#I’m not catholic and I don’t believe in confessing to a priest but I’d almost consider it just to get this off my chest for good

[insanechayne]

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[binniedeactivated]

saint. || soobin💦

a/n: ya’ll forgive me someone requested soobin smut and I could not find the request on my page lolololol so whoever requested this i hope you enjoy!

saint m.list

🖤┊𝔰𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔱 . ೄྀ࿐ 𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: 𝖘𝖔𝖔𝖇𝖎𝖓 𝖝 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗 𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖗𝖊: 𝖘𝖒𝖚𝖙/𝖆𝖚 𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖉𝖆? 𝖎𝖋 𝖞𝖆’𝖑𝖑 𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖙. (𝖑𝖊𝖙 𝖒𝖊 𝖐𝖓𝖔𝖜) 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙; 1893.

he was tall. sorry for stating the obvious but that was the most noticeable thing about him. I mean if you got really close maybe you could see his deep dimples that waded in both of his cheeks when he talked. Or if you were paying close attention to him you’d notice the way his eyes enveloped when he smiled or laughed. but enough of that though, choi soobin was nothing to admire. 

well, at least personality wise. he’d come to school in his snazzy maroon sweater vest and suit jacket and wore his hair in the side part that drove all of the girls crazy. you had to admit, it was reasonably so. he was a good looking guy. so why wouldn’t they? 

if they hadn’t been obsessing over him maybe they’d see him dump their textbooks in the trash when they weren’t looking or him cutting their ponytails or even worse, him lying to the priest about the sluts they were at the confessionals. poor father benjamin. 

luckily though you stayed low on the radar. I mean you weren’t completely invisible but at least your were the person who rather keep your head inside the book of Ecclesiasticus than choi soobin. you were one of the few at least. he even had the boys all over him, wanting to be him, wanting to act like him and dress like him. if this wasn’t a catholic school you’d think they’d rather be his girlfriend, too. but you couldn’t hold your school to a high standard I mean Melissa Mccarthy’s sex tape was floating around the school for months. And she was so called one of the most ‘attractive’ girls in school before she got expelled of course.

but back to choi soobin. he was a shit head. you knew in your heart of hearts he was. this is what mainly infuriated you when sister helena assigned him as your partner for a video watching. yeah a video watching. in which she’d pull out that big fat old tv and put on a black and white movie and expects you to write down the answers based on events that were happening in the film. she always assigned partners though because she thought two brains could capture better details than one. 

anyway he slides in the seat next to yours in the back of the room with a snarky grin on his face. he always had that dumb snarky grin. you pull down your plaid pleated skirt a little more over your knees. sister helena smiles at the both of you while passing out the question sheet and a couple of pencils. Soobin grabs it before you. not that you were racing to get it anyway. You saw him concentrating to write, must’ve been hard for him since he does little to no work. Then you realized he was writing his name and you wondered if how he even made it to senior year. 

it was your turn to write your name on the paper so you did so quickly before the movie started. you weren’t even 10 minutes into the movie before soobin began laughing and goofing off with his friends in the front of him. Sister helena shot you a severe look signaling the fact that she wanted you two to tone it down. but why did she address you and not soobin?

you nudge him on the arm. 

“hey quit it. sister helena is going to give us an F if you keep going”.

“and what does that have to do with me?”. soobin snarls you roll your eyes. 

“it has a lot to do with you because if i get a bad grade over you It’s going to be a serious problem”.

soobin laughs as if to say, ‘yeah right’. it only made you angrier. soobin tilts his head at you. you were kinda cute in a way. he never really looked at you before like he had now. he acted as if he were looking elsewhere and placed his hand on your knee. you flinch.

“soobin?-- what are you doing?”. 

you ask pushing his hand off. he does this sheepish grin that makes him the cutest but you didn’t want to admit it. 

“come on. we’re in the back of the room. don’t you want to have some fun?”.

“we have an assignment to do you idiot”. he places his hand on your knee again, only he raises it a bit more, dragging up your skirt a little. you had to admit, his hands felt nice. 

“you’re so worried about this assignment. trust me. I’ll make sure we have the answers even if we weren’t paying attention”.

your nerves ran endlessly as he dragged his fingers higher, now reaching the top of your thighs. you were grateful that you two were in the back of the room and that the table you two shared was enough to cover his movements. 

“s-s-soobin i don’t think we should”. you stuttered. it was weird how you forgot all the bad things about soobin as soon as he started touching you. He leans in your ear, 

“just relax. I’ll make you feel good i promise. have you ever been touched before?”.

no. and you would probably be the envy of the whole school if everyone knew who was waiting to touch you. 

“no i haven’t”. 

he ghosted his finger tips at the front of your panties, rubbing your slit lazily. you closed your eyes, feeling sorry for father benjamin and your confessions in advance. 

“you’re actually pretty cute”. soobin flirts with his lips still to your ear. you ignored his compliment letting him slip his fingers inside of your panties. he teases your clit with his fingertips before he touches it softly. 

you twitch and tap your foot so you wouldn’t be too suspicious to sister Helena. Not that she was paying you two any mind anyway. you don’t know what the hell gotten into you, but it was too late to stop it now. 

soobin scoots his seat closer to you and uses his other hand to grip his pencil in. He wanted to make he looked like he was doing as much work as possible. He pulled your panties back a bit more, using his finger to gently rub your clit in small circles. you shuddered. this was your first time experiencing something as mind blowing as this. 

with your priest of a father and religious mother you never had time to...explore. you finally saw what you were missing in life. soobin pauses his actions to spread your legs a little wider before he kept rubbing you. With each rub he’d do it more forcefully than the last. you bite your lips trying to detain any noises. it was hard though. 

“you’re so cute. you like getting your virgin pussy touched don’t you?”. soobin speaks in your ear with a low tone. he fastens the pace of his fingers feeling your puffy clit slick up in excitement. surges of electricity sprints through you. you pull your skirt over his hand. 

he casually pretends he’s watching tv and you’re suffering. If you don’t whimper, or wail, or anything you felt like you were going to explode in the next two seconds. He rubs you faster and you could feel your hips grinding against his fingers desparately. 

“don’t do that. fuck--you’re going to make me hard”. he warns in a casual whisper. you ignore him of course and clutch the table. you close your eyes and let his fingers slide through your pussy as you grinded. you opened your mouth hoping nothing came out. but you were in for a surprise when you created a small squeal by accident.

luckily though, no one but sister helena looked at you. With her pointer she pointed to the tv, meaning ‘pay attention or you will have detention’ . you’d sure liked to see her contain herself if she ever got fingered in the back of a classroom by a cute boy. but then again you wouldn’t like to see that, because  for a 50 year old woman that’d be fucking gross. 

soobin is chuckling lowly in your ear like the menace he was. “your pussy is so fucking wet holy shit”. 

you continue to bite your lips while he swiped your clit from side to side aggressively with three fingers. your heart pounded in your chest. you wanted to shriek, you wanted to scream but you couldn’t and it was killing you. 

you decided it was best that you left your small cries in the lowest volume as possible, only audible enough for soobin to hear. you were sopping through his fingers though. you panicked when you felt yourself pulse intensely. soobin grinned. he knew your were close. 

“that’s it, cum for me you little fucking saint”. he groaned in your ear. with your stuttering hips a wave of pressure came over you and you felt something leaking out of you. with your heavy breathing you had to come to terms with the fact that that was your first orgasm. 

holy shit.

the bell rung and classes ended and somehow someway you and soobin’s paper was full of answer by the time he turned it in. “Hey, you. come here I need to have a word with you”. sister helena grumbled looking directly at you. your heart raced. soobin gave you a small smirk before walking out the classroom. as almost if he was wishing you good luck. 

“yes?”. 

“I want to say that choi soobin is very misbehaved. But i am so glad I paired him with you. I’ve never saw him complete a whole paper his whole time here and this is his senior year here. hey, if you don’t mind i think i’d like to pair you two more often. Is that alright with you?”. she smiles. 

you blink. not believing what the hell you were hearing. 

“yes why not?”. you blurt out laughing playfully for good measure. 

“good good! I know what to do now. Have a nice day!”. you bow to her hoping she does as well. you walk out the classroom to see soobin standing on the wall next to the door smiling down at you like an idiot.

“what?”. you scoff. 

“have you ever had sex before?”. he asks casually as if he were asking you what your favorite cereal was. you shake your head no. 

“no. why?”. 

“do you want to?”. 

“what makes you think i’d want to do it with you? you’ve probably had sex with the whole school by now”. 

you scoff again walking away. he chases after you. 

“if that’s what you think then boy you’d be surprised by the truth”. 

“why are you even bothering? I’m a virgin it’s not like i’m some slut who can pleasure you and actually know what I’m doing”. 

“I can teach you”. he says confidently. 

“what?”. 

“It’s your senior year. I’m sure you don’t want to be a virgin for long. I mean, you can agree to let me teach you or i’d just might have to tell poor father benjam--”.

“alright! soobin. no need to go that far”. you adjust your backpack strap. 

“I’ll let you teach me. but where?”.

“my parents are having a church meeting tomorrow night. Meet me at my house around 7″.

[seanfalco]

Want | Priest!Kay x Reader {Part II}

Fandom: Season of the Witch Modern!AU Word Count: 2k Warnings: Catholicism, Religious imagery, Angst, Infidelity  (I’m also not Catholic, so hopefully I haven’t made any glaring errors.)

masterlist

He thought it would get easier as the weeks wore on, but Kay grimaced as he stepped behind the pulpit to face the congregation, his gaze instantly seeking out [y/n], her fiance’s arm resting across her shoulders, and he had to admit to himself that it was quite the opposite -- it was only getting harder to see her with him.   To keep his thoughts pure.

Their first lesson together had been… awkward to say the least, but by the second one they’d almost fallen back into the easy friendship of their teen days, which was both a relief and a worry to Kay.

If they kept getting more comfortable around each other, who knew what would happen then?

It was already going to be hard enough for him to watch her marry someone else when not so long ago that was what he’d wanted.  Growing close to her again would only make it that much harder.

When he’d broken up with her and left for seminary school like his father had wanted he thought he’d never see her again -- that even though it wasn’t what he’d wanted, that time would heal all wounds and that throwing himself into his studies would distract him enough to forget his feelings for her, and for a time it had, but it didn’t last.

He still sometimes woke in a cold sweat, their breakup haunting his dreams, the hurt look on her face as he’d turned away wrenching at his heart.  

They’d been so young and it had all happened so fast, their feelings too great, too overwhelming, too soon.

And he’d ran.

Only to find regret waiting for him, but by then it was too late and now… now he’d have to live with that regret.

He’d never have [y/n], and he’d never be a good priest.  How could he give all of himself to God if someone else still held his heart?

——

“So, how was your week?” Kay asked, hanging up his robe as [y/n] took her usual seat across from his desk, the little notebook she’d been scribbling notes in during their lessons resting in her lap.

He knew that she’d never been religious before, not outright atheist, but definitely agnostic.  However, during their lessons she was attentive and diligent -- always asking questions and taking notes.  He just wasn’t sure how much of that was from a true willingness to learn or merely out of respect for him.

“It wasn’t bad,” she answered with a small shrug.  “Nothing much happened.  This is honestly the highlight of my week,” she admitted, her eyes flicking up to his meaningfully.

Somehow Kay doubted it was because of church, but he’d be lying if he said that this wasn’t the highlight of his week as well…

“I’m glad our lessons mean that much to you,” he murmured, fighting the urge to loosen his collar.  “Uhm, before we get started,” he continued quickly, forcing his hands to still in front of him on his desk.  He’d definitely caught [y/n]’s little smirk at his words, and was trying to ignore it.  

“Why don’t you tell me a little about Matthew.  How you two met,” Kay suggested, trying to keep his voice neutral, but [y/n] looked up at him sharply, suspicion in her calculating gaze.

It was purely in his interest as their Reverend, he told himself.  He wasn’t asking for any other reason.

Frowning for a moment, [y/n] cleared her throat.  “We met through our parents,” she explained slowly, her expression not exactly what one would expect a newly engaged woman to wear as she spoke of her betrothed, and Kay’s heart constricted.

She doesn’t look happy, he observed as she told him how their parents had thought it would be a good match.

Don’t be ridiculous, Kay told himself firmly, ignoring that first thought.  That’s just wishful thinking because part of you doesn't want her to get married, to lay with anyone else, to look at them with love in her eyes, when it should be you.

Shaking loose his thoughts, Kay realized he’d missed much of what she’d said, but what he had caught hadn’t exactly sounded romantic, and he fought against losing himself once more to memories of their time together before it had all come crashing down.

Of late night phone calls that neither wanted to end, leading to Kay listening to [y/n] sleep over the phone, wishing she were next to him instead of her own bed.  Of handwritten love letters passed discreetly through lockers and left in textbooks, clandestine make out sessions during cut classes, and holding hands as he walked her home every day.  Of their awkward, if sweet, first time that had led to a second time shortly after, full of laughter and affirmations of love.

Did she love Matthew like she’d loved him?

“Kay…?”

“Hmm, I’m sorry, I lost my thoughts for a moment there,” he admitted sheepishly, hoping it wouldn’t be obvious where his thoughts had slipped to.

“That’s alright, it’s not exactly the most riveting story,” [y/n] murmured with a wry twist of her lips.  “Let’s, uhm, let’s get on with the lesson, shall we?” she asked and Kay was only too relieved to agree, not exactly keen to dwell any more on the topic of [y/n]’s fiance.

——

In order to speed things along to keep on schedule for your swiftly approaching wedding, Kay had suggested meeting twice a week for your lessons, and you’d only been all too happy to agree.

However, it was getting harder and harder to keep him off your mind, finding yourself thinking of him during every spare moment, even on the rare occasions Matthew wanted to have sex.  The night before, you’d nearly cried out the wrong name, Kay’s name practically springing to your lips, and disappointment twisted like a knife when you’d opened your eyes to find it wasn’t him hovering over you.

So it was to your great dismay that today’s lesson was about confession.

“We went over all this in principle last time, but this time we’ll do a practice run,” Kay was saying as he led you down to the sanctuary, blessedly empty save for the two of you.  Stopping in front of the confessional, your stomach in your throat, you hesitated, Kay noticing your reluctance.

“Are you nervous, [y/n]?”

“Yeah, you could say that,” you murmured, your nerves at an all time high.

“I promise it’s not as daunting as it seems,” Kay murmured, resting his hand on the small of your back, ushering you toward the door, a reassuring smile on his face.

As you took your seat atop the hard wooden bench inside you fidgeted as you waited for Kay to join you on the other side of the latticed partition.

This would be so much easier if you didn’t know the priest.

“Okay, [y/n],” Kay said as he took his seat, his voice soothing.  “Remember, the Sacrament of Confession is between you, me, and God.  I cannot disclose anything you tell me in here, to anyone,” he reminded you and you nodded, though it didn’t exactly make you feel any better.  He would still know about it.

“Alright my child, you may begin,” Kay prompted and you bit your lip, taking a steadying breath.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” you began, reciting the words he’d taught you.  “I uhm, I’ve sinned, well… a lot, and uhh, recently, in fact,” you muttered, looking down at your hands.  

With the partition between you, you couldn’t really see Kay, just his outline, but you could feel his gaze on you.

“Well, I’ve… masterbated… and I use birth control regularly, which is a big no-no, I guess,” you said, giving a nervous laugh before continuing.   “I’ve had premarital sex, which… I mean, you know about that,” you added, clearing your throat, reluctant to admit more.

“Go on, you’re doing well,” Kay urged gently and you nodded, continuing.

“I… I’ve coveted, and lied, I’ve taken the Lord’s name in vain and I’ve…” your voice faltered and failed.  “I’ve--” you tried again, taking another breath and swallowing, your throat suddenly very dry.

“I’ve had thoughts of an impure nature about someone other than my fiance,” you admitted.  “--About someone I should not be.  Someone I thought I’d never see again.”

Pausing, it was obvious who you meant, and your eyes flicked up to the partition where you felt Kay’s were and you wondered just what sort of expression he was wearing.

“And now that I have… seen him again, I can’t seem to get him off my mind,” you murmured.

For a long moment silence stretched and you wished you could take it all back.

“[y/n].” Kay’s voice wavered before strengthening.  “That is… highly inappropriate,” he said hesitantly, his words like a slap to the face, though you knew he was right.

“Don’t you think I know that?” you exclaimed.  “I’ve tried to stop, believe me!  But I fucking can’t and I--I don’t know if I want to,” you cried, frantically blinking back tears, your stomach churning.  “I miss you, Kay, and every moment we’re together feels like torture.  I… I thought I could do this, but I can’t.”

“[y/n]--”

Before he could say more, you pushed off the bench and threw open the door, suddenly feeling lightheaded and needing air, Kay right on your heels.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t been thinking about me too,” you exclaimed, turning to him, frustration and anger lacing your words.  Kay watched you with an unreadable expression.  “I’ve seen it in your eyes, Kay.  You always had the worst poker face.  Don’t tell me there’s nothing there,”you insisted, almost pleading and he looked away, blinking rapidly.

“[y/n], don’t…” he said, unable to quite look at you.  “You know we can’t happen.”

“You didn’t answer me,” you pressed, taking a step toward him, desperation filling your voice now, your stomach twisting til you felt you were going to be sick.  

“It… it doesn’t matter,” Kay replied sadly, shaking his head.  “I’m a man of the cloth now.  I’m committed to the Church and you -- you’re engaged to be married, [y/n]!” he exclaimed, his voice cracking as he lifted his arms only to let them fall helplessly to his sides again, his hands curling into fists.

“What we had was a long time ago.  We’ve both moved on, and I won’t be the one to break up your marriage.  I don’t want to be the reason,” he insisted, though it looked like it pained him to say it.

“Yeah well, I never wanted this!” you cried, your voice clearly shaking now and you couldn’t keep the tears from your eyes any longer, feeling them fall down your cheeks.  “You were the one that pushed me away and then… then you ran away where I couldn’t follow!”

Taking a shaky breath, you scrubbed at the dampness streaking your face.  “You want my confession, Father?  I still have feelings for you, they never went away,” you admitted, breathing heavily, your chest constricting with panic.

When Kay didn’t speak, his emerald eyes pained, you continued, grasping at straws.

“Is this truly what you want?” you asked, your voice hoarse.

“It is,” he said softly, carefully not meeting your gaze.  “Even if I… harboured feelings for you, I cannot act on them, so please don’t put me in that position, [y/n].”

When he finally lifted his head, his eyes rising to yours once more, he shook his head sadly, his long curls shivering.

“Besides, you don’t want me,” he murmured.  “I can’t give you the life you deserve.”

Deafening silence filled the church and you stood there in disbelief.

If only you’d kept your mouth shut, you thought angrily -- angry at yourself, because you knew, you knew deep down you couldn’t have just kept going that way, lying to yourself, to him.

Taking a deep breath, you forced yourself to lift your chin.

“You’re wrong.”

When you turned, Kay took a panicked step toward you, reaching out before you pulled away.

“Where are you going?  [y/n]?” he called after you, but you didn’t stop, heading for the doors.

“I’m sorry, Kay.  I can’t do this.”

Without another word you yanked open the handle and slipped out of the church before he could convince you to stay.

----------------------

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[anika-ann]

Errare Humanum Est - Pt.14

God’s Will and Fate’s Jokes

Type: series, soulmate AU series  (part 1, part 2)   x Supernatural

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader (past?)    Word count: 2900

Summary: Steve is not the only man out of time to be found in New York, Manhattan. And he sure as hell isn’t the only one struggling with what he’s done and lost.

Warnings: mentions of violence, guns and death, swearing, a bit of a talk about religion

A/N: Ah, you want to know how the reunion will turn out? Understandable… So I’m gonna insert a Bucky chapter, with fragments of how he had been. I promise two little cameos from a Netflix TV series in exchange though, so hopefully I can be forgiven.

Story masterlist

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The wind was gradually getting chillier with New York City further diving into autumn. Bucky readjusted his leather jacket to shield himself from it, but it was just a force of a habit. He had been frozen – several times, as he remembered now – and cold didn’t bother him for a while now. This was barely ‘cold’. His boots shuffled on the pavement with each step, a noise that seemed to drown in the busy streets.

The evening was slowly drifting into a night time, but in Manhattan, the streets never really fell into silence, always pulsing with life, sometimes calmer, mostly rapid though.

Bucky shoved his gloved hands into the pockets of his jeans and sighed, stopping in front of the rather tall building – then again, this was New York, tall meant something different here – , his destination.

His mind was preoccupied, for the millionth time lost in the past; for a change, not in his own.

The fact he had been unfrozen during the decades gave him an advantage of being able to keep up with modern times; and there was nothing that couldn’t be found on the Internet, especially when one knew where and how to look, maybe even peak where others couldn’t for the lack of access or ability.

