#alexander the burn victim

[nervosityperson]

the pain of desire is quenched by the fire no inkling of caring he's grief-stricken, staring no blood loss or feeling as smoke hits the ceiling he sips down his sorrow and prays "no tomorrow"

but when he sleeps, I hope he's okay but when he drinks, he hits on you and when he sleeps, I know he's okay ‘cause when he dreams, he's someone new

[rastronomicals]

10:50 AM EST February 8, 2024:

Scarling - "Alexander The Burn Victim" From the album Sweet Heart Dealer (February 17, 2004)

Last song scrobbled from iTunes at Last.fm

File under: Jessicka

[nyermian]

jayfeather the starclan victim

first time ever drawing warrior cats :3 and also first time drawing cats seriously LOL im really proud of it

[adrianastrix]

A worrying amount of my protags would be accused of arson. And at least one of my protagonists did commit it. I'm POSITIVE that it will shock you to learn who it is.

That said, "being accused" doesn't mean "committed it".

[pascaloverx]

DEVIL (+18)

Summary: You are a demonic creature, capable of doing whatever you please, whenever you wish. Your goal on Earth is to terrorize as many souls as possible. Until, in a small community, you find the perfect victim for your mischievous games: Father Charlie Mayhew.

Author's Note: Honestly, I’m not sure if this story will have more than one chapter, but it will contain adult content and inappropriate language. Violence may also appear. Frankly, I just needed to write something about this character portrayed by Nicholas Alexander Chavez. The character and others, apart from Y/N, are not my creation. They belong to the Grotesquerie (2024) universe created by Ryan Murphy. To anyone reading this story, I hope you enjoy it.

AO3 LINK TWO

ONE

How tedious human life is. Not to offend anyone, but you were already tired of all the petty, complicated, and disjointed problems humans have. Not doing what they want, fearing consequences, and not always seeking to take advantage of others makes humans seem so weak. Humans need automobiles to move around, they have no special powers, they feel guilty for the slightest act, and when they sin, they believe a priest can purify their wrongdoings.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. At least that's what the movies say I should say when I enter a confessional. Unless you'd prefer something more modern, like, 'Father, I really messed up. I committed an affront to good morals. Blah blah blah…'" You enter Father Charlie Mayhew's confessional, waiting for his response. You can hear the muffled chuckle he lets out at your casual way of speaking.

"It doesn't seem to me that you are truly repentant. Taking advantage of the informality with which you are speaking to me, may I ask what brings you here?" For a human, he has a voice that, in its more serious and deep tone, can be charming; it's easy to understand why he became a priest. With a voice like that, he could easily persuade you to be a devoted daughter of God, even if you were, in truth, a demon.

“Let’s say it was a call of nature. In truth, I’ve felt impure ever since I witnessed something terrible.” You say, trying to sound as human as possible, feeling as if your skin were burning from being inside the church. Just kidding; in reality, demons can be anywhere, even in religious places.

"What is it, my dear faithful of the Lord, that you witnessed?" Father Mayhew speaks with a certain nonchalance, as if he's almost sure he knows your answer. You try to catch a glimpse of him through the confessional booth’s small openings. He seems like the very embodiment of sin, perfectly crafted for thirsty thoughts.

"Father, I witnessed a delightful scene. It was a priest known for his youthful appearance and modern style, masturbating while thinking about the beautiful nun he had recently met. In fact, there was another moment that I witnessed. The moment when this same priest let the nun touch him in a sinful way. Oh, this priest's mind could only hope that these private moments would continue." You provoke him, subtly revealing that you know of his most intimate sins. The priest immediately steps out of his booth and opens the door to yours. His expression is furious, while you wear your most mischievous smile. Your attire catches him off guard, certainly. You’re dressed in a nun's habit, but entirely unlike the usual. Yours is red—the color of blood—with black lace details. It is the perfect blend of religion and sin, a nun’s habit styled like lingerie.

"What are you?" the priest asks, not in fear, but with a steady gaze fixed on you. You rise and slowly walk toward him, your steps deliberate, as he retreats. You can see his eyes searching for answers, trying to comprehend what you are.

"I am merely a concerned devotee, worried about who is managing this church, of course. Father, it shouldn’t be me reminding you that sin is wrong. But I think you already know it’s wrong—you just can’t stop. If the wounds on your back tell me anything, it’s that you enjoy punishing yourself for being a naughty boy. Let’s just say I’m your newest form of penance." You speak as you circle around Father Mayhew, who watches you with a gaze of fascination. In truth, you had peeked into the mortal priest’s sinful mind, discovering exactly how to become an irresistible vision for him.

"Why are you tormenting me?" Father Mayhew keeps his eyes fixed on you as you walk through the church, surveying what is supposed to be sacred ground. It’s remarkable, entering the so-called house of God, where sins lurk behind the angelic façade, just as Father Mayhew hides his dark thoughts beneath his cassock. You smile as your fingers glide over the candles, feeling the warmth of their flames between your fingertips.

"Me? Tormenting you? I’m simply fascinated by that devilishly handsome face of yours and the way you blend love for religion with the lust locked away inside you. Sister Megan must have had quite the time running her little fingers over you. Honestly, you, Father, are trouble, and I want to help you." You speak, captivated by the lust in his eyes, even as he remains partly afraid that you might be a punishment from the devil himself. You move closer, touching his cassock, tracing your finger over the places where he is wounded, where he hurt himself.

"More…" he whispers, closing his eyes as he feels your touch. He begins to moan softly from the pain you’re inflicting. Your fingers tighten their grip on the bruises on his back as he groans heavily. You bring your lips closer to the back of his neck, placing a few kisses there.

"Father, Father, Father. You're visibly excited in the middle of the church. What would the Bishop say about this? Or your faithful and devoted followers, who trust that their priest will be the purest of men?" You speak softly against the back of his neck, feeling him shiver. He turns to look at you, eyes thirsty for the pleasure of the flesh.

"It doesn’t matter, not really. 1 John 1:9, 'If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.' God, in His glory, will understand that in the face of temptation, I could not resist my sinful nature, and for that, I have failed in His eyes." Father Mayhew speaks, his eyes lingering on every detail of your face, but especially your lips. In his depraved mind, he’s already imagining. Imagining how his cock would fit perfectly between your lips, or how your moans must be as delicious as the tone of your voice. He lets his imagination of touching you, tasting you take over and lightly places his fingers under your lips, massaging them.

"Father, you are a perfect creature, but you are trapped beneath this mask of a devout religious man. I promise I will return here to unlock your true potential. Until then, remain under the flame of lust. Oh, and keep recording those workout videos; you have no idea how many souls your face and body corrupt. Now, to seal our first encounter together, repeat after me: I, Father Charlie Mayhew, accept your demonic presence to torment me for as long as necessary, committing myself to serve you." You say, gazing deeply into his eyes, as he seems lost in you. It takes him a moment to repeat your words, his eyes lingering on your attire, contemplating the implications of becoming entangled with you.

"Was that all?" He asks after repeating your words, his tone low as if he’s embarrassed. "When will I see you again?" There’s a note of desperation in Father Mayhew's question, as he watches you, trying to memorize every detail. You smile, thinking that he probably wants to remember you so he can indulge in pleasure later.

"You'll see me when the time is right. In the meantime, keep being a naughty boy," you say, caressing his face. Then, with a single finger, you touch his lips, slicing them open. He lets out a soft moan as blood begins to seep from his mouth. "Now it's time for my triumphant exit. Goodbye, Father," you say, leaning in to kiss him, as if to draw his very soul through his lips. The taste of his blood lingers in your mouth, sealing the recent pact between you. You lick his lips and then disappear. Like an illusion, you are no longer there.

[bosbas]

Chapter 6: you had to kill me, but it killed you just the same

series masterlist previous part || next part

pairing: benedict bridgerton x best friend!fem!reader WC: 4.0k words

Warnings: period-typical gender roles, idiots in love being idiots in love, angst, miscommunication (ish), lots of feelings in this one, benedict actually being the biggest idiot known to man, slow burn continues to slowly burn

Summary: You and Benedict have been best friends since childhood, but things change dramatically once you come out in society. You’re struggling to find someone you’re as compatible with and who knows you as well as Benedict, all while trying to quell your ever-growing feelings for him. Shenanigans ensue.

A/N: kind of a Benedict heavy chapter oops

May 29, 1814 - The Featherington Ball two nights prior proved quite the romantic affair, prompting not one, not two, but three proposals in its aftermath. The inquisitive minds among you may inquire, 'To whom were these proposals directed?' But the more important question, dearest reader, is of the identity of the proposer. The answer is quite simple: it was Mr Nigel Berbrooke on all three occasions. And so, the members of the ton may be unsurprised to find that Mr Berbrooke was met with three swift rejections. One hopes that Mr Berbrooke will have a shift in fortune at the Smythe-Smith musicale tomorrow night. 

Among other news, our esteemed diamond has fled the spotlight. Miss Y/N Beaumont has not been spotted in the ton since the night of the Featherington ball. While Mr. Alexander Beaumont, her brother, cited an awful headache as the reason for her early departure from the ball, this author wonders whether Miss Beaumont was simply through with the social scene. One could certainly not blame her if Nigel Berbrooke is the only man of the ton who has taken romantic action this season. Hopefully, the Smythe-Smith abode will provide a better stage for young love, and if not, then at least the musicale will undoubtedly prove very entertaining. 

As Francesca finished her dramatic reading of the Whistledown column, she was met with resounding laughter from her siblings. Although Nigel Berbrooke's lackluster success in his romantic pursuits was amusing in itself, Lady Whistledown's sharp wit and Francesca's theatrical flare only added to the absurdity of his situation. 

Even Benedict, who was in a disagreeable mood because he hadn't spoken to you since the ball, couldn't help but chuckle. Eloise, breathless from laughter, extended her heartfelt condolences to the three unfortunate ladies who had fallen victim to the decidedly disagreeable Mr. Berbrooke. 

"Three proposals in two days, all met with rejection? Positively ghastly," remarked Anthony, shaking his head in amusement. 

Hyacinth was quick with a playful dig at her older brother. "Bold of you to assume you would be more successful than him, brother," came her retort, met with more giggles from her sisters and a feigned gasp of offense from Anthony.

"I assure you I absolutely would, dear Hyacinth. To start, I would refrain from pursuing three women at once. But you can rest peacefully knowing that whenever I choose to propose, my future wife will say yes in an instant," he drawled, a playful arrogance underscoring his words.

"I'd certainly like to see you try," Ben spoke, a slight edge to his voice. "Proposing to someone, I mean." Anthony turned to face his brother on the couch and raised his eyebrows, unimpressed. 

He retorted with an equally cutting edge to his voice, "In reality, Benedict, it seems that you are in a better position to propose than I am, don't you think?"

