#My Father Will Guide Me Up A Rope To The Sky

[belovaballerina]

Our Merge is Eternal

Grotequerie: Father Charlie Mayhew x fem!reader 

Rating: Explicit (Minors DNI)

WC: 2k 

Prompt: “Can’t you see that you’re lost without me?” -Cirice by Ghost for @sweetspicybingo (Lyrical Bingo Collection)

Warnings: Oral (f receiving), religious imagery, religious guilt, handjob, public sex, spanking, whipping, pain play, penance, verbal humiliation, manipulation, bondage and sacrilege

Summary: Penance can be a beautiful, wonderful release

“Bless me, Father, for have I sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession.”

It always started the same way: with you in the confessional booth, the screen blurring Father Mayhew’s face, and you squirming on your knees as your sins poured from your lips. It always ended the same way: blistering pain delivered with the palm of his hand, the sharp crack of leather or sturdy wood (penance), on your knees with his cock in your mouth as tears dripped down your cheeks (guidance) and curled in his lap as he wiped your tears away (forgiveness). He was careful, allowing only your mouth and hands to pleasure him, as he did the same with you, always avoiding fucking. The sin of fornication will not consume us, he had whispered against your wet thigh with his mouth coated in your juices.

“I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

Every two weeks, like clockwork. Repeat, Repeat, Repeat. It kept you going and gave you something to look forward to, even if something was twisted about it. You welcomed the dalliance, running headfirst into it and into the arms of Father Charlie Mayhew. Those brown eyes would be your undoing, but who better than to forgive you than a man of God?

The cycle came full circle once again as you entered the confessional, arousal pooling hot and thick between your thighs and causing you to press them together tightly to dull the ache. The partition whooshed open, and you began your confession. The vulgar words fell from your tongue as you admitted your sin of self-pleasure. You felt unnerved as you were met with silence. Perhaps this had run its course.

“I want you to meet me tonight in the church,” he whispered, his face obscured by the screen.

Your heart thrummed in your chest. You were used to it happening in his office after he had finished with confession. This was something new. A break in the usual routine. It thrilled you.

“Yes, Father, what time?” you asked, hands still folded before you.

“At midnight. I’ll see you then,” Charlie responded before slamming the partition close. You move your hand through the sign of the cross before hurrying away.

A storm rolled in that evening, making the air hot and heavy, and thick raindrops poured from the gray sky. Thunder cracked through the air as lightning lit up the dark sky with bright bursts. You shivered as you hurried through the heavy doors, rain soaking through your clothes and leaving your skin feeling clammy as you made your way into the chapel. You had attended midnight mass, but beautiful candles had illuminated the room, which remained eerily dark tonight. A loud clap of thunder made you jump, and a crack of lightning brought Father Mayhew into view.

He stood at the pulpit in his black cassock, his expression stern and a rope dangling from one hand. You swallowed, approaching him slowly, unsure of what would unfold this evening as hee stepped down to meet you.

“On your knees, sinful girl,” he instructed, and you obeyed without a second thought. 

Instinctively, you lifted your wrists toward him, your palms pressed together. He guided your arms straight up into the air, sliding your shirt overhead, and your cheeks burned hot as your bare breasts were exposed. He tutted, giving one of your nipples a chastising pinch. You watched with wide eyes and bated breath as he looped the rope around your wrist, securing them with an elegant knot. His hand gripped your chin, thumb pressing to your lower lip before tracing around the outline of your mouth. Your stomach twisted as heat palpated deeper. He tugged you to your feet with a firm grip on your roped wrists before circling you.

“You come to me repeatedly, confessing the same sin,” he stated, his dark eyes boring into you.

Your mouth felt dry. “I fear I need guidance, Father. I simply find myself giving into temptation.”

He stood behind you, his hand slapping down firmly against your ass and making you stumble over your feet.

“And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell,” he hissed into your ear, his hand crashing down against your backside over and over. Pain blossomed across your skin.

“Matthew 5:30, Father,” you sniffled as he pulled your body flush against his. Your back against his chest, and you could feel it heaving with every breath he took.

“Good girl,” he purred, one warm hand pressing against your stomach, fingers dipping into the waistband of your loose-fitting black joggers, “Is that what I should do? Cut off your hands to keep them from wandering between your thighs, to keep your fingers from dipping into your greedy little cunt?”

You let out a garbled cry, unsure of how to respond as his hand plunged into your pants and underwear, his fingers immediately seeking your drenched pussy.

“I fear for your soul, child,” he whispered as his fingertips skimmed over your folds. Your lower lip trembled. His hand squeezed your right hip, a comforting touch that kept you grounded and assured you that you were safe. All you had to do was utter a simple word, and he would stop, letting you go about your evening. Either of you could end this sinful dalliance at a moment’s notice, but it just felt so good.

“Don’t let me go astray, Father. Teach me, guide me,” you moaned, caught up in the moment and willing to explore whatever he had planned.

“I will do just that. Can’t you see that you’re lost without me?” Guide me, Father, for I am but a lamb lost among the wolves.

He pulled his hand away before pushing you onto your knees and then onto your stomach before removing your shoes and tugging the clothing away from your lower half. Your face felt like it was on fire as you were exposed in such a sacred, holy area. Your eyes flickered to the statue of Mother Mary, feeling her judgment upon you. Have mercy on me, Mother.

His hands roamed over your naked skin, squeezing your prickled flesh before resting on the swell of your ass. Tears burned your eyes as his hand smacked down, over and over, searing his burning mark into your skin. You squirmed against the carpet, feeling the rug burn, irritating your stomach. You choked on your tears as they rolled hotly down your cheeks, chasing this feeling and murmuring prayers of repentance. O loving and gracious God, have mercy. Have pity upon me and take away the awful stain of my sin.

Charlie’s body pressed ontop of yours, his teeth seeking out the soft curve of your throat. You felt the swell of his erection against your abused ass. His knee slipped between your legs, pressing against your dripping cunt.

“Even now, in the sanctity of the church, your penance doesn’t deter you from your sinful nature,” he hissed into your ear before sinking his teeth into your neck. Your eyes rolled back, relishing in the sweet pop of pain that throbs through your body, rutting against his knee. 

All you could do was mewl pathetically in response as he rolled you onto your back and then cupped your face in his hands. He took in the sight of your tear-stained face and swollen lips, a small pang thrummed through his heart.

“How can I judge you so? You are no more sinful than I,” he whispered, stroking his thumbs over your tear tracks. His lips pressed against your trembling ones before undoing the ropes and pulling away from you.

You sniffled, struggling to catch your breath as you watched him stand and stretch out his arms before peeling his clothing away. The lightning bathed his skin in an eerie glow as you drank in the sight of his muscular body. It seemed wrong for a priest to be so beautiful and tempting. But God tests us in mysterious ways.

“You are so gracious in guiding me onto a righteous path. Let me help you,” you offered, extending your hand toward him.

His gaze softened, and you were lost in those warm brown eyes for a moment—endless pools of amber that you would gladly drown in. He sank to his knees, pressing his hand into yours before pulling your naked body against his.

“Would you?” he asked in earnest.

“Yes,” you smiled, stroking your fingers through his dark hair.

He kissed you again before handing you his knotted white cincture, pure as the driven snow.

“Turn around,” you instructed, smoothing your hand over his bare chest before getting used to the feel of the item in your hands. The darkness consumed you both, and you knew exactly what he was asking for.

He presented his bare back, laced with scars and a few open wounds that must have been placed earlier today. You traced your fingers over his skin, memorizing the layout of the marks and making a map of the area to lay the blows. It will be less intense than the leather cat o’nine tails, but it will suffice for now. You brought down the knotted rope against his skin, delighting in the grunt that he emitted. It doesn’t draw blood, but even in the dark light of the church, you can see the bruises blooming-mottled and purple.

You tossed the cincture aside, dropping to your knees behind him. Your lips ghosted over the marks, tongue pressing against a fresh one, throbbing against his skin and tasting the tang of blood. Charlie shivered under your touch as your hand slipped down his taut stomach to grasp his cock. You gently stroked and tugged on his rigid flesh as he arched against your hand as you danced him to the edge of a blessed release.

“Come for me, Father,” you purred into his ear, drunk on the dark power flowing through your veins. 

He spilled into your palm, sticky and pearlescent, as the sweetess moan fell from his parted lips. His head lolled back, resting against the plush pillows of your breasts. He rested against you, gathering his strength, and your head spun as he lifted you into his arms, carrying you to the altar. He lowered you onto the draped table, and you squirmed as your bare, sore ass came in contact with the hard, unforgiving surface. Charlie looked almost devilish as he dropped between your thighs, splaying them wide for him before swiping his tongue over your quivering cunt.

“Recite the Act of Contrition,” he ordered before dipping his tongue inside you.

You gasped, threading your fingers through his hair and rocking against his mouth.

“Oh My God, I am sorry for my sins. In choosing to sin and failing to do good, I have sinned against you and your church.”

Charlie’s tongue pressed to your throbbing clit, tracing the delicate bud. It felt like wanton encouragement.

“I firmly intend, with the help of your Son, to make up for my sins.”

Your fingers tightened in his hair, needy whines spilling from your mouth as pressure built in your lower belly—unbearable heat, making you think of the hellfire burning your skin.

“And to love as I should. Amen.” The words fell, garbled, and strangled from your mouth before a loud moans bled through the hallowed alcove. An intense orgasm washed over you, the bands of pleasure snapping through your belly as Charlie’s warm mouth pleasured you.

“Amen,” he whispered against your warm, wet flesh before lifting his head. His mouth coated in your release, and his dark eyes seemed to glow. Sinners, both of you, fallible and susceptible to the temptations of the flesh. Tainted by the sin of lust.

Your eyes meet his, the realization that the two of you are forever intertwined in sin. Lost in the waves of immorality together.

The hot water scalded your skin as you stood under the pounding water pouring from the showerhead. You scrubbed at your skin, washing away the lingering transgressions clinging to your tainted flesh. The cycle repeats two weeks later.

[sagethegaywitch]

Our Child (Part I)

Yandere Mermaid Family x GN Reader

TW: yandere behavior

Genre: yandere

(Part II), (Part III)

Inspired by "Dark and Twisted Whisper" sea monster dad.

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

Y/N’s Pov

For as long as you remembered, you loved the ocean.  Living so close to a body of water allows you to take daily beach walks, either to watch the sunrise or the sunset.  You often felt drawn in by the endless blue waves and the subtle sea breeze, especially when the beach was void of any living being.

