#Is it the person's fault that they carry sin? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

leonw4nter · 2 months ago

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The Dimming Star of a Formerly Worthy Show Dog

RE4R!Leon x F!Reader royal AU

To his mother and father, their princely son is simply checking on his subjects in person to assess the detrition of the plague in illness-struck towns and uphold the dignified and respectable image of the house of Condor for the hopeless masses to look up to. If one were to ask why the king and queen would not step a single foot out of their grand palace, they both feared that they would be tainted by the wrath of God that rained down like hellfire on the sinful masses– their fair skins swollen with black and oozing lumps, the healthy glow of their rosy cheeks taken away by the pallidness of contagion; they both very much preferred to be safe and secure in the comfort of their grandiose palace, wrapped in silks as they stayed away from the suffering below. Their son, the crown prince Leon, could not sit idly and stubbornly left the luxurious threshold of safety and clean air. He reasoned that he must see how the populace is doing in this time of pestilence, arguing that to see him would lift their weary spirits for it offered solace to know that the kingdom is still intact. He did not lie– that truly is his intention, ever the benevolent man he is, but he also wanted to look for you; the last he’s heard of you was from the palace’s dance instructor, somberly informing you that you moved to a town away to find a profitable alehouse to dance in.

“She does not feel the welcome of the palace,” he recalls the instructor saying as he looked out the window. “Most especially from the king and queen. Their gazes were always one of disrelishness when casted on her.”

“But I dearly welcome her,” Leon recalls responding as a deepening frown curled his lip downwards. “She has never done the king and queen wrong, hasn’t she? What is their motive for this animosity?”

The instructor beside him sighed, hands clasped behind him to rest at his lower back. “It is for the very reason that you dearly welcome her that they are contemptuous. She is a stellar dancer, yes– an excellent one at her craft, but she is not nobility. In this world, what are God-given gifts if one is not of the aristocracy?”

“All of them are radiant stars– her, her sisters. Their only fault is that the Lord planted these stars on the wrong sky, with the incorrect folk. Their light will not be marvelled in the manner that they deserve.” The instructor finishes.

Anger and earnest irritation brewed in the pits of his stomach, threatening to rise to his chest, and spill through the piercing and violent nature of emotionally-fueled language. His fists balled at his side, nostrils flared, as indignation dulled his will to adhere to princely decorum.

Not even the mask that covered the bottom half of his face could keep the stench of death at bay, the eastward bound wind worsening the putrid air. Death was everywhere– in the air, lined along the streets, at the mouth of rivers, in houses of stone and wood; corpses could be seen brought out of houses and tossed into carts before the carts would head to either the plague pits in churchyards or the mouth of the rivers. Distant cries and groans could be heard as well, dampening Leon’s spirits but he can’t stop now– he has to keep going, for you and for the people that need him. Mud squelched with each step he took, depressions in the ground trailing behind him as he walked further deeper into the settlement. Not even those with money and the firmest belief in the Lord were free, the body of a wealthy landlord being carried out for a burial as a priest mumbled prayers. He figured that it would be the least he could do for those that have already died to offer a prayer, a futile action yet one that brought comfort; he found it uncomfortable to think that those who were well-off in life were sent back home with services from the church, to lay in a nicely dug pit with a stone to remember them by yet the poor were tossed into a hole with no sign that these people ever lived, smiled, cried, and loved.

He passed by 3 dug holes and prayed 3 prayers each time: a prayer for firmer faith, guidance for the beloved departed, and protection for a friend before a long journey; if only he had brought his prayer beads, he would’ve prayed the rosary too. He walks along the grassy shore of the river, rocks crunching beneath his leather boots. River air was supposedly good for one’s health, said the physicians, for it brought clean air downstream with the flow of water; just like him, there were people flocking to walk alongside the moving water and breathe in some of the supposedly healthy air– children, girls with buckets to fetch some cleaning water, and mothers who were out for a stroll with their children. He recognizes a woman as he trails a distance behind her; her back is no longer upright and now has a slight curve, her hair tied into a short ponytail at the base of her skull. She appears to be carrying a weight concentrated to her right hip, which Leon realizes is a child. The way she walks is familiar yet also foreign to him, bringing flashes of the past to the forefront of his mind. He takes longer strides towards the woman, wanting to check up on her if she is really someone he once knew or if the weariness of the town is playing tricks on his mind already. Within a few steps he is an arm’s length away from her but she turns around before he can approach her and the sadness that seized him felt like a lightning bug getting trapped in a small, black box with one hole to let the light in. Seeing her felt like coming across a time-worn book, the lines on her eyes telling stories of endless struggles and dreams let loose; she looked far beyond 31, each graying strand of frizzy hair a marker of the trials that aged her beyond her time. The youthful sparkle of her eyes were now buried under the heavy cloak of sorrow, he noticed, as she peered at his face to try and remember who he was.

“Amanda,” Leon breathed in an airy voice. Her face lit up at seeing him, the unexpected presence of an old friend a balm to her marred soul.

“Leon,” she said back to him, stepping forward. “Oh, Leon. You have grown into a fine man. You tower over me now! Life has been kind to you, it seems.”

Leon grimaced slightly; if this is what has become of your sister, what fate has befallen you? “I have thought about you and your sisters, what you three have done upon leaving the palace.”

She sighed, a sad one, as she looked at the river where more bodies were being disposed of, opposite to your shoreline. “My hair has become streaked with gray because I spent most of my life worrying and fearing instead of dreaming. I am unhappy to tell you that the same has gone for my two other sisters. Years were endured rather than enjoyed,” she regretfully told him.

“Lucia,” Leon recalled. “I would also like to see her, before I see [name].”

Amanda fell silent, readjusting her position to carry her child a lot more properly. A hand coming up to cradle the base of his delicate skull.

“She had only 27 years when she passed this mortal coil,” she quietly said as she attempted to conceal the cracks of her voice. “Perhaps her body was far too weak to birth a child and thus failed her, physicians said that she had lost too much blood. This baby I carry now is hers, as I have decided to care for him in her stead. God grant her young soul eternal repose.”

Lucia had adored Leon when the sisters still danced regularly in the palace, always accompanying you in finding flowers to adorn Leons’ hair and armor with. She was the youngest among your trio and the fiercest; she did not stand for any prejudice and mistreatment to anyone she cared for deeply, disliked by some standoffish men of the court for her unlady-like decorum, an opinion Leon did not understand. He shed a single tear for her, reminiscing fond memories– memories of when he and her engaged in vulgar banter which resulted in Leon getting beatings, her keeping the palace dog company, and Leon timidly asking for advice in successfully courting you.

“What have you three lived through?” he faintly asks, eyes slightly glossy.

“The world demanded much too soon for three girls who only wanted to dance in gilded halls and feel the rhythm of strings and percussion lift us closer to heaven. Alas, we would have continued to dance until our legs could not and our strengths would fail us but the eyes of the king and queen are not purposed to see my sister with her love.”

Leon knew what she talked about, hanging down his head; he regrets that he did not fight tooth and nail to keep the sisters he has grown fond of growing up with, agonizing over the bitter ebb of love denied.

“Take me to [name]. I want to see her.”

“I am afraid I cannot do that.”

“Why not, Amanda?”

“I cannot let you do that, I cannot.”

“It would kill me swift if you continue to deny me to see [name] than any wrath of a pestilence. I beg and implore you, Amanda, I need to see [name].”

She looked at the blond in front of her, visibly growing more antsy and overwrought with unease. She sighed, growing weak at the possibility that this dignified prince would get on his knees and press his lips on the dirtied ground if it meant having to his love. “It would kill him swiftly if he heard the tenderness [name]’s voice possessed when she spoke of you rather than my denial of you seeing her”, she thought.

“[Name], she has it.” She said.

Leon asked what ‘it’ was, though that was done in an act of denial of the fact for he knew what ‘it’ is.

“She does not want anyone near her– not even I, she speaks to me through her boarded window. She fears that I and the young one will catch it too.”

“Where is she?” Leon asks, the sensation of the prick of tears in his eyes letting itself be known.

“She won’t want to see you.”

“I want to see her. Give me directions and I will walk to where she is, swim if need be.”

And so she told him where she lived, heart heavy as she watched the stubbornly persistent and brave prince make a mad dash to the house she lived in, praying to God that He listen to humankind just this once to provide Leon with the bravery in his heart that he so needed.

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The portion of town where you lived in was where all the sick were placed in order to properly separate those who were well, unwell, and dying. Doctors went in and out of houses with their beaked masks and black cloaks, carrying bags of medicinal implements and prayer booklets; they performed the rites for the religious dying because no priest was willing to, so they offered reprieve in a form different from the medicines they typically offered. Doors were marked and plastered with signs cautioning visitors to take measured decisions to avoid catching the plague themselves yet the fear of catching the plague did not faze him in the slightest bit, determined to soothe you with his presence and try to initiate conversation to put up the illusion that all is well and death does not surround them like a bird eager for a worm. Leon lifts his mask higher up his face, walking down the path that led to the house you were in. He did his best to not linger too much on the faint prayers, crying, and groaning he heard as he passed by other houses, growing increasingly overwhelmed with a potent melancholy. After some time, he gets to your house and knocks at the door then waits until you acknowledge the knocks.

“Amanda…?” he hears your weak voice call out, a rattling tone beneath your shrill voice. If he didn’t know that was you, he wouldn’t have recognized it.

“It’s Leon,” he says as he knocks again but this time a little louder. “Your Leon.”

“Leon…?” you ask from behind the door, trying to figure out if this is delirium that came with the plague or if it really is your Leon. “Amanda…?” you weakly call out once again.

“No, it’s not Amanda. It’s Leon,” he patiently repeats in a gentle tone as he picks up on the uncertainty in your infirm voice.

“You mustn’t… come in…,” you say as you try to sit up, which proves to be a Herculean task for you. “I am… terribly… ill.”

“No, I insist I see you [name]. My body is strong and my mind is sound, I do not fear neither illness nor death because my true fear resides in the possibility of never seeing you again. Please, open the door.”

You scoff to yourself before you cough once more, mustering what little strength your body has left to arise from your bed and get up to open the door. The door was only a few steps away from you yet the distance felt longer, hobbling along on unstable and weakened feet to reach the rusting metal handle and finally see your love after 6 long years. You open the door and see Leon, the lower half of his face concealed with a white cloth; his hair still remained the same flaxen color, albeit his strands have grown a little longer for they now veiled his rosy ears; his eyes have become more deep-set yet his blue irises still retained their piercing gaze, if not more intensely.

“Oh, [Name].”

He takes your hand, only holding on to the scarred tips of your finger as he tries to stave off the overwhelming desire to kiss you again like he did 6 years past. Your knee begins to fail you, brought down to the ground by weakness and Leon rushes to meet you at your level, worry furrowing his face.

“Let me carry you,” he says as he begins to scoop you into his chest and stands up to full height, walking to your bed. You nod as you shut your eyes, ashamed that he had to see you in this undesirable state with your hair strewn and sticking to your sweat-drenched forehead with lumps all around your neck, clavicle, and arms.

“Surely you must fear illness in one way or another,” you quietly whisper to him as he lays you down. “Does your stomach not churn when you see the work of contagion upon my body and grow afraid that this may happen to you?”

“There is a slight fear that threatens to paralyze me, one that lingers at the back of my mind and it stays there, for a more powerful fear of leaving you alone settles at the forefront.”

He gently lays you down, bringing your blanket up to your chest and taking a handkerchief from a pocket in his pants and using it to wipe the accumulating sweat on your body.

“Thank you,” your voice comes out in a shrill and raspy whisper and Leon simply nods, giving you a closed smile as he settles right at your bedside and tucks the handkerchief back to his pocket.

“How have you been, [Name]?” he asks, beginning the conversation.

“Swell,” you respond with a strained smile. “All soft and easy… for a… little… while.”

“I understand why you and your sisters chose to leave the palace, it can be… suffocating in there but I am quite baffled as to why you never wrote to me. Did you not love me enough or did I love you too much that it suffocated you in the same manner that life in the palace did?”

“I… love you… in ardent devotion… far greater than… the most devout… Catholic and their worship… of God, a force too… great that it could… divide. I very much… wanted to see you, talk to you… but my presence and involvement in your life… shall blight your image and your family’s regality.”

“[Name], forget about my family– they are far too occupied with image and I am far too occupied with you. I would abdicate for you, nevermind the ire of my mother or father towards me for all that matters is you.”

“You know… how they are–” you are interrupted by a cough, sitting up to be able to breathe a lot better with Leon gently patting your dampened back. “T-thank you, sweetheart. As I was… saying, they’ll think… that I have bewitched you… rendered you stupid…”

“You have bewitched me, that they have gotten right, but I care not for what they think– only both of us know what we have.”

You nod weakly and muster up the strength to smile up at him through glossy eyes as his hand strokes your hair, gently patting you without the fear of contracting the disease. A comfortable silence befalls the small house, with Leon occasionally humming some tunes and softly reassuring you: “all is well, all is well”.

“I will find medicine for you,” Leon breaks the silence. “My father has a cousin who has come down with the illness but has recovered, he took medicine from the far East. Just wait until I get back very soon, can you do that for me sweetheart?”

“Medicine?” you rasp almost noiselessly. “No, no… it is far too… precious to be… used… on me.”

“No, [Name]. Please, let me save you. You have saved me from an emptying sadness all those years past now it is my turn to save you so do let me.”

There is not much that you can do as your love is steadfast in finding this famed herbal medicine from the farthest east there is. You are grateful for his efforts and stay silent instead, listening to him ramble on and talk endlessly while he tenderly enveloped your pale hand in his as if you were both young adults once more.

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“How is the town doing, son?” His mother asks sternly as she drops a sugar cube into her steaming cup of tea.

“Morale is down, there is death everywhere.” He coldly responds, gaze distant. “This malady is far worse than we thought– plague physicians and prayers alone are not enough to stem the progression of this disease. We must step in, after all, we have resources–”

“Resources that we will use to treat your father’s cousin. It is at our family’s disposal so do not even think that we will squander away what meager medicines there are. Perhaps it is the fate of those sheep-biting scuts that God has stricken them down with His wrath and our family dare not to interrupt His will upon them.”