Then again, Captain America’s life story wasn’t exactly a heavily guarded secret and Bucky couldn’t decide whether he couldn’t believe his eyes while reading, or whether he actually wasn’t surprised at all when learning what his former best friend had been up to after he (and the rest of the world, for that matter) thought Bucky was gone.

He had dived a plane which was about to level New York and other great cities of America to the ground. Everyone thought he died, but instead, he was trapped in ice; Bucky prayed Steve had been unconscious the whole time, not feeling the biting cold. Then, the proclaimed war hero was found and been woken up seventy years to the future, throwing himself into a fight as soon as it was needed.

And wasn’t it damn necessary – aliens attacked the Earth. Bucky now remembered seeing a lot of weird inexplicable shit. But still, this? What the hell.

The thing was, despite that, Steve’s life wasn’t all bad. He became a part of a band of superheroes and… the punk finally found his soulmate, the one he could never find before, because she hadn’t been born yet, which was insane enough on its own. However, he seemed happy.

Naturally, it had to nosedive after that; the woman of his heart and soul was dead.

Some nuthead – and to Bucky’s rage, a nuthead Bucky knew, he had been part of Hydra, which he now hoped didn’t exist anymore, because he read about Pierce being locked up along with others – had murdered her in the worst possible way right in front of Steve.

If Bucky ever considered becoming a murder machine again, after everything he knew he had done, it was upon that revelation. He wanted that man’s head. He wanted to tear him limb from limb. He was a villain, sure, that need was natural, but he had hurt Steve on top of that. No one hurt Steve and got away with it.

Apparently, the man didn’t, because he was blown up along with everyone in the building minus Steve.

Still. If Bucky ever questioned whether he still had a heart, he was sure upon that realization; he did have one and it bled for his best friend.

He wished he could be there for him, but he wasn’t ready. He didn’t know if he could even show up after everything his hands had done, no matter who forced them. He didn’t know if he could mug up Steve’s life even worse.

It was weeks now since he had been freed and his feet led him to a church – the one church where people said goodbye to Steve’s soulmate. Bucky had read about it too, her funeral; a small service for her friends and family, but many others wished to express their condolences, say thank you to the poor soul who lost her life to theirs and their loved ones and they chose this church to do so.

Bucky had figured he could pay his respects as well.

What he didn’t count on was the roller-coaster of emotions hitting him when seeing her picture, her smile radiant and brighter than the candles illuminating her photograph.

She was pretty, there was no denial. The photo printed was from Avengers’ archives, he read as much – Bucky had no doubt that it was Steve who put that bright smile, lighting up her eyes, on her face. He believed Steve had found true happiness with her and it wasn’t just because she was his soulmate or because Bucky watched the video evidence as she faced her death and showed great bravery and kindness or because he saw Steve’s desperation in the very same footage.

Bucky simply knew; the woman seemed to truly love Steve and that was all Steve ever needed. A woman to love him unconditionally.

Life was cruel and fucked-up to take that away from him.

No, Bucky didn’t count on the rage and heartbreak chasing tears into his eyes. Neither did he expect someone to pull him out of his musing.

“Did you know her, son?” an amiable male voice caused him to wince and mentally yell at himself for a dumb lack of awareness of his surroundings. Had it been a Hydra agent, Bucky would have been dead.

He forced himself to calm his sprinting heart, the rush of adrenaline unnecessary when the only person disturbing him was an old priest with nearly bald head and a soft soothing tone of voice.

His breath shuddered.

“No, Father. I didn’t.” I knew her soulmate, Bucky could have added, but he couldn’t afford to draw attention to himself; everyone knew who her soulmate was and it would lead to uncomfortable questions. Instead, Bucky’s mind supplied him with an easy lie. “But she had her life ahead of her, all of it. She must have been happy with her soulmate if he made her smile like this.”

The shorter man nodded, removing a candle that burned out from the altar with her picture – Bucky hadn’t noticed before with many others still warming up the space with their tiny flickering flames.

“Indeed. And she surely made him equally happy,” the priest hummed, sorrow darkening his face. His eyes carried a hint of curiosity, watching Bucky inconspicuously. ”It’s a shame for such joy to be stolen by madmen. Her soulmate… I pray for him as much as I do for her soul. Broken heart heals much longer than broken bones.”

No shit. Especially when it comes to supersoldiers with enhanced healing.

“Not wrong there,” Bucky whispered, hesitantly reaching out to the small metal basket with candles and a thin piece of wood to borrow the flame from another.

Bucky didn’t believe in God for almost seventy years now. Still, when the wick caught fire, he sent a silent prayer for both Steve and his gal.

“Still, you seem troubled by more than that,” the priest whispered and made a kind offer. “You could confide me in. It is what I am here for. Perhaps it would ease your sorrow.”

I don’t think so. Neither will it ease the craving after tearing a dead man’s head off.

“I don’t think you could help, Father, no offence. I’ve never been a good Catholic and lately even less so. And you sure don’t want to hear what troubles me.”

Despite a gentle nod of understanding, he nudged Bucky once more. At the very same moment, the soldier could hear the heavy door of the church open a crack and a man walk in with a periodic taping of a thin stick.

“I only wish to help you. If something of what you possibly have done heavies you… I wouldn’t be able to tell anyone. I’m not allowed.”

“I believe you, Father. But I’m not sure your own conscience would allow you to keep quiet in my case,” Bucky admitted honestly, shifting under the presence of another man despite the fact he wouldn’t be able to hear them. A periodic tapping the man carried with him was getting to Bucky’s nerve already.

He should leave. Another lost soul seeking the help of a church was a good excuse anyway.

“Trust me, son. Whatever your sins are, I’m certain I have heard worse.”

“No, Father. You haven’t,” Bucky muttered under his breath, aware of the stranger getting closer.

He turned to him, surprised to find a man of such built, carrying a walking stick for blind. His stance and body was one of a fighter, even when cladded in a cheap suit, red-tinted glasses preventing his real thoughts from displaying on his face. He appeared blind but not quite. To Bucky, he was giving an impression of pretence, at least partial.

He could only wonder why; however, he could do so on his way out.

“I’m pretty sure he did,” the newcomer joined their barely audible conversation without permission and a scowl twisted the Father’s face.

The fact that the not-so-blind? man could hear what Bucky was saying had everything in Bucky scream fight or flight.

“Matthew. What brings you here at this hour?”

The suited man shrugged light-heartedly; Bucky didn’t believe him for a second. “I thought I’d stop by. See how you’re doing.”

“Always with the jokes, Matthew. It’s not decent.”

It wasn’t. Except if Bucky was more comfortable at the moment, he would have snorted in amusement. This man was clearly comfortable in his own skin, but the skin was a charade too. Bucky didn’t want to stay to crack the mystery though.

“Forgive me, Father, then.”

“Did you come to confess?” the Father continued and Bucky recognized this was as good opportunity to leave as any, making space for the blind man to approach the priest more easily.

A brief smile passed over the Matthew’s lips. “No. Like I said, only wanted to make sure you were alright.”

The backing out of the soldier was less inconspicuous this time, caught by the priest.

“You don’t need to leave, son. Matthew is a dear friend.” And there’s more to him than it seems, Bucky was certain.

Were his the sins Father had mentioned? This man’s? Bucky wouldn’t be surprised considering the dangerous vibe he was radiating.

“I’m Matt,” the man offered swiftly and held out his hand for Bucky to shake.

Bucky was stupid enough to accept it and really, wasn’t he out of his game to make such an idiotic mistake. “…James.”

“Rather hot for gloves, isn’t it?”

Bucky fought the urge to punch this man for pointing it out and took a deep breath.

“My past injuries can… make people uncomfortable when seen.”

“I won’t see them,” the blind man challenged with the light tone to his voice again, his head tilting to side and Bucky could see the corners of his mouth twitch. It gave him the impression of the man wanting sent him a wolfish grin.

And that was the time to get the fuck out. What was Bucky thinking anyway, showing up in here?

“Matthew… perhaps it would be for the best if we leave James to his prayers and have a talk over a latté, if you’re interested at this hour?” the priest offered in a conciliatory manner, beckoning to the back for Bucky’s benefit – or for Matthew’s too?

How deeply ran the lie, the pretending? Bucky didn’t want to hang around to find out.

“Yes…” Matt hesitated, but nodded. “Perhaps. James.”

“Matt. Father.”

Bucky strode between the two lines of the pews, kind words reaching his sensitive ears.

“My invitation still stands, if you ever feel like talking. If you’re not comfortable confessing the traditional way… there’s always coffee. Same rules apply for me.”

Bucky nodded, definitely not planning on taking him upon the offer. “I appreciate the offer, Father. Goodnight.”

Since fate was a cranky bitch, a night full of horrors of the past had him wandering the streets before the sun even began to rise to the horizon.

The Father didn’t seem overly surprised that Bucky showed up again, at such ungodly hour no less.

“James. Latté?” he asked, unfazed almost.

Bucky wanted to question his decision. But he was an old man, older than the priest himself and he could believe his secret would be kept.

He nodded.

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

Opening to someone about the horrors he had lived through and had been a source of was surreal. No, scratch that, it was fucking weird and telling that to a priest was twisted and seriously messed up.

Yet, once Bucky started, he couldn’t stop the verbal vomit, his hands in his hair, tears welling up in his eyes and the hoarseness of his voice that seemed to be impossible to disguise.

And the whole time he talked, the man sitting opposite to him – not touching his latté either – listened intently with compassionate and understanding eyes full of sorrow and offering kind words and his own insights of a person watching the event from a reasonable distance, far enough not to get tangled in the emotional turmoil.

It caused Bucky’s breathing to turn so difficult that he thought he might actually suffocate, but he didn’t. He might be close to choking on his own spit though at priest’s forgiving words several times, words of redemption, a chance on it only proven by a mysterious man building miracles by a flick of a hand.

“You were a victim, James. Just like anybody else,” the Father explained his point of view slowly and with patience battling the one of saints themselves. “These are not your errors to carry with you like a burden. Forgive yourself. And allow your friend the same thing. I’m sure he could benefit from having someone by his side in a time difficult like this.”

Bucky gulped, looking away as he felt awkward burn in his eyes again, a lump in his throat never disappearing.

“I can’t. At least not yet, I’m-“

The sudden change of atmosphere was palpable, the safe environment carefully created by the priest vanishing at instant as Bucky’s instinct screamed about someone else’s presence in the church – someone else’s besides the God’s servants. His senses tingled, hairs rising at the back of his neck.

“Someone’s coming.”

Father Lantom seemed once again rather unfazed, his gaze shifting to his watch.

“Well, it is after six a.m., James.”

“Father-“ the soldier warned him breathlessly, otherwise rising to his feet soundlessly, sneaking to the door, opening them for a crack to glance at the newcomer that made his heart beat out of his chest.

One peek and he swiftly pressed his back to the wall, his head hitting it with a soft thud, eyes falling shut. Even with eyes closed, he could still feel the priest’s worried gaze.

“James?”

Bucky took a deep breath, arguing with his frantic mind and heart to calm the fuck down.

It was alright. He just needed to get the Father to cause diversion and he would sneak out, making no sound. He excelled at disappearing.    

“Go greet him, Father. Don’t tell him a word about having me here. Please.”

The desperate plea was enough to light up a flare of recognition in the priest’s eyes, no matter how hard it made him frown.

He sighed, sounding resigned.

“I cannot do that choice for you, James, even if I wished. I promise to keep quiet.”

Bucky clenched his jaw, squeezed his eyes shut and nodded, beckoning to the other man to move.

The soldier stayed aligned with the wall, waiting for the right moment. It was killing him, freaking him out and yet luring him in, a mess of emotions, memories and possible scenarios of reunion playing out in his head, ranging from a fistfight to a hug even.

He needed to snap out of it.

He wasn’t ready. Not yet.

“Steven. What a nice surprise,” the priest greeted softly and Bucky barely contained the whine drawn to his lips. His hands curled up into fists and he bounced off of the wall, quickly assessing the most secure escape route. ”Do you require my assistance?”

“Not today, Father Lantom, but thank you.”

It was like a slap to Bucky’s face, a punch to his gut, hearing Steve’s voice; the melancholy in it and the burden he was never supposed to carry only making it worse.

For a second, Bucky wavered, faltering in his steps. His friend – former friend, still, his best friend – was right behind that door, needing someone and hurting and what was Bucky doing? Running away, like a coward?

“Are you alright?” the punk continued, expression concern for the not-exactly-older man and that was it. He caught a scent of something fishy right away.

Bucky’s mind yelled at him to get the hell out. His gaze returned to the door leading to a chamber and bathroom, hoping to find a small window. He crossed the distance in long quick steps.

“Yes, Steven, thank you. I simply have another troubled soul in the back room...”

Bucky slipped through the other door, finding what he wished for – an escape route. As he opened the window, taking care not to make the tiniest sound, Steve’s voice was slowly fading away.

“Don’t let me disturb you then, Father.”

By the time Father Lantom returned to the chamber, James Buchannan Barnes was gone. The priest only sighed in resignation; he more than half-expected it would come to that. He only hoped that the troubled soldier would find his way back eventually.

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

Part 15

༻༺༻༺༻ღ༺༻༺༻༺

So… am I? Forgiven? Please? I prooooomise the Steve/reader reunion will take place in the next chapter and it might actually be worth the wait ;)

Thank you for reading!

[starlocked01]

Suspended in a Defenseless Test

AO3 @tsshipmonth2020

Masterpost- Previous- Next

Summary-  Patton never had a soul bond. He thought he was okay with God's tumultuous plan for his life- until he met Remus.

Day 7 Intruality- A red thread only you can see connects you to your soulmate

There's a red string that joins you and your true love. You all know this. It's not some fairy tale. No matter the distance,  you are connected by an unbreakable soulbond.  The non-believers and sinners like to lie and say they have red strings too but I know God only gives them to the faithful, not the homose-

Patton switched off the radio, shutting down the emphatic pastor's voice. He couldn't comprehend how a God that creates invisible soulbonds to lead his children to their complement would punish those who hadn't found him yet. He had plenty of queer friends gush about finding their soulmate because of the red strings. Why would they lie about the fear they felt as children that they would hate the person on the other end, or that the other person would hate them for being queer?

Then again, Patton had no reason to complain. He never had a red string. And according to the lastest radio prophet, that meant he wasn't of the true faith.

There's no way that man knew what he was talking about. Patton had been a priest. He knew the Lord. But did the Lord claim him?

Patton sighed, eyes on the road. Most days he didn't feel broken or incomplete without a string, but Sundays usually did their best to bring him down. God had a plan for his life, apparently it just didn't involve a soulmate. He could be okay with that.

Until he met Remus.

The man was wild and loved to do fun things unplanned, especially if they were gross. He'd show up and drag Patton out to a public park to go on a hike in the pouring rain or bring over buckets of glitter and glue to make slime. He told crass jokes that made Patton blush and always found ways to cheer him up. Even on Sundays.

Patton loved his company and secretly feared the day Remus found his soulmate and left Patton behind.

He pulled the car into the apartment complex where Remus roomed with his brother Roman and Roman’s soulmate. Patton couldn't imagine how awkward that must get, but Remus loved the arrangement. He parked and was gathering his stuff from the back seat when he felt a presence behind him.

Patton blushed, already guessing what Remus was up to and was not surprised when he looked over his shoulder to find Remus mimicking anal behind him. Remus grinned at having been caught and wrapped Patton into a tight hug around the waist.

"Remus…" Patton gave his friend a withering half-smile.

"It's been too long, Daddy. I missed you!" Remus let Patton twist around to hug him back. Patton let his head rest on Remus' shoulder a moment before pulling back with a nearly genuine smile on his face.

"The correct term is 'Father' and you know I'm not ordained anymore, Rem," Patton reached behind his back and grabbed a bag that he held up to Remus, "how have you been? I brought you this."

It wasn't possible for Remus' eyes to gleam any brighter. He took a hand off of Patton's waist to take the gift but instead of opening it right away, he took a step back and gently grabbed Patton's hand.

"Hey, can we take a walk? RoLo kicked me out for the afternoon because they're being all squishy couple-y today. And I need to tell you something."

Patton couldn't stop the flash of fear in his eyes. So today was the day. His closest friend had found his soulmate and whatever kind of dynamic they had would have to change.

Remus saw the fear and winced, "no no it's not bad, Pattycake, come on let’s walk. I won't be able to explain it standing still." Remus bounced on his toes and swung Patton's hand back and forth almost as if to prove his point. Patton gulped and nodded, closing the car door and locking it behind him before letting Remus lead him off down the road.

They walked in uncharacteristic silence for a few minutes, still hand in hand. It felt like the Mariana Trench had opened between them, horrible dark secrets waiting to come to light.

That was pattonly ridiculous to think but nonetheless Patton could not stop worrying. Remus squeezed his hand tighter and led him down a path off the main road.

"Oh, I know where we're going."

"You remember? After two years I didn't think you would," Remus smiled warmly, leading him to a clearing by a large pond surrounded by trees.

"How could I forget that day?" Patton chuckled and shook his head, "I still don't know how you caught a goldfish with a condom."

"I am a man of many talents, few of them useful, " Remus led Patton to the edge of the pond where a blanket and picnic basket were set up.

Patton gasped, "Remus, what is this?"

Remus gestured for Patton to sit down, "Patton, I have a confession to make. Do you still take those?"

Patton chuckled, sat down on the blanket, and pulled Remus down with him.

"Okay, but only for you, kiddo."

"Did you seriously call all the parishioners that? Is that why they kicked you out?" Remus' grin faltered quickly as the joke was met with sad eyes filled with regret. "Damn it. Damn me, right? I'm sorry Patton. But I do have a bit of a confession to make," Remus took a deep breath and looked in Patton's expectant eyes, "I really… really want to make us official."

Patton blinked in surprise, "but, surely I'm not your soulmate. Aren't you waiting for them?"

Remus deflated but tried to keep the energy up, "I know I'm not your soulmate, Pat, but hear me out. I understand if you don't want to because I'm not your soulmate but what I had in mind was a bit different. I want you to be my queerplatonic partner, not a romantic partner."

"Queerplatonic? I've never heard of that before," Patton mused over the word. He'd always assumed romance and love with a soulmate was the most important kind of relationship the Lord had given humans, but the most important man in his life wanted something different. And specifically not a romantic relationship.

"Okay, confession number two. I don't have a soulmate. In fact, I'm aromantic. I've never had a red string and frankly at this point I never want one. But I still want to be your partner, just not in a romantic way. You mean the world to me, Patton. I know coming to terms with queer stuff hasn't been easy for you but, well, what do you say?" Remus looked hopefully at Patton who stared straight ahead at the water rippling in the light breeze.

"What… what does aromantic actually mean then? I suppose I was wrong to assume it meant 'without love'..." Patton's voice hitched. He looked over to Remus and smiled to reassure him.

"Not experiencing romantic attraction to others, like not wanting to date them or do romantic-y bull shit with them," Remus looked away, heart crumbling as his best friend continued to avoid the big question.

"Oh. Wow…" Patton took a deep breath, "Remus, I have my own confession to make," Remus looked back to Patton, intrigued, "I don't have a soulmate either. And though I've heard of the aromantic community before, I never realized that being aromantic did not mean being resigned to never loving someone else in a deep and fulfilling way. Queer platonic partners, is that similar to dating but without the romance?" Remus nodded silently, hope reblossoming in his chest, "I think I could like that. You are so important to me, Remus. I was terrified you were going to tell me you found your soulmate and had to leave me behind."

"I could never leave you behind, pops!" Remus cried, "just imagine the catholic guilt I'd have for abandoning you!"

Patton giggled and grabbed Remus' hand, "so, I guess… yes! I want to be your partner, Remus."

Remus grinned broadly and tackle hugged Patton. They both rolled off the blanket and ended up laying in the grass and laughing with joy.

Remus sat up suddenly, "did you hear that?"

"What?"

"I'm gonna catch that frog!"

"What??" Patton watched as Remus jumped up and dove straight into the pond, holding a hand up to shield his face as mud splashed everywhere around him.

Remus resurfaced, pulling himself out of the mud with his elbows because his hands were full with a giant bullfrog who looked perturbed at having been pulled from his spot.

Patton squealed with joy, "oh, let's name him Lilypad!"

Remus chuckled, "that sounds like Little Pat, I like it!" He set the frog down in the grass, futility wiping mud from his face and slicking his hair back out of his face while Patton tried to restrain himself from immediately poking the poor animal.

Remus laid spread out on the grass, drying in the sun while Patton grabbed a stick and blades of grass to play with Lillypadton (he liked the flow of that name better). They talked for hours and shared the snacks Remus had set up before Patton arrived. Remus opened the gift Patton had brought and was ecstatic, playing with the neon green tangle toy and admiring the hand-decorated picture frame.