It was just like any other day, just strolling down the beach, a picnic basket in your hand and a plan to eat dinner at your favorite portion of the sandy expanse to watch the sun leave the sky.  Your plans are ruined as you hear desperate splashing from the rocky area beside the tidal pools.  You worry that it's a wild animal trapped in the tidal pools after the tide moved out, and you carefully put down your picnic blanket and basket before retrieving a pocket knife from your bag.  You hesitantly approach to see a mermaid, no merman, struggling to free himself from a fishing net.  You’re mesmerized by his light blue-green scales, watching the way they shimmered in the dying light.  But then you see the tough rope wrapped around his tail and the rocks, his harsh movement getting himself more tangled in the net and causing the rope to dig into his skin.  You climb over the rock blocking you from his body, and the merman instantly stops moving when he hears you splash next to him.  You hold your hands up to show that you mean no harm, but your pocket knife seems to be scaring him.  Shoving the pocket knife into your pants, you kneel down to the merman’s level.

“Shh, I’m not going to hurt you,” you say softly, reaching your hand out to grasp at the rope around his arm.

When your hand brushes against his arm, he flinches as if he were shocked.  You whisper some more soothing word until the merman visibly calms down and watches you curiously.

“I’m going to take my knife out again,” you prepare him as you reach for your knife again, “And I’m going to cut your free, okay?”

You didn’t expect an answer, and you didn’t get one as you slowly brought out the knife and began to cut through the ropes.  The merman was scared of the sharp object, but didn’t move once he realized you were helping him.  Once all the rope was cut off the poor merman’s body, he happily kicked his fin before rubbing his head against your arm.

“Alright, let's get you out of this tidal pool,” you say as you attempt to pick up the merman.

Unfortunately, he was a bit heavier than you expected, and you ended up dragging him through the rocks and back to the sandy beach.  You brought him to the water, where he quickly slipped out of your hands and into the water.  You dusted your hands off and smiled before returning to your picnic materials to finally eat.

Kano’s Pov

I never swam faster in my life before.  Both the adrenaline and the human’s soft touch excited me as I swam all the way home.

“Dad!  Aalto!” I yelled as I barreled through the seaweed grove that covered the entrance to our cave.  “You won’t believe what just happened!”

“It better be good.  You were supposed to be getting dinner, but I see you’re empty handed,” Aalto warns me as he crosses his arms, looking at me expectantly.

“Well, I got a bit too close to shore and got stuck in a tidal pool,” I start before I’m interrupted.

“Goodness, are you alright?” my father questions as he swims around me, looking for any wounds.

“I’m fine, but a human saved me. They were so cute!” I squealed, clasping onto my brother and shaking him to get my excitement across.  “We need to have them!”

“Are you certain they're the one?” my father asks, gently detaching my hand from my poor brother.

“Of course!  We need to grow the family!” I exclaim.  “Let me show you guys.”

I guided my family back to the surface and we hid behind a couple of rocks to see the human who helped me eat from a bowl, observing the sun as it dipped below the horizon.

“Aren’t they cute?” I ask, looking at my father and brother for a positive reaction.

“Yes, yes, they are,” my father murmurs, dazed.

Aalto doesn’t say anything, but the shine in his eyes speaks volumes.

“Since we can’t reproduce, it’s our duty to kidnap them and make them one of us,” I say, trying to sell the idea to my father.

My father looks at my happy attitude before looking at Aalto for approval.

“I don’t see why not,” Aalto responds, too busy looking at you.

“Alright, it’s settled then,” our father explains.  “Let’s observe them for a couple more days before we bring them home.

“I can’t wait to have a younger sibling!” I declare.

[tailsbeth-writes]

☠️ pirates AU or 🎵 Woodstock for RWRB please!

Pirates AU for you lovely! I honestly had to stop myself going full on, maybe one day I'll write a full fic 🤔

When Captain Fox laid eyes on Alex, he knew he was a goner. The gruff persona he had painted on for every day on the high seas, melted away. His crew had got Alex out of a scrap when they were at their last port. He’d been trying to cheat his way into some coffee beans of all things. Percy found himself charmed by his boyish grin and chaotic curls and brought him to the Waterloo. Henry looked Alex up and down, hyper aware of his crew surrounding them. They rumbled with chatter amongst themselves. ‘Do you find yourself fit and capable, sir?’ Alex looks in his eyes, locks in and nods with a glorious smile. ‘Welcome aboard the Waterloo then.’ His crew gave a cheer and pulled Alex into their fold. Henry backed away and let his crew take over, they’d show Alex the ropes and do enough celebrating. Henry needed to stay away, Alex was like the sun and he did not need to get burned. Alex found life upon the Waterloo, surprisingly harmonious. He had found his family here, an odd gang of misfits, sure but a family nonetheless. And the more he felt like he belonged, the more he worked out his own desires, wants and needs. Primarily, that he needed the Captain in a way that would be seen as unholy on shoreside. He often watched Henry as he looked out at the sunset and sometimes sunrise each night, staying until he could clearly grasp the stars in the indigo above them. ‘Can’t sleep Captain?’ Henry turned around, his eyes lit up before he swatted the air with his hand. ‘I’ve told you already, Henry is just fine.’ Alex sits by him, careful to not get too close. He knows how easily a wave can creep up on them. He's noticed how Henry seems so hesitant around him, when they are alone, even for a few moments. He's seen the way Henry's eyes linger when he's taken off his shirt on a sweltering hot day. ‘Okay… Henry. What's got you up so late?’ Henry looks to the sky as if to ask for help. ‘Today is the anniversary of my father's death.’ Alex blinks slowly, taking in the stooped stature of his captain. Now that he's closer he can see the redness framing his eyes. ‘I’m so sorry Cap- Henry. What was he like?’ Henry’s mouth curls into a smile, for a fleeting moment. ‘Incredibly kind. So daft. Obsessed with the stars. He often told me they would guide the way when I couldn't find my way.’ Alex stands, takes the few steps to get to Henry's side. He first puts a hand on Henry's shoulder. ‘He’s guiding you now. From the stars. You'll be doing him proud.’ Henry puts his hand over Alex’s. His skin is surprisingly smooth and it makes Alex tingle. ‘I can only hope so.’

[sanders1665]

Childhood memories.

It was such an ordinary and unremarkable life back then,

The kind you only truly appreciate once it’s gone.

"It's grim up north," they used to say on T.V.,

But I have cheerful memories of roast beef Sundays

And fish-and-chip Fridays wrapped in yesterday’s newsprint.

We lived in terraced houses with chimneys that coughed into the gray sky,

Where the toilet was in the back yard, beside the coal shed,

And the coalman’s boots left black trails once a week

As he filled our bins for the living room fire.

Milk bottles clinked on the doorstep each morning,

Their foil tops pecked open by sparrows,

And on Friday and Saturday nights, we stayed up late,

Gathered around the fire, watching our dad make toast

On a long fork, while Mum buttered each slice.

Old men roamed the streets with horse-drawn carts,

Shouting “Rag bone!” or “Any old iron!”

We played hopscotch on pavements cracked with time,

Skipping rope or kicking tin cans down cobbled streets,

The clatter echoing like a rhythm of childhood freedom.

Follow-the-leader was our favorite game,

Leaping fences, scaling walls,

And darting through alleys with wild abandon.

Wholesome mischief marked our days,

And we froze mid-step if an old codger bellowed,

"I’ll tell your parents!"

Summer meant chasing the chime of the ice cream van,

Begging Mum for pennies to buy a swirl of joy.

Grandma stayed every other month,

Her visits punctuated by whispered talk of rows with Grandad.

Sometimes, I stayed with them in their little house down the street,

Where Grandma let me brush her hair

And Grandpa taught me cursive,

Patiently guiding my hand as he unraveled the mystery of time.

I only later realized why we often stopped at the cemetery—

To visit their parents and theirs before them.

I thought we were just walking; I never knew we were remembering.

When the streetlights flickered on, it was time to go home.

I can still hear my father’s voice booming through the alleys,

Calling my name into the evening echo.

Brass bands marched on Sundays,

Their music halting our play as we watched in awe.

I was ten when I had my first kiss,

On a beach in Hastings,

Where Harold fell to William long before I was born.

There were pigeons everywhere back then,

Starlings and sparrows too,

And the world seemed coated in feathers and bird shit.

It rained so often, I almost thought the gray sky permanent,

And we bundled up in layers, jackets over jumpers over t-shirts,

Our breath misting in the cold air.

Fights with other boys were inevitable,

Knuckles bloodied, eyes blackened,

But always ending in a tearful retreat

To Mum’s shoulder,

Where she comforted and scolded in equal measure.

Dad came home from work with treats in hand,

Toffees jumbled in a paper bag,

Or fresh pastries from the Crusty Cob.

Mum’s slippers, always ready,

Were not just for warmth but for discipline,

Her aim as sharp as her tongue.

Most of our clothes came secondhand or from empty houses,

Treasures scavenged by Dad in his wanderings.

Our town had a zoo where I saw lions and elephants,

And a speedway where engines roared alongside banger racers.

School was ancient and creaked with the weight of history,

Its gothic halls echoing with nuns’ stern voices.

One dared smack my knuckles for asking too many questions,

But the spark of curiosity could not be silenced.

On a school trip to Lytham St. Anne’s,

I broke my collarbone sliding down a wet hill,

And fell for the Irish teacher who nursed my wounds.

Bath nights meant tin tubs by the fire,

The water warmed on the gas stove,

And steam mingling with the scent of coal smoke.

Fifty years have passed,

But these memories remain bright,

Glimpses of a life both simple and profound.

We had little,

But it was enough—always enough.

We didn’t know we were poor,

Because everyone lived the same.

Looking back now, I realize:

Happiness is not in what we lack,

But in what we treasure.

[battlcborn]

(   pedro pascal   ,   cismale   ,   he/him   )    did you see them ?!   that was ROLAND DEARBORN, the winner of the SIXTY-FIRST hunger games. they’re back for the 92nd games as a MENTOR , and you know they’re one of my favourites!  the FORTY-EIGHT year old brought such honour to DISTRICT 10 when they won their games with MACHETE .  they’re known all over panem for being so DETERMINED despite being so STOIC. they remind me of the warm smell of sunned-leather and dusty animal hide, a galaxy framed in the dark open sky, rope flying through the air and sliding across calloused palms before fingers curl in an iron grip, you can’t take the sky from me,  and when i think of them, i think of PALE RIDER by the heavy horses  .

