#Jesus through medieval eyes

[joanofarcs-stigmata]

Holy fear is not ... an unending, deep-rooted anxiety that I'm never enough and can never do enough good to really be loved by God. Nor is it a moralistic fear of God ... that can easily shrink into fear of hell and the upholding of norms. No, holy fear is a wholesome fear that aids us to avoid becoming people of flint.

-- Grace Hamman, Jesus Through Medieval Eyes

[dreamwritesimagines]

The Eye of the Hurricane [34] - Cage

A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful feedback, you made my day! ❤️I hope you’ll like this chapter as well, and please don’t forget to tell me what you think! ❤️

Summary: Lack of honesty can cause resentment.

Word Count: 2700

Pairing: MobBoss!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Warnings: Violence, guns, crime, blood, explicit language, dysfunctional relationship, mentions of sex. This is an AU, friendly reminder that I don’t condone any of the actions depicted on this story and please read with care.

Series Masterlist

If anything, your day started out pretty calm.

You were petting Alpine with one hand while scribbling on the paper with the other, and you stole a look at Bucky when he entered the kitchen. He ran a hand through his damp hair and you inhaled the scent of his aftershave as subtly as you could, pretending to be busy with the file in front of you while he made his way to the coffee machine to fill himself a cup of coffee.

You could feel his glances on you as he leaned back on the counter, sipping his coffee but you ignored him until he cleared his throat.

“So when is that asshole leaving?”

You stopped petting Alpine and lifted your head to look at him better.

“Who, Rhett?” you asked. “He just got here.”

“Doesn’t he have a city to rule?”

“He left his right hand in his place, apparently,” you told him. “Why?”

“Just curious.”

You hummed, spinning your pen between your fingers.

“You should be nicer to him, you know.”

He scoffed into his coffee mug. “Yeah sorry, I’m not capable of being nice to dickheads who gaze at my wife longingly.”

“What?”

“I’m already being civil by not shooting him, and that’s only because you told me not to.”

“You’re not going to shoot—he doesn’t gaze at me longingly, Bucky.”

“Oh he does,” he shot back. “In fact, I bet he has a plan.”

Your frown deepened. “What plan?”

“He wants to—he wants to take you to Chicago,” he said, motioning vaguely and you tilted your head, your mouth slightly open. “Yeah, he’ll feed you some bullshit about never being over you—”

“He is very much over me.”

“And he will ask you to go rule Chicago with him, and then I’ll shoot him and feed his fucking body to the dogs—”

“Can I just interrupt that very creative theory with some truth?” you asked him as Alpine jumped from the counter to the floor. “Number one, even if he weren’t over me, it wouldn’t fucking matter because I am over him.”

His eyes searched yours as if he was trying to see if you were telling the truth. “…Are you?”

“Absolutely,” you said. “Number two, whoever he is with -which is not going to be me, by the way- will not be ruling Chicago with him. Chicago’s rules are different, the crown moves through blood there. Spouses are irrelevant, they’re treated worse than heirs, or right arms. Don’t get me wrong, I hate the bitch who he’s going to marry because she’s a terrible person, but I kind of feel bad for her too because no one will ever take her seriously. King consort or queen consort, doesn’t matter because they have zero power, except for providing heirs and strengthening the loyalty of families.”

Bucky blinked a couple of times. “Jesus, and we say we have medieval rules.”   

“Exactly,” you said. “And number three, I know we both keep forgetting it but we are in fact married. Even if I weren’t over him, me going to Chicago would be grounds for war and only an idiot—”

“Trojan War started the same way, didn’t stop anyone.”

“I appreciate the compliment but I’m not the underworld edition of Helen of Troy,” you pointed out. “That’s not what’s going to happen here. Unless Eric Bana shows up, that is.”

“Which one was he in that movie, Paris?”

“Hector,” you said with a sigh. “The things I’d do to him…”

“I’m glad we had this conversation because now I will have to add him to my hitlist as well.”

You rolled your eyes at him.

“The point is,” you said. “I’m not starting a war between Chicago and New York for an ex. Because that’s what Rhett is. An ex.”

“He doesn’t see you as just an ex,” Bucky told you. “You said it yourself. He trusts you.”

The sight of Rhett’s car by the campus outside your building made you stop dead in your tracks only for a moment. You could feel the smile pulling your lips as you approached him, and he took off his sunglasses to grin at you.

“Hey stranger.”

“Hey,” you said. “Look at that, you survived.”

“Mm hm.”

“I take it the same can’t be said for Lucas?”

“For him or any of his men,” he stated, leaning back to his car. “He was waiting exactly where you said he was.”

You nodded your head. “How pissed off was your father?”

“Very pissed off,” he said. “But I think it worked out pretty well, you know? Now we have sent a message.”

“The ultimate golden heir is not to be crossed or challenged,” you teased him with a small smirk. “That’s a good message.”

He heaved a sigh, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Hm?”

“Why did you warn me?” he asked. “I mean, aside from the orgasms I gave you—”

“That was a mutual transaction,” you pointed out, making him let out a chuckle and hold up his hands.

“It really was,” he said. “But seriously, we were broken up. And I know what promise he dangled in front of you. What, you didn’t even consider it?”

You made a face, shaking your head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“New York values loyalty over power,” you said. “That’s what I grew up with. I don’t do business with greedy backstabbers, neither would my father or anyone else in New York. Once a traitor, always a traitor.”

Rhett’s gaze was fixed on you, a light crossing his eyes as he let out a breath.

“Jesus…” he muttered. “One last transaction, cupcake?”

“Nope,” you said with a laugh. “Then we will get attached and we can’t have that. You have a city to take over, and I’m too smart to be put in the background in someone else’s empire.”

Rhett smiled softly.

“My father won’t do business with anyone in New York,” he said, and you shrugged your shoulders.

“I know. Everyone knows.”

“Neither will I,” Rhett said. “Until you need my help.”

Your eyes shot up to his, your stomach doing a happy flip.

“You’d do that for me?” you asked and he nodded.

“You saved my life, and proved that I can in fact trust you,” he said. “Chicago values loyalty above everything else. The least I can do is pay back the favor.”

A smile warmed your face. “I’ll come to collect, Rhett.”

“Looking forward to it,” he said and extended his hand. “Pleasure doing business with you, cupcake.”

You let out a giggle, and shook his hand.

“Yeah,” you said. “Likewise.”  

“Because I earned his trust,” you told him as his phone vibrated and he checked the screen, then typed something. Even if you wanted to ask who it was, you managed to control yourself, biting inside your cheek.

“Dr. Raynor rescheduled the therapy session for the evening,” you told him. “Your assistant told you?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I have a meeting with Anna before that so I might be a bit late but I’ll be there.”

Your brows shot up, that familiar bitterness burning your mouth. “With Anna?”

“Mm hm,” he said. “Gotta go, I’ll see you there,”

With that, he walked out of the apartment and closed the door behind him, and Alpine jumped back on the counter, meowing at you in a very demanding manner. You heaved a sigh, stroking over her soft fur.

“We’re not going to threaten Anna,” you told her, “Because that’s a fucking insane thing to do, and we’re very logical, rational individuals, right Alpine?”

Alpine meowed again and you nodded your head.

“Mm hm,” you muttered. “Exactly.”

                                               *

“I mean it’s not that I’m jealous,” you assured Becca who only watched you with her brows raised. “Obviously that’s not what’s happening here.”

She hummed, sipping her coffee.

“It’s just that she’s a bit too friendly with him I feel like.”

“Like Rhett is a bit too friendly with you?”

“That’s very different!” you protested. “Rhett and I are going to make a deal!”

“Anna already has a deal with Bucky.”

“Whose side are you on?” you asked, sulking and she let out a laugh.

“Yours, obviously,” she said. “But I’m just saying, maybe before pointing fingers, acknowledge the fact that Rhett liked you. A lot.”

“Liked,” you repeated. “Back then. Besides, I have no feelings for him and as I told Bucky, he will get married.”

“And he will have mistresses.”

“Probably,” you said with a shrug of your shoulders. “Alice will kill them I’m guessing. She was quite obsessed with him even while we were dating and now that Rhett says he will marry her, I do not want to think about the lengths she’d go to.”

 Your phone buzzed on the table and you checked the screen, then tilted your head. “Huh.”

“Who is it?”

“Ethan,” you said. “We haven’t talked in forever, apparently he was too busy and so was I. He wants to grab coffee sometime.”

“What is it with all your exes wanting to fuck you?” Becca asked, making your jaw drop.

“That’s not true!”

“No seriously, what are you doing to those guys?”

“I don’t do anything to them—you know what, we’re changing the subject,” you said as you put your phone back on the table. “Do you think I’ll be able to pull it off?”

“The deal?” Becca asked, “I’d say you already have.”

“Nothing is on paper yet.”

“It doesn’t matter, he flew here for that deal. He will make it.”

You drummed your fingernails on the table. “My father will have so many things to say about it I’m sure.”

“He can say whatever he wants—oh!” she sat up straighter. “Guess what I heard.”

“What?”

“Apparently, Ian is learning how to fight.”

You pulled your brows together. “I’m sorry?”

“Mm hm. His right hand is teaching him, the hot Hercules guy—”

“Ryan.”

“Yeah, him.”

You scoffed a laugh. “How did you hear about that?”

“Your father told my father and my father told my mom at breakfast,” she said. “Never too late to start I guess?”

“I mean he’s the heir,” you said with a sigh. “If the cage fight is happening…”

“You know how I feel about the cage fight tradition but for Ian’s case only, I will enjoy it,” she said. “I hate the son of a bitch.”

You squeezed her hand. “How Leila?”

“That’s actually why I wanted to meet up with you,” she said, huffing out a breath. “My mom kind of forced my hand.”

“How?”

“She and me and Leila are having brunch tomorrow.”

Your eyes widened. “What?”

“So I need you to tell me Leila won’t decide to dump me tomorrow.”

A small laugh escaped from your lips and you shook your head.

“She won’t,” you assured her. “Do you want me to be there? I will invite myself to that brunch, I don’t care what Winnifred thinks.”

 She looked like she was genuinely considering the idea before she made a face, then shook her head.

“Nah, I need to deal with this myself,” she muttered and you pressed a hand over your chest.

“Aw,” you said with a grin. “They grow up so fast.”

“Shut it,” she said, kicking at your shoe with hers, making you gasp. “But I’m going to need all the moral support I can get, so you will be by the phone the whole time, alright?”

You let out a laugh. “Deal.”

                                                    *

Bucky was late to the therapy session as he said he would be by fifteen minutes, and when he got there, he was rather tense. Even if you wanted to ask what had happened, you knew you couldn’t in front of the therapist so you raised your brows at him but he shook his head.

“So,” Dr. Raynor said, “Let’s pick up from where we left off the last time. How have things progressed in terms of your communication with your ex-boyfriend in the picture?”

“Him being my ex-boyfriend doesn’t play a part in our communication or lack thereof,” you said quickly and Bucky clicked his tongue.

“It definitely does.”

“I think what plays an important part in our communication is the fact that Bucky doesn’t exactly trust me.”

Bucky blinked a couple of times and turned to look at you better.

“I don’t think you should be pointing fingers here, Charm.”

“I do trust you!” you protested, making him scoff.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“You know what, if you’re being like this because I didn’t give you one tiny little detail about my plan—”

“One tiny little detail?” Bucky repeated with a laugh. “Try the whole plan.”

“You wouldn’t even spare me a glance if I pulled the shit you did back in that back alley,” you finished your sentence as if he didn’t cut you off and that seemed to take him by surprise. He gawked at you, then licked his lips, shaking his head.

“Are you serious right now?”

“What happened in the back alley?” Dr. Raynor asked, her voice almost too calm and Bucky gritted his teeth, leaning back in the couch as if he was uncomfortable all of a sudden.

“It was ages ago,” he said curtly and you hummed.

“And you never apologized.”

“I did apologize—”

“Asking me if I’m still mad via text does not count as an apology, Bucky.”

“What happened?” Dr. Raynor asked and you took a deep breath, then crossed your arms.

“I had a silly little crush on Bucky years and years ago,” you said. “Before I left for college, I made the mistake of telling him about it.”

“Charm.”

“And it’d be fine if he only turned me down but nope,” you spat, that bitter taste burning your throat again. “He had to humiliate me.”

“I didn’t humiliate—”

“Yes you did,” you cut him off and he ran a hand over his face, then motioned at Dr. Raynor.

“Are we seriously going to do this in front of her?”

“Why not?” you said. “That’s what the therapy is for.”

“And you resent him for it, Y/N?” Dr. Raynor asked and Bucky scoffed a laugh.

“Oh she hates me for it,” he corrected her and you shrugged your shoulders.

“I’m not saying I don’t trust you, I’m just saying that if I didn’t trust you, it would be with a reason.”

“Right.”

“Was there a reason behind it, Bucky?”

“No there wasn’t, other than the fact that he wanted to humiliate me.”

“Charm.”

“Y/N, open communication is very important and a huge part of it is listening,” Dr. Raynor said, making you shake your head.

“No, he really didn’t have a reason other than the fact that he was the city’s golden prince who thought—”

“My father wanted us to end up together,” Bucky cut you off, making you pull your brows together in confusion and you turned your head to gawk at him.

“What?” you asked after a beat and Bucky clicked his tongue.

“Yeah,” he said. “He kept talking about how it would be good for the business, how I should visit you in Chicago when you’d leave for college and…all that bullshit.”

You blinked a couple of times in complete silence and Bucky bit inside his cheek.

“I mean obviously I didn’t see you that way back then, but I wouldn’t have been that much of an asshole to you if that was the only reason,” he told you, his voice almost inaudible. “I thought…I thought you were yet another cage he would drag me into, that’s it.”

You could barely hear anything from the way your heart was pounding in your ears and Bucky swallowed thickly, then stole a look at Dr. Raynor and took a deep breath.

“Yeah no, I’m not doing this shit in front of a stranger,” he muttered and got up from the couch as if he was too restless, then walked out of the office and slammed the door behind him. The sound snapped you out of your haze and you jumped on your feet, grabbing your purse.

“Thanks Dr. Raynor,” you said in a haste and walked out of the office as well but by the time you stepped outside, Bucky’s car had already driven off. You let out a breath, then leaned back to the wall on the building and rubbed at your eyes.

“Oh…” you murmured more to yourself. “Fuck.”

Chapter 35

[catofoldstones]

The thing about arya fans' argument that arya comes before sansa in the line of succession because robb disinherited her because of her forced marriage is the underlying misogyny and victim blaming of it, and their assumption that grrm thinks the same. We don't have jon [you know the actual person robb chose over sansa, and i think its time we start talking that the will specifically was about sansa and jon and that shit means something narratively] asserting that winterfell belongs to sansa despite everything and him not falling to the bait of stannis calling her a lannister, to just assume that according to grrm what robb did was OK. If people actually think grrm wants to show robb was right and girls truly are not important and thus his disinheritance of his sister's rights will be upheld, then they need their heads checked. Its not like he showed us that jaehaerys's sexism was what led to death of the dragons and downfall of targaryens even though grrm considers him a good ruler. Ultimately, catelyn will be validated when brienne saves either sansa or arya with oathkeeper and sansa will become lady of winterfell/qitn DESPITE robb's will. He [and arya fans] can suck it.

Hi soulmate anon,

Before we start, I have to let you know that one our previous posts was screenshotted and circulated in the arya stans circles because “we’re spreading our agenda on a neutral public platform” or something along those lines. Idk if you’ve seen that or not but I had to let you know before we go off kicking another hornet’s nest lol.

Anyway, that out of the way, to the Arya stans who are so hellbent upon removing Sansa from the Stark succession, Robb declared Jon as his heir, pushing Sansa further down the line (not disinheriting her jesus fuck) because through her Tyrion may lay claim to Winterfell, landing it in the hands of the Lannisters, exactly what Robb and Cat are trying to prevent. Robb didn’t “disinherit” Arya because he thought she was dead. Hope that helps.

WAIT!

the will being specifically about Jon and Sansa and that we need to start thinking about that narratively

SCREAM

Okay, I have now moved on (I have not). Though please feel free to talk about this more, I wanna know more. Guess I’ll now have to add jonsa tag to this answer hehe :P

I mean Robb did come from a place of “authority over the female members of his family” here with the will and that’s exactly the kind of thing we have to side eye. Taking it at face value and uncritically thinking about it is not a fair way to engage with the text I feel. You’re right when Jon himself reiterates Sansa’s claim over Winterfell, we are supposed to think twice whether Robb’s action was equitable or not. Stannis calls Sansa “Lady Lannister” to coax Jon into staking a claim over Winterfell so that Stannis gets a good reason to march to Winterfell and attack the Boltons (which he will anyway, but Jon’s, a member of the Stark family, support would mean political backing and reason). If we fall in the trap that Stannis thinks Sansa is now a Lannister, and therefore she is now a Lannister with no claim to Winterfell, then we’ve lost the plot and are coming from the same misogynistic hypocrisy (he wants Shireen on the throne if he dies but calls Sansa a Lannister, how does that work old man?) that destroys Westeros (your Jaehaerys example). And are no different from a crusty medieval era middle aged man btw.

