#aging is beautiful not something to be feared or resented

[eatsless]

"aging is awful, you're going to hate how you look when you're older" do you know how many of my childhood friends are dead? how many people i know that didnt live long enough to get a wrinkle, let alone grey hair? im excited to get older and have my survival shown in my appearance. don't wish misery on me for surviving

[puzzled-pegasus]

Do you ever just think about how awful it is to be a demigod before you know about it?

I've been thinking about it a lot lately. How much demigod kids and teenagers don't fit in with mortal society. Their mortal parents don't know what to do with them, even if they do care for them immensely. They are labeled as troublemakers, as bad kids, as mentally ill, as freaks and monsters who see things they shouldn't see and have an aversion to authority that they shouldn't have and a strong sense of justice and an inability to sit still, read, play, act, feel normally. Percy got in trouble for getting into fights, for speaking impulsively, he was mocked and spoken down to and expelled from lots of schools who couldn't handle him and he didn't know why until he was twelve years old. Sally wasn't able to tell him why.

Annabeth was the product of her father's relationship with a goddess, and he loved her for a while, but she wasn't a normal kid. When he fell in love with a mortal and Annabeth didn't get along with her or her kids, he chose the mortal side. How could he understand Annabeth's side? She was just a badly behaved kid, while his new wife and children were the normal good ones.

Jason always knew he was a demigod, he was accepted and praised and tons of expectations were placed on him from a frighteningly young age. Part of the reason the others resent him and see him as a sort of golden child is because he was placed on a pedestal and he will never, ever know what it was like for all of his friends to be looked down on as children, to be scolded for things they didn't understand and told that the things they saw and experienced constantly were not real.

Piper was always loved by her father but I think he loved the idea of her, he loved that she reminded him of the beautiful woman he met years ago. He was always kind to her and usually gave her things she wanted, but he couldn't always spend time with her as his job got busier. Piper sensed that her father's attention was occupied by something else, and as he got busier, she felt less supported and stole things and got in fights and her dad didn't know what to do with her after the BMW so she was sent to a troubled teen program where she was bullied for her disabilities and her race.

Leo feared his power because it killed the person he loved the most, and after that, everything in his life was hell. He didn't feel safe anywhere, he didn't have anyone he could trust, and adults saw him as a troublemaker who would never amount to anything.

The books don't emphasize these things as much with any of the other demigods, or maybe Annabeth, Percy, Piper, and Leo are the best examples we have. I just. They're so tragic. They're all my children all of them. I love them and I feel so sad for them

[gossippool]

it's after their first mission together that wade and logan share their first kiss.

the fight leading up to the time ripper took place right outside their apartment with barely any witnesses around, so the journey back home was short and quiet with no prying eyes. after that, it took a while for logan to get out of the house on the regular, but when he eventually did, it was just to walk or carry out errands, and in civilian clothes, he blended in with everyone else. it's different when they get called on a mission for the first time.

it's not a hard mission by any means, but it's brutal. he and wade subdue a dozen men on the streets, chase a final one down to the underground, and turn him over to the police. by the end of it all, the sun is going down, and people are travelling home from work. logan's suit is torn, and his bare arms are caked with dirt and dried blood.

a cab would be the typical mode of transport for them after a mission, but they're already at the station, anyway, so they decide to take the train. a busker sings at the platform with a guitar, a lulling, bittersweet thing, like the soundtrack to a life not deserving of such a melody. in the exhaustion and setting sun, it makes logan long for something he can't name. but they'll be home soon.

they board the train. he leans against one of the poles, feels the cool of the metal seep through his suit and into his spine. the music fades out, and what fades in in its place is the conversation and laughter of the others in the train car. a group of teenagers out having fun, businessmen in suits off work, older people with their grandkids or their shopping bags. wade's warmth opposite him, mask moving as he chatters.

he tries to listen, he really does, but as the train speeds through the tunnel, he feels stares turn slowly towards him from all sides. he smells their slight fear, their judgement, over the odour of him and wade. he realises all at once what he must look like, dirty and covered in blood that can't be his for his lack of open wounds. his exposed knuckles a darker red than the rest of his hands. he covers one hand with the other, unclenches his fists.

he's not one to care about what others think. not before, at least. he's used to glares of resentment and pity for what he did, eyes following him everywhere he went like the phantoms of those he killed. but these people don't know what he's done, and they stare at him all the same. it's almost worse.

for a brief moment, just a moment, he feels a stab of hopelessness. coming to this world felt like a second chance, a chance to start over without the world having to bear the knowledge of his inadequacies. but what if that isn't possible? what if this is all this world ever sees of him? the aftermath, the bloodstained hands, the aged lines of his face that tell them what they want to know. he's no one here, except when people remember him like this.

"peanut?"

wade's voice snaps him out of it, and when he looks up, wade has pulled his mask off. he's about to apologise for not listening when wade smiles slightly at him. it's enough to take the words out of his mouth. wade doesn't ask if logan's okay, but his eyes flicker almost imperceptibly over the other occupants of the train car. then he places a delicate hand on logan's waist and steps closer to him, until he can feel his breath ghosting his lips.

logan just looks up at him, breath caught in his throat. what? he thinks of asking. he doesn't.

wade's other hand trails up to cup his cheek. "let them stare," he says. "they don't know anything."

then he leans down and presses his lips to logan's. the train emerges out of the tunnel and bathes the car in golden light, and all the rest of it fades away.

wade steps back eventually, and logan wants to chase his lips, but instead watches as the shadows of his scars dance across his face with the path of the dying sun. he's so beautiful, logan thinks. he's home.

wade is right; let them stare. all he wants is to find his way home, just like everyone else. that's all anyone wants. and they're all on the same train home.

[twilightkitkat]

Ok two things

1) I genuinely can't remember if I've asked this before but I would LOVE your take of the lingering after effects of the rant in the Honda Odyssey. Mainly because I'm going to talk about it again because it means a lot to me (Hugh Jackman my beloved you beautiful beautiful actor)

2) If you can make a tag specifically for the asks It would make navigation 10 times easier because I don't have an easy way of checking what I have and haven't asked (also sometimes I just want to read through everything you've said in response to stuff)

I've said a few things about the Odyssey before but I don't think I've ever answered an ask specifically about it. I have a short fanfic about this topic, actually. (Also good idea, I hadn't thought of adding a tag. I decided to tag my posts with #asks if you want to filter through them.)

The thing about Wade is that he tries to sweep his feelings under the rug. All the time. No matter how hurt he is. He tries to bottle up his feelings because he thinks they're stupid and that they make him vulnerable but they get to be too much and eventually, he bursts. So he holds all of his resentment and pain and fear inside of him, acting composed and unaffected, until he finally reaches a breaking point. And when he breaks, he breaks hard.

The issue with this is that because he's so good at acting fine, other people think he's fine. Or, well, as "fine" as Wade normally was. Everyone knew Wade had a few screws loose and that he was prone to impulsive behavior, but that was just common knowledge by now. He's insane but that's just how he is. But Wade is exceptionally good at masking genuine hurt as insanity and recklessness, so when his true emotions spill over it shocks those around him. He doesn't give any visible indication he feels upset until he suddenly snaps.

The Honda Odyssey is the same. Things are going shockingly smooth between Logan and Wade at first. They focus on doing missions for the TVA and through mercenary organizations together and manage to scrap together something resembling a routine. Wade distracts himself with the thrill of his new life so he doesn't have enough time to ponder or dissect his own emotions. Nothing good ever comes of that, anyway.

But Logan's words stick with Wade. Of course they do, how could they not? He took apart everything he shared with him and used it against him. He dug into every fucking pressure point, rubbing all his insecurities raw. And so naturally, they boil over.

It doesn't have to be a big event. They can just be washing the dishes and Logan makes a joke, or watching a show together. But suddenly it's all rushing back to Wade and the emotions are overwhelming in their intensity and he's breaking down and snapping at Logan, who's confused about what's wrong.

And Wade... doesn't know what to say. Because how can he explain that he's still hung up on a stupid speech Logan gave ages ago? It's embarrassing and childish, especially when he knows it's all true.

And he knows it is. Wade's turned it over in his head when he couldn't sleep, rolled the syllables over his own tongue, and replayed Logan's expressions as he spat the words out. Logan meant it. And he was right, Wade is pathetic. He's fucked up and isn't cut out to be anyone's hero and he's so unlovable that he couldn't keep the only girl who loved him despite his disfigured avocado face.

He knows and yet it still hurt for Logan to say it. For his hero, someone he looked up to and admired, to look and see him in all his glory only to spit in his face. To hear it confirmed by someone whose opinion mattered to him.

It sticks with him. It festers and grows and gnaws at him. He watches Logan for any signs of disappointment or contempt, is especially careful to bring up his past relationships, and remains on edge. He doesn't let himself fully relax or get comfortable. He keeps an eye on the door, waiting for Logan to walk out.

But he's fine. He's managing. Until suddenly it boils over and he isn't and he has to look Logan in the face and explain why he flinched when Logan yelled at him over something stupid.

[palesweetscherryblossom]

King Naga Shigaraki x Royalty Reader

-Naga & Humans have been beefing for years, thanks to competing for the same resources and of course, AFO stoking the flames of that -Eventually, the two simply decided to stay in their own lanes respectively. Only interacting when it came to trade or economic matters. -There was a golden rule, never EVER start anything on either side. To do so would result in a shitstorm. -Shigaraki was crowned prince after being adopted by AFO. He was feared, respected and beloved by his subjects. Tomura crowned himself king after murdering AFO in a battle for power. -Your family is a modestly sized royal family, powerful but not too big. You are the youngest of your brother and sister, aged 20. -Whilst your brothers harbored a resentment towards the naga, you stayed in your own lane. -Then, one of them did something stupid, dreadfully stupid. You eldest brother had made the horrible decision to attempt to raid one of Shigaraki’s villages, only to be met with Tomura’s furious royal court. -Your brother had attempted to steal valuable jewelry and even tried to abduct Lady Himiko as ransom. If it wasn’t for Jin then Toga would’ve probably made minced meat out of his face. -Tomura was outraged that puny arrogant Prince had the audacity to try and attack his people. So, he was going to be a little shit right back -Your parents were swiftly met with an invite to Tomura’s royal court as to discuss this matter. And they were instructed to bring their family. -“What have you done to my land and people is unforgivable. But I’m willing to forgive if you give me something of value in exchange for your pathetic son.” -Your parents were shaken, no doubt that Tomura wouldn’t hesitate to send his angry court after them. -Then, your eldest sister got an idea. The girl had never liked you, for your elegance, beauty and the fact that you were blossoming into a beautiful person made her rage with jealousy. -So, why not pawn you off to the Naga beast and not only get you out of the way but gain some other benefits. Like more land, materials, food and extra military service?

“I have an idea your majesty!” The court turned to your scheming sister, Tomura seemed rather unimpressed. “I humbly offer you my sibling in exchange for our brother.”

-Everyone was shocked, including you. How dare she try to pawn you off?! You opened your mouth to object but were swiftly glared at by your parents and siblings. -Tomura and his court contemplated it, a murmur of intrigued hissing swept across the room before Tomura answered. He would take you as his mate, perhaps they could repair tensions and Kurogiri was nagging him about finding a mate. -Thus, your new life began

[princessanonymous]

When Night Comes

Platonic Yandere Vampire

Previous Part | Next Part

First Chapter

5. 𝓕𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓟𝓪𝓽𝓱

The estate gave off an aura of cold, darkness, and grandeur. Its many rooms and labyrinth-like pathways created an intricate and intimidating structure. The ground floor, beyond the imposing entry hall, boasted a dining room, a resplendent ballroom, lavish bathrooms, and the kitchen, which was connected to the quarters where the servants resided. On the second floor, there was a grand living room, and the master bedroom, along with an opulent bathroom and a study, was adjacent to (Y/n)'s room, which also had its own bathroom. Guest bedrooms adorned the opposite side of the second floor. The estate was equipped with a grand library, another ballroom that opened onto a balcony overlooking the entrance, more bathrooms, and a small reception room. An unassuming door on the ground floor led to a cellar.

The mansion was encircled by imposing fences and gates that remained perpetually closed, effectively isolating it from the outside world. By the same logic, it kept her in. The verdant gardens that stretched around the estate, bathed in the moonlight, held an eerie beauty. A nearby stable housed a few horses.

(Y/n) had to concede that the estate was undeniably magnificent, but her nocturnal existence within its gloomy halls only served to accentuate its gothic allure. It was a place of solitude and coldness, where even the servants, who were, like her, human, would cast fearful glances her way. Their wary gazes made her feel even more isolated. She often wondered what compelled them to stay in a household where they had at least some inkling of the master's unnatural nature. Yet, they remained, and they didn't seem to like it. They didn’t seem to like her either. Anyone capable of catching this monster’s attention must be as dang as him in their mind. She could not muster any form of bitterness towards them, since she understood their resonance.

It took her a while to get accustomed to her new sleep schedule. Sleeping in the day and living throughout the night was certainly not something she was used to. She had not glimpsed the light of day in weeks, as the heavy curtains remained perpetually drawn. She spent her nights trying to stave off the loneliness that haunted her. The absence of anyone her age to converse with was not entirely novel, but during her life with her parents, there had been opportunities to socialize when they ventured into town to sell their harvested produce.

She clenched her jaw and fought back tears, resolute in her decision not to cry. Mourning her parents would serve no purpose, and their murderer would respond to her grief with cold indifference. In this foreboding place, no one would offer her solace. No one would care.

The vampire continued to spend a significant amount of time with her. Their interactions were not always filled with conversation; sometimes, they simply coexisted in silence, as he engrossed himself in reading while she sought to fill the empty hours with activities. Her loathing for him remained unwavering, and resentment festered within her, burning brightly. Yet, her loneliness drove her to accept the limited interaction he offered. The girl took whatever she could get.

Tonight was one such instance. They sat in the study, where the vampire occupied a red velvet armchair, engrossed in a book. (Y/n) reclined on a plush sofa of the same pattern, her fingers idly fidgeting with a porcelain doll, arranging and rearranging its dress. It didn't really interest her much, but it helped to keep her occupied.

