can’t count out a well-placed assistant on any of their staffs – but he manages, barely.  Logically, he knows returning to the Citadel is the right call, especially if he wants to have backup going after Saren, but it does very little in the way of calming him.  And after Virmire, he needs calming.

Heading through the CIC, he descends to the crew deck, but once he reaches the base of the steps, he hesitates.  He really should head to his own cabin; his gear needs attention, and God knows he could do with a rest after events on Virmire, but his thoughts are elsewhere for the very same reason, so he doesn’t.  Instead, he calls the lift and takes it down to the cargo bay where he spends the next few hours cleaning out Williams’ locker and her work station, packing her personal belongings away in a shipping crate that he carefully secures and labels.  He still has a letter to write, one he isn’t looking forward to but has far too much experience with.  He’ll add it later, securing it to the crate with her things.  When they arrive at the Citadel, he plans to personally see it gets onto an Alliance transport back to her family.  Ashley deserved a hell of a lot more in life than she got; he’s going to do what he can to see that she gets it now, even if it’s the last thing he does.

A quick glance at his chronometer when he’s done explains why he finds himself alone in the cargo bay; it’s 01h16.  Only third watch is up this late, all sensible crew members are asleep in their beds or pods.  With that in mind, he finally gives in and heads to his cabin.

He doesn’t get more than a half step inside the room before he hesitates.  He sees her face in his mind’s eye, hears her voice insist he protect Alenko and the bomb instead of coming for her.  The weeks and months of chasing Saren suddenly come to a drastic, unexpected halt as a result; a young life cut short far too soon.  One hand rises almost of its own accord to rub over his left breast, attempting to ease the ache there.  It doesn’t do any good, of course, but that doesn’t stop him from trying.

“Go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat,” he mutters then spins on his heel needing to be any place but here …

… and runs straight into Kaidan.  Throwing his hands out is automatic, and he catches the lieutenant before either of them can fall.  “Sorry.”

“My fault,” Kaidan replies, stepping back out of his way.  

A quick assessment is all Caleb needs to see something isn’t right with him, and he steps to the side, gesturing him into the room.  “Come on in,” he invites, putting as much warmth into the words as he can just now. Whether he’s successful at that or not, he doesn’t know, but Kaidan is agreeable and moves into the room.  “Did you need something?”  He doesn’t wait for his answer, but walks on over to one of his storage lockers and retrieves a dark bottle and two glasses.

Kaidan sighs heavily, the sound echoes throughout the small room.  “I just … I can’t stop thinking about Ashley,” he admits after a minute or two.

Caleb sets the glasses onto the table and opens the bottle, pouring two-fingers worth of the liquid into each.  When he finishes, he caps the bottle then nudges a glass in Kaidan’s direction.  The lieutenant seems startled at first, but catches himself after a moment and takes it in hand.  Only then does Caleb lift his glass.  Instead of his usual toast, he murmurs, “Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam.”  At Kaidan’s quizzical look, he clarifies, “May she rest in peace.”

Kaidan nods and lifts his glass, clinking it softly against Caleb’s.  They drink in silence, each to their own thoughts, own memories.  When their glasses are empty, Kaidan sets his on the table. Caleb is about to reach for the current bottle, but a twitch of distaste at his lips.  “Not to your liking?”

Kaidan shrugs but says nothing.

Grabbing what he affectionately refers to as the good stuff, he returns it to the storage locker and snags a different bottle. “How about this?” he asks, tilting it so Kaidan can see the label.  When Kaidan hesitates, Caleb provides a smile of encouragement.  “Try some,” he insists.  “I promise, it’s good.”

Kaidan chuckles softly, conceding with a slight nod of his head.  “I don’t think I’ve ever had a commander quite so … well-versed, shall we say, in spirits?”

The smile that follows doesn’t reach his eyes as Caleb pours another two-fingers worth into their glasses.  This time, he reverts to his standard toast.  “Sláinte.”  Their glasses clink lightly and they down the liquid in one gulp.  This time as he sets his glass down, Caleb takes a seat.  

