#Something Old by Ev Bishop

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 3: OF TRUE AND FALSE MEMORIES

synopsis: you hitch a ride to the heartlands. hopefully your driver doesn't mind you leeching for just a while longer.

word count: 3.6k

ships: Arthur Morgan/Modern!Reader, Van der Linde Gang & Reader

notes: hey ummm merry christmas eve here's an early present. also zion as a concept of faith is mentioned but i am not a zionist trust it's just that joshua graham is unfortunately a mormon 🙏

TOSoA taglist: @one-green-frog , @photo1030 , @mavenhavenn , @fathermarama , @its-yummi (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask <3!!)

THE OLD SOUL OF AMERICA MASTERLIST

You know the trail to Dead Horse Point well by now. Something is a bit different – but still, Joshua and Daniel and the Dead Horses and Sorrows welcome you and your mules, Rook and Bishop, all the same.

Follows-Chalk, Drumming-Storm, and a few other Dead Horses crowd the mules, offloading everything you had on them: books, kettles, blankets, guns (and accompanying black powder), tobacco, and alcohol. They mostly crowd Rook, as she’s the heavyweight of the two and carries more – Bishop’s more of a riding mule. The Dead Horses wander off soon after, arms full, taking everything to its respective place. 

Joshua approaches you, adjusting the bandages near his eyes to see you better. “You’ve got on well.”

“Yes, sir,” you say. “Happy Trails treats me well. I’m their employee, but I’m also their friend.”

“Yes, but this?” Joshua gestures at the people putting up what you’ve brought. “All this product? They must have put a lot of trust in you.”

“They put more trust in my steeds,” you say. “Both got some burro in them. And they can kick as hard as them, too – especially Bishop.”

“That, I don’t doubt,” Joshua says. 

You watch as Rook shakes her coat out, causing her carrying gear to jingle. Bishop wanders closer to Joshua, nudging at his shoulder and nipping at the bandages that cover Joshua’s arm. Joshua lifts his arm (slowly – again, he’s bandaged all over) and pats the side of Bishop’s face.

“They like it here,” you say. “Maybe it’s something about the canyon. Or maybe they just like you.”

“Zion is a godly place,” Joshua says. His voice, though deep and abrasive, carries a heavy tone of affection. “Wherever man may be, he always dreams of Zion. These creatures may share our same dreams.”

“That’d be nice,” you hum softly. You reach out and place your hand under Rook’s jaw, and she leans forward into your touch. Her big, brown eyes blink slowly as she looks at you, then around the campsite, like she’s appreciating the sight.

“We should probably get going,” you say. You look over at Joshua. “I need to load up on daturana and datura hide. That’s what Happy Trails wants in exchange, anyway.”

“Go talk to Winding-Path,” Joshua says. “She knows what you’re owed.”

When you look to your right, Follows-Chalk is hurrying over, a hand raised and a smile on his face. The painted markings on his face crease and stretch with his smile – rather than spider legs creeping up his cheeks, they look like laugh lines.

“Hoye!” He greets. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Nice to see you, too,” you say. You reach out to grasp his hand, and as soon as you brush it – 

A bump in the road jolts you awake. You let out a small, confused sound, then settle. 

You’re in the back of a wagon, crammed between folded-up lodgings and kitchen supplies. Your knees are drawn to your chest, and your back is to the wooden side of the wagon. 

Before packing up and making yourself fit into the space left on the wagon, you weren’t really told much of anything. From what you’ve gathered, the men (“men” being the young-ish, able-bodied ones) robbed a train, and now you and the gang have to flee. It seems like you fit right in, because they have a penchant for pissing off the wrong people, just like you.

“Hey, you’re finally awake!” Hosea calls from the front, where he sits next to Arthur.

“Yeah.” You shift and take a quick, deep breath as you rub the sleep from your eyes. “Yeah, I’m up.”

“We’re nearly to the Heartlands,” Hosea says. He turns so that he’s facing you with his arm resting on the back of the seat. “You ever been there before?”

“No,” you say. You sway with the trail in the dirt road and the way Arthur drives. 

“We’re settling up in Horseshoe Overlook,” Hosea says. “It’s near a livestock town called Valentine – all mud and morons, if I remember right.”

“Huh,” you hum. You look away from Hosea and around you. 

It’s different from when you were up in Colter. It’s warmer, for one. The trees aren’t dredged in snow – instead, their branches are covered in leaves, each one green and upturned. Grasses and flowers sprout from the dirt ground, which is now soft and malleable instead of frozen and cold to the touch. Everything is just nicer. 

For a minute, you just listen to the sounds around you. It’s calm. Birdsong fills the air, and you can see animals bounding through the trees of the forest and grasses of the valleys (for the first time in a while, honestly – cities don’t lend themselves well to wildlife). 

What was that dream about? You wonder silently. I was… in the Dead Horses’ camp. But that place is completely fictional, even in this… timeline? Coma-fever-something dream? I don’t even know at this point.

You hear the sound of moving water and look to the front. Arthur is guiding the horses into a stream, which the rest of the caravan has cleared without a problem. 

In the middle of the water, you feel a shock and hear something break. You clutch to the side of the wagon and feel that the driving is a little… off.

“Get us out the stream,” Hosea says. “You gotta keep us moving, but calm.”

Did you just ask Arthur to be calm? You shout in your head. Arthur is the epitome of everything that isn’t calm! He barely feels things, and when he does, he’s meaner than a gas station tweaker – and he’s not even on anything!

Arthur (yes, carefully, you’ll admit) pulls the wagon out of the stream. Just as he does, you feel another shock and a shift. You scramble to hold onto a canister as it nearly falls out of the back of the wagon. 

“Ah, shit!” Arthur curses. He draws the wagon to a stop.

“Okay, let’s take a look,” Hosea says. 

You move and shift the items so that they’re pushed further up the wagon, where you were sitting just before. You hop off the back of the wagon. Sure enough, the wheel has just popped itself right off. 

“You alright back there?” Bill calls from up ahead. 

“Does everything look alright?” Arthur snaps as he hops off the driver’s seat. 

You can see Javier shift in his seat in the wagon ahead of yours, trying to get a better look. “Well, what’s going on?”

Arthur walks closer to you, accessing the damage. He throws a hand up in the air and groans. “I broke the goddamn wheel!”

“Alright!” Hosea chimes. “Let’s get it fixed.” 

“You need help?” Javier calls. 

Hosea waves him off with a hand. “I reckon we can handle it.”

You quickly step back as he and Charles make their way to the back of the wagon. Arthur hoists up the wheel so he can roll it towards the wagon. Hosea and Charles pick up the back, and Arthur forces the wheel back into place. 

You hurry over and pick up a crate, putting it in the wagon. You hop up into the bed of the wagon and take a small chest from Charles, placing it where it belongs.

“Hey, look at you.” Arthur says as he checks the back of the wagon. “You ain’t so useless after all.”

“O-oh,” you say after a second. “You’re talking to me?”

“I am.” He looks up at you. The brim of his hat casts a harsh shadow that partly obscures his eyes. “Did I… offend you, somehow?”

“No, no!” You laugh nervously and take another crate from Charles. “I just wasn’t sure. Sorry.”

“Uh-huh,” Arthur hums. 

“Hold on,” Hosea almost hisses. 

You look over at him, and he’s looking to the side. You follow his eyes and see three figures on the ridge of a cliff, each perched on a horse. You can barely make out their facial features, but they look like Native Americans.

“What you think?” Arthur says lowly. 

“If they wanted trouble, we wouldn’t have seen them,” Charles says. 

“Poor bastards…” Hosea raises his arm and waves, but doesn’t call out to them. “We really screwed them over down here.”

Yeah… You think to yourself, still looking at the figures on horseback. It’s not much better in the future, either. I’d tell you all the details, but then I’d be put in an asylum.

“Come on,” Hosea says. “Let’s not push our luck.”

You take your eyes away from the figures. Instead, you help Charles pack up the last of what’s meant to go in the back of the wagon. 

As Arthur and Hosea hop on the front of the wagon, you make yourself comfortable on top of a trunk. Charles sits across from you on a rectangular crate. 

“Not too far now. Stay on this trail,” Hosea instructs Arthur. “We’ll follow the river, then cut left inland.”

You look around as Hosea starts telling Arthur about how the poor the natives were treated in this area. “Stolen clean away from them it was, every blade of grass,” he says. Even though it’s wrong (reprehensible, even), you understand why white men wanted this country. It’s breathtakingly beautiful – or maybe it just looks that way because it’s not what you’re used to. It’s not asphalt and smog and a concrete jungle in place of real land that lives and breathes.

“I heard some of the army out here was particularly, uh…” Hosea thinks for a second. “Unpleasant about it.”

“Unpleasant?” Charles echoes. “How do you rob and kill people pleasantly?”

“You… say please?” You try to joke. “And thank you?”

“Something like that!” Hosea laughs. “That’s the perfect way to simplify something more complicated for the benefit of our blockheaded driver here.” 

You cringe a little. You don’t really want to be roped in while Hosea’s insulting Arthur so freely and carelessly. 

“Hey, don’t blame nothin’ on me,” Arthur says. “Never forget, y’all – this here’s a conman, born and bred. Just ‘cause it sounds fancy don’t mean he knows a damn thing ‘bout what he’s talkin’ ‘bout.”

A nice pseudo-quiet settles over all four of you. (Pseudo because while it’s true that none of you are talking, the noise of the forest around you fills that silence well.)

“So…” Arthur starts. “Charles. What happened to your tribe?”

“I don’t even know if I have one. Least, not that I can remember,” Charles says. “My father was a colored man. They told me he lived with our people for a while – a number of free men did – but… when we were forced to move from our lands, the three of us fled. I was too young to really remember much.” 

His expression hardens a little. “All my life I’ve been on the run.”

You feel your face twist a bit and a pang of empathy. Empathy – not sympathy. You don’t feel pity for Charles. You know a feeling familiar to his. Maybe you weren’t literally pushed from your land, but you sure as hell know how it feels – skipping from shelter to warming center to temporary housing to shelter.

Addicts, even child addicts and children of addicts, are liabilities. You were a liability.

Charles’ voice brings you from your thoughts. “A couple years later, some soldiers captured my mother. Took her somewhere. We never saw her again. We drifted around. My father was a very sad man, and the drink had a mean hold on him. Around thirteen… I just took off on my own.”

His eyes flit over to meet yours. “What’s that look for?”

“Sorry.” You duck your head and look off to the side. “It’s just… I understand.”

You leave it hanging at that. Then, you look at Charles out of the corner of your eye. He’s waiting for you to continue. You glance at Hosea and Arthur. Neither have turned around to look at you, but you can tell they’re waiting, too. 

“My dad wasn’t around. Like, at all,” you say. “And my mom liked to go to trap houses to get stoned out of her goddamn mind.”

“Trap houses?” Hosea echoes. “What d’you mean by that?”

A cold shock shoots down your spine as you remember that, yeah – this is 1899! And you’re from the future! And you can’t let slip that you’re from the 21st century!

“A trap house is a house where people go to buy and sell drugs,” you say as you think of a lie. “Sorry – it’s slang from the Frontier, I guess. Hasn’t made its way eastward yet.”

“Huh,” Hosea hums. “And what did you do before you found yourself here? If you don’t mind my asking.”

The dream! The dream! Your mind screams at you. Remember the dream!

“I worked for a company called Happy Trails Caravan,” you lie. “Had two mules – Rook and Bishop. I spent most of my time travelling alone, and delivering to the tribes in the Mojave.”

“And how was that?” Hosea asks. “I can’t imagine travelling all the time leaving a lot of room for friends.”

“Oh, yeah. It was nice, but still a little lonely,” you say. “I started doing more local runs across the north of the Mojave around six or seven years ago. Made friends with some of the tribes in Zion Canyon. I started working that job when I was maybe… fourteen? And spent around a decade going cross-country before I did more local deliveries.”

“That was about the age we found young Arthur here – maybe a little older,” Hosea says. “A wilder delinquent you never did see! But he learned fast.”

Arthur scoffs. “Not as fast as Marston, apparently.”

You and Charles exchange a look and he speaks up. “I don’t understand. What’s the problem between you two?”

“Eh…” Arthur shrugs. “It’s a long story.”

You cup a hand by your mouth and half-whisper to Charles. “Marston’s the wolf guy, right?”

He just nods in response. You drop your hand and lean back, looking around at the scenery again. Arthur leads the wagon right by the wall of a sheer cliff drop. You look up at the ridge and the trees silhouetted there. 

“We still headed the right way?” Arthur says. 

“That depends,” Hosea says. “Are we still heading west, in search of fortune and repose in virgin forests, as we planned? No. Are we heading in the correct direction on our desperate escape from the law, eastwards down the mountains? Yes, I believe so.”

You smile to yourself a little. You don’t really know him all that well, but so far, Hosea’s shaping up to be one of the people you can trust. If not, he’s a nice storyteller, at least. You guess that counts for something.

“You know this area?” Charles asks. 

“A little. I’ve been through a couple of times. There’s a livestock town not too far from here, called Valentine.” Hosea hooks his thumb over his shoulder at you. “Was telling them and Arthur about it earlier. Cowboys, outlaws, working girls. Our kinda place.”

“O’Driscolls?” Arthur asks. 

“Probably them too,” Hosea says.

“Pinkertons?”

“Let’s hope not.” 

“And this place we’re going…” Arthur shifts, giving the reins a light snap. “Wait, what’s it called again?”

You turn and watch the riverbed pass by as they continue to talk. The place is called Horseshoe Overlook, like Hosea told you earlier. They talk about the Blackwater job and about Dutch doing things that weren’t like him. (That confuses you a bit. He’s a nice guy, as far as you can tell. But everyone has their limit, and from what you can infer, the ferry was Dutch’s limit.) A few more sentences later, you get the distinct feeling you shouldn’t be listening in on this conversation. Instead, you turn to Charles. 

“Are you doing okay?” You ask. 

“I’m fine,” Charles says. “Do I… not look okay?”

You laugh awkwardly and scratch your cheek. “No, no. I’m just… asking to be polite.”

His eyebrows draw together a little and he frowns a bit. “Okay.”

You inhale deeply and draw your lips into a thin line, then nod, then look away. 1899 is such a weird year to be alive. Or… to be in a coma in? Like, you’re in a coma and your coma dream is set in 1899. This is so confusing.

Javier’s voice from up ahead breaks your thoughts (and keeps you from going into a spiral, really). 

“There you are, brother!” He points further down the trail. “Head in there and follow the track for a bit.”

“Thanks,” Arthur says. 

“Hey, slow up,” Javier calls. “I’ll jump on.”

Javier catches up as Arthur slows down. He hops up onto the tailgate step, holding onto the side of the wagon for extra support. You give him a smile and he nods in return. 

“Any trouble getting in here, Javier?” Hosea asks from up front. 

“No, it went well,” Javier says. “This is a good spot.”

“Excellent!” Hosea says. “I think this’ll work for us. For now, anyway.”

You lean to the side and watch as Horseshoe Overlook comes into view. It’s a nice spot, like Javier said. Some of the grass has already been worn down from all the recent moving around the people and the horses have been doing. A few tents have already been set up, but not all of them.

“Here we are, folks,” Hosea says. “Home, sweet home.”

“You weren’t wrong, Hosea!” Dutch calls from inside the camp. “This place… is perfect.”

Hosea climbs off, and you take that as a hint to get off and start unloading. Charles looks inside the trunk you were sitting on before and tells you that it’s bedding. You take it from him and head over to the tents. 

Most of the rest of the day passes like that. Everything needs to be unpacked and worked on. There was a small interruption when Dutch got up on his soapbox and gave a quick speech about everyone pitching in. He told the gang their fake backstory – that you and the rest of them are a group of itinerant workers whose factory got shut down up north. 

Evening comes quietly and quickly, and night follows it. The sheer drop on the outskirts of camp serves as a nice place to sit and think. 

The stars are so much more bright than they are back in your time. (Your time? Or is it real life? Waking life? Who knows? And, at this point, who cares?) They twinkle and blink and almost seem to dance. They group together and look like they’re spilling from one center source. The moon is nice and full on the horizon. You can see the craters and indents in her surface. It’s like you’re looking up at millions of silver nails driven into dark blue velvet, with the white head of a spike serving as the moon. It’s beautiful, for lack of better words. 

“Hey.”

You gasp and tense, glancing over your shoulder. It’s Arthur. 

You return to looking up at the sky. “Jesus… What do you want?”

“Charles told me to ask you if you’ve eaten,” Arthur says. “Well? Have you?”

“Uh, yeah,” you say. “I’m good.”

Even though you think the conversation is over, you can still feel Arthur behind you. It seems that these people either don’t know how to end a conversation or it’s just different in 1899. 

“The stars.” You glance over your shoulder at Arthur, then away again. “I’m… I’m looking at the stars. If you were curious.”

“Uh huh?” Arthur hums. “And what’s so fascinating about them stars?”

“It’s just that, uh… I couldn’t see them as well out west,” you say. “Where I’m from. Here, I can see them so clearly. They look so real.”

Like I could just reach out and touch them… I mean, this is a coma or something like that. Maybe I could. Maybe I can. 

“I mean, I know they’re real,” you say, your voice laced with laughter. “I’m not – I’m not stupid. They’re just pretty. That’s all.”

“Whatever you say,” Arthur says. 

He steps forward into your peripheral vision. You glance at him, then away, like a child after they’ve been scolded for staring. You push down the instinct to shrink away and look at him.

He takes out a hand-rolled cigarette and puts it between his lips. He strikes a match with the bottom of his boot and lights it. The cherry of the cigarette lights up his face, casting warm light and soft shadows. 

“You want one?” Arthur asks. 

“Huh?” You blink, then look away. “No. No, thank you. I don’t smoke.”