As she gazed upon the doll’s neck, the sudden recollection of that fateful night prompted (Y/n) to place her hand on her own neck, as if searching for a mark that should have been there but never was. She couldn't fathom how she had managed to forget that detail. The memory returned vividly now – the bite, the paralyzing sensation, the drowsiness that followed. She knew she wasn't a vampire; her pulse still throbbed, and her canines were just as they had always been.

"You bit me," she voiced her realization, her hand still lingering on her neck, even though she knew the wound was no longer there.

The vampire, his attention momentarily diverted from his book, nonchalantly acknowledged, "I did."

A surge of curiosity and confusion led (Y/n) to question further. "I'm not a vampire," she stated, running her tongue over her normal-sized canines. Her heart continued to beat steadily, and there was no insatiable thirst for blood. "How?"

He put the book down, seemingly willing to indulge her curiosity. "Becoming a vampire isn't a random occurrence, doll," he explained patiently. "The process begins with the vampire drinking the blood of a human, allowing the venom from the bite to spread through the mortal's body. The human must then die shortly after from the poison from the bite. They will eventually return to life, but to complete the transformation, they must drink the blood of their sire. And all of this must occur during a Blood Moon."

She tensed upon hearing about the Blood Moon. "What's a Blood Moon?" (Y/n) inquired, a hint of fear in her voice. She needed to understand the vampire's plans for her and how to avoid them.

"It's a phenomenon that occurs only once every three months," he explained. "During a Blood Moon, the moon takes on a red hue, which not only strengthens a vampire's powers but also turns their bite venomous, capable of transforming others. The paralysis and drowsiness you felt on the night I brought you home were the effects of a typical vampire's bite when its powers aren’t strengthened by the moon."

Her face displayed her discomfort as she recalled the night she had felt powerless and vulnerable, completely at the mercy of a killer. She couldn't hide her unease any longer and sought further clarification. "And is the ice power something common among vampires?" She remembered the eerie sight of ice forming on the vampire's hands.

"Each vampire possesses a unique gift," he replied cryptically. To illustrate, he picked up a glass of water from the table beside her. As he touched it, the water gradually transformed into ice, right before her eyes. Her expression shifted from unease to genuine astonishment. "You will have one too."

Her smile dropped, fear settling in once again. She had allowed herself to forget about that part for a fraction of a second. She chastised herself mentally for that mistake. She couldn’t afford to let her guard down here.

[canis4christ]

i have 2 christen dis blawg with plf shigaraki but i forgot how 2 put thoughts into txt after tumblr sabbatical buhhh give me a minute -_-;

yes, ok—

Shigaraki and his harem of beautiful little lambs who worship the ground he walks on because their grand commander is so brave, so smart; so handsome, so kind.

Following him around the mountain villa, hands intertwined, nervously mouthing locks of their hair and shushing each other’s giggle fits and excited whispers just to scamper off like skittish foals when he turns to see them all watching him from behind fluted columns and newly-erected statues that have been chiseled in his likeness.

Sitting together at assemblies (that feel to them closer to sermons), writing his name in their journals and sealing it with penciled hearts, doodling his noble features and tired eyes while they eagerly await what scant wisdom he’ll provide that day.

Embroidered emblems and flowers from the garden. Trinkets and cards that wish for him to ‘Get Well Soon’ and letters of reverence and gratitude that read more like billets-doux all neatly arranged in a small shrine outside his bedroom door.

'You’ve touched our hearts, and soon, very soon, we all hope to be wholly liberated, just as you are and always will be.'

Sometimes—not often, but certainly sometimes—one of them will muster up enough courage to approach him, trembling and stumbling over her words, offering clumsy praise or a hesitant question while the others look on nervously, jealously, from across the dining hall.

What remains of the now-defunct League of Villains finds their fixation on him amusing, if not entirely bewildering. Some find it so, though not all. Others find it uncomfortable, and when discussed at length and in confidence, they might even find it worrisome.

It’s a strangely warm welcome to give to a new age conqueror—an overnight man who doubles as the murderer of their foolhardy friends and family who tried to put an end to him and his. The blood on his hands hasn't even dried, and yet, he's revered as their champion, their savior. It's all grossly unnecessary, he thinks, but…

“—the girls have taken a shine to you especially.”

“Yeah, well… whatever. As long as they stay out of my way.”

not unappreciated.

He tried to brush it off at first, dismissing their devotion as naive. Pathetic, even.

What do they take me for? he wonders. Their savior? Some kind of second-rate messiah?

But the word he's looking for, the word he knows very well, is far less righteous, though it seems to stir something far greater in him than any spiritual designation ever could. That word is hero. And to him, to his soul—if such a thing exists—that word has always felt right.

Fear is something he understands, something he’s comfortable with. But being feared is a fleeting kind of control. With enough time and exposure, anyone, yes, even the weak, can rise above their paranoias and phobias, shake it off like stressed dogs after a tangle, and go about their miserable little lives in a kind of pseudo-peace—a kind of willful ignorance.

And that's what he wants is it not? To feel in control? Is that not what it means to be wholly liberated?

The word for what he wants doesn't come as easily as the word for what he is. Can't. Because what he wants is to be loved for reasons other than personal gain and psychological warfare, and you just don't know what you don't know. Can't.

He takes to the girls like a shepherd to his flock.

And they swarm him like flies.

Because it isn’t enough to just have his attention, not when any girl with lashes long enough to bat can get that much from him. And his hesitant smiles and awkward thank-yous feel closer to bread crumbs when you're starving for his touch and his grace.

There has to be more. You have to be more.

Special. Singular.

A sort of... cold war begins. The girls, still unified by their devotion to him, grow to resent one another. After all, does anybody really want to share? If it upsets your tummy to picture another girl holding his hand, and it breaks your heart to watch another lean too close and press her soft, pliant body against his firm one, can that be considered fair? Or is it just another line drawn in the sand? Separating the enslaved from the liberated.

How quickly chaste pecks on the cheek become desperate tongue kisses when emboldened by jealousy and competition.

Why present him with gifts when you yourself can be presented—expose your body to him, sell your soul, proffer your maidenhood to be claimed and conquered.

His inexperience with attention of this nature is evident in his hesitancy. The behavior isn't reciprocated, but… it isn't discouraged, not anymore, anyway. If anything, he's noticeably more submissive, paralyzed by what’s familiar—phantom touches, wanted-unwanted advances—succumbing to the whims of his nymphettes as they suckle his tongue and pet the tension from his muscles—neck to groin, chest and back, groin again. And again. And again.

Petting, rubbing, squeezing. Greedy for approval and exception. Greedy for him, for the pulse of his cock in hand, on tongue, down a painfully small throat that feels as good as it does wrong. Lusting for a glimpse of his sharp, princely face squished between plush thighs, his tongue and lips, without practice, dog-bowling whatever makes you squeal the loudest and suffocate him silent.

Brutish in approach. Fucking too quick and too hard. Sweating and humping, awkward and insistent. Groaning with every “I love you!” and tug at his powder-white roots, climaxing with promises of total destruction and salvation from false idols and hollowness.

And so, the former leader—now exalted as Grand Commander, as God—spends what little time he has left on this earth, indulging in what he's never had. Allowing himself to be swept up in affection and praise, believing it to be an exercise in control, when all he's done is all he's ever done—

given himself up.

[randomuser678]

I love how most Batman villains have a genderbend version of them, specially bc as a trans woman I want to read into them being trans

Like, the Ventriloquist's design is of a mild mannered boring looking man who contrasts with his puppet Scarface who's much more rude and greedy, it feels like Scarface is a way for his ventriloquist to express his more rude side while distancing himself from them.

Now on my read where she's a trans woman there would be two layers of repression here, Ventriloquist personified her "masculine" side into the puppet who acts like a stereotypical tough guy, a rude bossy mafia leader, and she became a sexy trophy wife for him, this way she separates herself from the undesirable masculine traits, as well as becoming a love interest to a man who makes all the decisions for her, she only exists to support him, she finally made it to cisnormative and heteronormative ideals of femininity! It comes off as a tragic clinging to idealized femininity and male approval on a way I really relate to.

Clayface also has a really good portrayal of Dysphoria since in the versions I've seen they're an actor who hates their own face and got into a drug that would make their face easy to remold, then it went horribly wrong and now their entire body is moldable, Lady Clayface didn't have to change that general backstory for it to work at all, and the theme of beauty is common on female villains, but tbh I love this one specifically because of the trans read being more obvious, and this is the one case where a character didn't have to change backstories at all for the female version, she can still be a former actor with dysphoria that later gains shapeshifting powers, it's almost a happy ending for her now that she can change her shapes even if it's still tragic.

Calendar girl has a similar theme (Although she's both a version of Calendar man but also The Manikin) where she's a former celebrity who's horrified by her appearance under the mask and is "aging out" of her career, her attacking themed on holidays is both a mockery of her job as a model and needing to keep up with trends and also to show her resentment towards the passage of time, it's a really fun mix of characters and my trans read of her would be similar to Clayface. Also how youth and beauty is valued in society as a whole and older trans people in general are ignored on the mainstream.

And because the comic book world is really hostile towards genderbends (see Oswald from the newest Batman cartoon) a lot of them have instead characters who co-exist with their male counterparts, that was the case for the Ventriolquist since she just took the role from the previous one, but sometimes they do what they did here:

Madame Crow is part of the Victim Syndicate, a group of people who were victims of different villains and now resent Batman for not saving them, their powers are now ironic mirrors to the characters they were victimized by, and on Madame Crow's case, where she was a victim of the fear toxins from the Scarecrow, she made toxins that completely rid a person of any fear or self-preservation. And idk the fact that she wants to create something that gets rid of fears and repression just comes off as queer to me even though it was obviously not intentional, it's just that on a version where she IS the Scarecrow I would love how thematically fitting it all is.

I've seen pieces about how Batman is inherently queer bc super heroes and villains as a whole empower themselves through creating an alternative persona on an over the top camp way that's basically drag.

Some male villains have female sidekicks, Sugar and Spice, Query and Echo, and I guess those are harder to read as female personas of the same character like how I've been doing, but idk, you can rewrite the stories however you like to make these work, maybe twoface is bigender and flips a coin to decide which gender they're going with, that would be on theme. You can do anything ever with these characters.

Also I never understood why ppl were mad about Oswalda, every version of Batman changes backstories around, why is changing a character's gender or whatever completely out of line with that they've already been doing for decades? Anyways I'm trans and this is all.

[writterracoon]

Hades 2

Lately, I've been a bit obsessed about Hades 2, I've been watching people play the test run , listening to compilations of interactions and scouring theories.

While doing all of that, I noticed something of a pattern, a theme that often came back and I think I may have found out one of the MAIN theme and conflict of the game and I've seen nobody talk about it yet, so here we go.

More under if you're not against being possibly spoiled.

I think one of the major themes of Hades 2 is going to be about Humanity and its complex relationship with the Gods, the way the gods treat mortals and the way mortals treat the gods.

here are my evidences

The interactions

the first thing that put me on this path was this interaction between Melinoe and Nemesis.

In this conversation, Nemesis and Melinoe are talking about Retribution and Justice and how Nemesis believes that Kronos taking over the underworld and challenging the Olympians may be what they deserve. Notice how Nemesis specifically mentions mortals and the Golden Age.

For those who don't know, in greek mythology the Golden Age was the first Era of Humanity and when Chronos was the ruler of the heavens. It was a time of peace and harmony for humanity where there existed no plague or famine, there was no need to work as they could simply pick their food from nature itself. They lived long lives, remaining youthful and died peacefully in their sleep.

Nemesis is I think trying to hint to Melinoe that maybe the situation is not exactly as black and white as it first seems and that humanity may have a bigger role in this than first thought.

A second interaction i want to bring to mind is about Moros and his relationship with mortals.

Here Moros admits that sometimes he because of was simply bored he would knowingly bring doom and pain to Mortals ending their lives painfully.

Archnea's interactions are also the strongest contenders for that theory, as they bring back that theme of divine cruelty, the gods view of mankind and how they callously treat them.

She has been wronged by the gods for the simple reason that she was better than them at something and they naturally couldn't stand it so they cursed her to live as a spider. She is filled with resentment for them and even warns Mel not to trust them. Also, note how she admits she fears the gods more than she fears Chronos.

2. Dora

Now Dora is a bit particular because we don't know much about her, but I have seen a theory and some interaction with Moros seem to be pointing toward it, which is that she might be Pandora, the original sinner of Greek mythology.

the myth of Pandora goes a bit like this: During the Golden Age, after Prometheus stole fire from the gods and gifted it to humanity, the gods decided to punish Prometheus by punishing humanity. They built Pandora, a woman beautiful beyond compare, and gave her a box full of the evils of the world. They then send her to seduce Epimetheus Prometheus's brother, who despite his brother's warning is promptly seduced by Pandora's beauty and welcomes her into his home. She then opened the box and released the evil of the world upon mankind, thus ending the Golden Age. Only hope stays inside the box.

Again if this is indeed true, it would follow the theme of the gods inflicting pain and suffering upon mankind for petty reasons, uncaring about the consequences of those actions.

3. Hades I

During the first game, many interactions points toward the gods general uncaring attitudes about mortals. Demeter thinks it was a mortal who stole her daughter away, so she decides that she will punish them all by starving them with an eternal winter. The other gods make almost mention of it only to say how much it annoys them.

4. Speculation

This part is not so much about evidences and more about speculations about the story of Hades 2 based upon my theory that mankind is going to be central in this tale.

The reason how Chronos is so powerfull, powerfull enough to free himself from Tartarus and claim the Underworld for himself, is that mortal were tired of being the gods' playthings and prayed to him, they prayed for his return, for the return of the golden age, where pain and suffering were unknown to them and the gods weren't using them for their own amusement.

The gods are going to have to deal with the fact that their poor treatment of humanity has consequences and those consequences are the return of Chronos and a second titonomachy.

Melinoe will propably have to face the fact that Chronos is wrong in challenging the gods and that the current status quo cannot be sustained any longer. The Olympian gods will have to change how they treat mankind if they wish to even have a stand a chance against chronos.

(TLDR, The Olympian gods have treated mankind like shit for a long time and now they are dealing with the consequences of those actions when the mortals are praying to Chronos to come back and restore back the golden Age where their lives weren't even half as awful. Melinoe will have to deal with the fact that her family might very well deserve what is happening to them and if she wishes to save them, the gods will have to change.)

[sanguinarysanguinity]

Hornblower Sex Scenes, Part Two: Lord Hornblower

Exhibit two, now with mommy kink! As requested by @verecunda.