Kaidan follows.  “What was that you said?”

“Hmm?”  Rubbing his hands over his face, Caleb tilts his head until he can see the lieutenant. “Sláinte?  It means ‘good health.’”

Kaidan shakes his head.  “No, before.  When we were at the door,” he clarifies.

Caleb frowns and tries to think back.  So many things he says, so many in Irish, even, and he does it without really thinking about it at the time.  How is he supposed to remember?

“Sounded like something about a … cat?”

From one instant to the next, it’s as if a light turns on in his head.  “Go n-ithe an cat thú is go n-ithe an diabhal an cat,” he repeats.

“Yeah, that one.”

Chuckling, Caleb pours himself one last drink.  This time, he silently salutes his friend, hoping she is watching down over them and keeping them safe for the rest of this mission. “Loosely translated, it means, May the cat eat you, and may the divil eat the cat.”

Kaidan waits a moment or two before he asks, “What the hell does that mean?”

Sitting back up, Caleb shrugs.  “I was wishing Saren and surefire one-way ticket to hell, simply put.”  He looks over at Kaidan and tips his chin toward the bottle, but the lieutenant shakes his head.  Pushing both the bottle and his glass to the side, Caleb settles his hands on the table as he turns toward his friend.  “Look, Kaidan, I –.”

Shaking his head, Kaidan waves off the comment.  “I’m sorry I put you into such a position to begin with,” he says quietly.  His fingers fiddle with his glass.  “I … shouldn’t have, and now? …  The shock of losing Ash like that, it just …”

Caleb reaches over and plucks the glass from his hands before covering them with one of his to keep them still.  “The whole situation shouldn’t have happened the way it did,” he corrects.  “Ashley should be here now, drinking with us; it should never have been you or her. But she isn’t here, and that’s Saren’s fault, not yours, not mine.  Understand?”

Kaidan’s closes his eyes for a minute, but he nods.

Pulling back, Caleb asks, “Do you remember that night on Arcturus, when we finally went out for the drink I owed you?”

His eyes open again and focus across the table with the question.  “What does that have to do with anything?”

Caleb shrugs.  “I made some comment about how things played out on Akuze.  And you said …?”

“Situations like that are out of your control.  There isn’t anything you could have done to change the outcome,” Kaidan repeats.  “Something like that, anyway.”

“I think we both know Ash would agree with that.” Caleb leans back in his seat and sighs. “I hate losing people under my command. But it happens.  Will happen again, no matter how I wish it won’t.  Virmire … Akuze … the streets of Shannon.  Doesn’t matter where or who, it happens.  But each time, I try to learn something from it – take something that might just keep it from happening again, or at least will lessen the numbers.”

A thoughtful look crosses Kaidan’s face.  “And this time?”  

Huffing softly, Caleb admits, “Still working that out.”

After several more moments of quiet, Kaidan pushes to his feet.  “Well, thanks for the talk, commander, and the drink. I –.”

Caleb’s eyes narrow to slits.  “Alenko, what have I told you?”

“Sir – .”

He folds his arms across his chest, giving his most intimidating stare.  Granted, after three quick drinks, it’s probably less than effective.  Probably.  But he’s got his N7 training behind it, too.  That has to count for something.

Kaidan sighs again and grumbles, “Fine, Shepard.”

Intimidation slips easily into amusement.  “Was that so difficult?  At least I’m not asking you to call me by my given name.”

“The point,” Kaidan continues acting as if he hadn’t been interrupted, though the hint of pink at his cheeks states otherwise, “I was trying to make was, thank you.  For taking the time to talk.  For the drinks.  For …”

He eases up immediately, sensing the completion of that thought.  “For remembering Ashley?”

“Yeah.”

“Not likely I’ll forget her.”

“No, I wasn’t suggesting you would.  I mean – .”

Rising, Caleb shakes his head.  “I remember every single person I’ve lost over the years under my command,” he says quietly.  “Ashley won’t ever be forgotten.”  And if he has his way about it, the entire family won’t ever be forgotten again.