As the thick tension in the room became palpable, Francesca, Eloise, and Hyacinth held their breath in anxious anticipation. Though neither brother displayed outward aggression, their words carried an unmistakable undercurrent of intensity.

Benedict's breathing grew heavier, his eyes narrowing. Keeping his temper in check, he shot back sarcastically, "And what, pray tell, gives you that impression, dear brother?" Silent ripples of anger emanated from him, and the Bridgerton sisters felt a rising unease as the dispute seemed on the verge of eruption.

Sharp and deadly, Anthony's voice cut through the charged silence of the sitting room, "The fact that you already have someone to propose to, perhaps."

Anthony had barely finished speaking when Benedict rose abruptly, hands formed into tight fists at his sides. With a murderous look on his face, he ground out, "Actually, I don't believe I do." 

Seeing Anthony open his mouth to respond, Ben cut in quickly, pure poison dripping from his voice, "You are mistaken, Anthony. I have absolutely no one to propose to. There is simply nothing there. Nothing that a marriage can be built on, at least. I am aware that Y/N is looking for a husband, but it will most certainly not be me."

Hyacinth let out a quiet gasp of disbelief, quickly covering her mouth. Benedict swiftly stormed out of the room, leaving his siblings in dumbfounded silence. After a brief pause, Anthony shook his head, cursing under his breath and running after Benedict.

Benedict could barely feel his legs, white-hot anger flooding through him as he made his way to his bedroom. Typically, in such intense moments, he sought solace outdoors or channeled his frustrations into his art. But he had spent too many afternoons watching your nose scrunch as you laughed on the swings with him in the garden, and the walls of his studio were entirely filled with endless incomplete sketches of you, so he found the prospect rather unbearable at the moment. 

But he felt Anthony's firm hand on his shoulder before he could reach the staircase. Rolling his eyes and turning around, Ben spat a callous, "What?"

"Benedict, you are being ridiculous," came Anthony's response, in a tone of voice that was not unkind. "I cannot pretend to understand the inner workings of your friendship with Y/N, but I do know that you are inadvertently distracting her from finding a husband."

Entirely disarmed by his brother's change in tone, Benedict let out a long breath, defeated. He ran his hands through his hair, clearly frustrated by his impossible situation.

"Perhaps the kindest thing to do would be to let her go," pressed Anthony carefully, aware of the sensitivity of the topic. "I doubt she is aware of it herself, but the girl clearly has some sort of feelings for you, and you are only leading her on, so to speak."

Benedict could only nod, anxiously chewing at his lower lip. He knew his actions at the Featherington ball were not helping in your search for a husband, but it hurt just as much to stay away. Either way, Ben was desperate to speak with you. He knew he had to give you space, but it had been two days of complete silence from both of you, and he was itching to apologize properly.

---

As you waited outside of the Bridgerton residence, you shifted on your feet. Usually, you were happy to walk in unannounced, the closeness between your family and the Bridgertons removing the need for formalities. But you were nervous to see Ben. You hadn't seen him in a few days, let alone spoken to him, and you really would rather not have the conversation you were about to have with him. Cass suggested sending him a letter, but you couldn't imagine him opening it alone, reading that you wanted distance from him. It was much better to do this in person, and hopefully, he would understand your situation. He would have to, as the Smythe-Smith musicale was tonight, and both of you would be in attendance. 

Steeling yourself, you opened the front door and walked in, greeting the butler with a smile and a short wave, as you usually did. You practically skipped to the back door, eager to see Benedict despite dreading the difficult conversation ahead. You found him on the swings, staring off into the vast expanse of the Bridgerton garden. As you reached him, you tapped his shoulder three times and uttered a soft "Hi, Ben."

Immediately turning toward you, his face lit up in joy, and he stood up to hug you tight, spinning you around. "Well, hello! It's been far too long. How have you been?" 

As you both settled into the swings, you cleared your throat uncomfortably. "I've been alright. How about you?" 

"I've been alright. Anthony has been as irritating as ever, but unfortunately, there's no cure for that at the minute," he answered, earning a soft laugh from you. 

But your face dropped quickly, and you found yourself anxiously chewing your lip and staring into his perceptive eyes. Wordlessly, he asked you what was wrong with a slight tilt of his head and furrow of his brow. 

You cleared your throat again and spoke, "I apologize for running off the other night. I feel like I should explain myself. I've had some time to think in the past few days, and I do realize that I overreacted a bit, and for that, I am sorry." 

He reached over to grab your hand, rubbing his thumb in a comforting manner. Although it pained you, and you wanted nothing more than to lean into his touch, you carefully took your hand out of his grasp and set it in your own lap. A look of hurt flashed briefly across his eyes, and you felt your throat tighten and your stomach ache. But you had to continue. You had to get it all out now while you still had momentum.

"I just-" you paused. "Um, it might... benefit me... if we took some time apart," you said. You knew Benedict was trying to hide how crestfallen he truly was, but you knew him too well to be oblivious to his pain. 

You quickly jumped into your loosely prepared speech, "I don't mean away completely! And I don't mean forever, of course. I just think I could benefit from us... not acting how we usually do while I am trying to attract suitors."

He let your words hang in the air, fully processing what you were saying. "Of course, whatever you need. I'm sorry if I was distracting you from-"

"No!" you cut in. "Not at all! I think I was more distracting myself. This is not your fault in the least, Ben, and I'm sorry it's affecting you."

With a small smile, he shook his head, "It's quite alright, darling. I understand completely."

Except you really didn't think he understood. At all. 

"Maybe... maybe we could refrain from dancing at future balls? And perhaps it is not the best idea for you to call me darling. Or kiss me on the forehead. And I know I get anxious sometimes, and you really do help me when you hold my hand, but maybe we could refrain from that as well? And I still want to see you loads, obviously, but maybe I won't ignore any potential suitors who come calling in the mornings in favor of coming to see you here."

Benedict was staring at you dumbly. Hearing you say, out loud, everything that needed to change, it was astounding to him how close of a friendship the two of you had. But he understood. Oh, did he understand. And he would do anything for you, even if anything involved giving up ballroom dances, because, let's be honest, who else would he dance with if not you. He realized you were staring at him expectantly, and he nodded quickly.

"Yes, yes, of course, dar-" He cringed internally. Perhaps this would be more challenging than expected. "Yes, of course, Y/N," he finished. 

You smiled back gratefully, responding, "Well, that's settled then."

---

Benedict's earlier confidence in his ability to refrain from touching you was proving to be completely misguided. He had been at the musicale for barely an hour before he felt himself nearly vibrating with the need to be close to you. He had watched as you talked with suitor after suitor, patiently waiting for you to come over when you had a spare moment. But the spare moment never came. You were utterly enthralled in your conversations, not even sparing him a glance. The only time you had spoken to him was a small "Hello!" in passing as you walked across the ballroom holding Lord Egerton's forearm. At least you were not ignoring him purposefully, but he was still moping dejectedly about the ballroom, unable to join in the lively banter his siblings and yours always provided.

His night had not improved much by the time the musicale was over. His mother had pleaded with him to dance with Penelope Featherington, and he had begrudgingly complied. Of course, he usually enjoyed the girl's company, but tonight, he would have preferred to sulk in a corner of the ballroom by himself. Ben had also gone to the terrace with Colin and Alex but quickly opted to go back inside and torture himself by keeping an eye on you. The whole time he observed you, he could feel an unpleasant feeling deep in his stomach that traveled up his torso until it settled uncomfortably in his chest. It was an exercise in masochism, watching you flirt and smile and even giggle with other men. But Ben knew he could do nothing about it, aside from stewing in his own despair, of course. You had explicitly asked him for a chance to properly be courted without his interference, and it would be cruel to disallow you that. 

While Benedict had a relatively uneventful but painful evening, you barely had a moment to yourself. Gentleman after gentleman, followed by mama after mama, came to ask you to dance or talk to you. You smiled through it all, of course, but as the night wore on, you became more and more irritable, finding that you simply wanted to go and chat to Benedict for a few minutes, to take a break from social niceties and have a laugh or two with him, at least. But you needed to stay focused, or your talk with Ben would have been for nothing.

After hours of listening to the grueling sounds of the Smythe-Smiths playing various instruments, you rejoiced when your mother interrupted your conversation with some earl or viscount and his mother. Their names escaped you, but at this point in the night, you were proud of yourself for even giving them more than one-word answers. Politely excusing yourself from the pair, you smiled gratefully at your mother, who only laughed good-naturedly at your distress. 

"I didn't see you talking to Ben much tonight. Is everything alright with the two of you?" 

You looked at your mother, cringing. "That obvious, was it?"

She gave you a questioning look and smiled, answering, "Given that the two of you usually are attached at the hip at every event you attend, yes, it was quite obvious."

You rolled your eyes at her, hiding how truly upset you were that you and Ben had taken some time apart. "We were not that attached! Besides, it's only one ball where I was more focused on finding a husband than my best friend. You should be happy!"

---

It had not, in fact, been only one ball. You had now gone five consecutive balls without dancing with Benedict. Opportunities to talk with you at these events were scarce, and he was lucky if he managed to secure a mere five minutes alone. Colin had noticed him looking dejected and morose at every social event, not that Ben was trying particularly hard to hide it, and asked about you. Benedict's response to his brother's concern was curt and evasive, a gruff "everything is fine." 

Despite the distance, Ben found solace in your afternoons together after you had finished seeing callers. The moment you saw him, you would relax and launch into a lengthy explanation of the latest exciting information you had acquired from the vast library in the Beaumont home since none of the "so-called gentlemen" bothered to listen to you, as you put it. 

He did enjoy your ramblings and appreciated the opportunity to ramble himself, launching into detailed studies of his favorite artists of the time. However, he was finding himself less able to put on a happy front when he barely talked to you for days at a time. At this point, he was not even harboring any negative feelings toward any of your suitors; he just missed you. His days felt empty and long, not having been apart from you for this long since before you could speak, probably. His family had noticed, and he was growing sick of their soft voices and careful treatment of him. He just wanted you back. He wanted to feel your head on his lap again and spend hours by your side in his art studio, painting on a canvas as you sat near him and read. Most of all, he missed the comfortable intimacy that came with your friendship, the quiet understanding that had been feeling out of sorts since you asked him for some space. 

So, when you had bounded into the Bridgerton home this afternoon, carrying a new book in tow, he knew he couldn't go on the way the two of you were right now. You immediately noticed Benedict's tense mood, even more so than usual, and did not relent until he spoke to you about what was bothering him. You had a feeling you knew what he was going to say, having also felt his absence to the point of distraction, and had prepared to have a talk with Ben whenever he was ready. You would usually give in to anything he asked of you, having little to no self-control when it came to Benedict Bridgerton, but you knew you had to be strong today. 