New post and behind the cut, not so much because it's too explicit for tumblr, but to preserve the innocence of those who would prefer to first encounter this passage in its natural context:

~

Then the brittle artificial barrier between them broke and vanished as utterly as a punctured soap bubble. His was a temperament that longed for affection, for the proofs of love; but a lifetime of self-discipline in an unrelenting world had made it difficult, almost impossible, for him to let the fact appear. Within him there was always the lurking fear of a rebuff, something too horrible to risk. He always was guarded with himself, guarded with the world. And she, she knew those moods of his, knew them even while her pride resented them. Her stoic English upbringing had schooled her into distrusting emotion and into contempt for any exhibition of emotion. She was as proud as he was; she could resent being dependent on him for her life’s fulfilment just as he could resent feeling incomplete without her love. They were two proud people who had made, for one reason or another, self-centred self-sufficiency a standard of perfection to abandon which called for more sacrifice than they were often prepared to make.

But in these moments, with the shadow of separation looming over them, pride and resentment vanished, and they could be blessedly natural, each stripped of the numbing armour the years had built about them. She was in his arms, and her hands under his cloak could feel the warmth of his body through the thin silk of his doublet. She pressed herself against him as avidly as he grasped at her. In that uncorseted age she was wearing only the slightest whalebone stiffening at the waist of her gown; in his arms he could feel her beautiful body limp and yielding despite the fine muscles (the product of hard riding and long walking) which he had at last educated himself to accept as desirable in woman, whom he had once thought should be soft and feeble. Warm lips were against warm lips, and then eyes smiled into eyes.

“My darling! My sweet!” she said, and then lip to lip again she murmured the endearment of the childless woman to her lover, “My baby. My dear baby!”

The dearest thing she could say to him. When he yielded to her, when he put off his protective armour, he wanted to be her child as well as her husband; unconsciously he wanted the reassurance that, exposed and naked as he was, she would be true and loyal to him like a mother to her child, taking no advantage of his defenceless condition. The last reserve melted; they blended one into the other in that extremity of passion which they could seldom attain. Nothing could mar it now. Hornblower’s powerful fingers tore loose the silken cord that clasped his cloak; the unfamiliar fastenings of his doublet, the ridiculous strings of his trunk hose—it did not break into his mood to have to deal with them. Some time Barbara found herself kissing his hands, the long beautiful fingers whose memory sometimes haunted her nights when they were separated, and it was a gesture of the purest passion without symbolism. They were free for each other, untrammelled, unhindered, in love. They were marvellously one, and one even when it was all over; they were complete and yet not sated. They were one even when he left her lying there, when he glanced into the mirror and saw his scanty hair madly tousled.

[allebasimaianunes]

god (is a) circle ✞ father charlie mayhew & megan duval

one-short ✞ eng. ver. angst & forbidden desire.

it's also on ao3, if u prefer read there :)

i don't fear god, but i fear being rotting myself (inspo playlist)

author's notes: my dear readers, this one-chapter story was born while i was listening to my songs, mixed with a desire to explore possibilities within the characters of grotesquerie - in this case father charlie mayhew & megan duval. with that, i started writing "god is a circle", not only as a tribute to these iconic characters but also to practice my own writing skills, exploring the work of developing dialogues and actions in a story to the fullest. inspired mainly by the song god is a circle, by the singer yves tumor, this story, which has more than 10k words, talks about pasts, fears, beliefs and descriptions.

for those who want to read it, i wish you a great read! constructive criticism and comments are always very welcome <3

words count: 10310 words

✞

"SometimesIt feels like

There's places in my mind that I can't go

There's people in my life I still don't know, yeah

Wander 'round I just feel like a ghost in a well"

(God Is a Circle, Yves Tumor)

✞

The house reeked of death.

Something rotting, embedded in the peeling wooden floorboards, emanating through the cracks in the flaking paint on the walls. Mosquitoes buzzed around the mold that thrived in the damp corners. It was all so dismal—the fragile light of that beautiful Sunday seemed to lose its strength inside the dead house.

Piles of leftovers from the previous night's dinner still cluttered the table—yellowed porcelain plates with streaks of pasty tomato sauce, bits of ground meat now being devoured by flies, dirty napkins folded in disarray, and a melted candle tossed amid the picturesque chaos. A bottle of wine stood in the corner, its cork poorly inserted, while irregular wine stains traced paths across the aged yellow lace tablecloth.

Charlie inhaled the sour, nauseating air, a pang of regret creeping in for agreeing to be there. Yet his empathetic heart and sense of duty overpowered his hesitation when, after last week's morning Mass, the old woman had tapped him on the shoulder, pulled him aside, and shared a sorrowful tale that struck a tender chord in his soul. A modern-day prodigal son story: a young man who left home, returned seeking forgiveness, only to resent his roots, rebel, and abandon everyone again. It was a story of pain, separation, and loss.

Her husband, burdened by resentment, had succumbed to illness. Her grandson, discontent with their simple life, had vanished into the world. And her beloved granddaughter, stripped of her passions, now teetered on the edge of death. Alone, the seemingly sweet woman pleaded with Charlie to bear her burdens, visit her home, and deliver the last rites to her ailing granddaughter, who seemed afflicted by some mysterious illness.

At the time, it hadn’t even crossed the young priest’s mind to ask if the granddaughter had seen a doctor or was receiving professional care. All he had done was sigh deeply, unloading the weight of the world from his shoulders, look into the elderly woman's eyes, lightly grip her shoulder, and promise he would visit soon.

A week had passed, and he had nearly forgotten about the visit until seeing her at the parish again. Her words and his sense of honor pushed the memory to the forefront of his mind. After the service, he offered to take her home, seizing the opportunity to fulfill his promise.

He grabbed his black leather case, which contained everything needed for the last rites: holy oil and water, his Bible, and a set of thin white candles he liked to gift families as a symbol of what he called "faith's endurance." These candles were meant to encourage the family—or the sick individual, if capable—to pray for six days, seeking forgiveness and healing, with the seventh day serving as a moment of peace and relief.

The bag also held a rosary, a small towel, pamphlets with the Hail Mary and the Lord's Prayer on the back, and a box of mint candies he liked to chew when idle.

The ride to her home was quiet, save for the gentle hum of his black Chevrolet Vega’s engine. The old woman murmured what Charlie assumed was a prayer, making the journey down the highway rather... peculiar. The only notable thing she mentioned was that she had to rise early and leave her granddaughter alone to catch a bus to church.

This information filled Charlie with questions and curiosity about her situation. However, he simply nodded, focusing on the road ahead: vast fields, farms, cornfields, and abandoned windmills framed by tall trees along the roadside.

Her house was located off a dirt path branching from the main road. The narrow lane, overgrown with tall grass, led them to an old, medium-sized property that seemed to be an abandoned farm. Behind the two-story wooden house stood a large barn. A massive, twisted tree loomed beside the house, casting a shadowy embrace over it.

Despite the bright sun above, the property seemed to radiate its own darkness.

They walked to the entrance, and through the double doors with transparent screens, Charlie caught a glimpse of the house’s state.

Now, standing in that peculiar room steeped in rancid odors of vinegar, greasy decay, tomato sauce, and sour wine, he couldn't help but notice how clean the old woman herself appeared. From the moment she had first approached him, she exuded the scent of a fresh bath: clean, warm skin, shampoo, and a trace of powdery perfume.

Her cold, wrinkled hand grasped his free hand and gently tugged him toward the staircase ahead.

"Follow me, Father," she urged.

Allowing himself to be led, Charlie's long legs hesitantly climbed the creaking wooden steps beneath his black leather boots. They ascended twelve steps in total before reaching the second floor, which was a rectangular hallway with three doors on either side and one in the middle. Above the staircase was a closed window, and the walls were adorned with striped wallpaper in muted amber.

"The middle room is hers..."

"Aren't you coming with me?" Charlie asked as the woman turned on her heels, preparing to descend. She raised her weary eyes to meet his, a mix of fear and faint irony flickering in her gaze. Smiling faintly, the lines around her lips deepened as she whispered, "This moment belongs to you and Micaella."

Shrugging, she descended the stairs, leaving Charlie startled by her response. He sighed deeply, turning back to face the door where the sick woman lay.

Micaella.

Now there was a name to associate with the ailing figure.

Slowly, he approached the door and instinctively tapped three times. No response. Silence. He knocked again, pressing his ear against the wood to hear beyond it—still nothing.

His hand grasped the heavy, cold wrought iron doorknob, turning it to the left. Through the slight opening, he glimpsed part of the room: floral wallpaper in a burnt pink hue, a beige wooden window closed tightly, and white floral curtains parted, allowing pale yellow sunlight to stream through the frosted glass and cast a faint glow on the floor.

Opening the door fully, Charlie's keen eyes scanned the room, landing on the canopy bed at its center. Translucent fabric formed a tent around the figure resting within.

To the right of the bed stood a dark wooden nightstand with ornate, baroque-style carved legs. It held a glass water jug, a half-full glass, a mug with a partially melted candle, and a small wooden box in the corner. To the left was a wardrobe, a chair, and another window slightly ajar, through which the enormous tree's branches scratched softly against the glass.

Charlie cleared his throat to draw the woman’s attention, but there was no movement.

With caution, he moved to the isolated chair in the corner, bringing it to the right side of the bed. Through a small gap in the canopy, he caught sight of her. The first thing he noticed was her outstretched arm, pale and thin, her delicate fingers nearly skeletal.

Her white nightgown’s sleeve, adorned with lace and tied with a pink silk ribbon, clung to her forearm. As his gaze climbed upward, he noted the stark pallor of her exposed skin, a deep collarbone, red and purple blotches along her arms, and a trembling hand resting on her chest.

Around her neck hung a string of small pearls, no larger than peas, with a silver crucifix at the end.

Charlie’s eyes finally reached her face. Her parched lips, sunken cheeks, and damp forehead framed by her disheveled hair seemed to belong to a living Pietà. Her wide, distant pupils stared back at him with haunting opacity, framed by dark circles beneath her eyes.

“Micaella?”

Her silence was deafening. He raised his eyebrows at her lack of response, offering a gentle smile before turning toward the tightly shut window. With a firm tug, he managed to open it.

"The fresh air will help cool you down!" He turned toward her, breathing in the air that swept into the room through the window, lightly swaying the curtains around him. Everything was observed by Micaella's gaze, which showed no reaction. Charlie placed his hands on his hips, walking toward her. "Do you mind if I open this a little?" He pointed to the fabric covering her bed. Micaella shook her head after a long pause. Charlie took it as a positive gesture from her, maintaining the good humor that suddenly seemed like a good attempt. He opened the fabric a bit to let the natural light and fresh air bathe Micaella's body better and dispel the chilling sense of suffocation he felt just by looking at her bed.

He took his briefcase off the chair and sat down on it.

"I’m Father Charlie Mayhew. Your grandmother invited me to be…" He looked at her suddenly. Despite her inexpressive face, she stared at him deeply, listening to every word. He cleared his throat, carefully choosing his words. "…to see you, bless you, perhaps talk…"

"I know you."

"Sorry? What did you say, Micaella?" Caught off guard, the woman’s voice sounded like a rasping whisper. Micaella finally moved—life ran through her entire body—as she propped herself up on her elbows, leaning slightly against three pillows supporting her frail frame. She pointed to the glass of water, indicating for Charlie to grab it, which he did with deep perplexity.

The touch of her fingers sent something shivering through his entire body—a chilling wave, a staring abyss, death hovering close. Micaella drank the water with the thirst of someone who hadn’t had a sip in days. Drops trickled down the sides of her mouth, dripping onto her chest and the blanket covering her legs. She handed him back the glass, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, showing a timid smile. Charlie took the glass, placing it back carefully.

"I’ve been to a few of your masses. Some months ago… My grandmother adores you!"

"Oh," the man’s cheeks flushed, suddenly warming his face. "I’m deeply flattered, but we should only adore God, Our Lord!" He clasped his hands, smiling broadly, trying to bring some light humor into the room. Micaella looked him up and down, nodding slightly, her hands now resting in her lap. Then, she asked,

"What brings you here again, Father?"

"I came at your grandmother’s invitation. To talk to you, pray for your condition, bless you…"

"Extreme unction, is that it?"

Charlie stopped smiling, caught off guard by the young woman. He could lie—it was obvious he could open his mouth and weave comforting falsehoods. But imagining himself in her shoes—a young person, facing near-death, bedridden in a stifling room in the middle of nowhere with only his grandmother—his heart would break if a strange priest arrived and plainly said he was there to administer last rites, casting an uncertain vote between recovery and death.

But lying went against his principles, everything he had learned during his years as a seminarian. It clashed with his personal beliefs, which upheld truth as one of the main tools of evangelization. It was hard to remain steadfast when confronted with such a delicate situation… Poor creature of God! Unspoiled purity, battered by the affliction of the flesh.

He reflected while pondering the best response. As he opened his mouth to answer, his lips forming the words, Micaella interrupted him.

"I know it’s extreme unction, Father. There’s no need to avoid the obvious."

Charlie looked at her, startled, surprised by her candor. She continued, her cloudy eyes shifting toward the closed door as if seeing beyond it.

"I heard them last night during dinner… They nearly shouted that I’m lost, without direction, without God in my heart, and that’s why I’ve been cursed. God punished me with this affliction of the flesh, rotting without apparent reason, like an apple fallen from the orchard, left to the ground, at the mercy of fate."

Tears welled up in her eyes, small rivers born of intrinsic pain. "They yelled for me to hear that I’m going to die, that this sin born within me can never be ripped out," she said, placing her hands over her chest, near her heart. "Even though I’ve tried to rip it out myself, there’s nothing I can do. Nothing I could ever do… My death was foretold from the moment I was born. My grandmother, as much as she loves me and tries to protect me from the world, knows my existence is as finite as hers. I fear for her because I don’t know if she could bear to bury someone she loves so much again.

"And they kept laughing and dancing and celebrating. Until they barged into my room, dragged me from my bed, and forced me to dance and drink wine to celebrate life. Their lives. And my death. My death, Father Charlie, my death!" Her lips trembled, and even though her eyes poured heavy rivers and her skeletal figure seemed to scream agony, her voice remained eerily calm, a perfect line of sound that pierced Charlie's soul. He sat frozen in his chair, simply listening.