“If you say so,” he says. 

You can see Arthur look up at the stars out of the corner of your eye. He takes a deep drag from his cigarette, then exhales the smoke through his nose. The cherry of the cigarette flickers, then resumes glowing softly. 

You join him in looking up. Sure enough, the stars are still there, and the stars are still real. All seem to spill from a single source. The moon is a little higher above the horizon – no longer touching it, but hovering in the sky. 

 Usually, you’d never get moments like this. You’d usually work from sunrise until sunset and pick up extra shifts and overtime where you could. It’s nice to see the world like this. Natural. Raw. Even if you have to ignore Arthur’s presence extra-hard, you still manage to enjoy the moment. 

Everything’s just so slow back… then? Back now? Back now. Everything’s so slow back now. It’s like a break. A break from the jackrabbit-style, too-quick, so-fast-it’ll-give-you-a-heart-attack type of living you’re used to. A forced break, but a break nonetheless.

Breaks are nice. You watch a star flicker, twinkle, then blink into darkness. 

Maybe you should take breaks more often. 

[spooky-pomegranate]

Eyes on Fire (pt 3)

*Enemies to Lovers inspired by the Year Zero music video*

Papa Emeritus II x Reader (18+) Word Count: 2.8k (Read on AO3) Last Part: (Part 1) (Part 2) Next Part: (Part 4)

Summary: Secondo recounts the best and worst night of his life. You are taken to a special place in the Abbey full of magic and perhaps something more sinister.

(Dividers by @wrathofrats)

When the tendrils of sleep blackened the edges of his vision and he slipped into unconscious Secondo often remembered that night.

Sin and revelry.

Opulence and greed.

Tradition and pride.

Failure.

He partook as his father had. As his father’s father had. As his father’s father’s father had. Like the men before him, Secondo played the part of a new Papa well on the night of his ascension and everything had gone to plan … until it hadn’t.

The Abbey had been dressed in his new colors. Emerald green banners hung from the halls, table runners of a similar shade decorated the dining rooms, and hundreds of flowering bouquets of green calla lilies scented the air. The siblings had affectionately dubbed the rapid overnight changes to the Abbey “The Great Green Wave.”

The festivities had started in the early morning. A feast was held in Secondo’s honor. Brothers, sisters, bishops, and cardinals had come from near and far to celebrate. They followed him all day, presenting him with gifts and showering him with praises. In the evening, he delivered his first Black Mass and unveiled the design of his piercing papal paints to an adoring clergy. They had cheered for him and sung his name. Secondo felt proud.

He was of course aware of the ulterior motives from some. Social climbers were everywhere and as Papa, his coattails would be heavier with more of them clinging on for crumbs of his power. But for the most part, on his ascension day, Secondo let pride rule.

But everything changed in the catacombs.

The night before his ascension day Primo, as the most recent Papa to rule, had come to his younger brother to explain what would happen down below… or at least what was supposed to happen down below.

The catacombs were the site of the last tradition Secondo would need to complete before officially becoming Papa Emeritus II. Primo explained that on an onyx altar deep in the catacombs there was an old leather-bound book. The book had been in the Emeritus family for as long as there had been a church. It was a gift to their family from the Old One himself, written in the blood of the fallen and created from the ashes of the ninth circle. But the book was more than just a relic of the underworld. As Primo explained, the tome was a link between the world of the living and the world of the dead. And on the very special night of a Papal ascension, the Dark Lord used the book to speak directly with the newly anointed Papa. Secondo would be able to ask Him questions and together they would establish a path for his papacy.

But when the time came and Secondo stood before the old book… nothing happened.

He read every page. And then he read them again and again and again and again. For hours, Secondo stared at the unholy text until his eyes burned and his head hurt. But he didn’t care. He didn’t move. Secondo pushed aside the pain, shoving it somewhere deep, and ignored his bodily needs. Eventually, the sun rose and the first day of his papacy began. But Secondo remained underground. He denied visitors, turning away assistants, ghouls, his father, and his brothers. He refused food, drink, and rest whenever offered. He stayed rooted to the same spot on the stone floor hoping that His voice would finally call out.

When Secondo missed the next evening's Black Mass rumors swirled around the Abbey. But he didn’t hear them. He remained in the catacombs for three days and four nights. He would have stayed longer, but the lack of food and water eventually took a heavy toll on his body and Secondo collapsed on the fourth night.

In the weeks that passed, Secondo began his duties as Papa. But every night like the moon to the night sky, he obediently returned to the catacombs. But no matter how hard he prayed or how much he bargained… it never happened.

As far as he knew, Secondo was the first Papa in a long line of Emeritus’s to enter his papacy without guidance from the One Below. The thought kept him up most nights. Secondo would toss and turn worrying about what he’d done to displease his Lord. He recounted every moment of his life hoping for a moment of clarity so he could amend and atone. But nothing ever came.

Stubborn as an ox however Secondo remained determined. In the waking hours, he scoured the church’s library for answers, reading books from the private Papal-restricted sections and ancient tomes long forgotten. He focused intently on his religious duties and presented as many offerings to the Old One as he could, indulging in sins he knew He enjoyed.

Day in and day out Secondo’s life became about service to his Master and so did his papal reign.

Secondo was aware his consuming attentions warped his reputation. He became known as a cruel and bitter Papa, but it was only because he pushed his flock to be their best when mediocracy was easier. Any assistant who missed evening prayer was replaced, any cook who forgot to bless his meal was reassigned, and any Ghoul who disrespected the Old One was returned to Him.

There were no exceptions. No exclusions. Except for one. Except for you.

A week had gone by since Secondo promoted his first Imperatrixes. They had been subservient, attentive, and sufficient. At each meal they had followed his instructions and served him according to the old traditions, lighting the sacred black candles and kneeling silently for his prayer. But for a week, you stood out from the rest. You didn’t want to be there. That was clear as day. You would hide in the shadows and keep your head bowed. And true to your word you hadn’t participated in a single offering. Instead, choosing to skulk out to the butler's pantry like a kitchen mouse at the end of each meal.

The rational part of Secondo wanted to send you back to Primo and his gardens. The more irrational part of him despised you….hated you, even wanted you out of the church. In your chambers you had been openly combative with him, speaking to him in a tone no one else dared. Santana’s how he had wanted to put you in your place then and send you out the door.

The gall. The god-forsaken gall!

And the way you had stepped to him and cocked your little chin up. The way your chest had puffed up like small prey pretending to be a big predator. The way you had squinted your bright eyes and crinkled your little nose. Lying in his bed he replayed it all again and again and again. For a week he fell asleep with only the image of your stormy eyes in his mind.

But Secondo never sent you to Primo. He never let that part of his mind win because he reminded himself of the fire. He reminded himself of how it had burned uncontrollably when you looked at one another. It had to have been a sign. Secondo was sure. Absolutely certain. In all the books he’d read Satan’s favorite way to message the living was always through hellfire. What happened in the dining room was surely the Dark Lord's first attempt to communicate with him. There could be no other explanation.

But since that night nothing else extraordinary had happened. In the daylight when you shared space no more hellfire erupted and at night when he returned alone to the book in the catacombs no words were spoken.

But ever-stubborn Secondo wasn’t going to let you go.

He had a plan. He would see the fire again. He would hear his voice.

“Get out.”

“What?”

“Leave us.” Secondo’s leather glove wrapped around your wrist and you felt your pulse spike.

“H-have we o-offended you, Papa?” Sister Rose’s voice shook. She along with your other Sisters hadn’t seen this sudden outburst coming. Everyone panicked.

“There has been no offense sorella but tonight I will dine with her alone.”

You started to speak when Secondo suddenly tugged you closer causing you to clumsily trip over the frayed edges of the oriental rug on the floor. The corners of your vision blurred in dizzying motion as you hurtled forward straight toward the corner of the large walnut table. You closed your eyes, bracing for the inevitable impact….but it never came.

Just as quickly as you had fallen the hand circling your wrist shot to your waist and pulled upright. In the dark, you felt the brush of silk robes and the surprisingly strong muscles hidden underneath them. You sharply inhaled. The air smelled of sweet tobacco and flowering incense. You listened to his breathing. Deep and steady against your ears. Calm like a river. For a moment, it was nice. To be held. To feel safe in strong arms. To have someone keep you close. To have someone protect you, even if it was from just a table. It was nice to be in someone’s arms. It had been so long.

But when he spoke the spell was broken and you remembered just who exactly was holding you tight.

“You are dismissed sorellas. Go in sin.” Secondo’s warm glove slid from your waist. As the last of your sisters excited the dining room, he moved slowly to the fireplace at the other side and stared into the flames. The scent of him lingered behind him. Sweet and smoky.

“Take a seat sorella.” You did as he asked and pulled out the dining chair closest to you. Secondo turned and tutted.

“No,” he said sternly shaking his head. “Sit here by my chair. There is much we need to discuss and I do not wish to shout all evening.”

Fuck.

Your heart banged so violently against your ribs that you worried the bones might break.

For the past week, you’d managed to avoid Secondo’s wrath by sticking to your duties and slipping away before he took one of your siblings. He’d never asked you to partake again but you worried now he’d changed his mind. If he was going to give you an ultimatum you were ready to pack your bags and run.

Never in a million years would you willing touch Secondo. Unless of course, he was keeping you from smashing your face into a table. But that was different.

“Of course Papa.” You obediently moved to the chair beside his. “Have I done something wrong?”

Secondo eyed you as he took his seat at the head of the table. His expression was cold, but you couldn’t read it further. His papal paint hid his true emotions.

“I have spent many hours thinking about our last discussion and I have…” Secondo paused and you balled your fist in worry under the table “Frankly sorella I have concerns.”

“Concerns Papa?”

“Si. I am worried that you have lost your way.”

Your mind raced with all the things you could have possibly done wrong. There had been nothing. You’d been the shining example of obediency. "Lost my way, Papa? I'm just trying to serve you and the Old One as best I can."

Secondo leaned back in his chair. “I understand that, but there's more to serving the Dark Lord than merely following instructions. You seem disconnected, almost as if you're not fully committed to our faith."

"I assure you, Papa,” you stammered, “my faith is unwavering. I simply want to honor your teachings and serve Him to the best of my ability."

Secondo looked at you for a long moment. His piercing white eye made you feel small… as though you were being judged by the Old One himself. "That may be the case, but I fear your mind does not reflect your words.”

You frowned and looked down at your hands. A strange tightness twisted in your chest. What was he talking about? You had been faithful and obedient, hadn't you? Sure you weren’t always the rule follower that some of the meeker and younger siblings tended to be but that wasn’t against His teachings. Free will was just as important as the prayers. So what if you’d snuck off to the ghoul dens and ate fruit from his pantry? What did that matter?

"I don't understand, Papa. What do you require of me that I'm not doing?"

Secondo took a deep breath. "It's in your eyes, sorella. There's a fire there, a defiance that tells me you're hiding something. Something you shouldn't be."

In your eyes? In your fucking eyes?!

What the hell was he talking about?

Your heart pounded in your ears, and you tried to hide the sudden fury that overcame you. You reached up to cover your face, attempting to smooth away any traces of your anger that had bubbled to the surface. "Papa, I assure you, I am not hiding anything.” Other than my consuming hatred of you. “And I have done exactly as you have asked."

“If that is true then I would like to ask one more thing of you.”

“Name it.”

“I want you by my side for every hour of the waking day. I want you with me always. Sorella… become my assistant.”

Any hope of reigning in your emotions burned alive. You erupted.

“I’d rather die.”

There it was.

You may have slipped on the mask of a brava sorellina for a week but Secondo knew…that wasn’t who you were. This was. Insubordinate. Reckless. A lost and wayward soul. Una diavolessa laid at his feet. A challenge given to him by Satan himself.

It all made sense.

He understood the fire now. It had been a sign from the Dark One. He’d put you here as a test. Secondo would need to lead you back into the light of the Morning Star. And no matter the cost he would pay it. He would redeem you by whatever means necessary. He would make you a shining member of His church an example for all to see. 

As Papa Emeritus the Second it was his duty and he would not fail… because through you he knew would finally be able to speak to the Old One. He just had to break you and mold you back together in His image.

And he would break you. 

“Eat up, diavolessa. I want to show you something.”

Dinner was unbearable, but somehow you survived.

Luckily the food had been delicious and the wine plentiful. Neither you nor Secondo had spoken until your plates and glasses were empty. Only then did he ask you to accompany him to the catacombs, and against all sound judgment you agreed. That’s how you found yourself deep underground with Papa Emeritus the Second staring at an ancient book on a black altar.

“Do you know what this is sorella?”

“No, Papa.”

“Come closer.”

For the second time that evening, Secondo’s gloved hand wrapped around your wrist and he tugged you closer, pulling you roughly toward toward the strange-looking book.

On its cover were carved images of demons and the Morning Star. The pages were thick and yellowed, and as Secondo opened them, you felt a chill run down your spine. You had heard tales of these ancient tomes, forbidden and guarded with great secrecy by the ranks of the church. They were said to contain powerful magic, capable of summoning demons and divulging the future. And there, in front of you, was one such book. You could feel its power. You wondered if it was alive.

“He wrote this didn’t he?”

Secondo nodded.

“Why are we here, Papa?”

“I want to read it to you.”

As Secondo began to recite from the ancient text, the air in the catacombs grew thicker, charged with an ethereal energy that sent shivers down your spine. The words were in a language you couldn't understand, a twisted blend of Latin and an unknown primal tongue that clawed its way into your mind. As Secondo continued, the torches flickered and dimmed, casting long shadows that danced across the walls like spectral figures. The ground beneath your feet felt uneasy and you knew the earth was trembling in response to dark magic.

You tried to pull away from Secondo's grip but his hold on your wrist tightened. You couldn’t breathe. You wanted to run. To scream. To beg him to stop. To hide from whatever was about to happen but just as you thought you couldn't bear it a second longer, a low rumbling echoed through the chamber and the lights went out completely. 

Then you were falling.

Down.

Down.

Down.

Somewhere in the distance, Secondo screamed your name. But just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. You landed with a jolt on solid ground and the impact knocked the wind from your lungs. Gasping for air, you struggled to make sense of your surroundings. Everything was pitch-black. The ground beneath you felt like dirt instead of stone. Sulfur and ash wafted through the air.

"Papa, where are you? Papa? Secondoooo?!"

A deep voice roared from the darkness. “Do you miss him already child?” 

(Follow along on AO3 here) NEXT: PART 4

[tatortart]

Text dump for the 2003 TMNT AU I’m figuring out. Mostly for my own fun, etc etc etc.

Basically: the turtles are in their mid-twenties. Things have quieted down, or as quiet as they can get for four mutant ninja turtles. They still get pulled into trouble now and then, but life definitely isn’t as intense as it was in their teens. They’ve settled into their life, their routines, all is good with the world.

Unbeknownst to them, someone with a chip on their shoulder has been steadily working away at his own plans. Mutants haven’t been treated with much kindness over the years—more specifically, Old Hob hasn’t seen much of it. The way he sees it, humans aren’t going to give a damn about mutants until they’re personally affected by the issue. Hob’s got enough resources to craft something that’ll really make the issue of mutants a personal problem for humans.

And thus: the mutagen bomb. It goes off one summer’s eve, catches a decent size of the city’s population. It’s pure chaos—military police are called in, people are panicking, nobody knows who or what is behind it. The turtles all get to watch it play out over live television and see the peace they’ve built just go up in smoke.

The area most heavily mutated is zoned off by military police and Mutant Town is born. With that comes exactly what Hob wants: talks of what to do with a population of mutants, civil rights and liberties, and most importantly, a ready made community for him to work his way through and make damn well sure he’s on top of it all.

As for the turtles, Old Hob isn’t even on their radar for who’s responsible. Their sights are set on folks like Bishop, maybe even some mad science by Chaplin or Stockman. But they find themselves having to navigate the whole social complexities that come with…well, being able to live openly amongst fellow mutants and all that can entail.

Hob though!

So, Leatherhead isn’t the only mutant the Utroms created. Hob was mutated alongside of Leatherhead, raised and cared for. Through the Utroms, he was encouraged to undertake his studies of life sciences and the effects of mutagen…all the better to understand how and why he came to be. With Leatherhead, the two grew up as brothers, debating with each other as they grew and found their own specialties within the scientific fields.

But Shredder’s attack on the TCRI building throws all of that aside. Hob misses his chance to escape with the Utroms, forced to flee much like Leatherhead did. He’s not foolish to think that humans will accept him with open arms, but the life he finds himself living, scraping by on the streets and keeping himself hidden, his family gone, his brother lost to the wind…bitterness sets in quickly. Hob exists on the edges, much as the turtles once did, and he’s struggling. Unlike Leatherhead, he doesn’t find himself a support network, isolated and alone, and that leaves its mark.

Deep down, Hob wants that connection again. And in his own way, he’s working towards that. Forcing a mass mutation allows him to exist freely amongst other mutants. He’s able to access resources, take advantage of the confusion and cement himself as a voice of reason throughout the panic. As long as no one traces the mutagen bomb to its source, he can finally establish roots and find the connections he’s been looking for.

The downside is that this is Hob…who tends to think he’s the smartest guy in the room and that’s a mindset that will bite him hard in the ass sooner rather than later.

[the-one-who-lambs]

ok here's the essay

So. How much evidence is there that the Fanatic was the god of knowledge before Shamura? Not much. The game is deliberately vague on what exactly the Fanatic was the god of, but there's just enough crumbs to point in that direction. They tell the Lamb they are waiting for "one who values truth over all else" and in tablet II they pray to the Great Ones for understanding. They also give the Lamb the snake follower form; the serpent tempts Eve to eat from the tree of *knowledge* of good and evil, so the symbolism is there.

The smoking gun for me, though, is the early unused version of tablet X.