Seeing his bloodshot eyes, you placed a comforting hand on Ben's shoulder, breaking one of your rules but not finding it in you to care. He put his hand over yours, instantly feeling better than he had in over a week.

"It's just hard, isn't it? Have you felt it, too?" he looked at you, feeling a tad vulnerable.

You looked away, unable to meet his eyes for fear that you would start crying. You took a breath before answering, steeling yourself. "I have. It is proving to be quite difficult. But I need to find a husband, Ben," you said, your voice firm. "So, unless you're willing to marry me, it does have to be like this," you tried to make a lighthearted comment, but the crack in your voice gave you away too easily. 

Your words left him speechless, and if he was completely candid, he could have cried right then and there. Benedict understood what you were saying. What you were implying, rather. And he shook his head, voice soft, "I can't do that, Y/N. I'm so sorry."

Of course, you had expected this answer, but it didn't make it any less difficult to know that Ben was still opposed to the idea of marrying you after having experienced the last week or so. So you nodded, finally looking at him, a sad smile gracing your lips. 

"I guess that's our answer, then," you spoke. 

Your words were a complete blow to his chest. He felt like he was going to be sick. Because, of course, this didn't only mean that the two of you would not be married, something Benedict already knew. This meant that your friendship could truly never be the same. The search for a husband you didn't even want was simply an insurmountable obstacle. 

At least for today, he could still pretend things were normal. Your hand was still enclosed in his, and for a moment, he could forget all that had transpired and just enjoy the feel of your skin against his and the promise of an afternoon full of your entertaining and lighthearted literary commentary. 

---

Violet was at her wit's end. She could recognize that her son was being a complete idiot, said with affection, of course. However, Violet would not stand for you, Benedict's best friend, her own best friend's daughter, looking absolutely heartbroken night after night, talking to men who would never understand you in the way that Ben did, and who did not even want to try. She knocked on his studio door and, upon entering, let out a deep sigh at the sheer volume of sketches of your face, your hands, your eyes, and just you in general that adorned her son's art studio. 

The dowager viscountess cleared her throat with an air of authority, ready to give Benedict some much-needed tough love. Once she had made herself comfortable, sitting on the couch facing Ben, Violet clasped her hands in front of her. She could tell Ben was already dreading what she was going to say.

"Benedict, my sweet. You know, when I married your father, I was over the moon to be marrying someone I was not only in love with but also someone I could call my dear friend. In my experience, friendship as the foundation of a marriage creates the best kind of partnership."

Ignoring Benedict's increasingly tense energy, she continued, "I know you have an extraordinary friendship with Y/N. Everyone knows, actually. One can very clearly see that the two of you care for one another, and a friendship as special as that is not easy to come by." 

Seeing her son open his mouth to interject, Violet silenced him with a stern look, not in the mood to be interrupted. "I fear that if you do not take advantage of this wonderful gift you have been given, your best friend will end up married to another man, and your friendship will be lucky to survive."

Benedict had had quite enough already. Anthony, then you, his mother, and even Hyacinth and Colin were all telling him the same thing, clearly not understanding that he simply did. Not. Want. To. Marry. You. 

He was through feeling wounded; his hurt had transformed into full-blown anger. Being mindful to keep his voice in check, he spoke with as loud of a voice as was appropriate, desperate for anyone to actually listen to what he was saying. 

"Mother, I appreciate your concern. But as I have told Anthony, Y/N, Hyacinth, and Colin, I do not wish to marry Y/N. I did not want to marry her two months ago, before her debut, and I do not want to marry her now. I am sick of everyone telling me what I want or what they think I should do. I know that I do not want her, and that will be the end of the discussion, thank you very much."

Benedict barely processed his mother's sympathetic look in response to his declaration, ignoring the hand he felt on his shoulder. Disappointed and a bit sad for your future, Violet walked out of his studio, knowing Ben wouldn't continue the conversation further. 

Of course, what Benedict had told his mother was a lie. A lie so often repeated in his head he had been inclined to believe it for the better part of the last decade of your friendship. But deep down, Benedict knew it wasn't the truth. 

The truth was that marriage was your worst nightmare. He was all too familiar with your grievances toward the institution, having heard you talk about your distaste for having to find a husband since childhood. Ben had spent years by your side, listening to you express your aversion to marriage over and over again. You were convinced you would be miserable after being wed, endlessly searching for something more: a freedom you thought you could never achieve once you were married. 

And so, he could not marry you. It was selfish, to be sure, but he did not want your distaste and displeasure with marriage directed at him. He would give you anything else, but not this. In Benedict's opinion, if he married you, you would grow to dislike him, feeling trapped within the confines of your relationship. 

Throughout your shared childhood, Ben watched you grow into an incredibly smart woman, and your growth inevitably brought about a growing hostility toward your future as a wife. He was intimately familiar with the fear that brought about this hostility, and he couldn't bring himself to be the person who made these fears come true.

Benedict knew that the two of you could learn to love each other if you were married. This was, of course, assuming that he wasn't already in love with you, which he could not bear to think about properly. He just didn't think he could survive it. Having a front-row seat to the unhappiness you would feel after being married and watching you fall out of love with him because of it. He simply couldn't be the cause of that. He cared about you too much to take that risk. So he chose to stay away instead, even if it meant the end of years of close friendship and love and intimacy. 

—

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Tag List (lmk if you want to be added!): @bellahadidnt16

[sins0fthefather]

Wrath.

Jeff the Killer HCs:

General HCs:

Full Name: Jeffrey Alexander Woods (Only responds to Jeff though. Best case scenario if you call him his full name is he’ll ignore you, worst case scenario is him flipping his shit on you)

Age: 22-25 (Based on where in the story a character study/fic takes place)

Birthday: September 22 (Older than Liu by 2 years)

Wasian— Father is Chinese, mother is a born n’ raised Texan

Biromantic, Demisexual

Has autism, C-PTSD, BPD (contributor to his auditory hallucinations), NPD, ASPD, and BDD

Right Handed

6’1 (185~ cm)

Covered in burn scars, most noticeably on his chest, forearms, and back

He uses white facepaint, it makes his face’s silhouette look “cleaner” in his eyes

His cuts have healed up for the most part, although he’ll have moments where he relapses and cuts at them again. The ends will also sometimes tear if he does something like laugh too hard.

Very touchy with other people, but he despises being touched first. He prefers to initiate physical contact- both because of the control aspect of it and because of his general distrust of others.

His sense of humor waxes and wanes from extreme condescension to the most morbid sentences you’ve ever heard. Half of the time it doesn’t even sound like a joke.

Reckless driver, cursed with terrible road rage

Smokes cigarettes, his brand of choice is Marlboro

Drinks vodka straight as if it were water

I feel like his favorite band would be Tool or Slipknot. His music taste is just metal and dad rock.

Was brought up in a Catholic school for most of his life, although he obviously doesn’t keep up with the practice anymore. This is a big catalyst for why he develops a god complex however since he “has authority over life and death”— something unique only to gods from what he was taught.

Very observant of the people around him. He memorizes speech patterns, demeanors, even the way people walk. He’s gotten to the point where he can read people and their intentions well before they’re explicitly stated, making it much easier for him to spot a lie. However this also makes it much easier for him to tell when he’s truly pushing somebody’s buttons, and there’s nothing he loves more than pushing people past their limit.

Always stealing glances of himself in any mirror he walks past

He’s an opportunistic killer. Limiting himself to patterns clashes with the creativity and the thrill of the moment to him. However, there are specific elements of a kill he will often repeat if the mood strikes him. An example of this would be often including strangulation (albeit usually not the direct cause of death) to reflect his acquired need for control in all moments of his life. Sometimes he will also pose bodies in a “prayer” position to call back that god complex I mentioned.

He doesn’t always kill people immediately. If someone catches his eye, usually because he finds them beautiful in some aspect, he’ll take it a step further. He has no problem with being patient when the situation arises for it- stalking the person, learning their habits and schedules, the whole shebang. He’ll then slowly start to ruin said person’s life, isolating them through the slaughter of those closest to them and destroying any sense of peace and security they once had. He’s the sound that goes -bump- in the night. He’ll toy with his food until he eventually grows bored, disposing them like all the rest. After all, how dare someone else try to be beautiful in his presence- a punishment of the highest order is necessary.

His anger can be very… explosive. He doesn’t stick around very long for enough people besides victims to see it, but it can be as unpredictable as his own kills. It’s worse when he’s silent in his anger however, since with the former you at least have enough of a warning to brace yourself.

Backstory-Centric HCs:

(TW: csa, murder, mutilation, religious trauma, general stuff)

Takes place in college. Jeff is 22 at the start while Liu is 20.

Instead of being a one-off instance, Jeff and Liu have been subjected to bullying/borderline harassment since middle school. This builds up Jeff’s gradual distrust of others and leads to him shutting himself off from his peers.

Most of said bullying revolved around their mixed race situation. It only got worse as Jeff shut himself off and Liu became a people pleaser.

The two didn’t even have peace at home, since their parents were sexually abusive and excused it through their religion. It was “all apart of god’s love” as they said. This + the bullying leads Liu to develop DID and kickstarts Jeff’s resentment towards their parents. It also led Jeff to develop a twisted belief on what love and beauty is since god apparently “favored” the beauty of his parent’s form of “love.”

On one particular instance of bullying/harassment, a small group of people he grew up with planned on jumping and mugging Jeff behind a bar. Things escalated when Jeff retaliated in self defense, beating his aggressors with a nearby pipe found laying against a dumpster. He didn’t leave unscathed however, since one of the attackers dropped a lighter into the flammable materials (alcohol, trash, etc) that had been scattered in the fight, planning on making everyone go down in that moment. Jeff managed to survive (albeit with severe burns along his body) after being found by an employee who went to go check out the noise/smell of smoke, but the others succumbed to their wounds.

While in a heavy state of shock and psychosis (paired with being drugged up out the wazoo at the hospital) his usual unchecked auditory hallucinations worsened, leading his mind to trick him into believing this situation was a sign from god- that he was supposed to survive while his tormentors burned. Paired with his already twisted concepts of love and beauty, he began to believe that his burns were part of god’s plan to make him more beautiful- because he was favored.

This only gets worse when he’s released from the hospital’s custody due to a neglect in checking his mental state. After being sent home with his family and therefore being thrown back into the abusive environment he hoped to escape when going to college he ends up experiencing a psychotic break, mutilating himself in the process.

When his parents catch him, they attack him. In their eyes he had disgraced them, no longer upholding the “beauty” of heaven that they enforced. He ends up killing them in self defense, but furthers it by mutilating their bodies in an act of defiance induced by his break. He believes he’s outdone god in this moment, deluding himself into thinking he’s on the same level (or even better) than god.