“Mother!” He exclaims, slamming a heavy hand down the table. Tea sloshes around in its cups and pots, small droplets of a burnt red shade staining the table cloth. “How dare you invoke the wrath of God as justification for your selfishness and moral cowardice! It is extremely abhorrent of you to withhold aid from those who need us most, your arrogance in deciding who is to live and who is to perish is nothing short of blasphemy!”

She sips her tea silently, lips softly touching the teacup as her eyes look on at the variety of roses in the garden. After taking a sip, she presses her lips together and sets the cup back down to its plate.

“Your anger is coming from somewhere,” she observes, returning the iciness back to her son. “Have you gone stupid from the dancer again, Leon?”

“That is none of your business.” He seethes, glaring.

“You dare call me ‘abhorrent’ for putting our family first when deep down, you want the medicine to give to her specifically.”

“I am the crown prince of the people– to her, most of all. I value their lives more than I do mine.”

“You truly have gone stupid because of some wench, Leon, this is unprincely of you to the superlative level. You are willing to lay down money on the possibility that she is to live? How foolish– did you not realize that the buboes of this plague leaves unsightly scars? You will grow to dislike her–”

“I have carried her ill-stricken form in my arms and fondly patted her hair with these hands. I cannot find it in me to dislike her nor do I wish to, it is simply impossible.”

“Leon–”

“I will go back to the town after 3 evenings with medicine. I will crawl back, if need be, and that is final.”

“Very well, then.”

Leon is surprised that his mother says nothing and returns to calmly sipping tea, yet he sees that her knuckles have gone pale so he stays alert, knowing that she could very well be scheming.

“I shall go talk with father now.”

He turns around and marches back to the inside of the palace, walking to the study of his father the king.

His father was just as apprehensive as his mother, incredibly unwilling to let Leon have even a single flake of the medicine. This resulted in screaming and threats of abdication and disowning, as an argument between two stubborn men of the house would usually do. Leon, though unwilling, resorted to a compromise: he would obtain the medicinal ingredients and produce them himself with the assistance of a scholar educated in the art of healing. This process would take long, for it required all ingredients to be finely ground into powder in order to be packed into a ball easy to swallow for the driest of throats. His parents grumbled and let him have his way but not before warning him that this would be an arduous undertaking, a Herculean effort all for a woman who is due her time soon. Right away, he sent his right hand men and advisers to seek out any available merchant who was willing to enter their kingdom. He struggled with the efforts, most of them bearing no fruit, but refused to appear bothered or intimidated by the pressure of his situation, not wanting to prove the king and queen right. Soon, he acquired several roots and herbs needed and got to work, seeking the guidance and knowledge of apothecaries and scholars knowledgeable on healing. The sun has awoken and slept but Leon did not sleep when the sun did, keeping the moon company as he toiled and studied, perfecting the required ratio to maximize the improvement of his condition. He also read up on balms and salves to soothe and reduce the scarring of the buboes, forgetting to partake in meals and hydrate in his haste.

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He sat on his horse, a female Palfrey with an ink-dark glossy coat, and headed for your town, urging her to go faster with the promise of apples and sugar cubes to spur her on. On his leather satchel was some fruit and in a smaller pouch, were the medicines he needed. Before packing it in his pouch, he has already had it reviewed by trusted advisers. He pushed down his confidence, not wanting to grow certain when he hasn’t distributed it yet. Upon spotting the first few houses in the distance, he softly encouraged his Palfrey to go on faster, just a little more.

“Come on, beauty, you can go faster– please,” he urged her.

Soon he arrives, dismounting from his steed, and spotting a few doctors exiting and entering houses. He calls one over and does not let them kneel down, informing them of what he brings.

“These, these medicines. I have crafted them a few days back, but they are still of quality, as my tutors have said. They are well-versed in healing so I trust their judgement,” he says. “I have obtained ingredients and herbs from trusted merchants in the far east, where the herbs are in abundance and the plague has not reached them yet.”

The plague doctor takes one of the tablets and lifts his avian mask, bringing the tablet near his nostril and takes several precautionary sniffs and observations. He nods, informing Leon that he will provide this to a patient of his and check back with him to note improvements in condition. Leon meets more of the cloaked doctors, advising them and repeating the same things he said. His confidence grows and he is certain, speeding past other houses to get to yours. He arrives there and knocks on your house, vigorous clacks against the wooden door.

“[Name]? It is your Leon, I am here.” He says a little louder, so he may be heard from the inside.

“Leon?” A weak female voice responds, but it is not yours. He stays silent, trying to give this voice a name.

“Who is inside?” He asks. “I have come to visit [Name], I bear medicine that may help her.”

He hears soft steps approaching the door, growing increasingly hyper in his eagerness to see you. The door finally opens but he is met with Amanda’s face instead.

“Where is my [Name]?” He asks, trying to see over her shoulder.

Amanda appears as if she is wearing a veil, a very thin one for if Leon dared to peer into her gaze, he might know what rocked his love’s sister. She steps aside and quietly allows Leon entry, the man pacing quickly to your bedside to see you. You look far worse than you did days ago when he just visited, the lumps on your neck scarily large that Leon felt weak. Your eyes were closed yet you were still breathing, albeit very shallowly and hoarsely, each intake of air marked with a low rattle in your chest. You lift a hand slightly from your abdomen where it rested and point a finger at Leon, to which he responds by identifying himself.

“Yes, it is your Leon. The Leon who you loved at 21,” he softly says. “Worry not, my dear, I have medicine in my pouch.”

Amanda steps beside him and places a hand on his shoulder and he feels her hand shake so he turns around and his gaze is met with glassy eyes.

“[Name] has just received her final rites, there is a man nearby with dead carts waiting for her,” she sadly says. “She is quite fortunate that she has received blessings, most of the sick here do not for the reverends are quite apprehensive.”

Her voice cracks and she stops speaking because she knows that her voice will crawl out in cracks and shakiness. Leon can only stay silent and appear strong yet his soul was crumbling away, turning into dust being blown away by a cold wind.

“She hasn’t much, has she?” he asks silently as he pats back the matted hair on your head, trying to offer you some semblance of comfort.

“Yes,” your sister responds. “She exhausted her throat screaming your name, she thought you’d been here with her as she was growing more delirious with fever. I could hear her sing the songs you taught her– ‘Dearest Sight of My Heart’ and ‘Greensleeves’.”

“So she has been seeing visions of me when in reality I am not near?” he asks.

“Yes, she has. And for that moment, she looked quite… jovial. Even the vision of you soothed her for a moment and I did not wish to whisk away what little comfort she had.”

You were asleep now, a finger inched near Leon’s. The rattling was still low in your chest yet your intakes of breath were now more shallow, more rapid, as if you were fighting some force and losing.

Leon curled his finger around yours yet you gently withdrew it. Instead, your arms were stretched out to the side like how it was when you danced. Your fingers were spaced out, gently fluttering as much as you could as your arms were swaying. He could see your feet twitch as well, along to some music only you could hear. This routine is familiar with Leon, the routine he loved to see you dance in gilded halls and grand banquets. He hummed the tune of the ballad, Amanda joining him, as he watched you slowly begin to grow more impassioned with whatever movements you could make. You opened your eyes and you were back in the grand ballroom in beautiful drapes and your hair in wavy tendrils above your head, pinned in place with a jewel-encrusted hairpin. Amanda looked youthful again, and so did Lucia– she was a maiden once again. You were spinning and jumping in the air, arms stretched above you as you felt the heavens on your fingertips. Your movements accompanied the lute and shawms, floating from one corner of the room to another. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Leon– soft, bright-eyed, and all smiles. He’s 21 again, just like you are, and he runs up to you to hug you.

“Leon!” you squeal when he hugs you even tighter, acting like a second corset, as he lifts you off the ground. “I am still rehearsing, surely it cannot be as great as you regard it to be!”

He places you back down on your feet and cups your cheeks, pressing his lips to yours to capture it in a silken kiss. You hear your sisters cheer and squeal in the back, prompting a smirk to widen on your lips.

“You discredit yourself for your artistic prowess, my [Name]. You are my god and I am sure I exist for the sole purpose of worshipping your grace.”

“Oh, stop it Leon. What do you want from me?” you tease as he peppers your cheeks in kisses.

“You,” he responds. “And that is all I ask. The banquet is yet to begin and our guests have not completed attendance yet so may I take you to the gardens?”

You look behind your sisters, who urge you on. You nod and Leon chuckles, bowing to your sisters before he takes you by the hand and leads you out to where it is bright.

Leon carries you in his arms with a tearful Amanda trailing closely behind him, her nephew asleep on her shoulder. You have fallen into the slumber with no end so he carries you to where you will be laid to rest properly instead of letting the cart take you away and toss you into a pit with many others. He sheds tears, albeit silently, as he lowers you. He and your sister fix your hair away from your face and pose your hands to appear as if you were praying, fingers entwined before dirt conceals you from the upper world to finally let your soul freely prance and leap around in fields of eternal repose where you greet your second-eldest sister and patiently wait for the loved ones who you’ve left behind.

NOTE - This fic has been marinating in my docs for like a month bc I've been fighting off writer's block and I'm also starting to grow busy bc I've already got like 5 projects assigned by the first week of the academic year so there's a chance that this fic is like... wonky which I understand tbh 😭 I have some WIPs waiting to be finished, some of them are requests so for the people who requested like months ago yk... dw I'm getting around to working on it 😭😭 Also yk that one bongo remix of that one Coldplay song? I don't know why but I find it so funny like it's so overstimulating, I just have to laugh 😭😭😭 ALSO I GOT IN IN MY SCHOOL'S BOOK CLUB SIUEHSH!!!@!$#% Anyway, thanks for reading my fics!! I appreciate it a lot!! I <3 YOUUU!!!!!!

The star dividers were made by @adornedwithlight , the images are made by me (sourced from Pinterest).

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natureboy96 · 4 months ago

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"Feyre told Tamlin she would destroy his court, and he didn't listen so what happened is really his fault"

I would rather put the blame on the person choosing to carry out a threat against someone who doesn’t know better than the person trying to help save them from a monster myself.

Had she actually been mind-controlled, Tamlin not trying to rescue her would have been a truly unforgivable act. She sent a hostage note and told Lucien she was all corrupted in darkness and sprouted bat wings, and expected that he wouldn't think she was controlled?

Feyre knew why Tamlin thought Rhys was an evil mind-controller, and she knew (or worse, should've known) he hadn't any evidence to the contrary. But because she knew Rhys was 'good' she decided not only was his ignorance of the truth not a good enough reason, it was a sin she’d have him and his people pay for in blood.

#acotar #tamlin acotar #feyre acotar #pro tamlin #anti feyre #feyre critical #acmoaf

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mediumgayitalian · 6 months ago

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———

Will is good at making decisions.

It’s one of the only things he’s good at, actually. He can’t fight. He can’t control water or lightning or plants. He’s not as smart as Athena’s kids or as charming as Aphrodite’s. He is clumsy and soft-hearted and stubborn. But he is observant, he always has been, and he prides himself in his ability to think ahead. He keeps his infirmary stocked and his siblings on schedule. He reigns in head counsellor meetings and draws up binders and binders of files and projects — he is organised. He watches, he notices, he reflects, he prepares. He’s as impulsive as the rest of them, sure, but he has enough contingencies in place that he’s solid. A solid head on his shoulders, and he knows it — the head medic must.

So when he watches himself, horrified, diverge from his very detailed twenty-nine step process entitled The di Angelo Dilemma: Approaching Friendship like a Normal Person and ask Nico to come over, he considers the possibility that he has been possessed. Maybe the eidolons that fucked everything up the first time around have been crouching in dark corners, patiently awaiting the perfect time to strike and ruin Will’s life.

“See you then,” says Nico, rushing out the door, and Will smiles at him easily, watching him dash across the common, and then he sets aside the folder he’s updating, walks calmly out of the empty infirmary, nodding to Mr. D. as he passes, turns a corner in the hallway, slips into his favourite supply closet, sticks a chair under the door handle, clears his throat, and screams.

It’s one of those good screams, by design; he takes a good deep breath beforehand and lets the sound billow out of him, lets it scrape the sides of his throat raw and reverberate somewhere in the base of his skull. Were he not home in a camp that regularly makes use of lethal weaponry and deadly rivalry, entire armies would come running to his defense. As it is, he is left to fall to his knees and scream until he is hoarse, or until he hears a faint will you shut the fuck up! echo from around the vegetable gardens.

“Why me,” he croaks, giving in and collapsing to the floor.

It’s a nice floor, really. In between breakdowns he returns and decorates the place, sweeping up the dust and covering floors and surfaces with rugs and throw pillows. A guitar leans in the far corner for when his mother is thousands of miles away and he’s feeling sorry for himself. A photo album lives half-shoved under a shelf for when he is in need of punishing. His sketchbook remains in a constant state of almost-full under the one dusty window. (That one carries slightly less general despair.)

He is, upon reflection, somewhat of a disastrous person.

How fitting.

“Ugh,” he says out loud, to himself, and reaches for his guitar.

He has no intention of playing anything worthwhile. In fact he doesn’t even bother tuning it, not that he can very well anyway, and just strums random chords and riffs and yells over a string of flat discortants, at one point, filling the tiny room with noise ontop of noise ontop of noise until everything is gleefully stifling, like a mass of birds clouding the sun, like the thirteenth year of swarming cicadas, like the twentieth layer of July Texan heat. Until the mess is transferred from inside of his head to outside of it. Until he has committed so many musical sins that his father retreats from the sky a full forty minutes early.

“I feel you are at fault,” says Kayla, when he finally returns to their cabin. “For.” She gestures vaguely at The Outdoors.

“Hnnngh,” responds Will, taking three steps and tipping, gracelessly, onto Austin’s bunk, nearly bouncing right off of it. He catches himself, barely, and presses hard into the pillow, curling when his brother makes space for him, when his sister sighs, deliberately loud, and presses her knee into his thigh as she climbs up, too.

“This is your own fault,” Kayla grumbles. Her bony shoulders settle along the dips of his ribs, next to Austin’s thin ankles. “You could talk about things before they blow up in your face, but nooooooo. You run around doing everything yourself. Moron.”

Will swipes the heel of his hand under his eyes, throat garbling a weird snort-laugh-sniffle. Those bony shoulders tip to the side, slowly, until she curls under his chin, dragging Austin down with her. “You’re so mean to me.”

“Sh-h,” Austin says, patting blindly until his palm finds Will’s face, then patting deliberately. His knees press against Will’s, now, forehead inches away, barely clinging onto the too-narrow mattress. “Quiet town now. Reflect in your foolishness.”