“Thank you, sir.”  Kaidan slides to attention.  “Good night.”

“Good night.”  

The minute the door shuts behind the lieutenant, Caleb pours one more drink.  It isn’t what he’d prefer, but the bottle is right in front of him.  Lifting his glass, he stares across the room at the door and lifts the glass and begins to recite, “Ciara, Colin, Sean, Brennan, Nora, Aoife, Killian and Siobhan.”  Each name comes easily from his memory, gliding off his tongue with his easy lilt. He continues through the names of his unit on Akuze, of the couple of personnel lost over the years on his N7 missions, then hesitates as he concludes, “welcome her with open arms, if you’d be so kind.  Like you, she was the best of us and deserves the homecoming.  May good luck be with you Wherever you go, and your blessings outnumber the shamrocks that grow.”  

When he finally tumbles into bed and falls to sleep that night, his dreams are blessedly still and empty for the first night in what feels like forever …

[grimelords]

I have been unbelievably busy for all of 2020 so far. Starting a new job and crunching to finish an old one, it's been very good but it has also meant that I haven't had the downtime I'd have liked in order to write long screeds about when drums sound good in songs so my December and January playlists unfortunately never got finished. They will exist as 'lost' playlists in the grimelords canon where you will simply have to listen to them and have your own thoughts about the songs instead of having your judgement clouded by me saying things like 'this sounds nice' and 'I love when the guitar goes woo-eee'.

You can listen to them here:

December https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4crPEVSPwftPpWl14xUrXF

January https://open.spotify.com/playlist/25MP7onYLCwWRYBIi0u3yc

As far as this, my February playlist goes: It's great! It's two and a half hours. The songs sounds nice and the guitars go woo-eee. I was worried I wouldn't be able to listen to as much music with my new job but it turns out I'm listening to more than ever which is extremely nice. Please enjoy, and if you'd like to subscribe to this playlist please do so here: https://tinyletter.com/grimelords

Listen to this playlist here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3ZraEZOeS6qvVxfnz3AJS9

Ballad Of The Skeletons - Allen Ginsberg, Paul McCartney, Phillip Glass and Lenny Kaye: I had a dim childhood memory of this 1996 Hottest 100 funny skeleton song that my sister randomly brought up this month and was was shocked to find out that somewhere deep in my brain the part where the electric chair skeleton says “hey what’s cooking???” was still stored. I was also shocked to find out that the funny skeleton song I remembered from when I was a kid was actually a collaboration between Allen Ginsberg, Paul McCartney and Phillip Glass and was an unexpected hit on MTV and Triple J in 1996 for an as yet unknown reason.

I Can Go With You - Sam Burton: This song came up in my Discover Weekly, and I was so excited to listen to more of this 70s singer songwriter I've never heard of before who has no doubt had a long and illustrious career and was shocked to find out that not only is this song from 2020, it is also the first and so far only release by Sam Burton and his debut album is coming out sometime this year. I love how plain it is, and the first time I heard it it made no impression on me until a couple of hours later when I realised I was humming the melody to myself. It has this decepitive simplicity to it, and it sounds like a song you've always known which is really about as good a compliment as you can give a song. I also love this statement from him: “I was writing a song a day for 30 days as a personal challenge to myself. I Can Go With You came near of that practice and I considered it a throwaway at the time. After recording most of the album I still needed a couple more songs and decided to throw it on and we recorded it live followed by two others. When I listened back it ended up being one of the tracks I was happiest with on the record.” I love when artists are asked about songs and they have no divine inspiration to relate, just a process of daily work where they're like "well, I wrote it, like I always do. Did the chords and the words and everthing just like normal. I write hundreds of these things and this one came out pretty good. I don't know what else to tell you."