"I am shamed, shamed. I deserve no forgiveness. I deserve to die here, shrouded in sin. I renounced the First Gods. How easily pain made a defector of me. I will take whatever punishment is due, but I beg you, reader of these chronicles, remember: they call their faith old, but they are nothing more than heretics. He of havoc, he of blight; she of hunger, they of might. He that lays a soul to rest; five remain of hundreds blessed."

From there we can infer a few things:

The bishops obviously did Something to the Fanatic.

The Fanatic had to be tortured into going along with whatever that Something was. It wasn't just inflicted on them, their cooperation was needed somehow, possibly as part of a ritual or spell.

It didn't kill them. They even managed to get out one last tablet afterward.

We never find out what exactly it was; the Fanatic only describes it as having "renounced the First Gods".

By the time the story starts, the Fanatic isn't around anymore. We hear their voice but that's it.

We know that gods in the COTL universe canonically leave behind a "lingering presence". That lingering presence can persist even if the god loses the Crown and becomes a mortal, or even dies as a mortal; this is what happens with the bishops.

Tablet IX and the Offering to the Owl also heavily imply Haro was once a god of hunting, who willingly relinquished the title for unknown reasons. Maybe this is what the Fanatic meant by "the Owl has chosen a different tact"; giving up their proper godhood, leaving them with their weaker current form (notably, Haro's crown has a crossed-out eye, like it's "dead").

From Ancient Tablet IX: "[…] for regardless of what they threaten, I shall never relinquish my beliefs."

In tablet VIII, the Fanatic refers to their crown as "the blessing of the First at my brow". HMM.

In tablet VII we learn Shamura approached the Fanatic seeking their allegiance, but was turned away. HMMMMMMMMM.

IF, indeed, Shamura found a way to take domain over knowledge from its rightful owner, in addition to already having domain over war, that would add a whole new layer of thematic resonance to their story. The creators have said a big theme in COTL is that those who try to deviate from their nature are usually punished by the universe. Shamura getting greedy, claiming another god's domain in addition to their own, their newfound domain over knowledge leading them to encourage Narinder's experiments, and it all blowing up in their face catastrophically… their descent into madness makes a nice parallel with Chemach also

tl;dr: ITS REAL. I FIGURED IT OUT, ITS REAL, YOU HAVE TO BELIEVE M

This is SO interesting and I'm frying my brain trying to comprehend this in all its glory while I watch @linkerbell draw one of the most cursed images i've ever seen

OKAY BUT HARO GOD OF THE HUNT YEAH SHAKES HAND SHAKES HAND

[circle--of--confusion]

Happy Halloween! Chapter 1: We Are Here To Revel

Summary: The ministry has been buzzing all day. October 31st, All Hallows Eve, has finally arrived. Siblings run joyously through the halls on their way to either prep last minute costume details or help decorate the dining hall for the evening’s festivities. The three tailors in the studio find themselves bustling with activity today; the same hum of excitement through the ministry carries through the room. For the week leading up to Halloween, they open their doors for clergy members who need last minute fixes or mending to their costumes. Any custom costumes must be settled weeks or months in advance and no amounts of bribery will make Amelia change her meticulously designed commission calendar. A Halloween fic to close out Ghost/Kinktober!

This is mainly Copia and my OC Sarah but there's background Terzo/Amelia as well along with my other OC Alex.

Part 2 will be posted on Halloween. Itallian translations are at the bottom. Guides for the Italian were provided by the wonderful @foxybouquet

Paring: Cardinal Copia | Dracopia X OC [Sarah]

Words: 4k

Tags: mature/explicit, established relationship, fluff, evil copia for like 5 seconds, teasing

Read on AO3

PART 2

Masterlist

The ministry has been buzzing all day. October 31st, All Hallows Eve, has finally arrived. Siblings run joyously through the halls on their way to either prep last minute costume details or help decorate the dining hall for the evening’s festivities. For the more spiritual or ecclesiastical members, Papa Primo and Secondo have organized a time to pay respects to the dearly departed or The Olde One. Everyone in the ministry is encouraged to light a black candle in the church to honor a lost loved one if they have the time.

The three tailors in the studio find themselves bustling with activity today; the same hum of excitement through the ministry carries through the room. For the week leading up to Halloween, they open their doors for clergy members who need last minute fixes or mending to their costumes. Any custom costumes must be settled weeks or months in advance and no amounts of bribery will make Amelia change her meticulously designed commission calendar.

Around 2pm, Copia decides to check in on Sarah as his meetings have finished for the day. Even some of the usually stuffy cardinals and bishops are antsy to let loose this evening. He navigates the normally clear halls, now packed with people to find the sewing department’s door has a long line of siblings in need of help fixing their costumes. Alex is discussing zipper repairs and prop sourcing with a few siblings and Amelia is… arguing with a cardinal. He seems insistent he needs a new, fully sewn costume by the end of the day and she’s red-faced, waving her hands around like a mad-woman.  

“Figlio di puttana!” Amelia growls and the man takes a step back. “This is not Project Runway! I will not just whip something up in a day.” after a few minutes of back and forth, the cardinal eventually gives up and begins to walk out with a huff. “Oh! And learn to remove your buttons like a normal person or I’m sewing all of your shirts shut.” Amelia yells out as he leaves with his tail between his legs. She turns to the next person, a now slightly terrified sister of sin, and smiles while speaking with a much friendlier tone. “Now, what can I help you with, dear?”

Copia winces and continues to maneuver his way through some of the waiting groups that have made it into the room, searching for his amore.

“Scusami, ehe. Merda! Perdonami.” He’s not used to having to watch where he’s going in here and Copia feels himself getting flustered; he almost feels claustrophobic in his red cassock. When he finds Sarah, luckily, she’s standing off to the side, zoned out on a short break to rest her hands and eat a quick snack.

Sarah’s eyes re-focus as she notices a familiar red swoosh of fabric coming towards her. She sighs in relief at finally having someone coming towards her who doesn’t need something from her. “Copia! Oh, I’m so happy to see you.” She hugs him to her tightly once he’s within arm’s reach and nuzzles her face into his front, letting out another heavy sigh; the scent of his cologne helps to center her mind.

Copia brushes his fingers through Sarah’s hair, concern taking over his face. “Ti senti bene? Is everything alright?” She nods her head, squeezing around him one last time before leaning back to look at his face.

“Yes. It’s all just so… chaotic today.” she assures him she’s fine, just tired. “One of the brothers kept critiquing on how I didn’t look like I was stitching a button securely enough, as if he could’ve done it better! I had to remind him that he came to me for help.” Sarah huffs, shaking her head and rolling her eyes.

Copia moves to cup her face with his gloved hand, stroking his thumb over her cheek. Sarah leans her face into the soft leather and breathes in and out slowly through her nose. He leans down to whisper into her ear “Do you need me to, eh, kill him?” and when he leans back, he places a small kiss to her cheek. Copia’s fangs grow into their familiar sharp points and stick out through his devious grin. “I wouldn’t say no to a nice hunt, dolcezza.”

Sarah gasps at his proposition. She looks over his face for a few seconds trying to figure out if he was serious or not. The way he stares at her with strong, unwavering eye contact almost makes her knees give out. “Y-you don’t mean that, right?” Her heartbeat picks up and she feels a fluttering in her stomach.

“Of course not!” he winks. “Though I could tell that you were weighing the options for a few seconds, piccola demonietta.” Copia grins wider at Sarah’s blush as she turns to hide her face in his hand on her cheek. She scrunches up her face when he chuckles at her being so gullible.

Sarah reaches out to play with the hem of his pellegrina, attempting to change the subject. “Why are you here, my love?”

He nods. “I came to see how you were doing. All of my meetings and rehearsals are finished for the day.”

Sarah hums, taking his hand that was on her cheek and brings it to her lips, pressing a sweet kiss to one of the rings on Copia’s gloved hand. He sighs lovingly at the sign of affection and lightly rubs the back of his pointer finger to her cheek before leaning in to kiss her lips. “Ti amo, thank you.”

He grins wide at the use of Italian on Sarah’s tongue; she’s started experimenting with a few words and phrases here and there. “Ti amo anch'io”

“I feel better now, seeing you. And I’m excited! We get to finally see each other’s costumes. I swear, you’ll be speechless when you see me.” She winks.

He laughs. “In a good way, I hope.”

“Yes, definitely a good way. I’m sure of it.” Sarah wiggles in her spot out of anticipation.

A loud groan from Amelia on the other side of the room brings Copia and Sarah out of their bubble. She looks behind him to find a few more people have come in to the studio and she needs to get back to work.

“Looks like it’s all hands on deck.” Sarah leans up to peck a quick kiss to his cheek. “I might be here a while. Go down to the dining hall when we planned to and I’ll text you when I’m able to make it down.”

Copia nods. “I’ll see you later, amore mio.”

◊◊◊◊

They were, by some Halloween miracle, able to finish all of the clergy’s sewing needs today. Amelia dismissed Alex and Sarah to go get their own costumes ready and they all agreed to meet up later once they make it down to the dining hall.

Sarah rushed through her shower so she’d have time to prepare her ensemble in her own room. She was inspired by a particular vampiric cardinal and put together something she knows he won’t expect. Sarah began weeks ago, designing a “sexy” cassock in the exact same red suit fabric Copia wears. With a shorter hem and a low-cut bodice with off shoulder sleeves, she paired it with a standard pellegrina and a mini version of his biretta that she’ll wear on a headband. Amelia lent her a small Grucifix pendant to wear on a necklace chain.

Underneath, however, is the surprise for Copia she’s excited to show him. Sarah found a delectable lingerie set to wear under her costume.

Black mesh with red piping holds the cups and panties together while little roses dot the material around the tops of the cups and the front of the undies. More mesh fabric is gathered underneath the cups and drape down, stopping around her hips in a baby-doll style. Sarah bought a red garter belt to hold up black mesh stockings around her thighs and made sure the hem of the cassock dress only showed from the knee down so she could reveal the rest to him when they’re back in his room.   

The final touches to her makeup are being finished and she looks at herself in the mirror. Every once in a blue moon she decides to wear makeup and Sarah thinks she looks gorgeous tonight. She’d forgone the standard cardinal eye-black, only going around her eyes in a thin line but kept the black lip line on the top lip. Her dark brown, shoulder length hair is loosely curled and her brown eyes stare back with a knowing, lidded glint to them. She smirks back to herself, drumming on the table briefly with her hands as she decides she’s done and stands up.

With her Mary Jane style kitten heels along with a sinfully smooth pair of leather gloves on her hands, she’s finished putting her costume together. Sarah begins her walk to begin her night of reverie.  

“Oh! I almost forgot.” She says to herself as she passes the door. “Where are my teeth?” Sarah tries to remember where she put the fake vampire teeth. The white, rubber teeth were a last-minute touch of humor that she knows he’s going to love under all of the sinful interpretation of his day-to-day clothing. She finds them on her dresser, huffs, and then finally begins to walk out.

Along the way she passes other siblings and clergy members. A few give her knowing looks, especially the cardinals, and she tries to hide her blush as best as she can. Sexy costumes aren’t new around here but everyone knows about her relationship to Copia. It’s one thing to do this for him, it’s another for others to see her like this. Sarah is proud, yes, but still values her privacy when it comes to obvious sexual expression.

She thinks back to the garden that one night. And the closet before that. Well ok maybe she cares about privacy most of the time.

Tonight, however, all she cares about is having fun with her friends and the man she loves. And then the two can go back to Copia’s room so they can fuck each other’s brains out.

Once the doors of the dining hall are within sight, she celebrates. Sarah’s hands form fists and wiggles them around in front of her, smiling wide as she walks through, searching for their group’s meeting area.

◊◊◊◊

“Copia! Take those teeth out right now! You have your own fangs.” Amelia scolds. He turns around, holding two glasses of fruit punch, and frowns. “Your costume is so original, by the way.” She jabs playfully.

Copia shrugs. He’s gone as a generic gothic vampire, wearing black pants, and a white button up with a red brocade vest. He’s attached a silk red fabric around his neck and even wore his cape. He thought the fake vampire teeth would be fun but his actual fangs keep poking through, knocking the plastic teeth out.

“Speaking of generic, where is your Gomez?” Copia counters, mumbling with fake teeth in his mouth as he gestures to her with his cup of punch. It ends up sounding more like Whe eh yu goez? He readjusts the fake teeth.

Amelia crosses her arms, the fabric hanging from her wrists flapping around as she moves. “Terzo’s with the ghouls discussing some of the live music that’ll be played tonight. He said he’d be back soon.” Just then a pair of arms wrap around her waist and a slow kiss is pressed just under her ear. She smiles, leaning back into the body behind her. Amelia hums and brings her arms up to lay on top of his.

“Ah! Speak of the devil.” Copia exclaims, delicately sipping on one of his cups of punch.

Terzo smiles, placing his chin on Amelia’s shoulder. “You flatter me, cardinale.” He removes himself from Amelia and takes her hand, extending her arm out. “Mia cara Amelia.” His voice lowers as he speaks, kissing her palm before beginning a trail up her arm to stop at her exposed shoulder. She lets out soft giggles at his reenactment of the character’s affections.

“Gomez says ‘cara mia’, Terzo.” Amelia lightly argues.

He looks up at her from his slightly bent form, grinning. “Yes, but I know you like when I say your name that way”  

She rolls her eyes and blushes. “Can’t argue with that, I guess.”

Terzo stands back up with a smug face and places himself right next to her, wrapping his arm around hers. “How are your ghouls adjusting to tonight?” He asks Copia.

Copia cringes in return. “Some of the less experienced ones are still getting used to the siblings in costumes. They’re used to people in disguises to ward off evil beings.” 

Amelia’s attention is caught somewhere else and her face turns onto a cheshire grin. She swats at Terzo’s chest and nods her head for him to look in her line of sight. He grins along with her before looking back to Copia. Now it’s time for some fun.

“I think I might be seeing double!” He gasps dramatically.

Sarah yells over to them once she’s close, waving towards them. “Hey! Sorry I’m late. This ended up being a bit of a production to put on.” She stops next to Copia and places her hand on his shoulder, looking up towards him. “Hello, amore mio. What’d ya think?” She stands back just enough for him to take in the costume. Sarah props her foot out, bending the knee towards her other leg to pose as she holds out her arms.

He’s speechless; his tongue feels as if it’s caught in his throat. Copia’s eyes flick up and down Sarah’s body, taking in all of the stimuli. He doesn’t know where to linger, all of it is too enticing. The familiar fabric falls perfectly around her hips, her waist is cinched in and it makes Copia want to grab it. Her chest is practically spilling out of the top, the clasp of the pellegrina rests right in the line of sight of the crease where Sarah’s breasts are shoved together. He licks his lips in wonder of what it looks like under the caplet and when he glances up to her face, he’s seen the final straw, the thing that fully sends him over into fits of giggles. Rubber vampire teeth in her mouth are bared out, as if she’s hissing.

“Oh…” Copia’s brain catches up with his eyes and he punches out a huff from his mouth. Sarah is dressed up as him.

“Uh… Copia?” She waves her hands around him.

Copia’s fake vampire teeth have fallen out of his open mouth as he drinks in her costume. He's so painfully attracted to this woman as his heart aches for her in this moment; if Sarah asked him to get on his knees, he’d do it in an instant. Noone could say anything to him right now, he wouldn’t hear a single thing. He clears his throat. “Ti voglio fottere.”

Terzo snorts a laugh into his fist as he holds it up to hide his reaction. His eyebrows raise and he looks off to the side. Sarah tilts her head over at him in confusion and he schools his face long enough to respond. “Copia really likes it. I’ll let him translate.” He pats his hand to Sarah’s shoulder.

She looks back to him, raising an eyebrow and he very quickly pulls his cape over his body, shielding his growing hard-on from her or anyone that might be passing by.

Terzo grabs Amelia’s hand as the ghouls begin to play instrumental versions of the band’s songs for everyone to dance to. “Come, amore mio. They’re playing one of my songs!” He drags her along to the dance floor as a modified instrumental of “Majesty” begins to float into the space.

Sarah and Copia are now alone and she grabs one of his hands to hold as she looks up at his still dopey, love-struck expression. “So, you like it?”

He breathes out a “Cazzo!”  as he leans in to kiss her. Copia pulls her body against his and they stand there, lips locked in a passionate embrace. “Sei incantevole.”

A small chuckle leaves Sarah and she shakes her head. “What are you saying, caro?” Her hand rises to cup his face.

Copia smiles fondly, fangs poking out through his lips. “I just said that you were enchanting.”

Sarah blushes a deep shade of red and it spreads down to her chest. “And that other thing? Ti voglio fo- oh, I can’t remember how you said it.”

“Ti voglio fottere.” he purrs, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “I said that I want to fuck you.” When he stands back to look at her face, her blush has darkened to a shade of red that almost matches her costume. Her heartbeat picks up and he hears it, grinning.

A whimper escapes from Sarah. “Oh.” She laughs nervously.

He nods with a devious simile. “I can’t wait to get you back home now.” Copia’s hands grab around her waist. “Though I will definitely savor the way you look right now. I’m not letting you out of my sight for one second.”

Sarah smiles, raising to her toes to whisper back into Copia’s ear. “If you like how I look now, you’re going to go crazy at what I’m wearing underneath.” His hands around her tighten and she winks at him once she’s stepped back a bit.

Copia begins to lean forward so he can kiss her. “Oh, you-“

“Hey, lovebirds!” Alex calls out to them as he walks up, breaking their spell. “Get it? Since Sarah’s a ‘cardinal’ tonight?” He gives them finger guns.

Sarah pulls from Copia to give Alex a hug and he frowns at the loss of contact. “Alex! Where have you been? Also, what are you?”