“So mean.”

Years ago, exactly how many Will refuses to count, this exact scenario would be met by lots and lots of teasing, by pinched cheeks and cuffed shoulders and a forehead kissed several times over. There would be at least six instruments played at once, a camera flash the second he walked in the door pouting, and more lights on that would ever be necessary. An oft-repeated and never-resolved debate, probably; you coddle him, Cass; oh, shut up, Michael, he’s little. The scent of woodgrain and antiseptic and vanilla. A thousand other details he never thought to memorize.

Now there is quiet, or at least more of it.

Kayla hums, notes muffled as she gnaws on her lip, and Austin’s socked feet tap against the blankets, mapping out the tune playing out in his far-away eyes. The last final glow of the horizon turns red, then orange, then violet, sinking into dark navy blue, and their aunt blinks her way into focus, stretching widely across the thin wisping clouds. The fairy lights wrapped around the pillars and ceiling beams blink alongside the stars, chatting away to each other, and the breeze from the window is soft and warm and almost as sweet as southern jasmine. There is a pit in the dead centre of Will’s chest, and he is afraid Kayla will fall into it, and then Austin; afraid they will succumb to his gaping maw.

“What if I ruin absolutely everything,” he says. He swallows, and then again, and again, because his throat is dry, escape for the burning trails mapping the his face from corner of his eye to mouth. “What if I — scare. Am. What if I’m the reason, again.”

Diana snorts. You are such a drama queen.

And that’s coming from this theatre, Lee adds, gesturing grandly to the gold pillars of the cabin. You’ll be fine, kid.

A chorus of agreements from the rest of the occupied bunks; Kate’s encouraging grin, Leanna’s fond hair ruffle as she dances past, Amir’s wink.

Will smiles and blinks back and he is gone, and Michael’s scowl disappears, and Kate and Phoebe’s laughter fades from the background. The cabin is quiet, shadowy; Austin and Kayla breathe quietly, swallow silently.

“I don’t know,” Kayla admits. “You — could be. Again.”

Will squeezes his eyes shut. He begs for Lee to go back to his sleep for the night. He inhales around the shake and inhales and inhales and inhales and feels the vacuum dead centre in his body, like from navel to spin, twisting, tubing, sucking; take, take, take, take. Can I, can I, can I. I want. Please. Let me have.

“I’m not sure it’s better not to try, though.” Austin’s hands curl around Will’s palm. “Right? You always say to — try. Do your best.”

A smile curls up the corner of Will’s mouth.

“I do.”

“And you did try.”

“I did.”

“Did it fail?”

Will flicks down to meet Kayla’s eyes, squinting one and tucking his chin.

“I asked to come over.”

“Oh, well — okay, Marilyn Monroe. Like that’s a new thing.”

“For no reason.”

“…Oh.”

“I could go on the sand rant, Kayla. I’m like a sleeper agent. As soon as he says it, I’ll — you know.”

Austin shifts, frowning thoughtfully. “I mean, he kind of already knows you’re weird.”

“Not this weird!”

“I think everyone knows you’re weird, actually,” Kayla adds. She wiggles, squirming and elbowing until she is half-perched on the fleshy part of Will’s waist, ignoring his wheezing. “Being a nerd dork loser is kind of your whole thing.”

“It is not!”

“You have binders dedicated to people, Will.”

“That’s not bad!”

“Specifically on how to best socialize with them, Will.”

“That’s — thoughtful!”

“…Sometimes being related to you is hard.”

“I am! Collecting data! To better my relationships! What is the issue!”

Austin and Kayla exchange a meaningful look — which does not, Will is relatively certain, usually involve putting your entire palm on your brother’s face and shoving it so it cannot be seen. Kayla.

“You’re doomed to fail,” they decide. And then they kick him off the bed, which is rude, but he is weak to their giggling, and it’s bedtime for them, anyways.

As per his carefully outlined routine they are sent to the showers and sinks, back in half an hour, bickering. As per his less carefully outlined but nonetheless regularly present routine they are separated physically from each other and shoved to seperate bunks. As per his most carefully outlined routine, he follows them each, ignoring their complaints, and presses the back of his hand to each forehead, closing his eyes as he lets his life force bleed into theirs, mixing, checking, making sure.

“We’re fine,” Kayla grumbles.

“Shut up and cough,” Will orders.

Austin gives him less trouble. Will makes a show of thanking him for it. Kayla throws her extra pillow. Will takes it, placing it on his own bed. It is silent after he says goodnight, silent as he clicks off the light, gathers his caddy, pads to the door.

“Goodnight,” whispers a voice, half hidden by the creak of the screen door as he opens it.

“Goodnight,” whispers another, half hidden by the cream of the screen door as he closes it.

“Goodnight,” Will repeats, grinning. “Sleep well, kiddos.”

They grumble, and their bedsprings groan as they turn away, mimicking the grate of the rickety porch steps. That, at least, is familiar; that at least matches the echoes that bounce around the walls of the cabin and the inside of his skull.

———

#i never stop thinking about cabin 7 fr #pjo #percy jackson and the olympians #hoo #heroes of olympus #pjo hoo toa #will solace #will solace angst #will solace & kayla knowles #will solace & austin lake #will solace & austin lake & kayla knowles #apollo kids #solangelo #pining will solace #my writing #fic #longpost #autistic will solace

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purplelupins · 6 months ago

Text

Lamb

|Midnight Mass|

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

Father Paul Hill/John Pruitt x fem!reader

Word count: 12k

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

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

Notes:

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It took your last bit of energy to tell Father John to leave you alone…that it was his fault. Your vision was fading fast; you had lost enough blood that you were dizzy, but your fear and exhaustion had your brain forcing your body to shut down out of self preservation. As darkness gripped you, you heard the Father shift away from the small door and then your head thumped with his heavy footsteps as he walked away.

Maybe he finally listened to you.

Maybe he would actually leave you there to slip into a comatose state and let you die just to hide his sins.

Your eyes dropped shut as you listened to muffled voices. Angry voices. You smiled a dazed smile, and the last thing you could understand was something about limits. You didn’t care what he said…not then. All you felt was dizzy darkness that was making you float.

It was so calm you didn’t want to give in to that nagging feeling of uneasiness. But that nasty emotion was battered away with a serene humming all around you.

You felt like you were a baby again…you wondered if your body was making you remember being cradled by your father. Was this death? Reliving your entire life in mere minutes before your soul left your body. As you felt yourself being held gently, you relaxed even more when the serene sound of low humming lulled you back into that darkness until you were asleep again.

That was all there was until your senses began to return to you one by one. You were somewhere soft and warm. It smelled familiar but not familial. You ached…and your tongue felt heavy. Breathing felt as if your body was operating manually; difficult and jaded.

Your eyes cracked open, and you slowly took in your surroundings as your consciousness sharpened. It had been a few times now that you had awoken in that bedroom, and each time it became more and more unwelcome. You pushed yourself to sit up and winced when you tried to inspect yourself; your neck and shoulder and jaw hurt something terrible. All at once, you were bombarded with memories of the bite. The panic you had felt in that moment as that man’s teeth had sunk into you returned as you went ridged in the bed. Did you die? Had you been turned?

Your eyes flicked around the room anxiously to ensure you were alone. It all felt akin to waking up as a child from a horrible nightmare, and even though you knew you were safe in bed, you anticipated monsters and ghouls to crawl out to capture you. But after a few moments of staring at every shadow and and corner, you decided that you were indeed alone.

You pushed yourself out of the bed, and timidly padded over to the small table by the window where you saw a pair of scissors among discarded gauze. At one time you might have thought things through a little more, but you were on your last nerve, in pain, and cornered, and you were beyond thinking. You crossed the small room to the cracked door, and pushed it open the rest of the way as quietly as you could.

You saw the back of Father Pruitt’s black halo of hair where he sat on the small couch.

He greeted you- that low timbre of his voice resonating inside your ears far more comfortably than it should have. Without another thought, you threw the scissors straight at him. It missed the back of his head, but you saw the stripe of red that was left on his ear after it ripped through his lobe.

John barely flinched. Pain had become something he was used to, and feeling your wrath was something he had to do.

“I apologize for the…” He said as he turned to you and stood, “The suddenness of everything. I hope it didn’t startle you too much.” John gestured to you.

Your mouth opened with some prepared reply, but then when he looked at you, you snapped your mouth shut. Your brow pinched in confusion, and you looked down at yourself. There was nothing that stood out to you, but then you noticed the change in your attire. You didn’t wear pants and a t-shirt to bed typically. And you particularly remembered being disappointed about how your nightie had been soiled by the blood.

And you were clean.

Oh…

Oh god.

Your heart began to thud in your chest.

Why were you clean why were you changed why-

As you came to each realization, you returned your gaze to the Father, and he saw every ounce of shock and contempt there, “You- what did-“ you started, trying to find the right thing to portray your feeling of violation, “You- you took off…You washed me? You washed me.”

John shuffled a step and reached his hand out slightly to you, “I’m sorry…this thing is, you were quite a mess after your attack and you needed the rest…your clothes were soaked in blood and I just-“ he began to ramble.

“Wanted to help.” You finished for him.

Just like he always said.

The good Father nodded, but didn’t move any closer. It was as if John could sense a shift in you then. How your rage seemed to almost boil over as you stood there in his clothes, smelling like him, in his home. It was all too much after what had happened. What he had done. The life he took from you. The people he took from you.

You clenched and unclenched your hand.

Impulse took over, and you lunged towards the fridge, swiped a magnet off of it and threw it right at the imposing man before you. It bounced off his chest.

John sighed. He knew you needed to work through this.

“I’m sorry about what happened to you-“ he started again.

You threw a cup from the counter at him. It hit his head and toppled to the couch. Father Pruitt flinched slightly at the knock, but continued nonetheless.

“- I know you likely will decline, but …I think it would be best if you stayed here unt-“

The spoon you threw at him hit his arm, so you threw a knife too- it cut his cheek. You found a pot lid and threw that too.

It missed.

“-until you heal fully and I hold a town meeting with everyone.” John finished and closed his eyes as he found his patience for you.

He knew you heard him. Especially when you started throwing objects in rapid succession.

And the Father let you.

He could see the tears starting to pool in your eyes; he could practically taste them. Your suppressed emotions surged to the surface of your heart and exploded out of you in pandemonium. Everything you had wanted to do since Easter came out of you.

After several minutes, you slowed your attack. You stood only a few feet from him now after making your way along the kitchen counter to launch various debris at him, and his immobility only made you angrier. If angry was the right word…unsettled, frustrated, scared…it was all muddled together with guilt and grief and you found you didn’t know what you felt anymore.

When the older man didn’t move or even try to reason with you, you pushed away from the sink behind you and walked to him and slapped him square across the face.

Silence rang in your ears.

Your hand stung.

Did he even feel anymore?

The action seemed to stun both of you; you a little longer than he. John nodded as he blew some air out through his nose as if he finally understood something.

You needed to hurt him. And to John, he felt a great sense of peace in that.

“Go ahead.” He murmured to you.

You stood there, head craning up to look at him. For a moment you thought he might be patronizing you. then it was like every bit of restraint left in you ebbed away. Your hands balled up and began beating on him anywhere you could reach. You hit him and hit him and he waited. John watched you patiently, taking even breaths as you shoved at him and beat his body that wouldn’t bruise.

Your hands hurt. They likely sustained worse injury than he did from your hits.

Then all of a sudden, you stopped.

Father Pruitt watched as you sunk your head down, leaned your forehead against his chest, and sniffled. Wet patches began to dampen his shirt, and Father John had to suppress a sound of surprise. When you didn’t continue, and didn’t move away, he raised his arms from his sides, and wrapped you in them. His hands clasped together around your back like a bow keeping you tied. To the Father’s surprise, you nestled deeper into his embrace. Long, shuttering breaths wracked your chest against his that would catch in your soft throat every so often.

John was terrified he might do something or accidentally say something and break you out of your moment of submission. He closed his eyes and breathed in the calm. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had let him hold them so intimately.

Even when he and Millie reuinited after Easter…they never embraced for long. Over the decades, the closest he had come to embracing anyone would have seen when he consoled someone as they grieved. Perhaps it had been when you had let him dance in your living room…yes that must have been it.

John knew that the last time he had sat privately with Mildred when they were young they hadn’t embraced…it had felt like more of a meeting than an ending of a…whatever relationship they had had. Sneaking around when the island went to sleep. Hiding away during the storms…little touches when they passed eachother. Best friends in another life.

Now here you were…this sweet little young woman with hands holier than his; a man who had sworn a life dedicated to God.

He felt envy…among other things.

Yet another sin, but he couldn’t help it.

John knew that he had a tendency to ramble or fill space with words- an attribute he had learned over the years of being a priest. So he decided not to push anything in such a precious moment. He eased a hand up to your head and drew you closer into his chest, and softly shushed you. He hoped he resembled more of a man trying to comfort a young woman, but somehow he knew that his arms encircling you and that low hum of his voice soothing you was more akin to a hunter about to snap it’s prey’s precious neck.

The older man pushed that ill acknowledgment to the back of his mind.

“You’re not alone…you never will be.” he whispered into the crown of your hair after a long ten minutes of embracing you.

You sucked in a steadying breath.

“I don’t know if that’s comforting or terrifying, Father…” you replied, a small tremor in your hands as your temper settled under his touch.

He shrugged a little, though not condescendingly.

“It’s entirely up to you.” John sighed, “Only you can decide if loneliness is a blessing or a damnation…”

He was with you. There with you.

A long silence stretched on, then you sighed softly into his chest, and the warmth from your breath blossomed across his chilled skin under his clothes. The sensation made John’s hair stand on end with delight. You were trusting him.

It took two more minutes of contemplation on your part before you said anything. That question that had been on your mind since you woke up close to an hour ago. The question you should have asked him first. Now it prickled up the back of your neck begging to be asked.

“Am I…” you tried, but it was so quiet, “Did I…?” You couldn’t get the words out. You sighed and your shoulders sagged.

“Father am I a…?” You prompted him and looked up for any confirmation or denial.

John searched your eyes for just a second then he realized what you were asking.

“Wha- No!” He whispered almost relieved, “No you didn’t get-…you…you’re fine.” His hands squeezed you tighter as if to reassure you. Maybe himself, too.