Something welled up deep in Patton's heart, looking at his brand new partner. They weren't soulmates but he was confident the Lord wanted them to find each other and be together this way.

After a while, Patton stood and picked Lilypadton up, returning the frog to the edge of the pond while Remus gathered up the picnic in the blanket like a giant sack that he threw over his shoulder. Patton took his other hand with a smile and they walked back to the apartment.

Remus dropped the blanket by the front door and they could hear the tv playing in the living room.

"Roro, we're back! Y'all better be decent," Remus yelled from the kitchen as he washed the worst of the dried mud from his arms.

"Yeesh! Yes, you can come in," Roman shouted back from the living room. Patton peeked his head around the corner to see Roman and Logan cuddled on the couch watching Netflix. It looked dark and potentially gory so Patton slipped right back into the kitchen with Remus.

"Hey, Pat, I'm gonna go shower off. I've got mud up my ass and it's getting kinda nasty. Make yourself at home," Remus smiled and kissed his forehead. Patton blushed and nodded.

As Remus headed off to get cleaned up, Patton sat himself down in the kitchen, preferring to leave the others alone with their movie.

"Hello, Father," Patton looked up from his phone to Logan who was standing awkwardly next to him.

"You can just call me 'Patton', Lo. I actually prefer it…"

"My apologies. How are you?" Logan asked stiffly, shifting from foot to foot.

"I'm doing pretty well. Thank you for asking. How are you today?" Patton smiled, trying to put the other man at ease.

Logan adjusted his glasses, "I am doing adequately-"

"Lo, just get the drinks. Pat's fine," Roman called from the couch.

Logan bristled, "I apologize for his lack of manners. Do you want anything to drink?"

"No thanks. And thank you, I'm sorry for intruding on your movie date," Patton sighed.

Logan moved to the kitchen to get the drinks but kept glancing at Patton. Patton did his best to ignore the looks, praying Remus would finish up quickly.

Logan cleared his throat, "Patton, are you and Remus dating? He was acting weirder than usual before you got here today."

Patton blushed at the directness of the question, "not like you and Roman are," Patton wasn't sure how to explain it to the two soulmates- if Remus even wanted to tell them.

Roman had stopped watching the television and had his arms crossed over the back of the couch, "I told you, Lo, Remus doesn't have a soulmate. He was just excited to see Pat, nothing more to it."

"Roman, he had a whole picnic planned. That's hardly something you do for just a friend."

"Guys, I-"

"Patton is my Zucchini and you two are just jealous," Remus announced loudly from the hallway. All three turned to look at him and he grinned, "come on Pat, let's leave the lovebirds alone."

Patton jumped up, eager to get away from Logan and Roman’s questions and confusion. He was also more than a little curious about being called a 'zucchini'. He could hear Logan and Roman whispering as Remus led him off down the hall to the bedroom.

"What the hell is a zucchini?"

"I don't know, Roman. Just let it go. We can ask Remus to explain later."

Patton was grateful as the door shut behind him, cutting off the rest of the conversation. He turned to give Remus a quizzical look to find him wearing the tangle toy in his hair like a crown.

"That's adorable. What's a zucchini?" Patton grinned, genuinely this time.

"Ah, sorry. I probably should have asked you first. It's like an alternative to 'boyfriend' for queerplatonic partners. We can go by something else if you don't like it," Remus grinned, patting the bed next to him to offer Patton the seat.

Patton's eyes were shining as he sat down, "oh my goodness, that's adorable! I love it! So do you want to be called my zucchini too?"

"Ehh, Nah it doesn't sound right for me," Remus frowned, laying back on the bed to stare at the ceiling.

"Well," Patton swung his legs back and forth, "what about my squish?" He poked Remus in the stomach, causing a fit of giggles.

Remus sat back up and grinned at Patton, "that sounds perfect! You'll be my zucchini, I'll be your squish, and everyone else will be confused as hell!"

Patton leaned his head against Remus' shoulder, imagining the looks of confusion when they told others.

"Oh hey, I thought of something!" Remus bounced up from the bed and went straight to the closet, rummaging around for something which he quickly found, "since we don't have soulmates, let's make this official ourselves," he held up a variegated ball of blue and green yarn.

"Okay!" We'll have to untie it before I leave but that's such a sweet idea!" Patton couldn't help but think back to when friends on the playground would do something similar, using red yarn during games of pretend to mark their friends and crushes as "soulmates".

Remus cut a decent length of yarn and gently took Patton's hand in his. He tied one end of the yarn around Patton's wrist and held out his for Patton to do the same. Patton tied the other end of the yarn with a small bow and held Remus' hand in his, smiling at his squish.

Patton felt a mild itchy burning on his wrist and looked back down at the yarn. Remus looked too, pulling his hand away from Patton's. As they watched, the blue-green yarn sparked for a minute before returning to normal.

"Well that was odd," Patton was the first to speak.

Remus looked weirded out and tried to untie the bow but found that no matter how hard he pulled, the knot stayed tied. He grabbed a pair of scissors from his desk and tried to cut the loop around his wrist but the yarn passed right through the blades without being severed.

Patton gasped and pulled the thread between them taut before taking another step back. The thread lengthened, magically longer than it had been cut. When he stepped closer it shrunk shorter, much like how other's had described their red threads acting.

"Does this mean-?" Patton asked quietly.

Remus grabbed Patton's hand and dragged him out to the living room, walking right between the couch and the television much to Roman’s displeasure.

Remus held up their bound together wrists, "can you guys see this?"

"You're holding hands and blocking the tv. Yes, we can see that," Roman grumbled at them.

"Is there something we should be seeing?" Logan asked with an edge of curiosity in his voice.

Patton held up the string, "you guys can't see the string?"

Roman and Logan shared a look and Roman answered, "I thought you didn't have a soul thread, Remus. We can't see any string. What's going on?"

Remus turned to Patton with a large happy smile, "we created our own soul bond!"

Logan sat forward immediately, "tell me exactly what happened. Don't leave out any details."

Roman sighed and paused the movie, a smile on his face seeing his brother happy. He had no clue what was going on but he could be happy for the pair and could forgive them for the intrusion.

Patton picked up Remus in a hug and twirled him around, tears of joy spilling down his cheek. They both sat down next to Logan and started explaining the thread and the sparks and the scissors. This led to Logan asking several questions about the nature of their relationship, with Roman interjecting with questions of his own.

When Patton left that evening to drive home, the string magically stretched with him over the miles. He thanked God for Remus and for blessing their unconventional relationship with confirmation they were meant to be together in the way that made sense to them.

[azozzoni]

I havent ready a good elippo fuc in a while, can you work your magic if you have the time 💖💖

Elia didn’t look up from his phone as the door to Filippo’s apartment opened. “Martino just sent me a text about going to some Uni party next—holy shit.”

Elia nearly dropped his phone when he finally glanced up at Filippo in the doorway, eyes immediately landing on his hair. Where yesterday it had been candy-floss pink, today it was deep chocolate brown.

“Hello to you too,” Filippo said, seemingly unsurprised by Elia’s reaction.

Elia didn’t stop himself as he reached for Filippo’s hair, pulling at the ends as if that might change the color. He’d never seen Filippo with anything but bleached or colored hair. It was a shock, to say the least, to see him so… plain.

“What did you do?” he asked when Filippo finally pulled him inside the apartment, out of the hallway so he could close the front door.

“Dyed it,” Filippo said as though Elia was an idiot. Elia knew he could be, but not about this. “You don’t like it?”

Elia shook his head quickly, kissing Filippo soundly. “You look hot no matter what. It’s just… different.”

Elia couldn’t get over the change—he’d been so used to the pink. But it was true, Filippo always looked good. He couldn’t help staring, though, as Filippo slid his hands to the small of his back as they stood in the living room. This hadn’t been why Elia had come over, but he was sufficiently distracted now by how much more serious Filippo suddenly looked.

“Good answer,” Filippo said with a little laugh, rolling his eyes.

“Why’d you do it?” Elia asked, tucking his phone away finally.

Filippo shrugged, as though he didn’t have an answer, but the way he looked away told Elia different. “You said your parents wanted to meet me.”

Staring, Elia’s eyebrow went up as Filippo’s words sunk in.

“You did this for them?”

“No,” Filippo said, but Elia didn’t quite believe him. “I did this for you.”

Frowning, Elia didn’t understand. He’d been perfectly happy with Filippo’s pink hair, had liked how easy it made him to spot, that Filippo was confident enough to do that and not care what other people thought.

“But I liked your pink hair,” he said slowly, leaning into Filippo, arms around his neck. “And I’d like it if it was bleach blond or blue or purple or whatever.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Filippo shook his head, and Elia slid back on his toes.

“What did you mean then?”

For a second, he wasn’t sure Filippo was going to explain by the way he sighed, glancing around the living room instead of at Elia. It was a quiet afternoon, and apparently Eleonora wasn’t home since she hadn’t burst in on them—she had terrible timing.

“We’ve been together almost a year,” Filippo said, and Elia raised his eyebrows. He was perfectly aware of how long they’d been dating. Was this some kind of weird anniversary thing? Because Elia would have much preferred a blow job. “When did you tell your parents about me?”

Elia paused. Filippo knew the answer, but he shrugged anyway. “Two months ago.”

He’d done it over dinner, to dead silence around the table. For a second, Elia had wondered if he’d gone deaf, but no one was moving either, all eyes on him as though he was a particularly horrifying spider. He supposed, in retrospect, he could have done it when there weren’t sharp knives in everyone’s hands.

To say they hadn’t taken it well would have been an understatement, but there had been no yelling at least, no mention of kicking Elia out. Instead, there had been lots of visits to church, to talk to the priest, give confession. When that hadn’t worked, Elia was fairly sure his dad was going to suggest sending him to some place to “fix” him, but instead, his mom had come into his room and told him she loved him and she wanted him to be happy.

That was three weeks ago and she seemed to be trying. Both of them did. They didn’t ask much about Filippo, and they did still make him go to mass a few times a week, but there was no talk of “fixing.”

The fact that they had wanted to meet Filippo had caught him off-guard the other day. Maybe they really were going to accept this. Elia tried not to think about it too much, how they felt about him now, if things had changed. Thinking about it would just send him into a spiral and he couldn’t do that.

“So you just came out to your parents, who went a little nuts,” Filippo allowed, sweeping his fingers through Elia’s hair thoughtfully. “And now you’re bringing home a boy.”

“So?” Elia asked, confused. “Filo, they know I’m bi. That’s why they want to meet you.”

“Your parents have done everything they can to change your mind,” Filippo said simply, head tilted to the side as if Elia just wasn’t getting it. “If you bring home some guy with pink hair and rainbow shirts and colorful tattoos, it might just push them over the edge.”

Elia blinked slowly as Filippo’s words sunk in. He shook his head after a minute, reaching for Filippo’s neck. “Don’t you always say it’s better to be yourself? If people don’t like the way you are, it has more to do with them? I don’t care if you meet them wearing a cut-off tank top with a giant rainbow tattooed on your forehead. If they’re going to be assholes, it won’t matter what color your hair is.”

Filippo rolled his eyes as though Elia wasn’t taking this seriously. He was. He definitely was. After all, it wasn’t every day your super Catholic parents asked to meet your boyfriend in a civil kind of way.

“I don’t want to make things harder for you,” Filippo said finally, and Elia felt his heart melting a little. He would never admit it because they weren’t that kind of couple, but he couldn’t help smiling at Filippo’s words.

“That is so cute,” he teased while Filippo scoffed. Pressing his forehead to Filippo’s, though, he sighed. “You make things so much better,” he assured him. “I’m glad you’re the first guy my parents will meet.”

Filippo’s hands tightened over his back as Elia leaned in to kiss him, slow and languid, a lazy slide of tongues. Elia hummed softly against his lips before moving back, meeting Filippo’s gaze.

“Do you think I should take out the lip ring?” Filippo asked, hands running up Elia’s spine.

“Don’t you dare,” Elia said, glaring at Filippo, tugging at his hair.

Filippo smiled, leaning around to press a kiss to Elia’s ear. “We should get you one.”

“How about a tongue piercing?” Elia asked, grinning at Filippo’s lips sliding under his ear, making his knees weak. “I hear those are great for blow jobs.”

“How about we dye your hair purple? Your parents would love that.”

“Not sure I could pull it off,” Elia admitted, pulling Filippo back to his mouth and kissing him easily.

“You definitely could,” Filippo assured him once the kiss broke, and Elia smiled.

“I’ll stick with my natural color for now,” he said, tucking his hands in Filippo’s back pockets. “But whenever you want to go back to pink, I’ll help you bleach.”

Elia laughed as Filippo hauled him in closer. Pink or brown, Elia didn’t care. He was just glad he had Filippo, that he cared enough to try to impress his parents. No matter what happened with them, he’d always have Filippo, and that was all that mattered.

[prolifeproliberty]

Hi, I love your blog! I'm Catholic and genuinely curious about which beliefs differ between Catholics and Lutherans. I think my grandpa was Lutheran at one point but he never really talked about it and I'd really like to know! I know inn general we believe a lot of the same things, but what are the differences? Stay safe and healthy!

Hi @soxrox12, sorry this answer took so long! I wanted to take the time to explain everything as clearly as possible and give you a thorough answer.

The basics of what Lutherans believe (what we teach to adolescents and those new to the faith in Confirmation) can be found in the Small Catechism. If you want a more in depth version and don’t mind some more academic language, you can read the Large Catechism. If you’re a total theology/history nerd and want to read about the back and forth arguments between the original Lutherans, the Catholic Church, and other Protestants, the rest of the Book of Concord has all that and more!

To really understand the differences, we have to go back to the origins of Lutheranism with Martin Luther in the early 16th century. Luther was a Catholic priest who, in his studies of scripture, saw major discrepancies between what the Catholic Church was teaching the common people (many of whom couldn’t read and very few of whom had access to the Bible outside of hearing scripture read at Mass) and what he saw in scripture. 

The Catholic Church today is not the same as it was in the 16th century, but we still have some major differences. I apologize if I get some Catholic beliefs wrong here, I’m basing this on my understanding of Catholic teaching from my research and from talking to Catholic friends. 

I’m putting this all below the cut so I don’t flood everyone’s dash with this extremely long post!

Christian Freedom: Luther had a big problem with the church requiring Christians to observe certain traditions and festivals as a matter of law or obligation. Unless something is specifically commanded in Scripture, it’s optional or a matter of Christian freedom (aka it might be a good idea, but you don’t have to do it). Examples include fasting for Lent (or in general), liturgical gestures (genuflecting, kneeling, making the Sign of the Cross), and so on. We also don’t have any Holy Days of Obligation - while we observe many of the same feast days and festivals as Catholics, we never say anyone is obligated to observe them. 

Holy Communion: One thing Lutherans and Catholics have in common is that we both believe that Christ’s Body and Blood are truly and physically present and are truly and physically received by the communicant. Most other protestants see it as a symbol, or see Christ’s Body and Blood as spiritually, but not physically present. This was a big sore spot in the 16th century when Luther met with others who were questioning Catholic teaching. One story goes that he and other theologians were sitting around a table, and the others were arguing over whether Christ’s Body and Blood were truly present. Reportedly, Luther, frustrated by the back and forth, carved the words “This is My Body” into the table and covered it with a cloth. Every time someone (*cough* Zwingli) argued against the Real Presence, Luther whipped off the table cloth and pointed to the words. Jesus’ words on the issue were good enough for him. 

We do, however, differ with Catholics on a couple of issues related to Communion. 

1. We believe the bread and wine are also still present - we don’t believe that they changed into Body and Blood, but that the Body and Blood are united with the bread and wine. We call this “Sacramental Union.”

2. We don’t believe that Jesus’ sacrifice on the Cross is being repeated every time we celebrate Holy Communion. We also don’t see it as the priest offering Christ’s Body and Blood as a sacrifice. Instead, we see it as participating across time and space in the once-for-all atoning sacrifice that occurred on Good Friday almost 2,000 years ago. Rather than offering the Eucharist, we are receiving it from Christ for the forgiveness of our sins. 

Sin, Baptism, and Confession:

I’m putting these all together because there’s a root difference in the way Lutherans and Catholics view sin that shows up in both Baptism and Confession. 

Like Catholics, Lutherans believe in original sin - that is, we are conceived and born sinful and in need of a Savior - as well as actual sin (we have sinned against God “in thought, word, and deed, by what we have done and by what we have left undone”). However, we don’t distinguish between the two when it comes to how we receive forgiveness. We believe Baptism washes away ALL sin, and that in Confession and Absolution as well as in Holy Communion we receive forgiveness for ALL sin. 

In Confession and Absolution, we confess all our sins, both those we know and those we don’t, and we receive absolution for all of them. We don’t do penance or have any other steps. Confession is:

Step 1: Confess sins

Step 2: Receive absolution from the pastor as from God Himself.

And that’s it! We do “corporate confession and absolution” (aka confession as part of the liturgy that the whole church says together - very similar to what Catholics have in the Mass) in any service where we have Holy Communion, but we don’t ever require private confession. It’s always available on request if someone is particularly bothered by a sin and needs to hear the pastor absolve that sin specifically, but it’s never mandatory (see “Christian Freedom”). 

The Pope, Church Hierarchy, and Tradition:

Luther also had a big problem with the Pope and the hierarchy of the Catholic Church, as he saw lots of potential for and examples of abuse of power. He has some very harsh words about the Pope in his writings. Many Lutheran churches belong to a synod that has a president and some kind of structure, but we don’t view our Synod president the way Catholics view the Pope. A synod is more administration and support, with some ecclesiastical supervision (although that often doesn’t work out the way it should, which is why my church left our synod and we are now an independent Lutheran congregation). 

We view Scripture as our highest authority and our Lutheran Confessions and other doctrinal writings as an explanation of what Scripture teachers. We do refer to the Church Fathers for clarification on some issues, but if something is not found clearly in Scripture we don’t take it as doctrinal.

Intercession and Prayer/Mary and the Saints:

We don’t ask for intercession from saints who are in heaven, or from Mary. We only pray to the Triune God - Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. We learn from the lives of the saints, and we believe they are in heaven with Jesus, but we don’t seek their direct help here on earth. 

We don’t pray the Rosary, mostly because it includes those prayers of intercession to Mary/the Saints. We do have several prayer liturgies like the Litany (which our church has been praying a LOT lately because it’s been historically used by the Church - including pre-Reformation - in times of hardship, plague, etc.). 

We respect Mary as Jesus’ mother, but we don’t necessarily see her as our Mother or as Queen of Heaven or Co-Redemptrix the way Catholics do.

Essentially we say that our prayers should be directed directly to God and that the Holy Spirit is our mediator who makes intercession for us (Romans 8:26-27).

Monastic Orders and Priests:

We don’t have monks or nuns or any of the monastic orders. Those who wish to go into full-time church work can be Deacons or Deaconesses, and the responsibilities of those roles vary from church to church. Typically they teach (Sunday School, sometimes Bible Study or Confirmation) or are in charge of the charitable work the church does (food pantries, etc). 

Our pastors typically go to four years of seminary - 2 years of classes, one year of vicarage in a congregation (like an apprenticeship, working under an experienced pastor), followed by another year of classes before ordination. Then the pastor receives a Call from a congregation, decides whether to accept or decline that Call, and, if he accepts, stays with that congregation until he receives and accepts a Call somewhere else, retires, or (very rarely) for some reason the congregation asks him to leave (usually only if he’s doing something really wrong and is unrepentant). 

Our pastors are also free and even encouraged to get married and have children. My pastor has five children and I’ve lost count of how many grandchildren. 

-- -- --

This is by no means an exhaustive list of the differences, but these are the key areas that come up most often when I talk to my Catholic friends. I’d be happy to discuss any of these areas in more detail or point you to specific things in our doctrinal books that address them. 

Just for fun, here’s some similarities:

Liturgy:

Our liturgy is VERY similar to the Catholic Church’s liturgy. We have “Divine Service” instead of “Mass”, although you can find some very “high church” Lutheran congregations that do use the term Mass and call their pastors “priests” and “Father.”

We also have Matins, Vespers, and other services with very similar liturgies to what the Catholic Church uses. 

Here’s an excellent example of an Easter service (and here’s the bulletin if you wanted to follow along) from a high-church Confessional Lutheran congregation in Virginia that I attended when I was an intern in D.C. This was their live stream for this Easter, so due to the small attendance they didn’t do Communion, but otherwise you can see generally what our services are like. 

[wendyblanquelg-writes]

Women as priests? Not I.

The first time I went to church was when I was baptized, but I don’t really remember attending mass for the first few years. As toddlers, we may remember glimpses of our babyhood yet not until the age of about five or six is when we start to retain all of our memories. My earliest memory is waking up at the crack of dawn on the queen sized bed I shared with my mom and seeing she wasn’t next to me. I might’ve been about five or so, and the sky outside was a bit cloudy; I now assume it must’ve been near the end of summer and the beginning of fall when tiny me saw the world through a new lens. I had climbed out of the covers, jumped to the floor, and ran to my grandma’s room in fear of being alone and in almost utter darkness by myself. That’s all I remember about that day.