It’s so fucking funny when the readers start emulating the same sexism that the author wants them to critique, and then start calling themselves feminists because they’re supporting a woman’s rights! Which woman’s rights besties? Because the one that clearly has them, you’re actively against her staking her claim. Wait till they read the books with their eyes open and realise that Arya comes at the end of the heirs to winterfell list, despite Sansa getting “disinherited” lmao. And I love Robb, he’s just a boy trying to do his best, but he truly made mistakes, especially with not listening to Catelyn. We also cannot deny the undercurrent of misogyny and chauvinism that Robb demonstrated with the will. Re Sansa’s rights and Jon’s decision to be with the Nights Watch. I will patiently wait for Catelyn to be validated and Sansa to be the Lady/QiTN not only because that subverts reader’s expectations and Westerosi patriarchal standards but because I want to see Sansa antis have a grand old meltdown.

[eternal-love]

Austin and Me

“Taste”

“Wife to the ‘king’. Icon to the world. Destined for more.”

Summary: At 18 years old, she fell in love with Austin, at 20 years old, she became his wife, by 22, she was his doll. In which Cynthia’s life changed drastically after falling head over heels with a man that promised her the moon and the stars. She takes us down the memory lane of what could’ve been— the perfect marriage.

Inspired by the book: Elvis and Me by Priscilla Presley.

I do not condemn any of the portrayals I decide to do about certain people, it’s just fanfiction. And it would be divided in parts

English isn’t my first language so I’m trying my best!

MASTERLIST

I was pregnant. Goddamn it. Look, I was married and I knew this would happen, just not so fast. I know that Lori was four years old but it was still pretty fast for me.

However I grew to accept it, now I was less lonely during my pregnancy. I had Lori, I wasn’t mopping the floor like I did when I was pregnant with her. I hoped it would be a girl, I wanted to be able to reuse all the cute clothes Lori used. But if it was a boy, I wouldn’t mind him looking like Austin. I’ve seen pictures of Austin when he was a kid, a baby if you will— he was the cutest baby you could ever see.

But it pained me, I wanted to be able to resume my career but I guess I had to wait. I spent days reading scripts that came in.

I wanted more challenging roles. My dream role was to play into a medieval drama. Play a Queen or a Princess. That would totally be fun, it was something I desired to do for a long time. I have played mostly in horror movies. I was a scream queen. But I wanted something more.

“Mommy! Mommy!” Lori called me, bringing me out my thoughts.

“Yes?” I responded, pinching myself as I felt like daydreaming.

“Horsie!” Lori said excitedly as she held her little gloves.

“Sweetheart. I’m pregnant you know I cannot—“

“But I want to! Please?” Lori gave me her cute puppy eyes and I could not resist her.

“Fine. Let’s go.”

I hadn’t spoken about this before. Remember our house? Strawberry Fields, well. It was in Rodeo Drive, fair enough— the land was immense. We had a stable with our horses.

My horse was named Dolly and Lori’s was Cookie. It was a small horse, and it was Dolly’s child. Our bond went beyond that of mother and daughter. Even our horses were mother and daughter. Austin liked horses too, that’s why he had his own— Whiskey.

I loved riding horses. Most of my life I grew up on a ranch with my grandparents. I knew how to treat cattle and how to treat horses. But I loved horses too much. Unlike having our dog, I felt like the bond with my horses was much more stronger.

I knew I shouldn’t be on horseback but Lori wanted to. So I took Cookie from her box stall and placed Lori on top of the horse. Getting her firm on the saddle.

I walked around with them, gently holding onto Cookie. Lori reminded me so much of me when I was little. That innocence one had when you were oblivious to the world surrounding you. I remember being her age, not knowing the economic situation my parents were going through, or their marriage problems. I began to wonder, if it’s really worth it growing up. If it’s really just the physical changes or if also your whole soul changed.

Because I knew that if my younger self looked at me now, she’d think I was the coolest woman she’d ever seen. And just because— she didn’t have a sense of what suffering was.

Callum was in town, the man really thought Austin was oblivious to his once affair with Cynthia. Dumbass. He should’ve known. He accepted Austin’s offer to go to a bar.

Callum arrived with good face, smiling at Austin. They ordered their drinks. It was a cozy closed bar. Austin smiled at Callum as they both took sips of their drinks before he spoke.

“Listen, man. I know you’re sleeping with my wife.”

Callum almost spat out his entire swig, Jesus Christ above him would punish him once he time came.

“What? Mate, that’s a reach.” Callum laughed, sipping his drink awkwardly.

“You can’t fool me. You know? I was stupid back then before noticing it.” Austin could kill with the look he was giving Callum, really. “Did you enjoy screwing with what was mine? With— what gave me my beautiful daughter? I bet you loved the feeling of burying your pathetic dick onto her.”

“Listen. Okay. I did it, and as a matter of fact— I enjoyed every second of it. Sorry.” Callum said, putting his glass down, his finger gently tracing the edge of the cup.

They were both drinking the same goddamn drink.

“You know, she used to make me this drink every time we had sex. Uh— the sex was good.” Callum smirked. It took everything in Austin to not punch him, because they were in public.

“Watch it.”

“Why? It was good, you know if. You knocked her up once. You must absolutely know how tight she is.” It was like Callum enjoyed taking about it.

“I was here first. I took her first. You don’t get to come here and steal my wife just because you thought you could be fucking Robin Hood and help her out.”

“I couldn’t leave a wife out there feeling neglected. This is your fault, mate. You should’ve been there for her. I’m sorry she chose me as her company.” Callum smirked.

“She won’t choose you, you know? She’s too tied to me now that she won’t be able to even think about it. She’s pregnant again.”

Callum’s smirk faltered a bit but he kept his composure. Leaning in.

“Every time you kiss her, you will taste me too. You know? She gave me head many times. And every time you go down on her, you’ll taste me too. You can have her— I ain’t complaining about sharing.”

Austin clenched his fists before he slowly spoke, leaning in, whispering.

“You son of a bitch.” Austin slammed his fist on the table, catching the attention to himself but he was able to get it off him. “You son of a bitch.” Austin repeated before getting up.

“We can be a little threesome one day.” Callum said with a smirk.

Austin came back to the house an hour later, I didn’t notice him coming. Until I heard his voice.

“There you are!”

I turned around from petting Cookie. I sighed, I thought I had a little more freedom before he came back. I couldn’t bear to look at him. Shame consumed me. Sometimes I felt I was too dumb. Why was I ashamed when he never felt ashamed of doing the same to me.

“My favorite girls.” Austin said, smiling at us. Lori immediately got excited. She loved her daddy.

“She wanted to ride.” I said, patting Cookie once again.

“I want a ride too…” He said, squeezing my waist then his hand traveled to my ass.

I was surprised that he was— horny. Damnit, I should’ve known. Every time he was like that, it was because he had thought about or SEEN Callum.

Next thing you know, he made me passionate love all night. I didn’t remember him being this gentle or sweet. He told me that he did his homework and investigated about pregnancy sex I didn’t know that he was doing this because he wanted me to stop TASTING like Callum, as if he could erase what Callum had once done to me. His hands, his smell, his taste.

Afterwards, Austin cuddled up with me. Kissing my shoulder and neck softly.

“You do love me, right?” He muttered to me. “More than him.”

I stayed silent. Of course I loved him, but I was used to him rejecting my love at times.

“Do you love me?” He asked me once again, sitting up and looking at him.

“What a stupid question.” I responded and he stayed quiet.

Now he felt self-conscious of himself. Perhaps I cheated on him because Callum was fitter, taller, more charismatic, better than him

It was a cold answer.

But now he knew what it feels like.

UNI IS KILLING ME. I finished writing this at my English class.

Love y’all. 🫶❤️

I have another version of this but the character is different. But it has a MUCH MORE EXTENSIVE LORE.

[danielmolloystits]

a study in collectivist post-dissolutive reconciliation tactics (armand/lestat/daniel/louis, 1/1)

Summary:

The Polycule Break-Up Sex Fic

Rating: M Pairing: M/M/M/M (Armand/Lestat/Daniel/Louis) WC: ~1300

It is harder than one might expect to divide the property of four vampires after a break-up. They’ve been at it for hours and are still only halfway through their wardrobe.

“Lestat, I’m assuming this ‘Baby Slut’ crop top belongs to you?” Louis asks with a raised eyebrow, holding the offending garment up for inspection.

“Mmm, non,” Lestat replies. “Though I would look fantastic in it, I’m sure.”

Daniel snorts. “Well, it isn’t mine.”

They all look to Armand.

“It was on sale,” he sniffs haughtily. “And the shopgirl said it made me look ‘cunty.’”

“I think I’m gonna miss you most of all, Scarecrow,” Daniel says, and he means it. Armand was always his favorite. Too bad their relationship was functionally a crash course in medieval torture techniques. They really could’ve been something, if not for that.

Armand’s eyes are wide and sincere, like fiery dinner plates. “I’m going to miss you too, Daniel.”

“Nope, nope, no,” Louis interrupts, shaking his head. “We’re not doing this again. Remember how it ended last time? You caused a regime change. We’re ending this for a reason.”

“It was only a small one.” The eldest vampire’s pout is deadly, Daniel thinks. Armand Trembling Lip Incident, No Survivors. He can’t help himself; he reaches out and squeezes Armand’s hand. Armand smiles softly at him in return.

Louis groans. “I’m going to kill you two if you don’t cut it out.”

“You mean like you tried to kill me?” Lestat asks, hands on hips. “Tell me, Louis, how did that go for you the last time?”

“When are you going to let that go, it was over a century ago—”

“Maybe I could ‘let it go,’ as you say, if you were not so determined to break my heart at every possible turn, Louis—”

“Oh, I’m breaking your heart, am I?” Louis asks. “At least I’m not breaking your spine!”

“That was one time!” Lestat throws his hands up, exasperated. “And I apologized for it!”

“Guys,” Daniel interrupts, pulling away from where he had been making out with Armand. Armand whines and tries to pull him back in by his jacket. “This might not be productive.”

Louis stares at them, dumbfounded. “Have you looked at yourself lately? You think you’re in any position to tell me what is or isn’t productive?”

Daniel blinks at Louis. “Sorry, what did you say?” Armand is kissing his neck, now. It’s very distracting.

“Oh my God.” Louis rubs an exasperated hand over his face. “I cannot with you people.”

“Wait, no, Louis,” Lestat says, his expression that of a man having an epiphany. “I think they have the right idea.”

Louis looks like he wants to tear his hair out. “Jesus Christ, not you too!”

“No, lover, hear me out,” Lestat protests, an excited glint in his eye. “We have many unresolved feelings, no? That is the source of our amorous woes.”

“What’s your point?”

“What if we,” he gestures obscenely with one hand, “resolved them?”

Armand lifts his head from where he’s been busying himself with trying to give Daniel a hickey. “I agree with Lestat.”

“You agree with Lestat?” Daniel asks, shocked. “You never agree with Lestat.”

“Yes, I’m making an exception in this case.” For what it’s worth, he doesn’t seem all that pleased about it. “Because I would like to have sex with you.” He gazes up at Louis with his big owl eyes, then, and adds, “All of you.”

“Finally, someone here sees sense!” Lestat crows. “Louis, take your top off.”

While Louis sputters indignantly, Daniel shrugs. “Fuck it, I’m game.”

Louis seems very close to screaming. “What is wrong with you idiots ?” Then Lestat leans over to whisper something in his ear; Daniel can make out the words If you participate, I’ll do that thing where I... before he decides to tune it out. Whatever it is, it makes a dark flush rise to Louis’s cheeks. He pauses. Coughs. “Maybe it’s not such a bad idea after all.”

“Excellent,” Armand says, once more making himself comfortable Daniel’s lap. “Beloved, please do me the kindness of removing your clothing.”

“How am I supposed to do that with you on top of me?” Daniel asks, bemused.

“You’re sufficiently enterprising to figure it out.”

Lestat, meanwhile, is already naked and working on removing Louis’s clothing for him. Louis is swatting his hands away. “I can do it myself, Lestat.”

Lestat pouts, and it isn’t quite as devastating as Armand’s, but it’s still potent enough that it could risk causing an international incident. “But that’s so much less romantic.”

“May I remind you,” Louis begins calmly, “that we are breaking up? Am I the only one here who remembers that?” But then Lestat is on his knees, working on undoing Louis’s pants, and Louis is burying his hands in Lestat’s hair, and whatever other protests he may have had die on his tongue.

Armand is, evidently, growing impatient with Daniel’s lack of nudity. “How attached are you to this shirt?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s shredding it off of Daniel with his claws like a cat on a scratching post.

Regrettably, Daniel finds it really hot. Still, he can see the way Armand is eyeing his jeans and reckons he probably needs to put a stop to it before those get destroyed, too. He lifts his ex-boyfriend off of his lap and stands, and Armand makes this noise like he’s been mortally wounded, but then Daniel kisses him and the fucking gremlin just melts into it like he’s forgotten about his aspirations of disrobing Daniel entirely.

While Daniel is busy juggling the tasks of unbuckling his belt and subduing this wet-eyed creature with affection, like he’s hiding an animal’s medication in peanut butter, he can hear the telltale slurping sounds of Lestat going down on Louis with great enthusiasm.

“Mmmanhel, Mahman, mmph mff,” Lestat says.

Louis seems like he’s attempting not to laugh and moan simultaneously. “It’s impolite to talk with your mouth full, Lestat.”

There’s the slick pop of Lestat pulling off of him, and a pointed silence that Daniel assumes is punctuated with a tremendously bitchy look. “I was trying to tell our former paramours to get over here and join us.”

And, well, Daniel isn’t about to argue with that.

“Uh-uh,” Daniel argues, looking at the whiteboard Lestat has gotten to diagram his proposed configuration of bodies. It looks a bit like a Gordian knot of limbs. “I’m too old for that. You’re gonna make me throw my back out.”

“You can fly,” Louis says flatly.

“Yes, beloved.” Armand kisses him on the cheek. “I do believe you lost that excuse when I turned you.”

“Fine, but if my legs get tired, me and Lestat are switching places,” Daniel mutters.

Lestat grins. “Magnifique!” He gestures with his marker. “Now, I think it will be easiest if we start with Louis…”

When they’re lying in the afterglow, looking at one another with the softness that tends to accompany a truly earth-shattering orgasm, Daniel’s gaze drops to Lestat, who is sleeping nestled under the crook of his arm.

“Do you think…” he starts slowly, testing the waters.

Louis finishes the thought for him: “That maybe we shouldn’t break up after all?”

“Yeah.”

“I’d been considering that as well,” Armand says, from where he’s curled at the foot of their bed.

Louis shrugs the shoulder that isn’t wrapped around Daniel. “Might be worth a shot.”

Lestat, eyes still closed, smiles, and Daniel grins in return. Theirs might not be a perfect relationship, but it is theirs.

(And besides, it’ll probably be at least another month before they break up again.

There are worse things, anyway—the make-up sex is always spectacular.)

[cuubism]

A heist for a crown for a king? 🤔👑

yes. dream deserves a crown. dream insists he doesn't need a crown, everybody knows he is king. also he has his helm. hob says how many times i gotta tell you it's not about NEEDING it. it's about how fucking sexy you'll look. that's the priority. also you deserve it. dream is still flummoxed.

may i propose a DREAM heist for a DREAM crown.

--

Hob was... definitely going to get in trouble for this.

"We're definitely going to get in trouble for this," said Matthew, perched on his shoulder. He tittered nervously. And Matthew was one of the most ride-or-die people-- birds?-- Hob had ever met, so this was not a good sign. "Like. Getting my wings cut off trouble."

"He's not going to cut your fucking wings off, Jesus Christ," said Hob. He crept through the dreamspace, keeping to the shadows so as to try to avoid alerting the dream itself to their presence. "Drawing and quartering is a lot more entertaining."

"HOB. What the fuck." Matthew's claws dug into his skin like he really did mean to separate Hob's arm from his shoulder.

Hob shrugged. "Didn't live through 'ye olde medieval times,' as you put it, for nothing."

"I didn't call it that."

"Yeah, you did. That's what I get for agreeing to watch A Knight's Tale, I suppose."

Matthew squawked. "It's a good movie!"

"It was a good movie right up until it managed to convince you that "We Will Rock You" was actually sung at jousts," said Hob.

"In my defense--" started Matthew, then clacked his beak shut. "Nah, actually, I don't have a defense for that. I must have been totally sloshed."

Hob snorted. "Oh, you were."

"Well, who decided it was a good idea to feed Bailey's to a raven?"

"There was no point at which I thought it was a good decision," said Hob. He couldn't help his grin. "I just don't mind making a bad one."

"And here I thought we were friends."