He twirls around, his short red collared cape flowing in the air as he turns. Alex wears a red shirt and pants, a cheap, short red cape you’d get at the store and with plastic devil horns. He’s also holding a small plastic pitchfork in one of his hands and wearing cheap red sunglasses. “I’m the Devil. I’m here to convince you to do sin!”

“Ah! Hail you, then.” Sarah responds, play-curtsying.

Alex waives her off. “I was over by the party games. Some of the water ghouls didn’t realize when you bob for apples, you’re just trying to get them out, not eat them while you’re submerged.” Copia snorts and Sarah gasps out a laugh. “One of the siblings running the game has to go to the kitchen for more apples.”

◊◊◊◊

Throughout the night, the group danced, ate, and celebrated. At one point the stage was opened up for karaoke and a handful of intoxicated siblings took their turn singing anything they wanted including songs from the band. One particularly enthusiastic group of sisters of sin belted out a rendition of Infestissumam’s title track leading into someone singing “Per Aspera Ad Inferni” that had even the ghouls and Papa Secondo impressed as they played along.

After the ghouls were done performing for the night, a playlist was plugged into the speakers and music flooded the great hall. Copia and Sarah danced close together, their bodies touching in at least one way as they moved to the music. Currently he’s pressed behind her with his arms wrapped around her middle. She’s removed her pellegrina and now Copia has unlimited access to Sarah’s bare shoulders while he presses light kisses up and down to the crook of her neck as they sway to the music. She’s placed her hands over his on her stomach, keeping Copia in place while she smiles at the feeling of his soft lips on her neck. His trimmed mustache occasionally tickles Sarah’s sensitive skin and she wiggles against him, causing a light chuckle to come out of Copia.

Sarah grinds back against his crotch, very aware now of his situation. Throughout the night she’s noticed him shifting himself in his pants and when he came up behind her to dance, she knew she could play with him. Small, surprised breaths came out of Copia’s mouth when she backed up against his hardening bulge. He pulled Sarah closer towards him and growled into her ear “Tease.” She looks back to him feigning innocence and then smiles as she turns forward to push against him again.

“Copia, I have no idea what you mean.” She thinks he’s moved on but Sarah makes a high-pitched noise in her throat as his gloved hand lands under the hem of her dress, exploring. Copia makes a surprised noise as he tugs lightly on one of the garter belt straps clipped to her stocking.

“What do you have in store for me later, hm?” His fingers graze over a sliver of exposed skin he found.

Sarah fidgets and her breath hitches. “Wouldn’t you like to kno- Copia you can’t do that!” She gasps, attempting to swat his hand away as he roams more overtly under the fabric. His hand slides towards her inner thigh and he squeezes the soft flesh. Her knees almost buckle as she’s overcome by a rush of arousal to her core. His hand is so close to where she wants him later and it sends butterflies to her stomach.

Copia kisses lightly on her shoulder and his fangs press down just enough for her to feel them but not draw blood, eliciting a small murmur from Sarah. “Everyone else is off in their own bubble, amore mio. No one is going to notice us.”

She huffs in frustration, sexual and otherwise. “I’d still rather you touch me like this in private.”

He smiles, removing his hand and brings it up to lace his fingers across Sarah’s stomach. Copia rests his chin onto her shoulder as he speaks. “Is this your request that we finally, ah, retire for the night?”

Sarah nods her head. “Could we? I think my feet are getting tired anyway.”

Copia angles his head to kiss her cheek and hugs her to him. “Then by all means, let’s go home.”

When they navigate their way through the throng of dancing clergy members to the table their group claimed earlier in the night, the couple bid everyone a goodnight. Terzo holds out his hand to Alex and he groans, pulling out his wallet to hand Terzo $10.

“You two couldn’t have waited half an hour?” He points to Sarah and Copia who look bewildered.

Sarah puts a hand on her hip. “Someone explain, please?”

“I said you wouldn’t last until midnight tonight with the way you’re dressed but Alex had a little more faith.” Terzo explains, brandishing his crisp ten-dollar bill.

Copia laughs and Amelia crosses her arms, attempting to look disappointed. “You guys are awful.”

“Should I tell them how long you thought they’d last?” Terzo pokes at her hip as she sits across his lap.

Amelia sits up straight. “Let’s not but say we did!”

Sarah makes a face. “Amelia! Really?”

She waves her hands. “You saw the look in his eyes once he saw your costume! The man looked like he might come in his pants right then and there.” she points back to Terzo. “Ask me how I know what that looks like.”

“Amore mio, you betray me!” Terzo says, tilting his head up with a smirk to look at her with pretend outrage.

Amelia grabs his chin. “We nearly didn’t make it down at all after you saw my Morticia dress. I had to clean your paint smudges in places I didn’t even know existed.”

Terzo smiles at the grossed-out retching sound from Alex across the table. “I still think you should’ve just let us stay home.”

Sarah scoffs. “Well, you all are terrible and I’m going to go now. Very sorry, Alex.” She’s not seriously upset, more surprised that her and Copia are that bad at hiding their lust for each other tonight.

Terzo gleefully calls out “I pray for your bed frame tonight!” and Amelia snaps at him, trying to hide her snicker as she attempts to scold his remark.

Sarah makes an angry face back towards him as they leave the dining hall to Copia’s room. With the determined strides he’s making, they might need that prayer after all….

Thanks for reading! Stay tuned for part 2! [it's going to be very smuty hehe]

Translations:

Figlio di puttana! [son of a bitch] Scusami, ehe. Merda! Perdonami [Excuse me, ehe. Shit! Pardon me] Ti senti bene? Is everything alright? [do you feel good?] piccola demonietta. [little demon] Ti amo [I love you] Ti amo anch'io [I love you too.] Ti voglio fottere. [I want to fuck you] Cazzo! [fuck!] Sei incantevole. [you’re enchanting]

[polutrope]

Beleria New Year's Eve Special!

For the modern AU holiday prompts. Seven prompts combined into one big New Year's bash.

Relationships: Daeron/Maglor, Fingon/Maedhros, Aegnor/Andreth, Edhellos/Angrod, Celeborn/Galadriel, Feanor & Fingolfin Characters: All of the above and Nerdanel, Finarfin, Earwen, Anaire, Rumil, Orodreth. Rating: T Warnings: Swearing, sexual content, recreational drinking and drunkenness Words: ~5.6k

On AO3. Beleria Cast of Characters

Maglor propped his elbows on his knees and leaned over the board. If he moved the bishop to take Daeron’s pawn, he’d expose his rook in three moves; but no, that would expose his other bishop first.

“Oh my god just make a move already,” Daeron complained. He threw himself dramatically over the arm of his chair.

“Shh,” said Maglor. “I’m thinking.”

“You think too long. Just make a move.”

“Fine.” Maglor took the pawn. Two seconds later, Daeron took his bishop with a knight.

“Goddammit!” said Maglor. “I’m so bad at this.”

“You’re not going to win,” Daeron said without mockery.

“Maybe not, but I’m still seeing it through to the bitter end.”

Daeron sighed loudly. “I think one of your New Year’s resolutions should be knowing when to quit.”

“Yeah? Are we writing each other’s resolutions now? Fine.” Maglor withdrew his attention from the game and considered. “I think you should resolve to have more fun.”

“What? I have plenty of fun. We’re playing a game right now. Games are fun, aren’t they?”

“We’re playing chess, on New Year’s Eve when everyone is out getting drunk and kissing people they shouldn’t.”

“Is that what you want to be doing? Kissing people you shouldn’t?” Daeron pouted.

“No.” Maglor grinned. “Just you, Dae-bae.”

Daeron rolled his eyes at this, and just as Maglor was considering leaning over the coffee table to grab him and demonstrate the veracity of his statement, his phone buzzed against the tabletop.

Maedhros SOS. Dad’s at the party. Sunday, Dec 31 • 8:05 p.m.

“Oh shit,” Maglor said aloud. He began typing a reply.

“What is it?” Daeron asked.

“It’s my brother.” Maglor glanced up from his phone. “Maedhros,” he clarified. “Remember I told you he and Fingon were going to that big New Year’s party hosted by Hithlum Properties at the Lómin Hotel?”

“Yes…”

“Well apparently my dad went.”

“Oh,” said Daeron.

Though Maglor tried his best to guard his boyfriend from the family feud disguised as a property development war between his father — the adopted, but elder, child — and grandpa Finwë’s biological firstborn, Daeron was, after a year of living together and six months in a relationship, well-aware of the significance and danger of Fëanor and Fingolfin being in the same room.

“Why??” Daeron asked.

“I have no idea, just asking my brother now.”

Maedhros Rúmil talked him it. Something about networking and a promising investor for the app. I dont know. But he’s here with mom talked him into it*

Maglor chuckled, recognising in the missing punctuation and typos the signs that Maedhros was approaching a state of inebriation.

Maglor Shit. how’s it going?

Maedhros they haven’t spoke to each other yet. spoken* we’re gonna get out here before it gets bad out of*

Maglor Gonna bail on the big party hey? Where?

Maedhros Finarfin and Eärwen;s place Angrod and co are having a party there

Maglor You’re gonna go to a house party with a bunch of 20 year olds?

Maedhros Shut up. Maybe I’ll forget about my rapid aceleration towards death Acceleration*

Maglor More likely you’ll be made acutely aware of it

Maedhros Come pick us up.

Maglor huffed and shook his head.

“What’s going on?” Daeron asked.

“One sec,” said Maglor.

Unappeased, Daeron stood and came round to plop himself at Maglor’s right and read over his shoulder.

“No, we are absolutely not picking them up,” he said.

Maglor No way. Take a cab. Daeron and I are having a quiet New Year’s in.

Maedhros Come on its like a 50km drive

“I’m not going,” Daeron said decisively.

Maglor pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before typing his reply.

Maglor And how do you intend for us to get home? If I’m gonna go to a house party with a bunch of estranged cousins ten plus years younger than me then no way am I not drinking.

Maedhros Angrod says everyone’s staying over. Finarfin and Eärwen are here at the hotel, they won’t be there til tomorrow. House is ours.

Maglor lowered the phone and folded one leg onto the couch, pivoting his body to face Daeron, who was frowning deeply.

“Okay,” said Maglor, setting both hands on Daeron’s thighs and affecting his most alluring puppy-dog eyes. “Before you say no — again — hear me out.”

*

When he spotted Rúmil at the coat check, Fëanor waved off a passing caterer and strode confidently towards his friend.

“There you are,” he said, forcing his way into the pleasantries Rúmil was presently exchanging with some young man in an obviously-rented suit.

“Ah, Fëanáro!” Rúmil exclaimed, his eyes alight beneath the droop of his wrinkled lids. He had always looked old, even back when they had met in university, but he wore his age well, appearing more wizened than weary. “You came! I suppose I owe thanks to your lovely wife?”

“You two always did enjoy uniting against me,” Fëanor said jovially, then drew his mouth back into a line. “So where is this investor?”

“Oh, he’s here.” Rúmil winked as he handed his coat to the clerk. Then he took Fëanor’s arm just above the elbow and guided him towards the centre of the hall.

Rúmil paused along the way, shaking hands with every other cluster of people they passed. He was a good business partner, Fëanor admitted. Frankly he was the only person alive Fëanor could still tolerate collaborating with, besides Nerdanel. But Rúmil, whom Fëanor had met as an undergraduate during his brief flirtation with the humanities, was an Ideas Man. Not particularly driven towards results and the perfection of those ideas (which was why he’d retired last year without ever making full professor). Results, then, were Fëanor’s role in the development of the app — a highly intelligent business communications translation tool — that they had been working on for the past year. For his efforts, it was agreed that seventy percent of all profits would go to Fëanor. Income he greatly needed if Ambar Metta was to claw out of its legal debts.

Catching sight of his son across the room, Fëanor frowned. Maedhros had been one of those people he’d tolerated collaborating with, when he’d been the company’s chief legal officer. Then the young man presently clasping Maedhros’ shoulder and doubling over with uninhibited laughter had stuffed his head full of values. The only value a corporation needed to uphold, in Fëanor’s opinion, was the cash value of its bottom line.

Well. He supposed he was glad Maedhros had not altogether turned against him: he was doing good work building community relationships for the company now. Fëanor just hoped it wouldn’t come at too high a cost.

And, as baffling as it was to Fëanor that a spawn of Fingolfin Noldoran could make a pleasant conversation partner, never mind a satisfactory domestic partner (or whatever new-fangled thing they called one another) Fingon still seemed to make Maedhros happy after all these years. And Maedhros’ happiness was, Fëanor admitted, also a valuable thing. He’d come to accept the change.

Turning his gaze from his son and smiling to himself, Fëanor sipped from his champagne flute. As he lowered it, his eyes landed on someone his heart would never, so long as he lived, be moved to accept.

The evening’s gracious host smugly grinning down at him.

“Fingolfin,” Fëanor said coldly.

Before Fëanor could react, Fingolfin had seized his hand and was giving it a firm shake. Fëanor drew back as if he had been burned.

Fingolfin’s expression betrayed no acknowledgement of the slight. “Brother,” he said. (The audacity!) “I am so glad you came!”

“Please do not call me that,” Fëanor whispered through clenched teeth. “I’ve never had a brother.”

He felt Rúmil’s long fingers curl around his shoulder and was aware at the same time of Nerdanel’s auburn head making its way through the crowd towards them. She flanked his other side.

“So, I suppose Rúmil told you?” Fingolfin said.

Told him what? Fëanor wondered, beetling his brows. But Fingolfin did not wait for answer.

“As a lifelong admirer of your business acumen, I am needless to say thrilled that we will finally be working together. Mr. Finvesen.” Fingolfin winked and an image of his champagne breaking over those chiselled cheekbones flashed across Fëanor’s mind.

“What do you mean?” asked Fëanor. “Is this some kind of joke? I have no intention of working with Hithlum Properties.”

Fingolfin laughed but looked nervous. “No! On the app! Rúmil,” he finally released Fëanor’s eyes to look at the other man, “don’t tell me you failed to mention my name.”

Fëanor had lurched to the obvious and odious conclusion before Fingolfin had finished speaking. “You are the investor?” He jerked out of Rúmil’s grasp and cut a glance at Nerdanel. “And you both knew this?” Nerdanel opened her mouth to speak but Fëanor cut her short (that would cost him dearly but his blood boiled too hot to care). “No,” he said, raising a hand to silence them all. “I will not abide this indignity. I do not need your charity, Noldoran.”

“Charity!” Fingolfin chuckled, a little too shrilly. “Is it charity to invest in a brilliant concept?”

“I don’t need your flattery, either,” Fëanor snarled. “What is your game here, Fingolfin? You think Finwë’s restless ghost is waiting for our reconciliation? Hm? Leave it be already. He’s a corpse in the ground on the other side of the world.” Fingolfin’s lips and the skin around his eyes twitched, betraying his distress. Good: That had been Fëanor’s intent.

“Unhand me!” he said to Rúmil and Nerdanel, though neither of them had a hand on him. “I will not do business with this man.” He jabbed a finger in Fingolfin’s direction. “I don’t care how much money he lays out in front of us like a greasy block of cheese, as though we were some mangy rats he wants to entrap in his network of ‘friends’. I am not his friend and I never will be.”

With that, Fëanor spun on his heels and stormed out of the hall and did not stop until he was standing outside the hotel in the dark drizzly night without a coat.

*

In the passenger seat of Maglor’s hatchback, Daeron impatiently bonked the headrest with the back of his skull and slumped lower in the chair.

“Where are they?” he complained.

He needed to get to a place with wine as soon as possible, and that place was still an hour’s drive away. An hour that he would spend tying himself in knots speculating on every possible social misstep he could make that evening among dozens of people he’d never met before. He could not believe he was doing this. But ultimately it had been impossible to refuse a whole week without having to prepare a single meal — plus certain… other favours he had negotiated.

Maglor frowned and pressed his palms into the steering wheel. “I don’t know. Maybe I should go in and find them…”

“Yes,” Daeron agreed. “Do that.”

“But if anyone sees me—”

“Put your hood up,” Daeron said, and did for Maglor as he’d suggested. Then he pulled sunglasses from the ceiling compartment. “And wear these.”

“Ow—” said Maglor, as an arm of the sunglasses nearly struck his eye. “I’m not wearing these,” he said, pushing Daeron’s hand away. “Fine, I’ll go in. But I’m warning you — it could be a while if anyone spots me.”

“Fine. I’ll be taking a nap,” said Daeron. He reclined his seat and put the sunglasses on his own face. Maglor sighed, then the door thumped shut behind him.

No more than two minutes could have passed when his heart nearly launched itself from his chest at the sound of fingers tapping at the window.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, and sat bolt upright. The shadow of a face obscured most of the driver’s side window. Daeron yanked the sunglasses off.

“Yes?” he said, affecting as much calm as he could. “Can I help you?”

The stranger mouthed some unintelligible words and pointed at the seat. Then the door swung open.

Daeron recoiled. “Get out!” he screamed.

“Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” the stranger said in a polished, level voice. “I’m Fëanor.” A long hand plunged out of the dark and into Daeron’s personal space. “And you must be Daeron. Pleased to finally meet you.”

“Uh, hi,” said Daeron, and not knowing what else to do accepted Fëanor’s handshake.

Fëanor gave an approving grunt. “A solid handshake, that’s a good sign.”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind,” Fëanor laughed. “I apologise for barging in on you like this. I assumed it was my son when I saw his car and had to find out what he was doing out here— he came with you I assume? Where is he?” Daeron opened his mouth to answer but Fëanor forged ahead. “But when I saw you there, well easy enough to put together who you were, and I have been dying to meet you. I was beginning to wonder if Cáno had made you up to get us all to stop trying to set him up with someone. We just wanted him to stop moping around! Which is why I knew he hadn’t made you up, because he stopped moping. As much.”

Fëanor chuckled. Daeron did not. He decided not to remind Fëanor that they had, in fact, met already — the day Daeron signed the lease to rent the room in Maglor’s place. But then he was just a tenant, not his son’s boyfriend.