Wild Dogs - Colter Wall: This is a song by Billy Don Burns who you can probably expect to see on this playlist next month, and who as I understand it is one of these 'real' country guys that have been around for a million years and only ever had success when other people sang their songs. So it's very nice of Colter Wall to continue that tradition for him. I love the way this song takes the metaphor to a place of almost uncomfortable literalism, a tryst metamophising into something private, bloody and feral. The subtle way the lap steel whines slowly along in the background before stepping out and taking centre stage once the song picks up steam near the end is a marvel too.

Tom's Diner - Suzanne Vega: I had a live version of this randomly recommended to me by youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DkYPge6ZKSQ and it made me see this song that I'd always been sort of aware of in a new light and really properly appreciate it for the first time. Somehow I'd never noticed the last verse where it moves from literalism to memories, and of course that's sort of the moment that ties the whole song together. What I really appreciate about the acapella arrangement is that it feels like this is a song that's existed a million times before but she's the first person to actually write it down and record it. Everyone's made up a little dishwashing song or a little walking song, reciting some to-do list in your head. It's an entire genre that exists under people's breath for a few minutes and gets immediately forgotten.

If You Don't Know Now, You Never Will - Drugdealer: I could have sworn this was a Tobias Jesso Jr song. I really just assumed it was until I looked at the credits. It's such a nice song though and I'm glad this sort of 70s californian vibe is making a quiet comeback because it is just uniformly pleasant and it's nice to hear these sorts of arrangements, with the accenting violin runs and things like that. All the extra decorations and ornamentations that have sort of disappeared.

Crimson Tide - Destroyer: I absolutely love this new Destroyer album because it just feels like such pure uncut Destroyer. I’ve always thought of him as a sort of 400 year old vampire lounge singer who is just amusing himself at this point and so the cover art has really confirmed my suspicions on that front. The lyrics through this whole album are so good, the sort of stream of consciousness strangeness like ‘when lightning strikes twice the funeral goes completely insane’ that takes a on such gravity because he sings it with complete deadpan seriousness.

Truth (feat Alicia Keys and The Last Artful, Dodger) - Mark Ronson: I didn't really give this album a chance when it came out but ever since I found out Alicia Keys is good now (Time Machine) I've been looking for more good Alica Keys work and found one here. The Last Artful, Dodger is one of the worst artist names I think I've ever heard but she absolutely kills it on the way she says biiiiitch so I'll forgive it.

Surf & Turf - Boldy James + The Alchemist: Alchemist's production on this whole album is so incredible. He really just lets Boldy go and doesn't get in his way like good production should. Especially on the opening verse where Boldy James sticks with that loping flow for so long in 3s over 4 that matches that arpeggios in the beat, it's just a perfect harmony of rapper and producer.

Fat Mac - Duke Deuce: Misogyny in rap is a real issue that nobody seems really allowed to talk about because it's obviously very complicated, and this song some real classic 'stay in the kitchen' type woman hating in it and is basically incredibly callous and cruel throughout. However this beat is hot and there is also a part about a third of the way through where he says "fuck her till that pussy fart" and then makes a big fart noise, so.

Set It Up (feat. Trina) - Kamaiyah: I only found out about Kamaiyah's fantastic 2016 album A Good Night In The Ghetto about two weeks before her new one came out so I've been on a real Kamaiyah hype for a little while now. She's just fantastic. I love this song because I love the part where Trina seemingly out of the blue threatens to piss in my mouth. The first time I heard it I said 'wow!' out loud.

Come As You Are - Greg Phillinganes: There's something going on with the pop math in this song that I just can't put my finger on. It feels for all intents and purposes like this should be a hit. The melody is great. The big synth voice is great, it's got extremely fatty bass. It's great! But something about the structure of it is just off, it's got too many sections or something. Which kind of makes me love it more really.  

Devotion - Pure Bathing Culture: What surprised me the most about this song is the secret shredding happening throughout. It feels like a sort of clean and cool guitar that hasn’t existed in the wild since the Lethal Weapon soundtrack and it adds such an energy to this already completely wonderful song.