Hob slipped through a doorway, ducking around the next corner. The dream castle was significantly more winding than a real one. It was slow going.

He started humming to himself, an incongruously jaunty old execution ballad. "His quarters stand not all together, But ye mai hap to ring them thether..."

"I'm begging you to stop," said Matthew. "Has anyone ever told you that you have a serious problem?"

Hob laughed. "Many times."

A small group of people -- figments of the dreamscape -- strode around the corner. Hob ducked into a tiny alcove, one which hadn't been there before he'd thought of needing it. He was gradually getting better at manipulating the Dreaming.

And his heart was hammering. Dream theft or not, it was thrilling.

"Never thought I'd be part of fucking Inception," grumbled Matthew, peering to see if it was all clear.

Hob crept back out into the hall and up a spiral staircase. "This is way more fun than Inception."

"And way more dangerous."

"You loved the last outing!"

"Yeah, that one didn't involve sneaking around in my boss's subconscious."

Hob rolled his eyes. "It's not Dream's subconscious." Finally at the center of the absolute maze that was the castle, he spied his prize, and slipped right through the bulletproof glass to get at it. On a stand at the center of the room sat the most gorgeous tiara, a winding thing of diamond leaves and ruby berries. He grinned. "It's the Princess's."

He swiped the thing from its stand, leaving a weight in its place for the pressured alarm he was sure still existed even in a dream.

"Dream is the Dreaming, dude. We're gonna get caught."

"Well, that's why you're here, isn't it? It's normal for you to be in dreams, it's not for me. You're my cover. You'll make it way less likely for Dream to--"

And they were yanked from the dream.

"Drawn and quartered!" Matthew squeaked, and then they were standing in the throne room.

Dream was, of course, standing a few steps up on the grand staircase, glaring at them. Glaring at Hob, really. Matthew squawked again in fright, puffing up his feathers. Hob just grinned back at Dream.

"When I gave you free run of the Dreaming," Dream started, some of the menace Hob had heard him use with rogue nightmares on display, "this was not what I meant."

Hob wasn't afraid of Dream, though. Never had been. "Don't take it out on Matthew," he said. "Wasn't his idea."

Dream's stormy gaze flickered over to Matthew. "Matthew, you are dismissed. I will deal with you later."

Matthew didn't need to be told twice. He winged away out of the throne room, calling back, "Good luck with getting drawn and quartered, Hob!"

Dream raised an eyebrow. He still looked dreadfully unamused. "Drawn and quartered?"

"We've watched too many medieval movies," Hob explained.

"Ah." His gaze found the tiara clasped in Hob's hand. "What, exactly, is that?"

He obviously knew. It was made of dream stuff, after all. Still, Hob knelt and held it out to him. "For my liege."

Dream strode down the few steps separating them, fluid as water streaming over a fall, his long cloak trailing behind him. Majestic creature. Majestic king. Did he really expect Hob to be at all normal about it?

Dream plucked the tiara from Hob's hands. He tilted it back and forth. The light through the stained glass illuminated it in every color imaginable and cast refracted rainbows on his face. "You stole it from a dream."

Hob flashed him a crooked grin. "Guilty."

Dream tipped his head up with one fingertip under his chin, until Hob's neck was craned back and he was meeting his gaze. "That," he drawled, his eyes flashing dark, "is very disrespectful."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yes." Dream didn't release Hob's chin; if anything, he leaned closer so Hob had to look up even further. "Did you think you would not be caught? Creeping around in my halls?"

"We'll, I'm very good," Hob said. This was hardly the first thing he'd stolen for Dream, though it was the first one he'd attempted in the Dreaming.

"Or perhaps," continued Dream, and the darkness in his eyes looked hungry, now, though no less dangerous. "Perhaps, you wanted to be caught."

Hob winked at him, cheeks heating. "Well. I may be good, but I could hardly expect you not to feel it when it's your skirts I was rustling under."

"Is that what you were doing?" Dream swept his thumb along Hob's lip, dipping into his mouth. "Fiending for punishment?"

"Just trying to please my lord. Are you pleased, my love?"

"That is not quite the word I would use, dearest one." A sharp smile was creeping its way onto his lips, eyes burning with a dark warmth, like smoldering coals.

He placed the tiara on Hob's head.

Shadows dripped from it, falling over Hob's shoulders and back. Dream's hands lingered at Hob's temples, stroking his hair back behind his ears.

"Devoted one." His voice rumbled pleasantly through Hob's body, and Hob shivered. "Mischievous one. What am I to do with you?"

"Only whatever you want," said Hob, leaning into his touch. "As usual."

"Hmm. I think..."

Shadows fell around the throne room, dropped from the ceiling like banners and speckled like blackened stars. Hob knew those shadows, knew the way they were meant to intimidate though they did nothing but make him want more, make him hungrier, make him want to hold Dream close in every meaning of the word.

And he knew that bright darkness in his lover's eyes, too. The sky during an eclipse.

Dream drew him back to his feet. Hob stumbled in so they were a breath apart.

"Whatever prize you were seeking when you embarked on this foolhardy task?" Dream hummed, just before pulling Hob in to meet his lips. "I think you should claim it."

[theteasetwrites]

Merciless Beauty

Chapter 9: Heal the Injury

❧ Pairing: Knight Daryl Dixon x Princess Reader ❧ Era: Medieval fantasy AU ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: angst, violence, blood, gore, injury, some scenes may be triggering for those who are sensitive to sexual assault/abuse, so tread carefully! ❧ Word Count: 6.9k

❧ Before You Read...

❧ Glossary

❧ In this Chapter: In Alexandria, the man who calls himself Jesus offers his help in an effort to defeat Negan and the Saviors. Meanwhile, at the Sanctuary, you appease Negan's desires in the hopes of killing him when he is most vulnerable, but when an attempt backfires, you learn the true meaning of despair.

❧ A/N: Another rough chapter. Well, the bad stuff is bookended by some good stuff. But yeah, definitely pay attention to the warnings again for this chapter. Sorry, but I have to make Negan terrible ok? And again, Negan is ramped up to be worse than he is in the show (but tbh he is still ruthless in the show so he is really not even that much worse). I don't want to spoil it tho, so I will just stop talking. Enjoy!

In the once pristine great hall, where now the floor was littered with the bodies of dead walkers that had yet to be cleared, King Ezekiel sat upon his throne, his leg anxiously shaking as he and what was left of his court awaited for the guards to bring in the guest.

Jesus, he called himself. The irony was not lost on Daryl, who began to wonder if perhaps this man who called himself Jesus was the real messiah, whose arrival on Earth was foretold in the Book of Revelation. At this point, such an arrival would be welcomed with open arms. If Jesus had truly come back, bringing with him Heaven’s army to fight the forces of evil that plagued this land, including the man who took his princess from him, then Daryl would not send him away. 

But, alas, there was no sound of trumpets, no seven seals, no parting of the clouds to allow His descension upon the Earth. This Jesus had to have been a mortal man, and if there was anything Daryl knew of mortal men, it was that they were not to be trusted. Especially not at a time like this.

When the man was brought in, hands tied behind his back as he was led forth through the great hall by two armed guards on either side of him, it was not immediately obvious that the man wasn’t the son of God. 

After all, he looked the part: long hair of umber hue that touched a little past his shoulders, and a stately beard to match. Standing not far from the king’s throne, Daryl took note that the man was well kept, with vestments made from the finest imported threads, colored with rich dyes. He was half-armored, wearing a fitted gambeson with plate pauldrons strapped to his shoulders, under which was draped a long cloak of vibrant tyrian purple. 

What was most striking about him, though, were his eyes―deep-set, intense pools of azure that seemed to oscillate between stern and friendly, though always calm, cool, and collected. In fact, he did not seem rattled by the guards’ rough handling at all, nor by the way one of the guards forced him to kneel before the king. The man simply held the king’s gaze, his lips curling ever so slightly into an earnest smile.

He began to speak, his voice not fearful nor threatening. “Your majesty, it’s an honor to―”

“You will speak only when you are spoken to,” replied the king, his voice much harsher than Daryl had heard it before, except when he spoke to Negan. “State your business, Jesus.”

The man straightened his back and cleared his throat. “Well, seeing as your situation is dire, I will cut to the chase. I’ve brought my people here because you are in need of our help.”

The king narrowed his eyes. “And what help do you have to offer?”

“Fighters, for a start,” replied the man. “Capable fighters. Over a hundred of them. Combined with your forces, enough to stand a chance against a common enemy―the Saviors.”

This intrigued the court, Sir Daryl notwithstanding.

He exchanged a curious look with Richard, who seemed skeptical, but equally interested in whatever else the man called Jesus had to say.

“Go on,” said the king.

Jesus’ smile upturned just a little more, as though he was hoping the king would say those exact two words. 

“I am the ruler of a small principality called the Hilltop. It is likely that you have never heard of it, as we are located far from your kingdom. We, too, were ravaged by Negan and the Saviors. They took everything from us, including countless lives. That was over a year ago now, and we’ve grown since, building up our arsenal and training our people for battle. The Saviors neglected to kill all of us, and we’ve been hiding in the shadows ever since, living as nomads, and waiting for the opportunity to attack.”

A chattering emerged in the hall, members of court whispering amongst themselves before the king stomped his foot with several thuds that echoed through the high ceilings. “Silence!” he ordered. Turning back to Jesus, he spoke again, still suspicious of the man’s intentions “And why have you decided to come to our aid now, the precise point at which my kingdom is severely weakened?”

Jesus’ gaze dropped for a moment, as melancholy overtook his once confident features. “I am truly sorry, your majesty, but we set out a fortnight ago, traveling in caravans once we had heard word that the Saviors were beginning their assault on your kingdom. It was only when we arrived this morning that we realized that we were too late… But we are here now, ready to fight for you, for all those whose lives have been torn apart by Negan and his cronies.” 

It all seemed too good to be true. Could this be a trap, some cruel joke of Negan’s own sick and twisted fabrication? Then again, why would he bother with such a chore, when he had already gotten what he wanted? And Jesus seemed earnest, albeit a little naive with his unyielding sense of hope. Perhaps taking a chance on him, though, was the only option. At least, it was the only immediate hope Daryl had of getting you back. 

But he knew the king might not be swayed as easily. 

“Even if, by some miracle, we had a chance of defeating Negan’s army, we do not even know where the Sanctuary is.”

And then, a full smile split Jesus’ face. “Well, your majesty, I happen to know precisely where the Sanctuary is.” The court broke out into hushed murmurs again, while the king leaned forward in his seat, intrigued. 

“How?”

“When the Saviors came, I was taken prisoner, held in the dungeon and tortured for hours on end until I pledged allegiance to Negan. I never gave in—I escaped. I know that castle inside out.”

Without the composure to keep himself silent, Sir Daryl stepped forward, making himself known to the foreign prince who knelt before the king. From the corner of Ezekiel’s eye, he watched the knight stand tall, beginning to speak directly to Jesus. Despite his confusion, Ezekiel did not silence him. 

“The princess was taken by Negan last night,” said the knight. “She is imprisoned somewhere in the Sanctuary against her will. If we make an assault on the Sanctuary, with your people, would you help us find her?”

Jesus looked wide-eyed between the knight and the king. “Of course,” he said. “I can lead you through the Sanctuary to find her.”

The king, however, was a little more skeptical. Perhaps Daryl’s desperation to get you back was clouding his judgment, but he was about ready to get on his horse and go with this strange man and his people to find you right now. Ezekiel was a little more experienced in dealing with foreign dignitaries and their negotiations. 

“And why should I trust you?” he said. “There must be something you want in return from Alexandria.”

“Well, in return for our services, the Hilltop simply asks for future alliances with Alexandria. And, if you’re amenable to it, we’d be willing to offer our help with repairing your kingdom in exchange for citizenship. The Hilltop has an abundance of grain, livestock, steel, all of which we would bring to Alexandria… And, to be frank, your kingdom has no other choice but to trust us. Your chances of getting your daughter back are low, unless you accept our help.”

He was right, the king knew that. 

As he stood from his throne, he gestured to the man who knelt before him. “Arise, Prince Jesus of the Hilltop,” he commanded, his voice strong and echoing through the great hall. 

Jesus stood to his feet, meeting the king’s eyes as he walked towards him, dignified and head held high. When Ezekiel placed his hand on the prince’s shoulder, the court knew that the king had accepted the Hilltop’s aid.

Without another moment’s hesitation, Sir Daryl stepped forward again, his impatience growing with every second that you were gone. Perhaps he was lacking chivalry, or even making it too evidently clear that he loved you, but in his desperation, he did not care one bit.

“What the hell are we waitin’ for?” he said. “Let’s do this.”

You’d been counting down the days like a prisoner—the world’s most pampered prisoner. Seven days, when the clock struck midnight. Seven days trapped in the Sanctuary. 

Negan hadn’t come to see you in that time, with only servants bringing you meticulously arranged dishes on silver platters, with the finest cutlery money could buy. Somewhat infuriatingly, you had recognized the steak knife you’d been given, that intricate detailing on the handle that had been carved by hand with the crest of Alexandria. 

You’d wondered if it had been a coincidence, but you knew better: it was a subtle way of taunting you, reminding you that your kingdom had been ravaged by the Saviors, just as you would soon be ravaged by Negan.

That is, whenever he would be reminded of your existence.

Tonight, it seemed he finally considered you worthy of his presence again, after you’d struck him in self-defense the night you arrived. Either he had brushed off the incident, or his lust overshadowed his bitterness. In any case, you’d been summoned to his chambers, but not before lifting your feather pillow to reveal that steak knife, the one you’d been so bold to keep to yourself before the last servant could take your platter away. 

It was freshly sharpened, too. Last night, you’d tested its ability to cut through meat, and sure enough, it cut like butter. Negan’s flesh couldn’t be much different.

But you’d have to get close to him, to obey him, to submit to him. It would be difficult, trying to act as though you’d come around to the idea of being Negan’s wife. Even the thought of it threatened to cause a bout of nausea, but it couldn’t be much worse than having to live the rest of your life in devotion to him. An hour or two of flattering him, entertaining him, perhaps even accepting his advances… God, it sickened you, but it would be the simplest way to catch him off guard just long enough to strike. 

Daryl had helped you practice against walkers at times, but never living men, never men who could just as easily hurt you back if you made the wrong move at the wrong time. You could always run away from walkers, not men. 

Still, your hatred for Negan fueled you. With every step you took towards his quarters, guards on either side of you escorting you the way there, you thought of every horrible thing he had done, and all the horrible things you hadn’t known he had done. Killing was never something you had thought you would ever do. You’d been taught that no mortal could ever take the life of another man—that such a thing was God’s decision and God’s alone. 

If you knew God, though, if you knew what God stood for, you knew that God would not punish you for ridding the world of a man like Negan. If He did, then perhaps God was not as just as you’d been told to believe. 

The fact that a man like this was still breathing, while Daryl was not, was proof enough that there was no divine justice in this world, and that sometimes, a mortal would have to take matters into their own hands.

When the guards led you into Negan’s chamber, you were greeted by the man, whose back was turned towards you as he poured himself a goblet of wine. The door was hurriedly shut behind you, with the low-pitched click of the turn of a lock quickly following. 

The man’s eyes gazed over his shoulder, taking stock of your appearance—as it was the middle of the night, and you’d been practically woken from sleep, you were clad in only a semi-translucent white chemise that reached your ankles, over which you’d draped a scarlet colored housecoat to protect your modesty, and to conceal the knife you’d hidden in its inner pocket.

“Did my summons disturb your sleep, princess?” He turned, revealing not one, but two goblets of wine, one in each hand as he sauntered forward, towards you. 

“No.” In fact, it didn’t. You hadn’t been able to get to sleep before midnight since you’d been captured. 

“Good.” With an outstretched hand, he offered you a goblet. “Wine?”

Wine disgusted you… You took it. “Thank you.” 

With only a moment’s hesitation, you raised the goblet to your lips and took a small sip, then a much bigger one as you tilted the goblet upwards and gulped down the rest of the red liquid. You would need it, though you swallowed it with a grimace.

“You just keep surprising me, princess.”

“I was… quite thirsty.”

“There’s plenty more where that came from, if you’d like.”

Your head was already beginning to swim. “No, no… Thank you. May I sit?”

The man raised an eyebrow, then turned to gesture towards the bed—canopied and shrouded in dozens of ornately decorated pillows. 

“Be my guest.”

He seemed both surprised and amused by your ease, watching you with a widening grin as you crossed over to the edge of the bed to sit. As he took another sip of his wine, he sat himself beside you, sending a shiver down your spine that you hoped would be concealed by your attempt at calmness. 

As he sat, you took note of his appearance. He wore no armor, of course. In fact, he seemed to be only clothed in a robe not unlike yours. It would be easy to penetrate his skin, when the opportunity would present itself.

The more he leaned closer, his eyes unabashedly trailing over your chest, which began to heave noticeably underneath your chemise, you felt fear rise up within you. How could you not be afraid? He looked at you as though you were prey.