You nodded and slowly pulled away from him; your arms hung limp at your sides. You stared up at his brown eyes that looked darker now than they used to.

You jumped when you felt his thumb wipe a few tears that fell. You hadn’t even noticed that you were crying again.

“My dear girl…You’re going to be fine…you’re alright.” He murmured to you.

And for the first time since Easter, you believed him.

And you wanted to.

Father Pruitt sighed and swallowed on the thickness in his throat.

“This…this is my fault- my fault and I-I see that now. It was always about God but it…it all went wrong, so wrong…” he whispered reverently as he remembered how long ago you truly had been okay. John’s eyes held yours as his voice broke.

“It did.” You agreed in a lofty murmur in an attempt to keep any more tears at bay.

He twitched a smile, but forced it away. He didn’t deserve to smile.

You looked down a little, then ventured a glance up as you spoke. “You…I think…I think it would just be best if you maybe revised the descriptions of angels in any of the holy books before jumping to conclusions next time, Father.” Your mouth twitched just as his had. You pursed your lips to hide the bitter amusement that pulled.

Father John breathed out some air he had been subduing.

“I think that would be best.” He nodded, and felt his heart soar at the sight of you accepting him a little. A fragile little bit. Precious.

The two of you stood silently in each other's space as you both seemed to bask in your current truce.

It was you who spoke first.

"I...I'll go home." You said, yet somehow it sounded forced. Rehearsed. You were so used to saying it and needing to get away that asking him if you could stay felt wrong.

It took him off guard, and he deflated a little. But he understood. He didn’t like it.

“You know you’re welcome here, sweetheart…” he reiterated, and offered you a small tight smile that he hoped hid how badly he wanted to beg you to stay.

You nodded, and fiddled with the edge of your- his- shirt. “I know…”

Another moment pulled on, and John was near to sinking to the floor for an answer.

“Can I make you coffee? I still have some I think.” He asked gently. Would you agree? If you did agree was it a sign that you would stay?

You wanted to shake your head, not wanting to ingest anything that wasn’t yours, but a fresh cup of coffee did sound like a godsend right then. And while you were still a little weary of him…you were willing to give him a chance. One.

“Okay.” You said.

John tilted his head to look at you a little better as he was flooded with joy.

“Yes? Good…good.” He hugged you again, but released you almost immediately. He was growing a little greedy with touch.

You fidgeted with your hands and stared down at how clean your nails were. Had he done that too? The skin on the soles of your feet almost itched and made you shift from the amount of attention you were receiving. Months of isolation could do that to a person.

“How do you take your coffee?” Father John asked as he pried himself away from your air. You shifted a little on your feet and told him how you took it, and he grinned- pleased that you accepted his offer.

Have faith…

That was what he told himself then as he watched you from the corner of his eye. He needed to have faith in you, and you in him. He needed to nurture the little faith you had left in you. Help you to thrive.

John knew he had to work slowly and steadily with you. He needed to remind you that he did have good in him, and that he too had once been a lamb just like you. Just another soul looking for salvation. Sadly he had thought he’d found it in a cave. He hoped you might find some semblance of salvation in him.

The anxiety you had felt upon waking still sat at the base of your skull and made your hair stand on end. That little voice of scepticism tickled your ear and made you shutter; you inched your way as little closer behind him as he filled the kettle and placed it on the stove. Watching.

John knew you were staring. You might have been the sweetest lamb in his flock but you hadn’t always been the best at being discreet. With your excitement, and your distain, your curiosity and boredom. At least not with the Monsignor. Evidently even now it was a force of habit that you let yourself be a little more honest around him.

When you saw him cross his arms as he waited, you stepped away and began picking up the various things you had thrown his way. The scissors, knife, spoon, recipe book, pot lid, among others. When you came to a mug you had hurled at him, you picked it up and meekly handed it to the man. He took it with a small smile.

The kettle boiled and steam made your cheeks flush from your spot beside the good Father while he poured the scalding water. John looked up at your watchful eyes, and his nose twitched in regretful humour. He wordlessly took his hands away from the small coffee press and began rolling his shirtsleeves up to his elbows, then showed you his empty, innocent hands.

“Nothing but a morning brew I assure you.” The older man said calmly.

The reassurance he offered you did little to cub your hesitation. You sucked in a breath and sighed. “Do you blame me?”

You had gotten so used to being weary around him that you were half expecting him to slip some blood into the strong drink.

He blinked and with missing a beat he said, “No.”

It seemed the two of you had some sort of unspoken understanding then. He wouldn’t hurt you and you would let him take care of you. You nodded your head, and turned away to pad over to the far wall to busy yourself with what books he had on his shelf. There were a few new ones you noticed.

Then your eyes slowly travelled over to the window, then to the newspaper clipping on the wall. You walked to it and stared at the grainy, youthful face that stared back at you. The same man who was behind you making you coffee.

You nearly hit the ceiling when the glass caught the reflection of the same face right behind you. You spun; startled at his proximity just a couple feet away.

“Sorry.” He said with a quick and slightly awkward smile as he offered you the cup. Those sharpened, white peaks poked out when his lips pulled back, and you were forced to remember that night again; the sounds still clear in your ears as islanders unleashed hell on one another.

You took the cup slowly, and gazed back at him for a moment before finally taking a sip. There was no metallic aftertaste. You sighed and closed your eyes. You needed that.

“Thank you.” You murmured to him, which he returned with a nod.

Tension kept you rooted to the spot, but you eventually managed to take a couple steps away, and gingerly moved past him to sat down on the small couch.

John didn’t want to crowd you too fast, and so stuck to picking up any remaining objects from earlier and washing a few dishes that had laid in the sink.

It was so quiet. While you were used to silence, you were not used to silence between people. You had been begging for an opportunity to talk to someone and here you were with exactly that, yet as fate would have it you couldn’t think of a word to say.

So you said the first thing you could manage.

“You swapped the cassock for jeans, hm?” You asked. It was stupid, but it had been something that made you shake your head with bemusement for months.

The jab at him made Father Pruitt’s brow jump and the lines beside his eyes deepen. Your humour had always been a welcomed companion even when you were little.

“Defiantly more inconspicuous.” He said, pausing to look back at you.

He missed you.

“Sure had everyone fooled…” You murmured. But he heard you…of course he heard you.

John pursed his lips and sighed quietly.

There was so much resentment and hostility inside you, and John knew that he put every bit of it there himself. You wouldn’t trust him on your own; you needed that guiding hand like he always had offered you. This time, he supposed, he faced the possibility of being nipped.

Father Pruitt was aware that you didn’t know every series of events following the vigil. You had run so fast and so far…so determined to stay alive. A crying lamb scattering away from the sharp blade that marked its fate with a red line.

The older man smiled bitterly, then moved slowly towards you.

“Can I sit, young lady?” He asked, coming around the edge of the small couch.

You watched him for a moment, then nodded and tucked yourself into one end of the couch to put space between you.

But then when John finally looked at you, he didnt know where to start.

You waited for a minute. When he still hadn’t spoken, you stared down at your coffee and blurted out another statement that had no rhyme or reason.

"Quite the cult following you have." You said.

Oh well done.

Months of loneliness truly had disintegrated your social skills.

But John’s head snapped up, and he laughed at the suddenness, "For a little while, yes...I did…I…the thing is, I thought it was their ability to hear God through me but…turned out they were more interested in what I had to say rather than God himself. They...they don't consider me much better than Judas now though and admittely I don’t blame them." He weaved his hands together in his lap and looked up at the ceiling.

You were surprised at the admission, "What do you mean?”

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair, “There is no short version of this for me to tell. But I’d like to tell you…” He said, leaning forward onto his knees, “Properly.”

You shifted a little at the seriousness in his voice, but supposed every story had a few sides to it, “Go ahead.”

“Thank you.” He said genuinely, “I’d like to start…I’d like to start from the beginning…”then he paused and thought, “No, no that’s not right. I’d like to start by saying that…you have every reason to resent my actions, and me. But I think it’s only right that you know everything.” He nodded to himself.

You looked down at the coffee in your hands as he spoke, but once he stopped, you slowly looked up at him. He was staring at you intently, as if gauging where to start. There was so much he needed to tell you and so much he wanted to tell you. He needed to tell you how utterly devastated he was by his selfish actions. He needed to tell you that he had been a coward for most of his life. He wanted to tell you that he missed you. He wanted to tell you that you were what kept him alive.

He supposed there was time for everything.

“When I was young…” he started quietly, “I was in love with a woman who I could not have…not that I’m supposed to have any- well, she was married. She was very devout to the church…a regular just like you were. Her husband was in the war and…she was alone…so alone…we…we let our feelings grow…I gave in and -…She had a daughter by me…Sarah…she had my eyes-“

“Doctor Gunning?” You blurted out, then your eyes widened,“You and Mild-“

“Yes.” He said absolutely, “Our lives were spent staring at eachother from across the church while I watched our daughter grow and I couldn’t even have the courage to come down and tell her…not until it was too late. Sarah…” he sucked in a breath as his throat tightened, “Sarah was shot…She died that night…Millie she…she was distraught in every sense. I tried to give her this gift of life so we could try together and it went all so wrong and it was only me to blame.” You watched him speak, and watched tears well in his eyes. You didn’t know he could make tears being what he was…but here you were with the man who had baptised you, weeping.

He swallowed and gathered himself, “Beverly she…she spun everything out of control. I meant what I said when I first came here, you know? That I’m-“

“-only here to help.” You echoed him.

He looked at you a little relieved that you were there with him.

“Yes. Yes exactly- I meant that. I told lies, but that was not one of them.” He assured you, “All I wanted was to help. To fix the mortality that keeps us from living every chance we desire…take something off of God’s hands but even saying that now out loud it’s foolish. I was foolish because God does not need help He is above help and only needs us to follow his will and somehow I thought I knew better. As a priest, I am supposed to let God speak through me, but at that time I was speaking for Him. Creating my own message…so clouded by this gift given to me that I couldn’t listen…and He was telling me to stop. But I didn’t.”

You didn’t say a word, and he continued.

“Then Bev she…I thought she was doing good and helping spread this gift and spreading the good word…but she…no she was even more clouded than I was. She spun everything until it was all so so wrong…she unleashed a living hell onto the rest of the island. Screams…God help me so many screams that night…”

“I know.” You choked out as you both shared the memory.

“And then it was quiet. So, so quiet. She wanted me to chose who lived and who died. She said it was always going to be me who chose and I realised then that she was no better than the pagans worshipping idols and false prophets…she had put me in ranks with our Lord’s messengers and sought to give me power that no man should be trusted with. As the sun rose, the island hid inside the rec centre and St. Patrick’s…but when the people needed aid and guidance, she made an enemy of herself. It wasn’t a week before the people turned on her and locked her out as the sun rose…now they govern themselves. I- I believe they resent me. We still hold Mass, but it’s so fascinating to witness the shift of a persons perception of you even if it is negative. It…it is…different. I pray that in time they will see that my intentions were only good. That I was merely lost.” Father Pruitt trailed off, and clasped his hands together- squeezing them as guilt gripped him.

“You…” you sat up, coffee gone cold ages ago as you tried to process everything he had told you. “You wanted to give yourself another chance with her…you just…wanted…to help.” You said, mostly to yourself, but John nodded.

“I did. I still do. Only now I truly mean it when I say I am merely a servant of God…to God. My guilt follows me everyday until I am ready to meet my fate…decide it is my last day and I feel the sun for the last time.” His voice broke and he stared at his loosely clasped hands, “Until I am…set free.”

You placed your cup down and settled back onto the couch. You knew this could all be an elaborate lie to manipulate you. You weren’t stupid. But when you finally looked over at him, there was such a startling vulnerability there staring back at you. Like he was baring his soul to you.

“She was your best friend, wasn’t she?” You asked slowly, shifting your gaze to a crack in the floor. “Mrs. Gunning.”

A smile twitched at his mouth, “A lifetime ago…”

You weighed his words, and thought.

There had been so many times now where he had failed to lend his help; that cumulated with his ability to twist words and situations to his betterment did not provide him with the most wonderful track record.

“You’ve lied to me.” You whispered.

“I did, yes.” He replied. Honesty. Have faith.

“You…you manipulated me,” You swallowed, “When I trusted you.”

“Yes.” His voice was hoarse with regret. He wanted so badly to tilt your head to look at him.

“You regret it.” You stated.

“I do. Every day.” He shifted a little closer to you. So minutely. Just a little bit.

“Can you help me?” You asked quietly.

At that, his head perked up, and he finally caught your eye. “Anything.” He meant it.

You were everything now. Perhaps you had been everything all along.

You considered your request carefully.

“Can you stop them?” You were meek and didn’t expect much. Honestly you were expecting him to give you an answer that would make you want to ask more questions.

As you stared back at him, you felt as if he was taking you in for the first time. Like he was memorizing every ounce of you that he could see, and you felt suddenly very aware of your skin and your hair and the teeth in your mouth.

John considered what might happen if he stood up for your absolute safety from the rest of the community. Many of them had become domesticated and had settled into their existence, but many were still resentful, vicious creatures of his own making. And in their eyes, you were their forbidden fruit. Perhaps you would become even more enticing to them with his authority over you. Regardless of the steady supply of blood to the island, he knew they craved the warmth of a live body to suckle. He was beyond well aware of the craving because, admittedly, he too coveted your tender flesh. John so wished he was far above such vulgarity, but he still found himself having to remind himself that you were sacred. Untouchable. That he was not to pin you down under his weight and expose your neck and bite into your fragile skin…

It would be a lie if he said that there weren’t nights where he was particularly hungry and he didn’t find himself imagining smelling your hair as he drank from you…he had gotten lightheaded by the thought alone and prayed for the remainder of the night.

But John had control.

“I can. Yes I can help you.” He nodded, “I’ll need your faith though.”

You stared at him. He knew exactly what you were thinking, and it pained him. John took your hands in his, and knelt down in front of you as he spoke.

“One more time. I promise…just one more time.” He assured you.

You pursed your lips, and vaguely looked out the window.

“I can’t keep doing this…I’m…I’m so exhausted.” You half laughed out of spite.

Father Pruitt nodded.

“I know…I’m so sorry I know you are.” There was that break in his voice again. Like he was on the verge of tears. “You are on such a higher level than I am in God’s eyes. He sees you and He is testing you. And you…you are doing so well.”