While overcome by his psychotic break, he ends up severely wounding Liu after he wakes up to check out the noise. It becomes a conspiracy on if Liu survived or not since his body was never found by authorities.

The reason why Jeff continues on his spree after these instances is the feel of control he gets. After being forced into submission by those around him for so long, he finally feels a stable sense of power over those he deems as less than him.

He ends up wandering throughout the states after this, hopping from town to town. He never stays in one place for long, although sometimes he’ll revisit his home town to give the urban legend fanatics something to fear again.

[metalmonki]

Objection!

Rafael Barba x fem!Carisi!reader

1k word count

Summary All you wanted was to be a lawyer like your big brother Sonny. So what happens when you get a job working under the famous ADA Rafael Barba

slow-burn, colleague to friends to lovers

Next Chapter

The day had finally come. I had successfully graduated Harvard Law. My Mum, Dad, brother Sonny and sisters Bella, Teresa and Gina had made the trip out of Staten Island to witness the graduation. The youngest of the Carisi clan, I choose to follow Sonny into the criminal prosecution career track. Sonny had recently transferred to the Elite Manhattan Special Victims Unit and was also studying at Fordham Law ‘to make myself a better detective’ he had said. Sonny and I, despite our 11-year age gap, were completely inseparable. He had been the one who got the rest of our family together to be here today. Sonny is the whole reason I was graduating today. He had encouraged me even after Mum and Dad had voiced their disappointment at my choice.

I had barely made it off the stage when Sonny had scooped me up in his arms and began spinning us around. He had the worlds biggest smile on his face and repeated over and over again how proud he was of me. Our parents and sisters soon joined us.

“I’m going to cook a big feast tonight just for you” Mom smiled.

“You always cook a big feast, that’s every meal for you” Dad scoffed.

“Oh shush you cranky old man” Mum swatted at him with open hands.

We all laughed at the pair and walked off to the cars. We had a long drive ahead of us back to Staten Island. After dinner I would then have to drive back into Manhattan with Sonny. I had come here with Sonny yesterday from his apartment in Manhattan and had no choice but to go back there with him tonight. Now I had graduated I had no clue what I was suppose to do. I had been applying for positions in almost every law firm in New York with no luck. I’d even applied for the DA’s office with no success. I knew Sonny would let me live with him for however long it took for me to find my feet. He had insisted on it in fact when I’d moved back to New York last month. This had been Mum and Dads complaint. I would waste my time on a piece of paper that would lead me nowhere. I’d even put in an extra two years on a masters degree just to increase my chances.

“Hay kiddo is everything okay?” Sonny spoke up “You’ve been silent for the last 45 minutes and you look worried”

“Maybe Mum and Dad were right” Was all I could get out.

“About what? Don’t tell me your doubting yourself now” Sonny smiled over at me.

“I spent the whole month applying for positions with no luck, all I’ve managed is a minimum wage bodega job. I can’t rely on you forever Sonny, you have your own life, the woman at work you said you fancy, while I just wasted six years to get a piece of paper that’s turning out to be useless. I wanted to be up there with the greats like Alexander Cabot and Rafael Barba” I sighed picking at my nails.

“Y/N Carisi always worrying” Sonny chuckled “Give it time you’ll get something soon; you don’t need to rush”

“I’m not trying to rush I just don’t like not knowing” I threw my hands up.

But wait I did. For 9 months I applied for any law jobs that came up. I worked my ass off at the bodega, saving every penny I could to get out of Sonny’s flat. Then one day it happened. I had been busy cooking dinner, a simple chicken alfredo, when Sonny basically smashed his way through the door. I hadn’t expected him home until much later. I knew they were having trouble catching the Central Park Strangler as the papers had dubbed him. A horrid man who would stalk lone women in central park, strangle and rape them. Sonny had said he was escalating an attack every night, he hadn’t killed anyone yet but Sonny was sure he would soon. He had made me promise not to leave the flat alone at night until they got the guy. He had left DNA at every scene so as soon as they got him he was going away for life. No chance of a plea bargain, no way to weasel out of it. Sonny had a huge smile on his face as he walked into the kitchen.

“I’m guessing by the smile on your face you caught your guy? That or you finally grew a pair and asked Amanda out and she said yes” I chuckled.

“Yes, well no, but yes” Sonny stumbled over his words while he hung his coat up and took his shoes off.

“Well which is it?” I laughed.

“We caught the guy, Barba had him shipped to rikers an hour ago” Sonny put his brief case on the bench and dug through it producing a manila envelope. “I also got this for you” he handed the envelope to me. 

I wiped my hands off on my apron and took the envelope. I turned it over in my hands taking note of the District Attorneys office logo in the corner. I disregarded it as just being an envelope Sonny had handy. I turned the envelope over once more and unwound the string keeping it closed. Inside was a stack of paperwork maybe 30 pages thick. Written on top of the first sheet in bold letters were the words OFFER OF EMPLOYMENT. I looked up shocked at Sonny before looking back at the papers. We are pleased to offer you a position as an assistant to ADA Rafael Barba at the New York District  Attorney Office.

“Oh Sonny this is amazing thank you”  I pulled him into a hug.

“It was nothing I just called in a favour when I heard Barba needed some extra help”  Sonny chuckled “All you need to do is fill in the forms and drop them off to Barba tomorrow. He says he’ll in his office from 3 onward”.

“I’ll fill them in first thing but for now lets eat!”.

“Oh you mean the food that’s burning on the stove?” Sonny chuckled.

“Shit!” I spun back to the stove but it was pointless the chicken had already started turning black and the pasta was almost boiled dry.

“I’ll order out and you can trying to salvage my pot and pan” Sonny laughed walking off phone in hand.

[fallowhearth]

Nanaya-ila’i and her daughter were just two of the thousands upon thousands of victims of the Assyrian Empire, most of whose names have been lost over the centuries. The Assyrian Empire was just one of the many aggressive polities that has produced victims by the thousands over the past several millennia: The Romans did no better in Gaul or Dacia. Alexander the Great razed Thebes on his way to far more expansive conquests. The crusaders who took Jerusalem in 1099 waded ankle-deep in blood, Timur Lenk left behind towers of skulls marking his conquests. Pizarro slaughtered the Inca by the score. The Nazis left behind millions of corpses. As long as grasping rulers and would-be warlords have sought to expand their power, common people have suffered the consequences, just like Nanaya-ila’i and her daughter.

But those ambitious politicians and conquerors didn’t do the dirty work themselves. They had underlings, generals and officers and common soldiers and bureaucrats, to enforce their will. Those underlings participated in acts that, by any reasonable standard of moral behavior, range from the merely distasteful to completely abhorrent. It would be comforting to think that those who murdered children, burned houses with the residents inside, committed acts of sexual violence, and enslaved the survivors were uniquely evil. It would be easier to believe that these participants had somehow forfeited their humanity somewhere along their path to organized violence. We would prefer to fool ourselves into thinking they formed a special class of malefactors separate from the farmers and shopkeepers and laborers who made up their societies as a whole. These ideas would be wrong. The agents of empire and conquest were not a marked group of sadists; they fit quite comfortably within the mainstream of the societies that produced them and benefited from their actions.

Patrick Wyman, Perspectives: Past, Present, and Future Substack, 2024

[lurafita]

Malec Soulmate (angsty)

How about soulmates and (kind of) reincarnations. If we think that soulmates are two people whose souls are meant for each other, and if we further think that after a life is over, the souls get cleansed of the old life and then are (re)born into a new life.

But souls that are connected to each other will find their other piece in that new life eventually. Hence, soulmates. Right?

So now imagine one of those souls being in the body of an immortal. Like Magnus. Who doesn't grow old and doesn't die and is therefore not reborn into a new life. But his partner is mortal. And the one time they weren’t, they were killed by a shadowhunter.

And Magnus has connected with his soulmate many a time in his centuries of life. And has had to go through the pain of losing them to death just as many times. And he can’t anymore. It's too much. He can’t go through that again. Enter Alec. His soulmate. Who is mortal. And a shadowhunter.

I keep imagining that it would come out in a private conversation? Like Alec, fed up of being rejected yet again (they are soulmates! Magnus should know that there is no running from this and anything that Magnus believes stands in their way, Alec will do whatever is in his power to change. They are meant to be!), corners Magnus somewhere and things get to a head.

With Alec thinking that it's because of him being a shadowhunter and Magnus being known to have little love for them (which Alec gets, knowing that Magnus fought in the uprising and has been victim to the shadowhunter brand of superiority for many years), and he wants to prove to Magnus that he is different, that they are different and they belong togehter and Magnus just has to give him a chance. And then it just kind of spills out of Magnus.

How he has done this already. Met him already. Many times. "The first time I found you, you were a prince, but still a child, and I didn't want to do anything to… to manipulate or groom you. So I decided to come back when you were older, so that the power imbalance between us wouldn't be so severe. Only to learn that you had died from an illness just two years after I left. The second time, you were a woman working as a seamstress. We spent two wonderful decades together before the townspeople burned you at a stake while I was away, believing me the devil and you a witch for loving me. The third time, you were a young man, just recently turned into a vampire. And I thought this time, this time it will last. But a prejudiced shadowhunter found you a little too close to their headquaters and thought this grounds to end you. I found you a fourth, and a fifth, and even a sixth time. But our time together was always cut too short. I have lived through losing you far too often. And I can't keep doing it. And now you are once again a mortal, and a shadowhunter to boot. How long would I have you this time? A few years? A decade with any luck? Mere months? I'm sorry, Alexander. I can't."

[tokoyamisstuff]

Vocem Virtutis

Lat. "voice of virtue"

Prequel to Incursio Infernalis, but can be read as standalone story.

18+ | 5k. words | Alexander Anderson x f! Reader | slow burn

Summary: Unbeknownst to you, the only thing standing between Anderson and his madness is the bond you formed.

Warnings: Mental illness, violent thoughts, masturbation, slight voice kink, injury, blood, fabricated backstory, they're both so in denial it is aggravating

Heretics. All of them.

It was far past midnight when the Paladin walked aimlessly around the estate, low growls deteriorating into manic laughter.

Anderson always knew he was just as much of a monster as those he had sworn to exterminate.

Born in sin by vile excuses of human beings, doomed to suffer unspeakable from his very first breath. That was probably the reason why he is so adamant to help children in need, and also why seeing people indulge in impure habits makes him see red.

Much to his luck however he was always a force of nature, massive in size and muscle even before the genetic enhancement - resilient despite the circumstances and at some point able to fend for himself.

When the time came that he was surrendered to the orphanage, there was nothing left but a sociopath with an unquenchable thirst for violence.

Not able to escape his past, he carried a darkness inside of him that was almost impossible to contain. A bloodlust that, if not contained, could be catastrophal for people in his vincinity.

But he did not want to hurt innocents the way it was done to him.