“Milady,” he began, the word from him like millions of little daggers penetrating your eardrums. Only one man deserved to call you that, to refer to you as his. “I want to apologize for my crass behavior. You see, it’s just… You’re so beautiful, and to think of anyone having you before me…”

Despite your disgust, you played into it, attempting to be the submissive maiden he wanted you to be. 

“No one has had me, sir.” To say that caused you immense heartache, knowing that you had denied the love you shared with Daryl, but in order to gain Negan’s trust, just for the moment, you’d do anything. Almost anything. “I should be the one apologizing for my lack of decorum… I—I just…”

Negan swallowed the rest of his wine, letting the empty goblet dangle in his hands and fall to the floor with a quiet thud. As he leaned closer, you watched his hand settle on your thigh, long fingers curling into your flesh. The heavy pet of his touch all but silenced you. When he leaned so close that you could feel the sting of his heavy, wine-scented breath on your cheek. 

“You don’t have to explain.” He squeezed your thigh, as his other hand touched your lower back, moving in circles just above your bottom. It was a filthy, lecherous touch, one that made you nauseous and dizzy with disgust. “Do you like when I touch you like this?”

His lips were so close now, the wiry hairs of his freshly trimmed beard scratching the soft flesh of your cheek. Leaning ever closer, he did not kiss you, but dragged his wanton lips over your skin, as if to taunt you. 

“Yes.” You weren’t sure how many more lies you could tell without being deemed a sinner. 

While his hand inched up your thigh, his lips pursed to kiss the side of your face, the feeling of which made you shut your eyes tight, until a few tears began to fall. 

You felt vile, impure, desecrated. Though you were no longer a virgin in the carnal sense, you had not felt this growing defilement rising in you, polluting your mind, body, and soul. Not when Daryl looked at you. Not when he touched you. Not when he made love to you. 

With him, it felt like a fresh spring daisy blossoming for the first time. Now, it felt like you were wilted, decaying, rotten. It only fueled your anger, your back straightening and your lips tightening as you tried to ignore his touches, his mouth contaminating your once pure skin as he licked your neck, his hand squeezing desperately at your mound from over top of your nightgown. 

“Please,” you whispered, somewhere between a plea and an aggravated groan. 

“My princess.” You squeezed another few tears as you winced at the phrase, which had so potently reminded you of your true love, whose princess you truly were. Not Negan’s. “I knew you wanted me. I could see it, the way you look at me, all innocent and scared, like a little wide-eyed fawn… Even now you tremble.”

Indeed, your tenseness had given way to jitters, your heart shivering as if it was encased in a thick block of ice. That’s what he felt like to you, too—his touch icy and bitter, with his bony chest digging into your shoulder and his slimy fingers violating you with more and more desperation as he fondled you. He was more like a skeleton than a man of flesh and blood, and you were in his grasp. Not for long, you assured yourself. A moment would present itself, and you would end him. For your kingdom. For Daryl. For you. 

He grasped at your chin, forcing you to face him as he smiled at you, his eyes focused on your agape lips that trembled with each nervous breath.

“You’re mine,” he said. “Say you’re mine.”

Never!

But you could not say that, not now. Not when you were so close to getting his guard down just enough to turn on him. With the words struggling to form, their weight being tugged out of you like tattered rags tied together and shoved down your throat, you appeased him. 

“I am yours.”

Your tear-soaked voice faltered as you spoke, but the man did not seem to notice, drunk with his own arrogance at the sound of those words on your lips. A part of you wondered if he even cared whether or not you told the truth—you wondered if he just wanted the illusion of being wanted. 

Apart from his panting breaths, a silence hung between you for a moment, with an air of anticipation drawing out those several seconds into what felt like a century. You knew what he was about to do, and though you could not stop crying, much to his lack of care, you prepared yourself, straightening your back to face the assault of his lips.

They were cold, just like everything else about him, but your lips warmed them, much to his satisfaction, and to your sorrow. They fit uncomfortably, but perhaps that was because you knew your lips weren’t meant for him. In fact, you were certain no human lips were meant to suit a mouth like his. He was so vile to you that you were sure he did not deserve the pleasure of love. But there was no love in his kiss to begin with, only lust. A dark, demanding lust. 

His hand clenched around a chunk of your hair, nails scratching your scalp as you whimpered into his mouth, your lips being manipulated by his as he mangled you with his kiss. But you did not fight back, not yet. You only let him control you, his body leaning into yours to get you laying flat on the bed behind you. Underneath you, you could feel the handle of your knife digging into your side. It made your eyes shoot open, though he did not see. He was occupied with your mouth, violating its sanctity with his wiggling tongue.

If he were any heavier, you might not have been able to loosen your arm out from under him, but you managed to free yourself, only to place your hands on his back, with the hopes of encouraging him despite your stiffness. 

But the longer he kissed you, fondled you, licked you, you began to slowly remove one hand, using it to dig into the pocket of your robe, where the sharp blade of the knife had nearly torn a hole.

As you clenched your fingers around the handle of the knife, the man on top of you mumbled that same sickening phrase against your open mouth. “You’re mine.”

When he said it, it was more possessive, almost victorious, as if he’d won you. It was not a matter of being yours because you wanted to be his, but because he had decided you were. Being under him now, physically oppressed by the weight of his body, represented how powerless you had been made to feel most of your life. Only in recent times had you felt free, and that was because of Daryl. He made you feel free, not only because he freed you, but because he loved you. His love had freed you.

And now, he was dead because of the devil that had you in his snare, his filthy mouth soaking yours with his rancid spit. You hated him, and as you raised the knife higher, you did not fear the consequences of your actions. You did not even fear death. Death would only bring you closer to your love, whose desperate cries of pain echoed in your weary mind. Tears flooded over your cheeks now, whimpers lost in the cavernous void that was his mouth. 

Daryl… His name repeated in your head, your internal voice crying out, pleading. You felt sick to your stomach, nausea threatening to overtake you. Though he was dead, and what you did now was only to get Negan as close to you as possible, distracted just long enough to make your strike, you felt you had betrayed him, he whose loyalty was stronger than you believed you could ever be. 

All you wanted was for it all to end, and you could end it now. Squeezing that knife, you thought only of him, of your sorry excuse for a knight. How you cried, your sobs mistaken by Negan to be moans of pleasure from his kiss, but the truth remained—your heart was broken. I am so sorry, my love. 

“Say it,” he said between his vulgar kisses. “Say you’re mine. Say you belong to me.”

His now serpentine voice stung your ears, reawakening you to the moment at hand, to the knife your fingers clinged to as you raised it higher, Negan unaware.

You aimed the blade downwards, its sharp, shining point just several inches from his back, just about where you knew his heart would be, if he had one in that bony body of his. 

“I—I belong…”

With your eyes squeezed shut, you held the blade with a shaky hand as you thought of him again, those sparkling blue eyes. That sinuous, often messy hair of caramel brown. That voice, raspy yet soft, tickling your ears in the most pleasant way. Those hands, big and strong and always so very warm. And that smile… That was your favorite part of him. It was rare to see it in all its glory, but you counted yourself lucky to have beheld its presence, to have felt it against your cheek as he kissed you. 

And oh, you hadn’t been able to kiss him enough. How you wished for more time, for more long nights wrapped up in the embrace of his muscle-bound arms as you shared in whispers until your voices faded into each other. You could never forget him, not ever. Above all else, you could never forget who you really belonged to, and how you belonged to him because you wanted to be his. 

“I belong to…”

Finally freeing your mouth, Negan trailed his lips to your collarbone, beginning to suck on your skin in an attempt to mark you there, though you did not feel it, instead focusing on the image of your knight, with that crooked boyish smile.

Still, holding the knife, you opened your mouth to speak, with one name on your breathy voice: “Daryl.”

With a jolt, Negan pulled away, furrowing his brows as he looked down at you, with only the dim candlelit glow to illuminate his confusion. “What?”

Your eyes wide, you panicked, bringing down the knife in a frantic motion, but Negan was faster, lifting himself up and grasping hard at your wrist, where your trembling hand held the knife. 

You could see its silvery glimmer reflecting in Negan’s wide eyes, his breath quickening and his chest heaving as the veins in his forehead and neck swelled. He tugged the knife from your hand, while you only could lay there frozen, still in disbelief of what had happened. You had gotten so close to freedom, to vengeance, and now, you were sure you’d be killed before you could ever get another chance at killing him. 

“Princess,” he said, his voice somewhere between sick amusement and utter, total rage. “Either you’re a lot kinkier than you look, or you just tried to fuckin’ kill me.”

The knife fell to the floor with a clatter, followed by a silence, during which you sat up, breathing heavy, teary breaths. “I—I’m—”

The back of his hand cut you off, the weight of his smack sending you stumbling off the bed and onto all fours. You had half a mind to crawl towards the fallen knife in front of you, but he kicked it across the room just as you began to reach for it. 

“You really are a dirty little bitch.”

In your shame, you could only hang your head, weeping. Never in your life had you felt so humiliated, so devoid of whatever poise and honor and dignity you’d ever had. As if to hide your sobbing face, you curled your head into your hands, but Negan would not let you have even that last shred of self-respect you had left. You felt his foot underneath your stomach, kicking upwards to forcibly flip you over onto your back, your spine hitting the hard timber with a painful thud. 

Two long, spidery legs stretched out on either side of you as he towered directly over you, looking down at you now almost with pity, but mostly with a snarling fury. 

As you choked back on the lump in your throat, you lifted your chin in one last attempt to appear like the dignified princess you were supposed to be, but the words you spoke through forcibly tight lips betrayed you: “Just kill me.”

In his cruelty, he only laughed, that arrogant chuckle that usually made your skin crawl, but now you couldn’t feel anything, not even the pain from his strike, which would surely manifest itself in a bruise.

“Killing you, princess, would be a waste. Besides, I don’t kill beautiful women.”

I am so flattered.

But you only repeated those words, this time throwing your head back as you screamed, your voice breaking into a pleading cry. “Just kill me!”

With a tilt of his head, he studied your face—your swelling, reddened eyes and your lashes decorated with little globules of tears, like the dewdrops on gossamer in a cool spring morning. He was right—you were pretty when you cried. It was a sight too beautiful to rid the world of. Well, to rid himself of. Everything he did, he did for himself, after all. 

“No… I’ve got a better idea. Guards!” The door burst open to startle you just before two Saviors marched in, their eyes not on you, but Negan, who stepped over you as he spoke. “Since my bride is so very ungrateful of the luxuries and splendors I have granted her here, I believe the only solution is to show her just how much more… inhospitable we can be.” 

You watched him gesture to the guards, not even caring enough to look your way. He was angry, but too angry to yell. It was that eerie, quiet anger. The kind that was so much worse than the belligerent type. 

All you could feel as your body went numb from the sheer overstimulation of emotion was the grip of the two guards, one on either side of you, pulling you up by your arms, though you did not protest much—you did not have the strength within you. You were broken, defeated. The conflagration of rage had washed away with the deluge of your tears, leaving behind only a sea of sorrow and despair. 

“Take her to the dungeon,” he said. “If she cannot learn to show gratitude, and to love and please her husband, we shall teach her.”

Now feeling barren, with no tears left to cry, you were all but dragged through the corridors, barely able to carry yourself on your weakened legs. They took you further down, until you reached the dungeon, the cold, damp stone under your bare feet causing you to cringe in disgust. 

Through a corridor shrouded in the darkness of night, lit only by the flames of the torches upon the stone walls, you were taken to a row of cells, all of which were unoccupied, except for half-decayed remains scattered around, some hanging in iron cages, others strewn about indiscriminately. 

You had your eyes stuck on one particularly fresh looking corpse as you walked, its flesh almost resembling candle wax that was melting off the bone. Flies swarmed the place, and you grimaced at the maggots that gushed out from the corpse’s eye socket as they toppled over each other in a small avalanche. 

In your distraction, you did not see the severed foot that you tripped over, eliciting a chuckle from the Saviors who led you down the dank, gory chamber. 

The horrible creak of the rusty old bars opening had stirred you from your thoughts, along with the sudden thrust as the other guard pushed you forward, your knees hitting the cold hard ground with a searing pain. 

If you had any strength in you left, you might’ve risen to your feet, lunging yourself towards the bars of the cell as the guards locked the padlock around the chain to beg them to let you go, but even if you could leave, where would you go?

Your home was destroyed, and even if you could get back there, you had no idea how to find your way back. Your father could be miles away by now, and the only other hope you had once had was in Daryl. 

Daryl, who was gone. 

You had nothing, nowhere, no one. 

Yet, in the cold, dark, dank dungeon you found yourself in, surrounded by the mutilated, decaying corpses of those who had been tortured by the Saviors, there was one living truth you could cling to: you were safe from Negan, for now.

From this distance, it was difficult to make out the exact layout of the castle, but Jesus seemed sure—this was the Sanctuary, and tomorrow, Alexandria and the Hilltop would lay waste to Negan and his Saviors. Well, that was the hope, anyway. 

It was several acres away, far enough for the guards in the battlements not to see the camp that had been set up for the night, but close enough for the knight to study the shape of the castle, its towers with tall, conical roofs and flags bearing Negan’s crest billowing in the cool night air. A full moon lit up the otherwise dreary tableau, along with the few flickers of firelight between the crenelations in the castle’s curtain. 

Though the night was quiet, with only a cool, gentle breeze softly whistling through the trees, Daryl’s mind was full of disquiet, as it had been since you were taken a week ago. The army of three hundred or so soldiers from Alexandria and the Hilltop had been traveling for three days, the other four days spent preparing for battle. Still, he could not wait, not even allowing himself sleep but only for a few hours each night. 

Even when he did sleep, it was uneasy, with the lingering dread of what evils you might be exposed to keeping him on edge. It was as though his mind was punishing his body, depriving it of sleep as discipline for losing you. At every waking moment, he was thinking of ways he could’ve kept you from being taken, of things he could’ve done to prevent the inevitable. He knew, though, that ultimately, there was no stopping Negan, and that, sooner or later, he would’ve found you. 

But the only hope he had was in knowing that you were alive, that Negan could not kill you. After all, you were his prize, his symbol of victory over Alexandria. Though he shuddered to think of all the ways he could hurt you, at least that one hope was still keeping him going. 

Now, the knight stood alone, far away from the glow of the campfires the other soldiers had built. Though the others seemed content to chat amongst themselves quietly, some even sharing in a few laughs, all Daryl could do was think of you. 

I will find you, my love. his own voice echoed in his head. I will bring you home. I promise. 

But his thoughts were soon interrupted by a voice he recognized, though he could not believe was speaking to him. 

“Tis dangerous to be so far from the camp, good sir.”

There were few moments he had shared alone with the king, and though Ezekiel was a genial, kindhearted king, there was an air of prestige about him that made the knight nervous. Perhaps it was the very fact that he was royalty, or, more likely, the constant worry that he might suspect Daryl’s true feelings for the man’s daughter. For all he knew, the king could have known of your trysts all along. 

“But it is nice, the quiet,” added the king, followed by a deep breath as he took in the fresh, clean air of the woods. “Savor it, for tomorrow, there will be no quiet.”

Daryl turned to the side to meet the king’s noble gaze. He looked weary, but hopeful, with that spark of faith in his eye. 

“No Savior left alive,” said Daryl, repeating the phrase the king had spoken earlier during the arrangement of the plan. “If what Jesus said is true, though, there are women and children there. Elderly, too.”

“Then they are to be spared.”

“Only men big enough to carry a sword,” agreed the knight. “That’s always been the rule in battle.”

“And Negan. We must kill Negan.”

Indeed, Daryl had been meaning to ask: who would get the pleasure of sending the bastard to Hell?

“How do you want to do it?” asked the knight. “We could capture him, take him back to Alexandria for a public execution, or we could kill him on sight. What say you?”

The king only held Daryl’s gaze. “I want it over with tomorrow,” he said. “I do not care who gets the kill, and I do not care how. I do not care if he suffers or if it is a quick death, I just want to see that vermin’s head on a spike, on display before the ruins of the Sanctuary. I want him to pay for his transgressions with his life, and I want Satan to torture him in Hell. More than that, I just want my child back.”

“That is my top priority, I assure you. I will—” He stopped himself, realizing that he was speaking too much from his own perspective, but in his mind, you were solely his responsibility, and his alone. He was quick to catch himself. “We will find her.”

But Ezekiel seemed to catch on, at least a little.

The king had known more than you or Daryl thought he’d known, but it was only as far as the friendship that had blossomed between you. As for the excursions, and your true feelings, he knew none of that, as it had been so carefully concealed from his knowledge. Still, he knew that Daryl cared for you, and it was not becoming increasingly obvious the more he devoted himself to getting you back. 

“You care a great deal for her, yes?”

I love her. 

“Yes, your majesty.”

Ezekiel smiled, and in his smile was that same warmth and kindness that graced your face. “She cares for you, too. In fact, at the tournament, she was worried sick about you. She begged me to all but stop the joust, lest you get hurt.”