"They want me dead because I am the black sheep of the family, the bad omen, the harbinger of misfortune, the apocalypse, the seven-headed dragon come to torment them. I am evil, death, the Antichrist… to them. So last night, I was forced to dance atop my own coffin and drink sacred blood before I die. Die from this illness that came out of nowhere, consuming me, making me weak, fragile, sensitive, saturating the house with death and everyone with a gloomy humor. Do you feel strange, Charlie? Do you feel strange being here now?"

Overwhelmed by Micaella's angelic face contorted in pain and resentment, her smooth brow furrowed, her tearful eyes glistening with bitterness, and her lips curled into a desolate smile, an invisible hand gripped the core of his soul and pulled him closer to her. He lost reason for a few seconds before swallowing incoherent words and a cry that emerged from his depths. He became strangely aware of his body in a way he never had before. He noticed that the room smelled of honey, incense, and fresh wine, mingled with the sweetened scent of Micaella’s sweat and the aroma of myrrh and argan oil. Her breath was incredibly fresh, her entire body trembled, shivering as her words prickled him entirely.

His head buzzed, spinning in circles of morbid thoughts and the words Micaella had said to him.

Did he feel strange?

"No."

The simple, monosyllabic answer seemed to catch the woman off guard. She leaned back, pulling his soul, now connected to hers, along with her. He raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if trying to see beyond the cemented wall. He murmured,

"God is watching us now, Father."

"I believe He is," Charlie replied.

"That wasn’t a question, Charlie," her sharp gaze pierced through him. "It’s a statement. God is watching us, always speculating about our lives, but absent enough not to save me. Isn’t that selfish, Charlie?"

"I believe we’re crossing the boundaries of a healthy conversation, Micaella. Look, I came here to bring you inspiration and to bless you for healing," Charlie said, hurriedly opening his suitcase with a click, rummaging through his belongings, and pulling out a small bottle of anointing oil and his Bible.

He felt Micaella’s cold hand envelop his, the soft flesh overlaying his warmth, cold and hot blending together. Startled, he lifted his gaze to realize she had leaned closer to him, her body tilting forward.

"Charlie, I don’t want to talk to the priest. I want to talk to you, Charlie."

"Micaella—"

"Please," she interrupted, her body now pushing further forward, her legs moving out of their tucked position. A desperate plea marked her face. "Please. I beg you! I’m tired of justifying myself to doctors, nurses, psychiatrists, priests… I just need someone to talk to before I die."

Charlie sighed, exhaling a weight that compressed his lungs. If he stripped himself of his role as a priest there, in the middle of nowhere, next to a terminally ill woman, no one would ever know… Well, at least this conversation would stay between them, the floral-patterned walls, and the Omniscient Divine.

And God would not punish him if, for once in his life, he set aside his clerical persona and exposed the side he kept hidden, whether in flawed thoughts or moments of deep silence and darkness in his room. It would be a relief to speak, just as Charlie Mayhew, without the burden of "Father" before his name. It would allow him to share his bottled-up feelings and human fears that, as a pastor, he was never supposed to express to his followers. It would be something Micaella would take to her grave—just as he would. A secret lost six feet under.

God will not judge me for being honest and weak just this once. Sometimes, misery and ignorance are divine blessings.

Nodding in agreement, Charlie gave his answer, leaving the woman relieved. She released his hand, and he felt a strange emptiness as she pulled away, settling back against her pillows. Charlie placed the Bible and the small bottle on the nightstand.

"You haven’t completely given up on anointing me, have you?" she asked.

"Let’s make a deal," Charlie said, pulling his chair closer to the bed until his long legs pressed against its wooden frame. He looked at her seriously. "We’ll talk about whatever you want, without masks or pretense—just me as Charlie and you as Micaella. Then, when we’re done, I’ll give you the last rites, and you’ll be healed."

"Deal. Though I’m certain that nothing in this world can heal me."

"How can you be so sure, Micaella? Your lack of faith intrigues me."

"Because… well… we’ve tried everything. Everything. Even alternative treatments. My grandmother spent a small fortune, almost ruining our family’s inheritance. And nothing worked. As I told you, this is inside me in such a way that only death will be able to remove it. Eradicate it. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I must be honest—your prayers won’t heal me either."

"Miracles exist, Micaella," he retorted, crossing his arms and leaning back in the chair, raising both eyebrows at the woman, who smiled challengingly.

Charlie saw a vibrant spark ignite within her, and it stirred in him a pleasurable sense of fulfillment. The more he could make her feel comfortable and alive, the better he felt about himself, with a sense of accomplishment.

"I doubt it."

"Then you doubt me."

"What do you mean?" Her curiosity lit up her face, and she sat up fully in bed, all ears for Charlie, who shook his head, holding back a laugh.

"I am a miracle. A living miracle, if you will!" Opening his arms with a pompous smile on his face, his expression lit up, igniting something warm in Micaella’s chest as she watched him, intrigued. Taking her sudden silence as a cue to continue, Charlie said:

"It all begins before I was even born. My dear mother married very young. I believe she was much younger than you… How old are you?"

"Twenty-four. I’ll turn twenty-five in July."

"Exactly! She was much younger than that, around sixteen years old. Then she got pregnant with me—this was twenty-five years ago as well. She was a very young girl living in the middle of nowhere with my father, a rough, ignorant man of little faith. It was a miserable, difficult life. A very complicated pregnancy, almost without medical care, isolated from her family, stuck in an unhappy marriage. Then I came into this world. On a spring night," he said with a nostalgic smile, almost with pride in his birth, "after a very, very long labor. And then I was born. But I was born with my umbilical cord wrapped around my neck, suffocating myself." Charlie placed both hands lightly around his neck. "My mother told me I was already purple. She was desperate, lost. The midwife they had called with great difficulty had to act quickly to revive me while my father called an ambulance. Imagine how long it took for help to arrive. So, my mother began to pray. She got down on her knees, even after just giving birth, and prayed. Prayed with all her faith, her soul, and every fiber of her being… And God heard her."

His voice was now a whisper, his gaze dark and serious, captivating Micaella entirely. She barely blinked, completely drawn into the abyss of the priest’s eyes. Charlie smiled.

"He heard her, and when she least expected it, she heard a faint cry from the other room. She knew then that I had survived—that I, her son, her firstborn, had survived. A miracle!"

"Did she make any kind of vow?"

The sudden question snapped Charlie out of his flow of thoughts. He blinked seven times before fully focusing on Micaella’s face, her raised eyebrows emphasizing her curiosity. His voice came out confused:

"What do you mean? A vow?"

"Yes, a promise! Like, in exchange for your life, maybe she never cut her hair again, stopped drinking alcohol… Or maybe even promised you to the seminary, essentially placing you in this position forever?"

"No," he said, shaking his head vehemently. Reaffirming again, "Definitely not."

"Then what made you want to become a priest?"

"Are you trying to steer this conversation away again—"

"No, Charlie, I understood what you meant with this touching story about birth and suffocation. Fine, miracles might exist, but you have no idea of the gravity of my case, and I hope you don’t want to know either. I’m just curious about what led you to the cassock…” Her eyes traveled down his face, taking in every detail of his features: the broad forehead, the scar that creased his skin, the thin, upturned nose, the slightly full lips, the square jawline and chin, the trace of freshly shaved stubble on his upper lip and chin, the smooth neck where his Adam’s apple moved up and down as he spoke, the black shirt collar, the white plastic clerical collar signaling his profession.

From the size of his torso and the way his pants clung to his legs, Micaella deduced that Father Charlie Mayhew was a robust man. His hands were large, with long and slender fingers, trimmed and clean nails. They were soft to the touch, like a warm ball of yarn. He carried a woody incense scent that reminded her of the damp tree bark beside her window, a nearly earthy and comforting smell, mixed with clean clothes, lavender soap, and a freshness coming from his breath that seemed like a sweet mint candy. She lingered, disturbingly observing every detail of him, from the deep dark eyes resembling tilled earth to the way the veins wove across his jugular and the backs of his hands like a map’s lines connecting points, more absorbed by him than by what he had to say, with that husky, soft voice caressing an unknown spot within her. Yet it was pleasant enough for her to feel comfortable.

The man shifted in the chair, furrowing his brow, organizing his thoughts. He wetted his lips as if it would help the words come out better, crossed his legs, clasped his hands on his knee, and finally broke his silence:

“Well… I just felt it was my calling. Something natural to me, a summons that came from the depths of my soul as something I should fulfill. An innate path to follow. God is that path.” The conviction pouring from his voice made his chest swell with pride; he harbored a certain vanity when it came to his designation, his vocation, which he deemed predestined.

Micaella wetted her lips with her tongue, drawing her thin knees up to her chest, causing her nightgown’s hem to ride up slightly, bunching at the edges of her thighs, revealing a hand’s width of smooth, pristine skin with a strange pallor. Her feet were thin, bony, and her toenails were cut close to the line of flesh—details devoured by Charlie’s eyes before he slowly returned to look at her long face, a question forming an interrogation on his lips before she asked:

“If God is the path, then why choose the most winding one?”

“Winding…? What do you mean by that?” Curious about the word choice, the man leaned forward, hands clasped on his lap, an interjection creased between his brows, pulling at the scar on his forehead. She smiled with pride behind her teeth of grayish enamel, as if the color had faded gradually, from the inside out:

“Charlie, priests take vows of chastity. They have a series of rules to follow… Restriction, penance, prayers, and more prayers. The pursuit of chastity and eternal virtues… Doesn’t that tire you? Especially being so young?”

“Hmn.”

It was the first response he managed to formulate from the depths of his throat, pausing to sit upright in the chair, his hands loosening as he relaxed. He scratched his chin with his thumb, analyzing the way the wallpaper was old and peeling at the edges of the doorframe, searching for an honest answer to her question. He returned his gaze to the woman, seated with the bare minimum of life she clung to for continuing that idle conversation. He smiled with pressed lips, sweet memories flashing in his mind like an old film being rewound.

His voice carried a vague and distant tone as his gaze wandered into Micaella’s:

“I must have been thirteen or fourteen years old when I fell in love for the first time. I always judged romantic love because, deep down, I knew that with the vocation I was to pursue in my life, I couldn’t even consider nurturing these kinds of carnal feelings for someone… But it was such an overwhelming passion, something that went beyond myself, spiraling out of control, and I became obsessed with this person. Deeply. I spent twelve months chasing them like a madman, because I had never experienced such feelings, so to me, at that age, losing sight of them meant I would never again have that explosion of good feelings I cultivated for them. Twelve months obsessed, because I only know how to love this way: with all the depth of myself. And it hurt. How it hurt… Spending vacations away, as it was someone from school, having to listen to my classmates sharing summer stories where half had lost their virginity and the other half had tried some hallucinogen at a music festival… And there I was, in the middle of nowhere, like you” — he pointed to her, wetted his lips again, sighed deeply, trying to contain the past within him: “I spent the whole summer on the farm with my parents. On the one hand, it was good because I learned to value moments of loneliness and solitude, to stay centered on my purpose, to pray and be grateful for the daily bread God allowed us to make… To be close to my parents. But it was obvious that the temptation to go to the big city and enjoy myself like most of my classmates and meet that special person again spoke louder. And I believed that staying away from everyone that summer would help… When I returned to school, the feelings were worse. Sharper, heavier, more… Turbulent.” He blinked. The memories that hit his mind danced between scenes of a teenage Charlie smiling at classmates mocking his “overly country style” and moments when he cried hidden in the school bathroom.

He looked to the side where the water jug was still half full, and the glass had a finger of liquid, probably warm. Yet he took it, turning to the side, avoiding the woman’s gaze, taken by shame. Through the veil, with a cold gust of wind that lowered it slightly, Charlie felt as if he were in a confessional. His large hand held the glass of water, drinking it in large gulps, savoring the alkaline taste mixed with Micaella’s saliva on the rim. An indirect kiss.

When he finished, he continued holding the glass between his legs, gripping it as if relieving everything compressing his soul.

“I was mocked by my classmates, all because I walked in a "country bumpkin" way, spoke differently, and wore simple clothes. Some even said I smelled like manure. That crushed me. Every night, I prayed to God to take away the mark of who I was. To stop me from screaming in the night, waking up from nightmares to a bed soaked in urine, and, most of all, to make me stop liking the person I was completely in love with. Until one day, things became truly hellish..”' He took a deep breath, filling his chest with the courage he had lacked to confront those memories years ago. “I was fifteen. I remember that clearly. A skinny boy, a kid from the countryside going to the Winter Ball. My mother had arranged with her sister, who lived in town, for me to have a place to stay the weekend so I wouldn’t have to take the intercity bus late at night to get back home. So there I was, alone, in a suit and tie, filled with anxiety... until I saw him arrive with his date, and I was completely devastated. That intimate feeling of loss over someone I never even had.”

"She must have been really beautiful for you to feel so affected," the woman remarked, looking at him through the veil.

Charlie raised his head, which had been lowered, and his eyes locked on hers—a glassy pair revealing the most intimate corners of his soul. His voice came out soft when he answered, “He. He was the most beautiful being I had ever laid eyes on.' He paused, looking deeply into her eyes. ‘Until then.”

Micaella was silent, absorbing the unexpected response, piecing things together. She wanted to make a snide or even derogatory comment about it, but she held back. Charlie was opening up to her in a way no one else ever had, and it would have been foolish to squander such a chance by being an idiot.

The priest summoned a strange courage that arose along with those memories. He stood up and climbed onto the woman’s bed, sitting in front of her, leveling their positions but keeping the hierarchy firmly in his hands. Now face-to-face with her, eye-to-eye, under the veil that fluttered in the fresh breeze pulling gray clouds closer from the horizon, Charlie felt at peace as he unraveled his story.

“I went to cry in the bathroom again, and he came after me again. Concerned, he thought I was upset because I didn’t have a date, which, in part, wasn’t a lie. But what he had no idea about was that the company I longed for was him. His words were always so comforting, like the Biblical Psalms I read seeking solace. His hands were soft and wiped my tears, like the woman who dried Christ��s feet with her hair. His presence was a warm ray of sunshine that made me believe in the goodness of man, in the infinite goodness of God and His Son, our Savior. That night, he was so handsome—an angel! His hair slicked back with gel, a white suit, a serene smile. He was so close to me that I couldn’t resist the temptation.”