“Yep,” Daeron said, “believe it not, I’m really dating your mopey son.”

Fëanor let loose a peal of laughter.

“A solid handshake and a dry wit! I like you already, Daeron. Isn’t it funny, though, that my two eldest sons are dating the sons of the two men in Beleria who cause me the most grief? By the way,” Fëanor pivoted towards him, “why didn’t your father come to this soirée of Fingolfin’s?” Fëanor smiled smugly as if this pleased him. “I suppose the Mayor of Beleria is in high demand on a night like this, though. Did Elu have somewhere better to be?”

“Uh, no, actually,” said Daeron. “He’s at home.”

“I see,” Fëanor said, and smoothed his tie. “Not giving any special speeches for the people or anything?”

“Nope,” said Daeron.

“Interesting. Elu is usually into that sort of thing, isn’t he? Pandering to the masses?”

Daeron scowled.

Fëanor laughed again. “Good, good. I like people who wear their feelings plainly. You’re a very transparent person, I can see why Cáno likes you.”

“Thanks?” Daeron said, half-sincere. No one had ever remarked on this trait of his positively before.

“He’s rather transparent, too, you know. That could be a problem between you.” He puckered his lips thoughtfully and looked Daeron up and down. “Just make sure you remain your own people. Separate entities, don’t bleed into each other. That’s what happened with his ex-husband. He was a musician, too, as I am sure Cáno has told you.” Maglor had told Daeron, at more length than Daeron thought necessary. He was not keen on hearing about it again from his father. “They were in the same band — don’t start a band with him!”

“Oh, there’s no risk of that,” said Daeron. “I only do solo work.”

“Good! I am an individual competitor myself. Everyone tells you you have to be a ‘team player’ to do well in life.” Fëanor wagged a finger. “Wrong. You have to be a strong leader. You have to know your ideals and stick to them. Actually, before I came out here for a breath of fresh air, I was put in a very unpleasant situation by a fellow I am ‘collaborating’ on something with—”

“Dad??” The driver’s door swung open to reveal Maglor, mouth gaping in an expression of horror and concern. “What are you doing in my car?”

“Oh, hello, Cáno,” Fëanor said cheerfully. “I was just getting to know your boyfriend you’ve refused to introduce me to.”

Maglor’s protest was cut off by Fingon, then Maedhros, piling into the backseat, laughing.

“Hello!” said Fëanor, craning his neck to look at them. “Are you two leaving already?”

Daeron could not see, but he could feel the despair settle into the sudden silence behind him.

“Don’t look so horrified, Nelyo,” Fëanor said. “I wish I could leave this damn party! All right, all right, I know when I’m not wanted!” He swung one leg out of the car and turned his body back to shake Daeron’s hand. “Very nice to meet you, Daeron. We’ll have to continue this conversation again soon. Good night! Good night, Cáno,” he said as he stood and gave Maglor, still stunned, a quick embrace. “Good night Nelyo, Fingon, happy New Year!”

He trotted back into the hotel, arms swinging at his sides but visibly shivering.

“I’m so sorry,” Maglor said. He was pale with panic. “Are you okay? What did he say to you?”

“It’s fine,” said Daeron, and chuckled. “He seems like an interesting guy. I think we’ll get along well, actually.”

Maglor’s eyes widened while his mouth contracted into a tight ball. He looked deeply perturbed by this idea.

“Come on!” Fingon shouted from the backseat. “Let’s go!”

*

“They really need to build a bridge here,” said Orodreth. He huffed impatiently. The tunnel was backed up for kilometres, bumper-to-bumper traffic crawling down the Sirion Expressway. He just wanted to be home. Well, his parents’ home, which was the only permanent home he had.

The drive from the base at Minas Tirith had been a nightmare. Having already missed Yule after his deployment was extended by a week, he and Lorneth had then been stuck at the base for two days due to a blizzard. When they finally got out, there’d been a road closure on the Sirion that had them zig-zagging through the countryside for three hours longer than it should have taken them. And, of course, entering Beleria and nine p.m. on New Year’s eve meant going through three DUI checkpoints. (“No, officer, we don’t drink. Just going home, sir. Asleep before midnight if we can manage it, sir.”)

No, Orodreth was not ‘fun’, and that was how he liked it.

Thirty minutes later, they rounded the bend toward the cul-de-sac where Finarfin and Eärwen had the sprawling beach home he and his siblings had grown up in.

“Someone must be having a party,” Lorneth said. “Look at all these cars parked.”

Orodreth grunted. “Hopefully not one of the neighbours.”

But as they drew nearer to the house, a feeling of dread took root in his stomach.

Lorneth voiced his fear. “No, not a neighbour. Looks like it’s at… your place.”

Indeed, rolling slowly past the packed driveway, the house pumped so loudly with music he could feel it through the car’s metal casing.

“Fucking hell,” he said.

*

Aegnor slumped further into the Adirondack chair on the deck and tugged his wool coat across his chest. It was a beautifully clear night. Thanks to the shot of whisky Fingon had insisted they take to inaugurate the auspicious arrival of a “former party king, out of retirement for one night only!”, the stars glittering over the dark ocean swam in and out of focus. It reminded Aegnor of a painting. Straining to hear the slow rise and retreat of waves against the shore, he was almost able to tune out Angrod and Fingon’s karaoke rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody as it deteriorated into chaotic screaming.

“Mind if I join you?”

Aegnor startled and looked towards the voice. It was the cute brunette he’d been stealing glances at all evening. Words congealed on his tongue.

“Yeah, sure,” he managed.

Stay cool, he thought to himself. Unlike his siblings, Aegnor was terrible with girls. He knew he was, objectively, attractive enough, but he was entirely lacking the charisma that came so naturally to everyone in his family. Well, except Orodreth: but Orodreth had found himself a marine as boring as he was to marry and that was that.

“I’m Andreth,” the woman said, slanting him a smile.

“Aegnor,” said Aegnor.

“Yeah, I know.”

“You do?” Aegnor sat upright.

Andreth shrugged and took a moderate sip from her red plastic cup. “Edhellos gave me everyone’s names.”

“Oh. Are you friends with my sister?”

“I have a class with Galadriel, yeah. But I mostly know Edhellos. She wanted me at the party as her wingman. But seems she’s doing fine without me.”

That was when Aegnor noticed a woman’s voice had replaced Fingon’s on the mic. There was more giggling than singing on her part.

“Yeah,” said Aegnor, and smiled. “If it’s my brother she’s after she won’t have any trouble with that.”

Andreth’s laughter wasn’t like most girls’ Aegnor’s age — all high and airy. It was genuine, a little wry, a soft low roll of amusement. He felt like a helplessly flopping fish being reeled into her orbit. Realising that half his torso was, in fact, reaching towards her, he pulled back sheepishly.

“So what class are you taking with my sister?” he asked, for the sake of saying something, but also because he was bursting with the desire to know everything he could about this person.

“Existentialism,” she said.

“Wow,” said Aegnor, then idiotically added, “you’re really smart.”

Andreth laughed again but didn’t deny it. “What do you do?”

“I, uh…” I’m a dumb jock, Aegnor thought. Definitely not good enough for you. “I play volleyball.” He didn’t mention it was for the varsity team. People tended to judge when they found out their athletic fees went towards your tuition.

“Cool,” she said, and the clenching beneath Aegnor’s ribs loosened when she didn’t scowl in distaste. “Your family is pretty athletic, huh?”

“Yeah, they are. Except Finrod. My oldest brother. He’s not here. I think you’d like him. He’s into deep shit, too.”

Then Andreth did scowl. A charming sort of scowl. “I don’t know, I find most philosopher types pretty annoying. Besides, what’s the point of filling your life with people who are just the same as you?”

Aegnor stared at her, seeing his own reflection in her big round glasses. His hair hung in his face, and he had a stupid grin plastered across it, but the openness, the warmth of Andreth’s expression put him entirely at ease.

She sipped her drink again without breaking eye contact, then licked a dribble of red wine from her lips. “Wanna go for a walk?” she asked.

Aegnor leapt up from his seat, and his head spun with the suddenness of the motion. “Yes, definitely!”

*

Fingolfin found his brother on the balcony, his forearms resting casually on the railing as he contemplated the street below.

“I don’t know why you bother with him,” Finarfin said, straightening. His bright green eyes caught the glow of the city light.

“You saw, eh?” Fingolfin sipped his champagne.

“Heard more than saw,” said Finarfin. “What was it about this time?”

“I extend my hand for him to take!” Fingolfin replied, exasperated. “I offer my help, and he hates me even more.”

“What did you do?”

Fingolfin sighed. “I offered to invest in his project. His translation app.”

“Oof.” Finarfin shook his head. “What were you thinking?”

“What do you mean? I thought to show my admiration of his ideas, I thought to build a relationship with him around something that wasn’t real estate-related.”

“You insulted him,” Finarfin said.

“How?!”

“Come, don’t be so naive. You think he wants your charity?”

“Charity. That’s what he said.”

“You know,” said Finarfin, “if you’re looking to dispose of money you have a brother whose always in need of producers.”

“I’ve told you before I’m glad to support your ideas, any of them.”

“Good! Because I was thinking of making a short documentary about the housing crisis in Beleria…”

Fingolfin glared down at him, and Finarfin grinned.

“I’m kidding, of course. I have no interest in getting involved in any issues, least of all yours. Nope. I’ll stick to the important stuff: staying behind the camera making romantic comedies to keep the masses distracted while my brothers pull at the edges of a fraying society.”

“Arvo…”

“I know, I know. You’re different.”

“I am,” Fingolfin asserted, as much for himself as for his brother. “In fact, I have been thinking of resolutions.”

“Have you?”

“Yes — and I think in the New Year I am going to conduct a company review. See if we can afford to do what I’ve always wanted, since the beginning. Affordable housing.”

“Really? That’s what you’ve always wanted?”

“Yes. And — I was thinking of mentoring one of my senior staff as a replacement and making a transition to politics. Elu has hinted that he intends to retire after his current term. I’d like to run for Mayor.”

“Huh,” said Finarfin. “That sounds like a great way to butt heads with Fëanor ten times more often than you already do.”

“Maybe I could inspire him to change, push him towards a more benevolent—”

Finarfin laughed, loudly.

“What’s so funny?” said a new voice.

Behind them, Fëanor loomed, arms crossed over his chest.

“Oh hello, Fëanáro!” said Finarfin. “We were just talking about you.”

Fingolfin shot him a look. “We were not. Finarfin is drunk.”

“I wish,” Finarfin muttered, and frowned into his empty glass.

“Never mind, I don’t care,” said Fëanor, and flicked a dismissive hand in Finarfin’s direction. “I’d like to talk to you about your investment offer,” he said to Fingolfin, jutting his jaw forward proudly.

Fingolfin nearly dropped his drink. “Oh?”

“Yes. I’ve had a moment to consider.” (He’d spoken to Nerdanel, Fingolfin guessed, and had to bite his cheeks to keep from smiling.) “And I think it might be a sensible…” he squinted, as if the next word pained him— “partnership.”

*

Even though Celeborn had come to this party expressly to talk to Galadriel, it had taken him two hours to work up the courage to do so.

“Hey,” he said, coming to stand beside her. “I saw your drink was empty, and I uh, got you another one.”

He held out the cup for her to take. Vodka soda, right?” he confirmed, even though he’d conducted thorough research beforehand.

“Do I know you?” she asked, looking him up and down.

A lump of dismay lodged in Celeborn’s throat. But of course, why would she remember him? He might have been thinking of her for weeks, he might have contrived to find himself at this party for the sole purpose of crossing paths with her again, but she was… well, way out of his league, like Galathil had said. He wished he could sink through the floor.

“Yeah,” he managed to squeak. “We met at the Nordic spa, a few weeks ago. It was your birthday, I think.”

“Oh!” Recognition lit up her face and she accepted the drink. “Right, I remember. Tel-something, right?”

“Celeborn,” he said, and heaved a sigh of relief. “Yeah.”

“Nice to see you again, Celeborn. How’ve you been?”

*

“I don’t do karaoke,” Daeron had said, when Maglor had tried, shortly after their arrival, to drag him to the stage set up in the corner of one large room.

Some time later (who knew how long, time had blurred about half-way through the third beer), Daeron bounced beside him, belting, “Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy! But here’s my number, so call me maybe?” while Maglor’s attempts at harmonising were increasingly marred by fits of laughter. The alcohol helped, certainly, but Daeron was no less immune to the thrilling effects of an approving audience than Maglor.

After Angrod had disappeared with that vapid redhead and Fingon had escorted his sloshed redhead away from the festivities (Maglor had not seen Maedhros let loose like that for years and was happy both that his brother was having fun and that he would be Fingon’s problem in the morning), no one had contested Maglor and Daeron’s monopoly of the karaoke equipment. Which was good, because Maglor had no intention of ceding the spotlight to anyone else — besides, of course, Daeron.

*

“I’m worried,” Anairë said, then scraped an olive from her martini stick with her teeth. She chewed it thoughtfully.

“Oh, forget about them, girl!” Eärwen gave her a light smack. “Arvo will keep them under control.”

“I don’t know, they seem to be completely unaware of your husband’s existence,” Nerdanel said to Eärwen.

“Poor Arvo,” said Eärwen. “Maybe I should rescue him…”

“No.” Nerdanel extended one long braceleted arm to stop the other woman from stepping forward. “You’re right. He’s a tempering influence, even if they are ignoring him.”

“I can’t tell if they’re arguing or aggressively agreeing,” said Anairë, squinting. “The latter seems extremely unlikely, but…”

“One can hope,” said Nerdanel.

*

“Eeee!” Edhellos squealed, and stamped her feet excitedly.

“What was that about?” Angrod smirked at the delightfully rosy-cheeked girl he’d just pinned against the back of his bedroom door.

“I can’t believe it’s happening!” she gushed.

“What?” Angrod asked, though he had some idea. He nuzzled at her neck to bury his smug expression.

“You’re gonna be my midnight kiss!”

“I plan to be doing more than kissing you by then,” said Angrod, and dropped to his knees. His hands lingered over the curve of her ass. “God, you’re so hot.”

*

Across the bay, a single firework boomed and burst into a hundred golden rays.

“Must be almost midnight,” said Andreth. It was the first thing they’d said to each other in a while — ever since their hands had somehow found each other on the log between them.

“Mmhmm,” said Aegnor. He thought about checking the time on his phone but was too scared to move and break the spell of the moment.

“You wanna go back to the party for the countdown?” Andreth asked.

“I don’t think we’d have time,” Aegnor said.

“No, probably not,” said Andreth, and shuffled closer to him so their shoulders brushed.

Aegnor held his breath.

*

“Ger ready, folks! One minute to midnight!” a musician announced from the small stage at the front of the hall.

Anairë tutted. “This is his party, Fingolfin should be leading the countdown.”

“Shh. Leave them,” said Nerdanel, attention rapt on their husbands still locked in conversation.

*

“Well,” said Finarfin, pocketing his phone. “It’s almost midnight, I’m gonna go kiss my wife.”

Fëanor and Fingolfin were far too intent on each other to notice him leave.

*

“Hey guys! Twenty seconds to midnight!” someone screamed over the music.

“Shit!” said Maglor, abruptly interrupting a very entertaining rendition of Single Ladies.

“Someone dim the lights!” Daeron shouted.

“Ten, nine, eight…” Maglor yelled into the mic, a few seconds off.

*

“Do you hear that?” Angrod asked between gasps. “I think it’s midnight.”

Edhellos bent over him and shoved her tongue down his throat.

*

“… seven, six…”

Celeborn stared ahead, his cheeks bright pink.

“You okay?” said Galadriel.

“Hm?” he said as she tugged on his hand.

“…five, four…”

Not bothering to wait out the last three seconds, Galadriel grabbed his face between her hands and kissed him, drawing a surprised squeak from his throat that quickly slid into an adoring sigh as his hand found her waist.

*

“… three, two…”

“Why is everyone shouting?” Maedhros groaned, blearily blinking awake to see Fingon sprawled beside him on a strange bed. “Shit, did I fall asleep?”

“You did.” Fingon handed him a glass of water. Rivulets dribbled down Maedhros’ neck as he poured it back.

“Ugh. I really can’t do this anymore.”

“No. But I love you any way.” Fingon kissed his mouth, which must have tasted awful. “Happy new year, babe.”

“…one.”

*

A bouquet of fireworks exploded over the lights of Beleria in the distance, and nothing had ever seemed more natural to Aegnor than leaning in to push his fingers into Andreth’s dark hair and capturing her lips in a kiss.

*

“Happy New Year!!” chorused a hundred voices.

“My god, is it midnight already?” said Fëanor, pressing a hand to Fingolfin’s chest in his surprise. He had not realised they were standing so close.

“Guess so.” Fingolfin laughed.

“Well, brother,” said Fëanor, holding out a hand, “shall we seal our deal with a midnight handshake?”

A reckless, wicked smile, one he had never before seen, now leapt to life on Fingolfin’s face. “Am I not good enough for a kiss?” he said, and before Fëanor could protest Fingolfin had him in both arms, swooping him low and planting a firm kiss to his lips.

*

“Oh my god,” said Anairë. “Are you seeing—”

But she didn’t finish because Nerdanel’s lips had sealed off her throat.

*

It had been sloppy and broken up by giggles, but Maglor could not remember a more exhilarating kiss in his life.

He stared at Daeron. Daeron stared back. It was strange: they’d lived together a year, been sleeping together half that time, and yet, perhaps because of the haste and ease with which they’d fallen into a domestic rhythm, they’d neglected many of the customary milestones of a new romance.

Maglor said it first. “I love you.”

“Really?”

Maglor laughed. “Yes, really. Obviously.”