BASIC INFORMATION

full name: roland dearborn nicknames: tba- he's not really a nickname guy but i'm totally open to people coming up with creative nicknames!! age: forty-eight birthday: may 7th zodiac: taurus district: ten gender: cis male pronouns: he / him orientation: bisexual profession: ranch hand, tribute, ranch supervisor, mentor

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

face claim: pedro pascal hair color: brown with the start of salt and pepper streaks eye color: brown height: 5'11" scars: 

RELATIONSHIPS

father: william dearborn ( deceased ) mother: gabrielle dearborn ( deceased ) siblings: none extended family: none

TRIBUTE DETAILS

reaped/volunteered: reaped reaped age: 17 victor of the: 61st hunger games weapon of choice: machete arena: a multi-tiered jungle where the tributes were launched on the third tier with a crashed airship, tangled in enormous branches served as the cornucopia. think mcdonald's playhouse style jungle. kill count: six allegedly-- four direct token: braided leather necklace with a rook's skull

EXTRA

mbti: istj-t ( the logistician ) temperament: phlegmatic   moral alignment: true neutral primary vice: pride primary virtue: diligence element: earth

BACKSTORY

TW: animal death ( in relation to the livestock industry ), parent death, general hunger games violence, suicide/suicidal thoughts/ideations

you don't realize how blessed your childhood was-- in comparison. your father was mayor and one of the last 'landowners' in the district, with 100 acres of wild, open country leased from the capitol. once upon another life, he would've been called a cattle baron; damned if he didn't do everything he could to take care of his barony. when you're a child, your parents are god and when you're small, there is not a better example of good than your parents. your life is comfortable in a time when so many aren't but your father extends that comfort as much as he can. as mayor of the district, he stood as a stalwart advocate for his people, always toeing the line but never doing anything outright to warrant his execution-- knowing if president snow did call for his removal ( or worse ) there would be an outcry in district ten that would result in a much bigger problem for the capitol. ( it's no wonder things unfold the way they did-- but you're getting ahead of yourself. )

you thank fate that you weren't born in an urban district-- because while the hand of the capitol inched further and further to shadow that happy childhood with each passing year, you were blessed with space to grow and roam. you were in a saddle from the time you could walk and you grew up around punchy ranch hands who taught you more than any schoolhouse ever could. it was their hands that guided yours to bring a calf into this world and taught you how to dispatch those meant for slaughter. they showed you the native flora and fauna of your district, showing you what plants could soothe and heal; they taught you how to build a cook fire and how to build a shelter. at the time, you thought you were learning what all young people needed to know- why else would they gather you and your friends, taking time out of their days to patiently guide your hands and answer hundreds of questions? ( it's only when you're running for your life do you realize fully all of it was to prepare you-- how these men and women in your life had watched peers, friends, family die year after year for the games and they wanted you and your friends to have a fighting chance-- but you're not there yet, we're building up to it. )

the first person you lose to the games is alain. you're thirteen, standing at the reaping with the hot july sun beating down on you, standing between your best friends since infancy- alain and bert- when his name is called. alain leaves your side and it almost feels like the remainder of your childhood is ripped away with his leaving. he dies in the bloodbath; as much as you loved him ( and you did-- he was gentle and soft-spoken and precocious compared to wild bert, honest to a fault, genuine and empathetic-- ), you're not surprised he's gone as quickly as he is. bert becomes angry when alain returns to district ten in a pine box; you go quiet. not that you were ever particularly verbose- a fact that bert would brow beat you with now that alain is gone- but the absence of his gentleness leaves only bert's sharpness to crash against your stone. ( you smooth parts of his sharpness and he carves a place in your heart no one else could ever occupy. ) you both cling to each other the next year and the years after. ( his hand almost breaks yours when they read your name-- that's always a painful memory to revisit... )

when you're fifteen a new head peacekeeper is assigned to district ten. you're with your father and mother when he departs the train-- your father's hand meeting his with a firm shake and steely eyes. a gaze you have learned over the years is an unspoken warning; you're in my district. at first, it seems as if general marten understands the assignment; nothing drastic changes. you aren't paying attention to the small things that start to seep through the district- how streets that maybe saw one or two patrols a day started to have a peacekeeper on every corner, how they started walking in pairs more more, how they began to push at the boundaries and wills of the district. your father is called to the capitol- discussing district production and demands ( the things his father swore he would teach him one day but one day never came ) - but the calls come more and more frequent and it feels like that hand from the capitol stretches further and further to cover the district.

you're a young man trying to fill in your father's boots while he's away-- life in the district continues, cows ( and people ) have to be fed. you're out from the moment the sun rises until it starts to sink under the horizon, so busy trying to take care of your father's house that you don't notice the snake that's sneaked in. you're not sure why you were looking for your mother but you follow the smell of magnolia to her bedroom, opening the door to what used to be a sanctuary in your childhood to the clipped zip of a peacekeeper uniform. marten slips past you and part of you wants to kill him-- part of you isn't wholly sure you wouldn't have if you had the tools to ensure that swift departure. you never speak of it to your mother and her shame is palpable. ( your cold fury and her shame drives a wedge between the two of you that is never bridged. ) you wait for your father to return to the district- ready for him to take the mantle of responsibility from your shoulders and to deal with the varmint that has taken up residence in his bed; he doesn't return, not until you're thousands of miles away in the capitol. ( you can't think about the last time you saw him; some memories are best left buried. )

you're seventeen and it's reaping day-- you're seventeen and your name is called. ( sometimes you can still feel the echo of how your hand had ached in bert's as he clung to you, brown eyes filled with tears mirroring your own as you wrench away from him. ) from the stage, you can see your mother weeping, held by the men and women who stare at you with love ( and perhaps, cautious hope ); from the stage you can see the smug expression of marten, his peacekeeper's visor casting an dark shadow across his face. you'd never be able to prove it, but in your heart that injustice takes root. you know he made this possible-- you know that he's sending you off to your death.

they come to see you before you leave- your mother, your mentors and bert. your mother tries to hold your hands, gripping calloused palms and reminding you that she loves you- she loves you more than life itself, roland ( won't you please just look at her? )- pressing a kiss to your forehead, the space between your eyes. you remember each hand that shook yours or arms that enveloped you in brief reminders of love; you don't remember when the room cleared and it was just you and bert. he cries openly- you've never shamed him for his tears, he's always felt things more sharply than you- rough palms holding your face as his forehead presses against yours ( you linger in this memory even though you hate to remember it-- ). he takes the braided leather necklace that hangs around his neck, the strand of leather looping between the eye-holes of a rook skull and places it over your neck. his lookout- it's what he called it when he looped the braid around his saddle horn, the brilliant bone-white skull bouncing as they rode; maybe you'll need a lookout in the arena-- or the capitol.

it's the capitol that you don't know how to navigate- the moment the train pulls into the station, you feel closed in. you try hard to keep your distance from your district partner despite there being more than a few threads that connect you and tug. you've known her since childhood- you've known her as a woman. she reaches for your hand on the train and you pull away but when they load you onto the chariots for the parade, a cartoonish wide brimmed hat placed on your head that covers the look of alarm that crosses your expression when she almost flies back at the sudden movement of the horses, your hand immediately bracing the small of hers in a practiced movement. a movement caught by cameras and your escort gushes about the moment caught on camera- your hand steadying her as you fly down the avenue, her face turning to look at you with that doe-ish expression of hers, your face shadowed by the hat-- and how the capitol will eat you up. ( and they do-- they chew you up and spit you out, chew you up and spit you out, chew you-- ) you say nothing, even when she calls out to you in that bell-tone, her small foot stamping at your bullheadedness, your god-damned stubborn ass as you close the door.

your cold shoulder apparently isn't cold enough because she sticks to your side like glue in the training room, mimicking every movement you take- if you pick up a weapon, her hand curls around it's equal; if you wander towards stations with survival skills- locating freshwater, setting up shelter, starting a fire- she is crouched beside you, those dark eyes staring intently at your temple. you lose your patience with her only when you both return to the tenth floor quarters, your voice never raising but each word razor sharp. you say whatever you have to ( you wish you hadn't said most of it by half ) and even when those large doe eyes fill with tears and she screams at you not to leave her to die alone, you stand stony-faced, unmovable. you both know the games too well; susan had also loved alain. she wants comfort; you want to go home. your arms ache to take her in them, to smooth her hair with kisses and whisper sweet nothings to take away the reality-- you think at the time it would be crueler if you did. ( in hindsight, you were only cruel to both of you. )

your stylists- to their credit- paint a beautiful picture of the two of you for the interview: a man in black and a prairie angel. susan goes first ( ladies first ) and you'd never wished to be impolite more in your life when she drags those threads between you under the dazzling glow of stage lights. she tells them about laying under a blanket stars, deliveries of handfuls of wildflowers, dancing under festival lantern light-- she tells them about the love. first love- an ache everyone in the audience can relate to. ( she doesn't tell them how it ended; how as much love there was between you, there was maturing to be done-- right person, wrong time-- ) and when your name is called and you step out into the blinding lights, you know what she's done: you're cornered. you'll have to be there when she dies.

your team scolds you for being, well, you during your interview. susan had painted this tragic picture of first love- of doomed love- and you had remained tight lipped and stone-faced in front of caesar, not playing into the questions that poked and prodded at the life you never wanted to share with the capitol. susan asks if she can stay with you the night before the launch and even though you're furious with her for dragging your life under those lights, even though you know that you're setting yourself up for heartache ( oh, you can't even begin to imagine the heartache you're in for-- ) you let her curl against your chest. in another life and another time, you would've been grateful to have her heart beating against your ribcage again. right now, you can hardly sleep for fear of missing a single beat. she reaches for your hand after they inject your tracker and you don't fight it this time, letting her soft fingers slip between the grooves of your rough ones, only letting go when they pull her away.

a peacekeeper in your launch room takes the rook's skull in his fist and your body tenses-- and when that fist clenches and the frail bird bones shatter in his fist, other white gloved hands hold you back from lashing forward. words fall from their lips but you don't hear them, all you can see is red and you're thrown in the tube, watching those bone fragments fall to the ground, crushed further to dust under that boot before darkness takes your vision. the platform rises and you're greeted with a swath of green as far as your eye can see, save for the creaking and torn wreckage directly in front of you. you can hardly see around it for how it seems to split the tributes-- you can't see susan. it doesn't matter once the horn sounds and your feet fly from the podium, barely touching the greenery underneath you. your gaze is focused on the pack directly in front of you and your hand grabs it quickly when a blade comes down the back of your curled knuckles.

you're lucky that blade is wielded by arms that aren't strong enough to cleave through bone and it's without thinking that you throw your elbow back, slamming into his chest and as he goes down, it's almost as if the ground cushions him for a moment before it sinks and he falls screaming. over the screaming, over the clash of weapons, you hear a crack and then another and another-- you don't spare much time to wonder what happened. when you grab the machete that had bit into your last three knuckles on your right hand, your fingers brush against that greenery and it's the texture of leaves. the career girl from four charges at you and without thinking, you roll towards that place that had swallowed your attacker-- and you fall deeper into the arena.