Daryl’s cheeks heated against the cool of the late night breeze as he lowered his head, hoping to hide the obvious blush. Despite being so flattered by the idea, he cleared his throat in an attempt to seem nonchalant. Inside, though, he was so very giddy at the thought of his sweet princess, whom he had tried so hard to impress that day. But that happy memory gave way to seriousness again.

“She is… good-hearted.”

“Indeed, and she cares for her people. All of them—the young and the old, the prosperous and the destitute, the healthy and the ailing. The strong and the weak. She has always been selfless. I know one day, she will be a great queen.”

The knight could only nod in agreement, while his heart ached for you, to know you were all right. The more your father praised you, the more he became desperate to get you back home, and the more he felt as though it was his responsibility, and his alone. 

“She will.”

Ezekiel’s hand weighed heavily on Daryl’s shoulder now, as he stepped aside to face him more directly. Though his lips were pulled into a kind smile, his eyes portrayed an earnestness that caught the knight’s attention.

“I must ask something of you, Sir Daryl.”

As if by instinct, Daryl straightened his back in an attempt to be the picture of knighthood he knew he should always display. “Anything, your majesty.”

“When we get to the Sanctuary tomorrow, I want you to be in charge of finding the princess.”

It was both a shock and a relief. Though he was already planning on separating from the battle to find you as soon as he could, to know the king had made an explicit request was a reassurance and an honor. Besides, he certainly was not going to let Jesus, the only person who knew how to navigate the inside of the keep, go looking for you alone. Though he was almost certain that the prince was sincere in his loyalty, he could not risk a blindspot. 

“I know you care for her more than anyone else here besides me,” the king continued, “and you’re her bodyguard. It only makes sense for you to be in charge of her safety… And I trust you more than Jesus.”

That went without saying.

“My king,” began the knight, keeping his gaze level with that of Ezekiel’s, “I will gladly find your daughter.”

“Good man,” replied the king with a pat on the knight’s shoulder. He began to make his way back towards the camp as he spoke again: “It would do you good to retire soon. We have a big day ahead of us.”

Indeed, Daryl knew of the challenges laid out before him, of the blood that would be shed tomorrow, of both Saviors and his own. He knew battle well, though he had not seen one against fellow living men in quite some time. It never got any easier, but this battle was different. He could feel it.

To take someone’s life indiscriminately, without consideration for the pain and suffering that one would inflict, was always difficult to grasp. Now, though, Daryl was not simply fighting a king’s war. He was not fighting for the supremacy of a religion or for claim over territory. This was personal.

Tomorrow, he would have no remorse, no compassion, no sorrow. He would not mourn the deaths of countless Saviors who were just as evil as Negan. Oh, and Negan… 

That man would not escape Daryl’s wrath this time. In fact, he’d face the worst of it. It was not just the fact that he had taken you from him, but that he had taken your home, pillaged it until the place was left to ruin. Beyond all else, he had frightened you, hurt you.

A knight’s most chivalrous duty was to protect the honor of his lady, no matter how gruesome the act of doing so may be. He had an obligation to kill that man, to make him pay for the suffering he had caused you, his lady to whom he devoted his mind, body, and soul.

Though the king did not care who got the final death blow, Daryl knew one thing above all else to be true: he was going to kill that man. After all, he had told the man to his face that he would be the one to kill him, and a knight never breaks a promise.

~

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[queerprayers]

hello, i hope you are having a lovely day! thanks for having this blog! 💖 my exposure to faith has mostly been through mainstream doubt-unfriendly environments so it felt eye-opening to follow your blog and a few others that are quite welcoming to it!

do you possibly have any recommendations for nurturing faith when one has so many doubts, including the existence of God or belief in the events of the Bible? or possibly even reading recs?

i was raised agnostic in a Muslim-majority country and i have a diverse friend group with Muslims, Christians, Pagans and agnostic friends so whenever i wish to believe i find myself both doubting and also not knowing how anyone chooses any religion or denomination to follow, but i like to think everyone's faith/religion is valid and connects them to God. anyway that was a bit long, thanks for the blog and answering asks again! :)

Welcome, beloved! I'm so glad you're here and it brings me so much joy to know that people can be honest about their doubt here—it's an integral part of so many people's experience and to repress it or pretend it doesn't exist is misleading and painful.

I'm currently reading A History of God by Karen Armstrong (which I'll probably quote from a couple times) and thinking a lot about how conceptions of God have changed over time, and therefore how doubt has changed—we can only doubt when we have something to doubt! For some people, this book would probably increase their doubt (just a fact, not a bad thing), but for me, learning about how culturally-specific and constructed and interconnected religion deepens my faith in a God watching over it all.

One way that I see people talk about doubt (and I've definitely done it myself) is address it as if it were a stumbling block on the road to faith. That it's something we get over. That there's a linear path to certainty. Even when people praise doubt and call it holy, sometimes they imply that that's only because it strengthens the faith that always comes afterward. Doubting Thomas was the first person to name Jesus as God—we know this, this is all true and is very meaningful to so many. But I've learned to accept other ways that doubt exists, because not everyone has this experience. Doubt is a companion sometimes, not a temporary roadblock. Sometimes it's an inherent part of faith, and sometimes it doesn't lead to religious faith at all. In case you need to hear this: don't create some imaginary end of the road where you'll be certain! Maybe you will, but don't expect that of yourself. Your doubt is your questions and your desires, your creative thinking and your love for your friends, it's you caring about finding something meaningful. It's proof that this matters to you, and even if someday doubt is no longer a major part of your religious experience, don't lose it all. Doubt does not need to be cured—it needs to be listened to.

I'm thinking a lot about the existence of God while reading Armstrong's book—how she presents a constructed God, used as a tool for good and evil, and how beautiful and terrible ideas of God can be. While talking about medieval Islam, she tells us this:

. . . [T]he Arabic word for existence (wujud) derives from the root wajada: "he found." Literally, therefore, wujud means "that which is findable" . . . An Arabic-speaking philosopher who attempted to prove that God existed did not have to produce God as another object among many. He simply had to prove that he could be found. . . . [T]he word wajd was a technical term for [Sufi mystics'] ecstatic apprehension of God which gave them complete certainty (yaqin) that it was a reality, not just a fantasy. . . . Sufis thus found the essential truths of Islam for themselves by reliving its central experience."

What if God is more than existence? What if God is more than we could ever believe in—and so instead of believing in Them, we seek to find Them, see Them a little bit more clearly every day? There's such a Christian emphasis on believing the right thing, and I do think it matters what we believe. But there's more than that—there's how we believe, and what we do about it.

C.S. Lewis believed that the fact that we desire something this world can't satisfy is itself proof that we were made for and by something more. I can't talk you into believing in God, and I don't want to. But the desire for more is a space where God can reside, if you let Them. The desire to believe is a kind of belief. Wanting to believe in God is wanting God, and I'm not claiming proof of anything, but I am saying if you connect with that desire, God is already a part of your life, whether because They're there, or because you can't find Them. The lack of God is still a relation to God. Doubt in a god existing is still a relation to God. God exists in relation to you, in you. If we can only doubt when we have something to doubt, if we can only disbelieve when there's something to disbelieve in, that means we have something.

The Bible is more specific than God's existence, and for some this makes it harder to relate to. It is a more clear presence for many people, though—it's something we can hold, memorize, study. Every person of faith relates to their scriptures differently, and I can't tell you exactly how to do so, or which way is "right." But I will say it is not a thing to believe in—"it" is a living, breathing library of transcribed, collected, translated, loved (and hated) books. We could talk about taking the Bible literally vs. metaphorically, or whether it's "historically accurate," or whether God wrote it or told others to write it or had nothing to do with it. Ultimately where I am, the foundation I come back to, no matter how my beliefs change, is that I believe God wanted us to have it. I believe it matters. Once someone asked me whether a psalm was "theologically accurate" and while that's an interesting conversation, my first instinct when reading a poem written thousands of years ago by someone I've never met is not to theologically analyze it but to say, "Yes! I've felt that way too! I hear you! And God hears both of us!" I don't think you believe or disbelieve in myth or poetry or oral history or prophecy or personal letters—I think you listen to them. Before asking yourself whether these things happened, or if we can prove certain figures existed, or anything else super useful but very overwhelming, especially without a history degree, first ask yourself what they would mean if they mattered. What would change about how you move in the world if these books were close to your heart? If you listened across centuries to find people also believing and doubting and searching and finding?

While recommending the Bible (as well as the other books closest to his heart) in Letters to a Young Poet, Rainer Maria Rilke tells his student, "A whole world will envelop you, the happiness, the abundance, the inconceivable vastness of a world. Live for a while in these books, learn from them what you feel is worth learning, but most of all love them. This love will be returned to you thousands upon thousands of times, whatever your life may become—it will, I am sure, go through the whole fabric of your becoming, as one of the most important threads among all the threads of your experiences, disappointments, and joys." Don't believe in a book—live in it, love it, let it weave you together.

Reading A History of God, I'm being reminded how much dialogue there has always been between religions, especially Judaism/Christianity/Islam, and how so much of the Bible is built on traditions outside of it. The writers of the Bible were also living in diverse communities, interacting with and reacting to other faiths, sometimes with hostility but also with synthesis—so much of all three of these religions is built on the local pagan traditions of where they evolved, and all three incorporated Greek philosophy in various ways. None of the major religions of the world are solitary faiths that sprang up out of nowhere—we have always lived with each other, and we've been alternately mad about it and inspired by it.

Having relationships with many kinds of people is beautiful and fulfilling, but it also inevitably brings up questions! I've found myself saying, "I love this person, I think they're intelligent and well-meaning, and they genuinely believe in something I do not. What does this mean for me? Am I doing something wrong?" Embracing others' faiths is, to me, a really important part of loving them, but it's also often a challenge to work through. It has ultimately been beneficial to my faith for me to work through this, but sometimes it just feels hard, and that's okay.

Although I never really questioned the existence of a god, there have been moments in my life where I had no particular conviction that Christianity was true or especially holy. I've been captivated by Jewish and Muslim traditions/beliefs/scriptures, and admired countless philosophies and practices. Christianity has hurt me and so many others—does that mean it's inherently wrong? But in every season of my life, I've said a Christian prayer every night. Everyone experiences religion differently, but for me? I am not a Christian because I think it's better than all other religions, or because I reasoned my way into it, but because it's where I'm from, where I live, where God meets me.

Your statement that everyone's faith is valid and connects them to God—it's a beautiful belief and it opens us to explore and love what we might not be able to otherwise. Reading A History of God—I do believe it's all God. If God cannot hold contradiction, why would I honor Them? How could I believe They encompass the (paradoxical, contradiction-filled) world if They can't exist fully in paradox and contradiction? This Sunday is the Feast of the Holy Trinity for me, and I love its mystery and its acknowledgement that God is always past our understanding, that God has more than one face, that God comes to us in more than one way, can never be pinned down. I and Christians throughout history encounter God as Trinity, but the day that I limit God is the day I have thrown away everything I've worked to build in myself.

The good news for you is if you believe all religions connect to God in some way, then you also believe that you will always be connected to God—no matter how your beliefs change, no matter where you call home, no matter what your practice looks like. We can't let ourselves believe one thing for others and another thing for ourselves—I did this all the time, believing I could never be forgiven but never dreaming of saying that about someone else. Give yourself the same grace and openness and hope you give your friends. You know they are valid, you know you love them—what can that help you learn about yourself? your own validity, your own ability to be loved?

I'll let you in on a secret (in case you didn't already know): the majority of people do not sit and look without bias at the major world religions and decide which one is "true" and convert to it. I'm sure people have done that, and maybe that's what you want to do (I won't stop you). I don't even know to what extent we can "choose" a religion—I think often one (or many) finds us—but for me and so many others, religion is a culture and a practice as much as, if not more than, a belief. And often it's wholly or mostly inherited—I don't know if I would be Christian if my parents and grandparents and ancestors weren't. I don't know exactly what you've inherited, but we all inherit beliefs (even if the belief is not believing in something), and yours are also built on tradition and ideas throughout the centuries.

This all means that doubt is part of any inherited culture and practice. It means that doubt and participating in a religion have always gone together. If religion is action and community and music, you don't have to believe anything in particular to live in it. My Jewish friends have shown me this most clearly—I know of many Jewish people who don't especially believe in the existence of a god, but eat kosher and observe holidays and say prayers. If you ask them why, they say it's because they're Jewish, because it makes them a more fulfilled person, because they're connecting with their ancestors. If religion is connection to God, as you've said (and I agree), then you don't have to have belief to connect with God.

I am absolutely not saying that we should never question the traditions passed down to us, or that conversion is not a valid choice, or that if you weren't raised religious you can't have religion. I just wish to point out that many people do not first believe in a system and then join a faith practice, but the other way around. They practice their way into faith. So often we cannot know what a belief means unless we first do it. Unless it first has meaning to us. From A History of God:

[Anselm of Canterbury, the 11th century theologian] insisted that God could only be known in faith. This is not as paradoxical as it might appear. In his famous prayer, Anselm reflected on the words of Isaiah: "Unless you have faith, you will not understand":

"I yearn to understand some measure of thy truth which my heart believes and loves. For I do not seek to understand in order to have faith but I have faith in order to understand (credo ut intellegam). For I believe even this: I shall understand unless I have faith."

The oft-quoted credo ut intellegam is not an intellectual abdication. Anselm was not claiming to embrace the creed blindly in the hope of its making sense some day. His assertion should really be translated: "I commit myself in order that I may understand." At this time, the word credo still did not have the intellectual bias of the word "belief" today but meant an attitude of trust and loyalty.

If you haven't already, ask to go to a religious service/event with a friend, read/listen/experience the faiths of others. When you encounter things you're not sure if you believe, ask yourself what it would mean for you if you encountered it as truth. If God exists, if God is [insert attribute here], if God commanded [insert commandment here], if this or that book is something God wants us to have—how would that change your life? My belief in a loving God transforms my world. My prayer practice orders my days and centers my emotions. I am living (or attempting to live) my beliefs, not just thinking them. What can you trust, what can you be loyal to, what can you live, even if you don't believe it right now? "Lord I believe; help my unbelief!" (Mark 9:24)

You can live as if something were true, even if you have no proof, even if you're not sure about it. I live as if there is a loving God—I have no scientific proof of this, I have not always been sure of it. But I live as if there is one, and there is more love in the universe because of it. I have only experienced a loving God when I was living in relation to one. You can go to a church without reading its whole catechism, without knowing all the words, without being sure. My pastor once told me he likes the Nicene Creed more than the Apostles' because it says "We believe" instead of "I believe." A creed not as a personal certainty, but as a communal agreement. I don't always know what I believe, but this is what we believe. I can leave it behind, but I cannot pretend it does not exist. It is my inheritance.

My advice for nurturing faith? Be willing to be wrong. Any god I've heard described is outside of our powers of description. It's dangerously presumptuous to think we can be right about God. Once I let go of the pressure to be right, once I accepted that I could be wrong about everything—that's the only way I got to faith. And the worst thing I can think of is coming to a belief through fear (of hell, of being wrong, of uncertainty, of spiritual homelessness). Fear is sometimes present, but come to it because you want it, because it fills your days with life and love. I'm obviously not a scientist or a philosopher—I've never really searched for capital-T Truth, and maybe it sounds like giving up to say all this, to think that I can never be right. But I have only truly come to Christianity when I've accepted that, as Rachel Held Evans said, it's the story I'm willing to be wrong about.

While it's definitely from a Christian perspective (I'm not sure how relatable that will be to you), the book that's calling to me right now for you is Holy Envy: Finding God in the Faith of Others by Barbara Brown Taylor. It's incredibly honest and interested in the experience of exploring envy in a religious context. It completely changed how I approach finding meaning in others' beliefs, and gave me so much peace in my own. And if you do ever begin to follow a religion/denomination, you might need a reminder that you are not abandoning everything else. You may be choosing a home, but you are not locking yourself inside it. We don't look for a home to denounce everyone else's—we look for a place we can live. Taylor says:

I asked God for religious certainty, and God gave me relationships instead. I asked for solid ground, and God gave me human beings instead—strange, funny, compelling, complicated human beings—who keep puncturing my stereotypes, challenging my ideas, and upsetting my ideas about God, so that they are always under construction. I may yet find the answer to all my questions in a church, a book, a theology, or a practice of prayer, but I hope not. I hope God is going to keep coming to me in authentically human beings who shake my foundations, freeing me to go deeper into the mystery of why we are all here.

What are you willing to be wrong about? What do you want to hold close even when you doubt it? What do you want to do, even if you don't believe in it? What brings you closer to the life you know exists for you, the one that fulfills that desire for God? There might not be one religion that is all this for you. Whether or not you ever create/join a concrete belief system, whether or not you're ever sure about any of it, God is with you. Many people live fulfilling lives outside of institutionalized religion; not all who wander are lost; your existence in a diverse community will serve you so well on this journey, which doesn't have an end and always includes doubt, and from which we can always find a new path, and is all encompassed by a many-faced Universe of Love.