Anderson found solace in his faith. Discipline and self-restraint were obligatory, attributes he desperately needed to contain this wicked part of his soul.

The nuns at the orphanage drilled their ideals and ways into his head from a very young age, channeling his wrath into a direction that was beneficial - thus effectively turning him into the Vatican's bloodhound.

They convinced him that god doesn't make mistakes, that his creation is always flawless, and that everyone - including himself - exists for a reason. The thought was a consolation for the young lad he once was.

Yes, he is a necessary evil, his unholy purpose to fight evil even worse than mankind. And so he found an outlet for this erratic need to destroy.

But that doesnt change what he was, and during peaceful nights like this was one, his patience grew dangerously thin.

It has been weeks since he's last been on a mission, and controlling this overwhelming power becoming more and more of an impossible task. His whole body was burning like a witch on the pyre, muscles aching for the thrill to tear something apart.

Subconsciously, he is already searching for a victim. The slightest mistake, the most trivial overstepping would be punished severely...

...and then he found you.

Faint moonlight illuminated the hallways as you cradled an infant in your arms, quietly lulling it back to sleep. It was a sight to behold, accentuated with your balmy voice managing to calm his erratic nerves.

Without being aware of it, you spared someone an unnecessary gruesome demise.

You gasped when you notice something shuffle in the shadows, not expecting anyone to be up at this hour. But your expression visibly relaxed when you recognized the face of the Paladin.

"Apologies, dear. I did not mean to startle you." He was quick to put on the harmless facade, hands crossed behind his back as he greeted you. "What a wonderful song that was. You should join the choir at our mass."

"O-oh. Good evening, Father" you stutter as his imposing figure towers over you, nervous under his scrutiny. "I hope I did not disturb your rest?"

"Not at all." The man gifted you a polite smile and your lips mirror his. "I barely need sleep. Just making my rounds to assure everything is safe."

You chant in acknowledgement before tending to the baby again, softly patting it's back as it let out a whine. "Who's that lil' fella? A new addition to the flock?"

"It's a boy" you explain, "Doesn't have a name yet. I think he's colicky, but I am new to...well...this."

If only Maxwell had someone so nurturing care for him back in the day, then the boy wouldn't be half as miserable.

Well, he's one to talk...

The assassin made a gesture with his hand, signalizing you to hand the child over to him. You hesitate, not wanting to give up on the task already, but surrender for the baby's sake.

"You're humble, that is good" he preaches, "But the nuns told me you are doing splendid. You're a great help and the children love you very much already."

You watch as he coos sweet affirmations towards the infant, easily settling it stomach first onto his forearm. "One of the perks of being tall" he jokes and you chuckle along. It's an adorable sight, a behemoth like him handling a newborn with so much care. "Remember this technique, it's very helpful."

"Thank you very much, Father" you cheer, practically beaming up at him as you both watch the child drift into a sweet slumber.

As he hands you the child back, you could've sworn his hands linger on yours for a little longer than necessary. "Well then, lass, I bid you a good night-"

"Wait!" you exclaim, lowering your voice as you remembered that everyone else was sleeping. "I just...I'll tuck the baby in, and...maybe we share some tea?"

Anderson quirks a brow at the unexpected suggestion. He could've sworn you avoided him like the pest ever since he freed you from that Vampire's lair two months ago. Got the sentiment, though. He was a frightening person in general, and seeing him so unhinged was certainly not a very good first impression.

But knowing that rest is unlikely for him he chooses your company over his humble bedroom any time. "Aye, then we meet at the library. I'll prepare the rest."

Only ten minutes later you sit in the huge armchairs across each other, the fireplace heated and tea served. Even some sweet treats laid out on the table for you.

"You didn't have to go out of your way..." you murmur, hesistantly reaching for a bisquit.

"Well, it's not everyday that I get an invitation like this" he laughs in that deep tone of his, the cup comically small in his large hands. "So tell me, how have you adjusted?"

"Everyone is very kind" you note happily, "But it's a lot to learn." Truth be told, you were catholic only on paper. So you had to start gaining knowledge from ground zero.

"We all worked hard to fit into our role" he answers with wisdom, "And struggle is part of growth." He sees you clutch the cup harder, shuffle uncomfortably tense in your seat. "So...what did you really want to talk to me about?"

"I-I guess I never got the chance to thank you." Well that went in a completely different direction than he anticipated. "For saving me back then, and especially for offering me to stay. I don't know how I can ever repay you..."

Anderson sighed as he put down the cup. "God has saved you, lamb. I'm just his humble tool. And knowing you're thriving is all reward I need, really." He then looks down to your hands, worried as he saw them shaking ever so slightly. "If my presence makes you uncomfortable-"

"N-No! Of course not!" you cut him off immediately, saddened that your reaction caused a misunderstanding. "I'm just a lil' jittery still, because...seeing you, it just...brings back memories of that night."

"Take all the time you need to heal." He briefly puts a reassuring hand on your shoulder before retracting it and you're glad that he is so understanding. "But remember, the Vatican is one of the safest places in the entire world. And...you're part of my flock now, lamb. You're always protected."

"I know that, Father" you respond, "And I'm very grateful." Stirring the spoon in the empty cup, you timidly add "Say, if you're an insomniac like me, we could make this a habit? It was very helpful talking to you."

There was a long pause between your question and his answer.

For a moment he was contemplating to preach at you for even voicing this preposition, concerned for your intentions. But in the end, why not? This was a public space, and as long as it limits to innocent socializing, there was nothing forbidden about it.

This might be a routine worth implementing. A lesser evil surely, if it means keeping him from doing the things he's normally capable of when bored.

"I enjoyed myself as well" he admits, "Let's hope you get some sleep rather, but I'd be glad to see you again."

That aggreement soon evolved into a wonderful friendship, meeting up at the library whenever the two of you were unable to find rest. Which was quite often, mind you.

And the more you got to know about the unusual Paladin, the more he positively surprised you.

Anderson singlehandedly funded this entire orphanage, not keeping a single coin of his earnings to himself. He officially adopted every orphan himself, though it pained you to hear that some chosen individuals would be trained to join Iscariot if they come of age.

He knew everything about each child, spending basically his whole scarce free time caring for them. So even during the day you spend a lot of time together through teaching, everyday tasks, or taking them on trips.

Except for you, the children are the only ones that actively seek his presence. He admires that their spirits are still free of judgement, he once admitted. It seems like his opinion about himself was rather sombre as well, yet he kept any details to himself no matter how relentlessly you pried.

The nights you spent learning from him, oftentimes getting into arguments about how one interprets certain passages of the bible. Or going on strolls through the garden, starting to feel safe again even in the midst of the night.

It was especially enjoyable to listen to the astonishing stories about his everlasting battle against the supernatural. You'd always wait for him to return from each mission, no matter how late, and he figures this must be what it feels like to have a wife to come home to.

At least it's the closest he can get.

As hard to explain as it was, but Anderson actually felt a lot more human in your vincinity.

However it did not go unnoticed how close the two of you had gotten, apparent in how his gaze lingered on you during mass or the way you were drawn to each other, touching 'by accident' conspicuously often.

Were you even aware of this yourselves?

Though for a long time, no one dared to speak up or address the topic. Most were equal parts respecting and fearing the Judas Priest, the infamous Regenerator, God's Assassin. Others, like Maxwell for example, were too corrupt themselves to care whatever Anderson does during his free time as long as he fulfill his job.

If anything, he's glad not to have to hide any bodies anymore.

So you were absolutely flabbergasted when the Reverend Mother inquisitioned about your affilliations with the Paladin, to say the least. To her defenses, she knew him ever since childhood, and during her time at the order she witnessed countless fools starting to harbor indecent feelings for each other.

The two of you were an open book to her, one could say.

And even after assuring that the Priesr was on his best behavior, her warning left a carve in your relationship. "Anderson is a well-respected member of the order, and an exceptional warrior for our faith. I know he can be quite charming, but don't be fooled" she said, emphasizing every word. "Behind the mask there lies a deeply troubled individual, and I am worried for your safety."

Eventually, her words would soon be confirmed to be true when one night, he returned from a mission like so many times before - but this time, his demeanour had changed completely.

It was surely not the first time you saw him covered in red, always scolding him that the children might wake and see him this way.

Apprehension crept on you when you saw his broad shoulders having with every breath, and much to your horror you realized it was his own blood this time, pouring out from a gaping wound that reached from his chest to his stomach.

"Anderson!" you exclaimed as if you could physically feel his pain, a mystery to you how he could even stand upright right now. "Shit, what happened?"

"Language" he scolded you and if the situation wasn't so severe, you certainly would've laughed about his priorities. "We need to get you to the infirmary" you order, slipping your head under his arm to support him.

"This needs to be stitched. I already called for a doctor. Lay down." Anderson was amazed how you could keep a clear head all while tending to his wounds with such great skill, but he wasn't complaining.

"How's that even possible?" you utter under your breath, having offered the man a hand while you disinfected the cut. "Certain beings have unique abilities" he grids, flexing his fists in anger. "That bloody cunt...next time I'll make her choke on her own guts..."

You've never heard him talk like that before, but there wasn't much time to process his words since the pressure on your hand increases to a painful degree. And even while temporarily rendered powerless, he was still strong, inhumanly so. "Anderson, it hurts...Anderson!"

Luckily he snaps out of it before breaking your wirst like a twig, shocked with himself as he heard your pained whimpers. Both of you didn't even register the knock on the door, interrupting this moment much to your relief. "Y/N? The doctor you requested is he- uh, is everything alright?"

"Yes, yes, thank you" you urge the nun, "Send him in and go back to sleep." She didn't need to be told twice, glad to not be the subject of his wrath.

The medic didn't even have the chance to start his work, a bayonett pointed towards his throat as soon as he had entered the room. "Did I just catch you staring improper at this woman, you imbecile?!"

You want to protest, barely even having explained the situation to the doctor, but the Paladin continues his threats. "I'm sick and tired of this half-assed pretense you people call practicing our faith. I can turn you inside out anytime, so I wouldn't look at her again if you want to keep your head."

Anderson's expression was sinister, fists still balled so tightly that his gloves almost tear. He relentlessly cites bible verses to silence his head, but to no avail. Despite the possible danger, you softly grab his hand holding the blade, looking at him all doe-eyed until he'd surrender the weapon to you.

"Sing for me, would ya'" he asks out of the blue, and you immediately understand that he needs it to remain calm. You choose a religious song, of course, to remind him of his duties.

"Amazing grace, how sweet the sound

That saved a wrench like me

I once was lost, but now I found

Was blind, but now I see."

The poor doctor was sweating heavily during the whole process, the fact that you never left his side making it even more complicated for him. Anderson had closed his eyes, trying to focus on the sound of your voice instead of the raging anger inside of him. He wouldn't even flinch as his flesh got poked again and again, and you wondered how much pain a person had to endure to reach this level of unresponsiveness.