When Daeron continued to stare, Maglor nudged him. “Well? Are you gonna say you love me?”

“Yeah. Just… kiss me again first.”

“Gladly,” said Maglor, and did so, longer and less messily this time. Someone in the crowd whooped.

“Happy New Year,” Daeron said when they pulled apart. “I love you.”

The prompts for this were: Daeron/Maglor + Board games from @searchingforserendipity25 and same + Enduring the in-laws from @melestasflight (who also requested Russingon hooking up), Orodreth/His Partner + Winter driving from @acretosorien, Feanor & Fingolfin + Kissing at midnight (it's platonic) and Fingolfin & Siblings + Reflections and resolutions from @ettelene, and Aegnor/Andreth + Kissing at midnight from @emyn-arnens. I also included some bonus follow-up on this fill for Celeborn/Galadriel and Angrod/Edhellos. Whew!

[microwavablefork]

Hello! Your art is very beautiful. Please tell us more about your COTL AU Nomadic Faith. Seems very interesting! Are you asking for art requests? May a kind month come to you. Eat your fruits and vegetables.

HII!!! omg this is my first ask about my cotl au (and first ask in general yippee!!) you have just released a demon my friend. (and tysm :3)

OK SO! I was kinda reading the lore tablets in game and didn’t understand what the fuck was going on so I decided to make my own lore and run with it! :3 I always thought it’d be interesting if the Sheep never worshipped the Old Faith, instead I envisioned them more like Plimbo or some of the NPCs who have livelihoods that overshadow any cult like behavior. Or at least any that abided to that of the Bishops rather than their own culture.

I took inspiration from nomadic groups like the romani people and other eastern tribes in terms of clothing and style. (which i have yet to post my designs oopsie…) The idea of nomads kinda flowed into that idea of a ‘herd mentality’ sheep carry by having them travel and bond together like that. They’re very musical and are insanely talented at detailed wool cloths and textile crafting and trading herbs and spices. (Also the little earrings you see my lamb wear also speak to their wood workmanship! Each earring has a specific meaning whether it accords to age, family, etc. But by the time the lamb becomes a god.., they forget half of it :( )

Once Narinder had split off from the Old Faith and began to get more greedy with his power and start to question the Old Gods, that’s when Shamura had the vision of the prophecy and the reaping began. So The Lamb (i don’t have a name for them yet but I’ve been thinking of Ewe = Eve like from the bible), is born during the reaping, and has very much grown up with a more hurried ‘on-the-road’ lifestyle.

Most of the Sheep actually turned to Narinder’s faith (that was separate from the old faith) because they saw comfort in death being something they could believe in. Sheep are prey animals by default, so the idea was even more instilled into the herds once the reaping began.

(ALSO! Narinder is very fond of sheep in general as they made for the most loyal of followers.. plus they made him really pretty garments and wrote songs as offerings)

I’ve just realized i’ve probably talked your ear off into oblivion (big apologizes to anyone who’s reading this far 😭) but yeah I’m just very passionate abt this au of mine.

So anyways! Once the reaping gets more severe, the herds begin to break off smaller and smaller to protect one another. Usually it would’ve been 4-6 big families and family friends traveling together, but by the time The Lamb was born, they’d only travel is groups of 1-2 families. Though she did get to experience the culture of her kind up until her early adulthood when her sister was kinda… slaughtered 💀 They had been the last two sheep unknowingly, and after much running, hiding, and crying alone in the woods. The Lamb was captured, brought to slaughter, and everyone knows the rest.

Though they did buck out at the Bishops and put up a decent fight beforehand.

There is MUCH more in regards to cult life, my au version of narilamb has a lot of meat to it, but I’ll spare the yap for another day HFHSHD


THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE ASK THOUGH!!! may a kind month come to you too :3

[thebusytypewriter]

Tri-God AU - Prophecies

In the days of the Old Faith, after the removal of what had once been some hundred gods, a prophecy was revealed to the wisest among the crown-bearers.

"Five points to a pentagram, five portents of doom, five siblings stood abreast, five gods and one tomb… Five becomes four becomes three becomes two becomes one becomes nothing.”

A Lamb would appear to free their bound sibling from his chains in the Below, slaying each of them in its wake. Perhaps it could be prevented, they reasoned, and the population was all but torn from existence.

Except for one.

That is the story that is told throughout the Darkwood, through Anura, through Anchordeep and the Silk Cradle. Many bow to the Lamb, resilient and eternal. They are the last of their kind, the prophesied savior and liberator for The One Who Waits.

The God of Wisdom received many visions in their lifetime, most referring to events that would turn out to be small and unimportant in the grand scheme of Time. There is one such phrase that they had previously deemed inconsequential—one that had been buried in the deepest recesses of their unraveling mind, only to be recalled after the fall of their sister.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

How odd, they think. It hardly makes sense to come up at this point. They cling to what little lucidity they can muster. What could this possibly mean for them, for their siblings who fall at the hands of a Lamb?

Their brother of Pestilence cries out in fear one eve, and they go to see what ails him.

…That is not a Lamb donning their brother’s Crown.

“Cease, brother.”

As the new voice was heard, dust arose from the ground on the side of Kallamar. It swirled up and up and around and around until the pillar morphed into a tall figure similar to the squid himself, the bishop Kaliaphra knew best—the spider-god Shamura.

“What do you fuss so noisily about?” they hissed. “I cannot sense the Lamb, just the Red Crown. If they were here, they are no longer.”

In a motion so subtle that Kali nearly missed it, Kallamar winced. “Apologies, my sibling. Despite the Lamb not being here, Anchordeep has been invaded by a second-rate replacement—this fawn here, do you see it? Pitiful little thing.”

The gaze of the arriving bishop then turned to observe what their brother was rambling on about, and Kali stood wide-eyed before them, before the god she’d served for years before the Lamb.

Their scrutiny of her was still… uncomfortable.

“Five becomes four becomes three becomes two becomes one becomes nothing.” Shamura’s mandibles pulled back into something resembling a sneer. “The Red Crown brings death upon us, no matter its vessel. Though my mind may be in pieces, I remember you, fawn.” There was a slight pleased curl to their sneer when Kali felt the blood drain from her face. “A dutiful soldier trainee. Strong. Faithful. Kaliaphra… no. Perhaps you are to be called Aphra within the Realm of the Old Faith. ‘Dust’… Ashes to ashes, dust to dust… The One Who Waits pulls your strings in my place. Will you dance for him, or will you pull yourself free? Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…”

A shiver flew up her spine, making her ears twitch anxiously.

“Brother,” they continued, not even turning to look at Kallamar, “deal with her as you will. I wonder if we will see what little Aphra is capable of.”

So, with nothing else from Shamura, their form crumpled into dust just as quickly as they’d arrived.

The Lamb is not the last vessel of the Red Crown.

They know not what happened to the Lamb, only that a former servant—the fawn, Kaliaphra—has taken their place. Despite the apparent nerves, she is far from inexperienced, that much they know. She is therefore a danger to the remaining bishops.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

Shamura utters the phrase as a mantra while they pace their temple. They cannot lose. They cannot allow Narinder to be freed. They have no choice.

They must break the fawn’s will.

[kiltedveteran]

My friend has this painting in his home that depects Eve at the fall of Adam. A great peice in my opinion his wife is an artist and I always assumed she painted it; but there seems a bit of a story behind it along with how this painting has opened his mind to the idea aginst orginized religion and the LDS (Mormon) church in all.

This is his story:

Back in November, 2023, I wrote about the origins of my disdain for the LDS cult. What I never mentioned was the painting that kind of started this ball rolling. It is a painting of Eve, depicting the Fall of Adam from the Old Testament. Lindsay purchased the painting from her college friend, who painted it as a project. The panting is huge. It is about seven feet long. Eve is lying down, passed out, with an apple clutched in her hand and the serpent's tail just visible around her knee.

For those who don't know, according to myth, the Fall of Adam is essentially the catalyst for the beginning of the world. Adam and Eve were in the garden of Eden for an unknown amount of time. They were naked and unashamed because they were innocent. God commanded that Adam and Eve may eat anything in the garden except for the fruit of the tree of knowledge, lest they be destroyed. The serpent Lucifer tempted Eve to eat the fruit, and she did. Because of that, she gained knowledge. She was able to convince Adam to eat the fruit. Suddenly they were aware of their nakedness and were ashamed. God came into the garden and saw that Adam and Eve were hiding their nakedness from him. He asked if they ate the fruit from the tree of knowledge, and they responded that they did. God was angered and cast them out of the Garden of Eden and punished them by making them toil in the dirt to and to suffer death.

When I was a believer, I loved the painting because it depicted the events that started everything. Without the Fall of Adam, we would never have the society we have now. Eve had to be tempted, and succumb to temptation before we could be born. Ironically, one of Eve's punishments was that childbirth would be painful for women. Thanks God!

This painting was the subject of some controversy in the ward we lived in while we were in Tacoma, WA. We used to hold scout meetings at my house regularly. One of the moms came to pick up her kid, and she saw the painting. She said nothing to me, but ratted me out to the bishop. He never saw the painting himself, but I was called in to discuss it. I had no idea going into his office. So I was blindsided. Like, why the hell are we talking about this painting being pornography?

The bishop went on to tell me that more than half of the elders in the ward suffered from pornography addiction. (ADHD sidetrack: I found out last night that the number 1 PornHub keyword search in Utah is "Mormon.") I told the bishop that other men's addictions are not my problem. He told me that either the painting comes down, or we don't hold scout meetings at my house anymore. I still held scout meetings at my house – we just conducted our business outside at the picnic table, or in the garage.

There was a sequence of events that happened afterward, but needless to say, I was really mad at the bishop for demanding that I remove our painting from our own house. And he never saw it prior to telling me to do so. He later recanted when he finally paid a visit some weeks later. He said that it wasn't something that he would hang in his house, but he didn't find anything offensive or pornographic about it.

The funny part is we'd have missionaries over regularly so we could feed them. But before dinner, we used to set up a couple of chairs in the living room. Lindsay and I would sit on our couch, just under the painting, and the missionaries would sit on the chairs, staring directly at the painting. Lindsay and I always found it kind of funny to watch the different reactions of some of the missionaries as they gazed up at Eve's nakedness. But I digress...

The closed-mindedness of our ward bishop, the anger of that awful squat mother and her holier than thou attitude towards us afterward, and the overall vibe I got from these people who were supposed to be inspired left a really bad taste in my mouth.

I loved that painting. The bishop tainted it with his dirty mind and accusations that Lindsay and I had pornography hung up in our house. Eve isn't pornography – Eve is art. She is beautiful art. She is painted in a unique style. The colors are beautiful, and the artist was very talented. Eve's proportions are a bit funky, but that's the artistic style of how the artist wanted to convey her. The damn thing should be in a gallery! But lucky for us, it has graced our houses throughout Lindsay's and my entire marriage.

But the bishop tainted it.

It took me a while, but I eventually stopped associating Eve for the awful imagery that the bishop dreamt up. I stopped feeling angry every time I staired at the painting. Eventually, I stopped thinking about that terrible experience entirely.

For years, I've deconstructed the Mormon Cult. For years, I've studied, researched, listened to podcasts, watched interviews, and drew further and further away from my inherited religion. Family trauma was a major influence in my walking away from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Bullshit. But I'll never forget that the bishop in my ward was a big part of the catalyst that got me questioning everything I believed – everything I blindly followed and would have happily continued to follow hadn't I been so enraged by his words.

In all the years, I still continued to love this painting. I stopped believing in the fairy tale about it and accepted it as just that – a fairy tale. And then I started to understand that horrible nature of the lesson in this story. Do what you're told and God will love you. Disobey and God will punish you out of spite. He will claim he does it because he loves you, and without him, you are nothing.

Lindsay and I were having a conversation last week about this painting. It still adorns the wall in our home. I told her that I still love this painting, but I don't know why. I don't believe in the fairy tale that it represents, and I certainly don't believe in the God depicted in the Bible. So why do I not tear it down and burn it in my burn barrel?

Lindsay told me that perhaps I look at it differently now. Perhaps it represents the start of my religious deconstruction, and because I am free from the clutches of that evil cult, I'm happy and feel content. Some may call that joy. But to the believers in the cult of Jesus Christ, they do not think I am capable of experiencing joy because that is a feeling reserved for those who intentionally seek Christ, or God, or some other religious bullshit. (side note: that's kind of a shitty thing to believe... you should evaluate your belief system if you think that I'm incapable of experiencing joy just because I don't believe in your backward superstitions).

So, Eve represents the beginning of my march to freedom. Freedom from religion, freedom from gaslighting, guilt, and shame; freedom from being extorted 10% of my pay to prop of a fake god, freedom from being coerced into doing things I'd rather not do, and eventually freedom from my father, who in the end killed our relationship with this fucking religion.

Ironic that a painting that was meant to depict the beginning of all Christianity now means the beginning of my quest for the truth about the cult I was born into and my separation from it.

[lena-oleanderson]

poems that didn't make it into Side Wounds and why series (part 4)

i've just put out my first little poetry collection Side Wounds (you can read it here for free) and in honour of that, here's some poems that didn't make the cut. some of these are poems i specifically wrote for side wounds, others are old faves - this is the former

i ended up writing a lot of villanelles for side wounds - none of them ended up in the collection and this is one of two i'll post the villanelle is a poetic form i greatly admire (and no, not just because killing eve is one of my favourite series of all time lol) some of my all-time favourite poems are villanelles, like elizabeth bishop's one art none of the villanelles i wrote just ended up being, quite frankly, good enough for my first poetry collection. but i'll keep trying my hand at them, and maybe there'll be one or two in my next collection i do really like the villanelle structure for this concept, though, because it's all about repetition - and maybe the way i've articulated it is even a bit on the nose, but staying alive and remembering that i do, indeed, want to stay alive, is something i keep having to repeat to myself

[timomaraus]

August 2, 2023

CNN Central Florida is a hotspot for leprosy, report says (Editor's Note: Yeah, everything seems to be working in Florida. I guess that's why the DeSantis presidential campaign is off to such a strong start.)

CNN Soldier spotted a drone and thought it was there to kill him. See what the drone did instead (Editor's Note: Turns out it was just bringing his Amazon delivery!)

CNN Beef over beef: Taco Bell is accused of false advertising and allegedly skimping on fillings (Editor's Note: Frankly, I'm more concerned about what's in Taco Bell fillings than how much of them they put in a burrito.)

CNN Hyundai invents a roomier glove compartment just for EVs (Editor's Note: Well that makes sense because you have to have a place for the spare batteries.)

CNN Amazon Clinic rolls out nationwide as e-commerce giant expands its health care footprint (Editor's Note: Soon, you too will be able to receive messages saying things like "Other patients who had a knee replacement also purchased these items"!)

Washington Post Melted, pounded, extruded: Why many ultra-processed foods are unhealthy (Editor's Note: Hey, you'd be unhealthy too if you were melted, pounded and extruded.)

Washington Post Sturgeon supermoon lights up the night sky worldwide (Editor's Note: I don't know. Something sounds fishy about this story.)

NY Times How ESPN Went From Disney's Financial Engine to Its Problem (Editor's Note: For the first six months of 2023, ESPN had revenue of $14 billion and profits of $3 billion. Billion. But profits are down. $3 billion just isn't enough. As Don King would say "Only in America.")

NY Times A President Accussed of Betraying His Country (Editor's Note: And also, leading the polls for his party's nomination in 2024!)

NY Times Mega Millions Jackpot Climbs to $1.25 Billion (Editor's Note: Maybe the winner can donate part of it to support poor old ESPN.)

NY Times Bishop Accused of Abuse Gets Married After Bid to Quit Church Is Denied (Editor's Note: Hmmm. I think the prohibition of marriage is a vow a Catholic priest should not be forced to take. But that doesn't mean they should feel free to break all of the rest of them.)

NY Times American Fugitive who Faked His Death Can Be Extradited, Scottish Court Rules (Editor's Note: Would this be a 'resurrextradition?')

[imaginearyparties]

masterlist.

last update: may 15, 2023

moodboards, meta, ao3.

bucky barnes.

one shots.

i won't mind.

[6.5k, angst-ish with a happy ending (sort of), 40s!bucky]. your old pal Bucky only has a few hours before he goes off to war. somehow, he winds up spending them with you.

a shadow in your cave.

[1.1k, hurt/comfort] when your depression takes over, bucky can't fix what's wrong. but he can illuminate things for you.

does he know the way (i worship our love)?

[1k, angst, post-endgame au]. he doesn’t quite remember how you fell into bed with each other, only that he’d give anything to take it back, and he’d give everything to keep it going.

drabbles.

cruel to be kind. [angst]

headcanons.

soulmate au: aging, songbird, guardian.

no reader.

tea party.

[fluff, bucky & daughter!oc]. steve and sam are as good as men get, so of course, they’re willing to indulge bucky’s daughter in a tea party.

a home for bucky (a shonda fur die goyim).

[angst, tw: the holocaust, jewish!bucky]. fuck it, bucky’s already a bad jew. he could get a tattoo.

ready to comply.

[angst]. most days, bucky gets on fine. he goes about his day like a normal guy, albeit one that wears gloves all the time and looks about half a century younger than he actually is. but there are some days where he can’t get on fine.

druig.

one shots.

1960.

[1.1k, meet-cute, 60s!reader]. it’s new year’s eve 1960 and greenwich village is full of surprises.

wanda maximoff.

one shots.

(bury me) in all my favorite colors.

[2k, angst, emo!aou!wanda]. your world went gray when wanda chose hydra over being with you. when she shows up at your door, it has you seeing red.

steve rogers.

one shots.

damnit, janet!

[2.6k, fluff, insecure!reader]. your boyfriend is about as brad majors as they come, which is why you don’t tell him that you’re playing janet in a production of rocky horror. what happens when he finds out anyway?

where you decide to stay.