He stopped suddenly, a gleam in his eyes making Micaella’s heart skip a beat. A faint smile formed on his lips. “I bit the apple. I devoured it hungrily, and he did the same. Everything became one—my spirit... it felt as if it left my body and was embraced by Him... Oh God, how I loved that moment. Until the door burst open and voices came at us, followed by punches, kicks, and horrible words. A pandemonium. My heart was shattered, as was I. I left there with a serious rib fracture, teeth that needed silver prosthetics at the back of my mouth, and this ugly scar on my forehead, like the wounds of Christ. My stigma for being who I am. For my story.”

"Wow. Charlie, that’s really…” Micaella struggled to find the right words. Instead, she squeezed Charlie’s hand gently, offering warmth and kindness.

The priest smiled tenderly, covering her hand with his, caressing it. “It’s okay. I’ve already paid for my past mistakes. I’m at peace with God... And it doesn’t hurt anymore... Not like it did that day or in the years that followed.”

“You.”' she began uncertainly. She stopped, the words on the tip of her tongue, biting her lower lip. Charlie tilted his head, his gaze encouraging her to continue. Micaella finally let it out. “Do you still have contact with him?”

The curious question could have shattered the tender moment between them, but Charlie knew how to separate things. The mention of his first love apparently didn’t faze him as much anymore. With a simple shake of his head, he gave her the blunt reality: no.

Micaella nodded, trying to imagine who that boy could have been—the one this beautiful man had once loved. She pictured him as someone even more handsome than Charlie. Her mind conjured an image etched from a story she’d seen long ago: David and his soulmate Jonathan. She then replaced that image with Charlie Mayhew himself, with his pompadour, tall and sturdy, his penetrating gaze, and the posture of a warrior of faith standing next to a beautiful man dressed in the fashion of the time: shoulder-length hair, bell-bottom trousers, a vest exposing a defined, tanned torso, and the sweet gaze of someone deeply loved.

Strangely, her mind couldn’t help but paint herself into the image of one of David’s favored wives, the mother of wise King Solomon. Healthy and radiant, she imagined herself with an arm wrapped around her husband, naked, bathed in cinnamon oil and damask rose water, just as David had first seen and been enchanted by her. Could Charlie Mayhew ever be enchanted by her?

“But unfortunately, we don’t control our hearts, and I found myself tempted again.”

That sudden confession yanked her out of her waking daydreams. Her eyes landed back on him ...immediately to the man who shook his head repeatedly, as though denying something, before vigorously rubbing his eyebrows.

"It was a huge mistake."

Micaella looked at Charlie, startled by this new revelation that landed in her lap and shattered into a thousand fragments of doubt. That servant of God was surprising her. Charlie, for his part, smiled sheepishly at his own story, fragments of memories tearing through his brain, shredding soft flesh, exposing the rottenness of his past. A decayed gray mass. Rotten—he had once been rotten. He scratched the corner of his chin with his thumb.

"I was in seminary, young and immature. Reckless in my actions, even with everything that had happened to me since the… unfortunate incident." His teeth clenched, a transparent bitterness marked his expression, revealing a disgust for himself. "I was still learning to deal with myself. With the inner beast that always pursued me, always made me its hostage: the beast of temptation. I was serving God, my only refuge, when suddenly I was temporarily transferred to a convent due to structural issues at the seminary where I lived. There, I met a nun. She was five, maybe seven years older than me… Experienced. Very beautiful—her face reminded me of the angels I saw painted in chapels. At first, everything was very polished, very formal between us. She always seemed very willing to assist with my education, saying that as she was a philosophy and catechism teacher for young people in the community, she could help me with my studies. Enamored by her kindness and beauty, I let myself be carried away by her eloquence… And we began to study at night in my improvised room. Always with the door open, with a set time to retire, and formal goodbyes, of course."

He paused, sighed, his right index finger touching the clerical collar that seemed to strangle his neck, tugging it slightly.

"Until that fateful day when she brought us wine. I had never had wine in my life—not the way she wanted us to drink it. I could have simply refused… I could have said no. But I accepted, with open arms. Foolish, fragile, impressionable…" Charlie stopped, his voice gradually diminishing as his eyes settled on Micaella’s face. His dilated pupils nearly consumed the irises in his sockets. "You remind me of her."

That sentence set Micaella ablaze, a flame coursing through her entire body. She felt as though she were burning alive, her blood flowing through her fragile body, revitalizing the decay she felt within herself. Her pupils dilated, her lips moistened, her thin cheeks flushed. She breathed heavily, her chest rising and falling in slow movements, warm sweat beading on her forehead. Small details of life on her fresh flesh were devoured by the priest’s nostalgic eyes.

Charlie swallowed the words that recounted obscenities caused by the wine and the dim light of that night. He swallowed the desire for soft flesh between his teeth, nails digging into warm skin, sweat that glued bodies together, and the entire union between creature and Word that happened that night. His memories were a tangle of bodies merging, where the nun’s face—she who led him astray—did not appear clearly to him. Only fragments formed from broken bone in his hand, like Adam’s rib being removed to create Eve. He hurt himself to create his Eve from within.

A sharp pain struck his right rib. A reaction of the flesh to the sin committed. A permanent reminder that haunted him whenever he was tormented by his lack of chastity.

"What happened afterward?" Micaella whispered, resting her hands on her knees, crushing her thighs together, her fingers pressing against her full lips. Charlie tilted his head almost onto his own shoulder, a distant compassion in his voice.

"The bishop found out about the sister’s frequent visits to my quarters at suspicious hours. He set a trap, caught her leaving my room, and…" He raised his head, serious, the image of the old man emerging from the shadows in his mind, his hostile eyes gripping the woman’s arms. Even so, Charlie couldn’t define the man’s face. In his memories, she was a faceless woman, crying and struggling to break free from the man’s grip. His voice turned acidic, contorting his face into a grimace as he spat the words. "Well, it ended everything. I was given a new chance, transferred, and since then, I’ve focused entirely on penitence and mutual surrender to God."

"And her?"

"There is no her."

The curt response yanked Micaella from the fiery state, plunging her back into that cold, empty condition.

Their perpetual silence was interrupted by soft knocks at the door, which then opened slightly to reveal the elderly woman’s white head peeking through. Smiling timidly, she pushed the door open further, holding a large tray in her trembling hands. Charlie shot a serious look at Micaella before jumping out of his chair to help the elderly lady, who smiled gratefully and announced, "It seems the father will be taking a little longer in conversation with Micaella, and it’s already lunchtime, so I thought it wise to bring you both a freshly prepared meal." She looked at the young woman through her veil, emphasizing her words between her teeth. "You must eat, Micaella. There’s no use feeding the soul if the body is neglected! Isn’t that right, Father?"

“Absolutely, Mrs. Silas.”

The man’s gaze fell on the wine bottle. He looked at the woman suspiciously, and she smiled:

“A little wine won’t hurt anyone! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have chores to finish…”

She turned away. Before leaving the room, she paused at the door, hand on the doorknob, casting a sad, weighty look at Micaella, then at Charlie, standing in the middle of the room with the tray in his hands. She smiled wistfully:

“Enjoy! And make yourself at home, Father. You will always be very welcome in our home.”

She left before Charlie could thank her.

"I've never had wine."

Micaella's voice spoke from behind him. Charlie turned to her, his face momentarily confused before softening, trying to recapture the good humor he'd brought with him during the first minutes of their conversation.

"Well, there's a first time for everything, Micaella!"

Charlie served himself warm bread and slightly vinegary but drinkable wine. Micaella watched him warily with her glass, half-filled with the purple alcoholic liquid, observing him drink it eagerly. A desperate thirst seemed to rise from deep within him.

Micaella stood frozen, the glass of wine in her hand. When Charlie finished his long sip, draining half of the wine, his eyes shone with the serenity brought by the drink's taste as he looked at the woman before him. Raising an eyebrow, he asked curiously:

"Aren't you going to drink your wine?"

"I was just wondering… if I drink it, would it be like drinking the blood of Christ?"

"No," Charlie shook his head, a proud smile lighting up his face. This was, by far, one of his favorite topics to debate.

"Then I don’t want to drink this wine!" Micaella stated firmly, extending the glass toward the man before her. The priest responded only with an amused look.

"You wouldn't even drink it if I turned it into His blood?"

The sly question struck something at the center of Micaella's tormented soul. Something awakened within her, a sudden thirst drying her throat. The mere mention of drinking pure, divine blood provoked a spiritual ecstasy in her. Smiling broadly, she nodded affirmatively. Charlie cleared his throat, pulled the tray to the center of the bed, and emptied it of the items atop it to place the two glasses of wine, the wine bottle in the center, and the plate of homemade bread beside them. He knew it wasn't the ideal setting for a divine transmutation, but given the delicate circumstances, performing the ritual seemed like a way to bring the Savior into a home destined to decay.

His voice emerged softly:

"When we talk about transforming wine into blood," he pointed solemnly at the glass, "and bread into flesh, we are not speaking in mere metaphors. This is a reality, something mystical that encapsulates the mysteries of our faith. Indeed, we are consuming Jesus Christ. His body and soul, within our mouths, dissolving on our tongues, with our saliva, becoming one with our flesh. We drink of divinity and chew His infinite forgiveness. We merge our bodies and become one. One body, one spirit. That is the meaning of the Eucharist." He sighed deeply, closing his eyes, holding the piece of bread between his hands. "It is through it that we partake in Jesus Christ, God, everything and everyone. And we become something infinite."

Micaella was enthralled by the priest's words, her chest swelling with grace and passion that burned through her soul, touched by the Word. Charlie had a gift—the way he expressed himself was profoundly captivating for any living being. Listening to him impart his knowledge was an honor.

"Then Jesus Christ took the bread and said: 'Take and eat; this is my body.'" He raised the piece of bread, staring intently at it, murmuring words that were uncertain noises to Micaella's ears. After taking a bite, chewing, and swallowing, he set the bread aside and took Micaella’s glass—still fuller than his—in hand, raising it and proclaiming:

"'Take and drink from it, all of you; for this is my blood, the blood of the new and eternal covenant, poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins…'" He raised the glass higher above them, murmuring again the uncertain words: "'Do this in remembrance of me!'"

With that, he drank the wine.

Drank the blood of Jesus Christ.

He looked at the woman, offering her the glass.

"Drink the blood of Our Savior, my sister."

Surrounded by a unique atmosphere that embraced them between the wine and the cold wind whistling outside, Micaella took the glass, positioning it exactly where the man’s lips had touched, kissing him once more by drinking from him and Jesus, tasting the sweet, slightly vinegary wine sliding down her throat. She felt her body now merging with the two—both Father Charlie and Jesus Christ—becoming part of something far greater than she could ever imagine belonging to. A drop of wine escaped the corner of her mouth, tracing a thin line down to her chin before dripping onto her chest, catching the priest's dark gaze.

In a fervent gesture, Charlie ran his thumb along Micaella's chin, watching the wine stain her skin. Their eyes locked, and though she finished drinking the wine, she was still consuming him. Charlie then took his thumb moistened with the wine that spilled from her lips, pressing it against his own lips, endorsing that divine kiss.

"Let us partake in ourselves, Father,"

Micaella whispered, watching him move away from her.

With slow and heavy steps, his mind lost in reverie, Charlie went to get some air at the open window where the wind made the curtains sway. Micaella lowered her gaze to the Body of Christ bitten by the parish priest, taking its other half, chewing and swallowing it with relish, completing her celestial supper. A feeling of satiety overtook her body, filling the voids in her spirit. Dining with Charlie alone gave her a sense of belonging. Belonging to him. To Him.

Charlie, standing by the window with his hands on his hips, watched the dark clouds heavy with water draw closer above him. Lightning flashed in the distance, and the wind hissed, signaling an approaching storm.

"Damn, I’ll have to wait out the storm."

"Well, at least you're safe," the woman commented, catching Charlie's attention as he looked at her curiously. "With me. With us, here at home." She smiled at him.

The priest returned the smile, nodding in agreement, feeling droplets of water against his body. Outside, a heavy rain began to fall, round drops lashing against the window frame and splashing on him and the floor. With a jerk, he lowered the window pane halfway, stopping the small flood. He crossed the room to close the other window. His steps were meticulously observed by Micaella, whose mind felt light and blank.

When Charlie sat down in the chair once more, grabbing his glass, pulling the cork out of the wine bottle with his teeth, pouring himself a glass—nearly emptying the bottle—and leaving the rest in Micaella's glass, he commented after dropping the cork on the tray:

"Are you feeling well? With the blood in the form of wine?"

"Hmnnn," Micaella picked up her glass, raising it to the light. "It’s really delicious! I didn’t know Jesus could taste this good!"

Charlie laughed. Micaella looked at him with a proud smile for making him laugh so genuinely.

"My God, what a sin!" she commented, covering her mouth. "But I agree. It’s delightful!"

Both drank from their glasses, smiling. A pleasant silence hovered in the room, which now felt to the man as familiar as his own.

"Charlie—"

"Yes?"

"Do you believe in love, reincarnation, and life after death?"

"That's a very specific question. Do you?"

"My beliefs today are yours, Father. Yours."

That word reverberated in Charlie’s mind, like the drops repeatedly tapping against the window sill. A sweet stupor of dominion filled his soul. He liked hearing that. Having someone else’s beliefs in his hands gave him a sense of power and vanity he tried to fight every time he stood before the pulpit. A vain smile escaped as he took another sip of wine before responding:

"Of course I believe. To some degree of credulity... I believe in something."

His eyes were burning embers. His smile was serene. He had full conviction of what he spoke. Micaella wanted more. More of him. She wanted his voice to envelop her, for her soul to be embraced by his ethereal wisdom:

"How would you explain that belief to a layperson, Charlie?"

"Well," he began, scratching his chin with his thumb, searching with his gaze for a point to rest his thoughts. "I’d explain that without love, we’re just empty sacks swirling in the wind. That without belief in resurrection, we don't hold faith in one of the key mysteries between human flesh and soul. And without faith in life after death," his eyes rested on Micaella’s fragile figure, "there’s no justification to keep us aligned with God."

"What do you mean?" she questioned, a sparkle in her eyes fixed on Charlie. "'No justification to keep us aligned with God'?"