your left hand is your saving grace- the right one bleeding and those last three fingers going numb as you cling to that weapon- because it catches a branch before you crash to the thick vegetation below you. the fighting continues on above you but as you hang, you see more bodies falling through those holes in the canopy either silenced by the violence above or screaming before they slam against branches and they hit the unforgiving ground. you see others who have figured out the same as you, scared faces gripping tree trunks for dear life-- trying to figure out which was safer: up or down. it would only be a matter of time before the fight would be brought to this next level and you slowly- painfully- choose to move. pressing your body against the trunk, you weave in and out of branches, the throb in your hand becoming almost nauseating as you force those useless finger to grip to keep from falling.

it's dark under the shadow of the leaves that cover the sky but it's impossibly dark by the time you reach the fern covered floor. you're exhausted but you're not stopping until you find water. you tear the sleeve from your arm and wrap your hand, cradling it against your chest and grip that machete in your left hand- a hand not used to handling anything, much less a weapon necessary for your survival- venturing forward into that oppressive dark. you don't find water that first night-- you don't find water until the third morning. your hand is red and infected and your mind is fuzzy with the fever and when you fall into the spring, you could care less if you died then and there. ( you almost do. )

his name is eddie from district 6- another seventeen year old with acne and a chip on his shoulder- who finds you passed out next to the spring. her name is susanna from district 8- an eighteen year old with a foot turned in so dramatically that it's amazing she wasn't taken out in the bloodbath- and she uses medicine gifted to her by sponsors on the infection, wrapping your hand in strips from the blanket tucked inside her pack. his name is jake- a thirteen year old from twelve who watches you with wide eyes that have seen more life than you have- and he helps eddie carry you to the cave the three of them have tucked themselves inside. you wake up two days later to their faces and for a moment, you forget where you are. when it comes rushing back and you reach for that machete with a hand that no longer beats with your heart but still throbs and shoots pain up your arm when you try to grip it, their voices fall over each other in pleas to listen-- to ally with them. you have a higher tribute score- they saw you in the training center, broad shoulders and sure hands- they see some sort of salvation in you that you want to run from.

they tell you that there's only ten left in the area- the four of you, the three careers, the boy and girl from seven, and susan. they tell you there's strength in numbers; they tell you they'll help you find susan. the five of you could take care of the five of them; once the careers and the two from seven ( who had grown up in trees the way you had out in the prairie ) were gone, they would go their separate ways. at least then they would have a fighting chance. maybe it's the faded sickness, maybe it's the hope that susan is still alive in the arena, maybe it's the earnest way that susanna and jake look at you that convinces you to agree. you move slow through the arena- eddie carrying susanna on his back for the majority of the journey, her arms looped around his neck and her knees tucked in the crooks of his elbows. jake stays almost constant at your elbow and there's times when his chatter grates on your nerves but you wonder if he's trying to get out everything he could possibly want to say before he can't speak anymore-- and that stays your tongue.

you lose susanna to a snake that strikes as eddie sets her down in a blanket of thick ferns. he turns his back before he hears her gasp in pain, turning back in time to crush the head of the snake under his boot but not in time to keep those fangs from sinking into the delicate skin of her ankle. you lather on the medicine that had pulled the infection from your body to no avail. it's a slow poison that mottles the skin of her leg as it travels and she chokes and shakes for hours. eddie grips her hand and jake stands behind him with understanding in his expression when your eyes meet-- it's cruel to make her suffer. eddie tries to fight you- tears and snot flying as his hands shove at you, trying to cover as much of her with himself as he can- and it's jake's voice- that chatter quieted to a solemn whisper- that pulls the fight from him. they bear witness as you look into her eyes that have turned red with the blood pooling in them- seeing that begging in them- before you sink eddie's knife into her chest and susanna goes still.

her cannon booms and when you turn back, eddie is gone. his face shows in the sky after susanna's that night and you're not sure how he goes but your heart aches at the loss of both of them. jake stays with you-- you feel responsible for him now that eddie and susanna are both gone. you've lost track of time between the launch and now but susan's face still hasn't appeared in the sky. you decide to leave the jungle floor after the rumble in your stomach - and scarce choice for hunting- forces you back towards the cornucopia. jake follows behind you until he can't, the branch above out his arms reach. you press your belly against the limb and hold out your left hand for him to grab ( your right grip will never be the same ). his feet leave the branch, hand outstretched to grab hold of yours and you feel his smaller hand grip your wrist for a split second before the sweat that gathered on both of your skin has your hands slipping, jake falling towards the ground with his eyes wide open-- and you scream. ( they'll cut that part out later- focus on the moment his hand leaves yours and zoom in on his wide eyes as he falls- and add him to your kill count. )

jake's face lights up the sky with the two from seven. susan is the only thing you can think of now as you tie yourself to a tree trunk, back pressed up against it as that blackness settles around you. a gift from a sponsor floats from the canopy- your first and only- filled with a warm stew that's familiar and comforting in a way you can't put your finger on. you sleep soundly with a full belly and when you wake, there's a new drive in you to reach the cornucopia. ( you want this to be over- you want to find susan-- you want this to be over -- ) you push yourself hard, sweat pouring down your face and drenching your clothes before you finally push yourself into that initial clearing you had launched from.

the careers see your face-- you see susan's. the girl from one has a knife to her shining throat and you realize that you both must have had the same thought of climbing to the cornucopia; she must have just broken through as well. there's no time for taunts or shows of bravado-- you drag yourself up onto that quasi- solid leaf cover and charge. the boys from two and four rush to meet you but your eyes aren't on them but on the blood that beads up from that blade pressed against susan's throat as it draws across it. you'll see in the footage later the moment your mind snaps- how you scream in rage before that machete blade bites into the place where two's neck meets shoulder, wrenching it free in time to swing it wildly, biting into the side of four. their blades draw their own blood- the tip of a sword slicing the skin across your cheek and through the cartilage of your ear, biting into the flesh of your thigh- but susan drops and you feel nothing except for that rage. the girl from one is the last one your blade fells and her blood splatters across your face-- that you remember with startling clarity ( that's when the memory comes back into focus. )

only three cannons have boomed and when you sink down to your knees, pulling susan against your chest while red pours from her throat, you beg god or the capitol or whoever will listen that hers booms soon. you brush the dark hair from her face and you weep, tears tracing through the red splatter and painting streaks of violence down your closed throat. you can't get the words out- how sorry you were, how much you wished you could unsay and take back, how honored you were to have been loved by her even for a time- and when her eyes go sightless and her cannon booms, you cradle her in your arms before standing. the cameras cut as the upper canopy separates, the last frame of the 61st hunger games being you standing with your dead first love in your arms- a dark silhouette against verdant green.

they call you butcher- replaying the moment you lost your mind on the big screen- cheering your savagery while you sit numbly in your victory. you return home an orphan; they tell you that your father returned to district 10 after your reaping and killed himself when they were all certain the infection would take you. you won't say it but you know your father-- he would've never killed himself, not out of grief. your father would've taken that grief and put it to work. ( you find out later from those loyal men and women who have worked alongside your father your entire life how the place had flooded with peacekeepers, how they weren't permitted near the house until after they left and found william dearborn with a single gunshot to the back of his head. ) suicide seems to run in the family because your mother, stricken with grief, had also taken her life after finding your father dead in his office, burying a knife in her own chest. ( this end makes sense- thinking she has lost her man and her son, faced with the shame of her infidelity and the prospect of life after; you don't fault her for it but you haven't forgiven her for it. )

the house ( your ancestral home ) is taken over by general marten in the wake of your parents death; the ranch ( your ranch by birthright ) is taken over by the capitol and you are moved to the row of houses that make you feel claustrophobic. you are desperate for life to return as normal while understanding that life will never be the same-- the district ten you left is not the one you've come home to. your father is dead and a weak man with marten's hand up his ass takes his position as mayor. peacekeepers flood the district and that freedom of your childhood is shrunken down into working hours-- that is until july rolls around.

it becomes a cycle-- for the majority of the year, your mind is home. you don't have the land or the home but you have your horse and you have your men and even if everything has changed, the name dearborn still evokes some sense of loyalty and respect; nothing is given to you that you haven't had to work for now, but years give experience and it's not long before you're running the ranch you grew up on-- the ranch that is yours in blood, sweat and tears but never again in name. once july rolls around and the years reaping has yielded two more tributes for district ten, your mind is on them. you try so hard those first ten years- try so hard to do everything in your power to bring them home. some years you're lucky-- most you're not. ( it wears on the soul, doesn't it? the weight of failure year after year of bringing home pine boxes to bury instead of children back to their families. )

bert stays steadfast beside you even when you try and force him away; bert stays sharp and when he and others in the district come to you with conspiratorial whispers, you damn him for involving you in something that'll leave you both dead. for a brief moment, that doesn't seem like the worst outcome. it's a disorganized effort and there's a moment when those bullets fly, slamming into your shoulder and chest and you fall back that you think you'll find that relief-- that after fifteen years of the cycle ( home, reaping, capitol, pinewood boxes ) that your eyes will close and susan will be waiting for you with alain and your parents at the clearing at the end of the path. you wake up a day later, chest aching and sore but alive-- damnably alive. you bury bert and the others that fell in that suicide mission; you curse the capitol that you aren't sleeping beside them.

the cycle continues- home, reaping, capitol, pinewood boxes- and so you continue. you try to be a man your father would be proud of- you work hard, you take care of your community in the small ways that you can- home and in the capitol. ( no one knows the torment in your mind like those who have seen the arena-- no one comes out of the arena without some torment. ) the announcement of the 92nd hunger games stirs that old, almost-forgotten fury in your chest; it's not the threat of it being you ( gods, you hope it is, you're so ready to be done-- ) but the threat against those that you have fought like hell to see to the other end of the arena-- it's the threat to your people. that cold fury burns in your chest as the days tick down to reaping and while part of you hopes and prays it's your name called, part of you is resolute to do everything you can to keep this from happening again- to you or them. gods damn you if you know even where to begin. you've been so stuck in that cycle now that you want to break free, you have no idea where to look.

ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ʙᴜᴛ ɴᴏᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ, ɢᴜɴꜱʟɪɴɢᴇʀ. ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴀʀᴋʟᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴛɪɴᴄᴛ. ᴍᴀʏ ɪ ʙᴇ ʙʀᴜᴛᴀʟʟʏ ꜰʀᴀɴᴋ? ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴏ ᴏɴ.

TFLDR;

roland was the only son to the mayor of district 10 and grew up privileged compared to a lot of folks in the districts.

grew up surrounded with the folk who worked on the ranch his father ran, learning how to ride a horse, care for the cattle and general survival skills he never thought he'd need ( guess again! )

lost one of his besties to the games when he was 13.

a new head peacekeeper shows up when he's fifteen and his dad is suddenly away at the capitol more and more; he's 16 going on 17 when he catches his mother in an affair with the head peacekeeper.

a few months later, he's reaped. convenient.

his district partner was an ex-girlfriend-susan- his first love. he tries to keep his distance from her but she pretty much drags their history into the light and paints them as these doomed lovers. he straight hates it but only bc it's true.

his arena was a multi-tiered jungle setting with a crashed zeppelin type apparatus as the cornucopia.

he's attacked right off the bat and knocks a kid to his death but not before the kid fucks his right hand up with a machete-- that he ofc picks up and keeps with him the whole time.

almost dies of dehydration and infection, finding water around day three and is found by three other tributes who have banded together- eddie from six, susanna from eight and jake from twelve. they spare him, helping to heal his wound with medicine from sponsors-- ofc he allies himself with them afterwards with promises they'll find susan.

when one of his allies dies-susanna0 bitten by poisonous snake but mercy killed by roland- eddie leaves their makeshift team and ends up in the sky next to her.

the little one- jake from twelve- sticks with him but falls to his death when the two of them try to climb back up to the cornucopia; the gamemakers edit the footage to make it look like roland drops him to his death.

he makes it to the cornucopia, greeted by three remaining careers and susan who has her throat slit by the girl from one. roland McFreakin Loses It™ and kills the two remaining boys from two and the girl from one before holding susan as she bleeds out in his arms.

his parents die while he is at the games- both from apparent suicide but roland has Serious Doubts about his father killing himself. he loses the house, the ranch, the status and is just a mentor stuck in victors village.

goes to work at the ranch that was his and over the years has worked his way up to being a supervisor; gets caught in the cycle of his Life and the Capitol

gets looped into some wild scheme by his best friend to fight back-- everyone dies but him and he's forced to live with that

very much was Stuck in the cycle up until this last games announcement. now he's fucking Mad

isn't Involved with the rebellion but the spirit is willing ( open for that to be a connection we work on in the rp!! )

personality wise? he's very stoic- not a man of many words ( he's never been but tbh it's gotten worse over the years )- but is like a bulldog with how he won't let go of something once he has it in his head-- very determined, almost to the point of obsession at points.

if you've read this far and if you're familiar with the dark tower series and you're sitting there saying to yourself, hey wait a minute-- yes, i did in fact rip 80% of this backstory from stephen king. my roland is heavily inspired by roland deschain of the dark tower series. shout out to spooky grandpa for the blueprint.

[valeria-garza-enjoyer]

I am, unfortunately, a Christian woman.

And I, unfortunately, am a lot like the type o-negative song, simply titled “Christian woman”. I will never be like the nuns at my church or the dedicated mother doting on her children, either.

I give into temptation. I lust and give into the sins of the flesh. I beg to serve and be served sexually. I want to be on my back or knees.

But, Christ, oh Corpus Christi. The purest lamb, son of god and carpenter.

I bow my head in shame when I see someone pray. I wonder what it’s like not to struggle with your religion. I sob violently when I pray, ashamed of who I’ve become. I know the child I used to be is wondering where I went wrong, why I no longer try to believe. I cry for her when I pray.

I am, unfortunately, a Christian woman. And I’ve failed to meet so many expectations put upon me.

I curse like a sailor. I steal alcohol occasionally. I’ve gotten high. I masturbate at least three times a week. I skip church. I refuse to kiss and venerate the cross or priest, not out of disrespect, but shame and loss of belief. I don’t venerate the icon and I refuse to go to confession. I can’t look at an icon without my eyes welling up with tears in shame. When I was forced to go to church I was told I had to take communion, even if i hadn’t prepared or fasted. I felt so ashamed that I took your body and blood, knowing I had in no way prepared for it.

I was once the lamb covered in mud because time and time again I ran away from the herd and got stuck in a bush of thorns. My once beautiful coat is muddied. My skin is bruised and cut. My soul is tainted.

I can only hope that my sins will be washed away at the pearly gates. My coat will sparkle a fresh white, my bruises and cuts gone, my soul pure.

Because as I am no lamb anymore. I am the goat. The devils creature. My eyes have turned into slits because I judge people. I have grown horns to defend myself. My coat is so matted it becomes thin and bristly. My tail is jagged and torn.

I am, unfortunately, a Christian woman. And I, unfortunately, pray for forgiveness every Sunday night. The same night I usually find my fingers knuckle deep in my virgin sex.

I beg to be saved, to be cleansed by the holiest of holy water. I grip my prayer rope tightly and beg for this round of Our Father’s to be the one I stick to. I weep every time I go to confession, so ashamed of the sins I’ve committed.

I am, unfortunately, a Christian woman. But Jesus would still wash my feet, right?

I still have a favorite set of Bible verses I say to myself when I’m scared. The small child in me repeats them when the sky lights up with thunder and lightning in the dead of night. Joshua 1:9 and Ephesians 2:8-10 repeat every time I have to do something I’m scared to do.

I am, unfortunately, a Christian woman. I feel weak when I can’t continue my fasts because I get light headed and nauseous on my period.

I feel so unclean and ashamed of my period, even though it is a miracle and a blessing to be so healthy. I cry when my cramps hit, not only because of pain, but shame, knowing our savior went through so much more to save us. I writhe in pain for hours, hoping my suffering will make up for my sins.

My suffering will never make up for my sins. It will never make up for the people I’ve hurt and driven away. It will never make up for all the times I pushed Lord Christ away.

My back aches. My head pounds. My throat is dry and my eyes strain. My feet are sore. I know that if I were to come back to the light, be the lamb once again, my pain and suffering would subside. I could once again bask in the healing light of the Lord. But I feel as if I’m too far gone. My body has contorted into that of a goat, devilish and angry. I must defend myself as I have no God to guide me anymore. I strayed too far from his light.

I am, unfortunately, a Christian woman. And I can barely look Father John in the eyes.

He’s been my priest since I was a kid, I love him dearly. But I can’t even fathom telling him these thoughts. Having a person I’ve known since I was a kid know my struggles. I’m scared he’d bash me for falling so far from the light.

I am, unfortunately, a Christian woman. I fear the day that lent starts. It’s marked on my calendar with a question mark. March 18, 2024: lent starts?

It’s not a question because I don’t know when it starts, I’ve been aware since the beginning of the year. It’s a question because Am I Gonna Participate This Year? Will I go to vespers, will I go to confession, will I read the gospels, will I attend the matins services, will I fast, will I? Will I?

I am, unfortunately, a Christian woman. And I know all my actions and words cast shame upon my family.

My dad’s side of the family is from Greece. My grandma, God rest her soul, was a devout Greek Orthodox Christian. I know the farther I fall from my faith the more shame I put upon her and all her family before her.

My mom converted to marry my dad in the Orthodox Church. I wonder if she struggled with her faith as much as I do.

I am, unfortunately, a Christian woman. And my church is unfortunately my second home.

And I am estranged from my second home.

It brings me so much guilt and pain to step into my church, but the second I smell the incense and the chanting hits my ears I know I am home. The incense is infused with rose, the chanting in soft Greek and Arabic. I used to be able to chant with them fluently as a kid. I used to ask my dad what certain geek words meant. He’d spend hours explaining it if he had the time back then.

Oh, and the theotokos, the bearer of god, mother of the savior. I was so infatuated with you. I’d draw your icon in my sketchbook. I’d talk to you like you were my own mom as I waited to confess alone. I can’t imagine the pain you went through when you saw your son get nailed to the cross.

I weep in front of your icon now. I look at you and oh holy Jesus the Christ and weep. I have fallen so far you look like tiny dots of light from where I lay in the darkness.

I used to walk around the church in circles, looking at each and every icon. The portraits of saints, the depictions of the holy gospels, the last supper, Christ raising from the dead, Lazarus raising from the dead. I used to ask Father John who a certain saint was if their icon was really unique and look them up later.

I miss Lazarus Saturday and eating Lazarakia with my brother. I miss eating dolmas and plain rice as potluck instead of the usual feast because it was lent. I miss breaking the fast at three in the morning because that’s when the service finally ended when it started at 10:30 PM. I miss playing tsougrisma with my family. I miss screaming “Alithos anesti!” With the congregation. I miss trying to respond “indeed he has risen!” in as many languages as possible on Easter Sunday.

Because I am no longer a fortunate Christian woman. I am an unfortunate Christian woman.

And I long to go to church and not question the teachings.

And I long to make palm crosses with my mom and her friends.

And I long to read at the matins services and chant in the choir.

And I long to breathe in the incense and leave smelling like it.

And I long to be held in the warm and loving embrace of our Lord and savior Jesus the Christ.

And I long to say, “forgive me a sinner”, to be met with a soft hug and the loving response, “God forgives and I forgive” at forgiveness Sunday.

Forgive me a sinner, for I am an unfortunate Christian woman. I have sinned against thee.

[ascendancy-echoes]

Chapter 14: Convenient Lies

Ismene had no idea how much time had passed since she had been locked up. There was no way to tell from the room she was in. A single lamp illuminated the room but there was no clock or windows. Finally, the door unlocked and opened. Oz entered and closed the door behind him.

“Where the fuck is Russ?” Ismene hissed. “You better not-“

“He’s fine,” Oz interjected. “You should be more concerned about yourself, honestly.”

“For years you acted like you were better than others, better than me… That damned furball shows up and you treat him with more compassion and empathy than you’ve ever shown anyone,” Oz said, his voice edging on anger. “My father should have punished you ages ago but he’s no longer with us so it’s up to me to set you straight.”

“Set me straight?!” Ismene snapped. “Your whole family throws around the fact your ancestor united all of Mystickind and look where it got us? Exiled to a single island and hated by stupid humans.”

Oz rose from his chair and levitated a few inches above the ground. “My ancestor did your kind a favor. Without the Demon King, you really think the Naga wouldn’t have been hunted to extinction by the humans?”

“Just because Yakra failed my father and it resulted in your parents getting killed by those ‘stupid humans’ as you put it doesn’t mean you get to treat me the way you do,” Oz growled. “I am the Elder and you will show loyalty and respect me… or I’ll have your apprentice thrown off the nearest cliff into the ocean. After all, I don’t need two apothecaries and you can always train someone else to do your job before you die.”

“Leave Russ alone,” shouted Ismene. “He’s done nothing wrong. You’re pissed at me.”

“He attacked two of my agents,” Oz replied. “For that, he’s going to have to stay with Noctis Arbitra until we can determine the proper consequences.”

“As for you… you may go home, so long as you show me the respect and loyalty that I deserve,” he concluded with a smug grin.

“Can I please see Russ before I go?” Ismene asked softly.

Oz snorted. “You’re in no position to be asking for favors.”

Before Ismene could say another word, Oz left and a masked agent entered, a black sack in hand. Ismene could tell they were a Kotengu like Nocturna but she couldn’t determine anything else about them.