[3.5k, mutual pining, nomad!steve]. all you’ve ever known is the lonely life. if you’re not careful, you just might let steve rogers convince you of something more.

drabbles.

art school ta!steve.

royal bodyguard!steve. [secret relationship].

birthday cake. [fluff].

kidnapped. [angst, retired!Steve x civilian!reader].

natasha romanov.

one shots.

queen.

[angst, everything short of smut]. natasha commits atrocities. you turn the stories of them into her sweetest sins.

etc.

drabbles.

you make me feel. [loki x reader, angst].

take a chance on me. [kate bishop x reader, ex-besties to lovers].

almost like praying. [steve rogers x bucky barnes, angst, 40s!].

headcanons.

steve x bucky: one, two.

challenges & events.

300 followers theater challenge.

600 followers mosh pit sleepover.

[incomingalbatross]

"The Librarians and the Dark Secret" pt 2!

Eve finding a way to genuinely connect to Nicole as one Guardian to another was a QUALITY Eve Moment. Caring about other people! Seeing the good in them! Reaching out and sincerely treating them as their best selves! That's our Princess. :)

...After watching John Noble's performance as the cult leader, I am fully prepared to accept that this guy is just this universe's version of Walter Bishop, who snapped in a new and exciting direction and started cosplaying a Dan Brown character. If anyone could start a secret, insane, centuries-old pseudo-Catholic cult dedicated to the destruction of knowledge, it would be Walter Bishop, y'know?

I'm guessing he held the Library responsible for something that happened to his Peter.

Heck yeah, Nicole, I fully support you getting away from this whole situation. Run fast, run far, and figure out the rest later.

I like that the Librarians are genuinely arguing about Nicole's status and whether or not it's a problem that she ran away. "Who runs if they're not guilty?" "I don't know, maybe someone who was unjustly incarcerated for a hundred years??" Thank you, Stone.

...It is fair to remember that Jenkins is the only one who was there for immortal!Nicole's various exploits, though.

(Also, the prophecy justification for not saving her is unnecessary for me. They've already established that in this universe A) time travel can only be completed by the same device you started with, and B) if you tamper with causality you yourself will be consumed by the resulting temporal consequences. With Nicole's time machine destroyed, there's literally no way the Librarians could have saved her from her marooning, right? That's how it works.)

And I did like the little exchange between Eve and Flynn at the end—Eve checking in on where Flynn's head is, for both personal and practical reasons, and Flynn admitting that Nicole's story has shaken his faith in the Library and that's a problem. Because it is! And because that was a piece of serious, honest, mutually respectful communication about something that had affected them both. Good.

[crappy-writings]

My Fics Masterlist

Main Masterlist | Recced Fics Masterlist

Marvel Cinematic Universe

Wanda Maximoff

One-Shots

Of Guitars and Hoodies | Fluff

Summary: You went to her room to return a hoodie, but ended up playing a song instead.

Daylight (Song Fic) | Angst

Summary: As morning closes in on Westview, you spend your last moments with her.

Do You Trust Me? | Angst/Fluff

Summary: Sleep is hard to come by sometimes. During one of these sleepless nights, Wanda and you secretly escape the Compound in the middle of the night for a drive.

(Coming Eventually)

Series

Keeper of Shadows | Series | In-Progress

(Series) Summary: An odd series of fatal attacks in Upstate New York piques your interest, especially when they seem to be related to the strange powers you received when you were 10 years old. By some stroke of luck or misfortune, the Avengers too are investigating the case, and you are their number one suspect. In a temporary alliance, you work together to discover why people are dying, unraveling a line of love, secrets, and betrayal.

Natasha Romanoff

One-Shots

The World Had Gone Quiet | Angst/Fluff

Summary: Sometimes, you need someone to comfort you when you’re down.

Bring You Home | Angst

Summary: You went to bring her home.

Sappy (Drabble) | Fluff

Summary: You admire her before going on a mission.

Orpheus and Eurydice | Fluff

Summary: You recount the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice with your girlfriend.

(Coming Eventually)

Series

The Run and Go | Angst | Mini-Series | In-Progress

(1) The Run and Go

Summary: The Triskelion’s infiltration was going so well. That was until a certain redhead makes an appearance, leading to a long-awaited confrontation.

(2) Trial by Fire [Coming soon enough]

Summary: Something about your past mission doesn’t sit well with you. You’re not sure you’re willing to find out why.

Steve Rogers

Broken Bones | Mild Angst/Fluff | Platonic

Summary: You got injured while on mission, but didn’t tell anyone. Now, you’re dealing with the consequences.

(Coming Eventually)

Kate Bishop

One-Shots

Home is in your arms | Fluff

Summary: Kate comes home late, but you’re still waiting for her.

Retriever Antics | Fluff

Summary: Kate meets a kind dog walker after having chased Lucky through half of Central Park.

Christmas Present | Fluff

Summary: It’s Christmas morning and Kate has a surprise for you.

I'll damn well try | Angst/Fluff | [Coming soon enough]

Summary: Not every mission is bound to be successful. Kate is distraught after suffering a casualty while out on patrol, and you do your best to help her through it.

(Coming Eventually)

Series

Patch Me Up | Mini-Series | Fluff | Established Relationship | Completed

(1) Patch Me Up

Summary: After their first run-in with the tracksuits, Kate and Clint end up in your apartment for some help.

(2) Talk of Superheroes

Summary: After suffering defeat in their last mission, Kate calls you over for some help.

(3) The Three Words

Summary: You insisted on helping Clint and Kate on their Christmas Eve mission, much to Kate’s dismay.

Maria Hill

One-Shots

Better off as Strangers | Angst

Summary: Despite having been broken up for two months, you somehow find yourselves in each other’s orbit.

Safe | Angst/Fluff

Summary: When the Project P.E.G.A.S.U.S. Facility is destroyed and you’re trapped under the rubble, Maria is forced to balance her job as Deputy Director and her relationship with you.

(Coming Eventually)

Star Wars

(Coming Eventually)

The Walking Dead

(Coming Eventually)

[qqueenofhades]

Having just sent you a message the other day about how much I love your historical asks, I realized I have a question myself that you might know the answer to. I’m a Christian and I have never been able to figure out why Christianity has historically viewed non-procreative sex for pleasure as bad. (And none of my family, including my clergy father, have figured it out either. I think my dad has a bone to pick with Augustine? And I feel like Aquinas also has something to do with this.) But given that Jesus had a body and gives a speech about “the Son of Man came eating and drinking” as though he enjoyed it, how did this whole “the body is sinful especially the sex part” thing happen? I have been thinking about this a lot recently for Old Guard reasons, which should surprise no one.

Oof. So, a short and simple question, then. (Sidenote: did they expand ask limits? Because I’ve definitely gotten a couple asks today, including this one, that are longer than usual, rather than forced to space out and hope that Tumblr doesn’t eat them.)

The entire history of sexuality in the West and its relationship with Christianity throughout the centuries is obviously a topic that far, far exceeds anything I could possibly cram into this ask, but let’s see if I can hit on some of the highlights. First off, one could remark that some aspects of Jesus’s teaching managed to disappear from the official doctrine of Christianity almost immediately, and for a variety of theological, cultural, and social reasons. As anyone who has a passing knowledge of the late Roman Empire is aware, they were known for being sexually liberate (at least if you were a nobleman, as the freedom certainly did NOT apply to women), and the notorious run of emperors who were having orgies and sleeping with boys and their sisters and hosting nonstop sex parties did a lot to sour early Christianity’s relationship with it. Because pre-Constantine/Theodosian Code Rome was Christianity’s enemy (since Christians refused to perform the traditional civic sacrifices to the Roman gods, which was all that Rome required alongside permitting its citizens to practice whatever other religion they wanted), and because the emperors were such a high-profile example of sexual excess, that became an easy point of critique. Obviously, the Roman polemicists, like every other historian, should not be trusted on EVERYTHING they say about the emperors, but the general pattern is there and well-established. So Christianity, trying to establish its religious and moral bona fides, can easily go, “Well, Caligula/Nero obviously sucks, come join us and live a purer and more moral life!”

Constantine converted in the early fourth century and the Theodosian Code was issued at the end of the fourth century, which made Rome officially Catholic and represented a huge reversal of fortune for fledgling Christianity, helping it expand like crazy now that it was officially sanctioned. However, the Roman Empire was splitting into two halves, west and east, and the development of Greek Christianity in the eastern empire was strongly influenced by ascetic and austere traditions (if you’ve heard of the Stylites, i.e. the guys who liked to sit atop poles out in the Syrian desert to prove how holy they were, those are them). The cultural context of denial of the flesh and the renouncing of bodily pleasures also played intensely into the third/fourth/fifth century debates over heresy and orthodoxy. Some of the most vicious arguments came over whether Jesus Christ could have actually had an embodied (and therefore possibly inherently sinful) human body, or it was just a complicated illusion, the “shell” of a body that his entirely divine nature then inhabited without actually being part of. This involved huge theological arguments over the redemptive nature of the Eucharist and even Christ’s sacrifice: was it real/effective/genuine if he didn’t REALLY die and suffer the pain of being crucified, and was just assured that he’d be fine ahead of time? So yeah, the question of whether Christ had a real body (because then that might be sinful) was the knock-down, drag-out theological disagreement of the early centuries C.E., and left a lot of hard feelings and entrenched positions in its wake.

Likewise, your dad is correct in having a bone to pick with Augustine, at least in terms of his impact on views of sexuality in the late antique and early medieval Christian church. Augustine is obviously famous for agonizing endlessly over his sexuality/sexual urges in Confessions, his time as a Manichaean, his relationship with a woman and the birth of his son out of wedlock (and if you want a lot of repressed homoeroticism: well, Augustine’s got that too) and how his conversion to Christianity was intensely tied with his renunciation of himself as a sexual being. Augustine also pioneered the nature of the inheritance of Original Sin: therefore, every human who was born was sinful by virtue of sharing in humanity’s legacy from Eve’s transgression in the Garden of Eden. (And yes, obviously, this led to the beginnings of the embedding of clerical and social misogyny. Oh Augustine, I kind of hate you anyway because I had to read the entire goddamn 1000-page City of God during my master’s degree, but bro, you got a lot to answer for.) This involved EVEN MORE obscure speculations about whether original sin was passed down in male semen, and therefore Jesus was free of it because he was supposedly born divinely to a woman without a male father, but yeah, the idea that sexuality itself was already a suspect thing was fairly well correlated and then cemented by Augustine’s HUGE influence over the early church. Everything post-Augustine incorporated his ideas somehow, and so the idea of bodily pleasures as separating you from divine purpose got even more established.

Then we had the Carolingians in the eighth and ninth centuries, who were the first “empire” per se in Western Europe post-Rome, and who were also intensely concerned with legislating moral purity, policing the sexual behavior especially of its queens, and correlating moments of political or military defeat with insufficiently virtuous private behavior. The Carolingians likewise passed these ideas onto their successor kingdoms, especially the medieval kingdom of France (which would eventually become the pre-eminent secular power in Western Europe). Then the eleventh century arrived with the Cluniac and Gregorian Reforms (which were interrelated). One of their big goals was for a celibate and unmarried clergy on all levels of holy orders, from humble village priests to bishops and archbishops. Prior to this, clergymen had often been married, and there wasn’t a definite sense that it was bad. But because of this, and the idea that a married clergyman wasn’t pure enough to provide the Eucharist and would be distracted from his commitment to the church by a wife and family, the Cluniac and papal reformers intensely attacked sex and sexuality as evil. Priests didn’t (or rather, were not supposed to) do it, and if you weren’t in a heterosexual church-performed marriage and didn’t want children, you shouldn’t be doing it either. (Did this stop people, and priests, from doing it? Absolutely not, but that was the rhetoric.) This was about when celibacy began to be constructed as the top of the heap in terms of holy lifestyles, for men and women alike and laypeople as well as those in holy orders. NOT having sex was the most virtuous choice for anyone, even if sex was a necessary evil for having heirs and the next generation and so on. (Which is interesting considering that our hypersexualized present attaches so much value to having sex of one sort or another, and the asexual-exclusion types, but yeah, that’s a different topic for now.)

Of course, when the Cathars (a schismatic Catholic heresy in France and Italy) in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries began attacking ALL materiality and sexuality as irredeemably evil, the Catholic church went a bit like “whoa whoa that’s a little too far, hold on now, SOME sex is good, sex can be nice, we’re not actually like those guys” (even though they had been about a hundred years before). Because Cathar spirituality taught that any kind of attention or indulgence to the body was sinful, that included any kind of sex at all, even married heterosexual intercourse. (Of course, the Cathars themselves didn’t always live up to it either; see Beatrice de Planissoles and her Cathar priest lover.) The Catholic church obviously didn’t want to go THAT far, so they began rowing back some of their earlier blanket statements about the evilness of sexuality and taught that husband and wife both had a responsibility to offer each other sexual pleasure and fulfillment. I’ve answered many asks about sexual behavior and unions in the medieval era, the arguments over the definition of marriage, and how that changed over time in response to social needs and pressures, so yes. We know what the IDEALS were, and what people were legally supposed to do, but the fact that church writers were complaining about bad behavior, sexual and otherwise, literally the whole time means that, obviously, this did not always match up with reality.

The theories of the Roman physician Galen, which prescribed that female orgasm was necessary to conceive, were also well known and prevalent in the medieval world, which meant that ordinary married couples trying to have children would have had some awareness that female pleasure was supposedly necessary to do it. (This ties into my “it wasn’t an unrestrained extravaganza of violent painful rape for women all the time YOU GODDAMN MORONS JESUS CHRIST” rant, but we will recognize that I have Many Rants. So yes.) Obviously, we can’t know what the sex life of individual married couples behind closed doors was actually like, but there were a variety of teachings and official stances on sex and how it was supposed to be done, and as noted in other posts, just because the church thought it is zero guarantee that ordinary people thought that way too. People are people. They (usually) like having sex. They had sex, both gay and straight, married and unmarried, so on and so forth, even if the church had Opinions. Circle of life, etcetera.

Anyway, then the Renaissance arrived (and we just had the “why the Renaissance sucked for women” ask the other day), which prescribed a reversal of all the comparative sexual and political and social latitude that women had gradually acquired over the medieval era. It very much wanted to see women returned to their silent, domestic, maternal, objet d’arte roles that they had occupied in antiquity, and attacked the actions of women in their public and private lives as one of the major causes of the crises of the late medieval era. (Because you know, misogyny is always a useful scapegoat rather than blaming the powerful men who have fucked everything up, as we’re seeing again right now.) Because the Renaissance is regarded, fairly or unfairly, as the start of the early modern Western world, it’s where a lot of modern gender attitudes and views of sexuality became more explicitly codified and distributed faster than at any point in history before, to a more extensive audience, thanks to the invention of the printing press. We’ve obviously had moves toward sexual liberation and agency in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, and the emergence of the modern feminist and gay rights movements, but now in some ways, we’re back in oddly Puritan attitudes in the twenty-first century. And since America was founded by Puritans, their social attitudes are still embedded in the culture, fanned today by hyper-conservative Protestant evangelicalism. Even though Puritans themselves ALSO, shock surprise, didn’t always live up to the stringent standards they preached.

...whoof. I’m sure I’m forgetting something, but hopefully that gives you the broad-strokes development.

[scapegrace74-blog]

Don’t Call It Love

A/N  With Saorsa done and dusted, it’s time to return to the Metric Universe.  When we last left Jamie and Claire in October 2017, they were sharing comforting silence and attending a Depeche Mode concert together.  Will things fall easily into place now that they have tripped over the line from being roommates to being friends?   Oh, hell no.  What would be the fun in that? 

All other parts of the Metric Universe are available on my AO3 page.

The song by Zero 7 (another guest artist!) that inspired the title is here.

Winter, 2017 - London, England

It happened by accident.  Happenstance.  Serendipity.   Fate.  The words she used to explain the fact that she and Jamie started seeing each other outside of the flat in social circumstances that would typically be characterized as dates varied, but her opinion remained fixed.  They weren’t dates.  Jamie was her roommate, a good friend, a fellow enthusiast of the culturally obscure, and a brilliant pub trivia partner.  They had both agreed that a romantic relationship between them would be disastrous; ergo, there was nothing romantic about their increasingly frequent outings.  If she could memorize the names for the 206 bones in the human skeleton, she could certainly manage to keep her feelings for Jamie inside the tidy box she had built for them.

Non-Date #1

They crossed paths inside the massive Spittalfields Market, both of them with shoulders damp from the chilly November rain.  Jamie was on his way to the fishmonger, while Claire carried a cloth bag filled with late-season vegetables, determined to eat something other than take-out on a rare day off from lectures and the hospital.

“Are ye on yer way back tae the flat, then?” Jamie asked, physically fighting the urge to offer to carry Claire’s wee sack.

“No, I’m off to the charnel house first.”

“The what, now?”  Surely he’d misheard her.

“The charnel house.  Don’t tell me you’ve been living over top of a medieval burial ground all this time without realizing it?” Claire teased.

Intrigued as much by her beguiling smirk as the opportunity to explore a bit of London’s history, Jamie followed Claire to a commercial highrise near the edge of the market.  Descending a non-descript stairwell in Bishop’s Square, they came to a halt in front of a glass wall.  On the other side was an excavated ruin, the crypt of the long-vanished chapel of St. Mary’s Spital hospital, a quick scan of a nearby information plaque informed him.

“They only discovered it was here when construction of the office tower began,” Claire said, a wistful look on her face.  “For centuries, travelers and the victims of London’s many plagues were buried around the hospital, quite literally in the Spital fields.  When the graves overflowed, they brought the excess bones here and stacked them for safe-keeping until the Apocalypse.  Imagine, forgetting something so...fundamental.”