Paper Cup - Real Estate + Sylvan Esso: The production on this song is just so beautiful. The violin melody and the pillow soft synths really add such an extra dimension to it. The tone on everything really. The guitar in the solo. Every time I listen to this song I just want to listen to it again because it goes down so smooth.

Mark Zuckerberg - Nap Eyes: I’m a very big fan of the way this song transitions from a sort of TMBG novelty song halfway through into a lonely and beautiful thing instead. It’s like he got distracted and wandered off in the middle of his set but the camera followed him. I also haven’t heard a lyric in a long time that made me bark laugh so instantly as “And what does he do with all that sand? He collects sand right? I think I read that somewhere. Seems innocent enough.”

Viking Hair - Dry Cleaning: I fell in love with this band immediately on hearing this song. The way the spoken lyrics sit in a place of almost coherence, dipping between mysterious phrases and earnest admissions feels like Life Without Buildings for a new generation. I love the feeling of a huge crush at the centre of this song that comes through achingy in every single word, even when she's talking about abandoned refrigerators.

LeBron James - Do Nothing: This is my number one song this month I think. I've listened to it every single day and I cannot wait to see what this band does once they've got more than a couple of songs out. It's my absolute favourite kind of lyrics: the kind that sounds like you just wrote down every one-sided phone conversation you overheard on the bus and then the music is some halfway point between Black Midi and Franz Ferdinand. What else do you need!

Can I Receive The Contact? - The Spirit Of The Beehive: The Spirit Of The Beehive's album is one of the best I heard this month. The way the production incorporates sound collage and samples without diluting the immediacy of the songwriting is really something special that feels hard to pull off in a rock context but sounds effortless through this whole album. The way this shifts at the end into the odd time section is so great and really the way the whole album flows like one long track is just amazing. Please listen, I'm obsessed.

An Air Conditioned Man - Rolling Blackouts Coastal Fever: There is so much space in Rolling Blackouts songs. They just go and go, sitting in this great jam space without feeling shaggy. The tempo across the album stays pretty consistently at this breezy, upbeat, driving speed that makes it feel like as soon as one song ends the next one just picks up exactly where it left off. It almost feels like a studio confines them and they'd be better off just recording their album live at a show where every song can go for 8 minutes like it wants to.

Leak -Truth, yesnoyesnoyes- - Boris: I got to see Boris and Merzbow this month, which was a great treat for me but it was also at a seated theatre venue which was a very strange choice. Sitting down and clapping politely as Merzbow pressed the screaming button feels odd, like being at an 1800s World's Fair show about the wonders of electricity or quite literally like being the guy in the chair getting blown away by the speakers in the Maxell ads. I bought earplugs for the show but ended up pulling them out for the last three songs or so to properly experience it, and it was fucking great. Something I was thinking about after the show is that it's interesting how Boris mostly have clean vocals, and really approach metal as an idea from and angle that's more shoegaze than Slayer. Aside from the immense volume, there isn't a lot about their music that I would describe as agressive, even most of what Merzbow added to the set was just extra feedback frequency noise, not atonal agression. I don't mean this in a trve kvlt way, more like it's interesting how they've taken the aesthetics of metal and refined them into pure amplifer worship, in their words, by either playing straight drone, or just playing normal hard rock at inhuman volumes. Boris are very good is what I'm saying, and I can't wait to listen to more of their extremely large discography.

Nameless Streets - Defeater: I've never really listened to much hardcore and I'm not really sure why. I've listened to Defeater's first two albums to death though so maybe it's time to branch out. What I love about this song, and this band in general is the vocal delivery. In a lot of agressive music from metal to screamo, because the agression and emotion is always sitting at a 10 the nuance can get lost and it becomes a sort of white noise, but Defeater have a nice way of backing off musically and vocally here and there to let the hard hits really hit hard. The outro to this song is also some absolutely world class snare work, building a tension bed in the simplest way thats relieved when the rest of the band comes crashing back in.