“I don’t feel like I am, Father.” You weren’t sure why you were being so honest. There was something magnetic in the man that pulled your heart from you so carefully that you didn’t even feel it.

“Tell me what you feel.” He squeezed your hands. You twitched at the contact, having not touched anyone for so long. His hands were soft…so soft.

You were nervous to open up to him completely.

John could almost feel your apprehension.

“Please, I am the one who put you here in this situation, in this…life. Please make me know your pain.” He whispered.

You looked down at your joined hands, and bit the inside of your lip to keep from crying.

“Tell me what is happening to you.” He urged you one more time in a whisper. And you felt a single tear fall from your eye and onto his thumb. He wished he could encapsulate that tear and keep it- precious.

Your last bit of restraint crumbled under his desire to help you.

“I…I feel washed out from the shore,” you choked out, “Like…like no matter how hard I try, I get dragged back out by a squall that just wont stop. It doesn’t matter how many times I gather my strength…I can’t get back. I feel like I’m in some foreign land and no one is there. And all it’s going to take is one wave that’s a little too big and a little too strong that I won’t be able to get over…and I’ll be gone. Lost under the surface.” Another tear fell onto your hands.

Father Pruitt stared at you, barely blinking as he regarded you.

“Giving in sounds so much easier than whatever it is I have to do everyday.” You shook your head; you hadn’t said any of these thought out loud, and now hearing them made your heart ache even more.

It would be a lie if John said he didn’t know how you felt. There had been many a time where he considered giving in…burning. But each time he would remember you, and how cowardly he would feel if he abandoned you there. He would see that photograph that sat in your hallway of you on Easter as a child in his mind and manage to make it through another day.

“I remember your baptism…” John said after a moment, “You hated it…” he laughed a little, “But when I gave you back to your mother you were fine…resilient and glowing. I have faith that you will weather this. The waters may be stronger, but you’re still that same soul.”

You felt your tears fall, “This time you can’t hand me back to my mom though.” You laughed a little at the ridiculousness of it.

He sighed and looked around the small house for a moment then moved and sat down beside you, and opened his arms to you. You eyed him wearily, but he only waited. He had done the same gesture to you many times over the years. Helped you when you had slipped and scraped your knee, or when your father lost his temper when you got ice cream on your dress on Easter…when you got sick and missed Mass. Always gentle and paternal, but not nearly as intimate as this. Your soul was bared to him now. It was no mere injury or heart ache.

You were grieving.

And he would guide you through it.

You took a deep breath, and scooted closer to him. You felt one of his arms wrap around your shoulders, and draw you into his chest. Your shoulders were ridged for a moment, then as your anxiety waned, and he drew small circles on your back with his thumbs, you relented. You timidly brought your arms around his shoulders and what was meant to be a hug turned into you clinging to him.

“I hate you.” You mumbled. It wasn’t a lie. Not a whole truth either but it was the only thing you could get out.

The Monsignor sighed out an amused breath. You could truly be so curt when you wanted to.

“Hate is such a strong word…used to express how despicable and irredeemable a person is…and I understand. I’ll admit I’m not my biggest fan either.” He agreed.

You laughed.

It was pained, but you laughed.

You sunk into his embrace a little more, minding your neck and shoulder to not disturb the injury too much. He nosed your hair, and settled into the cushions with you in tow.

Your heart clenched when you tried to recall the last time you had been embraced by someone for so long and unrushed. You only grew sadder when you truly could not remember.

You didn’t know when you fell asleep. What you did know was that you were opening your heavy eyes, and your body was warm and relaxed. You slowly took in where you were, and found that you were still in Father Pruitt’s arms.

There was a rumble against your ear, and you noted that it was him sighing. Your hand was gripping his shirt like a lifeline, and he still held you to his chest. And oddly enough, you felt safe. Wrapped in the embrace of the person who terrified you. Friends closer and enemies closer you supposed.

You slowly pulled away from him, and looked up at his face and he stared down at you. Your noses brushed for a moment, and you felt your breath hitch. He didn’t dare move- like a hunter about to shoot his beloved doe.

“Don’t leave me.” You whispered, warm air wisping against his lips.

He knew it then just as you knew it.

You were lost without him. And not in a way that made you reliant on him for your saving, but instead made him responsible for your healing.

“I won’t.” He murmured earnestly. He would always be a part of you; he had single-handedly etched himself into your life, and even if you left him right in that moment…he would somehow still be with you.

You pursed your lips, and fought the sting in your eyes as tears threatened to spill over again.

Then just as you started to pull from him and stand, John spoke. “Stay…” he said almost pleadingly.

You paused and looked at him as he rose to stand with you.

“Please, just…just for a day or two, you’re not fully healed.” He added, shifting a little as he stumbled over his words, “ I need…I need to speak with the town too…I may not look it anymore but I’m still their elder and they will hear me.”

You paused.

Redemption. You were letting him redeem himself in someway. His offer, while likely coming with good intentions, still made you nervous. You knew what they were like when they were hungry. And Father Pruitt was turned for longer than them, so either he had better control than the rest or he was even hungrier-

“You will not be harmed here, I swear.” He said, “I want to help you.”

You stared up at him, still thinking. You wanted to be helped…at this point you needed it. You were losing yourself completely to solitude.

He whispered your name.

“I need- need to help you. You’re lost…you said it yourself- how hard everyday is for you…and I have to take most of that blame. The thing is, I gave you so much security and assurance when I returned that now you cannot move on from this traumatic point in your life without my help. Let me help you…I know the horror you feel there in your heart- I- I saw it all too. Felt it. No one else could do that for you. Let me help you.” He whispered, hands coming to rest on your shoulders as he spoke, “Please…I need to.”

You bit at the side of your tongue, but found yourself growing weaker in resolve; you weren’t sure if it was from the wound still closing on your shoulder or from the way his dark eyes entranced yours as he spoke to you like you were the most important thing in the world in that moment. But the desperation in his voice ensnared you.

“…Okay.” You whispered back.

John nodded, a rush of air spilling from his lungs.

“Thank you…” he whispered back, and pulled you close, one hand on the back of your head, and the other around your ribs; careful to not disturb your wound, “I’m…I’m going to take care of you.”

Those words alone had your nose tingling as tears began to rise to your eyes, but you sniffled and fought them back.

The remaining hours of the winter daylight were only a few, and you spent them wrapped in a blanket that smelled of the man sat at his desk.

A respectful distance away from you.

Old fashioned.

You laughed a little to yourself when you looked at him so concentrated in his grey jeans and sweater. You wondered if he was more vibrant when he was young. Or was he always an old soul at heart?

“Old man…” you breathed out absentmindedly into a cup of broth he had made you.

��Deprecation is not in good manners, young lady.” He murmured back to you, and you nearly choked.

You forgot that he could hear the tiniest of whispers.

“S-sorry…it just…funny to see Monsignor Pruitt in jeans.” You said, cheeks warming.

John grinned.

“Ah…yes well…I can’t say I’ve worn them since I was a young boy…always saw the young parishioners wearing them by the 80’s and I always wondered what drew people to wear them so often…I won’t lie they are a little stiff at first.” He said in good humour, looking up from his writing.

You held his gaze for a minute, then nodded, “They suit you, Father.”

Your comment caught him off guard, and you chose to let him sit in that slight discomfort. So instead of saying another word you just smiled a little then turned away from him and nestled into your blanket a little more.

A half hour passed before either of your spoke again. This time it was he who approached you.

You were nodding off when you heard him walk over to the couch and crouch in front of you.

“We gotta change your dressing.” He whispered gently, patting your knee. His eyes flickered over your face as he tried to discern how you were feeling. What you were feeling.

You drew your heavy eyelids up and curled in on yourself, “Can we do it later?” You mumbled- already half asleep and so comfortable that you finally knew what those cinnamon rolls you used to make felt like.

“I know…I know…c’mon, hold onto me.” He slipped his hand under your blanketed legs and hoisted you up to walk you to the bathroom. You wrapped your arms around his neck, and buried your face there.

“There we go…good girl, just sit there for me and I’ll be right back.” He sat you down on the small counter, and retrieved the gauze from the bedroom before returning to you. You peeled your eyes open to watch him work. He snipped the fabric to have it ready quickly, then took a deep breath before gently removing the medical tape that kept your old dressing in place.

“Father it hurts…”You hissed a little at the sting and ache of the wound and how some of the gauze was stuck to the edge of the wound and pulled.

“Shh…shh…there you go,” he cooed to you. You then heard him swallow as the bite was exposed.

“That bad?” You asked.

The good Father blinked and took a steadying breath, “No- no not at all. Healing well actually…just…uh- just it- well…it’s- you’re doing good.” He stumbled over his words as he cleaned around the skin.

You looked up at him now, and he seemed to catch your sobered expression.

“I’m fine.” He said reassuringly.

And you nodded.

“I’m going to take care of you.” He repeated, then tossed the bloodied wipe into the bin and began bandaging you up.

“There you go…good as new.” John didn’t smile; he was almost looking for your approval. Still uncertain. He was almost waiting for you to say that you had enough and that you’d leave. But it didn’t come.

You nodded and let him help you into bed, and he felt a little reassured.

But then as he went to go after bringing your blanket up to your neck, he felt your hand grab his sleeve, and he paused and knelt beside you. Your eyes were closed and your breathing was already slowing.

“Thank you John…” you whispered.

The older man felt tears well in his eyes, but he swallowed and leaned his forehead to your hand.

“I will make this right…” Father Pruitt said quietly to himself. He watched you fade away, and found himself tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear before leaving you to rest.

You slept well into the evening, long past sunset.

When you awoke, the room was dark aside from the sliver of light from the cracked door. You blinked slowly, willing your weariness to go away as you slipped from the bed and to the floor; the cold wood sobered you a little as you padded to the door.

“You must be hungry.”

You jumped at the soft voice from the kitchen.

You pushed the door open and meekly looked out into the main room- your eyes adjusting to the light.

John was stood over a small pot that he stirred occasionally on the stove. It was only then that you smelled that he was making, and your stomach growled in recognition of food.

John hid his grin well when he heard your hunger.

“My mother used to make this all the time when we needed some healing…physical or mental…tell me if it needs anything I…I can’t really taste it.” He said gently, raising his bowed head to look at you. John stood with a spoon full of the soup as he waited for you to decide, and he felt a swell of pride in him when you slowly started to walk to him.

You tried to hide the fact that your stomach was doing flips at his gesture. You couldn’t recall the last time someone had made you food.

“Open…” He breathed out, and you parted your lips; his eyes caught your pink tongue just inside your mouth as you accepted the spoon. A detail he didn’t know what to do with.

You let the taste fill your mouth.

It was good.

Really good.

You swallowed and nodded, “Thank you…it’s really nice. Just a little more salt, please.” You wrung your hands as you spoke.

The older man nodded, and watched you turn away to sit on one of the chairs in front of his desk. A shiver ran through you then, and you sighed as you begrudgingly went to stand to retrieve a blanket.

John turned to bring you a bowl of soup, and quickened his steps when he saw you getting up. “What do you need?” He asked.

“I’m just a bit cold.” You said, and went to move past him but his large hand caught your arm.

“Sit, I’ll get you something.” John sat you back down and placed to soup in front of you while murmuring something about the liquid being hot. You watched him disappear into his bedroom then reappear just a moment later with a pair of thick socks, and a blanket.

“Oh thank yo- …Father what-…” you went to take the socks from him but he knelt in front of you and tucked the blanket around your hips and thighs, then began putting the socks on your feet like it was the most normal thing in the world.

John’s eyes caught your surprised stare, and blinked up at you, “Eat up, sweetheart or it’ll get cold.” He hummed.

You felt your ears grow warm, but you didn’t dare open your mouth to protest and tell him you could take care of yourself. You also decided to ignore the warmed that gathered behind your navel. So without another word, you turned and began to eat what he gave you. You sighed as it went down your throat; you didn’t know how you had managed to make it this long without some kind of human connection.

“I have Mass tonight.” John said and he stood and sat behind his desk- sorting through his papers.

You looked up from your bowl and nodded. Your anxiety rose slightly at the prospect of being alone after what had happened.

Evidently he heard your heart rate spike, and his focus broke from the papers and jumped to you instantly.

“You will not be harmed. It will only be a couple hours. I have the only key to the rectory after Bev- after she…passed. I’ll be speaking with the island tonight…I put in a word for all to attend tonight.” The priest spoke earnestly.

You peered up at his direct gaze, and sighed then nodded. “Okay.”

He returned the gesture, “Okay.” He whispered.

You watched him gather his things, and found yourself surprised by how your eyes followed him around the modest house as he readied himself. You startled yourself with the realization of how attached you were becoming to his presence, and you quickly looked away from him.

John sighed and grabbed his notebook then came to crouch down in front of you. “If anyone knocks, go into the cellar…if anything happens, open the back window and you come to me.” He said firmly.

Your eyes flickered between his, “Okay.”

He grinned a little and patted your cheek lightly, “There’s a good girl…eat, and have more water.” He pointed to the kitchen and you watched him leave. The lock clicked into place.

You felt alone again.

Although this solitude was not altogether uncomfortable. Just quiet.

You could hear voices approach the church and wander nearby. Unease churned in your guts as they drew close, and you chose to relocate to the bedroom. You filled another bowl of soup and shuffled to the back of the house where you cocooned yourself on Father Pruitt’s bed. A wince escaped you when you laid down wrong, and you rolled your shoulder to try to ease the pain. It was more of a dull ache now that throbbed every so often.

You downed the soup, and curled in on yourself. You wanted so badly to shower…to brush your hair and feel more like yourself. You felt far more exhausted than you should have; you wondered if the bite had come with some sort of poison that your body was fighting off.

Sleep took you before you could stop it. It wasnt until you felt a large palm against your cheek that you started to wake up. You nestled into the hand and burrowed yourself deeper into the pillows below your head.

Then you could hear your name being said softly.

After several minutes, you cracked your eyes open. When you did, you were given a bit of a fright.

John was leaned over you just a foot away as he tried to rouse you from your sleep. What startled you however was how the light from the living room caught his eyes and made them glint in the darkness like the cats that used to populate Crockett.

“Sorry,” he whispered, and backed off a touch, “It’s been a few hours…just need to check your dressing.”

You sighed and while you truly did not wish to move from your spot, you did not want an infection in the middle of winter.

“‘S okay…”you mumbled as you got up.