And, as I find myself doing so often, here's some more Rilke to his student, which we can receive whether or not we're young or a Sir:

You are so young, so much before all beginning, and I would like to beg you, dear Sir, as well as I can, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.

<3 Johanna

P.S.—As well as the things I've quoted from, I would also recommend Not All Who Wander Are (Spiritually) Lost: A Story of Church by Traci Rhoades and all of Rachel Held Evans' books.

P.P.S.—People quote this last Rilke passage a lot, but I'm not sure how many have read the full context? He's mostly giving advice regarding sex anxiety in that letter, which I think is great. It's relevant to most journeys in life, but in case you were wondering what journey it's originally about, there you go.

[mistress-ofmagic]

Around The Realms in 80 days- Chapter 17

Pairing: Reader x Loki

Story summary: You have fallen through a portal during the convergence into Asgard and come face to face with Thor, and his brother Loki. With no way to return, you must travel with the two men and their hoard of asgardian soldiers to get back home. Things get from bad to worse when you have to share a tent with the god of mischief himself.

Notes: Um hello!!! I said there would be another chapter shortly for all of you who interacted with my last post mawahah! I'm so sorry this has taken me an insane amount of time I had about a three month break from writing and Tumblr and I've been very quiet! I won't go into all the details but it's been some ride but I am back finally and I hope to god some of you are still out there in the void answering me! Hope you enjoy this latest instalment, I feel a bit out of practice writing so I hope it doesn't seem disjointed or anything! Hopefully I won't leave it quite as long for the next chapter!

Read this story on a03!

find all parts to this story on Tumblr here

“What about this one?” 

The book shop was warm and pretty crowded, it felt like you had been in for hours. Still, it was nice to be doing something normal…right? 

Leaning against the wall, your thoughts flitted back. You had actually gone up to bed eventually last night and snuck in next to Loki. You had woken to an empty bed again. 

If there was something you had noticed about Loki it’s that he was an early riser, not something you could ever relate to. 

You had laid in bed for a while, pondering over if you had made the right decision. Internally groaning, you realised that you literally had nothing to wear for today again. 

The people of New York are going to think I’m heavily into the medieval vibe you thought sadly, mentally running through the Asgardian dresses you owned trying to work out which would be the least LARP-y. Either that or go for the office aesthetic again, not something you were particularly interested in. 

Finally, you had forced yourself up to face the horror inside the wardrobe (after a few attempts of waving your arms around like a maniac thanks to Tony’s technology). You opened it up and…

You blinked. 

Had you accidentally transported yourself into someone else’s bedroom?

The wardrobe was filled with….well, normal earthly clothes in your size.  Shirts, trousers, skirts, even some dresses that weren’t giving a peasant girl vibe.

“What the fuck?”

You took out a shirt that you would actually wear. Just in time, you heard the door to the apartment open.

“Loki did you…make me some clothes?” You yelled through.

He came into the bedroom, rubbing his hair with a little towel.

Jesus, you had to get your hormones under control, who gave him the right to look so pretty immediately after working out? If this was going to be a regular sight every morning you had got to stop reacting so viscerally. 

“What are you squawking about now?”

“Did you…magic these clothes up for me?”

Loki raised a brow nonchalantly

“Well you were yapping about not having any clothes yesterday.” He stared at you and you stared back, incredulously. 

He rolled his eyes,

“Fine I’ll get rid of them. Honestly make up your mind up. You complain about a lack of clothing and then complain when you have some…” He muttered. 

“Hey, wait, I’m not complaining.”

“You’re not? That’s unusual.” 

“It just…it just took me by surprise that’s all. It was…nice.” 

Loki stared at you with his brow slightly furrowed, as if you were a puzzle he was yet to figure out. 

Your insides twisted funnily. 

“So…thanks.” You gave an awkward smile. 

Loki tutted,

“I only did it because now you don’t have to spend any time today shopping for garments and we can focus on my book shopping instead.” He headed towards the kitchen. 

You rolled your eyes.

“Sure.” You murmured, rummaging through your new clothes. 

Now, you were stood in a book shop, dressed, curtesy of Loki, while you waited for him to pick out his books. 

You had been kind of concerned when stepping out with him, that you might get attacked or something since you know, you were chaperoning the guy who destroyed New York after all, but to your surprise, barely anyone had given you a second glance. 

People only see what they want to see after all and you doubted anyone had expected Loki to be wandering down the street. 

“How many books can one person have? You’re so old, surely you’ve already read like every book in existence?” You moaned. 

Loki shot you a pointed look but ignored your statement. 

You turned round and browsed the shelf half-heartedly in front of you. Your interested piqued slightly, realising that there were some books in a similar vain to your examinations yesterday; ones that even Tony didn’t have in his collection. A particular book caught your eye, 

“Norse mythology for dummies.” 

Checking over your shoulder to make sure Loki wasn’t looking at you, you picked the book up and started flicking through. 

With one last sly look at Loki, you jumped to the part about the man himself. There was a silly little picture of him looking rather impish, with red hair and jester like clothing. 

You chuckled darkly, “suits him.”

You stared at him through your peripheral, trying to spot any similarities and struggled to find any with this cartoonish picture. You wondered if Loki realised how he was typically portrayed in books and if it upset him at all, he was rather vain after all. You found a biography section that you skimmed through. 

“Loki has been described as the trickster god…. a shapeshifter, sometimes taking the form of a horse or an old woman…”

You snorted, putting that on the list of questions to ask him later.

“Loki’s relation with the gods is varied, sometimes he assists them and other times he is malicious towards them…Loki’s father Laufey is a Jotun, hailing from Jotunheim.. little is know about Loki’s mother.” 

Wait..you suddenly remembered the fire demon talking about that.

You quickly flicked to the page about Jotunheim. 

“Jotunheim is the home of the frost giants…”

“What are you doing, mortal?” Loki looked over at you curiously, startling you out of your reading and you snapped the book shut.

“N…nothing. Just doing a bit of homework. I’m going to go and get this book.”

You dodged Loki’s attempt at swiping the book from you and headed to the checkout. 

Smiling briefly at the man behind the cashier, you paid for your book and a bag of sweets, and sat one on of the chairs near the door, returning to your page. 

“A cold and barren world with very little sunlight…” you whispered under your breath as you skim-read the rest of the page. 

There was a brief part on some notable events, including teenage Loki and Thor barely escaping having chased the giants for stealing some apples.

Kind of an over-reaction jeez, reminder to not steal apples on a different planet. 

Also something about Loki loosing an eating contest to someone called Logi (finding out about Loki’s past was turning into a bit of a hoot). And finally Thor having to wrestle an old lady? 

You shook your head. This was ridiculous. Nothing about Loki’s parentage though. You turned the page and found a portrait photo of a Jotun. He looked nothing like Loki, for starters this guy was blue with white markings on his face and chest. 

You sighed and jumped to the pages on Muspelheim, the fire realm, instead. A few seconds looking at some more fire demons made you feel slightly queasy however, and you shut the book. 

Just in time, you caught Loki wandering back over to you with a pretty hefty pile of books. 

“Let’s leave mortal.” He stated, haughtily.

“Did you pay for those?” You asked him. 

Loki rolled his eyes and tutted, but, in his defence, made his way back to the cashier. 

“That will be a no then.” You muttered. 

You watched him, brows raised to see how the man behind the checkout would react. Just as the rest of the public had, he did not seem to be phased despite Loki of Asgard now standing in his shop. In fact, he seemed to even be flirting with him.

Unbelievable. 

“C’mon.” You grumbled once he returned to you grinning rather irritatingly. 

The cooler air outside was a welcome change from the stuffy bookshop. Still, you were used to much cooler Septembers than this, and you missed your home autumn climate. 

A pang of guilt hit you very briefly, as you thought about your family at home. They had seemed happy enough with the idea you were now working with Tony Stark, and you had failed to mention the whole dangerous space travel aspect.

“Have you got everything you wanted?” You turned to Loki. 

“Indeed I have.” 

“Excellent.” You moved to walk back to the towers. 

“Ah.” Loki cleared his throat. “Actually, perhaps we could go to the coffee establishment you mention constantly.”

You blinked.

“You wanna go get coffee with me?” You asked, surprised. 

He smirked,

“I know it must be difficult for a mortal like yourself to believe I would ever grace you with my presence…”

“Oh for…yeah whatever. I didn’t mean it like that, I just meant…”

He continued smirking at you, annoyingly. God he pissed you off.

“Asshole.” You muttered and checked the time on your phone quickly.

“I have about an hour…” You spoke out loud without thinking.

“An hour?” He was still smirking.

“Hm?”

“Going somewhere are we? Surely my escort does not have any other prior engagements?” 

“Gross, please don’t call me your escort.” 

“You haven’t answered the question.” 

“I erm…” You stuttered. 

God why did you feel a twinge of guilt about telling Loki that you were meeting Oliver in the afternoon?

This was stupid, you had nothing to hide. 

Loki continued to peer at you curiously, enjoying your discomfort. 

“I’m meeting up with someone.” 

“Oh?” Lokis smirk dropped finally, his face growing slightly more guarded. 

“Prey tell, who is this mysterious figure?”

You rolled your eyes. “Come on, let’s go to the coffee shop.” 

Loki fell into line next to you. 

“I’m curious, just who could have taken my escorts attention away from me?”

“I told you not to call me that.” 

“You’re avoiding the question mortal.”

You sped up. 

“I’m not avoiding it…”

You were only half listening to him, already deciding what to get at Starbucks. Since there was no Costa in New York. Boo. If you were going to get a coffee later with Oliver, you should probably not get one now or you would be jumping off the walls. It felt too warm still for hot chocolate season though…

Loki caught up pretty quickly with his long legs. 

“You know, I’ve always wanted to go to New York.” You sighed wistfully as you looked around the streets. 

Despite the shit-show that was your life currently, you had a sudden happy feeling flood you. You never believed you would even go to New York, and here you were walking around, enjoying the city. 

“This is kind of cool right? I guess it didn’t settle in before. I really want to do the tourist bits before I leave, like the Empire State Building, central park and the statue of liberty. Maybe go see a show, visit Brooklyn Bridge, go the the Grand Central…hopefully if I survive the fire demons ill get to do them.” 

Loki looked at you funnily,

“Why do you have to go home?”

You squinted up at him. 

“Well I can’t stay here forever, I need to go…beg for my job back probably. I’m running on low funds here and I doubt Stark will let me live in the towers rent free forever like a little pet.” You snorted. 

“And, once this all gets resolved…or you know even if it doesn’t, I’m not an Avenger or even in official employment of Stark. Plus this may surprise you I did have a life before all this.” You paused, “albeit not a very exciting one. Come on, let’s go to this Starbucks.” You stopped outside and entered. 

“What are you going to order?” You asked him. 

Loki rolled his eyes and looked at the board.

“There are far too many options.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty overwhelming. Well, erm, do you like coffee or not so much?”

“It is acceptable.”

“Erm, well there are different types of coffee I guess like espresso if you like a very strong coffee or a latte if you like milkier coffees.” 

He rolled his eyes again.

“I know the different types of coffee, I have been to Midgard before.”

“Jesus. Well then, you can get syrups if you like them sweeter or there are options like frappachinos which are kind of more just milkshakes.”

“What will you be ordering?” 

“My usual, a vanilla latte, my namesake after all.”

“Yes, the drink you had the day we first met.” Loki smirked. 

“You mean the drink you caused me to spill everywhere when you literally pushed me over!”

“Haven’t we had this conversation before? I thought you were a spy.” 

“Didn’t apologise for it though.” You muttered. 

Finally you got to the front of the queue. 

“Hi, I’ll have a vanilla latte please and a -“ You looked expectantly at Loki. 

“Another one.” 

You got your purse out to pay when Loki swiped his card agains the machine. 

“Oh…thanks.”

Loki raised an eyebrow cooly, 

“You said you were low on funds.”

“Er, yeah.” 

After getting your drinks you managed to find a table to sit down on.

You stared at Loki in anticipation, watching him as he took his first sip.

“Well?” You asked, strangely nervous. 

He took a dramatic pause before answering, definitely doing it on purpose to goad you. 

“It’s not…terrible.”

“Woo!” You let out a squeal to which Loki stared at you disapprovingly. 

Taking your own first sip you sighed happily.

“I’ve missed you coffee!” 

“You’re very dramatic about coffee.”

“Well you’re very dramatic about literally everything.” 

Loki sniffed.  “I am not.” 

“You really are. You could win an Oscar.”

“I do enjoy winning things.” He said, proud of himself.

“Okay.” You rolled your eyes. “What books did you get?”

“Hm. I need to improve my Midgardian knowledge it seems so I picked up books on human physiology and theology, as well as this abridged guide to quantum theory.” He snapped his fingers and a huge book that must have been as thick as your head appeared on the table.

“Jesus I’d hate to see the unabridged version.”

“Speaking of human physiology, how is your…affliction?”

You took another sip. “Hm? What affliction?” 

“You know…” He eyed you cautiously. 

You snorted coffee out your nose.

“My period?” You hiccuped.

Loki gave you a look of distaste as he passed you a napkin. 

“Indeed.”

“Do we… let’s actually not talk about that.” 

Loki sighed. 

“Very well. I thought friends were supposed to talk to each other about intimate things. What do you wish to talk about?” 

“Yeah but, you know. You are a 20 million year old alien male, it’s not… well…. some intimate things don’t have to be talked about. It’s not the done thing.” 

“Once again you have no concept of my age. Why does me being a male change anything?”

“Well because… I don’t know really it’s just sort of something woman talk about between themselves, most men don’t want to know I guess.”

“Why would they not want to know?” He asked.

“Erm, I guess…well I don’t know really.” 

“I could turn into a woman if it would make you feel more comfortable.” He took a sip of his drink smugly. 

You eyed him suspiciously, unsure if he was joking. 

“Not right now, that might attract some unwanted attention. Remind me to ask you to do that later though. Or perhaps a horse.”

You expected this to trip him up slightly, one of your current favourite activities but he merely blinked.

“As you wish.” 

“God, can we just talk about something normal for once.”

“Like who you are running off to meet?”

“Er, well no, not that…” 

Speak of the devil… your phone, laying on the table, buzzed and flashed up with Olivers name. Before you had change to grab it, Loki reached across the table and snatched it up with lightning speed. 

“Wh…hey!”

“Whose Oliver?”

You grabbed your phone back.

“We met him yesterday, jeez your memory is bad. And don’t take my phone.”

“I have no recollection of meeting a mortal of that name yesterday.” 

“Er, sure he was in the lab with Stark.”

You checked his message. 

  Oliver: Still okay to meet? Shall I come to Stark Towers?

“Oh.. you mean the moronic head-of-starks-fanclub boy.” 

“What did Oliver ever do to you. He seems nice actually and he messaged me asking to meet up.”

“Ah, so you are running off to meet another boy.”

You snorted, “another boy, please that sounds as if we are on a…never mind. Unlike you, Oliver actually wants to spend time with me.”

Loki leaned back in his chair and looked at you with an odd look on his face. 

“Well I’m here aren’t I?”

You shot him an exasperated look. “Only because I am the only reason you can leave the tower. Be honest Loki, would you really have come out to a bookstore with me if you weren’t under strict  instruction to not go out alone?” 

Loki shifted and blinked,

“Well I…” 

“Exactly. It’s fine I’m not upset but I’m allowed to meet up with people who actually enjoy my company, not just tolerate it.” 

You quickly replied back to Oliver to tell him he could meet you outside the towers.  

“Your company is not always… intolerable.”

“Careful now, that was almost a complement.” 

You sighed and looked around you. Once again, no one had noticed that a dangerous war criminal was sat, relaxing in Starbucks like it was the most normal thing in the world. It felt nice though, to be amongst…normal people going about their every day business, complete unaware that their lives were potentially at stake and you were somehow tasked with ensuring that didn’t happen. God you wished you were just as ignorant, there was no way you fit in with the gods and superheroes you were currently keeping company. 

“Are we prepared for the trip?” You asked him. 

Loki nodded. “I believe Volstagg and Fandral will also be accompanying us.”

Your eyes lit up,

“Aw nice!” 

Loki shot you a dark look. 

“No, not nice. It is highly irritating.”

“Well, the more people we have the better, no?” 

Loki rolled his eyes but didn’t reply. 

You let yourself people watch for a bit longer, watching as a guy ate a sandwich and completely missed his mouth as he read a newspaper. 

“He’s a simpleton.”

You chuckled as the guy looked round in embarrassment, “yeah.” 

“Then why are you meeting up with him?

“What?” You snapped your attention back to Loki. 

“The boy.” 

“Oh…well actually Oliver is super clever he went to Harvard and got an internship with Stark while he was studying.”

“Please, Midgardian education is nothing compared to the far superior Asgardian education. He wouldn’t have even met the entrance criteria.”