"What I mean, Micaella, is that without a creed, we wouldn’t walk the line of human civility. Without a god, we’d just be rationalized animals fighting over a piece of hard, rotten bone. Understand?"

"I understand..." she murmured back, reflective. He could see through those large frightened eyes the moment the gears clicked into place, and everything seemed to smooth out and make sense in her mind.

Charlie glanced over his shoulder, through the glass of the window, at the heavy, cloudy sky, the rain falling and pattering against the old wooden house, the scent of the room becoming fresh and alive, mixed with the smell of earth and grass coming from outside. Trying to figure out what time it was, he sighed, turning to the woman.

The silence between them could have been awkward, but for Micaella, it was pleasant enough to prompt a wide, toothy smile toward Charlie, who was surprised to see that her teeth were not even slightly yellowed. Reflexively, he ran his tongue over his own teeth, recalling the countless times his mother would load him into the family’s old truck and endure hours of driving to the big city just to take him to the dentist, investing considerable money in her son's dental care. According to her—and this was a lesson he carried with him to this day—"healthy teeth are the gateway to a long life!"

He shook his head to dispel his mother’s voice, looked affectionately at Micaella, a little smile on his lips provoking curiosity in the woman.

"What is it?" she asked, smiling at him as well. Charlie shrugged, commenting lightly:

"Nothing... I just feel like I’ve talked a lot about myself and heard nothing about you," he spread his arms. "Which is the main reason I’m here!"

"Oh, Father! There’s not much to say about me..." Suddenly, a sense of shame overtook the woman, who shrank, capturing a thick strand of her curly red hair in her finger, slowly twirling it.

With the same gentle eyes, Charlie raised his hand to lift her chin with his index finger and thumb, leveling their eyes, whispering with enthusiasm:

"That’s already a start, my dear! I’m all ears for you now; tell me anything."

"Anything?" she repeated, feeling her cheeks warm under his light touch and his dark eyes fixed on her.

Charlie widened his smile, nodding, repeating:

"Anything, Micaella."

Micaella saw before her eyes the few memories she truly deemed worthy of sharing. A handful of scenes where she was the protagonist of her own story—like those in the books she always read at the public library during her afternoons in the big city. Most of the time, she saw herself in other people’s lives, classmates invited to dances, or moments when she was merely a shadow in her absent father’s life. It wouldn’t be hard to tell the priest about the moments she took the spotlight and lived something interesting.

Charlie withdrew his touch, leaving her with a sense of emptiness against her skin. But she decided to muster courage and let her voice take the shape of the thoughts wanting to escape:

"I’ve been kissed once," she said, glancing sideways at the priest, who raised his eyebrows, a shadow of a smile on his lips, a genuine curiosity on his face. She continued: "But it wasn’t really a kiss! More like a peck. Something so brief that I didn’t even feel it properly... Unfortunately. But it was almost like a glimpse, a taste of Paradise." She smiled, daydreaming about the almost-kiss.

Strangely, her mind now only projected a scenario where she and Charlie were sealing their lips in a kiss. The man cleared his throat in the background, waking her from her daydreams.

"So you think kissing someone is the same as having 'a taste of Paradise'?" He made air quotes, perplexed by her analogy. Micaella nodded vehemently.

"Well, curious," he said, diverting his eyes from the woman.

"Don’t you think so, Father? Isn’t that what happened in your pri—"

"Not exactly, Micaella," he quickly interrupted the woman. "Unfortunately, I didn’t have my moment of ascension to Paradise... Which is sad for me, seeing as I am a servant of God." He chuckled dryly, making fun of himself. Micaella tried to join him, but she didn’t feel the same amusement; in reality, she felt a great desolation emanating from him.

"And I doubt I’ll ever have another chance to live like any normal person, Charlie. The last time I had a worldly experience, I went with a friend of mine—the only one, actually—to this bowling alley, and it was so much fun!" Her eyes sparkled with excitement. "I swear to God, if there’s one thing I yearn for the most, it’s going somewhere that serves greasy food, has loud, upbeat music, and where I can laugh, dance, and throw heavy balls at those wooden things over and over until my arms can’t take it anymore!"

"That sounds wonderful, Micaella!" Placing a generous, warm hand over the woman’s, Charlie smiled warmly, wanting to convey peace to the young woman. Outside, the storm softened as the sun began its descent on the horizon, signaling that evening was approaching. Euphoric and feeling comforted, another memory surfaced in the gaps of her mind, prompting her to speak again, more emphatically:

"I also have a good memory from when I was younger! It was on a sunny day with my father, when we crossed the city to go to the lake. It was such a nice afternoon; I remember the ducks swimming, the other kids playing, while my dad taught me how to swim. It was one of the only times we ever had something like that..." She shrugged, averting her gaze.

Charlie noticed how sensitive she became when mentioning her father, like an open wound she didn’t like to touch. He glanced over his shoulder toward the window, already realizing the veil of night was covering the sky.

"How time has flown... Wow, that was an interesting conversation, my dear!" he remarked, clasping his hands together under Micaella’s attentive eyes. Smiling sweetly, he stood up, placing his hands on his hips and directing a gentle look toward her.

"Before I leave, I would really like to offer you the anointing, young lady. So I can go in peace, knowing I’ve blessed you."

"All right," she confirmed, serene. She seemed to have accepted her fate, lying back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting to be anointed by the man who had shared her most intimate secrets on that unusual Sunday. Charlie sighed, took the small bottle of anointing oil—an ochre-yellow, greasy liquid—from his bag, opened it, and let the pleasant scent of olive mixed with myrrh waft through his nostrils. Sliding the tip of his thumb over the neck of the bottle, he tipped it to moisten his finger with the oil, then moved closer to the woman’s body.

Under the light of the room and the angle he was in, he noticed through the fabric the outline of her nipples, the shape of her breasts, and a faint crease between her legs. He immediately averted his gaze, starting to pray in hopes that God would hear him:

“...that this young woman may find Your light, my Lord! May she be healed of all evil, and may her flesh and spirit be purified so that she can find in life the small pleasures You left for us.”'

He made the sign of the cross on her forehead, sliding his thumb over Micaella's smooth, slightly yellowed skin. He was bent over her. Before he could straighten up, the woman’s hand gripped his wrist firmly, holding him in that same position—nose to nose, eyes to eyes, lips to lips. She took a deep breath, enough for her warm, sweet breath to brush against the man’s face, causing him to furrow his brow in utter confusion at her sudden movement.

She then murmured, pleadingly, “Father… Charlie… Could you grant me one last wish?”

“Yes, of course, Micaella,” he whispered back, smiling tensely. The grip on his wrist tightened, forcing him to use his other arm for support, leaving him almost lying on top of her. Micaella closed her eyes to summon the courage for her final words:

“Could you kiss me?”

The simple but dangerous question struck the man like a spear through his chest. Before him lay this bedridden woman, with anointed oil drying on her forehead, her large eyes filled with desire and fear—for both life and death—and her parted lips longing to be touched one last time. Oh, God, grant me discernment, he pleaded silently, closing his eyes. Once more, a whispered request came:

“Please, Charlie. I just want to be kissed by you.”

Charlie brought his free hand to her face, cradling it like a rotten apple—pale yet with flesh tempting in its forbidden poison. He licked his dry lips, swallowed the bitter emotion, and once again lamented to God: Lord, do not let me fall into temptation; give me a sign.

When he felt her hand slide up his arm, reaching his shoulder and then his neck, his skin bristled at the cold touch of her palm, which cradled his jaw. They were so close their breaths and thoughts were already mingling. Their lips were almost touching, their breaths already merging, when Charlie suddenly diverted the kiss to her forehead. A slow, lingering kiss, savoring the taste of her slightly sweaty skin mixed with the anointing oil. In that tender kiss, there was God and her.

He gently pulled away from her touch, looked at her one last time with a serene smile, grabbed his bag, and turned around. At the door, before closing it, he looked at her once more.

“May God heal you, Micaella.”

He left, shutting the door behind him.

✞

Swallowed by the silence of his own room, immersed in darkness and chaotic thoughts, Charlie Mayhew could only think of the angelic face of Micaella in her foreseen death. With a searing pain in his heart, as if a crown of thorns encircled it, burning in the fever of an overwhelming passion, he knelt beside his bed in tears, pressing his palms together to pray once more—for forgiveness and the salvation of that poor creature’s soul.

Confused by the delirium of this immaculate fever, he felt fear.

“I do not fear God,” he whispered to himself in the empty darkness of his being, “but I do fear rotting away entirely.”

✞

“Father Charlie?” Sister Marie appeared at the door of his office on that normal Monday morning. It had been seven days since he visited young Micaella, and there had been no news—no calls, no letters, not even her grandmother’s presence at weekday masses. He looked at the nun holding a piece of paper in her hand and smiled warmly.

“Yes, Eunice, how can I help you?”

“A telegram for you!” She approached, extending the paper with a printed message. He thanked her, waiting for her to leave before reading what had been sent.

His eyes scanned the note carefully:

"Mr. Mayhew,

Your blessing! This is Mrs. Silas, Micaella’s grandmother. I just wanted to thank you for your visit and the anointing! My little girl witnessed the miracle of life and woke up just a few days ago completely healed! Even the doctor is baffled by her sudden recovery, but I know it was because of you and your faith that healed her! Praise be to you, Father, and praise be to God! If you would like to speak with my granddaughter, I’m leaving our phone number here. You are always welcome in our humble home, Father.

Once again, we will be eternally grateful for your mercy and the miracle you worked! May God continue to guide you, young man. Micaella said it was your words that saved her from imminent death.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Silla.

Phone: x-xxx-xxx-xxxx."

Charlie couldn’t believe it. He read it again aloud, feeling his heart race with a joy he hadn’t realized he could feel. He glanced at the office’s landline phone, read the note once more, and picked up the receiver, dialing the number hastily.

Tum… Tum… Tum…

He was about to hang up when the line clicked after a few seconds, followed by static and then a serene voice that startled him:

“Hello, this is Micaella Silas speaking. Who is this?”

“Micaella…”

“Charlie, is that you?”

Silence. She repeated the question again, confused. Charlie sighed before finally letting the words escape his heart:

“Yes, Micaella, it’s me. Now I understand God’s signs… And I no longer need to fear anything.” His eyes lifted to the image of a crucified Jesus Christ in front of him. “Because now I am certain that you will be the miracle that saves me from my own decay.”

END. (...)

[ofoceansandtombsanew]

please go gentle into that good night (childe x reader)

tags: primordial!reader (she/her), reader is death personified, is annoyance to lovers applicable here??

The 11th Harbinger has seen death, there is no question about it among the agents of the Fatui. Scarred from battle after battle, always thirsty for more, death is a familiar friend of the Harbinger.

He’s delivered death to many in his endless pursuit of strength.

Has been on death’s door more times than anyone could hope to count.

“Oh, I’ve seen death and I don’t mean metaphorically,” Childe has laughed, sitting with his men drinking firewater around a fire indulging pleasantly in the friendly chatter. That’s all that is needed for the discussion to divulge into enthusiastic regales of his conquests, mostly regaled by his enthusiastic men while the newest recruits listen in awe. Yet no one will notice how their Harbinger falls silent, peering into his reflection with a light grin.

Ajax has seen death.

Felt her cold fingers caress his face, thumbing away the blood that dripped down his cheeks. Saw her eyebrows knit in concern and frustration in equal measure. Took in her cloak, black as the void. Could feel the fatigue in the heavy bags under her eyes.

Death is a woman and she is undoubtedly the most beautiful woman Ajax has ever seen.

They first met when he was simply a recruit, a far cry from the Harbinger he is in the present somewhere off the border of Fontaine and Liyue. The mission was a success, though the casualties were great in number. 

There you formed from out of water, void-black cloak and all, taking in the sight of the bloodbath. Then your eyes rested on him, expression unreadable.

He knew who you were immediately.

“Humans,” you scowled, tone bereft of resentment as you kneeled to touch his face and he shuddered from the chill. Death looked at him and he looked back, all while feeling the gentle reverence in your touch with a voice like the night, soft yet coarse. Comfort enveloped in an instinctual fear.

An unending juxtaposition.

Ajax now knows you enough to know how you likely felt that day, staring at a bloody Fatuus crumpled against a large rock. They were your foolish but beautiful, endlessly aging humans.

“If you keep this up,” you told him, staring into his blue eyes unshakingly. “You’ll end up being one of my passengers.”

“You’re beautiful,” Ajax saw you balk in confusion, his reply unexpected.

“Fool,” you all but hissed as you stood and Ajax found it adorable. It’s another accomplish that he, Tartaglia, holds alone. He flustered Death itself. “Cherish your life, Fatuus,” you told him, summoning your oar to your side. “Cherish it so it is a long time before we see each other again.”

“My name is Ajax,” he laughed and he coughed painfully. “And I hope the next time we see each other again, it isn’t much longer!”

Your head shaking in exasperation was your only response as you took to the corpses, gathering the souls of the lost. Some left with ease, others sobbed in despair and others resisted you in their entirety. Yet all were eventually sat on boat you fashioned out of water, resting atop of the river that you would ride to take them home.

With a sparing glance to the living, to Ajax, you drifted away thinking this to be the last time you would encounter Ajax of the Fatui.

Much to his pleasure and your chagrin, it was not.

“You have a death wish,” Arlecchino told him once, chock full of contempt and vinegar.

“You’re not wrong about that one, comrade,” the 11th Harbinger grinned with a barking laugh. “It’s just that with all my wishing, she can’t seem to stand me.”

You had met each other countlessly, taking in that foolish Fatuus’ battle scars. Each time he learned something new about you and in turn he happily gushed about himself. He had many tells to share of his homeland, his family and the Tsaritsa he follows and you always listened.

“Keep this up and I’ll kill you myself,” you told him one particular encounter after a stint in his Foul Legacy form.

“Wouldn’t that be cheating?” Ajax grinned, ignoring how you flicked his forehead in annoyance.

You glared at the redhead sharply, “who would there be to tell?”

Ajax’s grin only grew wider, “I knew you wanted me, Death, but I didn’t know you wanted me that much.”

If looks could kill, Ajax is sure in that moment he would have been killed ten times over. “Can you not ask your god for jobs that won’t leave you at my door? Can you at least attempt to refrain yourself from violence?”

“But then how would I see you again?”