"You should leave as long as he can still suppress his bloodlust" you tell the man contradictionary cheerful, "I'll wrap him up. Thank you very much." He flees the scene as fast as possible, leaving the two of you alone once again.

"That was unnecessary and cruel" you scold him as you apply several compresses. He just scoffs bitterly, stubbornly. "Oh please, I know an infidel when I see one" He mentally adds "...and that man was staring you down like a piece of meat." Probably more projection that anything.

"Is that so?" You refuse to look him in the eyes, instead busying yourself with the wound. "Would you have killed me too if you knew I wasn't practicing the religion back then?"

Your accusation send a pang of guilt straight to his chest. Just to imagine harming you makes him feel sick.

"...that's- you're different" he lies, knowing it was absolutely in his range of possibility. You internally groan at his ignorance and hypocrysy. He's such a blockhead sometimes, incorrigible in his ways.

"You're so filled with hatred that you forget the Lord's preachings about forgiveness and love" you state and he narrows his eyes at you. How dare you act like you know the holy script better than a literal priest, the one that teached you no less? "You better shut your mouth now, woman."

Unimpressed by his empty threat, you cross your arms in frustration. "Or else what, you're gonna stab me too?"

"Of...of course not" he mutters, hiding behind the reflection of his glasses as he turns his head away. But you cup his cheek with your hand, gently forcing him to look you into those damn enticing eyes of yours.

"M'sorry" Anderson finally said, unaware that he's leaning into your touch, the stubble of his beard tickling your palm. "I did not mean to scare ya'."

Placing one hand over his heart as you help him sit up, you claim "You could never."

Now that he finally became level-headed again, a tidal wave of shame washed over the Paladin. You were clearly a mess, unable to keep it together any longer now that he's out of danger. Seeing him like this made the flashbacks of your captivity re-emerge, eyes beginning to water as you blink back tears.

Anderson knew how people behaved around him after having seen behind the act. He expected you to flee, to never speak to him again unless necessary, maybe even asking to be relocated...

...but instead you wrap your arms around Anderson's bandaged thorso, sobbing heavily as you listen to his ragged heartbeat.

He's human after all. He does have a heart.

Just needed to make sure.

Both phsyically and mentally exhausted, Anderson put his head atop of yours, huffing quite irritated with himself. You were so small and fragile compared to him, so pure and precious. He cannot bear the possibility of getting you in harm's way. He needs to better himself.

For the Lord, for the orphanage, for you.

"Why did you stay?" he finds himself asking, practically having to tear himself away from your warmth. Shouldn't indulge into the feeling too much.

"Because I care for you, Father" you retort instantly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You're working hard to protect us, and I'm thankful for that. I can't even imagine what sacrifices you had to make to turn out like this. But I'm sure you'll never hurt me...at least not intentionally."

He looks down to your wrist, already bruising in several colors, and tenderly lets his thumb ghost over it. "Still, that must've been frightening."

"Did you forget how we meet?" you snort way too carefree, "You basically slaughtered your way through ghouls while laughing like a madman. I always knew what you are, Anderson."

"...you got a kind heart, lamb." He resisted to press a kiss atop of your head, still hearing your feeble snivels. You got a different kind of strenght, one that makes you continue no matter the circumstances. He always admired this about you. "Thanks for leading me through these trying times."

"Just like you did for me." Anderson looks at you for a while longer, and he can't help but think your smile is one of god's greatest miracles.

From this day onwards, the bond you two shared grew even tighter.

Anderson was pleasantly surprised that your courage wasn't just pretend, since the way you acted towards him didn't change in the slightest - even after peeking behind his civilized mask.

What bothers him however is the fact that he cannot seem to stop thinking about you, even when you're far away. Each time he saw you his heart would hammer like a drum in his chest, and suddenly he would lose the ability to form any coherent words.

He must be sick, he thinks. But that was literally impossible. Cursed, maybe? Also no.

Actually, he knew exactly what was going on. He was celibate, usually not prone to affections. But then again, you were special - for better or worse.

So a challenge from god to test his resolve, it is.

You on the other hand were blissfuly unaware of the effect you had on him, though sometimes he felt like you're teasing him on purpose. He'd snap at your friendliness out of nowhere, but quickly apologizes as he can't bear to be the reason for your sadness.

"Hey, big guy" you tug on his coat and he finally looks down, looming over you while scowling. "Are you there?"

"Oi" he murmurs, "You're getting a lil' too comfortable, don'tcha think? I'm still an authorative figure."

You half-pout at his harsh tone, but he's probably right. At least in the public you should treat him with the respect a man of his rank deserves. "I'm sorry, Father..."

"It's fine." The Paladin pats your head to reassure you, yet his gaze always wanders back down to your lips, wondering if they're as soft as they look like-

No. Never. He can't.

"I am needed elsewhere" he frantically shakes his head, hurrying without looking back. "Take care, lamb."

Yes, you're but an innocent lamb for he is a dangerous predator. His soul is already doomed to limbo, but he needs to stay away for your own sake.

"What is his deal lately?" you wonder as you look after him, "Did I do something wrong?"

He behaves even stranger than usual. Barely talks, always buried in thought. Winces whenever you touch, as if he just burned himself on a stove - no, like he was just about to put his hand into hellfire itself.

Noticing the bruise that was currently healing stick out from your sleeve, you figure he must still feel bad about what happened. Ever since that night he seemed so distant, but it was obvious that something was eating him away.

Maybe he just needs more time to understand you accept him with all of his facets.

Anything but acknowledging what turmoil was going on in both your hearts, huh?

It wasn't until a few weeks later, after a particulary bad day, that Anderson would give in to his wish to see you. Another mission had gone south, and talking about it was probably a better way to vent than sticking his bayonett into some poor half-wit.

When he entered the library however, the room was dark and empty. Can't blame you after how he treated you formerly.

He opted to accept your offer to just knock at your door whenever he's in need - something a man of faith like himself would usually say to his believers. It was nice to be at the receiving end for a change, knowing a gentle soul like you wouldn't deny him your help even after he wronged you.

Only when he stood in front of your room he noticed the time - 1am already, middle of the might. You're probably asleep, he shouldn't bother you-

Shuffling from the inside, almost inaudible but not to his keen senses. So you're awake. Good. But just when he was about to knock, the sound of muffled moans reached his ears.

Oh.

Ohhh.

Well, you aren't at fault here. You were raised by heathens, never teached properly. He should leave - no, kick in your door and tell you that this is unacceptable. Or should he tell the nuns to have a talk between women? But then he'd have to explain why he was there in the first place.

"An-der-son...mhh...plea-ah!"

Your voice was barely above a whisper, but it felt like a hammer right to his forehead. He fled the scene in an instant, already feeling guilty for eavesdropping, but the sound of your voice moaning his name continued to echo in his head.

"Fuck" he groaned, cupping his erection through his pants as he laid stiffly on his bed. It's been three cold showers but he was still rock hard, and slowly bur steadily his rationality made space for something more primal. He grips the sheets tight, feverishly trying to keep himself from committing a grave mistake.

There certainly wouldn't be a way back once he gave in to those urges.

The church had ingrained to him that lust was something wrong and dirty. He remembers like it was yesterday that the nuns would regulary check whether his and the other children's hands stayed above their blankets all night.

It's been decades without this sinful deed and while yes, he is not immune to temptations, his will had always been stronger than his flesh.

Until now.

None of it was important to him at that moment. He was aching to be touched, no matter how.

With a shuddered breath he freed his cock from it's confines, a whimper he didn't even know he could vocalize escaping his throat. He fiercely grabs the shaft, the angry tip already red and leaking precum.

Anderson is rough with himself, a mixture of inexperience and shame rushing him to make things quick. His mind wanders back to the way you practically begged for him to fuck you, and he'd be lying if the said it was the first time he had entertained such thoughts.

As he strokes himself, his fantasies wander back and forth between sheer worship and concerning punishment, making path for another kind of obsession that would be even harder to overcome than his bloodlust.

He wants to kiss you. He wants to choke you.

He wants to explore every inch of your body. He wants to cover it in whips and bruises.

He wants to make you feel good. He wants to make you repent.

He wants to hear you moan. He wants to hear you scream and beg for forgiveness.

He wants you to never leave his side. He wants to kill you for doing this to him.

He wants to you to be his in every way possible.

He wants-

Anderson utters vile curses as he came, hips bucking into his flexed hand as he covered his fingers, thighs, stomach up to his chest in his spent.

After the waves of his intense orgasm ebbed down however, there is nothing left but emptiness.

He is exasperated, feeling a million things at once: Anger, confusion, shame, loneliness. He should be more worried to have betrayed his oath, but all he could think of is how painfully he misses your warmth.

He hugs his pillow as he mutely weeps himself to sleep.

Several months later, a few days before christmas eve, Anderson was called to an emergency as a demonic entity was causing mayhem at a nearby town.

Why did it have to be an Incubus of all godforsaken things?!

With everything that has been happening as of late, he was rather vulnerable to the fiend's powers. But he'd be damned to refuse an opportunity like that - especially since his mind couldn't conjure any believable excuse that wouldn't at least partially reveal his dirty little secret.

Cutting you out of his life had felt like removing a tumor, slowly corrupting him from the inside but still being a part of himself.

And it grew back even stronger.

The only times he allowed himself to be around you these days was when the orphans were present. He was civil but reserved towards you, and while you never quite understood what you did to deserve such treatment, you never dared asking either.

Deep inside you had a feeling what this was about, but there was nothing you could do or say to return things to how they have been between you.

There's lines one simply shouldn't cross.

Not that you ever intended to, you were happy as things were. But you both had stepped foot into dangerous territory, gradually overstepping the limits that were acceptable.

And truth be told, Anderson still did.

The fact that you were still so sweet and caring towards him despite all of his shortcomings, all the pain he had caused you, it was eating him alive.

And made it impossible for him to stay away.

At least from afar he would seek out your presence, lingering in the shadows or keeping watch over you from the security of his own room. Though he told himself it was just to assure your safety, he felt guilty each time certain urges would overcome him as he spied, becoming more and more depraved in his attempts to feel close to you.

Anderson rubs his temple as he prays the undignified thoughts away, grabbing the small worn-out bagpack he'd always take to missions with him. He sighs in selfy-pity, finding a box with christmas cookies inside. There's a post-it with your handwriting attached to it, something about how it's a present from the children rather than yourself.

What a convenient lie, he thinks.

He takes one out and treats himself, mentally preparing - rather about having to spend the holidays with you than the upcoming fight. But then the loud beeping on his cellphone tears him away from his thoughts, and he freezes as he sees the name on the display.