I’ll never forget the first time my mom took me to church with the intention of having me fall in love to committing to God. Oh, did I become enamored with the beautiful architecture, stained glass windows, gold chalices, chronologically placed images of Jesus being crucified, angelic ceiling paintings, the twinkling lights that scream Christmas, and the smiling people who made me feel welcomed and appreciated. My mom’s only wish was complete: God had me in his hand—hypnotized in the idea of having someone love and care for me unconditionally my whole life.

Before mass, my mom had been telling me for days about taking me to church where we can pray with others and not just each other before bed. She went on about who God is, Jesus being his son, and I, his new follower. Never was I told off the bat that sinning was a grand deal to God or the church, probably because I was innocent at the time. Going to mass sounded like the dream, a second home that wasn’t Mexico, a new part of my life that I was ready to venture on like so many Disney characters did in their heroic plots. 

That Sunday morning I woke up at 7am ready to get changed. Our church is a block over from us so we walked down to the alley and took the broken gravel road straight to the golden doors which were slightly cracked, being held open by an older man. My mom’s hand held mine tightly as we entered and she reached over to the wall where water was held. She dipped her finger in it, signed the cross on her forehead then did the same to me. It smelled funny but homely, I loved it. Every person I seemed to look at would look back at me happily as if they’d been expecting me my whole life. The lights dazzled me, the recurring kneeling, standing, and sitting movements wowed me, the united dialogue made everyone sound interconnected, and my first la paz, “peace be with you,” was my welcome home. After people shook my hand I couldn’t stop looking at it and felt the pain and love from everyone I had ever touched—truly magical. I was home.

You can expect my mom’s happiness over the years of my love for mass, learning my prayers, excelling in catechism school, and my good behavior from knowing I’d be punished by God if I were a bad child. By the age of 8, I knew what I wanted to be in life: a priest. In my heart I felt like God’s favorite, his teaching being my calling, his followers being my new family, our love being one. 

I was devoted, yet when I told my mom my dream, she smiled and said, 

“That’s great, but there are only male priests.” 

“But why?”

“That’s how it is,” was all she said. I was so confused.

I later brought it up to my grandpa and he said in Spanish,

“That’s outrageous, that’s crazy, you can’t be a priest. Priests are and SHOULD only be men.”

How is it that after my long three to four years of devotion and love to God was not enough for me to be a priest? I once asked a priest if I could one day hold his position. He looked uncomfortable with a tinge of anger when he said no, but that I could work in other parts of the church to help. I was unsatisfied with everyones answer and God especially, for not letting me be what I wanted to be. I didn’t fight them on their answers nor stopped loving church for a few years either. I still wanted to be the person everyone came to for confession, to alleviate them from their stress and sins, to read and lecture people on the word of God, to host fundraisers and events to help the poor, to continue studying until I was close to God himself. There simply wasn’t a door for me to enter into priesthood. Even the word ‘priest’ sounded specifically male to me after a while, like the sound of each syllable denied a woman to take hold of its title. The word became bitter in my mouth.

I started reading Dan Brown’s The DaVinci Code, Angels & Demons, and many other books that questioned religion. Did Jesus actually marry Mary Magdalene and have a secret child? Were the scripts lying and the men in the priesthood hiding the truth of our famously loved icons? Is God real? Are there really non-believers who do not go to Hell? I thought everyone believed in Him, was I his favorite who was supposed to question his authority and change the church’s establishment? No, instead, I started detaching myself from my second home after not being fully welcomed after all. I didn’t want to be a nun, or a receptionist, or the woman who went around during mass with a clipboard taking attendance; I wanted to be more, to help more. I tried to stop loving Him.

Throughout high school and college I’ve gained an interest in learning about Catholicism, I wasn’t sure why. From what I learned my sophomore year in a theology class, only men are ordained as priests because Jesus only chose men as his apostles. When I read that, it made sense to me only because at that time women were not allowed to hold any position of power. Women were still handed over to their husbands by their families, much less would society had taken them, or Jesus, seriously because gender equality was an outrageous concept to them. Was it possible that Jesus did not want to risk women being mistreated more than they already were, by being made an apostle? Men might’ve shrugged off Jesus’ teachings if they saw something out of the norm being used: women. We might never know. What I came to find, was that through all my research I only wanted to find the flaws in God’s word and written history, to find an answer that said, “I’m right, God’s right, but the church’s institution is wrong.” I became angry at being denied by humans who thought they could tell me I couldn’t help God, not God himself.

In an article by the National Catholic Reporter, Polish Roman Catholic priest and Theologian of the Papal Household, Wojciech Giertych, was asked why women cannot be priests. He said that no one can say why Jesus chose who he did to share his teachings, and that “The son of God became flesh, but became flesh not as sexless humanity but as a male,” and that since priests are to be the image of Christ, “[priests’] maleness is essential to that role.” He later says that some parts of being with the church call for having and loving the church in a “male way,” where men apparently “show concern about structures, about the buildings of the church, about the roof of the church which is leaking, about the bishops’ conference, about the concordat between the church and the state.” Anyone, really anyone, can admire the archaic structures of holy houses, just like I did. I fell in love with the church also because of the Roman Catholic church architecture, so it mustn’t be a “male way,” but a “in-tune with the world and details way” where one doesn’t just go into a building with no attention to what’s around, but takes in everything. That isn’t male, it’s human.

The theologian does mention that women’s mission in the church is “beautiful” nonetheless because they touch God and Jesus’s heart differently. They encounter Jesus with faith, charity, approaching, touching, and kissing Jesus’ feet. Luckily, Giertych did acknowledge that “a Catholic woman might sincerely believe she is called to the priesthood, said such a “subjective” belief does not indicate the objective existence of a vocation,” I suppose that’s me? I, who felt entitled and deserving of being a priest is a, I guess you can call, reasonable idea or thought, but simply can’t be because the position doesn’t exist. I see now.

Vogue published a piece in 2018 about seven women being ordained Catholic priests by two bishops on June 29, 2002. This act was looked down upon by the Church and the women, the “Danube Seven,” were excommunicated from the church after refusing to nullify their ordination. Many priests were upset, some of the women’s priest superiors told them “that their sin in being ordained was equal to a clergy member sexually abusing a child.” Despite these comments, many of the women claimed that they felt spiritually awakened and called to the church—just how I was many years ago—and continue their religious path with pride. 

Now there is an emerging movement and group that advocates, supports, and ordains women as Roman Catholic priests: the Roman Catholic Women Priests (RCWP). Their movement supporting women has gone international, reaching and ministering women in over 34 states, Canada, Europe, South & Central America, South Africa, the Philippines and Taiwan. Many men are also part of the movement to grow this new chapter in Catholic history. The first women ordained initiated this movement: Iris Müller, Ida Raming, Pia Bruner, Dagmar Celeste, Adeline Roitlinger, Gisela Forster and Christine Mayr-Lumetxberger; creating an opportunity for more women to partake in the Lord’s work.

Although I would not become a priest today, or in a few years when women priests are officially accepted by the church, I’m glad that the door has opened for others. I no longer am a strong believer in the church, if even a believer, after so many cases of rape behind sacred doors, abuse, and the neglect of women holding power. The fight for equality continues and may not cease, ever, and it is everyones job to ensure that doors we’ve known to be closed to our fellow women start cracking open—even if dust is thrown and moths come bugging. I might have lost my inspiration and dream, but I’m better off where I am now. Other young girls who also feel the need and love to share God’s teachings like I once did, now have a better chance and warm embrace of following their calling; may God be with them.

[sophiechoir]

Thoughts from Confession 12/17/19

My sister and I attended an American confession service last Tuesday evening. I went mainly for curiosity’s sake - while I had Confessed in English once before, neither of us had experienced the sort of group confession which this service promised (with optional individual confession afterward). I was excited to witness this new take on an old terror. My sister attended in earnest, as she wouldn’t be able to make it to Polish confession the next day.

My mother explained group confession to us disapprovingly (in Polish): “See, we Poles don’t really believe in it, of course, but I guess those Americans are okay with it. It started out strictly for emergencies - say a ship is going down, and a priest has to perform Confession for everyone on board before it sinks. So he takes them through the steps as a group and everyone Confesses in their hearts and is forgiven right before they all go under. Fair enough?” 

My sister and I nodded and I suppressed a smile. Fair enough. 

My mom continued: “But the Americans took that emergency group Confession and turned it into a regular thing. Replaced proper individual confession. I guess it’s easier that way, but as a Polish Catholic it doesn’t feel like the real thing to me. You girls can decide for yourselves if it works for you. But I’d strongly suggest going to individual confession either today or tomorrow.”

As my sister and I walked into church, I thought about mortal terror and impending death as necessities for a true individual confession of the heart. Maybe if I was able to summon that fear, become aware of Death lurking over my shoulder (as it always does), let cold realization of the two-sided blade at my throat peel open my eyes and heart, I could truly partake of this group confession, this silent communal cleansing. I tried for a bit of existential crisis as we walked down the dim-lit church halls. But I was too excited about this new experience to really feel any dread. To be honest, I was a little giddy from seeing all the other poor Catholics sweating in anticipation of spilling their darkest sins and knowing I didn’t have to face that ordeal today. I sat down in the pew with an inappropriate grin on my face and listened attentively as the priest began to speak. 

Group confession went something like this:

The group examination of conscience was interesting. The sort of sins the speaker listed were very different from those mentioned in Polish examinations of conscience. I’ve never read “Do I believe in and value my own goodness?” or “Do I choose not to implicate myself against injustice?” in a rachunek sumienia. But perhaps I haven’t looked at the right ones.

Once group confession was over, the priest pointed to the confessionals around the church and directed us to line up accordingly. My sister and I exchanged smiles when he mentioned that two Polish priests were available for Polish confession. We were both happily surprised when nearly all of the churchgoers stayed for individual confession - “those Americans” aren’t entirely into shortcuts. 

As everyone lined up against the walls, the familiar grim silence of waiting filled the church. There’s an audible quality to the sacrament of Confession. Everyone knows it’s a hushed thing. The people in line transform, becoming simultaneously deaf and highly sensitive to all sounds. Those closest to the front of the line turn their eyes and ears politely away from those confessing, intentionally deafening themselves to any stray words that might float from the confessional. As these sinners wait, they become so consumed by their own anxious guilt that they feel isolated even from the people right next to them in line. The contrast between inner whirling panicked thoughts and outer quiet creates a vast artificial distance, an ocean between those standing shoulder to shoulder. At the same time, any whispers that do break out among the waiters echo and carry extra conspicuously, as through water. As I watched from the outside, I felt like I was bobbing above the water, looking down at a school of silently quivering fish.

All of this is an essential part of the experience of Confession. And, I now realized, that brewed anxiety mimics the mortal dread necessary for true group confession. Waiting in line for Confession really feels like waiting in line for the guillotine, or waiting for that ship to sink. If Confession is death, then leaving Confession alive and forgiven is a resurrection or rebirth. No wonder I always feel a bit light-headed and teary and the world seems to have turned almost too bright after leaving the little room. It’s a kind of Christmas. Or Baptism.

My sister and I left shortly. I went to Polish confession the next day. Same line, same terror. It never loses its power. I tried to fight the anxiety, reasoning my way through it: “In just a couple minutes I will say a few words to a guy hidden behind a screen in a room and maybe I’ll mess up a bit and maybe it’ll be humiliating but he doesn’t care, he’s listened to a hundred people like me before, and then I’ll walk out and it’ll all be over with. It’s nothing to be frightened of. This is supposed to be a good thing, after all. You always feel such an innate and powerful urge to confess and apologize to those you love after doing something wrong - it always feels right, necessary, relieving, not scary at all. So why be scared now? This is the same exact thing. You don’t need to worry a bit.” 

I had almost talked myself into confidence when I walked in to the confession room and saw that there wasn’t a screen. The priest looked up, frankly, directly at me. I felt my face burn and turn scarlet. 

“Oh, haha, God, very funny,” I muttered. Just when I thought I could swim above it all, He threw me off completely.

Needless to say, I stuttered through that whole Confession like a fool. But, once I left, I felt even giddier than usual. My head swam. I knelt down in the pews and started helplessly giggling under my breath. And I’m sure He was there, laughing, too.

[catholicartistsnyc]

Meet: Peter Atkinson

PETER ATKINSON is a NYC-based actor and teacher. (petercalvinatkinson.com and peteatkinson@gmail.com) CATHOLIC ARTIST CONNECTION (CAC): What brought you to NYC, and where did you come from?

PETER ATKINSON (PA): I came to NYC in Fall 2017, to train in Columbia University's MFA Acting program. For two years before that, I was founding a Shakespearean theater program down in Florida at a Catholic high school. Eventually I realized I needed to be practicing the craft and not just teaching it!

CAC: How do understand your vocation as a Catholic artist? What do you see as your personal mission as a Catholic working in the arts?

PA: I think that art helps us encounter our interior wounds in a visceral way. Without God, that artistic encounter with those wounds either turns to nihilism or to a mistaken celebration of those wounds (without calling them wounds). I think our faith is challenging us to encounter those wounds, call them by name, and remain with those wounds as God heals us. (Without a spiritual director or a spiritual community to support this, I've found it almost impossible to do that!)

I love theater because it can expose the raw condition of humanity - our great need for love and acceptance, the horrible things we do to try and fill that hole, the beautiful potential for self-sacrificial love and redemption. What is most beautiful to me is when Jesus surprises us by meeting that need with his own presence.

If anything, I hope that my work renews in people the hope that their hearts might be fulfilled. It's certainly been my experience that my journey in the arts has led to a deeper healing of my heart and a continuing encounter with God through the Catholic faith.

I suppose that being an artist is about being authentically present in the world in a revealing, vulnerable way - and hopefully, if you're a Catholic, that would necessarily communicate your yearning for God, right?

CAC: Where have you found support in the Church for your vocation as an artist?

PA: Cole Matson was a wonderful welcoming presence in the city. Because of his Catholic Artists NYC meet-up, I worked with a Catholic playwright, ended up reading for a director, and starred in an off-broadway show at the Sheen Center!

Storm Theatre has been a huge support, as they cast me as Richard in their production of 'Ah, Wilderness!' at the Sheen Center. It was incredible to leave rehearsal and be able to stop in the Sheen Center's chapel to pray for a bit afterwards.

Quite a few priests have been incredibly supportive as well - both in spiritual direction, mentorship, hosting readings of plays, etc. etc. I'm so grateful to the spiritual community that the Church has provided for me.

Additionally, if I wasn't living at Ford Hall, I'm not sure I could afford the city! Ford Hall is a Catholic house for graduate students at Columbia University. We have the Eucharist in the chapel in our upper room, Mass said weekly in the house, and the cost of living is subsidized somewhat. Ford Hall has given me a Catholic family to come back to in NYC.

CAC: Where have you found support among your fellow artists for your Catholic faith?

PA: Almost all of my fellow artists in NYC are not Catholic. Pretty much all of them have been extremely respectful of my faith, though there have been some instances of being yelled at in disbelief that I believed in God when they saw my Ash Wednesday ashes.

I've found that the artistic training has deepened my experience of my faith and of prayer, regardless of the personal beliefs of any given teacher. Most of my experience has been that professional actors and artists are more interested in the craft and creating a piece of work than in condemning your faith.

One of my classmates actually came to Ash Wednesday Mass with me this past week - it's a gift to be able to befriend fellow artists and witness to the 'normalcy' (in a sense) of Catholicism. I think many lapsed Catholic have been 'burned' by their experience of faith and of religious institutions and simply befriending them and sharing life with them can be a powerful witness to the goodness of the Catholic faith.

But, fundamentally, I don't look to fellow artists to support my faith as much as I depend on my faith (particularly in Eucharistic adoration) to be the bedrock of my life.

CAC: How can the Church be more welcoming to artists?

PA: Pay artists attention. That's it.

Whether it's through paying artists financially, hosting get-togethers for artists to connect, having priests and religious preach about art, or whatever - making artists feel important and heard in the cultural life of the Church is fundamental.

But I don't mean the liturgy. Often people think "art in the Church" means felt banners or Gregorian chant - but since 90% of a Catholic's life is spent outside the Church's walls, it's important to nurture a Catholic culture in the marketplace, on Broadway, and in schools, etc.

I think one a major shift in American Catholicism has been the Magnificat, published by the Dominicans. Because of its focus on art, hundreds of thousands of Catholics are contemplating pieces of the artistic vision of the faith every week. They've had many reflections about the importance of being an artist and the artistic vocation - it's been incredibly useful and encouraging!

CAC: How can the artistic world be more welcoming to artists of faith?

PA: Don't equate politics with religion or religion with politics. When people assume that they fully understand a person's views or feelings because of their creed, there's no room for relationship, much less conversation.

However, my experience has actually been very positive. Most every person I've met has been welcoming of my faith and curious about my beliefs.

But perhaps if the art world didn't caricature every religious group that it encounters, that might be an improvement. I think that theater could do a better job of taking the big questions seriously. Right now my impression is that there's a continual wallowing in pleasurable nihilism. I totally get it - it's an option. But it's not my choice and I'd like to hear some voices that propose real, challenging answers to questions like: is there a purpose to life? Is there evil? How can God be good in this world of suffering?

Those would make for some good drama. Right now it can sometimes feel like every New York theater show has a predictable set of moral conclusions it must reach. It would be refreshing and challenging to see a show that held open the possibility of God, wasn't caught in some predetermined Hegelian idea of progressive history, and maybe thought that maybe Freud wasn't the greatest.

But that might just be me!

CAC: Where in NYC do you regularly find spiritual fulfillment? Do you participate in any church groups you would recommend to others?

PA: Because I live in Ford Hall, I am lucky enough to have Jesus as my roommate. Just down the hall there is a chapel with the Eucharist present, where I pray morning and evening prayer. Having a Catholic family to live with has been a beautiful gift to have in NYC. I also teach CCD at Annunciation Parish on Convent Avenue which is right across from my studios. And my spiritual director at Xavier Parish has been incredible for me.

I would encourage any Catholic in NYC to teach CCD at a Church near them. It only takes a few hours on Sunday and it constantly reminds me of how powerful learning about the faith can be. Without passing on the faith, some of these kids would never have the chance to come to know God - it's such a gift to help pass it on!

CAC: Where in NYC do you regularly find artistic fulfillment? Where do you go to get inspired?

PA: Training at Columbia University has been my main artistic work in the city for some time. Since I started my MFA program in 2017, I've been working 9-5pm every day to deepen my work. Besides that, I've been lucky enough to help teach at the Atlantic Theater Company and worked with a few theater companies in the city.

I've also trained as a teaching artist at Roundabout Theatre in Times Square. Their educational program is incredible! I'm traveling to a few schools over Spring Break to help teach workshops in classrooms, using Roundabout's work as a framework for these schools.

To get inspired, I simply slow down and meditate. A meditation practice in NYC is - for me - essential. It's counter-intuitive to the pace NYC asks you to run at, but it's essential with getting back in touch with your own heart and humanity.

CAC: How have you found or built community as a Catholic artist living in NYC?

PA: Ford Hall has been a god-send. But besides that, I've gone to theology on tap, a few summer Love and Responsibility talks, and other events. The young adult mailing list for the archdiocese is great and there are simply too many events to attend - but make as many as you can!

CAC: What is your daily spiritual practice? And if you have a spiritual director, how did you find that person?

PA: I get up at 5am and try to spend one holy hour in Eucharistic adoration. Often I'll journal, read two books that I'm working my way through, and read a selection of the Bible (I'm trying to read through it in one year!).

My spiritual director is at Xavier Parish and I simply pulled him aside after Mass for confession - I've always been fearless about grabbing priests for a quick confession. Well, within 5 minutes both of us were weeping and we both felt the presence of the Holy Spirit, so I figured I should probably stick with this guy for a while and emailed him later to be my confessor. It's been a wonderful gift!

CAC: What is your daily artistic practice? And what are your recommendations to other artists for practicing their craft daily?

PA: I do a one hour vocal or physical warm-up every day, usually led by a Columbia University teacher. It's based in either Feldenkrais movement work or in Linklater vocal work. I also record every single one, so I have over one hundred warm-ups recorded. I'm preparing for graduation day, so that I can just listen to the warm-up recordings and use them to continue my warm-up practice throughout my life.

But I think the single most important practice is 'arriving exercises' or meditation practice. Anything to get you present in your body and out of the judgmental frame of mind.

CAC: Describe a recent day in which you were most completely living out your vocation as an artist. What happened, and what brought you the most joy?