Father Pruitt gingerly pulled your shirt’s neck down and removed the bandage. You were healing, slowly.

“Father?”

John blinked and looked at you, “Yes?”

“Could I take a shower?” You asked. It had been almost two days, and you could feel yourself growing itchy.

The older man ground his teeth for a moment at his lack of care for you.

“Of- of course. The uh…the bite is healed enough that you can wash up under warm water.” He began looking anywhere but at you as he was reminded of how he had cleaned you.

You nodded and slipped past him into the small bathroom, “Um…do you have some clean clothes?” You asked timidly. You hated that you had to keep asking him for help; John on the other hand was elated.

“Y-yes just let me…um…” he began searching through his clothes and found you some pants and a shirt that would likely be warmer than what you had currently. The pants you would likely have to roll up.

You found a little amusement in how he seemed to be so uncomfortable; it wasn’t that it was sweet or gentlemanly, it was that you had been so distressed for so long because of him, and you enjoyed seeing him in the same position.

“Thank you.” You said, and left him there to wash yourself.

John released a breath that relieved a little of the pressure on his chest when you closed the door. He needed to do more than his best for you, and you seemed to be very aware of that. Knowing that you needed him to be better made him unable to relax. John knew he could be cowardly, and selfish, and very wrong, but he was going to do his damnedest to be more than his mistakes and sins. Even if it was the last thing he did.

When you returned to the living room, you found Father Pruitt standing with the rectory telephone pressed to his ear as he looked out one of the windows. You felt your stomach sink at the thought of him telling anyone you were there. But then again, they likely already knew.

“Yes…yes it seemed to go well…blunt or not, they needed the line drawn. No, just wait. I wou-…y/n, it’s okay, sweetheart, you can come out.” He called to you as he paused his conversation.

You timidly shuffled out the door and peeked over at him. He held his hand out to beckon you over as he hummed and mumbled a few things over the phone. You padded over to him, and he kept his gaze trained on you once you came within reach.

John reached up and tucked a few hairs behind your ear and touched your chin gently, “Good…and they understand?…good,” he said, “Yes…she’s strong. Alright. Take care.” He extended his arm to place the phone back on the receiver, and sighed, “Annie.” He said.

Your heart squeezed, but didn’t say anything.

“She’s worried about you,” John hummed, “I spoke to the island last night. Instilled the fear of their god into them lest they touch you again.” His voice lacked any malice or anger, in fact it was very calm, but there was no hiding how tight his jaw was.

You nodded, and tugged at the blanket you had wrapped around your shoulders.

“Father?” You asked him.

“Hm?” He hummed.

“I want to take a walk.” You said.

John stopped looking at your bandage and focused on you, “I don’t-“

“And I want you to come with me.” You finished.

That surprised him, but pleased him greatly.

“Lead the way, young lady.” He cracked a small grin.

You nodded, and disappeared back into the bedroom to find the socks he had given you and a sweater. When you returned, you frozen in your place when you saw him shrugging on that long black coat that was older than you.

“You kept it…” you mumbled.

Father Pruitt paused and looked down at himself, “Ah…yes well I suppose we all have things we grow attached to.”

You pursed your lips, and pulled the sweater you had taken a little tighter before you walked to your shoes and slipped them on. They were clean now, no longer muddy and full of grass.

John joined you by the door, and you looked up at his as he opened the door. He seemed to feel your pause, and turned his attention to you.

“You’re safe.” He whispered earnestly.

There was a calm that came over you then. You didn’t necessarily want to trust him, but you had told yourself that you would let him try to redeem himself. Trusting him was the first step.

You nodded, and stepped outside into the early morning air. The winter temperature made you shiver, but the crisp air was refreshing. You took a slow step out onto the grass, and looked back at Father Pruitt who stood at your shoulder like a guard.

A guardian angel.

You almost laughed at the thought.

He nodded, and placed a gentle hand on your back to encourage you. You truly hoped he was being sincere and wasn’t guiding you into the hungry mouths of the islanders. That this hadn’t all been an elaborate lie.

The frosty dirt and gravel under your feet crunched far too loudly. You could only imagine how loud it was for the man beside you. He chose not to comment.

John couldn’t have cared less about the sound of the road you walked on; he was far more occupied with listening for any islanders nearby, or that winged monster. He didn’t know who had done it, but whoever had cut holes into its wings had done Gods work. Forever contained to Crockett.

The two of you made it almost into town without incident. As you passed the marina, there were several old fhishermen maintaining their boats. Men you used to feed and laugh with. It look mere seconds for them to smell you and hear your heart. One by one their heads snapped up.

You could feel your natural instinct to run, but you felt that hand on your should and farm around your back that steadied you as you and the father stared back at the men.

You sucked in a breath, and turned to the older man, “I’m okay.” You said quietly.

John turned his attention to you, and his clenched jaw loosened.

The two of you moved on through the town. Left and right, heads poked out from windows and people stopped to stare at the pristine lamb walking through their den. Neither of you said a word as you passed the general store, and your old shop.

“Y/n?”

You stopped in your tracks. That voice broke your heart with just your name. You looked over past Father Pruitt, and saw Ali just several feet from you with Warren.

You couldn’t breathe all of a sudden as the memory of burying his father flooded you after so long of you praying to forget it.

“Ali.” You whispered.

The boy took a few tentative steps towards you, then almost ran to you and held you tight. You knew he wasn’t the most affectionate teenager, but as he gripped you, you could almost feel his own sorrow. You pushed the pain of the wound away even as his arm pressed on it.

“Thank you…” his voice came from your uninjured shoulder.

You embraced him and rubbed his back gently, “He loved you, Ali…he still does.” Your voice broke, but tears wouldn’t fall.

He sniffled, and tightened his grip, then slowly pulled away. You noticed how he wouldn’t look at the men beside you. In fact many didn’t. Perhaps he had told the truth about being ostracized.

“I’m sorry…I’m- I should have listened to you I’m sorry-“ he started to ramble.

You shook your head, “Ali…Ali it’s done,” you whispered, then remembered something his father had told you, “Inshallah God will have mercy on you. If I meet him before you, I’ll put in a good word.” You smiled a little, and he stared at you like you had given him the best possible news.

“Thank you…thank you.” He hugged you one more time, before you let him go, and began walking again.

John watched you from the corner of his eye every so often as you made your way through town. He was pleased that he only had to ward off a couple islanders who got a little too curious, and he noticed how you could subconsciously lean into his side when he did.

You house was always a no-go zone for anyone. Especially after your attack. That night when he addressed the islanders, John hadn’t been that angry since Easter…hadn’t yelled so venomously in so long. Now your home sat peaceful and empty.

He watched you gather the things you wanted and needed and stuffed them into a duffle. Photos and books and things that held memories or that you held dear to you. Things that could make anywhere feel like home. Clothes and shoes and snacks. You muttered occasionally to yourself, and gazed longingly at your stand mixer sitting on your counter as you passed it. You missed being you. You missed…living.

You might have stayed and reminisced a little longer, but the sun wouldn’t stay down forever. With just a few more things placed into the bag, you pulled it over your shoulder and walked back to the door where a Father Pruitt stood waiting.

He extended his hand out to you, and you stared at it a little confused, then he nodded to your bag, “I’ve given you enough of a burden to carry in this life.” John didn’t wait for you to hand it to him- he slipped it off your shoulder and onto his like it weighed nothing, then opened the door for you. You grabbed a coat off the pegs by the door, and slipped it on over your borrowed clothes.

Your fingers ached from the cold as you walked back across the island. You buried them into your pockets, and kept your gaze ahead as you went. Just as before, several heads turned as you went by. Your stomach hurt when you saw Annie standing with Ed in their doorway as you passed by. It had been almost 10 months since you saw them, and now you almost felt estranged.

You had begun to notice that whether you wanted to acknowledge it or not. But you truly didn’t belong anymore.

As your journey passed by that gap in the brush by the shore, you paused and began towards it to visit the halo of stones. You crouched down onto the cold earth, and placed your hand over the now-framed photo of Hassan and Ali on his grave.

You sighed, and looked up at the dark sky, “Put in a good word for me, too.”

John swallowed any words that tried to worm their way out. He didn’t deserve to comment. Instead, he stood by and watched you wipe off your knees as you straightened up, and continued on.

The two of you began to come up to the rectory, but then just as you went to turn down the path, you stopped again. You thought for a moment, then turned to the Father.

“Can I take you one more place?” You asked.

“Of course.” He said, and quickly placed your bag inside before joining you again. This time, you continued on past the church and towards the other side of the island.

You slowly led him out to the Uppards, and you walked him over to a patch in the grass that you now knew well. You sat, and patted the spot beside you, “Sit.” You said.

John took the place next to you, and stared out at the water.

“This was where I sat that night.” You said into the wind, “Waiting…”

John watched you, pain clinging to his chest. He had wondered where you had run. What shelter you had made for yourself.

“I tried to keep Leeza and Warren safe, I really did but…it just wasn’t enough,” your broken whisper came out in puffs of vapour. You could feel those emotions you had been certain were guarded start to rear their heads.

John so badly wanted to comfort you…to offer something. But your heart was racing and your breathing was heavy. You needed to say more and he wasn’t going to deprive you.

“He-…” you tried, “He was a good man, Father. Hassan just…he just…wanted some place quiet and safe for Ali…he died being hated but he deserved so much more. Ali deserves so much more and you took that.” Your cheeks warms as that rage began to seep into you.

“I did,” He said finally, voice hoarse, “I did take that and I’m so…so sorry and I wish I could give it all back…” he shook his head and looked over at you as he spoke. You met his gaze and pursed your lips, “There are no words that I could say now or in a hundred years that could express my sorrow to you.” He spoke earnestly.

You sighed, and stared at him, “And what about me?” You whispered.

His breath caught.

“What about me, Father?” You asked.

He thought for only a moment, “I took so much from you…I think the only thing I didn’t take was your faith. I told you…that night…to have faith. The thing is, you do have it. Your ability to believe in good and better is…astounding. You are…so good. And I hurt that. I cannot tell you how guilty I am. I was greedy.” John said honestly, “With so much, but especially with you, I was greedy. They say God mends wounds in time- physical, mental and emotional…but I would place no blame on you if you didn’t heal from what I put you through. You were so bright…so loved…just…Lord so beautiful. So beautiful inside and out and I was a coward for much of my life trying to hide that ugliness and I envied you. I am…so, so sorry.”

The older man looked away from you to stare out at the dark water. You felt a stray tear fall down your cheek at his words. He had hurt you, but you hadn’t expected it to be more than skin deep.

“I hurt something because I found it sublime and I wanted it to last forever. I was…cruel. I was cruel. I didn’t notice the destruction that came with it. And I’m sorry.” John looked back at you, and you noticed the glassiness in his eyes. A few tears fell.

The two of you sat in silence for a few moments. It might have been an hour that passed before you slowly reached over to him and grasped his hand. He was almost instantaneous in holding it in return.

“What’s it like, Father?” You asked, and looked over at him.

He returned his attention to you, “What’s what like, little one?”

You stared back at him and took in his handsome face. His dark hair that fell a little over his forehead, his dark eyes and full brows. It took a moment of your staring for him to realize you were asking about the… “gift”.

He paused and sucked in a breath before shaking his head, “Well you…you see things you’ve never seen and heard things you never thought you would be able to…smell things you didn’t know could be smelled. I could hear the flowers blooming when I stood close enough…the world breathes. Sings…glows brighter…magnificent.” John thought aloud, looking around him until he came back to you, “But too much of a good thing is bad.” He smiled bitterly.

You blinked, and nodded.

Father Pruitt squeezed your hand, and sighed, “I may not feel the cold but you do. C’mon sweetheart, let’s get you back.” He stood, and pulled you up with him.

You didn’t protest, and let him guide you out of the brush and onto the path. He took you through the marshy woods and along the stone road until you neared the rectory. You noticed then how it was starting to get lighter out. You slowed your steps as you came to the grass, and stopped completely.

John felt you stop moving and looked back at you. His brows pitched up in confusion, “Are you alright? What’s wrong?” He asked, fearing your wound had opened up or you had gotten ill.

But you just stared up at him and waited. A beat passed between you where he looked around and inspected you, trying to figure out why you wouldn’t move, then it dawned on him. John stopped looking around, and tilted his head down to gaze back at you. Seconds ticked by and the world around you grew brighter and brighter.

And you waited.

But the Father wouldn’t move. You saw his eye twitch when the warm glow started to break through the trees.

That was enough.

You took his hand and tugged him along where he scooped up your bag that had been resting on the stoop and entered the rectory just as the sun rose. Neither of you commented on what had just happened, not that you needed to. You wanted to see if he had been truthful; did he honestly want to change and stop being a coward? Would he die for you if that was your wish…as someone who he had taken everything from and manipulated.

You felt yourself soften towards him after that night.

For once, he told you the truth.

You let him take your jacket off and watched his hands unzip it. You took your bag and placed it in his room, where you opened it up and slowly took everything out. You felt silly grabbing so many things that you didn’t need…but not having them felt stranger.

You pulled out a fresh pair of your own clothes and didn’t think twice before you lifted up your borrowed shirt.

John Pruitt, ever the gentleman and holy man, froze when he caught sight of you through the open door. He might have chastised you for being so careless if it was anyone else, but he couldn’t get the words out. He saw the curve of your back and swell of-

Turn around John.

He spun on his heel and grabbed a book off his shelf and sat on his couch, facing the very opposite of where you were. It took a few more minutes of you shuffling through your things before you padded back out to him. You passed the couch and placed a pair of your shoes by the door. John could smell your scent again now that it wasn’t muddled with his clothes.

Then you came back and plopped yourself down beside him and leaned over to his shoulder to see what he was reading. “What’s this, Monsignor?” You asked softly.

The title gave him pause and he looked up from the pages.

“It um…it’s a collection of German fairytales.” He mumbled, only now realizing what he was reading.

You leaned closer, and laughed quietly, “Didn’t know you were German.”

“Oh I’m not- it was a gift…many years ago. Decades…Christmas I think. People seem to have the idea that priests lack any fear and don’t like a nice ending for stories. I’ll be honest, y/n this book always scared me a little.” John turned the page and grimaced at one of the illustrations.

“Be not afraid…” you whispered quietly. Those words made his heart ache; words meant to help and comfort were now tainted by his own doings.