“Isn’t Asgard kind of backwards when it comes to things like that though? Seems like there’s kind of a harsh class difference, you know, gods vs the rest of Asgard?” 

“Do not pretend Earth is any better.” He scowled. 

“No, but I’m just saying, maybe Oliver couldn’t have gotten into the schools you went to but wouldn’t that have been because of his states rather than his brains? Also you age so much slower than we do so you have more time to learn things which is kind of an unfair advantage.”

You took a slurp of your coffee.

“You certainly seem to be quite enamoured.” Loki stated, cooly and guarded. 

You blushed in spite of yourself. 

“I…I am not…enamoured.” 

It’s true you were up quite late texting him before Loki got irritated and said the light was disrupting his abilities to sleep and banished your phone to the shadow realm or something. 

Loki stood suddenly.

“Going somewhere?” You asked surprised. 

“If we are going to head back for you to be on time for your rendezvous we should return mortal.” 

“Oh.” You checked the time, he was right. 

He strode off out of Starbucks and as you attempted to catch up, you wondered if he was annoyed you were ditching him for someone else. 

The walk back seemed to be feeling awkward and you felt bad for abandoning him. Which is probably what prompted you to say the following:

“You could come with me and Oliver if you wanted? This afternoon?”

Loki looked at you as if you had suggested he ran around Stark Towers naked doing the cha cha slide. 

“Or not…just a suggestion.”

“Why in the realms would I want to do that mortal?”

“Well I just wondered if you were maybe a bit bored at the towers and would prefer to hang out with some different people for a change.”

“I would not prefer to hang out with you and that midgardian.”

“Jeez I take back my invitation.” 

It was quiet between you again. 

Aw man this sucks. You felt a strong sense of guilt for some reason and was that…a feeling of sadness? Where you…sad that you weren’t spending the rest of the day with Loki? It had been kind of fun spending the morning with him, even with his complete lack of knowledge around what counts as an appropriate conversation. 

You snuck a glance up at him as you walked, laughing inwardly at his outright questions surrounding your menstrual cycle earlier. He looked kind of annoyed, but then again, you mused, his usual facial expression was kind of “mildly irritated” so it was difficult to tell. Loki had the worst case of resting bitch face you had seen.

As you got closer to the Towers, you spotted Oliver waiting for you. You smiled and waved at him as he walked over.

“Hi” He grinned. 

You awkwardly looked at each other, both wondering if you should go in for a hug or not.

“You look nice! I like the more modern look today” He said cheerily. 

“Aw thanks!” 

You could almost feel Loki rolling his eyes behind you.

“Norns above this is sickening. No need to lie mortal boy she looks the same as usual.”

“Are you going to stay here and be rude all afternoon or do you have somewhere else to be?” You shot at him. 

“I have far more important things to do than stand and talk to midgardians.” He sneered.

“Well why don’t you go do them then.”

“Well, I will.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Goodbye.” You spat. 

You turned to face Oliver who looked slightly unsure at the interaction he had just witnessed. 

“Shall we?” You asked rather briskly and strode off in whatever the opposite direction of Loki was. 

Notes: Let me know what you though! Not sure how many are still out here lol but I hope you enjoyed! Loki is a master of hot and cold!

Tag list:

@creationsbyme  @kikster606  @slytherinintj13  @th0rswh0res  @huntress-artemiss  @jannieka394 @stefffrs  @misswimberly @thedistractedagglomeration  @yoongissidebitchh  @purplekitten30 @mischief2sarawr  @johnmurphys-sass 

@ionadane  @imalovernotahater @lokisgoodgirl  @lalicexo eee @dlwrish 

[eternal-echoes]

“The virtuous woman does not veil her body because she thinks that it is bad. Nor is she hiding herself from men. Rather, she is revealing her dignity to them.

A similar comparison could be made of how God revealed His glory to us through the Incarnation. While writing about the miracle of God becoming man in the person of Christ, an eighth-century monk said that Jesus was telling us:

I am covered by a cloud of flesh not that I may be hidden from those seeking me, but that I may be less bright for the sake of the weak. Let them heal the eyes of their minds, let them purify their ears, with faith, so that they may be worthy to look upon me. For "Blessed are the pure of heart since they will see God."1

Something similar could be said by the woman who dresses modestly:

I am covered by a cloud of modesty not that I may be hidden from the men seeking me, but that I may be less bright for the sake of the weak. Let them heal the eyes of their minds, let them purify their hearts, with faith, so that they may be worthy to look upon me. For "Blessed are the pure of heart since they will see God."

It is not arrogant for a woman to think of herself in such terms, believing that her body is a window of heaven. It's humble. Humility is nothing more than the truth, and the truth is that there's glory in the way a woman has been created. Perhaps this is why one brilliant medieval philosopher called the sensitivity to shame "a healthy fear of being inglorious."2 If that's true, one could argue that modesty is a healthy confidence of being glorious.”

-Jason Evert, How to Find Your Soulmate Without Losing Your Soul

1 St. Bede the Venerable, Magnificat

2 St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae

[joanofarcs-stigmata]

“We fear Christ as we fear the ocean: for the staggering beauty and uncontrollable power”

— Grace Hamman, Jesus Through Medieval Eyes

[bbywhitefox123]

description: Essex is an ER nurse and Richard Madden needs his wound to be stitched up.

warnings: blood

The ER smelled like antiseptic and desperation. It was just another night of chaos—overdoses, accidents, and the occasional fistfight fallout. Essex, tired as hell and running on coffee fumes, was at the nurse's station when the automatic doors slid open with a loud whoosh. She turned her head, more out of instinct than curiosity, to see a man staggering inside, clutching his hand with a tight, blood-soaked rag.

"Fuck me," she muttered under her breath, grabbing a pair of gloves off the counter. "Another gunshot wound."

The guy wasn't screaming like most would be. Instead, he looked pale and clenched, like he was holding back more than just blood. Essex stalked over to him, her boots slapping the slick linoleum as she went.

"Sit down. Now," she barked, pointing to the closest empty bed in the triage area. He looked up at her, and for a moment, something about his face flickered in her brain—something annoyingly familiar. But she was too busy trying to figure out how deep his injury was to care.

He sat, trembling slightly, and let her pull his hand into the light. The rag was soaked through, dark red with fresh blood.

"I shot myself," he said, his voice calm but strained.

Essex raised an eyebrow. "Well no shit. How'd it happen?" she asked, cutting through the rag with a pair of shears to get a better look. "And before you start, I'll need to contact the cops."

"No, no, no," the guy blurted, shaking his head. "It was an accident. Totally an accident."

"Everyone says it's an accident, but I'm not risking my license because some idiot shot himself," Essex said flatly, tossing the rag aside. The wound wasn't life-threatening, but it was a fucking mess. Bullet grazed right through the palm, luckily missing any vital tendons. Still, the blood was flowing freely. She grabbed some gauze and pressed down hard.

"Look, seriously," he panted, as if on the edge of panic, "I'm an actor. It was on set. Prop gun, okay? Just...decorative."

Essex shot him a look. "Decorative guns don't usually go off, mate. You sure about that?"

"Yeah," he said, eyes wide and desperate. "I swear. You can google me, I'm—" He winced as she applied more pressure to the wound. "I'm Richard Madden."

She paused, the name meaning nothing to her. "Who?"

The guy—Richard—looked like he was about to lose his mind. "I'm an actor! Game of Thrones, Eternals, Bodyguard...you don't watch TV?"

Essex snorted. "I don't have time to watch people pretend to die on screen when I'm cleaning up the aftermath of idiots doing it for real."

He winced again, more from her words than the pain in his hand. "Please," he begged, pulling his phone out of his pocket with his good hand. "Just—just let me show you."

She stepped back for a second, watching him frantically scroll through his phone, searching his own name like a man trying to prove he wasn't losing his grip on reality. His breathing was getting heavier, and Essex worried the blood loss might be getting to him.

"Relax, you're hyperventilating," she muttered. "Not gonna help your case."

"Here!" He thrust his phone at her. "Look."

Essex took the phone, still unimpressed, and glanced at the screen. His face was plastered all over Google—red carpets, movie stills, interviews. She squinted at one of the pictures. Something clicked.

"Oh, holy shit," she said flatly. "You're the dead guy. From Game of Thrones. The Stark guy."

"Yes! Yes, Robb Stark!" He looked relieved, almost too relieved. "That's me."

Essex huffed, tossing his phone back to him. "Alright, fine, Robb Stark. You still need to file a report if you shot yourself, famous or not. And don't go getting all medieval on me."

"Jesus," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "It was a fucking accident. Can't we just...skip the police part?"

She wasn't having it. "Nope. Look, I don't care if you're royalty in some fantasy world, Madden. You got shot, and I've got protocols. You'll be lucky if the cops don't laugh you out of the station when you tell them how your 'decorative' gun did this."

He sighed heavily, eyes closing as she finally started stitching up the wound. "Fine. Whatever. Just...don't make a scene, okay?"

Essex smirked as she worked, her needle threading with the same kind of precision her grandmother used for knitting angry scarves at home. "Oh, darling. You're the one that walked into an ER with a bullet in your hand. If anyone's making a scene, it's you."

For a minute both of them kept quiet until she finished stitching Richard's hand, the needle threading through his skin with an efficiency that came from years of dealing with dumbass injuries. She tied off the last knot with a sharp tug, then grabbed a roll of bandages to wrap the wound.

"Alright," she muttered, pressing the bandage against his hand a little harder than necessary. "That should hold you together for now. Sit tight. I'll go grab the doctor, get him to sign off on this, and—"

"Let me guess," Richard cut in, his voice a bit more strained now. "You're still calling the cops, right?"

Essex rolled her eyes. "You got it, genius. Someone shoots themselves with a 'decorative' gun, the cops are getting called. Protocol. Doesn't matter how pretty your face is."

Richard sighed heavily, leaning his head back against the wall behind him. "Yeah, I figured. Just thought I'd try one last time to get out of that."

Essex snorted, her lips curling into a smirk. "Good luck with that. You might've been a king on TV, but here? You're just another dumbass who shot himself."

He let out a small chuckle, his good hand massaging his forehead as if he could rub away the embarrassment. "Brilliant. Really fantastic. This is going to make for a hell of a story."

Essex stood up to leave but paused when she felt his eyes on her again. "What now?" she asked, a bit impatient.

"Can I ask you something?" he said, voice low, almost hesitant.

She sighed, turning back to face him. "What?"

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, almost boyish despite the situation. "What's your name? I mean, I should at least know the name of the nurse who just saved me from looking like a complete idiot."

Essex raised an eyebrow. "Essex."

He blinked. "Essex? Like the place?"

"Yeah," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. "Essex living in London. My parents weren't exactly creative."

Richard laughed, the sound louder than she expected. "Essex from London! That's brilliant."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, laugh it up, Stark. I've heard all the jokes."

He grinned at her like he'd just found something amusing in the whole miserable situation. "Nah, I'm not laughing at you. It's just... I dunno. It suits you. Essex from London." He said it again, like he was trying it out in his mouth, like it was some kind of personal joke.

"Whatever," she muttered, shaking her head. "Don't get too attached to it. I'm not here to be your fucking comic relief."

Richard raised his hands in mock surrender, a playful glint still in his eyes. "No, no, of course not. You're definitely not the type to fuck around, are you?"

"Damn right," she said with a smirk. "And if you don't stop stalling, I'll have to remind you I'm the one who decides how tight those stitches stay."

Richard laughed again, a bit more quietly this time, but his eyes softened. "Fair enough, Essex from London. Fair enough."

She turned on her heel and started heading out the door. "Stay put," she called over her shoulder. "Doctor will be in soon. And the cops too, whether you like it or not."

He sighed again, but there was no fight left in him. "Yeah, yeah. I'll be here."

As she walked out, she could still hear him muttering her name under his breath, as if it was some inside joke only he understood.

"Essex from fucking London," she muttered to herself, shaking her head with a grin she couldn't quite suppress. "What an asshole."

Essex marched down the hall with a mission, her boots echoing sharply on the hospital floor. The whole encounter with Richard Madden—the Richard Madden—had left her mildly annoyed but more amused than she cared to admit. She found the attending doctor, Dr. Patel, by the nurse's station, filling out a chart.

"Doctor," she said, walking up briskly. "Patient in triage, gunshot wound to the hand. Richard Madden, actor, shot himself with some bullshit decorative gun. He's stable now, but we've got to call the cops."

Dr. Patel raised an eyebrow, barely glancing up from his paperwork. "Richard Madden? The actor? Seriously?"

Essex rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I know. But I still called the police. He's not getting out of that just because he played a dead guy on Game of Thrones."

The doctor sighed, scribbling something on the chart before handing it off to her. "Alright, I'll head over and sign off on his discharge. You made sure the cops are on their way?"

"Already done," Essex replied with a firm nod. "Shouldn't be long before they get here."

She turned and made her way back to the triage room, her mind already racing through the next steps. Paperwork. Police statements. The whole damn circus that followed when someone did something stupid and famous enough to attract attention.

But when she walked into the room, her stomach dropped. The bed was empty.

For a second, she blinked, thinking maybe she was seeing things wrong—he couldn't have just vanished, right? But the crisp, white hospital sheets were perfectly undisturbed. No trace of blood. No sign of Richard fucking Madden.

"Shit," Essex muttered under her breath, her heart rate kicking up. She scanned the room as if he might've ducked under the bed or behind the curtain, but there was nothing. He was gone.

That idiot had fled.

She stormed back out into the hallway, cursing under her breath as she grabbed a passing nurse. "Did you see a guy leave here?" she demanded. "Tall, dark hair, injured hand, thinking he's fucking clever?"

The nurse blinked in confusion. "Uh, no. I didn't see anyone."

"Fuck!" Essex snapped, shoving a hand through her hair. Of course. Of fucking course he'd bolted. Celebrities, they always thought they could escape the consequences because they were pretty and famous.

She turned on her heel and headed back to the nurse's station, already dialing the number for security. When the guard picked up, she barked into the phone, "Hey, this is Nurse Essex. We've got a runner—Richard Madden. Gunshot wound to the hand. Check all the exits. Don't let that bastard out."

The guard acknowledged her command, but Essex was already hanging up, slamming the phone down harder than necessary. She could feel the irritation bubbling inside her, threatening to boil over. She'd just fixed him up, followed protocol, and now the asshole thought he could just sneak off like nothing happened?

"Son of a bitch," she growled, pacing back and forth. "Of all the fucking things to happen tonight..."

The police would be here soon, but if Richard had a head start, he might already be halfway out the damn building. Maybe he figured fame could get him out of dealing with the cops��or maybe he just didn't want to face the embarrassment of explaining why he'd shot himself with a prop.

Either way, Essex wasn't about to let him get off that easy.

Not five minutes had passed when Dr. Patel strolled up to the triage area, chart in hand, looking as calm as ever. Essex was still fuming by the nurses' station, trying to keep her cool while waiting for security to radio back. Her heart was racing, but she was outwardly composed—barely.

"Where's your famous patient?" Dr. Patel asked, raising an eyebrow as he approached.

Essex exhaled sharply through her nose, leaning against the counter. "Gone," she said flatly.

Dr. Patel blinked, then tilted his head slightly as if he hadn't heard her right. "Gone?"

"Yeah," Essex repeated, her voice dripping with irritation. "Fucking fled. Out the door, gone. Vanished into thin air like a goddamn magician."

Dr. Patel's brows furrowed in disbelief. "You're telling me Richard Madden just walked out of here with a stitched-up gunshot wound to his hand, and no one noticed?"

"Exactly what I'm telling you, doc," she snapped, the frustration seeping into her tone. She folded her arms across her chest, her gaze darting toward the entrance. "I've already called security. They're checking the exits. But he's probably halfway to whatever posh fucking hideaway he crawled out of by now."

The doctor sighed, rubbing his temples. "Of course. Of course, this would happen on your shift."

Essex shot him a look. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," he said calmly, "that somehow you always manage to get stuck with the patients who cause the most drama. And now we're dealing with a runaway actor who's going to have to explain himself to the police sooner or later."

"Well, I did my part," Essex grumbled. "Fixed him up, called the cops—hell, I even gave him a little life lesson on not being a complete idiot. But apparently, he thought he could Houdini his way out of here."

Dr. Patel looked at her for a moment, then shook his head with a resigned smile. "You really don't care about who he is, do you?"

"Why should I?" Essex shot back, her arms still crossed. "Bleeding out in front of me or bleeding out in front of a fucking camera—either way, he's just another guy who needs stitches. Being famous doesn't change the fact that he's a dumbass who shot himself."

The doctor chuckled lightly. "Fair enough. But now we've got a missing patient and cops on the way. They're not going to be thrilled about this."

Essex shrugged, completely unbothered. "Not my problem. Let them chase him down. I'll give them all the details. He's the one who made this harder on himself by running."