PA: Hoo boy - well, I guess this would have been when I was performing in 'Ah, Wilderness!' I woke up, went to a men's prayer group up town, came back down and had lunch with some Catholic friends who were visiting from out of town, and then performed two shows back to back!

I think the most joy I had was in registering how much progress I've made in my craft since I came to the city. It's easy to be discouraged as an artist in the city - or anywhere I guess - but it's truly gratifying to see how years of work start to enable you to artistically do things that you couldn't do before.

Of course, there's leagues to go before I'm anywhere near satisfied with my work (Martha Graham's "divine dissatisfaction" amiright?) but that was an exciting day!

CAC: You actually live in NYC? How!?

PA: Living in Ford Hall helps with rent, meal planning for food, and never eating out. Harlem is a great area and the commute is totally fine.

I found Ford Hall through an undergraduate friend of mine who connected me. Use your connections in the city! Seriously - this city runs on personal connections.

CAC: But seriously, how do you make a living in NYC?

PA: I work two jobs while in graduate school - both jobs through Columbia University. I'm also launching an educational non-profit company right now, but that won't be profitable for a few years anyways.

My hope is to make a full-time living from my art in about 5 years. Realistically, it takes time to build up reputation, get a network, and start to 'take off.' Hopefully it'll happen sooner, but I'm fine with being young, scrappy, and hungry for a while anyways.

CAC: How much would you suggest artists moving to NYC budget for their first year?

PA: You can make it by with about $25,000 - but that's a huge struggle. I would say $30,000 realistically.

CAC: What other practical resources would you recommend to a Catholic artist living in NYC?

PA: Jordan Puhala is the best headshot photographer (she's on facebook). Ray's Barbershop is the best barbershop. Email me for the best dentist, ENT doctor, podiatrist, and skin doctor - seriously. Or you could just use ZocDoc for that - it's an incredible app to find doctors in NYC!

CAC: What are your top 3 pieces of advice for Catholic artists moving to NYC?

PA: 1. Research the Catholic groups in NYC before you come and reach out to find about events. NYC can be incredibly lonely when you get here first - find your people! 2. Know your finances really really well - once that's not a stress-point, NYC gets a lot easier. 3. Get a spiritual director in the city! NYC is a hard city to live in sometimes - it's loud, it's brash, and it has every temptation known to man. Your spiritual life will either deepen *a lot* or get real shallow. Set yourself up to deepen your faith by getting resources to protect yourself with!

[the-magnus-archives-archiver]

Confession

Case: 0113005

Name: Father Edwin Burroughs Subject: His claimed demonic possession Date: May 30th, 2011 Recorded by: Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London

Thank you for coming. I know that this can’t have been easy to arrange and I appreciate the opportunity to make my statement. The Prison Service probably didn’t make it easy for you. They’re understandably hesitant to give anyone extended access to me in case I get violent, but I’m very glad they made an exception for you. At least, assuming that you’re real. I hope you’re real but maybe it’s that hope that’s being used against me in a cruel joke. Or maybe the joke would be that I would let that doubt cost me my only chance to tell my story. Either way, I choose to make my statement and if you’re not real then hopefully no harm done.

We’ll get to the cannibalism, of course, but first I just want to provide some context. I don’t know how much you work with the Church in your Institute. You may be surprised that a man of the cloth such as myself, however far from grace I may have fallen, would enlist the aid of an organisation dedicated to studying the paranormal. Well, to be honest, it’s generally kept quiet, but the Catholic Church is not against belief in the supernatural outside of the official doctrine. Demons, ghosts, black magic... It’s generally up to the individual how much they believe in these things, and I believe that very much of what you research is real. Dangerous, but real. I’ve always seen the Devil’s work as a very tangible thing, and those priests who might speak of them as metaphor or symbol are, I fear, often placing themselves and their parishioners in a position of peril. Sorry, this is becoming a homily. It’s just been some time since I’ve had a chance to express myself like this; I almost don’t care if it is on one of Its phantasms.

So it was only natural, I suppose, that it was relatively early in my vocation as a priest that I trained as an exorcist. It’s not something all that special really, every diocese should have a trained exorcist available, or failing that a bishop can do it, but nine times out of ten the duties of an exorcist are to recommend a good psychiatrist, doctor or substance abuse program, and bishops don’t usually have time for that. I was an exorcist for the Diocese of Oxford when this all happened. I trained as a Jesuit, so I was used to moving about a lot, but I was at Oxford from about 2005 right through to my arrest in 2009. There were two exorcists in the diocese, myself and an old Augustinian by the name of Father Harrogate. I would ask as a favour that you not follow up with him; he plays no part in what happened to me and would, I think, be upset by any reminder of my actions.

In my time I have performed just over one hundred exorcisms, with varying degrees of success. It was relatively rare that it felt like much more than a blessing or a prayer. It still helped in most cases, but as one of the most common types of possession is not The Exorcist-style of speaking in a demonic tongue and floating off the bed, but rather that of an unnatural depression, it was often hard to be sure. It is difficult to say how many were devout believers who came to us with a very natural depression, and simply preferred to look to the Church than to counselling or medicine. Even those were helped to some degree, I believe, even if only as a placebo. On a few occasions, though I did encounter things that served to firm up my belief in the Devil and my faith in my Lo– my L– I’m sorry, It won’t let me say the words. It won’t let me pray either, but I hope I will not be judged too harshly for it on the final day.

As I was saying, there were times when I felt things pushing back. I was once cursed at in Sumerian by a young man who was utterly illiterate, and had the names of my childhood pets thrown at me by an old Jamaican man. I will admit that there were times that I have been very afraid of what I was trying to remove, but I always had faith in Je– I always had faith. None of it prepared me for what happened on Bullingdon Road, though. That was something else entirely.

I was doing some work at the Catholic chaplaincy in St Aldate’s, generally trying to help the spiritual well-being of the students who came to us, when Father Singh, one of the other priests working there, came to me. He said he had a student from St. Hughes asking after an exorcism, and wanted to refer her to me. I told him of course and he set up a meeting between us. The student’s name was Bethany O’Connor, and much of what she told me was under the seal of confession, something I will not break even now, so suffice it to say she believed that she was no longer in control of her own mind.

Even as we talked, she spent much of her time looking around or staring into my eyes with what I can only describe as pointed suspicion. Bethany told me that her will was still her own but she could no longer trust her senses, and had found herself doing much that she did not understand.

I remember one moment very clearly, in our second meeting I believe. We were taking a walk around the botanical gardens, as she said it calmed her when talking of her problem. She reached into her bag, took out what appeared to be a small slab of stone, slate, I think, and started to lift it to her mouth as if to eat it. I asked her what she was doing, and she stopped, looked at the rock she held in her hand, and threw it away before bursting into tears. She told me that it felt like something was in her head, changing what she saw and felt and thought. I asked when this had started, and she told me it was after she had moved out of her college halls and into a house on Bullingdon Road with her friends. I suggested that perhaps it had something to do with the stresses of entering second year, but she insisted it was something to do with the house. Finally, after several discussions, I agreed to look over the house and perform a small blessing in case there was anything wrong with the place, spiritually speaking.

It was a cold morning in December, near the end of Michaelmas term, when I visited 89 Bullingdon Road. It was an old house, though not so old as to be unusual in that part of Oxford, and had clearly once been a small family house, now partitioned by the lettings agency to house as many students as possible. Bethany told me that there were six of them living there at the time. I went around the house, looking for signs of anything amiss but found nothing that seemed out of the ordinary. Bethany kept asking me if I “felt any evil” in the house, and I tried to explain to her that priests unfortunately don’t have the power to simply sense the presence of evil. I didn’t realise how unfortunate that was, at least not until we got her room. It was on the first floor at the back of the house, and was a long, thin bedroom, easily the biggest. It was adorned in typical student fashion with movie posters and flat-pack bookshelves, but my attention was immediately taken by a large patch of wall where the wallpaper had been crudely hacked away to reveal the bare brickwork underneath. Written there, in faded blue paint, was a single word: Mentis.

I’d been out of seminary for some years at this point, and had never been one for the Latin Mass, but I still knew the word for ‘mind’. My immediate assumption was that Bethany had painted it in some sort of mania, but looking closer I saw that the paint was far too old to have been done since she moved in. It looked more as though it had been painted on the wall and then covered up with layers of wallpaper over the years, until finally being unearthed by stripping it away. What was slightly more concerning, was that watching Bethany pace around the room, following my gaze with some confusion, was that she didn’t seem able to see it. When I asked her what the word on the wall meant to her, she looked at me as though I was talking nonsense.

I didn’t seem like there was much more to be gained there at that point, so I performed a short blessing over the place, took some photographs and told Bethany that I would have to come back later once I’d looked into a few things. She seemed disappointed there wasn’t anything more immediate that I was doing, but didn’t try to argue. And so I left what would turn out to be my first visit to the house on Bullingdon Road, calling Father Singh to arrange a meeting the next day where we could discuss whether to attempt a full exorcism.

It was at that meeting that I got the call from the hospital. Bethany had been admitted with severe facial lacerations and was asking to see me immediately. I made my way to the John Radcliffe as soon as I was able and was surprised to see two police officers standing near her bed. I was met by Anne Willett, the nurse who Bethany had asked to call me. I knew Annie a bit already, as she’d attended the church where I ministered and I recognised her from the congregation. She explained to me that Bethany had apparently attempted to attack one of her housemates with a kitchen knife, and in the ensuing struggle ended up falling head first into a full-length mirror, cutting herself very badly.

I was, to put it mildly, somewhat taken aback. This was such an escalation from what Bethany had described before, and I was starting to fear that if I didn’t manage to do something the poor girl would most likely end up locked away somewhere. Annie was convinced that an exorcism was the only way, and so finally, I agreed to do so. I had already got permission from the Bishop, but that was before Bethany’s hospitalisation, and I would have preferred to discuss it with him. Still, it was clear she was getting worse and I decided to take a risk and try it anyway. It was a stupid risk to take. I was cocky and complacent, full of spiritual pride and an eagerness to test my faith against whatever was inside of Bethany’s soul, not even considering that I might be risking it. Still, I have paid dearly for my hubris.

We waited until the police had taken their statements and left, and then I set up and began the exorcism. It went... unusually. There was no resistance from Bethany, almost no reaction at all, and in many parts of the ceremony where in my experience there was usually a response either from the demon, or at least the victim, there was instead just... silence, as she stared at me with a look, almost seemed like pity. Annie just stood in the corner, watching and clearly eager to help, despite the fear I saw in her eyes. At last, Bethany locked eyes with me and slowly shook her head. “I’m so sorry,” she said, “It wants your faith.”

Without warning she began to convulse. Thrashing in obvious pain. I tried to continue the ritual, but the doctors pushed passed me, desperately trying to help Bethany as blood began to pour from her mouth where she had bitten into her tongue. In the end they couldn’t save her. Brain haemorrhage, they said, probably from the blow to head when she hit the mirror and they just hadn’t spotted it.

I was asked to leave in no uncertain terms, and the doctors made it very clear that I may not have been the one that hit her in the head, but they held me very much accountable for her death. I was also given a very thorough dressing down by my Bishop, who told me to take a step back and leave the exorcisms to Father Harrogate for some time. Annie almost got suspended over the matter, but in the end was spared further disciplinary action, as she had been simply passing on the wishes of the patient.

And for a couple of years that was it. I felt a great deal of guilt over my involvement with Bethany’s death, and I started to drink more than I had before. I was never, I think, in danger of becoming an alcoholic, as most of the priests I worked with had done work with substance abusers – not to mention the fact that priests are certainly not immune to alcoholism – and would have picked up on the warning signs. But they did express concern over the occasional disappearance of bottles of sacramental wine. At the time I was sure it wasn’t me. I preferred scotch and the Muscatel wine they bought had never really been to my taste, but looking back I can’t really be sure what I was drinking. I know it’s something of a jump from unwittingly stealing holy wine to my later crimes, but I’m trying my best to fit this into a relatively coherent narrative.

Apart from that, the years passed uneventfully, and I was starting to feel like I’d put the whole affair behind me. Until I got a call from Annie. She said that a gentleman had been admitted to the John Radcliffe after having something of a scare in a house up on Hill Top Road. I explained to her that I wasn’t performing exorcisms at the moment, and said she should talk to Father Harrogate. She assured me it wouldn’t need a full exorcism, and if I did we could bring him in, but she didn’t know or trust Father Harrogate, but just wanted my opinion. Finally, after a lot of pestering, I agreed to pay a visit to the house.

It was late when I got there, and starting to get very cold. The whole affair was starting to bring back some less than pleasant memories of my arrival at Bullingdon Road all those years ago. I was also a bit annoyed at Annie for not mentioning that the house was still under construction, not only making it unlikely to be the haunt of demons or spirits, but also meaning that the coat I had brought along would be somewhat inadequate against the chill in a house without windows. I knocked on the door and one of the builders opened it. I forget his name, I’m afraid, something Polish I think, or maybe Czech? He seemed confused at first as to why I was there, but I explained and it turned out he was the one that had been treated by Annie at the hospital. She had not mentioned the builder’s possible schizophrenia to me, but I began to fear that this may be a waste of time. Still, I had a look around and asked the builder questions about the place. He certainly did have an interesting story, but I was unsure of how much of it I believed.

Eventually, I decided that I’d seen enough and that there didn’t seem to be any malicious presence here. The builder was looking at me in such as way as to make me hesitant to tell him that, so I decided I would at least give the place a quick prayer or blessing. I asked him to wait outside, though. Something in his manner was a bit off-putting and I felt uncomfortable with him watching me like a hawk, as though I were about to vanish at any moment.

He headed into the back garden, and I was alone in the house. I moved into the hallway and began to pray, praying for protection and sprinkling holy water around from a flask I carry on me in these situations. As I spoke the words I felt something... alarming. I was starting to grow very hot, as though the room was heating up very rapidly. I looked around for the source of the heat, but the radiators hadn’t been installed yet and I couldn’t see anything else that might be warming the room. It continued, though, and soon I was sweating through my shirt. I began to cough, and I could smell smoke, even though I couldn’t see any or any fire, for that matter.

I fell to one knee and choked back a scream as I felt my skin began to crackle and burn. I began to pray again for protection, not for the place this time, but for me. As I did, I felt... something answer me. And yet, I cannot stress this enough: what answered was not G– God. It wasn’t Him. Something else answered my call for protection. I felt my lips move. They made no sound that I could hear, but I felt them form every syllable. “I am not for you. I am marked.”

The heat slowed in its increase but it did not stop. My mouth continued to speak for me, when I heard the sound of a car engine outside and a great crash. Instantly, the feeling was gone, as though it were never there, and looking out, I saw the builder had managed to uproot a tree from the back garden. I sat there for a while catching my breath, and when he came back inside, I told him I had completed the prayers and excused myself quickly. It was the first time I had experienced– 

Archivist Notes:

Unfortunately, this statement as it stands is incomplete and stops at this point. It does not appear to be the actual end of the document, so I have hopes that the rest is simply misfiled somewhere else in the archives. If this is the case, I will record and add that part when it is found, either by myself or, given the scale of the Archive’s mismanagement, by my successor when I pass away from old age. With this in mind, all but the most preliminary of investigations into this statement are being put on hold until the rest is found. Most of the details do appear to be correct and match the statement given by Mr. Ivo Lensik in 2007. We did find Father Burroughs’ arrest record, though, and I am very curious to see how the events recounted here could have led to the incident in 2009, wherein he apparently murdered two first year university students following Sunday Mass, and then peeled off and ate most of their skin.

*statement continued in 0113005-B (MAG 20)

Source: Official Transcript and Podcast (MAG 19 Confession)

[ask-the-succubus-nyx]

Just another dream...

The sun is beginning to set behind the city skyline. Javier watches the sky turn to brilliant hues of purple and orange from his office window. Once the sun has finally gone down and shrouded the church in darkness, Javier goes to light a few candles and say a few much needed prayers. He kneels in front of a statue of the Blessed Virgin and does what he does at the end of every day. He crosses himself and kisses his rosary before standing and going to make sure the pews are clean and the hymnals back in their proper places. He suddenly realizes he is not alone in his church. He can see a woman sitting in a heavily shadowed pew.  This is not an uncommon sight. People seeking guidance sometimes stayed after usual church hours to speak with him privately.  He walks over to the woman, smiling.

From her spot in the pew she watches him; his devotion and faith is clear. This is not exactly a place she wants to find herself when in someone’s dream, but if this is where his mind has gone, then she has no intention of changing it. The church is beautiful, colors of stained glass dancing in candlelight. As she looks around, she wonders how much of this setting is related to their previous encounter, and a half smile crosses her lips. Is he feeling guilty for putting his vows to the test? Nyx’s head is bowed in thought when he approaches, shadows concealing her face. “Good evening Father,” she greets, a trace of humor in her voice.

Her soft and beautiful voice is unmistakable to Javier. He stops dead in his tracks, afraid to get too close to the woman he now knows is in fact a demon. He runs his hands through his dark curls nervously. "What are you doing here Nyx?" He cant bring himself to look at her, out of fear of becoming weak again. "Would have thought a demon would burst into flames inside a Catholic church."

She looks up at him, the smile spreading across her face. “So you know what I am,” she notes lightly. “It’s all about my intentions. I can come into a church as long as I mean no harm to anyone inside.” She doesn’t mention that, regardless of her intention, if she were to touch anything blessed it would burn through her skin like a flame eats through paper. As she watches his body language, she can see how nervous he seems to be. “Are you afraid of me now?” she asks softly.

"Yes, I know. My cousin told me. He apparently is in some Satanic ghost band or something. He happened to mention you and what you really are." Javi is shifting his weight from leg to leg awkwardly. Should he run? Should he grab some holy water and hope that if he throws it on her she goes away? No. He doesn't want to hurt her and he also doesn't want to leave. He opts for taking a seat in a pew across from Nyx. "Why are you here? "

“Your cousin? Is in the church?” This is certainly an interesting turn of events. Nyx wonders who it might be. She’s relieved when he sits, glad he hasn’t run away, and turns to face him. “Because I wanted to see you again,” she shrugs, answering honestly.

He finally looks up at her. Those eyes bore into his very soul. It terrifies him, but he doesn't let his fear show. "Yes, he is. He seems to think rather highly of you actually." Javi is not surprised that she wanted to see him again. She probably came to finish what she started last time they met. Then he recalls what she said about how she was able to be in the church because she had no  intention of harming him or anyone else for that matter. Eros certainly hadn't seemed fearful of Nyx when he spoke about her, so maybe he didn't need to fear her either. "You know I cant sleep with you Nyx. I'm a priest. I'm sure at this point you're well aware of that."

“I know. Can’t blame a girl for trying though,” she grins. She turns a little and catches sight of a Bible resting on the pew near her. “I feel like I’m being watched,” she laughs, shaking her head. Nyx inches away from the book to the end of the bench, closer to him, and sighs. “Whatever you may think about what I am, I promise that I won’t hurt you. I don’t want you to be afraid of me. I wasn’t always a demon, just as you weren’t always a priest.” She pauses, wondering if she should ask the question that’s been lingering in her head since their previous meeting. “...What made you take your vows?”

He smiles slightly at her comment. "God is always watching." He wonders if God keeps tabs on demons as well as humans. He sees her move a bit closer to him but isn't bothered by it. Deep down, he wants her to move even closer still, but he would never admit this to himself.  "I'm not afraid of you. I thought, maybe I should be but, I believe you when you say you won't hurt me. " Javi is surprised to learn that Nyx wasn't always the creature she is now. He is terribly curious now to know about who or what she used to be.  The priest sighs and leans back against the pew. "I joined the priesthood because I was lost. I was always the type of guy who liked to party pretty hard. But the drinking started getting out of control. By the time I was twenty six, I couldn't go more than a few hours without a drink or my hands would start to just shake uncontrollably. I stupidly got involved with some very bad people who ran all sorts of  underground events. Dog fighting, casinos, prostitution, you name it. So then I had this gambling problem on top of the drinking. One morning I woke up on the floor in a strange house covered in my own vomit..." He pauses and looks up at the beautifully rendered fresco of  Mary and baby Jesus on the ceiling. "...and blood. A lot of blood. And it wasn't mine. I decided right then and there that I needed to make a drastic change in my life. So I came to this church. I confessed all my sins to the old priest who used to run this place. I can tell you, I was in that confessional for a very long time." He  chuckled softly. "He suggested I give religion a try. I did and God saved my life and my soul."

She listens to him, concern etched in her face. As he speaks, she can almost see the things he’s describing. She can certainly feel every bit of the emotion that’s tied to the memories. “I’m glad you were saved from a destructive path,” she says, voice soft. Nyx shakes her head; his story is so different from her own. While he had run toward faith, she had run from it. “I can’t imagine faith being a lifeline for me the way it is for you. I wonder though...Do you ever feel as if you might’ve gone from one extreme to another? Obviously this one much safer, but an extreme nonetheless?”