The agent wordlessly forced the sack over her head. Ismene felt her arms being bound by rope before she heard the click of a lock and felt the shove of the agent for her to move forward. A part of Ismene wanted to lash out and escape, to find Russ but she was no fighter and she had seen the baton on the agent’s hip. They would just stun her and lock her back up. Russ would be hurt or killed if she acted out. Reluctantly, Ismene slithered forward, guided by the agent down the hall and out into the cold night air.

Again, she was shoved into a wagon and taken away. When the wagon eventually came to a stop, Ismene was shoved and forced out of it and onto damp grass.

“The Night witnesses all. We will know if you talk to anyone about what happened,” a gravelly voice uttered. “You are to remain on your property until the Elder decides otherwise.”

“How the hell am I supposed to get groceries or shit from the forest for medicine?” Ismene huffed.

“The Order will ensure you can still do your job and live,” the voice replied. “But do as you’ve been ordered or your friend will die. Do you understand?”

Ismene nodded. The sack was roughly pulled off her head and by the time she turned around, the wagon was being pulled away and she was alone in front of her house. The thin crescent moon hung in the sky, hidden partly by clouds.

Ismene cautiously slithered into the cottage. For a moment, Ismene hoped to find Russ safe and sound within their home but it was quiet. She was alone. Angry tears welled up. How could Oz do this to them? What was he going to do to Russ? She was just as surprised as everyone else when Russ created that shield of lightning. Closing the door behind her, Ismene went over and sat on the couch. She found herself staring at the window, sick with anger and worry. She couldn’t sleep, not knowing that Oz had Russ. Maybe… maybe they’d let Russ go and he’d come home soon.

~o~O~o~

Ismene must have nodded off at some point because she swore she had only blinked but suddenly it was sunrise. In a dazed, half-awake state, Ismene thought for a moment that the night before had been some sort of nightmare, but then she saw the books on the floor, knocked off the shelf by the agents that had been thrown back by Russ’s magic.

Now she was wide awake and angry. Mostly at Oz for sending Nocturna and her agents to arrest her and Russ but also at herself. She would never admit it to his face but Ismene knew Oz was right to hate her for the way she spoke to him. She couldn’t help but hate him. He, and to a greater extent his father, had been a constant reminder that her parents were gone, taken from her before she could really remember them.

Ismene sat there on the couch, staring out at the rising sun. She thought about the night before and recalled the crackling electric shield that had burst forth from Russ. Russ, the Mystic who could barely manage a simple light spell. How did he have such magic hidden inside him? What was going to happen to him? As she continued to worry, her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of her coffee grinder being used.

“I can’t believe you drink this stuff,” called out an unfamiliar feminine voice from the direction of the kitchen.

Ismene quickly looked in the direction of the voice and saw a Kotengu in silver-gray robes preparing some coffee. She stayed on the couch, stunned as the Kotengu moved about the kitchen as if she owned the place, getting out Ismene’s favorite mug, the one her grandmother had always used. Ismene remained speechless as the Kotengu poured the coffee into the mug.

“I heard that you don’t like cream or sugar which I suppose shouldn’t surprise me,” the Kotengu remarked casually, her back turned to Ismene.

It was then that Ismene found her voice. She shouted, “Who are you and what are you doing in my home?!”

The Kotengu turned around, revealing her masked face, indicating their status as a Noctis Arbitra agent. She tilted her head in curiosity and replied, “I’d like to think it’s obvious. I’m making you some coffee.”

“Why?!” Ismene asked incredulously. 

“To be nice?” the Kotengu remarked, sounding offended.  She walked over and placed the coffee in front of Ismene. “Besides, I was asked by Nocturna to assure you that Russ is in good hands with the Order.”

Ismene glanced down at the coffee in front of her before looking back at the Kotengu. “Where is he? What have you done with him?”

“I can’t discuss that.”

“You can’t keep him hidden away,” Ismene protested. “He has friends besides me. The rest of the town will notice if he’s not around.”

“Please, you’d be surprised how easily folks accept a convenient lie,” the Kotengu replied, crossing her arms.

“What will you do if I tell anyone the truth?” Ismene asked as she started to get up from the couch.

“You won’t… Not if you want Russ to live,” the Kotengu replied.

“You love him,” she added with cold indifference. “I’d hate for something to happen to Russ. He’s a sweet young Mystic and so many of us do like him.”

Ismene sat back down and the Kotengu's eyes shone with a poisonous gleam from behind the mask as she said, “There’s a smart gal. I always liked that about you. You know… you are very lucky that neither you nor your furry friend were killed for treason and assault of Noctis agents.”

“Now here’s what’s going to happen,” the Kotengu said. “You’re going to live your life as normal, albeit under house arrest for now. If anyone comes here and asks where Russ is, you simply say he’s out or he’s busy… I mean it’s not a complete lie. And remember, not a word about what happened last night.”

Ismene swallowed and nodded. She watched as the Kotengu walked over to the front door. The Kotengu paused and said, “Don’t forget to drink your coffee before it gets cold.”

The door slammed shut and Ismene was alone once more. She looked at the cup of coffee before her. The idea that it was drugged or poisoned crossed her mind. She picked it up and looked through the house and finally into her workshop. It didn’t look like anything else had been touched and nothing had been stolen. Even if she wasn’t worried that her coffee had been tampered with, she didn’t have the appetite for it now.

Ismene poured the coffee down the drain of the sink in the back of the workshop and sighed. She looked at the list of prescriptions she had to fill. There wasn't much but she didn’t feel like working for once. Would anyone blame her if she did nothing for a few days?

Going back into the main part of the house, Ismene closed the curtains and went down the hall to her room. Pausing by the closed door of Russ’s room, she thought about the agent’s words. She had never actually thought about it, even when Russ once brought up the subject, but now that he was gone, Ismene knew the Kotengu had been right. She did love Russ.

She loved him more than a friend. Who cared if they didn’t want to do the touchy-feely stuff? She loved the way he still had that odd accent of his. She loved how he always hummed a happy tune to a song he couldn’t remember the words to. She loved how he had his odd habit of folding pieces of paper into stars and butterflies for reasons unknown other than it felt comforting to do so. She loved how he always made her coffee even if he hated it himself. He was always thinking of her and did little things to make her happy.

Now he was being held captive by Noctis Arbitra and it was her fault.

Ismene sighed and continued to her room and laid down on her bed. She’d take care of things later. For now, she just wanted to sleep and pretend the whole ordeal was just a nightmare. ~o~O~o~

The next day in the late afternoon, Cephas came by the next day to see why she hadn’t come by to deliver his order. Ismene, unaccustomed to lying, simply told him that she didn’t feel well. That wasn’t too much of a lie. She did feel stressed and sick to her stomach. 

“Sorry to hear that,” Cephas replied. 

Ismene waved her hand weakly. “I’ll live. Let me get you that salve. It’s ready, I just felt like shit and forgot.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t send Russ into town,” Cephas remarked.

Ismene flinched, grateful that her back was to Cephas as she entered her workshop. She desperately wanted to tell Cephas the truth but the threats from Noctis Arbitra and Oz were fresh in her mind. She thought about her words carefully. Returning to the door with Cephas’s order, she explained Russ was busy helping her gather ingredients before the weather got too cold and wet.

Cephas nodded. “Well, you two take care and I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah.” Ismene breathed.

Half-truths and convenient lies were easy for others to accept, just like the agent said. Ismene had always known that, deep down, and now it was her life.

[rabbitechoes]

recently finished listening to the Swans studio albums so i decided to rank them!!! i plan on listening to all of the live albums (at this point i've only listened to the ones pre-hiatus) so when i listen through those i might add them to the ranking later!!

expand for detailed scores:

breakdown in order of release:

Filth (1983) - 7.5/10

Cop (1984) - 6/10

Greed (1986) - 6/10

Holy Money (1986) - 7/10

Children of God (1987) - 8/10

The Burning World (1989) - 6/10

White Light From the Mouth of Infinity (1991) - 9/10

Love of Life (1992) - 7/10

The Great Annihilator (1995) - 9.5/10

Soundtracks for the Blind (1996) - 10/10

My Father Will Guide Me Up a Rope to the Sky (2010) - 7/10

The Seer (2012) - 9.5/10

To Be Kind (2014) - 10/10

The Glowing Man (2016) - 9.5/10

leaving meaning. (2019) - 7/10

The Beggar (2023) - 8/10

[metalindex-hu]

Közel háromórás műsorral érkezik Budapestre a Swans

Közel háromórás műsorral érkezik Budapestre a Swans - https://metalindex.hu/2023/11/02/kozel-haromoras-musorral-erkezik-budapestre-a-swans/ -

November 4-én újra Budapesten lép fel a kísérleti / noise / industrial / poszt-rock stílusok úttörője, a Swans. A Fekete Zaj által szervezett koncert az Akvárium nagytermében lesz megtartva. Az 1982-ben New York Cityben alapított banda jelenleg az idén nyáron megjelent The Beggar című albumával turnézik, amit élőben egy maratoni hosszúságú, 2 óra 45 perces műsor keretében mutatnak be. Vendégük az egykori gitárosuk, Norman Westberg lesz, aki szólóban játszik korábbi zenekara előtt.

A Michael Gira által 1982-ben alapított Swans a kezdetekkor még könyörtelen, brutális, hangos zenei kitöréseiről, Gira mennydörgő énekéről és szövegeinek szélsőséges, lehangoló képeiről volt híres, ám a következő 15 évben elképesztő átalakuláson ment keresztül. A ’80-as években a Filth és Cop albumok után, a Greed korszakban a Swans az erősen mechanikus, ún. „proto-industrial” rock műfajában írt, majd az 1987-ben megjelent és azóta is mérföldkőnek számító Children of God dupla albumon kísérteties atmoszférájú idillekkel kísérletezett. A ’89-es The Burning World már egy gyengédebb, akusztikus alapú, meditatívabb zene volt, majd a zenekar Atlantába való költözködése utáni White Light from the Mouth of Infinity és a Love of Life már grandiózus, dallamokban bővelkedő anyagok voltak, melyek még disszonánsabbá és élesebbé váltak a The Great Annihilator esetében. A ’96-os Soundtracks for the Blind c. albumon végül mindezek az elemek egy végső nyilatkozattá forrtak össze, majd Gira ezen a ponton 15 év folyamatos stúdiózás és turnézás után feloszlatta a zenekart.

Az ezt követő 13 évben sem hagyott fel a zenéléssel; sorra készítette a kritikusok által is elismert albumokat és rengeteget koncertezett Angels of Light néven, elismert zenészekkel kiegészülve. Emellett a saját kiadója, a Young God Records égisze alatt olyan tehetségeket fedezett fel és készített velük lemezeket, mint Devendra Banhart és Akron/Family, a 2000-es évek avant-folk mozgalmának meghatározó alakjai.