Boys In Town - Divinyls: I love the true desperation in this song. The trapped in a small town, surrounded by fuckers stress that gives way in the second half to just screaming "get me out of here!!". I am also interested in the evolution of the phrase 'too much, too young' and would like to know whether this song is referencing the song by The Specials, and if the Defeater song on this playlist is referencing this song or The Specials song, or if all three came up with it independently. It's a simply enough phrase, I suppose they could have. Who cares, really.

Body By Crystal - Spike Fuck: Come on a journey with me and imagine a world where Alex Cameron makes good music. That's Spike Fuck! The sort of burned out, past their prime singer desperate for a hit in any sense type of character - except actually put together with some heart and emotion and not an 80s comic book writer's understanding of human lows. I cannot wait to hear more from Spike Fuck.

Rogue Wave - Aesop Rock: It is something of a marvel how consistently high quality Aesop Rock's work is. For all his verbosity and expansive vocabulary he seems to never veer into white guy rap god flexing for the sake of it. Even a song like this that's 3 minutes of dense verses with nothing resembling a hook doesnt feel exhausting, it just feels like a series of extremely pleasing words and images like "take it where the warlocks lock horns, soda pop, popcorn / top notch gore set to Bach over fog horns" that makes my brain go "nice".

Momentary Bliss (feat. Slowthai and Slaves) - Gorillaz: I love the strange rollout Gorillaz are doing for this album, building the tracklist one song at a time. It's a nice way to force close listening, especially in songs with odd structures like this. I love hearing how different prouction changes Slowthai's approach; on this and Deal Wiv It that he did with Mura Masa it feels a lot brighter than anything on Nothing Great About Britain and there's a playfulness in his flow that comes through accordingly. Gorillaz are always moving around musically but I love how much of a live band feel this has compared to the more studioy sound that killed their last album for me.

We Will Always Love You (feat. Blood Orange) - The Avalanches: I am so excited at the possibility of a new Avalanches album already, and this is the perfect song to have as a lead single because it functions more like a teaser. Like 'would you like an hour more of this kind of beautiful, loving dream?'

Tar Sequence - Lalo Schifrin: I found out a little while ago that the local news theme when I was growing up was actually this song from the score to Cool Hand Luke, and according to a bunch of other guys in the youtube comments it was the local news theme for a lot of stations across America as well. The scene is of a prison road gang working under the blazing sun, and I'm sure someone could write a thinkpiece about the soundtrack to the nightly news, and really the platonic ideal of news themes in general stemming from the score to a scene about prison labour. But not me! I'm just going to write this little post and say we all owe Lalo Schifrin our lives for inventing the sonic pallette of kung fu AND the news, which is an incredible achievement whichever way you slice it.

When You - Tha Pope: It's a little bit of a shame that footwork is 'over' now but I suppose that's the way of things. The intro to this song is an absolute all timer for me. The delay soaked tag, the extended organ lick and then a total gear shift into this shrieking vocal sample that sounds like something has gone wrong but is revealed in actuality to be the centre of the whole track. I absolutely love Pope's little adlib at the start, and halfway through when he brings it back - it injects some real humanity into this cacophonous, volatile song and lets you know someone's done this on purpose, they've not just turned every dial to 10 and pressed play.  

Jonny/Jonny (Reprise) - Faye Webster: I am absolutely in love with the tone of Faye Webster's voice and especially the way she slowly slides up to the note at the end of every line in the verse. This is a song that belongs to the great genre of songs that sound like they were entirely written and performed while laying on the floor and staring at the ceiling. The reprise here comes back at the end of the album and I love it so much. It feels like a Sex And The City monologue set to music, an underexplored genre I'd definitely like to hear more of.

Holes - Matt Berninger: Matt Berninger of The National covered Mercury Rev's Holes for a series of charity 7"s that Planned Parenthood are doingand I really love his take on it. It's a difficult song to cover because it is so beloved, and I think he does really well to not smooth out the arrangement into any sort of easy listening version. The rumbling piano and the extra vocals that mirror the original saw sound near the end are just wonderful. The part that always breaks my heart in this song is the "bands" line at the end and he really does it perfectly without being overdramatic.