Javi looks down at his hands for a moment before meeting her eyes again. "Maybe I did. But this extreme keeps me in line. Keeps me and everyone around me safe and happy. This church is my home. Through it, God saved me and countless others. Father Martin, the priest I met here all those years ago, taught me to love myself again. And now I'm the one teaching those who come here the same thing." Javier moves down the pew a bit, coming a tiny bit nearer to the succubus. "Tell me about your life. You say you weren't always...what you are now. What happened to you?"

When he asks about her past, she looks away. It’s not something she talks about often, but she supposes it’s only fair since he answered her question about his. “I was human just like you are. My mother was a religious zealot so I got married young because I wanted to get away from her.” Nyx smiles wistfully at the memory of her wedding day. “My husband was everything to me, I loved him with my heart and soul. A few years into our marriage he had a horrible accident and I was so desperate to save him that I made a deal with the Devil. On my own death it would cost my soul in exchange for his life. I didn’t realize my darling husband had been having an affair the whole time or that my death would come as swiftly as it did.” She pauses, shaking her head. At last she meets his eyes, the smile on her lips bitter now. “He murdered me for his mistress.”

As Nyx spoke Javi’s expression turned to one of true sadness. So she had given away her immortal soul to save the life of someone she loved. Her story broke his heart. The priest got up from the pew he was seated on and sat right next to Nyx. He reached out took hold of her hand. "I am so very sorry for everything you went through. I'm sure nothing I say can really help you, but I think what you did was incredibly selfless. You did it out of love. As for your husband,  he was clearly an idiot for not realizing what he had." He squeezes her hand slightly and inches closer to her.

“Thank you,” she whispers, leaning her head on his shoulder. She squeezes his hand back and pushes the memories away. “It took me a long time to realize that what he did wasn’t my fault. Some men are real pieces of work, but at least I’m free of my ex husband. He was nothing like what I’d thought. I guess in a weird way I got a second chance because of Satan. This isn’t a terrible life that I lead now.”

When Nyx leans on him, Javi’s entire body tenses up and his pulse quickens. He's not sure if its because he’s afraid of having his soul stolen, or if it’s because he feels something for her. He’s physically attracted to her, there can be no doubt about that, but after hearing her story and learning what a good person she was in life, it felt like something more. Slowly, he puts a comforting arm over her shoulder. He knows he shouldn't, but he does it regardless.

There’s something incredibly sweet in the way he’s trying to console her and the irony here is not lost on Nyx. A priest comforting a demon under the roof of a Catholic Church has to be one for the books. Despite how ridiculous the situation is, his gentleness is more than welcome. She turns into him, resting her head lightly on his chest. Nyx can read his heartbeat more clearly now and she smiles. “Nervous?” she asks, her voice lightly humorous. She places her hand over the center of his chest. “Your heart is racing.”

The priest turns his head toward Nyx as she lays her head against his chest. He revels in the feeling of her silky black hair against his chin. "I'm not sure nervous is the right word..." He can feel himself blushing and hopes she doesn't notice. Why was this happening to him? He’s known countless beautiful women since he joined the priesthood and not a single one has ever had such an effect on him. He desperately wants to believe it’s because of what she is. Succubi steal the souls of weak and unsuspecting men. It’s what they do.  But if that was all Nyx wanted of him, surely she would have done it by now. Never had he imagined that a demon could be so...human. She was broken. She had suffered in the name of love. He is slowly beginning to question all that he knows.

He seems so conflicted to her. It’s clear that his faith had never prepared him for the reality that not all demons started out as evil. “Not nervous? Then what?” Her tone is playful and she tilts her head to catch a glimpse of his face. What she sees surprises her. His cheeks are flushed with color and that makes her smile. So she does have an effect on him, no matter how hard he might want to fight it. “Hmm you seem a little warm. Feeling alright?”

Javi clears his throat. "I, uh..." He pulls away from her slightly and nervously runs his hands through his hair. "I don't know what I'm feeling right now. You just, confound me a bit, I suppose.” He smiles warmly at her and stands, offering her a hand. "How about we go for a walk. Have you ever been to a Venezuelan festival? The Carúpano Carnaval is going on. I think you'd enjoy it." Suddenly the echoing sounds of steel drums and salsa music can be heard blaring through the city streets just outside the Basilica.

Nyx grins up at him, placing her hand in his as she stands. “No I’ve never been to one before. Let’s go.” The music outside is full of energy and she can’t wait to see what else is out there. She holds his hand as they walk out of the church together and has to admit she feels a sense of relief to be out of it.

[binniedeactivated]

saint. || soobin (2.10)🌪*finale*

a/n: congratulations for making it to part 2 finale! I appreciate anyone who has made it this far in reading this series! ily<3333 enjoy!

🖤┊𝔰𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔱 . ೄྀ࿐ 𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: 𝖘𝖔𝖔𝖇𝖎𝖓 𝖝 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗 𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖗𝖊: 𝖘𝖒𝖚𝖙/𝖆𝖚 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙; 2k

parked outside your house in the car was yeonjun, and you were more than glad he was on his phone and barely paying attention to you. you sighed, thinking about soobin’s words when he told you to be good for him. you made a promise to yourself that you’d be better until he comes back.

you entered the car and sat silently until yeonjun was done scrolling through his feed. you figured maybe you could use this time to mentally prepare yourself for school today. trying not to become too stressed, soon exams will be over and you could go back to having a regular mental capacity again. 

“i don’t know. if i entered someone else’s car I’d at least greet them”. yeonjun mutters with his eyes still pasted to his phone. you slowly narrowed your eyes at him. “since when do you care if I greet you?”. you ask. he shrugs his shoulders. “common courtesy. manners too”. he replies. you huff your breath ignoring him.

“are we going anywhere?”. you ask. 

“yes”. 

“so can we go? we’re just sitting here”. 

“why are you in a rush? you have nowhere to be at 6 o’clock in the morning”. 

you cross your arms. you know what soobin said. but yeonjun wasn’t making things any easier too. 

“you’re annoying”. you retort. 

“and you’re some angel?”.

“I never said that”.

“sure as hell was acting like it when you told soobin yesterday”.

“are you not disrespectful? you don’t how to speak to people. that’s your problem”.

“surely we aren’t talking about problems when you’re 18 years old and need someone to teach you how to have sex”.

you glare at him, completely oblivious to soobin even mentioning such things to an asshole like him. 

“that’s your problem”. yeonjun twisted, using your words against you.

“I don’t know why soobin is even friends with you. I hate you”. you grumble. yeonjun nods before starting up the car. 

“good”. 

you kept your mouth shut until you both were at the diner again. you really wanted to hit him for what he said. but you ought to be good for soobin. yeonjun gets out and slams the door behind himself like the rude person he was. you entered and sat across from him. he was reading the menu and asking the same waitress questions he already knew the answer to, he just wanted to flirt. you roll your eyes and pluck up your own menu preparing to order. 

after she finished taking your orders she gave you this snarky ass look almost as if to say, “how does it feel to have your man taken?” . you wanted to assure her that you didn’t know and that yeonjun is completely on the market but you didn’t care enough. you felt yeonjun chuckling to himself at the entire situation.

trying to air out the drama you try to ask questions instead. you place your elbows on the table, 

“how do you think today is going to go for soobin?”.

“he’ll be fine. he should get out within two days if those dumb ass officers reach a verdict already”.

“why two days? it takes that long? the boys don’t have a story”.

“for some odd reason they want this to be soobin fault so the officers been desperate to frame him. it going to take them longer than usual because the want to connect invisible dots”. 

you sigh, 

“this is ridiculous”. 

“as fuck. he’ll be alright though”. 

you sit back and think further until your food was sitting in front of you. you dragged your utensils out of the napkin preparing to eat with soobin weighing heavily on your mind.

“here you go with that shit again”. yeonjun insults taking a grossed out glare at your food. 

“yes I can eat what I want. worry about your food and I’ll worry about mine”.

“I’ll worry about whatever the fuck i want to worry about”. 

“worrying about me will get you nowhere”. 

“yep, because you’re nothing”. yeonjun stated before forking a piece of fried egg into his mouth. you wanted to hit him so bad but you held back for soobin and soobin only. you ate your food quickly so you both can hurry out of there before yeonjun got hurt from going to far with his insults. 

sooner or later you were at school attending a mass. it kind of bummed you out because it would be dull without soobin whispering and talking to you as if he weren’t supposed to be praying. one of the sister’s used their fingers to beckon you to the confessional. you had to admit you were kind of scared, it’s been a long time since you confessed to some things. maybe this was the life of a normal catholic teenager. 

“good afternoon father benjamin”. you say kind of anxiously. 

“good afternoon. is there anything you want to confess?”.

you took a deep breath. “i don’t even know where to start”.

“take your time”. 

“this is kind of embarrassing but... i’ve been feeling more sexual than usual lately and i’ve been worried about exams and--someone trying to be framed for a crime they didn’t commit. i guess i’ve been too focused on my own life rather than praying that things get better for me”.

“first and foremost you must understand that sexual feelings are normal at your age. but it’s best to learn how to control them early on so they don’t spiral out of control”. you nodded, knowing you were in way too deep at this point. 

“I understand”. 

“your lack of prayer is your reason for your lack of peace. you are trying to handle all of your emotions on your own when our heavenly father doesn’t want that”. you nod once more feeling kind of guilty. 

“and your job is to never stress over things such as friends with crimes. I understand it can be difficult to deal with but sometimes people are only who we think they are”. 

“what do you mean?”.

“do not become too invested into someone you don’t entirely know about”.

you bit the inside of your cheeks thinking and nodding. “thank you father benjamin”. “you are forgiven, my saint”. 

you thought about the priests words until mass was over, trying to figure out what he was getting at. you did completely know about soobin, right? he’s changing for the better? 

all of the kids from mass were spilling back into the school building and attending their classes regularly. but it was hard to not lock eyes with yeonjun who was being guided into the principal’s office with two officers at his side. just the thought that the situation had to do with soobin made your heart race expeditiously. 

the officers closed the door behind them and yeonjun was sat down in a wooden chair, completely confused with whatever was going on.

“good afternoon choi yeonjun. you’re not in trouble at all but these gentlemen are looking for some of the people  you may have connections to”. the principal spoke while still maintaining his serious demeanor. yeonjun looks back at the officers, “what happened?”. one of them stepped forward.

“there was an incident at the Premiere hotel just weeks ago. we looked at the security footage countless times. we would like to show you so you can identify these people if that’s okay? everything you do here--even your name is extremely confidential”. 

yeonjun hid his nerves well. he shrugged. “yeah I guess that’s cool”. the officer nodded and pulled out a camcorder and turned it on, flipping it so that yeonjun could see. for starters it would be hard to figure out who anyone was, yeonjun thought. the camera quality was bad and it didn’t get the best angles. but it was easy for yeonjun’s brain of course. he spotted 5 males walk into a hotel room together. shortly after there was another male who appeared to be bringing a girl in the hotel room before leaving just minutes after. 

yeonjun wasn’t stupid. he knew the 5 males were michael, minho, seongjun, kevin and beomgyu. he knew that soobin was the male bringing mia into the room. so he spoke accordingly. 

“those 5 males, from what I can make out looks like--minho, michael, seongjun, kevin and beomgyu. I believe that female could be mia”. 

“and the male to her left?”.

yeonjun shakes his head. “I’m not quite sure”.

“this seems fairly easy for you. are you sure you can’t identify him?”. 

“the name on the credit card used that night says it belongs to someone by the name of choi soobin. do you think he has anything to do with this?”. 

“could this be him in the tape?”. they back and forthed. yeonjun shakes his head again.

“I don’t think soobin had anything to do with it i mean, those guys are also thieves. and I can’t identify the male in that tape”. 

“are you being honest?”.

yeonjun gives him a dumbfounded expression. “why would i lie to a cop?”. 

“people do it all the time buddy. especially with footage like this”. 

“welp, sorry to break it to you but your trash ass security footage has nothing to do with my integrity”.

with folded hands the principal gives him a look, 

“choi yeonjun I think you need to be a bit more respectful”.

“pfft. that isn’t the first time I’ve heard that line”. 

“we’re not here to frame you,  or anyone just yet. we just want information”. the other officer informs. 

“thank you--as if I didn’t know that already I already gave you the information that I think to be true. if you want me to list random names of people in this building so you can have a solved crime then we can just say the principal did it and this can be over with”. yeonjun quips calmly. 

“we understand that and we thank you for giving us the information we needed. Principal West I think we’re done here”. 

“try not being hostile next time bud?”.

the officer closes the camcorder and the principal stands to shake both of their hands before helping them to the exit. 

yeonjun not rolls his eyes in that moment but he also was rolling his eyes to you for the whole day, each time you asked him about what happened. you didn’t understand why he couldn’t just tell you. he was calling you difficult but at this time he was being the difficult one. after school you slid into the passenger seat of his car yet again. you took a deep breath before you spoke.

“yeonjun I’m only going to ask you just one more time and it’s only for the sake of me making sure soobin is okay. what happened with the police?”.

yeonjun starts up the car and switch gears. 

“I thought I told you to mind your fucking business already?”. 

“It’s just a question I don’t understand why you have to act rude and belligerent”. 

“stop making me repeat myself and maybe I won’t act belligerent next time. stay in your place”. 

“what are you talking about? If it has anything to do with soobin then it is my place to know”.

“if you do know what the hell are you going to do about it? you have no power or authority”.

“you’re annoying I swear to god”.

“and I apologize that god has to hear your dumb ass voice swearing to him once again”.

it took everything in you to keep still. the only thing that was keeping you calm was the fact that you both were on your way to see soobin. your heart danced until you were finally able to meet his gaze and he kisses you like he always did. yeonjun rolls his eyes, “any updates for today?”. 

“they took the last of them in for questioning. they’re discussing the verdict today and I should know tomorrow”. yeonjun nodded before smirking. 

“soobin is going to be a free man?”. soobin laughs, 

“stop acting like i’ve been locked away for years”. 

“I have to talk to you about something though”.

“what is it?”, 

yeonjun hinted that you were still in the room. 

“can you give us a second princess?”. soobin requests, and you did so politely. you thought you felt his eyes on your ass while you were walking out, either that or you were going crazy. 

“you guys are fucking revolting”. yeonjun comments, watching soobin’s eyes indeed-- on your ass. 

“she’s so sexy I want to eat her pussy again”. 

“hold on, again?”.

yeonjun pretends to make gagging noises, “you can’t be serious”. soobin laughs at how dramatic he was. 

“what do you need to talk to me about?”.

“the police came to the school today and asked me to identify the people in the security footage of the hotel that night”. 

soobin’s eyes expanded and his heart nearly stopped. 

“what?”. 

“don’t worry, the camera shoots at like 20 pixels. it would be hard for anyone to identify, but i told them that I didn’t recognize you. I only identified the boys and mia. the only thing they do have on you is the fact that your credit card was swiped to pay for the hotel room”.

soobin throws his hands on top of his head, 

“fuck”. he breathes. 

“don’t even worry about this one. we’re going to get you a good lawyer and we’re going to fix this shit and make those motherfuckers go to jail for the rest of their lives alright?”. 

soobin gradually nods, “fucking bad timing though”. 

“don’t worry I think they are asking other people. it’s going to take them a while to collect data with the footage they have”.

“good. that’s good”.

“yeah it is actually”.

“how was my baby today?”. soobin asks on another note. 

“you’re asking me that as if she isn’t annoying on a daily basis”.

“you two just can’t fucking get along for shit huh?”. 

“hell no. and i don’t want to get along with her that’s your job”. 

“it’s also your job to take care of her until i come back”. 

“don’t remind me. it’s already a drag that I have to take her home”.

“you’ll be fine dipshit. make sure she’s in the house safely”. 

“yeah whatever”. yeonjun says on his way out. 

“tell her to kiss me goodbye before you guys leave”. soobin calls out shortly after. yeonjun glares at you in the waiting room. 

“yo dumbass, go say goodbye to Al Capone”. 

you scoff and do as you were told. you didn’t want to waste your energy on yeonjun especially if you were here for soobin right now. soobin kisses you again, adding a bit more tongue this time sinking your heart like so. when he pulled away you secretly wanted more. 

“be good for me okay?”. 

“hm. what do I get if I’m good?”. you reply, feeling kind of risky. soobin smirks, 

“we can see how long you last on my face”.

at this point you were beyond flustered and soobin knew it. he chuckles softly, 

“get home safely and make sure you study. yeonjun has my credit card if you need anything”. 

you thank him and give him an okay before you left. you thought you could’ve been exaggerating things but what soobin said made you kind of wet. him eating you out was amazing but you could only imagine sitting on his face. 

“a kiss shouldn’t take that long”. yeonjun complains as soon as you enter the car. you roll your eyes yet again. he starts driving.

“I didn’t know I was on a schedule”. 

“you’re not. you’re on my time”. 

“why do you always feel the need to speak? like seriously”. 

“because I can and I will. whose going to stop me?”. 

“I hope someone does soon because you’re really out of hand”.

“am I?”. 

“yes”. 

“I don’t give a fuck”. 

“you should”. 

“you should give a fuck about a lot of things”.

“I didn’t ask so mind your business”. 

“I don’t have to”.

“you’re so self centered and low it isn’t even funny”. 

“you’re so pathetic and inexperienced it actually is funny”. 

you glare at him once again, god-you hated him. 

“you’re annoying and I hate you, I hope you know that”. you say with a little more projection and attitude. 

“you’re annoying and you’re also a bitch I hope you know that too”. 

that was it, you had enough. you used all the strength you could muster to slap yeonjun across his face. with a clenched jaw he narrowed his eyes at the road ahead. 

“don’t call me that”. you uttered and anger. the car jerked to the side of the road so hard you didn’t even feel it come to a stop. you didn’t have time to blink before yeonjun was grabbing you by the collar of your shirt. he was breathing heavy and his face looked more serious than you’d ever seen it.

“don’t fucking hit me”. he growled. 

“stop being so disrespectful then”. 

he pushes his face closer to yours. 

“I can do what I want. what are you going to do about it?”. 

the both of you found yourself breathing heavy and more than angry with the other. you hated yeonjun for all he was and he hated you with the same token. but it only took one swift glance at his lips for you to give in. he presses his lips on yours and you give in, kissing back like you had no care in the world. the two of you fought for breath before going back for more. his lips were kind of forceful yet soft. and he thought yours were too innocent to get enough of. he pulls you onto his lap while you were kissing him. his hands wandered your thighs and you let them in the heat of the moment. you didn’t know what you were doing but you couldn’t stop. 

his hands grope your ass and you grinded down on his lap, resulting in your breathing becoming shaky. you were already wet from soobin’s words so it didn’t take long for you to start throbbing in your panties. you quivered when you felt yeonjun’s hand sweep past your clothed clit. 

and that’s when it hit you--what were you doing? 

you let the kissing come to a halt, “yeonjun we can’t do this”. he stares into your eyes also snapping back into reality. “you’re right, what the fuck are we doing?”. 

you felt your heart still beating at a fast pace while you crawled back to the passenger’s seat of the car. hoping and praying that this all was just a dream. you didn’t mean for it to happen. maybe you were just desperate. you bit your lips. 

“we can’t tell soobin about this”.

[cutiesonthehorizon]

Exorcist fic - The Price of Vision part 8

You can find the newest chapter of The Price of Vision under the cut, on AO3 or fanfiction.net. As always, thanks to all who reviewed and commented and specially to @starrylizard for her help with a quick beta. All mistakes left are my own. This part will have a bit more scenes taken straight from the show, I hope you won't mind, but I wanted to add just a little something to them.

Hope you’ll enjoy and let me know your thoughts:)

The moment Tomas' feet touched the pier, it was as if he was somewhere else. Harper, Rose and Marcus vanished in a mist, the boat they came with turned into a small rowing boat on an empty and deadly still lake. Tomas froze, the memories of the dream slowly creeping back to him. But just when there was a figure stepping out of the mist, the captain of the boat passed by Tomas and suddenly everything was back to normal.

Tomas frowned, trying to make sense of what just happened, but by the time he took a step forward even the last memory vanished leaving him only with the familiar feeling of unease and dread. Tomas swallowed, taking in his surroundings with suspicion, before following Marcus and the girls to the parked car.

"You all right?" Marcus asked him when they were putting Harper's luggage in the back of the car. Tomas nodded, although it left a bad taste in his mouth. He never lied to Marcus, not willfully. Even if he tried, he couldn't... the older man saw right through him and spending the last six months in such close quarters only gave them a deeper insight into the other's behavior and secret tells.

That's why Marcus gave him an annoyed look that clearly said 'I don't believe you, but I'll let you pretend five more minutes'.