It was you. A video-call even. Bloody hell.

Now he was glad that you had showed him how to use this fancy new device, instantly shutting off his own camera to not let his guard down.

"Hello? Anderson?" The screen freezes due to bad connection, but eventually it works. You were wearing a santa-hat, one of the infants on your lap waving at him. He can't help but smile at the endearing sight. "Yes, I'm here" he says in a nonetheless harsh tone, "Take that ridiculous thing off of your head. It's blasphemic."

"Well..." quite timid, you rub the back of your head as you point to the baby. "He just has a hard time sleeping, that's all." It sounds like some cheap excuse to call, but he knows you're being genuine. "Calls out for his 'dada' all the time" you chuckle to cover up your hurt pride. After all, you're with the children 24/7 and yet they're way more attached to their beloved Paladin. "Thought seeing-" you stare at the black screen kind of disappointed, "...or hearing you might help him settle."

You overexaggeratedly roll your eyes at the man. "Oh c'mon, don't be such a kill-joy. It's for the kids!" Oh he's had it with you and your flowery nonsense. Last time you almost made him feel bad for some damn protestants, that's how good you were at defending your naivety. "And what'r ya' doing up this late?"

"I hope I didn't disturb you?" Your eyes widen in bewilderment for a fraction, lips forming an O. "Ye' weren't."

"He'll get used to it over time" Anderson states objectively, "You should've seen Maxwell when he was that age. Was carrying that lil' lad for years, clingy one he was."

"Seriously?" You smirk mischievously, having found something to tease your annoying superior with. "I will never let him live this down."

You surrender your phone to the young boy, smiling dreamily as you hear Anderson half-chant to him in that gruff voice of his until it stopped being entertaining for the child. "I'll try bringing him to bed now, but are you free after?"

Anderson pauses for a while. "You should really go to sleep, lamb. You're overworking yourself."

"Just a few minutes, I promise. I don't want to rob you off your well-deserved sleep either" you wink, not knowing he'd rather stay awake than to be haunted by you in his dreams. It takes you longer than anticipated, though, but Anderson was rooted on spot until you called once again. A mere voice-call this time. That's better, easier if he doesn't have to look at you.

"Thanks for waiting" you greet him, but he brushes it off. "Enough chitchat. What do you want?"

There's a crack in your voice at the sharpness of his words, at the edge with which he chooses to speak. "I...figured after all this time, I deserve an answer to why we've drifted apart."

Anderson lets out a short, ragged breath. "Are- are you alright?" you ask, and it somehow enrages him even more. Why are you continuing to make it so hard for him to do the right thing?! He huffs, voice gravely. "Ya neednt worry 'bouta wrench like me."

"And yet I do" you insist, voice a lot smaller when you ask "So, what did I do wrong?"

"I don't think you could ever do something wrong" he admits softer now, insides churning at the saddened crack in your voice. "Even if you wanted to."

"Then why-" Stopping yourself from saying something unwise, you bite your bottom lip. "I miss you, Father. That's all."

It takes everything in him not to whine at the statement, to break down and confess that you're actually the most important person in his entire life. "I miss you too, ya' know?"

He hears you choke on a sob and clutches the phone tighter, clearing his throat in hopes you don't notice how his own voice is wavering. "Really, dear, you did nothing wrong" he repeats, the nickname leaving his lips faster than his mind can catch up on. "I haven't been myself lately" the priest admits an almost-truth, "Thought you were better of without me burdening you."

"When you offered me to stay at the orphanage back in the day, you said the choice was mine. And now I choose you again." You're fully aware how wrong this sounds, but couldn't care less. "You don't have to go through everything alone, Anderson. Let me be at your side."

"I'm a complicated person, Y/N" he argues, dreading that this won't be the last time he'd deliberately hurt you. "Oh, I know that. That's why I like you, after all. You're authentic, and passionate, and have a kind heart. Isn't that all that counts?"

"...I will be done with my work soon, if everything goes as planned. Back home around midnight." You internally jubilate at his subtle compliance. "And I will be here waiting for you, of course."

Anderson's lips tug into a hopeful smile, shoving all concerns into a dark corner of his mind. Oh, how he's missed your voice, your benevolence, your everything. "Yeah, that would be great."

It's alright - the two of you would rather have each other platonic than not at all.

What could possibly go wrong?

[littlesparklight]

Some vampires and vampire hunters with Hektor and Paris for the urban fantasy AU prompt of AUtober! :D

"Alexander!"

Hektor stormed through the large house, abandoning their vague line of offense with little thought to the shouting behind him. It mattered less now, anyway; they'd chosen their time of attack well, all but the oldest vampires choosing to attempt to flee them rather than fight, so they might avoid the sun. Even the oldest had quickly chosen discretion as the better part of valour. The morning sun was the most dangerous, though they were capable to come out into the light hours before sunset.

"Alexander!"

But while they'd chosen their attack well, had planned it well, it'd taken them a whole week alone to find where Alexander was. And then two more days to plan.

Nine days.

Most vampires liked to play with their victims. Others would kill immediately. They didn't know the Queen of the West well enough to know which applied to her, especially not when it came to a victim who belonged to a venerable family of vampire hunters. And that wasn't even the only problem, when it came to their family and vampires, when it came to Alexander. Soft, stupid Alexander, who refused to take anything seriously and was never careful enough, who just---

There. The master bedroom.

The door wasn't locked, and Hektor almost fell on his face as he bulled his way inside, the door slamming into the wall. Drawing no reaction at all from the naked figure lying on the bed in a spill of limbs and long, loose hair.

"Alex---! Fuck!"

More curses followed, yet it took several heart-hammering seconds before Hektor could make himself move from the doorway. Weak suddenly, Hektor could only creep forwards, reaching out in passing to tug one of the heavy blackout curtains aside from a window. There was a twisting crawling in his gut, rising up into wet heat pressing against the back of his eyes. His little brother reminded of a porcelain doll, pale and perfect.

Almost perfect.

There were bruises at the insides of his wrists, at his throat. On the insides of his thighs, too, tender places that only emphasized the naked fragility. Especially so when he was - understandably - bare of his usual makeup, though somehow his nail polish was pristine. It must have been reapplied at some point. Hektor wanted to tear something apart, but all he had within reach was pillows, bedsheets and Alexander.

"Alexander."

Hektor pretended like he wasn't begging, like he hadn't been timing the butterfly-shallow and syrupy-slow breaths stirring his little brother's chest. He pulled the covers up to Alexander's hips, at least, as he sat down, and couldn't avoid the bruises when pressing fingertips to Alexander's pulse. Not that that would tell him much, at this point. He spread his hand out to cup Alexander's cheek instead. Under his touch, Alexander finally stirred, lashes fluttering before he opened his eyes.

Flinched, for the head of the bed was bathed in the full morning light, which seemed ill-advised for a bed intended to be slept in by vampires. Even an old vampire like the Queen of the West. Hektor was suspecting there was a reason for that, for there was a burning pinprick in Alexander's eyes before he closed them against the light, then opened them again and blinked rapidly. It remained, no trick, and Hektor's heart boiled over with fury.

"Hektor..?"

His little brother smiled like the dawning sun outside, and fury plunged deep into Hektor's gut, black and soft and heavy. He still wanted to cry, angry as he was, but he beat the urge back.

"I'm here," he said, while he reached for his belt, but there his fingers froze. "I'm here. How are you feeling?"

"Tired. Could you…" Alexander frowned, blinking those big, begging eyes of his, and pouted. "The curtain. Could you close it..? The light hurts my eyes."

He would bet it did. Bile stuck in Hektor's throat, burning a hole right down to his heart. Vampire turnings were slow things.

"Hektor." Deiphobos stood in the doorway, arms crossed. Attention locked at him, not on Alexander. "We need to---"

"Go, yes," Hektor snapped, eyeing his brother narrowly while he wrapped Alexander up in the covers as well as it was possible.

Alexander was already falling asleep again, and he looked, if it was possible, even paler now. Whether it was because the covers cut off the rosy morning light and threw the warm shadows over his skin cooler, or if there simply was no warmth left that could be sustained without even indirect sunlight… Hektor gritted his teeth and picked his little brother up, and he was a soft, unresisting lump in his arms. Still again. Like the doll he'd reminded of, or---

"That's not what I meant and you know it. We---"

"We're not killing our brother," Hektor growled, only keeping from shouting because he didn't want to wake Alexander again. "We're not going to let them win, this time. And they're not getting another Aunt Hesione."

He was not loosing Alexander.

Even if he in truth already had. They all had. They would have to kill him, or feed him through the turning. And even then - Alexander would yearn for, would need the vampire who turned him. The fledglings and young vampires always did. But handing Alexander back to the Queen of the West would be letting the accursed creatures have another one like their aunt.

With Alexander clutched to his chest and wrapped up far more than his nakedness would require to allow him some privacy, Hektor preceded Deiphobos out in the corridor and down the stairs, ignoring everyone and everything else.

He'd hoped, when Alexander disappeared, it'd been a chance thing. The usual taunt, an injury to be dealt between enemies and to a target softer than the rest of the family, for Alexander wasn't one of the active hunters. Barely had any training, for he'd been aggressively uninterested in it. But it was obvious by now, even if Alexander had been temporarily relinquished to them - to turn the knife, was all - that this was not so.

The blood of their dhampir ancestor wasn't equally strong in all of them, and so not all of them had all the side-effects, blessings and curses both, that came from such a bloodline. Hesione had been among the latest, and the only one most recently, they'd all thought until Alexander grew up, to be saddled not with the vitality and strength and other, terribly useful perks when hunting vampires, but with the curse that belonged to the dhampir blood.

Being able to bear natural vampires.

Hektor had no idea if Alexander could somehow do the same, or if impregnating a female vampire would take as it would in a human woman of fertile age, but either way - the Queen of the West had clearly turned Alexander with an eye to have a second Hesione.

Grinding his teeth, jaw aching, Hektor bundled his little brother into the car. He would - he wasn't sure what he would do, tied to his maker as Alexander now was for the foreseeable future, to young as a vampire for anything else, but he would not let those creatures use his little brother in the same way as they had Aunt Hesione.

[rastronomicals]

6:27 PM EST December 17, 2023:

Scarling - "alexander the burn victim" From the album Sweet Heart Dealer (February 17, 2004)

Last song scrobbled from iTunes at Last.fm

File under: Jessicka

--

[unknownworlds4]

Centralia, Pennsylvania. For most of its history, the town of Centralia was a prosperous coal mining town. Centralia was officially founded in 1842 by Alexander Rae. The first mines opened in the area in 1856, and by 1890 the town had a population of 2,761 and hosted seven churches, five hotels, twenty-seven saloons, fourteen general stores, two theaters, a bank, and a post office. During World War I, production declined as many of the young men enlisted in the military. After the Wall Street Crash in 1929, several of the area mines were closed. However, many illegal mining operations continued in various places. By the 1960's, official coal mining in Centralia had completely ceased, but illegal mining continued until 1982.