Ta Aro - Nadia Reid: I love the way this song is just soaked in tension and potential energy. She has a beautiful way of holding a note just past the edge of her breath, like when she sings 'glory hallelujah' or 'I am stronger' and in the wordless refrain that just draws me in. Then the way it all closes in on itself and shadows close in at the end while it swells to this beautiful thunderstorm of sound. Just great.

Purify - Neurosis: Someone had a tweet a while ago that was like 'listen to a new album every day in February and write about it' and I thought 'fuck it why not' and started doing that. I kept a little note in my phone of every album I listened to that I'd never heard before, and I ranked them out of 5 so I could remember which ones I liked. I ended up listening to 49 new albums which surprised me, and it was surprisingly easy to do as well so I've decided to keep doing it in March as well. Highly recommended. A nice side effect of constantly searching for new things to listen to is it's given me a chance to hear bands that I've always heard about and know the name of but never actually listened to for one reason or another, which is how I got to Neurosis. It's nice to hear this kind of industrial 90s metal that I'd only ever previously heard in Tool from another angle, and it is especially nice to hear bagpipes in a drone metal context - a thought I'd had independently about a week before hearing this album and was glad to have willed into existence before me.

Shallow Sun - Real Estate: Time! I love a song about aging that mentions specific years and ages so you can count along on your fingers. '25 in 2010... so he was 24 when they put out in their first album.. 39 in 24.. so he's... 35 now.. and i'm 28... which means I'm... 3 albums behind..'

Quand Vas Tu Retrer - Melody's Echo Chamber: I'll listen to any song in 5/4. It is simply groovy. This song is so beautifully textured it feels like you can just get completely lost in the sound while the groove moves it along.

Living Through Another Cuba - XTC: I think I've posted this song on one of these playlists before but fuck it, the more time passes the more I think this might be one of the best songs ever written and a complete and total encapsulation of the cold war mood. The absolute maniac resigned powerlessnes on full display, screaming and shouting about pullings fins from an atom bomb and the absolute certainty that even if the world isn't destroyed this time it'll all come around again soon enough anyway.

Time - U.S. Girls: I am a huge proponent of the long song at the end of the record as a concept, and really I believe every song should be the long song at the end of the record if at all possible. This amount of colour in this jam is just incedible, it never gets weighed down or waylaid it just keeps moving though an ever shifting kaleidoscope and I absolutely love it. It also reminds me of Los Bitchos who were on one of my secret lost playlists from December so it's nice to have their vibe represented here at least. This song also interestingly ties into a thought I was having this week about the limits of music wherein time is the only immutable constant. In all of life music is an inescapable constant of course, but in music especially compared to visual art or written art, time is an inexorable force. You simply cannot bend time in music, a song or performance will always have a duration that will define it, short or long, which cannot be muted or played with in the same way that rhythm or tonality can. 4'33" is a good example of that, being devoid of everything except time. When there is nothing, there is still time. Canyons of time.

Bad Magic - Weyes Blood: I got to see Weyes Blood a couple of weeks ago and I feel extremely blessed that I did. She's just amazing. She played this song solo as her last encore, and she's in a sort of interesting position of blowing up majorly on her fourth album so people (myself included) weren't overly familiar with her older stuff. So when she said 'this is a song called Bad Magic' everyone clapped politely and one woman right up the back screamed "oh my GOD??" which is the kind of personal, just for her, singular experience I'm always here for. Hearing this song for the first time in that setting has really made me fall in love with it. The thing that's always alienated me a little abot Weyes Blood's earlier work, and the thing she changed so dramatically on Titanic Rising is the structuring of her songs. Titanic Rising embraces pop songwriting so wonderfully where her earlier work was so much shaggier and harder to access as a result - but in this song I love it. This song is meandering and long and wanders around in circles and I'm here for every second of it.

Listen to this playlist here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3ZraEZOeS6qvVxfnz3AJS9