Végül 2010-ben Gira újraalakította a Swanst és kiadták a My Father Will Guide Me Up a Rope to the Sky című albumot, ami hatalmas kritikai elismerének örvendett, majd az év nagy részében világkörüli turnéra indultak. A The Seer című háromlemezes stúdióanyag 2012-ben jelent meg, melyet egy újabb hosszú világkörüli turné követett, míg a lemez a Billboard Top 200-as listáján landolt. A következő kiadvány, a To Be Kind a Billboard Top 200-as eladási listáján a 36. helyen debütált, a független eladási listán pedig az 5. helyen szerepelt. Ezt követőn a Swans 47 teltházas koncertet adott, melyek között több dupla volt: például New Yorkban, Chicagóban, Los Angelesben, San Franciscóban és Párizsban. Az album hatalmas médiafigyelmet kapott és a 2 órás album stream az NPR-en debütált. A 2017-es, szintén tripla bakelit The Glowing Man a Swans addigi felállásának utolsó stúdiómunkája; 2019-ben Gira már ismét vendégzenészekkel dolgozott a Leaving Meaning c. 15. albumon. Jelenleg élőben Kristof Hahn, Larry Mullins, Phil Puelo, Dan Schechter és Christopher Pravdica zenél Girával.

A november 4-i lemezbemutatóra jegyek még kaphatók a Tixán.

//www.youtube.com/watch?v=HgtGHp2kfPQ

//www.youtube.com/watch?v=zPxWfYOf-Cg

//www.youtube.com/watch?v=iyVKM74yQ30

[mt-shahparan]

II. (Cont.)

Once there was a shore. Sweet mother hanged from a tree there, in the furthest right. Stand in the wet sands— where waterness of endlessness drank from starcrania. The sinks of your footsteps will not threaten anyone, the heels are in their place. On this side of earth there were none tending to see anyway. See footprints that meant to say, long legs walked from the bottom of the ocean, to here. Man out of time and its dilemma. Out not to gaze upon the water's recline; but a pint of light amidst the other side, of earthiness, buttered by rainwash daisies. And my eyes could see now, as far as the loneliest of stars scurried off to immemorial distances. But man from the bottombeach passed years. In his lapsed promenade. And only stopping at places. He stood. On fine granules. Hot asphalt and sojournful clay. Many else. His bizarre feet, like pompering sheets of musaceae, would shed their tired skins there. He stood for so long. Observe— forms of light disperse yet again. On this silent night you will not see any old man coming towards the beach in archaic steps; with worn but plumply kept hurricane. He never pleaded anyone. But there was no one here now to tell you of beach mother's wrath… Who you be? Steam of unnamed trenches? Glints of crushed ovary? Oh it is you. The remote viewing fiend! I still ask where you from in this vast stomata what are you? Your legs and your feet. I seen such thing in only you. But I must tell you. Livers off that village all caught up in their webs now. And the hermit? You stayed at his place once. Woodshedded. That porch could be where chickens loitered idly. But none, no wife even. Amiable thou no? And night descending on that isolarie came like legions. With crisp lemongrass tea and his amphibian gaze sternly. Night burst inside thee head in secret shades. I know that. I know of the tales he relayed. All but in one night. Only knowledge never grasped. Who are you? The recluse spoke not a word than necessary to villagers. Yet his creek croaked with sweats and flints on that night. Your magorial projection and your crude feet upon this land. Do you know what became of him? Fucktard. He is spousal of mushrooms. Lain on the water yes. Uphill; waterfreckles glow with a luminous intensity. Shaded by greeneries and shrooms burnt like polaroids on alcae. They will not disclose to you of his location. Nor will the fluttering gasbugs. Tried to open the pores I did! Like dried threshed pus in reverse exodus he has retreated back to pod. Sternum amphibious! You will not see him now starkly still by the banks when the moon was overhead and around cavernous foliage that oozed cicadous. Fishing. Under the forlorn tree you once seen that apparitionlike view and the stream and its vistas come let us go there oh Don't. Turn your head now you are hovering goddamned I am withering away these upscaled delevators turn them away! Turn.. I were a prisoner I were a prison I were a I were. I…..

For M. Gira #1 / My father will guide me up a rope to the sky (3 Jul 2023)

[mountmicrophone]

This isn't the Swans people were expecting on a Swans comeback album, it's not quite as experimental or as "out there" as a lot of their material, and it also lays some pretty straight forward foundations as opposed to the pushing of the envelope we have come to expect from Swans. The line-up taking a huge jump from where the band left off with Soundtracks for the blind, the absence of Jarboe being the biggest change. 

Michael Gira reactivating the seemingly never ending journey that is Swans

But what this album does, it does very well.

No Words/ No Thoughts is a great little opener. It really does help lay down the mood for what to expect on this album. It's a dusty trip across the desert under the beautiful stars seen on the artwork for this album. Unfortunately like the majority of the tracks here this entire piece feels like it is reaching for something higher, something more epic. Unfortunately this is something that they don’t quite grab here for the most part. Fortunately Swans manage to find that higher sound on their next trilogy of albums, a real sweet spot in music history if you ask me.

One of the most memorable songs on here is Reeling the Liars In. The melody ever so memorable, and the lyrics quite messed up

"We are removing their face, collecting their skin".

Sonically this carries on that dusty desert theme, riding horseback through the middle of the night, needing to get to your destination before sunrise.

Jim is a song I have had the pleasure of seeing live during a Michael Gira solo show, and boy seeing the swagger that we hear on this recorded version of the song in person is something quite fantastic. This is easily my favourite song that My Father has to offer, it's truly a menacing beast of a song.

"Let's piss on the city that's burning down there!" Gira belows,

"Take your mechanical beast to heaven, ride your beautiful bitch to the ultimate sin!" he snarls as you spectatein awe.

My Birth almost foreshadows what we can soon be expecting from Swans, the chainsaw like guitars roaring away as Gira recites his lyrics to us, really trying to make a more lasting impression within the listeners mind.

Eden Prison does not fuck around, it's menacing and its delivery is fierce. It's one of the big stand out tracks here. The rhythmic passing towards the end of this track just brays the listener over the head repeatedly as if the instrument is trying to relay a message or a feeling. For me every track to this point is building up to this moment that is so full of sound it's almost empty. It feels like a strong statement of being trapped, and is a very impressive moment here.

And the final track here is Little Mouth, it feels like a very traditional style of Swans almost reaching back to their White Light or Love of Life days. Gira's voice being the main centre piece here as he guides this track along.

This isn't Swans as we know it, but did we ever actually know Swans? This is the perfect bridge connecting the final version of Swans in the 90s, all the Gira solo projects in-between, and the trilogy of albums to come that people dote over so much. It isn't their best, but it's certainly a worthwhile addition to the Swans legacy.

[jgthirlwell]

I just received my copy of the beautiful Swans book, Sacrifice and Transcendence by Nick Soulsby, for which I was interviewed extensively. Swans are one of the most important groups of the last thirty years, and I have had a long friendship with the brilliant and driven Michael Gira. There has been a lot of cross-fertilization between the Swans and the Foetus live bands, with many musicians being members of both, including Norman Westberg, Algis Kizys, Ted Parsons and Vinnie Signorelli, In addition, I started the Wiseblood project with former Swans drummer Roli Mosimann and the Swans song “Jim” from the album My Father Will Guide Me Up A Rope To The Sky is about me. This book looks like a fascinating slice of musical history. You can buy it now at Amazon or wherever good books are sold, as they say!

[fresherbrine]

[sunfleurry]

I. 360˚

Hi there! I am reuploading this fic and this time I want to actually try because tbh I didn’t give af about pacing, editing, etc. as harrymoncheri

I’ve decided to scrap the original plot and make this a prompt-based project!

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy part 1 (the intro) of personal trainer!harry

Disclaimer: I write stories and use Harry Styles as a face claim. In no way shape or form does my writing reflect how I perceive the actual Harry to be. These are my characters, the face is just a bonus!

Warnings: This story will contain mature themes.

The parking lot itself was intimidating. Eden’s eyes remained wide in wonder as she took in the cars that couldn’t have been less than a couple hundred thousand dollars. When she won the year-long membership for a five-star gym through a raffle at her uni, she hadn’t thought about what to expect. From the outside, the gym looked quite small but as she walked in, the first thing that welcomed her was a set of gleaming black stairs leading to an underground facility.

Her shoes squeaked on each step down. She kept her gaze low to avoid tripping and embarrassing herself in front of the tycoons in gym gear and teenagers working out in custom name brand sneakers.

The receptionist smiled upon seeing her, his veneers a stark contrast against his brown skin. “You’re the one I just spoke with on the phone, right? Eden?”

She smiled and shook his hand. “That’s me.”

After having her sign a few papers, he led her to an office–a small room surrounded by glass walls with a view of the elevators. She soon learned that they led to lower levels housing the spa, pool and basketball courts.

While waiting for the manager to start the consultation, they sat and talked for a few minutes. Eden learned a lot about the receptionist. His name was Luca and his father owned the gym. He was a couple years older than her and studied at the same university. She was positive she’d never seen him; she would have remembered a man as beautiful as him.

“Sorry for keeping you waiting,” Luca said while checking the minimalist clock hung on the only wall not made of glass. “I don’t know what’s taking him so long.”

She waved a hand as if brushing him off. “Don’t apologize. I’m sure he’s somewhere around here doing what managers do best.”

“My manager isn’t in, actually. You’ll be speaking to one of our personal trainers today.”

She furrowed her eyebrows but nodded all the same. “Oh, okay.”

Luca’s face brightened as something caught his eye over Eden’s shoulder and he stood up. “Speak of the devil.”

Eden turned in her seat and her breath hitched as her eyes landed on a man whose looks, she imagined, would take over her dreams at night from that day forward. He was dangerously handsome in the simplest clothing– grey cotton joggers and a black t-shirt she noticed every personal trainer was wearing.

Her gaze trailed to his strong jaw, then up to where his chestnut hair curled around his ears in the most endearing way. When her eyes met his striking green ones, she felt heat creep up her neck at being caught blatantly ogling him.

“Eden? Did you hear what I said?”

She didn’t miss the smirk on the personal trainer’s lips as her head whipped towards Luca. “Sorry, what did you say?”

He gave her a knowing look. “I said I’m going to go back to the front. Did you need anything else?”

“Oh, um, no. Thank you for everything,” she bit her lip, fully aware of the trainer’s heavy gaze on her. It was hard concentrating on watching Luca exit the office only to pretend like the suffocating presence of the walking wet dream was fictitious.

The door closed on its own with a click that echoed in Eden’s head. The realization that she was in a closed room with the attractive man dawned on her.

“Nice to meet you, Eden. I’m Harry.” His voice was raspy and deep, the cells of her body vibrating to each syllable he uttered.

“Nice– “she cleared her throat as the word caught in her mouth. “Nice to meet you, too.”