Tomas sighed, feeling equal part relieved and grateful not to have to explain something he didn't understand himself. At least not until they were out of Harper and Rose's earshot.

"Later," he muttered and Marcus acquiesced. Maybe later Tomas would know what to tell him.

The ride to the house didn't take so long and they met only one car on their way. It seemed to be in a rather isolated part of the island.

"There's not that many people here, huh?" Harper asked with some worry and pushed closer to Marcus. They were sitting in the back of the car while Rose was driving and Tomas sat on the passenger seat. The seating was chosen by Harper, who grabbed Marcus's hand the moment they reached the car and gave him a pleading look he couldn't say no to. No one protested. Tomas was watching the road and trying to shake off the feeling of foreboding just as a residue of the last few days. Harper was fine, she definitely wasn't the possessed girl Tomas had thought her to be.

Tomas thought that maybe this feeling was just the paranoia caused by the phone call with Olivia, his worry over bringing this whole church conspiracy to his sister's doorstep. She didn't deserve it, Luis didn't deserve it. Tomas would have to find a way to keep tabs on her one way or other, without direct contact. Just the thought of it made his head hurt.

The car jumped a bit as they ran over a rock and Tomas was pulled out of his thoughts. They saw the house and several children playing outside and the car came to a stop.

Marcus stepped out first, followed by a slightly reluctant Harper. Rose quickly whisked her away, making the introductions while Marcus and Tomas stepped to the back of the car to take out the luggage. Suddenly Marcus froze, looking into the trees with a frown. Tomas followed his look but all he saw were several huge spider webs. It wasn't a pretty sight, but Tomas was a city boy and this didn't look out of place to him. However, he knew webs caught Marcus' attention for some reason. He didn't have the time to ask about it though, because the foster father was heading towards them.

"And here you are, Harper's heroes."

Tomas looked at the ground, shaking his head.

"We're not heroes," he protested slightly.

"Don't listen to him, I am," Marcus said with a smirk.

"I knew it," Andy said with a pointed finger and laughed, then pointed them towards the house with a smile.

"Come on inside."

Marcus grabbed Harper's luggage and walked next to Andy, joking lightly. Tomas reluctantly followed, each step feeling as if it were bringing him closer to danger... he just didn't know it yet.

Once Harper was introduced to all members of the family, they let her settle down in her new room with Verity. Andy offered to show them both around the garden and Marcus accepted the offer, hitting it off with the younger man almost instantly. Tomas felt a little like a third wheel and decided to stay inside to keep an eye on Harper. Marcus just shrugged and followed Andy out the door. Tomas walked around the house, feeling a bit like an intruder, but he had this need to make sure Harper would be okay. He knew he was being overprotective, but ever since this morning, every time he looked at Harper he just had a feeling that he failed her and the nagging guilt made his stomach ache. So he walked up the stairs and peered inside the room, feeling relief when he saw Harper talking to Verity, both girls smiling and chatting calmly.

Maybe it would all be okay, Tomas thought. He stepped back from the door, not wanting to disturb the girls, when he felt coldness rush through him. A picture on the wall started shaking and Tomas felt as if his legs turned into lead. Swallowing, feeling a sense of déjà vu, he stepped towards the picture. The shaking stopped but he knew it wasn't over. There was a slight creak and sound of softsteps behind him and Tomas felt fear gripping his insides.

He felt a presence and it wasn't a friendly one. Slowly, oh so slowly, Tomas turned, but the hall was empty. He could still hear the girls talking in the next room. Everything seemed to be alright... everything but the door to the attic, which was slightly ajar. Tomas was sure that it was closed only a few seconds earlier. He threw a look at Harper's room then stepped towards the open door. He felt the coldness hitting his face, the warning of something dangerous, but he also felt the lure of curiosity pulling him towards the stairs to the attic. Something was there, waiting for him. Tomas touched the door and was about to take a step, when he heard a sound behind him.

The strange urge was gone, momentarily broken by the presence of another. Tomas turned and looked at the boy, one of the older ones.

"Father?"

"Tomas," Tomas introduced himself and the boy did the same.

"Shelby."

"Hi."

"Uh, you should know, I'm a believer," Shelby started a bit nervously. Tomas nodded with a smile, his head still somewhere else, his mind wondering about what happened just a minute earlier, but his focus was quickly pulled back towards the boy. "Not like catholic or anything, but... no offense."

"No, no... we are all searching for the same answers," Tomas said, trying to relax the boy. It seemed like he had something important on his mind and Tomas was instantly reminded of his parishioners and taking confessions. He fell back into the role with ease and was ready to listen.

"What can I do for you?"

Something was obviously troubling the boy, as he was choosing his words carefully.

"Why are you guys here?"

Tomas frowned. Not so much about the question, more about the tone of it.

"We wanted to make sure Harper is okay," he replied carefully.

"And... is that the only reason?"

"What other reason would there be?" Tomas slowly asked, his own voice a bit guarded. He was trying not to show the sudden worry and concern, trying to ignore the urge to just grab Harper and Marcus and leave this island behind.

Shelby was about to answer, when Rose walked up the stairs and interrupted them.

"Father Tomas?"

"It was good to meet you, father," Shelby said, his face closing off as he beat a hasty retreat, leaving behind a puzzled priest.

"Father Marcus is looking for you," Rose said and Tomas simply nodded. There was something going on and he didn't have a good feeling about it, not at all. Now he just needed to somehow convince Marcus of it.

"I think she'll be happy here," Marcus said when he walked up to him. Tomas nodded, but he looked troubled.

"You all right?" Marcus frowned and Tomas bit his lip, wondering if he should speak up or not. Just a few days back he thought he could trust his instincts, but now he wasn't sure. Still, it was better to speak up and let Marcus decide whether they should investigate or not.

"One of the older kids was trying to tell me something... I think there's something wrong here.

"I feel it," he added, worried how that may sound but unable to stop himself.

"You feel what?" Marcus asked, looking skeptical, but at the same time Tomas noticed that he didn't instantly laugh it off or tell him he was just being paranoid.

"I thought I was wrong about Harper," Tomas shook his head and bit his lip. "But now I don't know."

He didn't think Harper was possessed, but there was this creepy feeling that someone or something was watching them, even this moment. Ever since stepping onto the island, Tomas was hit by a strong feeling of déjà vu, along with foreboding and he couldn't ignore it, not after spending several months on the road with Marcus, training to be an exorcist.

"Well I guess I can have a look around," Marcus said and Tomas looked at him with surprise. He was prepared to hear Marcus tell him this was all just in his head, that he was acting crazy and overprotective. To hear the older man acquiesce so easily told Tomas that he wasn't the only one having these feelings.

"Do you think I might be right?" he asked with curiosity and watched as Marcus shrugged his shoulder, looking as if he had no care in the world.

"Like I said this morning, we have nowhere else to be until Bennett calls. There's plenty of time before today's last ferry leaves the island."

At Tomas' disbelieving look, Marcus smirked and slapped him on a shoulder.

"I'd rather look around and make sure everything is alright, than have you moping around the motel room wondering if we should've left Harper here alone," Marcus said."I'm gonna get some air and you can socialize with the kids."

Before Tomas could think about a protest or try to go with him, Marcus left the house. Tomas looked around the empty foyer and, with a sigh, went to look around the house. Maybe he could find Shelby and the boy would tell him what was on his mind before Rose interrupted them. He stepped towards the staircase and paused. The hair on the back of his neck stood up and a shiver ran down his spine. He looked up the stairs, expecting to see someone watching him, but there was no one.

Marcus walked around the house, back to the garden where he saw the first dead crow. The behavior of the birds wasn't normal, he knew that, but that wasn't the only reason why he didn't tell Tomas to just ignore his feelings and head back to the motel. Whether Marcus liked it or not, Tomas had a knack for finding trouble. He was like a magnet for it,and he usually had good instincts, albeit if he often acted rashly on them.

Marcus couldn't hear God, not anymore, but Tomas hadn't yet lost the connection, or at least he hadn't lost his faith. And Marcus had to admit that what happened last night - the nightmare or vision which Tomas said he didn't remember - creeped him out. It was as if something was trying to keep them there... as if they were led to this island. And Marcus couldn't ignore the signs... he noticed Tomas freezing up during their walk from the boat, just as he noticed the nervous look on his face. Tomas would never be a good poker player... he wore his heart on his face, or rather in his eyes. Marcus often worried that the demons might use it against him one day, but there was really nothing he could change about it, other than try and teach Tomas to build up the walls to protect his innermost thoughts and feelings.

Marcus was lost in his thoughts and didn't even realize where his feet were taking him, but he soon found that he was going the right way. There were stone stairs leading down towards a rocky beach and there were also dead crows trailing the path. And a gray haired man poking at something that was decidedly dead and out of place.

"Thank you again. I promise you, Harper will be in good hands here," Rose told Tomas as he was picking up his jacket. Marcus was still out and about, but Tomas didn't want to linger any more. He could wait on him outside or meet up by the pier. Tomas felt like a good walk would help clear his head anyway.

"It seems like a lovely family," Tomas responded, trying to quell his own doubts. Someone was walking quickly down the stairs and Tomas looked up to see an excited Andy.

"Hey, father, don't go just yet, you should be here for this." Andy stopped and motioned for both Tomas and Rose to follow him. "We got a little ritual. Come on."

Rose and Tomas exchanged curious looks and followed him up the stairs.

"All right, we're all here," Andy clapped his hands. "Are you ready?" he asked and Tomas took in the scene. All the children were standing in the hallway of the first floor. Caleb was holding a paper platter with red dye and Harper was nervously pushing her hand into it.

"Wherever you like," Andy pointed to the wall and Tomas frowned, trying to see what was going on. He took a step closer and his eyes widened, just as his stomach dropped to the floor. There were several handprints on the wall, Harper's red one joining them in a macabre display.

Andy cheered and the kids clapped.

"Hey, now you're family," Andy said, a friendly arm around Harper's shoulder. "No matter what happens, you'll always have a home here. Okay?"

Harper looked up at him sheepishly and nodded. Andy smiled at his family and the children started to talk, Verity leading Harper to the bathroom to wash away the paint from her hand, while Caleb was trying to get some of the red dye on Truck. They moved past Tomas, but he stood stock still, unaware.

He didn't hear the laughter, didn't notice the movement. All he could see were the colorful handprints on the wall of a long forgotten church... Cindy's church. All he could hear was the crying of children as the woman rose from the mud... the faceless girl standing on the road in front of Harper's house, turning toward him and pulling him deeper into the madness of his own mind.

He didn't see the young girl that everyone but Andy seemed to ignore, glaring at him hatefully, but he felt cold sweat breaking out all over his body as that little girl brushed past him towards the stairs. There were images in his head he couldn't discern, but he felt the fear and pain. Oh, so much pain, coming from within these walls, from the island itself.

Tomas swallowed, feeling his knees go weak and his head ready to explode, when there was a warm hand on his arm and suddenly he was back in the house, staring into a pair of concerned eyes.

"Father Tomas?" Rose asked and Tomas blinked, as if woken up from a bad dream.

"Yeah?"

"Are you all right? You look a bit... pale," Rose said, trying to be nice, though it was a clear understatement. Tomas' face was white as a sheet and the bruise on his temple shined vividly. He was swaying on his feet and Rose instinctively squeezed his arm, offering some support.

"I'm... I'm fine, thank you, Rose," he said and tried for a smile, but it came out wrong. Thankfully, the children were gone from the hall along with Andy, though it just gave Tomas a clearer view at the handprints on the wall.

"I think I should go now," he muttered and quickly headed for the stairs, grateful for the solid wooden banister. He wanted to be out of this house, off this island. He needed to talk to Marcus, to make some sense of what just happened, but above all else, he needed his brain to stop messing with him.

Rose obviously wasn't very convinced with his act, because once they reached the hall she put a halting hand on his shoulder.

"Father Tomas, you really don't look good. Maybe you'd like to sit down or drink some water?" she offered and Tomas hesitated. He needed to call Marcus and find out where he was. He also needed a moment to shake off the shock and stop the world from spinning.

"A glass of water sounds lovely," he said and Rose gave him a relieved smile. While she left for the kitchen, Tomas leaned against the wall and pulled out his phone.

Marcus picked up on third ring and Tomas felt instant relief upon hearing the older man's voice.

"Where are you?" Tomas asked without preamble, happy his voice wasn't shaking.

"I took a little detour. I can be at the house or at the pier in about 15 minutes."

"Good. Head for the pier... I'm leaving too."

Something in his voice must've given him away, because there was a slight hesitation then Marcus asked: "You all right?"

Tomas sighed, starting to hate that question. He rubbed at his right eye, giving a slight shake of head, even though he knew Marcus couldn't see it.

"Yeah, I... I'm fine. We need to talk."

"Tomas." There was a warning tone and Tomas could imagine the look on Marcus face that said 'Don't lie to me'. "Do you need me to come to the house?"

"No!" Tomas said a bit too quickly. He didn't want to wait around a minute longer. "I'm already on my way out. No sense in waiting around. I'll meet you there, yeah?"

Tomas ended the call as soon as he heard a mutter of consent. Rose was back and handing him a blissfully cold glass of water.

"Thank you," Tomas took it and drank the water, feeling a bit better instantly. Or maybe it was just the thought of leaving the house.

"I heard the end of your call. So father Marcus isn't coming back?"

"No, he'll meet me at the pier. Thank you, Rose, for taking care of Harper. I should really go now."

"Wait," Rose grabbed her coat and the car keys. "The least I can do is drop you off. You still look a bit shaky, I'd rather not tell Harper that one of her rescuers got lost on the island and needed rescuing himself," Rose added with a smile and Tomas couldn't say anything to that.

"I wouldn't want that either. The ride would be... appreciated," he acquiesced and followed Rose out to the car, breathing more easily the second he stepped out of the house.

The ride was short and he didn't really have time to think about what happened, because Rose kept him talking about everything and nothing, probably hoping he wouldn't get sick in the car or something. Tomas had to admit it worked, though now his gut churned uncomfortably.

When they reached the pier, Marcus was already there, leaning against one of the wooden pylons, arms crossed on his chest, face turned towards the setting sun. He looked back when he heard the car and Tomas could see the curious frown on his face.

"Thanks again for the ride, Rose. We'll be staying in town for a few days, so if Harper needs anything... just call."

"Of course. Take care, father," she said with a smile and waved at Marcus, then turned the car back towards the house. Tomas slowly headed to Marcus who was watching him curiously.

"What happened?" Marcus asked without preamble and pushed away from the pylon. He gave Tomas a once over and noted the pale skin, but his partner seemed to be otherwise unharmed. Still, something must've happened for the strange phone call to take place.

"I'd rather talk about it at the motel," Tomas hedged, hoping to gain more time, but Marcus shook his head.

"Too bad. The ferry left a few minutes ago, the next one won't be here for at least an hour. Plenty of time for you to talk."

Tomas looked around, the pier and the water making him nervous and jittery. He didn't like this place, didn't want to stay there and wait, not now when his mind was in such turmoil. Something on his face must've shown his feelings, because Marcus' behavior suddenly changed. He put his arm over Tomas' shoulder and turned him away from the pier, towards a small pub that was maybe a hundred yards farther down the shore.

"Let's get a cold one first, I'm parched," Marcus said easily, his voice softer than before.

They each grabbed a pint and sat down, backs turned towards the water and the setting sun. It was getting dark fast and Tomas leaned his elbows on the table and hid his face in his palms, letting out a tired sigh. Marcus took a swallow of his beer, watching him, waiting.

"You know if you want me to feel sorry for you, you should start talking. This silent and suffering crap doesn't work on me."

Tomas couldn't stop the snort, but he didn't look up.

"I'm not looking for sympathy. I'm just trying to figure it out," he muttered and Marcus raised an eyebrow.

"Figure out what?"

"What..." Tomas shook his head and straightened up, looking straight at Marcus. "What does Cindy have in common with Harper."

Marcus paused with the beer halfway to his mouth.

"What are you talking about?" He asked, sounding just a bit annoyed.

Tomas rubbed at his eyes, trying to push back the headache and the images. It was as if they were fighting for his attention and he didn't have the energy for either of them.

"Tomas?" Marcus reached out and even through the jacket Tomas felt as if the touch grounded him.

"Before I left the house... Andy called me up for this ceremony..." Tomas described the ritual with the paint, but his voice hitched when he came to the part with the handprints. He felt slightly ill at the memory, Harper's last, bloody red handprint shining like a damn sign.

"I already saw those handprints... when I was in Cindy's head... with the demon. They were on the wall of the church. It didn't make any sense at the time, but now..."

'Now it makes even less sense,' Marcus thought, puzzling over this latest development.

"I don't understand this, Marcus. What does it mean? Are the demons communicating? Or is it a sign from God that we're supposed to help this family?"

Marcus shook his head, feeling a stirring of anger deep inside. He swallowed down half the glass of beer, knowing full well that he barely ate anything, but not caring a bit. He wanted to silence the sudden doubts that were whirling inside his head. Was it God who sent those images to Tomas after all? If so, why? Why was it Tomas and not Marcus? What did he do so bad that God decided to leave him?

On the other hand, what if this was the work of those damn demons and they were just luring Tomas into a trap... how the hell was he supposed to help him? Without God on his side, Marcus felt useless, impotent. It didn't help that Tomas seemed to be so set on the idea that all these visions were a gift, rather than a damn curse.

Feeling rather sorry for himself and the beer giving him just the right buzz, Marcus felt his walls slowly coming down. So when he heard Tomas say 'Those handprints, they have to be a sign,' in a voice tinged with desperation and hands clasped like in a prayer, Marcus couldn't stop his doubts coming to the surface.

"Yeah, but from what?" he asked, staring at his almost empty glass, watching the line left behind from the foam as if it could show him the answer.

"Or who?" Tomas corrected, still not ready to admit that the visions were anything but God's work. Maybe because the only other alternative was scaring him to death.

Marcus didn't deign the question worth a response. He already said what he thought and if Tomas didn't want to listen, then so be it. He was still staring into his glass, as if it was holding all the life's answers, when Tomas let out a shaky sigh.

"They're in my head, Marcus, I don't want them here," he choked out and Marcus looked up, feeling a twinge of sympathy for his partner. He reached out and ran his hand over the back of Tomas' neck in silent support.

"I don't understand."

"Maybe you're not meant to," Marcus said slowly, realizing that he was probably slightly drunk, still not used to the alcohol after over 40 years of abstinence.

"Do you think God led us here?" Tomas asked, looking at him with hope. Marcus wanted to give him an answer that would calm him down, that could keep him focused on the job, but the last few days, hell, the last few months left a mark on him. The talk with Peter, however short it was, also let Marcus realize the depth of his doubts. Marcus couldn't stop the words that followed, tinged with jealousy and despair.

"If he did, he led you, cause he's not talking to me. I haven't felt him for weeks. No. Months. I can't remember a time when he wasn't there," not once since he turned twelve and looked at His face. "Even when the words are flowing through me, I don't..." Marcus bit his lip, shaking his head in pain at the loss. "...feel his touch," he finished, almost in disbelief. "Or hear his voice."

"Well, maybe you're not listening," Tomas said, trying to be helpful and Marcus smirked, finally looking up from his beer, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

"Tell you what. Next time you have a chat with the creator, can you ask Him where the hell he's been?" He drank down the rest of the beer, trying to chase away the taste of bitterness. It obviously didn't work, as Tomas, poor good Tomas, plagued by visions and signs tried to offer his own comfort.

"Are you all right?" The younger man asked, reaching out and touching Marcus' arm with the same concern Marcus had shown him a minute ago. Marcus' lips twitched in an imitation of a smile, more reminiscent of a grimace as he leaned back on the chair and brushed the taste of the beer off his mouth, looking for the right words, any words really.

"I'm an empty pitcher," he said, almost spitting the last word. And bless Tomas' soul; he looked at him with such confusion Marcus almost felt like laughing. He didn't though, just drummed his fingers on his leg, feeling jittery.

"Pitcher? Like a... baseball pitcher?" Tomas frowned. Marcus shook his head, not feeling the humor of the situation.

"Water pitcher," he spoke, looking into the darkness, feeling it growing inside him. "His grace travels through me, becomes form, becomes word, becomes power. That's how it's always been." Marcus looked aside, towards the water, as if in shame. "Except lately."

"Now everything's rushing out and nothing's coming back. And the last of it leaves when the words..." Marcus took in a shaky breath, "...run dry." And here it was, the fear that was plaguing him for the last few months, out in the open.

Tomas leaned over, eyes wide and voice irritatingly reassuring as he said: "IF the words run dry, I'll be there."

Marcus looked at him as if he was just hit by a sudden realization.

"We're partners," Tomas added, hoping to help, but instead Marcus felt a cold shiver run down his spine, reminded of the demon's words – 'He doesn't need you'.