You both quietly sat there, not saying a word. As you slowly let you guard down, you could feel yourself starting to recover after months of running on nerves and willpower. Your head grew heavy on his shoulder, and John realised after a minute that you had fallen asleep. He remained where he was and shifted you so your legs were across his lap and your face was in his chest. The last thing you needed was an aching back.

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

@ellies-dad-jokes @littleredwritingcat @zaunite-leo @f4er1e-g1rl @purplemotif @vampyre-kin @hamishlinklaters @spacechupss @pansexualpamandabear @ebiemidnightlibrarian @erialuna @nilla-bear @vintageglassheart02 @ethanhoewke @dancingisdangerouss @cherrysugarx @daisychainsinknots @thesoundresoundsecho

#midnight mass #midnight mass fanfiction #flanaverse #hamish linklater #father paul hill #father paul #father john pruitt #father paul x reader #father John Pruitt x reader

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rebeltigera · 2 months ago

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Haiii!! I got question:

Do you have any head-canons for mk? Mac? Wuk?

And what is your personal opinion on season 5?

I am responding second time because the first one didn't send :'D

Pls end me.

I don't remember the headcanons I've mustered out the first time damnit -

*sigh*

Those are general ones , I use the design of the character most of the time to show headcanons

For MK

-He's wasted after one beer.

-his tail subconsciously curl against legs of his friends or person he trust

-he chirp subconsciously

-he don't like bitter things like dark chocolate

For Wukong

- he got thick , strong curly fur . When fluffed up texture it reminds of the dust brush

- his body temperature is much higher due to the furnace punishment

-gets headaches due to the circlet (phantom pain)

-he speak and read fluently ancient Chinese , however he got problems with modern language

-he usually sleeps with lil monkeys around

-he can't get drunk.

-monkeys take care of his fur

For Mac

- his ears are too delicate for piercings. They would hurt.

- thin , straight/wavy fur like smoke . He can't stand cold

- he can always hear past and present but future is randomly whispering to him

- he got lower body temperature (due to the shadow nature)

- when drunk he looks like a beast but he's a snuggly wuggly teddy bear

-he takes care of his fur regularly himself

For Mei (because it's lacking in other categories and I don't remember more :'D)

- When she fights she tunes into imaginary music in the background. Like Gwen from spiderverse 2

About S5

*sigh* Vent warning. not directed at anyone in particular

I am unable to put up presentable opinion on this season

Also warning to everyone that will read it

If you are here to defend/ you are touchy on subject of S5 please avert your eyes.

The season was mid at best. , script was rushed, the core of it was S3 with meek antagonist, the most evil character there was a bug demon with many eyes, and SACRIFICE was basically word for this season.

Other things I remember from it is a burnt dumpling and Nezha's mech. Oh and Wukong being useless, Mac carrying season on his back , MK being even more stupid than usual. A random guy with a pagoda and a Twink snake. Nothing else .

Let's put my opinion about the animation now :D

Flying Bark got sacrificed just like MK in this season lol

The animation was a pure nightmare, it's like Seven deadly sins Incident

And if you guys think it will get much better from that in one year (let's say for example they will produce another season next year) you live high on copium and delulu.

Our juicy yummy frame by frame animation was taken away and they gave us RAGDOLL animation.

What does it mean? -AND HERE TUMBLR DECIDED TO CRASH ON ME AND IM WRITING IT 3rd TIME :D- you know how hieroglyphs are animated? Ye, that's basically it with extra steps! HOW FUN. NOW WE HAVE PUPPETS 2D. A FREAKING GACHA FROM YT IF YOU MUST. THOSE IN SOME CASES ARE EVEN BETTER ANIMATED THAN OUR SHOW ITSELF BTW. This has it's perks! I guess. It's cheaper and easier to make episodes! :D the cons are we will no longer see good battles in the show. yay "But we saw Wukong vs MK! And snippet of Wukong vs Mac fight!" please, spare me. If you are telling me those were good fights , that is half assed animation they have no idea how works and two dots clashing with eachother you should go rewatch other seasons. the fucking disgrace and audacity.

But no matter. That i can live off, that i can gulp down.

YOU KNOW WHAT I CAN'T? THE SHEER AMOUNT OF MISTAKES ON BASIC LVL IN ART. I am sitting here looking at those colors, those lines this fucking scenography and ask- what a fucking newbie did this .

YOU CAN'T EVEN GET COLOR RIGHT

AND BEFORE ANY OF U F NERDS WILL COME TO ME AND SAY "UUU ACTUALLY ITS LIGHTING FAULT-" NO ITS FUCKING NOT.

THEY CAN'T EVEN USE SAME COLORS AS IN THE PRIOR SHOT , THEY CANT EVEN SAMPLE IT PROPERLY . BETWEEN THOSE SHOTS NOTHING CHANGE THEREFORE THE LIGHTING IS THE FUCKING SAME

IF YOU DON'T DRAW , AND HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT , JUST -

we have a shiny wukong here

What is this scene , please someone can explain to me the scenography of this

Why this perspective is wrong, the shading, the lack of lighting

Here characters don't even stand properly

WHAT IS WITH THIS AWKWARD SCENOGRAPHY ?

WHY THEY ALL LOOK OUT OF PLACE. AND IM NOT EVEN TALKING ABOUT THIS SHADING BECAUSE ITS SHIT.

HAVE THEY MISSED LIKE ALL BASIC LESSONS IN ART SCHOOLS? OR SOMETHING? LIKE THIS IS A JOKE. NO WONDER PEOPLE THOUGHT TRAILER WAS FAN MADE.

Now this- this is just hillarious.

Just add to it some dramatic intense sound effect and we have another nightmare.

The voice acting was great tho

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momentomori24 · 8 months ago

Text

I swear to God, Twitter being able to accumulate so many brain-dead, malicious, pseudo intellectual low lives all in one place at the same time is a phenomenon worthy of being studied under a microscope in a science lab. And no, that is not a compliment.

Thankfully people have already spoken out against this bullshit-- the fact that people needed to is already maddening to think about-- but as someone who got the basic gist of what happened literally yesterday I'll also put my voice out there: Don't you fucking dare try to paint Hbomb as a murderer over this situation.

Somerton may be a lying, misogynistic plagiarist and conman, but he obviously doesn't deserve to die and while I do make fun of the guy, I genuinely hope that he continues to have a life after the dust has settled on everything. Not on YouTube or any social media platform for a long time at least, but just a life nontheless. I don't wish what he's potentially going through on anyone, and I hope that he makes it through this. But regardless of if he does or doesn't-- and God forbid he doesn't-- none of this is Hbomb's fault. It's not his fault, or Kat's fault, or Jessie's fault (because apparently there's people blaming her too cuz WHY NOT), or anybody's fault. All they did was call out his actions, hold him accountable for the harm he's done. They have done nothing to deserve having to carry this on their shoulders should the worst happen. They did nothing wrong. They didn't kill James (he's not confirmed dead yet either btw). They are not murderers. And to the people saying they are: say those words out loud, listen how they sound like, and re-evaluate. Just cease.

And to people like this:

''Oh I'm not blaming him for anything I'm just blaming him for what his audience did because according to HIM you're responsible for your audience'' Yeah, you people can shut your mouths too. Of course you're responsible for your audience, and that includes Hbomb too. However, your tiny, godless little monkey brain can't see why your argument is still rubbish even with that in mind. The difference between James, Internet Historian and Hbomb is that Hbomb never promoted problematic behaviour to his audience. If you promote problematic shit like harassment or misogyny or racism, then yeah, you're absolutely responsible for how your behaviour influences your audience. But that's not what he did. He made it very clear where he stood on those things, literally stating that ''if anyone were to harass Somerton on his behalf they are worse than him and will not see the light of heaven''. He's done his part in making it clear that harassment is wrong, so if someone went out of their way to go against that and harass James anyway that doesn't reflecf on him at all. Also, what the hell do you mean ''hatemobbed'' to suicide? I don't doubt there are people who went to extremes because those bad apples always exist, but most of the things I've seen are valid critisisms, memes and call outs about that guy. If holding people accountable for their actions and poking fun at them a little counts as 'hatemobbing'' (which has Filip calling his critics a ''lynch mob'' energy tbh) what the hell do you call actual hatemobbing then? Do we just let people continue being shitty because calling them out ''damages their mental health'' or ''drives them to suicide'' then? Is that a world you want to live in?

Same thing goes for people like this:

Criticing someone for their objectively bullshit content and wanting them dead are two seperate things. What the actual hell is wrong with you. The plagiarist in question is a person. Those ''harshest critics'' are still people. And because we're people, we care. I'd rather James pump out more plagiarised slop than commit suicide. I'd still hate him for it, but I'd prefer him being alive over the alternative any day. We all do. None of us would sleep easier knowing he's dead just because he wouldn't be ''committing the cardinal sin of putting out a 'pure content mill' video'' because someone taking their own life is horrific-- especially Hbomberguy, how dare you even try to imply that?

And this gets me to the reason I'm furiously typing all this out in the first place: Hbomb is the fucking victim here, so stop treating him like he isn't. He tried making things as right as possible by compensating those that were burned by James through a video where he revealed everything there needs to be known about the guy so that less people fall victim to his actions and lies. To just ignore the harm James was causing while he had the evidence to prove it and platform too big to threaten into non existence should he speak out would've been bad. So he didn't. He did the right thing by sticking with the people James had stolen from, giving them a voice and making them known after they've been scrubbed from the picture by decidedly being uncredited for their works or bullied into silence. He shouldn't have to deal with this for doing the right thing. He shouldn't be labelled a murderer for doing the right thing. He shouldn't have to have the death of a man on his conscience for doing the right thing. People claiming otherwise are obviously wrong, but I can't imagine what all this must feel like right now. Because even tho they're wrong, guilt isn't a rational thing, and I know that if I were in his position I'd still feel like a morally bankrupt individual were the worst to happen even if I knew that it was not my fault. This isn't a funny story. So to add to this dumpsterfire by using it as a prop to bash on a creator you don't like and immediately write Somerton off as dead even when he's not even been confirmed dead yet to do that shows how little these people actually care about the thing they're talking about. They don't care a guy potentially killed himself-- what they care about is using it to paint Hbomb in a bad light because they don't like him. Here they are, posting memes and ill jokes about this very delicate situation while barely a day since the news broke out had passed. It's opportunistic, it's sickening, and literally the exact thing he criticised in his video when talking about 'content mills'. Like, I know none of these clowns bothered to actually watch it, but have some self-awareness. And some shame too, while you're at it.

This long story short: I'm writing this to contribute to the narrative not getting twisted to make Hbomb out to be the villian. Same goes for everyone else. Don't let these people paint them as the villians. If I see another person pull this shit again I will literally bite you and shred you into salad and spit you back out because I hate you so much and I mean that wholeheartedly.

To Hbomb: you will never see this but if you do, take care of yourself.

To the asshats this post is about: Delete your account. Cease all together. Stop talking about this. Just leave him the fuck alone.

#hbomberguy #james somerton #this post took me ages to finish and really grinds my gears #i would not survive on that hellscape with people like this holy shit #really hope this situation turns out for the best #i wrote this while i was frustrated and sleep deprived so apologies for unnoticed grammar i'll correct it later #i'll be keeping my eyes peeled for any updates on this situation this is actually getting scary

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phantom--brainz · 26 days ago

Text

I think the creativity twins really do love and care for each other, but they each have their own blockages from showing it. Both of them have this image to uphold.

Roman is very family oriented and loyal, but he puts up this defensive front around Remus. Part of him probably feels scared of Remus because Remus is known for terrorizing and laying traps for Roman, hiding in the dark to scare him, and whacking him over the head. But that doesn't mean he hates his brother. He still wants his brother, but he's scared.

On top of that, Roman has a huge loyalty to Patton. Patton, as Thomas's morality, which was based of off being raised Catholic and carrying around Catholic guilt, has trouble accepting Remus because he's everything "sinful" Since Patton has that strain with Remus, Roman is strained in his ability to have a relationship with Remus. He loves his brother and wants to have a relationship, but he doesn't want to betray Patton.

Then there's Remus. He puts up this "idgaf" attitude about everything, constantly portraying himself as the villain, and it can be seen that it seems like he doesn't care about Roman, either. However, we also see his attempts at a relationship, trying to match with Roman and have something with him, but he clashes with Roman because Remus is still viewed as something sinful and undesirable, so his efforts to have a relationship aren't really seen and are taken as attack or insult. Like when he was nicknamed Dookie and changed Roman's nickname to Pissy so they'd match, but Roman thought Remus was insulting him.

On top of that, Remus uses nicknames for Roman, referring to him as "brother" and "bro" from which we can infer that he still sees Roman as his twin, and cares enough to give him a nickname. He certainly could do a LOT more to show that he cares, but he definitely doesn't not care at all about his brother.

They each love the other brother dearly but are in this constant loop of believing the other hates them and, in turn, acting cold or careless at the other, dismissing them, but then also wanting to he around them and have something with them. They're also both restrained by Patton. Not that Patton does it intentionally, but as Thomas's morality, he caries around that Catholic guilt that made Remus in the first place and brought that separation between the brothers, and since Patton is strained to accept Remus as a result of the moral code drilled into him by Thomas being raised Catholic, that also affects Roman and Remus because Roman doesn't want to betray Patton by befriending Remus, and Remus is shackled and restricted constantly as intrusive thoughts and dark creativity, and nobody really sees past the villain persona because a villain is all he's allowed to be seen as.

And it's also not because Patton "hates" Remus. He doesn't hate any of the sides. He's conflicted and confused because the Catholic moral code he was built on says Remus is wrong, but he learned from Virgil and Janus that, just because something seems bad or evil, doesn't mean the person is. He sees that Remus has more to him and wants to give him a chance.

They're both to blame, and yet neither of them are to blame all at once. And it's not Patton's fault, either, so don't even start blaming him bro!!! Of anything the blame falls on those who taught that Catholic moral code to Thomas and drilled it into him, which caused that chain of Patton as morality built on Catholic morals, Remus as an identity, and the strain between Remus and Roman's relationship.

But they love each other, they just cannot figure out for the life of them how to show it, and I think they're both a little afraid to really have a relationship, especially since it's been drilled in for so long that they stay separate, so neither of them is really making a move, leaving them loving each other and thinking the other hates them and they're supposed to hate each other.