“When it’s finally your time to-”

“That could take forever,” Ajax whined and you groaned in disbelief. “How about this. Tell me your name and I promise to at least give it half a year before you have to see me again.”

You fixed him with a look, “you already know my name.”

With a shake of his head, Ajax clarified, “I don’t mean what everyone else calls you.” Death is what you are, not your name. “No one calls the Tsaritsa ‘Cryo’ or the Lord of Geo ‘Geo’. You have some sort of personal name, don’t you?” When you say nothing immediately, his expression morphs into a sad curiosity. “Is that really all anyone ever calls you?”

You hesitated only a moment longer before you finally answeredー “The ones affiliated with Celestia call me Pursan,” Ajax leaned forward in anticipation, blue staring into [color]. “But you may call me [First].”

[First].

[First].

“[First],” he relished the sound of your name. What would he give to hear you say his name? He would promise you kingdoms, entire nations at your feet. Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long for it, no promises of conquered nations required.

“Keep your promise to me, Ajax,” his name dripped from your lips like honey and he wished you would say it again. “If you’re determined to continue this fool’s errand, I don’t want to see you any sooner than what you’ve promised.”

All of this leads to now, Ajax nursing a moderately sized cut on his stomach whilst sitting along the banks of Yashiori Island nine months later. Despite the hard-to-use cutlery, Ajax is fond of Inazuma. The duels permitted by the land is one he favors, it isn’t something he expected from the Nation of Eternity.

It is a perk that a duel a foolhardy coward challenged him to would lead to something that would surely catch your attention. He can hear you scolding him already, nursing him back to health all the while.

“You’re there aren’t you?” He asks the waves lapping the shore, welcoming the cool evening breeze brushing against his skin. You’re Death, you’re never too far. You’re everywhere at any place at any time. It’s part of your charm.

When he sees the waves falter, he knows he is correct as streams of water raise to create your form. The ferrywoman donned in black, Death in the flesh. Even with your tired reproachful look, Ajax can’t bring himself to regret his actions.

He’ll gladly do them time and time again even for a hint of you.

"Don’t you get tired of this, Ajax?” There’s nothing to be tired of, not when it allows him the thrill of battle. When it allows him to further his strength. Your arrival only sweetens the persistent battle he chases.

“Of seeing you?” Ajax drawls, pleased to take you in before you left him once more. “Never.”

You’re scowling, just like when you first met him, and yet all the same, your touch is gentle as you brush your fingertips against his cheek. Despite the chill that touches him to the bone, he leans into your touch and places a hand against yours. “You’re a fool,” you tell him and he smiles lazily in return. “Chase someone in the land of the living. There are plenty that would be taken with you.”

Ajax ignores that request promptly, “are you here to take me?”

“I am not,” you reply without missing a beat.

“But one day you will,” he sighs, almost dreamily. In any other context, he is sure the sentiment is frighteningly morbid. “There’s some bandages in my supply bag,” he motions to his supply bag nonchalantly and you part away from him. “Of course, it would be a win-win situation to the both of us if you would visit me more often. No wounds required,” he isn’t disheartened by your lack of response. “The cuisine of Inazuma is quite nice. But if you’re not one for Inazuman food, I know quite a few places in Liyue Harbor.”

Supplies in hand, you kneel in front of him. “Remove your shirt please.”

He considers joking that you should at least take him to dinner first, but instead he removes his shirt quietly. The cold of your hands feel reminiscent to the cold of his homeland. He wonders how much of it you’ve seen in the past. If you’ve ever truly seen it. You mentioned before you’ve never had a day off in the eons of your existence. How could one truly see the beauty of the land if they never stopped to appreciate it? 

I hope I can take you to Morepesok. Ajax burns something fierce akin to freezer burn. (Strange when what runs in your veins is the same deep blue of his Vision.) During a holiday when he’s guaranteed time to go home and visit his family. He burns for you to see it, to take any time for yourself to dance alongside the hearth alongside Tonia and to play games with Anthon and Teucer.

How alive would you be then, you who cherishes life more than anyone in the land of the living?

“I don’t think many can say they’ve had their wounds tended to by death itself,” Ajax starts and when you say nothing, he continues on unperturbed. “Isn’t keeping me alive cheating?”

You glance at him from your work of lightly dabbing his wound with your water. “Not cheating,” you answer at last. “It isn’t yet your time.”

“Do you know when it will be?”

“Yes,” you begin to ravel the bandage around him.

“Will you tell me when that is?”

“I will not,” and he sighs something along the lines of ‘I suppose I won’t be receiving any spoilers as to when you can stop avoiding me’ in Snezhnayan. You look at him and he wonders how much of his tongue you understand, if at all. He hopes to teach it to you, should you ever ask. “There,” you finish your bandaging in record time. “I can at least say I’m pleased you kept your promise to stay out of major trouble. Nine months is a record for you.”

Your smile is small, barely visible under the light of the moon and stars as silence falls over you. You’d insist that one like you is at home in the darkness, Ajax argues that one like you is a child of the sun.

“[First],” he rests a hand on your cheek, wanting to imprint every feature into his palms so that he won’t forget what they’re like. When you don’t reject him, he leans hoping to catch your lips with his own. Instead, he feels your finger tips and he opens his eyes to stare into the unknowable look yours hold.

“Live, Ajax,” you murmur like you’re telling him a treasured secret. He truly loves the way you say his name. “This fascination borders obsession. Whatever you want, you won’t find it in me. Find someone else to chase and live. Live long and live it well. Your life is precious.”

Love, obsession, it’s the same thing no?

He wonders if one can truly put an age on Death. You are one who has lived eons, definitely older than Zhongli. Probably as old as Teyvat itself. He wonders what it must be like for you, feared by many and only wanted by one. Ajax wants you deeply. Perhaps you think he lost his mind those three months in the dark realm he stumbled into as a child. 

You will never call it love no matter how much he begs to differ.

We’ll have to agree to disagree. Finally, Ajax moves back from your fingers, “Is it precious to you?”

“Your life is precious to many people,” you tell him, resting your hand in your lap. “To your mother and your father, to your siblings in Snezhnayaー”

He asks again, “but is it precious to you?”

In spite of his Hydro Vision, he burns. He burns to know your answer, burns for your acceptance. It’s a burning that can only be sated by the chill of your being pressed against his.

Death looks at himー you look at him and he looks back.

Ajax’s eyes flutter shut when you lean forward, and he feels your breath ghost his lips. Yet nothing follows and when he opens his eyes, all that remains of your presence is the damp sand where you once knelt.

You’re a cruel woman, [First], Ajax laughs humorlessly, wondering how long it would be until your paths crossed once more. He sets camp close to the beach, the rhythm of the waves lulling him to sleep and the dull ache of his wounds remind him that he’s alive.

Ajax will see you again, it’s only a matter of when.

Will it be when he’s on your door once more? Frustration in your eyes as you insist he let go of his feelings you won’t allow yourself to return?

Or will it be the end of his time roaming Teyvat, unable to continue his endeavor to become the strongest? When that time comes, will you greet him warmly or with a look of melancholy as you hold out your hand for him to board your boat?

Or perhaps the next time he sees you, you’ll accept his outstretched hand and follow him out of the dark and into the light. You’ll follow him to appreciate the seven nations, saving his homeland for last. You’ll dance with his siblings and smile widely, accepting the reprieve from your grim duties as his mother insists you eat more of her solyanka.

Nor will you run from his lips when they seek yours.

Death brought to life.

He’ll live long enough to see the day, that much he can promise.

“Пока мы не встретимся снова,” Ajax thinks before sleep takes him for the evening. Until we meet again.

[les-fleurrs-du-mal]

Masterlist

Heyy. I've not used tumblr since I was in my early 20s, so just getting back into now to promote my writing! I've been writing since I was 15 and took a very long break from it until quite recently.

I write Regulus Black and Sirius Black-centric fics, as well as the Black Sisters. I like to read fics too, so always open to recommendations to enjoy, and can provide feedback/constructive criticism if any is wanted!

find me on ao3 & wattpad & tiktok

works

Cracks [work in progress] / regulus black x original muggle character / enemies-to lovers

Flora, the muggle half-sister of protective older brother Remus Lupin, is hidden away during the First Wizarding War for fear of werewolf attacks. It seems things cannot possibly get worse until Regulus Black, who has deviated from the fold of Death Eaters, also needs somewhere to hide.

Forced together by circumstance, their relationship is rocky from the start, but Flora won't be daunted by Regulus' arrogance and unpleasant airs. As they both slowly overcome their dislike of one another, mutual respect and understanding begin to grow, and their feelings start to shift from mere affection to something deeper and more profound.

Black Heart [work in progress, but very slow updates] / bellatrix lestrange au

Odile Lestrange, the only child of Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange, has grown up with Regulus and always had a very close relationship with him. At the age of twelve, Odile finds herself betrothed to her elder cousin Sirius - until he runs away, at least. Then the burden falls to Regulus. As time goes on, and they grow up amid a war in which both are expected to serve, their relationship becomes increasingly complicated and more convoluted, with layers of lies, secrets, resentment, and love.

Le Cygne [completed] narcissa malfoy x original muggle character / F/F

Eira is a Muggle newly married to Sirius Black when he is arrested for a crime he didn't commit. A dark story unravels as Eira is forced into servitude for the Malfoy family and begins an encounter of hopeless infatuation with Narcissa Malfoy, the proud and beautiful wife of Lucius, in an unexpected, devastating way.

[fatkish]

I love your demon child story! Can you do a one shot of the hanyo child (half human/half demon) being saved from a trafficker?

Shinobu x Half Demon Child Reader

(In this story, it’s an AU where Demons are treated as pets/slaves/toys/etc. Demons don’t eat people anymore, they just eat raw meat. Demons don’t have as many rights as humans, but there are laws set to protect them, although many people ignore those laws.)

It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t choose to be born. Your father was a human who, although he was cruel to other demons, was somewhat kind to your demon mother. Your mother was rather beautiful and that’s exactly why your father bought her. He had been rather careless and didn’t use protection when having his way with her. Which lead to you being born. Even though your father treated your mother the best and she was his favorite, your mother had died shortly after giving birth to you.

Due to complications with giving birth, your mother continued to bleed after giving birth and eventually bled out. Neither your parents or the doctor caught on that something was amiss. You were your mother’s first and last child. Your father blames you for your mother’s death and treats you the worst out of all his demons. Ever since you could walk, you were expected to help out with chores and labor. Your father made you clean and cook and do yard work. He was a fairly wealthy man and had a large house.

Every mistake you made was met with cruelty and harsh punishments. He rarely fed you, you only got meager scraps. Even the other demons were fed better than you. Speaking of, the other demons didn’t bat an eye to your father’s abuse of you, they resented your mother for being his favorite and since they couldn’t do anything to her, they mistreat you. They often ignore you and don’t bother to help you, not only do they hate your mother, but they fear being punished by your father.

Lately is seems your father’s business isn’t doing so well. He’s been struggling with keeping up on payments, so he decided to sell some of his demons. You, along with two other demons, had restrictive collars put on you with leashes attached and were brought to a market square. Unlike the other two, your collar had spikes facing inward that were covered in wisteria and the collar was put on tightly. The spikes were digging into your neck and it was difficult for you to breathe. Unlike other demons, your appearance is rather human. If it weren’t for your slit pupils, your slightly larger canines, and your sharp thick nails, you would easily pass off as a human child.

You arrived at the market in the early morning and spent hours standing and watching as people and the occasional demon on a leash passed by. Occasionally someone would walk up to your father and inquire about the other two demons but never you. Eventually as the day passed, one of the demons was sold. A female about 18 years old. Later at about noon, the other demon was sold, a male around the age of 23. Both demons were fairly strong looking. Or at least had some meat on their bones unlike you. Even though you’re half human, your human rights are restricted.

Your father was getting fed up with being unable to sell you off. It was after noon when your father finally had it. He grabbed you by the hair and lifted you off the ground. You bit your lip hard so as not to make a noise of pain lest you attract attention and upset your father further. “You little shit! I probably couldn’t even give you away! Do you have any idea how much trouble you cause me?” As you father seethed at you, neither of you noticed the young lady who was approaching your father.

“Hello there, how much for that child there?” She spoke. You father looked over at her as did you. The girl was rather pretty with purple eyes and a kind smile. She had short black hair that she kept tied back in a small ponytail. She wore clean clothes and was dressed rather nicely so she didn’t seem poor. She also had a distinctive butterfly hair clip. Your father gave her a look and sneered. “ 3000 yen for the little brat!” He spit out. The girl just smiled at and and walked over to him. She pulled out her coin pouch and took out 3 1000 yen notes and gave them to your father.

After making sure the notes were real, your father begrudgingly handed over your leash to the pretty girl as well as the papers declaring proof of ownership. The whole time, the girl never stopped smiling. After taking the papers and putting them in her coin pouch, she took the leash and thanked your father before turning and leaving. You quickly followed the woman not wanting her to hate you immediately. Despite her rather short stature, she was rather quick on her feet as she weaved between people in the market. You struggled to keep up and eventually tripped.

The woman immediately stopped and turned around before kneeling in front of you. “Oh my, are you alright little one? Are you hurt?” She asked in a sweet voice. You immediately shook your head as you struggled to stand up. Despite your starved state and malnourished body, you fought to stay upright on wobbly legs. The woman frowned as she looked you over. You were terrified that she was scrutinizing you, looking for every defect and imperfection to scold and punish you for having. When she reaches out towards you, you shut your eyes tight. Only to feel your collar being readjusted.

You opened your eyes to see the girl smiling kindly at you. You were shocked so you didn’t even notice the beautiful lady that approached you both. “Oh Shinobu, who is this precious little darling?” The lady asked. Shinobu stood up and smiled at the beautiful woman. “They’re a young demon child I just found and rescued. Similar to our Kanao. If it’s not too much trouble, could you please get a new collar for this little one as well as some fresh meat dear sister?” Shinobu asked her sister. “Oh definitely! Why don’t you head home and get our new family member cleaned up while I get the other things.” She happily cheered. As she walked away she called out to Shinobu. “Don’t forget that Shinazugawa is coming over to visit!”