"Maybe God didn't send me a partner..." His lip twitched as he looked into Tomas' eyes. "Maybe he sent me a replacement."

Tomas looked away, troubled and Marcus sighed. This wasn't the time for self pity.

"But there's work to do here," he said, to himself as well as to Tomas. "There may be something very wrong on this island." His voice regained strength and Tomas perked up.

"So you trust me?" he asked, sounding surprised and hopeful at the same time and Marcus knew he had to make one thing clear.

"You believe in God, Tomas. I believe in you. Apart from that..." Marcus reached for the glass and took the last sip of his beer. "I haven't got the foggiest."

[chroniclesofawkwardness]

This is My Blood

Blood is a fluid of life. And, as with life, we’ve had a bit of an odd relationship. At one time or another, I’ve colorized it, been taught how to drink and stop it, given it, then told I couldn’t.

I was in and out of the hospital a lot as a young child. Sometime between ages three and six, I had blood drawn and wholeheartedly believed it was was orange. Of course there were no witnesses to what I considered a medical miracle. The enthusiasm with which I reported my discovery to my mother and brother was understandably met with great skepticism. Instead of making the rounds on popular TV talk shows of the day like Sally Jesse Raphael, Donahue, or Geraldo, my unwavering conviction became a joke around the dinner table.

I would put on a veneer of calm, but remain seething underneath at the disbelief of those closest to me. I wanted to lash out, “You’ll see! One day, Phil Donahue is going to pick up my story; he just has to finish introducing hip-hop culture to a wider (whiter) audience first. I don’t care if the fainting spells some of his audience members experienced were staged. I’m going to be huge.”

Phil’s call never came. As colorblind as I was to the truth about my blood, I wanted to believe its orange hue was real. Part of me still does. Part of me always will. 

Growing up Catholic meant my faith tried to impress upon me that sacrifice was the highlight of the mass, and I'd damn well better pay attention because my soul was riding on the line. If I blinked, I might miss a process called transubstantiation, whereby bread and wine became the actual flesh and blood of Christ, not cheap knock-offs from a Chinese factory, not symbols, not representations (insert savory pun here).

I can’t tell you how many times I stood nearby an altar as a server and heard a priest say:

“Through the mingling of this water and wine, may we come to share in the divinity of Christ, who humbled himself to share in our humanity.”

Then a big one:

“Take this, all of you, and drink from it: This is the cup of my blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant. It will be shed for you and for all so that sins may be forgiven. Do this in memory of me.”

*bell rings*

If translators argued about how Latin should be translated into other languages, or if a translation isn’t valid, the consecration of the bread and wine may not be either, I argued that orange should be added to the words spoken by a priest during the consecration. This way, orange blood could be shed for me and for all, and account for any misremembrance (of me) when I finally got to see what really happened after I’d died. 

Why were we so concerned with the Last Supper anyway? If Christ humbled himself to share in our humanity, surely he had a sense of humor too? There's no way he got everything right on the first try. What if all the other suppers were dress rehearsals? Why don’t we hear about the outtakes and blooper reels that may be buried somewhere beneath the Vatican? A collection of Last Supper fuck-ups could have made my Catholic upbringing so much more relatable. 

Imagine:

“Take this, all of you and uh…. uh… LINE!”

“Cut! Peter! Quit playing with you your food! That’s it! You are no longer the rock upon which I will build my church. You’re going to deny me anyway…” 

“Oops. Can we edit that last prediction out and take it from the top? ROFL!”

“Lord, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but this chicken is woefully undercooked. A skilled veterinarian could still save it.”

“Guys… I have a confession to make… I’m not God’s only son… In about 2,000 years, Steve McPherson from Eau Claire, Wisconsin is going to appear on something called television and tell a man named Phil Donahue that he has a shocking revelation to share with the world about his paternity. No one will believe him, but what he’ll have to say is true. It’s all part of the plan.”

I’ve never been much of an athlete. Still, as a native Ohioan and graduate of The Ohio State University, I’ve acquired a strong distaste for the Michigan Wolverines during my lifetime. My lack of athletic ability meant I didn’t have an opportunity to sacrifice my body (or blood) to defeat them on the gridiron. But during my freshman year, which coincided with the 2000 football season, I decided to try to beat *ichigan the best way I knew how: giving blood in the annual battle to see which university could donate more pints to the American Red Cross during the week of the game.

I sat in a chair designed to accommodate a blood donor and began squeezing the little ball I’d been given to regulate the flow of blood from my vein to the collection bag. Someone told me that giving blood wasn’t a race, but I forgot all about that as I watched the bag fill. It took me between six and seven minutes to donate my pint. I thought I wouldn’t need to eat a piece of Adriatico’s pizza (a thick, square-cut campus staple) that the same person said would be available if I felt lightheaded after donating. I stood up, and began to feel dizzy almost immediately. Having a piece of pizza sounded like a good idea after all.

By 2005, I had been to Serbia and back once in search of my next adventure. As much as I tried during and after college to distance myself from my humble beginnings, this was when I discovered the Tridentine Latin mass at Holy Family Church, and began to rededicate myself to the idea of religious piety.

The Tridentine mass attracted a more conservative, hardcore Catholic. I didn’t always see eye-to-eye with the attendees, but I enjoyed the solemnity of the celebration, the music, and the connection to a religious past that I’d only heard and read about; I was born almost twenty years after the guys at Vatican II decided having mass in local languages, instead of Latin, would make the faith more appealing to the masses (ha).

One of the more ardent attendees was Sister Margarita. Originally from Hungary, she’d been a medical doctor before becoming a bride of Christ. She emphatically stated that only males should serve mass, as only the blood of the new and everlasting covenant should be on the altar. I didn’t comprehend what she meant by this until a late-night shower thought I had several weeks later. When I finally connected the dots, I decided it was best to continue my studies and get back to the former Yugoslavia in pursuit of my dreams. I had to worry about my own body and blood after all.

I tried to donate blood again in 2013, while working for one of the largest financial institutions in the world. I’d been to Serbia and back twice more by then. I had a stable income for the first time in years, and lived in a place nicer than anywhere I’d ever been. Still, I never lost the desire to give back to the community that I learned from being a Boy Scout. Among the many things scouting taught me was first aid, including mnemonic devices such as, “If the head is pale, raise the tail” to help with blood flow, and tactics to handle bleeding events.

The bank frequently had philanthropic efforts, including blood drives,that didn’t make the news, which suited me just fine. I jumped at the chance to give blood again. I knew there was always a need, and I remembered how accomplished I felt during *ichigan week years before, despite feeling like I was going to pass out afterward.

I had to fill out a questionnaire before I could donate, so I was directed to sit a table behind the privacy of a curtain. I breezed through most of the questions until I came to one I really had to think about. It asked if I had spent more than four years in any of a list of counties between 1977 and the present. On the list was the former Yugoslavia. It was close, but I didn’t believe I'd spent more than four years there. I seriously thought about complaining that the question was unfair. I hadn’t been born until four years after the date range began, and I couldn’t account for all of my parents' whereabouts as they were carrying the egg and sperm cells that would later unite to create me.

Despite my reservations, I filled in the “yes” circle because I was nervous. A scout is trustworthy, but I couldn’t remember the exact dates of every flight I’d taken to and from the land of southern Slavs. Had I lied, no one would have known about it until well after the fact. I decided not to risk it then, but I still wonder if there’s a support group somewhere for people who’ve been blacklisted by the American Cross after inadvertently fibbing about their donation. If it was up to me, I’d call it: This is My Blood.

I can see the group meeting in a basement of a local Methodist church on Wednesdays to trade anemia anecdotes, AIDS adventures sickle-cell stories, and transfusion tales. There’d be lots of hugs, and somebody would always break down crying during story time. Me? I’d be content to sit quietly with my complementary coffee and doughnut, and have people wonder what terrible things I must have done to end up there because I never shared. 

A guy in scrubs came to collect my questionnaire and left me waiting like a game show contestant who’d given their answers confidently, but instantly regretted not being 100 percent certain once they realized their life could change for the better, or they could fail miserably. Adding to the tension, each contestant would be well aware that their potential elation (or agony) would only be amplified by the reactions of a studio audience filled strangers, and those yelling at their televisions while watching from home.  

Take this, all of you, and drink from it: This is the cup of my blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant… 

I knew I didn’t have AIDS or another sexually transmitted disease, so I expected scrubs to return pretty quickly. Early Christians probably felt the same way about Jesus after his ultimate sacrifice. More that 2,000 years later, as my seconds of waiting turned into minutes, stories I’d heard of ancient blood oaths taken on the Balkans started swirling through my head. I’d never taken a blood oath that I could remember, but I do remember watching the scene from My Girl when Thomas J. and Vada became blood brothers. It was disgusting.

…it will be shed for you and for all so that sins may be forgiven…

I suddenly longed for forgiveness, not from God, but from the pencil I’d used to mark that regrettable, uncertain response. I couldn’t go back and tell them that while most recently in Serbia, I’d eaten a largely vegetarian diet, consistent with that of my self-described fat lawyer turned yoga teacher. It was too late.

No bells rang when scrubs finally pulled back the curtain after five minutes that felt like five hours. He admitted he’d never had anyone else answer yes to the question that included Yugoslavia, which was why he’d been gone so long. Then came the bombshell: He said answering yes to that question meant I might have Mad Cow Disease lying dormant in my brain, and I shouldn’t donate blood again until a vaccine was developed against Mad Cow Disease in humans. The fail sound from The Price is Right, my favorite game show, played in my ears. 

I don’t know what the symptoms of Mad Cow Disease in humans are, but for what it’s worth, I'm proud to say that I rarely moo with rage or regret. Until I can donate blood again, I encourage those who can to do so whenever possible.

Do this in memory of me.

[toyfrog]

A Lesson in Retconning: Don't forget Your Audience hasn't.

Imagine this on your TV

CUT TO:

[Aram and Tom at the park with Agnes discussing the case while stopping at a coffee stand. A vendor twists balloons into animals.]

Aram: Mr. Cooper isn’t going to like this.

Tom: Aram, relax. It’s no big deal. All you’re doing is passing information to me, so I can help out. Ressler shut me down-

Aram: ah because it’s illegal and we all could go to jail for it.“

Tom: Only if someone squeals. Look, Liz doesn’t want to discuss the case with me. I don’t know what’s going on with her lately, [beat] but if she sees me helping her, maybe it will-”

Aram: You asking me to break the law just so you can score points with your wife who’s not even speaking to you right now.

Tom: I’m desperate.

[Intercut to Aram distracted by the balloon vendor he does a double take]

Aram: oh my-excuse me for a moment [Walks over to man and two children a boy and a girl.] Navib? It’s me. Aram Mojtabai.“

[Intercut Tom with Agnes looks over curious. Aram, feeling the weight of guilt, glances back and forth]

Navib: Aram, its good to see you.

Aram: Wow. They’re so big. How are they doing?

Navib: Good says, bad days. But today is a good day. Children! There is someone I want you to meet. This is Tatitana and Simon.

Aram: hello. Ah who wants a pink poodle? Or a blue duck?

[Intercut to Tom interrupting]

Tom: Hey, Aram, we should be getting Agnes back-oh Hello, my name is-[extends hand]

Aram: Ah, Tom thisis[beat] Navib. Navib, Tom. We should go.

Navib: a pleasure. What a beautiful child.

Tatitana: oh I love babies. She’s so cute. What’s her name?

Tom: Agnes.”

Navib: This is my daughter Tatiana, and my son Simon. My wife-

Aram- Used to work with me.

Tom: Oh. great. Well, Tatiana, I was thinking about taking my wife out to dinner tomorrow. How would like to sit for Agnes?

Aram: [Frets] Oh, that’s not-. I’ll watch her. After all Im one of her godparents.

Tom: no no don't be silly this is exactly what I need. I’ll pay you 10$ an hour for four hours . [writes and address] if it’s okay with your Dad? [Hands paper]

Tatiana: Please Daddy?

Navib: [Takes address] Oh all right. But you will take her home, yes? I’m very protective of my children.

Tom: Don’t worry. Your daughter is safe with me.

[Hold On Aram mortified]

FTB

Fade In

Night

Post Office

[Aram at his work station preoccupied. Samar plops a file on his desk breaking his concentration]

Samar: here’s the Warren file. Cooper asked me-oh sorry. Did I startle you?“

Aram: Ah no. I was uh I was just- [Beat] I did a terrible thing.

Samar: You?

Aram: Yes.

Samar: You? Impossible. What did you bounce a check?

Aram: no I ah-I found a babysitter for Tom-well I didn’t find her [beat] I mean she was in the park and it was so awkward. Staring into her eyes knowing what I did-If I were Catholic I’d be in confession right now.

Samar: what is so terrible about about finding a babysitter?

Aram: Tom and Liz aren’t even speaking to each other right now. Do you know what that’s about?

Samar: Should I?

Aram: I dunno. It doesn’t matter what I did will surely make things worse. Not only that I’m a hypocrite.

Samar: Aram-

Aram: I can’t even bring myself to say it. I gotta go. If Mr Cooper yells-tell him I’m at confession.

Samar: but your not Catholic-

Aram: After tonight I may convert.

[He leaves.]

[Ressler approaches]

Ressler: what’s with him?

Samar: I dunno. Said he needed to go to confession.

Ressler: Aram? For what bouncing a check?

Samar: that’s what I said. But no, said it has to do with Tom and Liz.

[Hold OnnRessler]

Cut To:

Tom/Liz Apartment

[Liz walking on eggshells, finishes prepping for her "date” with Tom. She’s gorgeous, refined, and carries Agnes over her swing.]

Liz: Oh, Agnes. I don’t know how this night will go just-Know Mommy’s trying. [Door knocks] That must be your daddy. [Opens] oh. Hi. You must be Tatiana, right?

Tatiana: right. Liz? Wow, you’re pretty.

Liz: Thank you.

Tatiana: oh she’s so cute. Hi Agnes, it’s me Tatiana from the park.

Liz: So Tom didn’t say how he met you?

Tatiana: oh, Because of Aram.

Liz: [Puzzled] Aram?

Tatiana: Yes. He used to work with my mom.

Liz: Really? At NSA?

Tatitana: No, my mom worked for the CIA.

[Door knocks]

Tatitana: do you want me to get that?

Liz: [Wind knocked out of her] no ah, you play with the baby. [Opens] Hi.

Tom: Wow, Liz. You look amazing. I cannot wait to have this night with you. [Gives a sultry kiss on the cheek, then grins. Eyes Tatiana] hey, you made it.

Liz: Tatitana was telling me Her mother used to work with Aram.

Tom: Yeah isn’t that a coincidence?

Liz: She said her mother worked in the CIA

Tom: Interesting. So, you ready to go? We got a sitter, and dinner reservations at 8.

Liz: Tatiana's mother, was a [long beat] a dear friend.

Tom: Well maybe you two could get reacquainted. I’m sure That could be arranged.

Liz: Tom-

Tom: I mean you don’t have many friends, I’m sure-

Liz: Tom-

Tom: that your mom would love to get reacquainted.

Liz: Tom!

Tom: what?

Tatiana [pullsout a picture] It’s okay it’s not his fault. This is my Mom. She died four years ago.

[Hold on Tom White as a sheet]

Tom: Meera Malick.

Cut To:

[Aram in a confessional nervous as a virgin.]

Aram: Ah, bless me father for I have sinned. I- am not even Catholic but, I need contrition.

Priest: it is all right my son.

Aram: I don't know how to start but I [Beat] had a friend. A beautiful friend, a dedicated officer of the law. Our job is to uphold the constitution. To defend the innocent. Apprehend the guilty but that's not what I did. I looked the other way.

Priest: You betrayed this friend of yours?

Aram: Yes, Father. I stood in the face of my own judgment. And it felt wrong. I haven’t slept. I haven’t eaten. I can no longer turn away from what I feel.

Priest: and what is that my son?

Aram: I live in a world of deep charcoal gray, sometimes not everything is morally wrong. But this time, when Her eyes gazed back at me with trust and innocence, I [beat] looked away forgive me God.

Cut To:

[Tom shattered by Tatiana’s truth, stands in silence. Intercut to Liz]

Liz: ah Tatiana, ( reaches into her purse] I don’t think we will be going out tonight after all. Here, I’m so so sorry. I hope that’s enough.

Tatiana: are you sure?

Liz: Yeah, I just got a text, and I have to work after all. Right Tom?

Tom: ah. Yea. Yea.

Liz: Tatiana I will drive you home, before I leave for work, while Tom watches Agnes.

Tom: I can take her home.

Liz: No! I will take her home.

Tatiana: I’m so sorry. But will you consider me next time?

Liz: sure. You bet.

Tom: Tatiana, I uh [wipes mouth] I’m really really sorry about your mother. If I had the power to make things right, I would.

Tatiana: [innocent doe eyes] thank you. Agnes is lucky to have her mom and Dad.

[Liz disgusted, exits with Tatiana leaving Tom to sit in silence, cradle his face.

FTB

Fade In

[Liz escorts Tatiana to her door is greeted by Navib]

Navib: Oh, Back so soon?

Liz: Yes, I [beat] got called into work unexpectedly. Hello Navib.

Navib: Hello Liz. [They hug] Smal world, isn’t it?

Liz: Tatiana is lovely. I am embarrassed to admit out loud that I didn’t recognize her but [Beat] Meera would be so proud. [Liz sees a picture of Meera on the mantel] not a day goes by, that [beat]

Navib: we miss her too. I’m so happy for you. A daughter. Congratulations.

Liz: Thank you. I’m so so sorry, again please believe me when I say, if I could [beat]

Navib: her job was dangerous. She knew the risks. What angers me to this day is her case became classified. We don’t know if the man responsible paid for his cowardly act-

[Hold on Liz nauseous]

Cut To:

[Tom Opens his door to find Aram]

Aram: I know it’s late and you and Liz have plans but I have something to say-

Tom: I know

Aram: [Simultaneously] You cannot let her babysit-You know?

Tom: yes. [Ushers him in] Liz isn’t here she ah went to take Tatitana home. Wow. This is [beat] awkward.

Aram: I came here to tell you something. It’s not meant to be cruel or judgmental. It’s for me. I know you’re married to Liz, have a beautiful child with her, but Meera would be alive today if you hadn’t infiltrated the post office. You sent a kill list for all of us. Cooper almost died-he spent weeks in the ICU and I looked the other way-because Agent Keen loved you! [Beat] But I-I can’t do that anymore. Everyday Tatiana and Simon, wake up without their mother. Every morning you wake up to your daughter and Liz.

Tom: if you’re trying to tell me you feel guilty, it couldn’t be even a tenth of what I’m feeling.

Aram: It’s not about you. Or what you feel. Or what I feel. It’s about Tatiana. I could’ve told her who you are-the man responsible for her mother’s murder. But I chickened out. Like the coward I am. I just stood there in shame. I love Agnes. She’s a beautiful little girl. But if she knew the truth about what you’ve done, her image of you would shatter. You murdered innocent people. You should be in prison. But I won’t let Agnes live with what you did. But neither should you.

[He walks out]

[Hold on Tom shattered staring back at Agnes]

FTB

Fade In

[Liz arrives home. Removes her coat. Sees everything tidy. Notices a suitcase. Tom enters]

Tom: I know what you’re gonna say:

Liz: No I don’t think you do. The only reason I held you prisoner on that ship for two months was to get Berlin to avenge Meera. I kept telling myself over and over that’s why I was doing it. But it wasn’t true. I held u prisoner so I could play house like this. A sick twisted fantasty. For the past year in some sort of altered universe, I’m still doing that. Playing. Acting. Living a lie like One big happy family!

Tom- Liz-

Liz- Don’t! I betrayed Meera. She trusted me! When she interrogated you she was right about you. I betrayed her and everyone because of you. I even betrayed Agnes! What kind of a mother lies to her own child?

Tom: Liz cmon-

Liz: every month, Lt. Aames daughter receives 3k dollars from my IRA-for college because I can’t bring her father back. I stood in Meera’s home staring at family photos. I had to leave the bile rose in my throat. I had to pullover to the side of the road to vomit. My knees buckled and brow sweat from the guilt. But I needed that wake up call to snap me back to reality.

Tom: I know. That’s why I’m [beat] moving out. The spell is broken, we cannot pretend that I didn’t do those things because: I did. And I don’t want to one day explain to Agnes that I murdered innocent people. I’m not a good man. You and Agnes made me a better man. But-I’ve got to go.

Liz: I’m sorry, I just can’t do it anymore. I cannot pretend and say, this is perfect or the ideal life I dreamed of having because I'm lying to myself and I just don't want to do that anymore.

Tom: I know. [He picks up the suitcase takes it over to the door. Goes to pick up Agnes.] Everything I did, was for her.

[Liz nods as he picks up his suitcase and leaves]