Dr. Patel sighed again, looking around the empty room as if hoping Richard might suddenly reappear. "Well, I hope he's not planning on dodging us for too long. Otherwise, this is going to turn into a whole new level of chaos."

Essex smirked. "Let him deal with the chaos. I'm just here to patch people up and make sure they don't bleed out on my floor. If he wants to play the escape artist, that's on him."

The doctor gave her a half-smile and patted her on the shoulder. "Alright. Well, I'm sure the cops will love hearing this one."

Essex watched as Dr. Patel headed back toward his rounds, shaking his head slightly. She grabbed a fresh cup of coffee from the break station and leaned against the counter, waiting for the inevitable questioning from the police when they arrived.

"Fucking celebrities," she muttered under her breath, taking a long sip of the hot coffee. "Always think they can do whatever they want."

Still, a part of her couldn't help but feel a tiny bit impressed. Richard Madden had been stitched up and covered in blood, but he'd still managed to vanish like a ghost. She couldn't say she hadn't seen worse, but something about the audacity of it all made her laugh quietly to herself.

Let the police deal with him. She had more important things to worry about.

Essex was ready to move on with her night, shaking off the Richard Madden debacle as just another bizarre ER experience. She grabbed her clipboard and made her way toward the ward to check on her next patient, trying to refocus her mind on the work ahead. But just as she was rounding the corner, the receptionist, a chatty woman named Dana, flagged her down.

"Hey, Essie!" Dana called out, leaning over the counter. "Wait up a sec!"

Essex sighed internally, forcing herself to stop and turn around. "What is it, Dana? Got another patient bleeding out that needs stitches? Or did some other celebrity decide to shoot themselves?"

Dana grinned, shaking her head. "Nope. But some guy left this for you."

She held up a crumpled twenty-dollar bill, waving it in the air like it was something special.

Essex blinked, eyeing the money with confusion. "What? Who the hell left that?"

Dana shrugged, but her grin widened mischievously. "He said it was for 'Essex from London.' Told me to give you this and said to tell you, 'Thanks for the stitches.'"

Essex stared at the twenty in disbelief for a moment, then snorted. "Oh, for fuck's sake. He's tipping me now?"

Dana laughed, handing her the bill. "Apparently. Who am I to question it? It's not every day we get celebrity patients leaving tips like we're a goddamn diner."

Essex took the money, shaking her head in amused disbelief. "Unbelievable. The guy pulls a runner and then sends me a fucking tip."

Dana winked at her. "Well, at least he appreciated your work! Maybe you'll get a shout-out in his next interview or something. 'Essex from London saved my ass.' Could be your big break."

"Yeah, right," Essex scoffed, stuffing the twenty into her pocket. "I'm sure that'll do wonders for my career. 'Nurse Essex: fixing up idiots and getting tips for it.'"

Dana chuckled. "Hey, take what you can get, girl."

Essex gave her a smirk before heading back down the hall. "Yeah, sure. Maybe next time he'll leave me enough for a drink."

As she walked away, the absurdity of the situation settled in. The whole night had been one for the books—patching up Richard Madden, watching him bolt like a scared rabbit, and now being tipped like a waitress for her troubles.

Still, twenty bucks was twenty bucks. She'd make sure it didn't go to waste. Maybe she'd grab a beer after her shift, toast to the ridiculousness of it all, and then let it fade into just another weird night in the ER.

"Fucking celebrities," she muttered under her breath, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she headed to see her next patient.

chapter 2->

[vics-chrysopoeia]

Part 1 Cover - Author notes

So. My plan is to divide the story in four parts, like a traditional chrysopoeia. For those who aren't huge alchemy nerds like me (I was SOARING in Chemistry History classes, I'll tell you that much), let's start with a small recap:

Chrysopoeia is a greek word that means "gold making". It's the process of turning things into gold. Now, we all have seen stories about alchemists attempting to do it literally, turning lead (or any other metal, really) into gold for money purposes, or con men SAYING that they are alchemists, doing some chemistry stuff to fool people and running with their wallets. However, there's a lot more to alchemy and to this idea than it meets the eye.

You see, some alchemists were more on the mystical/philosophical side, and gold represented purity and perfection (since gold never oxidizes by being exposed to air/water, like other metals). "Turning things into gold" meant "perfecting things", not necessarily a literal transformation. And, of course, you can perfect anything, including yourself (body and soul).

And the catalyst to this purification is the philosopher's stone, hence why it is said that this stone (or the powder made from it) can turn things into gold and grant immortality: it makes things and people perfect. So, the first step of any chrysopoeia is the Magnum Opus - the Great Work (and why saying that something is someone's "magnum opus" means that it is their biggest endeavor in life).

Now, the Magnum Opus involves taking prima materia (the essence of aether and the origin of all matter) and working it until it becomes a red stone or red powder. It involves four stages: nigredo (the blackening), albedo (the whitening), citrinitas (the yellowing) and rubedo (the reddening). In many traditions, citrinitas is clumped with albedo or rubedo and other traditions add more steps (the cauda pavonis - peacock tail - being one of the most common additions).

This is why De Garoustes' logo is an emblem that symbolizes the four steps of the Magnum Opus. It was their way to imply that going through school is an alchemical process meant to give students their philosopher's stone. Bonus point for one of the purpoted origins of the term Philosopher's Stone being actual stones carrying divine knowledge.

There is a lot more about this emblem, but we can come back to it later. I'll talk in detail about the stages of the magnum opus on other ocasions. For now, I'll focus on the stage that names part 1: the Nigredo.

Nigredo, The Blackening or Melanosis is the first step into making a philosopher's stone. In chemical terms, turning matter (specially organic matter) black is usually done by decomposing it - breaking it into pieces, by putrefaction or burning. Thus, nigredo is also a metaphor for death: death of the body, death of imperfection, death of your preconceived notions. It's a necessary step to allow your rebirth as something better (before you even wonder: yes, medieval alchemists liked the Magnum Opus to Jesus in five seconds flat, we will talk more about that in the albedo discussion).

As a death allegory, the nigredo is linked to a lot of death symbolism: skulls, the black sun (the "dead" sun in a eclipse, maybe?), the raven (all other stages have birds associated with them, too, it's a common motif in alchemical art) and... guess what... LEAD. Yep. Lead is not only darker and less lustrous than most metals, it's also the metal associated with the planet Saturn. Saturn is the Roman version of Chronos, and what Chronos is mostly associated with? EATING HIS OWN CHILDREN, a.k.a., bringing death. (Not to mention that lead is poisonous, but so is mercury and it's not associated with death, so shhh on that front for now.)

In case you are wondering, Pluto (Roman version of Hades) is a relatively new astronomical discovery, which was one of ther reasons why they were associating death with the planet Saturn, not Pluto. Also, in Roman lore, the gods weren't literally their greek counterparts. Pluto was more associated with richness (metals being underground and all) and with keeping the dead, not reaping them. Meanwhile, Saturn was usually dressed in black robes and carried a scythe (agriculture does revolve around time a lot) - GUESS WHO is the Grim Reaper: time or the man that collects souls like he collects gems?

This is why, in De Garoustes emblem, I used Saturn's symbol for the nigredo quart. Saturn is also usually represented by a black star in lots of alchemy art, so you will be seeing a lot of it in my art for Vic's Chrysopoeia, too.

Also, because of the Atalanta Fugiens (a Renaissance alchemy book) description of nigredo as "the body or earth in the blackness of Saturn". So yes, the nigredo is also concerned with the body.

The cover for Part 1 was inspired in this illustration of the Nigredo stage:

The fire and the wind are heating the retort (basically a round flask with a beak, used for distillation - a form of purification), the alchemist is dying (see the raven) and something is coming out, symbolized by the cherub-like things - signals that sublimatio is starting to take place (sublimatio is the alchemical process of something turning into gas - basically, the cherubs are smoke - in a literal approach of the nigredo - or the man's thoughts freeing themselves from his earth form and earth preocupations, in a less literal one).

And above it all, we have the Celestial Bodies, the Sun, the Moon and the Planets. They are meant to reference the alchemical maxim "as above, so below", i.e., the laws of nature are the same in the heavens and on Earth, so studying the Celestial Bodies should tell about earth matters (modern astrology takes it to the extreme that everything is "written in the stars" - I'm not so sure if old-timey astrology was THAT literal all the time). The link if you click the image is the page I found the image. I have no idea what is the origin of it.

I cribbed the skull from other depictions of nigredo, but I cut the cherub-like things and exchanged them for two birds: a phoenix watching the process and an owl watching OVER the process. This... I won't elaborate on this for now. Maybe never. Half of alchemy art is super obscure references that only make sense to the alchemist, so what would be the fun if I walked you through everything?

Also, I added the eight planets besides Earth instead of the classical five. I would love to say it's also a super clever obscure reference, but I mostly just wanted even numbers and two black stars for composition balance. Let's just say it's a way to reference the fact that it's a story that happens in more modern times, even giving you a hint of the actual time frame (Pluto was discovered in 1930, for instance).

Yes, let's say it's this. I'm very smart. And it's never by accident. Yes.

Anyway, the first part of The Chrysopoeia of Victoria Harvey is called Nigredo. It has to do with all that symbolism I outlined above: death, the beginning of sublimatio, the body, putrefaction/calcination, darkness, time, lead, heaviness, the black sun in an eclipse, earth. I'll let you all be the judges of what that will bring to the story.

If you found aaaall of this interesting, here's a link to a scientific article about Jung's vision of the Magnum Opus and its stages in psychology: [X]

I didn't have his concepts in mind when deciding what each part of Vic's journey will mean for her psychologically (mainly because I didn't knew it yet), but it's a cool modern reading of the "alchemy of the soul" concept.

This reddit post has most of the books on the subject that my teacher of History of Chemistry sampled to teach us and more, bless SleepingMonads' soul: [X]

[scobbe]

For all my fellow fans of gender-subverting medieval monks, today in the church calendar we commemorate Smaragdus/Euphrosyne:

“Euphrosyne was born in the fifth century, the beloved only child of a couple in Alexandria. She had a warm and loving family life, but her mother died when she was still a young girl. Her father, Paphnutius, instructed her in the Christian faith, and often used to take her to visit the monasteries outside of the city.

As she grew to adulthood, her father arranged what he thought was an excellent future for her—marriage to a wealthy and handsome young man from a prominent family. But Euphrosyne would have none of it. She and her father quarreled, and she ran away from home in anger without even saying goodbye. She cut her hair, changed her clothing for men’s attire, and adopted the name of Smaragdus.

Smaragdus entered a monastic community outside of Alexandria, where he made great progress in prayer and in wisdom. Many years later, Paphnutius came to that same monastery, seeking consolation in his bereavement over the daughter he had lost, whom he believed to be dead. The abbot of the monastery (perhaps perceiving the situation more clearly than he had ever admitted) sent Paphnutius to Smaragdus for spiritual direction and guidance. Paphnutius was then instructed in the spiritual life by Smaragdus for years, coming weekly to the monastery for his wisdom and advice, but during all that time he failed to recognize his own child.

It was only as Smaragdus was ill and near to death that Paphnutius’ eyes were finally opened, and he recognized that the beloved daughter he had mourned as dead and the monk who had guided him through his grief were in fact the same person. He nursed Smaragdus lovingly during his final illness, and then became a monk himself, occupying the same cell that his child had lived in for the rest of his life.

Merciful God, who looks not with outward eyes but discerns the heart of each: we confess that those whom we love the most are often strangers to us. Give to all parents and children, we pray, the grace to see one another as they truly are and as you have called them to be. All this we ask in the name of Jesus Christ, our only mediator and advocate. Amen"

Lesser Feasts and Fasts, 2022

[talesfromtheenchantedforest]

ah yes, medieval ~literature~, so exalted, so edifying, so serious

medieval literature: so this one time I met this hermit, and he was very clearly possessed by the devil, and the devil sure sassed me, but don't worry, I scared him out of the hermit, and the hermit farted him out BIG TIME, it was a big time devil fart, no doubt about that, amen

I looked and saw a knoll, on a rock, a very beautiful little chapel, a good league away. As I began to approach, I heard a cry from there. It was so horrible that one could not ask for anything more hideous or frightening. But I never became afraid, for the letter had prepared me well. When I came up to the chapel, I found the door open; at the threshold a man lay in a faint, just as if he were dead. Upon seeing him, I ran toward him with great faith in God, who had taught me what to do. His eyes were turned in his head; thus I knew he had the devil in his body. I made the sign of the cross over his face. He sat up, then began to speak marvels. I adjured the devil to leave, in Jesus Christ's name. He replied that it was through Jesus Christ that he had entered, and only through Him would he leave, and I said He had sent me to throw him out. He responded that he did not yet see the opening through which he could leave. I knew very well that he was telling the truth, so I entered the chapel. On the altar I found the little book I was seeking. I knelt, took the book, and when I came out, I never heard anything cry out as the enemy did, saying, "Do not come closer, for you can see very well that I must come forth, nor is there anything on earth except this that could force me out." But when he wished to issue forth by the mouth, he could not because of the sign of the cross I had made. And he began to speak again, crying out, "If you want me to come out, open up the way." I asked him how, and he said that he would not come out as long as the book was so close. I replied that he would not leave through the mouth; rather he would have to go through the bottom. When he heard that, he began to cry out so loudly that it seemed to me he must be heard throughout the land. Immediately there arrived such a large company of devils that I did not believe there were so many in all the world. When they saw the words of the little book I was holding open, you never saw a whirlwind move away so quickly or hideously as they did. I approached the senseless man and put the little book before his mouth, and right away the devil came out from below and departed, making such a great storm that it seemed to me he uprooted the entire wood where he passed.

— The History of the Holy Grail, Prologue, trans. Carol J. Chase

[puckrph]

SHIT MY FRIENDS HAVE SAID PART 5

feel free to change pronouns, etc.

“i’m serving only the coldest, stalest opinions in this chilis tonight.” “this man is girlbossing WAY too close to the sun right now, which is bad, because he’s a vampire.” “he looks like if they peeled the grinch.” “i wish desolation row gerard way had me by the throat for real” “absolutely insane in shows and movies when people don’t have their window screens down. you’re just raw dogging life like that?” “it’s not sadistic if your players can take it.” “i’m doing this all in the service of the christian god, so it’s fine.” “wine-horny is what the fuck or die trope is about.” “it’s hot gay serial killer vampire summer” “[in a yoda voice] MMM. CUNT, THEY ARE SERVING.” “boytoy, enable kill mode.” “your father eats tomatoes like a beast of a man.” “you fool. my muppet-like behavior has blinded you to my competency.” “you people need to calm down.” “you know it’s a good joke when i start whimpering like a hurt dog.” “i’m insulted to my core. are you questioning my patriotism? my dedication to this country? my belief that the american dream is witnessing two f-150’s making passionate love on 690? i’ll have your badge and your head, [NAME].” “your influence is both vast and perplexing.” “putting your blood through a brita filter is discount dialysis.” “people is like sauce: more is better.” “hell would be more fun than this, i think.” “hard to believe the same studio made two games where you get to run around, steal vehicles, and be an asshole, if you want.” “pda stands for people doing atheism.” “first of all, through the power of keanu reeves all things are possible, so jot that down.” “i don’t feel like his name should be david. i feel like it should be… giancarlo.” “you aren’t laughing or loving this, and soon you won’t be living either!” “did i ever tell you about the dream i had where baljeet from phineas and ferb got lightning powers and fought in the clone wars.” “everyone is bullying so much about cooking meat that i simply must become vegan.” “i’m gonna deep clean you out of my life.” “the only difference between a twink and a frat boy is a limp wrist.” “he’s right, of course, i am going to do that. but still.” “what is a roommate if not blorbo from your house?” “i just realized that i’m going to medieval times for the first time on the destiel putin election anniversary. none of those words are in the king james bible. how am i going to cope.” “body dysmorphia? yes, but you can hang dong like nobody’s business.” “he can’t do anything wrong, he’s too cute.” “so many people eat an orange normally. isn’t it better, really, to do it like a weirdo?” “i’m probably in the top 98th percentile of pez dispenser information knowers by the way. most don’t know that about me.” “there is always further to fall from god’s grace.” “jesus is rizzin’?? amogus???” “you think i could gauge the emotions or feeling of any human beings in high school?” “sorry, the coffee never actually kicked in so i’m stupid now.” “the bar for men is so low. just be fun, slay, and be a little fruity!” “i feel like JC probably has some hilarious lines in the quran.” “side note: does anyone else initially read FMA as ‘fuck my alchemist.’” “astigmatism is when you have an eye issue and stigmata is when you have the wounds of christ, right? because i was at the eye doctor and he said ‘looks like we need to correct a stigmata in your eye’ and i was like come again?” “surely the micro plastics and lead cancel each other out, you’ll be fine.” “schrodinger’s sports call: the call exists in a quantum state of correct and bullshit until i figure out how it affects my guys.” “oh, tom waits makes some good songs. he just sounds like a gravel beach got a wish to become a real boy.”