Jamie grunted in acknowledgement, seeing the reflection of Claire’s face superimposed on the glass.  He couldn’t decide if this human tendency towards forgetfulness pleased or disappointed her.

“Tis rather...”

“Macabre?” she suggested with a grin, turning away from the display and climbing back into the cloud-roofed square.

“I was gonna say morbid, but as ye like.”

“We build our present on the bones of our past, my Uncle Lamb used to tell me.  He was referring to archaeology, but I’ve found it to be true of life itself.”

They walked back to the flat, collars raised against the hastening rain.  Jamie had bought enough hake for two, so they shared the narrow worktop, dicing fresh vegetables and letting their shoulders bump together occasionally.

Claire ate at the two-person dining table while scrolling social media on her phone.  Jamie used the coffee table to hold his plate and the gaming magazine he was flipping through.

It wasn’t a date.

Non-Date #4

Her cellphone rang as she was leaving the bathroom, thoughts bouncing between her end-of-semester exams and her non-existent plans for the Christmas holidays.  She accepted the call with one hand while starting the tedious job of separating her soaking curls with the other.  At first there was only static.  She glanced at the screen, recognizing the familiar number.

“Jamie?” she tried.

“...mac na ghalla, Hamish...” followed by muffled noises and masculine jeering.  She switched hands and started to towel off, making certain first that the video call button wasn’t active.

“Hal-lo.  Paging Mr. Fraser.  You have a call on line one.”

“Ach, sorry Claire.  I didna mean tae... That is, the lads were just... How are ye?”

She giggled at his discomposure.  “I’m well, thank you.  And you?”  They had seen each other that morning, as he came off shift and she was leaving for her morning lectures, so she assumed there was more to this call than a polite inquiry into her state of well-being.  She had learned over their months as roommates that sometimes you just needed to wait for Jamie to get to his point.

“Braw, thank ye.  I was... weel, I’m at the park with some o’ the lads, tryin’ tae put t’gether a side, an’ we’re short a winger, an’ I was jus’ thinkin’, ye said ye wanted tae learn tae play an’...”

Another James Fraser quirk was that he rambled in broad Scots when he was nervous.

“Jamie, are you asking me to play rugby with you?”

“Aye.  Aye, I am.  If ye wish, o’ course.”

“I did just step out of the shower...” she mentioned, already peering outside at the threatening sky and mentally assessing her wardrobe for something suitable for a ruck and maul in the rain.  “Hello?” when there was no sound from the other end in some time.

“Aye, I’m here.  Nevermind, Claire.  I dinna consider, ye must be gettin’ ready to study fer yer finals, an’...”

“Where are you?” she interrupted, opening a drawer and pulling out a pair of yoga pants.

“Victoria Park?” Jamie replied, sounding hesitant and hopeful.

“Give me twenty minutes.”

“Splendid!”  She could hear his smile down the line.

“I better not get mud in my hair, Fraser,” she retorted before hanging up, her own smile lingering on her face.

There was nothing romantic about rugby.

Non-Date #7

The flat was strangely forlorn, even with Christmas lights twinkling merrily in the living room windows and a tiny fir tree precariously balancing its five ornaments standing in the corner.  

They had exchanged their gifts on December 23rd, sipping on hot chocolate spiked with Kahlua and grinning shyly at each other.  She’d bought Jamie the next Call of Duty game for his XBox.  Nothing intimate, just something he’d mentioned in passing he was looking forward to trying.  His boyish glee upon unwrapping the package warmed her more than her drink.   Hands shaking slightly, she delicately opened the tastefully wrapped rectangle he presented to her.  Inside was a cashmere scarf, luxuriously soft beneath her fingers as she stroked it.

“Is this?” she asked.

“Aye, tis the Fraser plaid.  Ye ken there’s no’ a clan named Bee-cham, right?”

She was deeply touched, and thanked him was a kiss against his scruffy cheek.

Jamie had left for Scotland the next day, having somehow managed to secure a week’s worth of leave from his uncle over the holiday season.   As was her wont, she’d put down for as many shifts as possible while medical school wasn’t in session, but by some fluke she wasn’t scheduled to work New Year’s Eve for the first time in recent memory.

Some of her classmates from nursing college had invited her along to a “raging party in Shoreditch”, but she’d made up some excuse.  The truth was, she wasn’t in the mood for loud music and over-priced drinks with a group of virtual strangers.  If Geillis had been in town, she would have allowed her friend to coerce her into whatever mayhem she had up her sleeve, but Geillis was still in Columbia and eight months’ pregnant with twins, to everyone’s collective shock.  Especially the mother-to-be.

No, what she really wanted was a quiet evening at home, snuggled under her favourite fleece blanket on their couch, the latest Ferrante novel in her lap and a glass of Pinot Noir at the ready.  Jamie had a turntable and a surprisingly well-curated selection of vinyl in his bedroom, but she didn’t like entering his domain without his permission.

Without giving it a second thought, she rang his cell.  It was only upon hearing the raucous sounds of a party in full swing that it occurred to her that just because she was spending New Year’s Eve alone, it didn’t mean Jamie was as well.

“Claire?” he yelled over something that sounded a lot like live music.  “Are ye all right, lass?”

“Oh!  I’m so sorry, Jamie.  I just wanted to ask... never mind.  It’s not important.  Enjoy your party...”

“Wait!” the background noise mutated, sounding like a riot underwater, and then there was a wooden slam.  Jamie huffed a sigh of relief.

“Mu dheireadh.   Are ye still there, Sassenach?”

“Still here,” she confirmed, suddenly feeling sorry for herself.  She might be the most pathetic thirty-year old in London.

“Did the hospital no’ call ye in for a shift, then?”

She tucked the blanket under her feet, warding off the chill that always seemed to creep in from the wall of windows.  The Christmas lights she’d strung reflected against the glazing in alternating colours: blue, red, green, blue, red, green.

“No. By some miracle of the festive season, I have the night off,” she joked halfheartedly.   “I’m sorry for interrupting your night out.  I wanted to ask if I could borrow your turntable and a few of your albums?”

“O’ course.  Ye didna need tae ask.  An’ I’m no’ out.  I’m at home, at Lallybroch.”  He pronounced the word with a guttural flourish that made Claire think of an exotic kind of pastry or a rare tribal custom.  Any time Jamie spoke of his family’s home in Scotland, he imbued it with an otherworldly quality, like a fortress in a fairy tale, a far away land of warriors and mist.  It was strange to think of him there now, while she sat alone in their flat.

“It sounds like quite the party.”

“Aye.  The Frasers take their Hogmanay celebrations verra seriously.  Ye shoulda come wi’ me.”  Then, as though realizing what he’d said, he added quickly, “We could use a doctor.  Dougal sprained his ankle doin’ a sword dance, and Angus singed his arse somethin’ fierce jumpin’ o’er the bonfire.”

She laughed, her mood suddenly much lighter, and asked for more particulars as to how his cousin’s naked ass came to be in close proximity to open flame.  Without either realizing it, the last minutes of 2017 crept by.

Fireworks erupted outside, followed by the tolling of bells and honking of horns.  On the other end of the call, she could hear cheering and an off-key rendition of Auld Lang Syne.  They were both silent, embarrassed to have been so caught up in their trivial conversation as to have missed the arrival of midnight.

“Happy Hogmanay, Sassenach,” Jamie’s voice came soft and sure over the line.

“Happy New Year, Jamie,” she replied.  “I should really let you get back to your party.   Your family must be wondering where you’ve disappeared to.”

He hummed noncommittally.  It occurred to her that had they been in the same place, they would likely be kissing right now.  It sent a shiver of want down her spine.

“Jamie?”  Her voice sounded thready, like she had just woken from a deep sleep.

“Hmmm?”  Shivers, again.

“What’s a Sassenach?”

He laughed softly, and she had to bite her lip.  What was the matter with her?  “Tis a Scottish word for a foreigner, particularly an English one,” he explained.

“You’ve never called me that before,” Claire remarked.

“I’ve ne’er spoken tae ye while on Scottish soil.  T’wasn’t an accurate description ‘til now.”

There was a long silence.  She could hear the sound of revelry through the door of whatever room at Lallybroch he’d hidden inside.  Outside the flat there were firecrackers.   They reminded her of mortar rounds heard from a distance in Afghanistan.

“You don’t like fireworks, do you?” she guessed.  It didn’t take an advanced degree in psychology to know that bright flashes and sudden pops of sound would trigger his PTSD.  They really were a mess, the pair of them.

“Nay.  Jenny an’ Ian’s bairns love them, an’ I told them no’ tae hold off on my account, but they insisted on a bonfire instead.  It reminds me o’ when I was a lad, a’fore ye could buy fireworks along wi’ yer ham at the local Tesco.”

Jamie launched into a long account of the significance of bonfires in Highland culture, and she let herself drift on the melody of his voice, the turntable long forgotten.

“Tell me about yer most memorable New Year’s,” he prompted after his cultural diatribe wound down.

“Oh, well, they all rather blur together, actually.  Too much drink, too much spent on the cover charge.  You know how it is.”

“Nah, I mean when ye were younger.  Ye must ‘ave celebrated in some remarkable places.”

She thought back to her time spent following Uncle Lamb around the globe.  Truth be told, traditional holidays weren’t something that stood out in her memory.  They felt like a foreign custom, a series of drawings taken from a picture book that showed a mother, father and children crowded around a loaded table while snow piled up outside.  They bore no relation to her reality.  It was no wonder Christmas and New Year’s left her feeling ambivalent.

Still, she didn’t want Jamie to feel sorry for her, so she launched into one of her favourite tales.

“One year, I must have been eleven, Lamb was leading an excavation of a Berber oasis town in northern Mali.  The site closed down for the Christian holidays, but Lamb decided to stay behind rather than travel back to England.  We ended up riding camels through these enormous sand dunes, following a local guide on an ancient caravan route.  On December 31st, just as the sun was setting and we had begun to make camp, the camel Lamb had been riding let out this infernal noise, leapt to its feet, and started to gallop away.  Lamb and the guide set off after it on foot, hollering and waving their keffiyeh in the air.  It was the funniest thing.”

“They left ye all alone in the desert?” Jamie asked, horrified.

“Oh, well, they came back eventually.  The camel had been stung by a scorpion, you see.  Once it got over the fright, they were able to catch it and bring it back to camp.”

“Were ye no’ scared, tae be out there in the dark by yerself?”

“No.  Not as I remember it.  The sunset was glorious, and little by little the sky came alive with a million stars.”

“Ye brave wee thing.”  Jamie sighed.  “I wish I was there wi’ ye.”

She didn’t know if he meant with her on that sand dune, or with her at their flat.  Either way, her answer was the same.

“I wish you were too.”

They finally hung up well past two o’clock.  It didn’t count as a date if the other person was five hundred miles away as you whispered goodnight.

Non-Date #12

The Royal London was expanding its pediatrics wing, and Claire was invited to a fundraising gala held, fittingly, in the Museum of Childhood.  The invitation included a plus one, and she’d been putting off asking Jamie if he could join her all week.  It wasn’t that she doubted his suitability as an escort.  Far from it.  But the gala was taking place on February 14th, of all nights, and the symbolism made her nervous.  Still, the alternative was spending the night being hit on by a drunken internist or hedge fund investor, and that was a headache she could do without.

“So,” she began casually a few nights before the event, “any plans for Valentine’s Day?”  If he said he was working or had, god forbid, a date, she would just have to go stag.

Jamie set down his gaming controller and turned to face her desk.  The pulsing  colours from the screen lit his curls like a neon nimbus in the dim room.

“Nah, nothin’ definite.  An’ ye, Sassenach?” he asked tentatively, as though easing himself out onto a frozen lake, unsure of the depth of the ice.  The nickname he had assigned to her during his holidays in Scotland had stuck.  She didn’t correct the inaccuracy, as she rather liked the idea of having a name that was only his.

“Well, I’ve been summoned to a fundraising gala for the hospital, and I was wondering... not that you need feel obliged... it’s black tie, which is really the height of pretension, if you ask me... anyway, there’s no way to decline gracefully short of an aneurysm, so...”

“Out wi’ it, Sassenach,” he prodded.

“Mightyouconsiderbeingmydate?” she blurted, before taking a large gulp of tepid tea.

“Yer date?” he asked as though he had never heard of such a thing.

She sighed, resigned to the fact he was going to make this difficult.  “Yes.  My date.  My plus one.  My social companion.  And hopefully, my defence against spending the evening being pitied and set up with someone’s second cousin, Nigel, the chartered accountant.”

“Do ye have somethin’ against accountants, then?”  The corner of his lip was twitching with the birth of a grin.

“Oh, very funny, you bloody Scot.  Look, I need a date on Valentine’s Day and you are the only man in the Greater London Area who won’t interpret that as an opportunity for a pity shag.   The offer is on the table.  Take it or leave it.”

Something flashed behind his eyes that she couldn’t interpret.  Then it was gone.

“Ne’er fear, Sassenach.  I’ll protect ye from all the wee Nigels.”

***

She’d forgotten to ask whether Jamie had suitable attire for a black tie event.   It was too late now, regardless.  They were meeting at the museum, since she was on shift until eight.  Using the nurses on-call room to get changed, she slinked into her burgundy chiffon gown, its gauzy layers wrapping around her like millefeuille.   Her hair was a lost cause, so she slicked it back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck and hoped for the best.  Silver chandelier earrings and a dab of cologne below her jaw, and she was ready to go.  She carried a small beaded clutch and her dress shoes - there was no way she was navigating the Tube in stilettos. 

The museum was a single massive space, conversation and the tympani of glassware echoing against its high-arched ceiling.  She stood in the entryway after checking her coat, spinning in circles and trying to get her bearings.  More than one lascivious glance was directed her way, but she studiously ignored them in favour of looking for Jamie.  With his height and red hair, he shouldn’t be hard to pick out of the crowd.

There was an appreciative murmur from behind her, a gust of fresh air, and then a soft tap against her bare shoulder.  She turned around.

No.  Not hard to pick out from a crowd at all.  Standing before her was James Fraser in full Highland regalia.  He wore his family tartan, a black velvet waistcoat, brilliant white dress shirt and a black bow tie.  When her gaze fell to the floor, she noticed his polished brogues and white socks pulled up to his knees.  She’d never before considered how a man’s knees might be alluring, but there it was.   Jamie had very sexy knees.

“G’d evening, Sassenach.  Ye look... weel, ye look bonnie.”  Jamie’s normally deep voice was gruffer than usual, perhaps on account of the cold night air.  Or maybe his bowtie was tied too tight.

“Good evening, Jamie,” she replied once she found her voice.  “You look, well, if you were a Jacobite, I’d say you looked regal.”

The tops of Jamie’s ears went red, and he ducked his chin, his tamed curls falling briefly forward.  It gave him the look of a bashful child receiving unexpected praise, completely at odds with the strikingly masculine figure he cut.

“No’ a Nigel, then?” he teased.

“No.  Definitely not a Nigel.  Come, let’s get something to drink before all the top-shelf liquor runs out.  You wouldn’t believe how much some of these doctors can put away!”

Jamie was a perfect date.  He stood by her elbow as she mingled and greeted various colleagues and professors, nodding at their tales of medical misfortune and smiling at their awkward jokes.  He spoke confidently about his work and current affairs, and patiently tolerated endless jibes about what a true Scotsman wore beneath his kilt.

When she politely excused them from one such conversation, he leaned over to whisper in her ear as they walked away to fortify themselves with more alcohol.

“I’ve a mind tae lift my plaid an’ moon the entire assembly the next time one o’ yer wee doctor friends asks about my underthings.  Are ye sure they arena raising funds for a new proctology department, Sassenach?”

She snorted in a truly unladylike fashion and turned to meet his unrepentant smirk.  Just then, a figure approaching from the bar caught her eye.

Oh no.  It couldn’t be.  After five years, she’d finally relaxed her vigilance, had ceased anticipating his presence at every turn, and now, here he was.

“Sassenach?” Jamie was watching her with concern.  The blush had drained from her cheeks, leaving her wine-stained lips and sintering eyes the only colour on her face.

“Claire!  Fancy meeting you here!”  Had his voice always been so nasal?  His eyes so glassy and vacant, like portals into nothingness.  He’d obviously been drinking heavily.  A blond woman half his age had her arm linked through his.

“Frank,” she uttered his name.  Jamie stepped into her side, his posture erect, somehow sensing that she needed his protection from this unheralded threat.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise.  I’d heard you’d gone into the army, or some such thing.  Afghanistan, was it?  Well, with your penchant for violence, I suppose that’s fitting.”

She breathed deeply through her nose.  She would not let him get the better of her.  She wasn’t that person anymore.  With a clammy hand, she grabbed onto Jamie’s fingers where they rested around her hip.  He squeezed back.  He was here.   She wasn’t alone.  It was all the strength she needed.

“Yes, that’s right.  I served overseas for a time, but I’m back in London now.  In medical school.   Now, if you’ll excuse us, we were just leaving.”

Focusing on each step, she turned towards the exit, Jamie’s hand now warm upon the small of her back.  Her chin wobbled, but she bit down hard to stave off tears.

“A doctor?” Frank taunted from behind her.  “Wouldn’t a demolition expert be more apropos, darling?”

She froze, spine trembling with anger.  Jamie made a questioning noise, asking without words if she wanted him to intervene.   She didn’t.

Glancing over her shoulder, she dealt her parting blow.

“Give my best to Amelia and the children.”  Without waiting to witness the aftermath of her pronouncement, she made her way out into the chilly night air, Jamie’s bulk a silent sentinel at her side.

It wasn’t a date if it ended on the floor of your bathroom, crying ugly sobs as mascara stained your cheeks, while your partner held your shoulders and made soothing noises with his throat.  

That wasn’t dating, that was survival.

***

mac na ghalla = son of a bitch

Mu dheireadh = finally