Shinobu sighed. Although Shinazugawa is admittedly very attractive and a wonderful big brother to his siblings, he’s rather abrasive. She swears her sister could do better. As you both continued on your way, eventually you left the market and soon the village. As you both walked past a more rural area, Shinobu spoke up. “I hope you don’t mind, but our home can be rather crowded at times. You see, we run a hospital for humans and demons. Often times, whenever demons are injured or having medical issues, they are brought to us and we help them. I’m sure that you’ll get along rather well with everyone.”

By the time you arrived at Shinobu’s home, your jaw dropped. Her house was huge. 6 times bigger than your father’s. You slowly trailed behind her as she lead you through the gates and into the house. She removed her shoes at the entrance and she immediately removed your collar. You didn’t even flinch as you were busy taking in the whole picture. When you notice Shinobu waving you to follow her, you were hesitant as you weren’t wearing shoes so your feet were rather dirty.

Smiling at you and being patient, Shinobu simply waved you over again. You slowly walked into the house and followed her. She lead you through the house and through many hallways before opening a door that revealed a large bathroom. “Alright my dear, please get yourself cleaned up. There’s soap here and shampoo here. Once you’ve cleaned up, feel free to take a bath. I’ll bring you some clean clothes for you to change into. Once you’re ready I’d like to give you a checkup just to make sure you’re in good health.” Shinobu explained. You nodded at her.

“There’s no need to be shy. My names Shinobu and you can call me Shinobu. What’s your name?” She asked. You looked down. You don’t remember your own name. Your father hadn’t called you your name in a long time. “I… I don’t… remember” you looked down ashamed. You heard Shinobu walk over to you and closed your eyes out of fear that she’d hit you just like your father. Instead, you were surprised to feel her hand gently rub your head. “That’s alright sweetie, just get cleaned up for now and think about a name you’d like to be called from now on. Once you’ve picked a name, tell me, okay?” She smiled. You nodded at her and she got up and left. You then removed the rags you were wearing and started to bathe yourself, using the soap and making sure to throughly clean yourself of all the dirt and sweat on your skin.

After rinsing, you got your hair wet and throughly washed it. You weren’t surprised at how dirty the suds and water were. Once you were clean, you let yourself relax in the hot bath. You had never taken a bath, or even bathed with hot water. You sighed as you relaxed. You didn’t even notice Shinobu enter the room with a fresh towel and clean clothes. You were too relaxed. After soaking for a bit, you got out of the tub and were surprised to see Shinobu sitting there waiting. You quickly apologized for taking so long but she just smiled and waved you off. Once you got dried, you let Shinobu look you over. After checking your scars and bruises and making sure you didn’t have any broken bones, Shinobu handed you some clothes that you got dressed in.

After getting dressed, you followed Shinobu through the halls and she lead you to a kitchen and dining room. There, you saw the same pretty lady from before, as well as three little girls, another girl with pigtails and another demon girl. Shinobu told you to sit down at the table with everyone and after some hesitation, you decided to sit next to the other demon girl. You tried not to stare too long at any of the humans. You nearly jumped when you heard a loud male voice. “Kanae! I’m here. And I brought Genya with me!” You watched as two males walked into the room. The first one was tall with Snow White hair and big purple eyes as well as a few scars all over his body. He wore a shirt that was rather open, allowing you to see his well defined pecs as well as the scars on them.

The other male was taller with black hair in a Mohawk. He had a long scar running across his cheek and nose. He seemed rather timid. The man greeted Kanae and Shinobu as well as the others before looking at you. “I see you adopted a new one.” He spoke as he sat beside Kanae. She smiled at him and greeted him. They talked for a bit before the white haired male shouted at Genya to say hello and stop being so shy. Genya squeaked and let out a soft hello before sitting down next to the white haired man. As they talked, Shinobu set a plate down in front of both you and the demon girl next to you. Both plates were filled with raw meat. You had never seen so much on one plate.

Shinobu then brought out other plates with various foods on them and then sat down next to her sister. After giving thanks for the meal, they began putting food on their plates. Watching everyone eat and converse. You had never seen humans and demons eat together. You looked beside you and saw that the demon girl had already started eating. You gulped and decided to follow along. You picked up a piece of meat before slowly eating it. You then picked up another and ate it. Before too long, you were digging in and eating, making sure to chew your food carefully so you wouldn’t choke. You didn’t know when your next meal would be so you wanted to savor it.

As the night went on, you started to relax. You learned that the white haired male’s name was Sanemi. He and his brother Genya work as park of a Demon welfare program. Basically their job is to arrest people who abuse demons and catch the people who run the demon fighting rings. Apparently their mother was a demon and their father was a human. Unlike you and their other siblings, they didn’t inherit any demonic traits from their mother. As you got to know Sanemi, you learned that he was actually a really nice guy, he just seemed tough and wore an aggressive attitude because of his job. After dinner, you helped with the dishes. You realized just how good your life was going to be. You were finally happy and had a loving home. You decided what you wanted your name to be, (y/n).

@rottmntrulesall

[dross-the-fish]

Okay I don’t know if this has been asked before so I’m sorry if it has BUT. What would the crew + Griffin and Dorian look like slash act like under the effects of the Hyde potion……. I’m Curious

Hasn't been asked before, and that's a really good question tbh. They way I have the hyde potion work is that it brings out not necessarily a "worst self" but rather a twisted version of who the drinker wants to be or who they think they are deep down. Griffin's invisibility would become less literal and more in line with shapeshifting. he can take any appearance or form except his original one and if he fucks up in an old skin he'll just put on a new face. This will cause him to spiral and possibly even forget who Griffin was, he just endlessly becomes new people and finds that he is now everyone and no one. His sense of identity would shatter.

Dorian would become almost doll like, beautiful and horrifying, his skin is too flawless, his eyes are to radiant. It falls into a creepy uncanny valley effect as his face looks almost mask like yet anyone who is in close proximity becomes dazzled by him. Under the influence of the potion he mutilates the faces anyone he sees who might be a threat to his beauty. If he was cruel before he is horrific now. Watson would become a fanatic obsessed with justice, almost a crusader of sorts as he loses the part of him that is humble or empathetic under the influence of the potion. He'd be younger and stronger but all of his softness would be gone. I imagine he'd look larger and more square as this is already a major part of his personality, it's just been amplified and all the temperance removed. Quincey would be similar to Edward, small, hairy and dwarfish but he's not inherently cruel, he'd be more playful and impish. Quincey is at an age where he's expected to act like and adult so in daily life he tends to act mature and take the high road. With his new persona he'd sneak into movies, go to bars and forget about his responsibilities or the impending weight of picking a career and settling into adult life.

Larry would also find himself more energetic and talkative, he'd be confident, almost to the point of arrogance and give in to kleptomaniac urges. If he sees what he wants he'll steal it. I see his "hyde" form being lanky and crooked with elongated limbs. Selma would become a monster. She'd become the things she's hunted all her life and all of the rage and despair she's forced herself to shelve would twist her into a hateful thing that didn't even look human anymore because she feels deep down that her humanity was stripped from her a long time ago. She'd be massive and terrible to look at. Theo would become smaller. She'd become a fragile and lost little creature that can't stop crying because deep down she's fearful that there's nothing left of her anymore except dregs that can't be loved by anyone. She'd be repulsive to look at but she'd beg and cling to anyone who got near her not to leave her.

Erik would become ordinary. He would not be a genius, not gifted with music, not possessing of a horrifying temper or visage just an average man who could go out to the park and sit and watch birds and maybe have a conversation with some strangers. He wouldn't even notice that he doesn't remember how to play a violin. It would scare him how happy it makes him to be "just Erik," with nothing else to him. Adam would become physically attractive but obsessive and shallow. He'd look like the version of himself Victor had wanted to create and he'd even call his inverse "Victor" because there's still something in him that needs some part of Victor to still be alive. Even if it's only because Adam refuses to bury him and let him rest. He'd indulge himself in all the things he could never have as Adam but rather than making him happy he'd still find he resents "Victor" for having what "Adam" cannot. When he's "Victor" he feels disdain for "Adam" and when he's Adam he is jealous of "Victor"

[2n2n]

ch 120

OFF WE GO

First off... I like how tiny itty bitty Amane feels in this promo image... I wonder if drawing the grown-up Amane is making Aida-sensei reaaaaaally mentally shrinkify the 13 year old boy, really impress in her mind he's young, small, weedy ... he feel soooooo little boy here

ughhh i was soooo excited for the full color spread of Amane x Nene-chaaaaan... OHHH THE GHOUULLLLLL!! red red red ... makes Nene-chan's red eyes feel like Amane's destiny, right? ♥♥♥♥

classic horny horny horny panels hahaha mmmmmm... sensei loves to put Nene-chan in such gripping peril...

I'm so fascinated by well-chan's perspective on human desires, expectations.... I don't see it as an evil entity, but a confused and mixed-up one. Human's desires are what dictate a kaii's nature ... humans revered the well, prayed to it, honored it, and created a narrative wherein bodies offered to it were to be grateful, thankful, eager to fall to the bottom, offered 'paradise'.. it was seen as a protector of the village, something it relied on, necessary for peace & prosperity, a pillar of the community, a God, not a Monster ... different.

all the same, the people thrown into it resent it, wither bitter and resentful ... there's nothing consistent or easy to understand about what humans want, whether they like or dislike, respect or fear, want or dread... I feel there's nothing 'obvious' ... I don't think there's an opportunity to become something 'nice' in a human, comprehensible sense. Just a mess of the extremes fed into it for centuries ...

in some way, I have to find its sentiments beautiful... or pure, for what they are.

mouuuuuu;;; made me emo... how sweet of an impulse for Nene-chan... the well entity exists outside of conventional time and order of events, right....? I think it can be confused and mixed-up (as much as Tsukasa can in every timeline...) easily, there must always be shades and impressions deep down corridors of itself... I really love what Tsukasa being merged with it seems to do to his mind, so I'm really endeared by this poor muddled little Amane, mess of stimuli.... beautiful sad girl crying....

such an Amane-like expression, it makes me feel forlorn....

these poor twins..

sweeties... lost confused things..... threadbare...

pretty girl crying in your hazy memory... what a perfect 'first impression' of Nene-chan to stick inside of you... poor confused creature, Amane....

I really appreciate you Nene-chan!!!! you're right you know, that's not the right age at all!!! I don't blame you for trying to rationalize it... in moments like this Nene-chan feels like such a direct audience surrogate ... when she does things like try to postulate about the injured Amane in the Bookstacks, you know, calling out the obvious thing in plain sight, which we'll be pulling apart as not-the-case....

I'm happy its said plainly that he's killing many people... it's funny we've abandoned a world where Amane has murdered one person in a passion, for another world where Amane is made to kill wantonly, without a personal touch...

it makes the previous Amane's actions feel entirely self-directed, doesn't it? Not under a curse, but his own decision... something important, a special reason....

I want to know why that would was so precious... I believe it is our most precious reality...

anyways, Kou having been killed by Amane is so great ahahhahaha, I love it!!!! Really thrilled us when reading the MANGAUP like UWAAAAAHHH!!!! I don't feel anything about particular panels... but it is a great decision.

So many people came to the Red House, I had thought "how are we going to divide up all of these people sensibly?" because of course, you can't constantly have 5 characters interacting in every scene, it's too many cooks in the kitchen (not that a lot of things don't do that wwwww, but I feel AidaIro tend to create a tighter cast for insular events).... simply killing off Mitsuba and Kou for this timeline is hilariously efficient, GODBLESS!!!!!!! They got so many panels for the early chapters this arc so I feel there's no love lost... and we'll certainly have to deal with Mitsuba's exploding body when we get back to 'our' timeline anyhow.... so, it's a solid move--!!!

I kindof loved how they got 'shelved' for the latter half of the far-shore arc (and again, it was a fine counterbalance to all the Kou/Teru we got at the start of that with the train.... they simply had their turn).... I loved how they were like facedown in a puddle while other important events happened wwwww... I sincerely think AidaIro give all of their characters their due time, and aren't as quick to abandon characters or relegate them to being randos as a lot of (particularly shounen) manga....

I'm sure some people won't like it, but I feel we were given such a clear image of Mitsuba & Kou's life in this world. If I cared about them, I'd be happy to play in that space for ages. It's a well-constructed little playhouse.

we're all so curious...

he's the most interesting thing in the entire universe, in every universe, isn't he?

it must be said that this is a well-drawn and interestingly-constructed panel... sensei is very good at a scary crop.

GODDDDDDD seeing Nene-chan pulled towards the well is the scariest thing ever, but it also makes me feel hungry with a deep profound lust ... ouhhghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh give the girl to meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee I prommy to take good care of herrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr ouuuuuououuuuu *shakes this off of me*

anyway.

Love to see Teru blast Kou--!!!!! What an amazing situation HAHAHAHAHAH this is like a dream, I love this for Teru....! I've always imagined he'd completely back Kou no matter what, but this situation is interesting... it's not 'his' Kou, at least... he's wanting to 'go back' to the one who is stupid and helplessly dependent on him, innocent and naive ... but ah, it's still miserable and horrifying, I love for such a real trauma to strike Teru! Ahhh having to exorcise your cute little brother like an old yeller situation.... hahahaahahaaaaa. Heehoo---!! AIDAIRO-SENSEI'S PARTY!!!

go ride that train together lads.... lol... it's really funny .... they doied.... RIP... I'm sorry, but I kind of hope this arc lasts years in real earth time and they're just gone for that long .................................... I would like to focus on those who are left behind , and even how this influences Teru and Akane's demeanor overall... well, even Aoi... Teru is typically such an obnoxious guy, and able to play off a lot of emotions... I know Akane has a lot of sympathy for that poor dumb animal, deep down, perceptive to Teru's lonliness (though it doesn't alter how annoying or ungracious Teru is, Akane is just too kind to ever really abandon him...). In a situation like this even Aoi has to be grounded... an interesting dynamic left behind here--!!!!!!

I like how harsh and without any kind of pleasantry or flourish... don't have anything left inside of you for performances of grace!!!! I like it I like it.... show me the realest Teru ... !

So edged with the inner chambers of the well-chan </3 let me see her </3 </3 </3 ohhhh let me seeee </3

I like the small detail of Akane using his phone flashlight to peer into the well's depths....

you've never looked better, Teru! I want to see you like this (: let's stop jerking people around and being capricious, alright...? It's a deflection at the best of times anyway, isn't it.... in one way or another.

I'm eager for the next chapterrrrrr!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

What a wonderful turn of events!

huge fan of what we're left with here!