Eden sat in front of the desk. The sky-blue cushion on the seat at first glance appeared uncomfortable, but as soon as her bum touched the fabric, she decided it was the most comfortable chair she’d ever had the pleasure of sitting on.

She started to get nervous when Harry did not say anything, only studied her face for a moment, before nodding to himself and opening one of the desk drawers to pull out a notepad and a Montblanc pen.

“First thing I’m going to ask you is: What are your fitness goals?”

Eden opened her mouth then closed it. “Umm. I guess to just get fit,” she said stupidly.

But he only nodded in encouragement. “Can you think of anything specific?”

“Build strength,” she leaned forward. “Endurance.”

He smiled, and she wanted to swoon at the dimple that appeared on his cheek. “Do you have a history with sports or fitness?”

“I used to dance,” she perked up. “Ballet.”

His face gave away that he was impressed, and she wanted to pat herself on the back. “You must be really flexible.”

She flushed. “Well, it’s been a while. I doubt it.”

“I guess we’ll have to work on your flexibility too, then.”

Her head snapped up, eyes locking with his. It was a fairly innocent statement and within context. But it was the tone he used. Subtle, but she didn’t miss it nor the mischievous glint in his eye. She gulped soundlessly and looked down at her leggings, pretending to pick at a loose thread.

He broke the silence. “Before I ask any more questions, are you okay with me training you? Or would you prefer a female?”

Eden’s lips rolled inward as she pondered his question. A part of her was dumbfounded at the fact that she even had to think about it. Of course she wanted to choose him. However, she promised herself no more distractions. She was there to get fit and take advantage of this free opportunity, not put herself out there for the second time only for it to crash and burn again.

“Female,” she said.

If she wasn’t watching him carefully, she would have missed the hint of disappointment on his face before it disappeared and was replaced by a look of understanding.

The rest of the consultation went by with Harry asking her a few more questions. She was getting much more comfortable and they both seemed to relax into conversation the more time went by. Harry finished off the meeting by taking her body measurements, BMI and fat percentage.

Eden later met Yaz, her personal trainer. She was a kind woman with long black hair just like hers, but it was straightened to perfection and didn’t seem to have a single split end. Harry had given his fellow trainer all the information he’d collected from Eden, and she did not waste time.

Eden was guided to an artificial turf where horizontal bars hung over their heads with different TRX ropes suspended from them. Yaz had her do basic exercises to assess what they needed to work on, but Eden could barely focus. While Yaz kept her eyes on Eden’s movements, Eden kept hers on the mirror reflection of the man who was walking around the weight area, greeting everyone. He seemed well-loved in this facility. The men greeted him like he was a future business partner, and the women tried maintaining his attention with flirty smiles. 

Yet, his attention was elsewhere. All he could think about was Eden’s thick waves and big brown eyes that gave away everything she was feeling. He wasn’t sure if she was aware of how easy it was to read her. The minute he walked into that office and laid eyes on her, he knew he was done for. Her red leggings and black sports bra left little to the imagination and he wasn’t complaining. He wanted to touch her, just to know what striking gold felt like.

Now, stopping in his tracks to watch her speak to Yaz, he caught her eye through the mirror and he couldn’t stop himself from smiling. His grin only widened when she offered a shy smile back before giving Yaz her full attention, cheeks blooming red.

He knew then that he was fucked.

***

Part 2

[mercurygray]

Canute x Emma but ITS DICK AND JOAN (yes I'm going there, hi). Juno xxx

Juno, this got long. I regret nothing.

It wasn’t her first choice in destinations by a long chalk.

Her pass wasn’t quite long enough to go all the way to London, but there were…things to do, in Winchester, a cathedral that hadn’t been bombed to bits. It was a nice change from Swindon, and there was comfort, somehow, in taking her best uniform to go and play the tourist, one more American in a crowd of Americans who’d paid their shilling for the souvenir program and milled around the bespectacled tour guide, looking for all the world like he wished for nothing more than a return to normalcy and more erudite crowds.

It was hard to listen to everything as they toured the space, Joan’s eye drawn upwards to the buttresses and spires above them, fingers almost itching to sketch everything she saw. “...the bones of one of our first great English queens, relocated from the Old Minister. The glass that you see in the windows above us here dates primarily from the 19th century, when restoration efforts began to correct the ravages of Oliver Cromwell and his Great Army…”

Joan let the guide drone on, her eyes falling to the roped-off pavements and the chests thereon, studying the strange, peaked boxes with their intricately painted sides. Mortuary boxes, the guide had called them - tombs of a kind. A sudden breeze came through the cathedral, and everyone looked up, expecting to see the doors open - but there was nothing there. If the guide was troubled by this, he did not show it, and continued going on about the glass and the 1906 restoration. Joan felt cold. What was the expression - like someone walked over my grave?

It was raining, when she finally arrived back at her hotel - dinner had been miserable, vegetables boiled within an inch of their lives and with nothing out of the ration book to make it even mildly better, and there was nothing she wanted more than the eiderdown and a hot water bottle and the small solace of the novel she’d treated herself to on her way out of the cathedral, the one about the English queen the guide had mentioned, the one who was buried there.

Climbing into bed brought the whole day down on her like a wave, and she hadn’t gotten more than a few pages into the book before she drifted off, the rain pounding on her window.

She found herself dreaming of a room in a castle. Where am I? She wondered, looking around the dream-filtered room. I never have dreams - Was something off at dinner?

It was raining, here, too, great flashes of lighting crossing the sky outside the small, arrow-slitted windows. Inside, however, was warm and dry and comfortable, with hangings on the walls and a fire in the great hearth. She moved her feet and found the rushes underneath were sweet with herbs - a tiny breath of springtime in the room. A group of women were passing to and fro around the room, laying out a meal and preparing for - for something. She was with them, and they could see her - more than one raised her eyes and tried to smile as she passed by. Plainly dressed - servants of some kind? There were voices in the corridor outside, and one of the maids whispered, terrified, “He’s coming!”

Who’s coming? Joan wondered, anxious as anyone else to see who would come through the door. Is it her husband? Her father? Her jailer?

But the man who entered was none of these - tall, and bearded, with dark hair and deep eyes, his cape muddy and his boots much the same. And this woman did not go to greet him, as a lover or friend - she stood her ground, reserved, and formal - but also unafraid. Not a jailer, then. And he, obviously, wasn’t expecting to see her - he stopped short, his eyes the only indication of his mood. A handsome man, Joan thought, pleased by it, and then recoiled a little. Was that her or me? “Why are you here?” He asked, on guard a little.

She spoke, and the voice was not her own. “My lord will require food after his journey - and bathwater." She gestured to the maids behind her, who began laying the trestle for dinner, several more beginning preparations for a bath, laying out a new tunic, a clean sheet for the tub, beginning to fill it with water.

For a moment they only studied each other, neither one prepared to give way.

“I am not your lord.”

So, definitely not her jailer. Her husband, then? Estranged, perhaps, or simply new? “By your sufferance, only. You are the master of this place, now, and I am but a guest.” Not a husband either. How much that hurt for her to say it. You and I both know something about pride, don’t we, and owing things to men, Joan thought to herself.

He looked perturbed by this turn of events.“You are not a maid, that you should attend me so. A queen should not be hauling water.”

A queen! Joan thought of the breeze in the cathedral, the gilded chests full of old bones. Was this one of those ghosts, come to haunt her? “But a queen may wait upon a king, surely. Even one without a crown. Please. Before the water cools.”

He paused at this, but knew, somehow, that she would not accept refusal, and nodded, taking the cloak from his shoulders and passing it to one of the maids. Someone moved a chair, brought him a pair of soft leather house shoes, and he sat to remove his boots, his eyes almost never leaving her.

The maids took their leave, one by one bowing to the pair of them, and Joan could feel the power in this woman’s glance. She is the master of this place - or she was. And now she bows to him - but only just. And he lets her. He respects her here. He’s conquered this castle, but he hasn’t conquered her - and I don’t think he wants to. He likes her as she is.

“You were right about the bishop,” he said, mildly, rising from the chair and crossing over to the bath, sitting closer to the fire. “He was not pleased to see me.”

“But he did not deny your request.”

“No, he did not.” His smile was…proud, almost - the kind of smile Lewis gave when something or someone had proved correct. She told him what to expect before he left, Joan realized - and she was right. Who were these two, enemies who were not enemies and lovers who were not lovers? For she felt that, too, the pull between the two of them - him watching her, and her watching him, mutually drawn together by some hidden flame. He sees her as she is, and loves her for it!

She turned around to give him privacy to strip, though she couldn’t resist a peek over her shoulder as she heard a small splash, and realized, belatedly, that he was only testing the water, and that his nakedness remained to be seen.

He was broad-shouldered, and muscular, a man used to pulling his own weight, and the skin of his back was dark with tracery, strange beasts and birds dancing across his skin. Scarred, too, and not lightly. He had seen much of battle, and lived to tell the tale.

She found herself watching him get into the tub, her eyes following with fascination what was between his legs. The sight sent a familiar twinge between her own. It was a long time since this woman had been loved. We have that in common, too, then, Joan thought to herself, thinking of the long muscles of Dick’s legs and how’d he’d doubtless look stepping naked into a tub, and what all that riser training had done to his shoulders, his arms. And I can’t fault your taste on that.

She turned away just as his head was turning, and she felt his eyes making a study of her. They had been familiar to her, gray-green in the firelight, and the familiarity made her nervous.

“Will you not attend me?” It was a question, not an order - and she did not refuse. She crossed the room, picked up a towel, an ewer of water. He leaned forward in the tub, letting her pour carefully, gently pushing the long length of his hair aside and stroking his shoulder as she did so, the pattern of his tattoo.

He relaxed, under her hands, the dried herbs scattered on the water giving off a pleasant scent. She wanted to touch him - to touch all of him! It had been ages since DC, since Karl or Paul, lying in bed at three in the morning kissing his shoulder just to make sure he was real. She had longed, she realized, to touch again, not just like this but casually, too, a hand on an arm or a face sunk, laughing, into a shoulder, but it had been a long time since she’d been allowed to do that, either. Everyone was seeing things that weren’t there, and that meant she had to keep herself to herself, always.

He made some small noise of appreciation that went straight between her legs again, and then murmured something in another language - a language he meant for subterfuge, but that this woman spoke. I would give you another crown, woman, if you desired it.

She could hear this woman’s voice, clear as day in her mind: And I would give you another kingdom, if you asked me.

And then she woke. The light was still on and her book’s page was creased from where she’d fallen over on it. She looked blearily at the book, flipped the cover closed. Why don’t you go back to the cathedral, Emma? She said to herself, looking at the name on the book’s cover. I don’t think what you want is back in Normandy.

A voice came back, subtle and smiling. And I don't think what you want is here in Winchester, Joan.