Idk tho bro!!!! But everyone who thinks one of them doesn't care about the other is WRONG, they love each other they just cannot figure out how to show it or where to start, and they've both done things that have hurt the other.

Their relationship is also strained because they're also pinned against each other as opposites, while also supposed to be working together as a pair. Their entire dynamic is one big loop, chasing the other, and not knowing if it's time for them to be together or to be against each other.

Thomas does such a great job with symbolism with these two. Their emblems for example. Roman is a sword while Remus is a shield. Roman puts up a defensive from while Remus is seen attacking. However, shield and sword are often wielded together for the best combat ability, aiding in both offense and defence

Roman's emblem is based around the day with Remus is the night. Roman is red and white while Remus is green and black.

Their names are also based off of Romulus and Remus, who fought over who would take control over what ended up being Rome after Romulus won. This can be paired to how they work as two halves of creativity. They couldve worked great together, but that moral code pinned them against each other, with Roman coming out on top, like how Romulus won when he battled and killed Remus for Rome. Control over creativity is their Rome, with Roman being the one mainly controlling and powering Thomas' creativity

They love each other, guys, they're just kinda doomed brothers. They don't have to be, but they've been paired against each other and it's brought them to where they are now.

Anyways, happy anniversary Sanders Sides!!!!

#creativity twins #sanders sides #tss #thomas sanders #thatsthat24 #thomas sanders sides #remus sanders #ts sides #patton sanders #roman sanders

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clanwarrior-tumbly · 10 months ago

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(hi uh sorry i sent that ask very prematurely on accident could you delete the previous one? sorry i just had to rephrase it-)

i was wondering if you were interested in doing a Sozo x reader fic (GN preferably) where the reader tries to help Sozo kick his mushroom habit (as you have done before but i would really like some more in-depth mental support for ant boy) or at least help him not to lose himself even more. This next part includes spoilers for the Sins of the Flesh update so if you haven't played that feel free to wait or skip this part. I would especially like to see his Dr. Sozonius personality starting to shine through again as he gains more clarity, kinda nerding out on mushroom stuff but also extremely sorry for everything he did while under the influence of the Mushrooms

YEAH SOZO REDEMPTION ARC <3

.....

"I promise...no more shrooms...please.."

"I'm sorry, my dear. I just can't take your word for it." Sighing, you gazed hopelessly at your spouse: the belligerent ant locked up in the pillory for the third straight day now, wondering if this was the right thing to do.

This all started after you returned to Spore Grotto one evening, finding the Mushroomos there in a panic, one of them eventually leading you to the inside of Sozo's "home".

He had succumbed to the infection, as his body was laying there in such a grotesque display, covered in fungi and rotting away. Of course, the followers didn't know what to do and begged you to bring Lamb back here, as they haven't visited this place in a while.

At first you didn't want to, thinking they were the reason he was dead. You assumed he was still giving him mushrooms behind your back when you specifically told them not to do that, explaining how you're trying to get him to stop. You made him promise not to consume anymore.

It had to be Lamb's fault.

But the Mushroomos revealed something quite shocking: since he wasn't getting mushrooms, he turned to eating them all alive to satisfy his needs instead, unable to stop. The parasite that held him hostage demanded it so.

And it ended up killing him.

You grieved for a little while, before seeking out Lamb and asking if they could accompany you to Spore Grotto, explaining what happened. Yet by the time you both returned, there was hardly anything left of Sozo's body.

Nothing except his skeleton, backpack, and the smiling mushroom.

You decided to take the large fungi back to their cult, carrying it as a sort of "ironic" memento of your lover.

During the walk back, Lamb asked you if Sozo had a life before this addiction of his...and you tell them something rather surprising.

He was actually once a brilliant man: Dr. Sozonius. His research on mushrooms was known all throughout the Old Faith. He's written books, lived with family members in an ant colony, and was very wise. You two fell in love through your research and explored Anura together.

Then he brought you to his camp at Spore Grotto, the very heart and soul of Anura's fungal outbreak. He was studying the Mushroomos and their behavior patterns. They were actually very passive and social creatures, offering you two stews of menticide mushrooms.

You declined, having already ate before your journey. But Sozonius--thrilled to discover a new mushroom specimen--decided to indulge in their generosity for the sake of science.

And things haven't been the same since.

Something in that soup took root in his brain and turned him into a shadow of his former self.

He never came back to the colony, or the home you two shared, devoting himself entirely to all things mushroom-related...while that stupid smiling fungi puppeteered him around. Some days you'd visit him, and he does remember you, but as of late he's been forgetting more and more of your lives together, giggling and not taking any of your words seriously.

He tried getting you to bring him mushrooms, eat them, etc. and if you refused, his eyes turned red and he'd start yelling nonsense.

Despite all of this, you never once blamed the Mushroomos. They were only trying to be kind hosts; they didn't expect such an advanced fungi to take control of him and turn him into their "leader".

After he died, most of them dispersed throughout Anura, but some stayed behind in the hope of seeing you again.

Once you finished sharing your story, Lamb was surprised that you wanted to take the fungi back at all. They figured you'd burn it to ashes for what it did to your husband.

Yet....you didn't blame it either.

Mushrooms aren't inherently evil. It's how nature made them, and you're a strong believer in karma, deciding to instead nurture this one in hopes that it may grow into something better.

Who would've known that mentality would bring Sozo back to you a week later?

Unfortunately, as you anticipated, he was still up to his old habits and never fully understood that they killed him. He tore up the mushroom farm plots and ate any Mushroomos Lamb rescued during their crusades.

Least to say..he was being an utter nuisance in the cult. He never did any work, and none of the followers liked him.

But that's not how he really was.

You knew him better than anybody else.

Ultimately you and Lamb realized that you had to break this addiction of his for good, otherwise the cycle will just repeat..and you might lose him all over again.

Talking to him wasn't enough.

He had to go cold turkey.

Sozo got angry when you shielded a Mushroomo from his bloodlust and told them to hide in the temple, accusing you of denying him happiness and saying he'd rather be put back in the ground than look at you--and that's when Lamb locked him up in the pillory while distracted.

As much as his words hurt..you knew it was only the fungi talking, trying to trick you into thinking that's what he was feeling. But you weren't so easily fooled.

You had to starve it out.

Might it kill him, too? There's a good chance. But you had to try.

Ever since getting imprisoned, he's been shouting and begging passing followers to free him all day and all night, the fungi looking more withered as time went on. Even its smile turned upside down.

Lamb tried using the same reeducation techniques they used on dissenters. Yet they weren't quite sure how to help Sozo, as he babbled over their speeches and wanted them to go away.

You offered to take over instead, and while they hesitated..they eventually handed you a copy of one of their gospel books and said they'd pray for his healing.

If anyone could get through to him, it was you.

For a while you've kept a close eye on him, making sure he had food--all of which you cooked yourself in case anyone tried sneaking in mushrooms. He no longer screamed his head off, but he still tried bargaining with you to free him, each plea growing weaker than the last.

By the time the sun went down, most of the followers were heading to their sleeping quarters for the night--although a couple were having some concoctions at the drinkhouse. But they could usually hold their liquor and not get too befuddled, so you weren't worried about them.

Instead you just focused on Sozo..who was already looking tired. Your energy was very much spent, too, although you didn't wanna abandon him.

Alas Lamb had no moon necklaces to spare, and even if they did...they would hesitate to give it to you.

Speaking of whom, you heard their footsteps and glanced over, smiling. "Hello, Lamb."

"You can go rest, [y/n]." They nodded. "I'll watch over him for you."

"...alright." Sighing, you closed the book and looked back at your spouse, placing a hand on his cheek as you kissed the opposite one. "Sweet dreams, Sozo. For what it's worth..I'm blessed you are back on this earth with me. I promise to keep helping you."

"[Y/n]...loves Sozo that much..huh?" He huffed, sleepily opening his eyes, and you were astonished to see that they were no longer red like the eyes of dissenters.

Even so, you weren't letting your hopes get up too high. He still had a long path ahead of him.

"Of course. There's no one I love more than you. I just hope and pray...that you haven't forgotten the love you felt for me."

As you parted from his side and began walking back to the Lamb, you were confused by their dumbfounded expression. "What? Was I supposed to say-?"

"Look." They pointed behind you, and you turned back around, gawking at what you were seeing.

The fungi had completely decayed, falling off Sozo's head into a withering husk in the grass; the smaller fungi buried in his collar died off, too. It didn't cause him any pain, surprisingly enough.

Then you looked directly at his face, noticing signs of him aging rapidly judging by the wrinkles and graying furs of his collar.

But he was still alive.

And he was back to his old self.

"Wh..Where am I? Where is...my family?" His voice was quiet and raspy as he looked around, confused by the wooden contraption he was locked in.

However once he saw your face, he recognized you and smiled, feeling at total ease.

"Oh, my love. You're back."

"I-I never left.." Tears immediately blurred your vision as you rushed to unlock the pillory. "I was here the whole time. I thought you were gone forever..."

"I hope I didn't go too far." He hummed, although he felt an ache in his back from being hunched over for so long and winced. Lamb was quick to fetch him a cane so he could better support himself, but you looped your arm around one of his own to help.

"Thank you, you're very kind.." He gazed at the sheep. "My name is Dr. Sozonius. We were...studying the Mushroomos. Fascinating creatures, they are. Neither plant nor animal. They gave my partner [y/n] and I some menticide mushrooms...and.....that's the last thing I remember.." He frowned slightly.

'Ah..so he doesn't know...' You realized, but you kept your worries pushed down, too happy to care about any of that right now.

"I can't help but feel that I have you to thank for...something." He continued, smiling at Lamb. "You have my loyalty. I will remain here and serve you."

They smiled back and bowed their head respectfully. "Thank you, doctor. Welcome back."

..........

While it was such a relief to see Sozonius' sanity restored, it wasn't too long before he ended up becoming bedridden, his bones too weak to support him anymore.

You realized that the fungi somehow managed to disguise his true age, as Lamb discovered he was actually 100 years old via mindreading--making him the eldest follower in the natural sense.

Now you feared losing him again..just when you finally got him back, and wondered if Lamb could do something to help.

Sure, resurrecting him may be the easiest option, but it would be the most painful for you. They couldn't put you through that, as it would take a few days for them to be ready for the ritual.

Luckily they managed to find a quick solution:

A fountain of youth in the form of a simple egg dish.

After Sozonius ate it, the magical properties somehow reversed the clock, giving him back the energy he needed to help out with cult duties. And you didn't have to worry about losing each other again, as Lamb gifted you two golden skull necklaces as a "belated" wedding gift.

Of course, the ant was ever jubilant about his mushroom studies and continued to pursue them alongside you--in a far more controlled environment, obviously. He was allowed to tend to the plots and observe how their effects impact followers during brainwashing rituals, although he was forbidden from tasting one himself or participating in those..

At least for right now.

Even though it's been about a week since he was "cured", the few Mushroomos that lived on the cult grounds were still fretful upon seeing him, thinking he was going to eat them alive.

The one you defended couldn't believe that he was genuinely sorry and not under the fungi's influence anymore.

They were so terribly scared that Lamb mentioned that they gained a "cowardly" trait, always flinching upon you, them, or Sozonius approaching, begging to be spared from....some nonexistent threat they made up in their head. They tried to please you two how ever they could, yet were easily frightened by him simply breathing around them.

Your husband was confused until you clarified that he ruled over the Mushroomos for a long time, cannibalizing them and making threats should they fail to bring him more mushrooms--but he found it hard to fathom that he'd ever do such a thing and abandon you and his family..

Even so, he felt guilty and hoped to make things right.

.........

It was late at night when you and Sozonius were having some light brews at the drinkhouse, feeling relaxed but not entirely befuddled.

He was rambling about some of his latest discoveries in mycology, and you listened with such a loving gaze in your eyes, smiling so big your face was starting to hurt.

You were so, so grateful he came back to you..and that Lamb could save him.

But one particular Mushroomo, however, arrived in hopes of drinking their worries away...and instead found you two at the counter, disappointed.

They tried to sneak away, although Sozonius spotted them and whistled. "You, Mushroomo! Come sit with us." He offered. "We don't bite."

"Eek! I-I mean, of course Mast---I mean Sozo..I-I mean....urrgh!!" Already they were fumbling over their words, scratching at their mushroom cap and sweating. "S-Sorry, sorry! AH!" They nearly tripped over a rock on their way to the drinkhouse.

"Are you sure this is a good idea, dear?" You glanced at your husband, who just nodded reassuringly.

"It will be fine."

Even as the Mushroomo sat down and took one of the drinks left on the counter, they seemed too anxious to take a sip. Instead their gaze going to you--and Sozonius, especially. "I-I feel like I'm interrupting something.."

"No, you are not. But listen-"

"D-Do you need more 'shrooms for your studies, Sozo?? More menticide-?"

"No, no. Listen. I wanted to...apologize for what I have done to you and your fellow Mushroomos."

"Wha.....y-you do..?"

With a soft sigh, Sozonius grasped both of their hands, and although they squeaked in surprise, they didn't try running off. "I scarcely recall what I did while under the influence of the mushrooms. But...it's no excuse. I treated all of you poorly, ate your friends...and I'm sorry. I just hope you can find it in your heart to forgive this old fool."

They meekly nodded. "W-We understand..mast-"

"From this day forward," he cut in gently, "I am no longer your master. You serve the Lamb now. Not me. And that goes for all of you Mushroomos, okay?"

"....yes, doctor." The mushroom creature exhaled a shaky breath, looking utterly relieved to have official freedom from his servitude.

"Good, thank you." Sozonius let go, smiling. "I'm glad you understand. Why don't you go get some rest?"

"I think..I will." They stood up and stared down at their untouched drink, before sliding it back over to you. "You can have this. I...don't feel like I need it anymore."

You nodded, bidding them goodnight as they headed back to their shelter, before gazing at the ant. "Seems you broke their habit, too."

"Well, I am a doctor, after all." He chuckled. "I wanna help whoever I can."

All you did was smile, the two of you sitting in a comfortable silence, finishing your drinks and admiring the golden shrine at the center of the cult grounds.

Finally, everything was as it should be.

#yall dont understand how unbelievably happy i am that we can help sozo #clanask #cult of the lamb x reader #cotl x reader #sins of the flesh spoilers #cult of the lamb spoilers #cotl sozo #cotl sozo x reader #sozo x reader #cotl sozonius #hurt/comfort

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