In 1962, the Centralia Town Council was deciding what to do with the town landfill. The landfill was established the previous year to discourage illegal dumping and was located inside an abandoned strip-mine pit next to the Odd Fellowes Cemetery. On May 27, firefighters set the landfill on fire and let it burn before extinguishing it. However, the fire was not fully put out - it managed to enter the labyrinth of abandoned coal tunnels that snaked underneath the town.

Residents began to notice something was wrong around 1979. By this point there just over 1,000 residents living in Centralia. That year gas station owner John Coddington inserted a dipstick into one of his underground gasoline tanks to check the fuel level. When he withdrew it, it felt hot. So, he inserted a thermometer into the tank and was shocked to discover the temperature of the gas in the tank was 172° Fahrenheit. Beginning in 1980 several locals began to suffer from health effects due to the gases produced by the fire. Statewide attention began to focus on Centralia when sinkholes began opening at various places in the area. In 1981, 12-year-old Todd Domboski fell into a sinkhole in his grandmother's backyard that opened suddenly right beneath his feet. He saved himself be grabbing a tree root and was pulled to safety by his cousin Eric Wolfgang. The steam plume billowing from the hole was tested and found to contain lethal levels of carbon monoxide. At the same time, Governor Dick Thornburgh and State Rep. James Nelligen were visiting the area to assess the situation. In response to the worsening crisis, the U.S. Congress allocated $42 million for relocation effort. Most residents accepted the payments and moved out of town. Afterwards most of the town's structures were demolished. Some residents, however, refused to leave - with 63 residents remaining by 1990. In 1992, Governor Bob Casey invoked eminent domain on all properties within the town. The U.S. Postal Service discontinued Centralia's zip code in 2002.

There have been several legal attempts by the few remaining residents to stop the government from seizing their homes. The holdouts claim that the government wanted the mineral rights to all the coal deposits that remained untapped. In 2009, the state began formal eviction proceedings against the last few residents. These residents filed suit in 2010 claiming they were victims of fraud. By 2013, the residents settled, reaching an agreement that they could remain in their homes until their deaths, at which point the properties would be claimed under eminent domain. By 2020, only five residents still live in Centralia.

The fire underneath Centralia continues to burn. At its current burn rate, the fire could continue to burn for the next 250 years. Almost all the towns' structures have been demolished, and nature has mostly reclaimed the land. From above, the Centralia appears to be nothing more than a series of paved roads hidden within thick forest. There are numerous fissures all over the affected area spewing steam and toxic gas into the air. A section of Pennsylvania Route 61 passing through the Borough was closed after steam damaged and split the pavement repeatedly. There are many signs placed around warning of ground instability and toxic fumes.

The town has served as the model for numerous ghost towns in popular culture including Vampire Zero by David Wellington and Strange Highways by Dean Koontz. Most famously, the story of Centralia was used as research for the basis of the namesake town in the 2006 film 'Silent Hill' - a movie based the popular video game franchise of the same name.

[pascaloverx]

DEVIL (+18)

Summary: You are a demonic creature, capable of doing whatever you please, whenever you wish. Your goal on Earth is to terrorize as many souls as possible. Until, in a small community, you find the perfect victim for your mischievous games: Father Charlie Mayhew.

Author's Note: Honestly, I’m not sure if this story will have more than one chapter, but it will contain adult content and inappropriate language. Violence may also appear. Frankly, I just needed to write something about this character portrayed by Nicholas Alexander Chavez. The character and others, apart from Y/N, are not my creation. They belong to the Grotesquerie (2024) universe created by Ryan Murphy. To anyone reading this story, I hope you enjoy it.

ONE THREE

TWO

The man knelt before you, pleading for more time. He tried to bargain, claiming he was on the verge of creating a scheme that would corrupt countless souls for you.

"My dear, don’t waste your breath. Our pact was sealed long ago; I used you for the purposes I desired, and now Satan wants your soul. It’s quite simple—it won’t even hurt. It was pleasurable while it lasted, wasn’t it? I gave you every sinful delight imaginable. Now, it’s time to pay the price," you murmur as you crouch down to speak face to face. The man, now sobbing, desperate to avoid death, shakily points a gun at you. His hand trembles as he aims it at your face, and you can’t help but find it almost endearing that he’s so determined to live.

"It wasn’t going to hurt. I wasn’t planning to harm you—I was going to leave that to the demon in charge of your soul down in Hell. But you’ve just lost that privilege," you say, your voice calm as the man frantically throws objects at you, screaming for help. And then you touch him and immediately he catches fire. The flames cover his entire body, as he agonizes and screams in pain, almost roaring for help. When you get bored of seeing a man like that, you touch him again; and it's as if he had never been burned.

"What have you done to me, you demon?" he yells, charging at you like a raging bull, which only makes you laugh.

"I gave you a little preview of your future, darling. Now, brace yourself for your next adventure." You mockingly reply, and before he can reach you, you make him vanish, sending him to his rightful place. Being a demon certainly has its ups and downs, but truthfully, you're growing weary of it all.

Perhaps it’s a good time to visit your favorite priest for confession. It's been a week since you last made contact. You slip into a red lace lingerie set and throw a black coat over it. Naturally, you can’t forget your rosary—it’s essential for keeping appearances. With a final touch, you teleport to Father Charlie Mayhew’s location.

You appear in his room, where he’s half-naked, engaging in self-flagellation while reciting scripture. "Ephesians 6:11: 'Put on the full armor of God, so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes,'” he says, inflicting pain upon himself, still unaware of your presence. His back was covered in cut marks, bleeding everywhere, his eyes closed as he felt the pain rack his flesh.

“Father Mayhew, need some help? There are parts of your back that remain untouched,” you say, catching him off guard. Leaning casually against a piece of furniture near a crucifix on the wall, you smile wickedly as he jumps in shock. The towel wrapped around him nearly slips, the only thing keeping him covered. Your eyes glint with amusement, knowing you’ve disrupted his supposed sanctity once again.

"Are you really here?" Father Mayhew asks, standing up, now nearly face to face with you. His gaze is intense, as though he had been thinking about you long before you appeared in his room. You move around the room slowly, admiring the details, your movements deliberate as you subtly encircle him, using your body language to create a sense of dominance. His eyes follow your every step, conflicted between fear and desire.

"How could I not be here, my dear Father, when you bring me such satisfaction?" you say, your voice laced with dark amusement. "I’ve heard you’ve kept your sinful habits, wishing only for my return. I believe you’ve earned a reward." Your fingers lightly trace over the fresh wounds on his back, sending shivers through him, eliciting a soft groan from his lips. His eyes stay locked on yours as you slowly remove your coat, revealing the red lace lingerie beneath, a sinful gift crafted solely for his eyes. His breath hitches as he takes in the sight, the temptation too powerful to resist, his internal conflict laid bare in the silence between you.

"Galatians 5:16: 'So I say, walk by the Spirit, and you will not gratify the desires of the flesh,'” Father Mayhew murmurs, moving closer to you, his eyes fixed on your chest, tracing every curve and detail of your body. If you weren’t a demon, his gaze might have made you feel shy.

“I’m usually the one who hears confessions, but I must confess to you... I longed to see you again, with a fervor far beyond what is permitted,” he whispers, his voice barely audible as he stands mere inches from your face, as if yearning for a kiss, the tension between you palpable. You regard him with playful amusement, as if he were your favorite source of entertainment.

"Confess to me, Father. Show me what you desire, and prove what you're capable of," you say, your voice laced with a subtle challenge as your fingers brush against his chest. He inhales sharply at your touch, his eyes reflecting the battle between restraint and temptation. The air between you is thick with tension, and despite his struggle, you sense the pull of his desires growing stronger.

The priest kneels before you, gazing up as though seeking your blessing for survival. "Forgive me, in all Your glory, Lord. For I am devoted to You and should turn away from sinful desires, striving to be a good man," he says, yet his eyes remain fixed on you, laden with a sinful intensity. It’s as though his words are meant for God, but his confession is entirely yours. The feeling of power surges through you. Your hands glide over his face, which now seems to exude a wickedly sinful allure. Your fingers lightly trace his full lips, the touch both tender and commanding.

"You must be devoted to me as well. Embrace your darker side, Father. Do not hide it behind your robes. Accept who you truly are," you whisper, your hand gliding along his neck as his head tilts back, eyes wide and fixed on you.

"And who am I, demon?" Father Mayhew asks, his voice trembling slightly, as if he genuinely seeks the answer. His gaze is locked on you, watching intently as you kneel before him, the tension between his devotion and his desire thick in the air.

"You are mine. You belong to me—not only your body, but your soul as well. Punish yourself as much as you wish, but never forget, it is I whom you must worship and fear," you whisper softly, standing before him, your presence enveloping him. The weight of your words lingers in the air, both a command and a promise, as his gaze remains locked on yours, torn between submission and resistance.

"For the love of God, you are the most tempting creature I have ever encountered. How am I to remain pure in your presence?" Father Mayhew exclaims, his voice filled with helplessness as he gazes at you, nearly unraveling before you.

"Father, you're taking the Lord's name in vain... what a naughty boy," you respond with a playful laugh, lowering yourself slightly to kiss his neck. His body shudders under your touch, a wave of tension and desire sweeping through him as your lips brush his skin. Then his fingers trail down to the underside of your lingerie. You lift yourself up a little to help him touch your pussy over your lingerie, biting your lip when you feel his cold fingers touch there. It doesn't take long for him to tear the fabric and finally massage your wet pussy, making you moan softly. His fingers touching you, gently massaging your clit as you touch his strong arms, encouraging him to continue fingering you.

"Say that you are mine as well, demon. Tell me that you are under the spell of what I do to you. Beg me for forgiveness," Father Mayhew demands, his voice taking on a more assertive tone, as if he wishes for you to confess your own sinful desire.

You move toward him, pulling him close, and without hesitation, your lips meet his in a heated kiss. It’s a battle of passion, a wordless exchange of defiance and submission. Neither of you yields, tongues entwining in a struggle for dominance, each unwilling to surrender to the other.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," you moan against his lips, the words flowing like a dark and twisted prayer, as if reciting a beautiful, forbidden verse.

"I forgive you..." he murmurs, his voice thick with desire as his lips crash against yours in a heated, desperate kiss. It's as if he needs the taste of you more than he needs to breathe, each movement of his mouth against yours betraying the battle within him, torn between what he knows is wrong and the temptation he can no longer resist. His hands caress your body, stopping at your thighs, and as he grabs them, you open your legs so he can penetrate you.

"Father Mayhew, are you there?" A woman's voice calls from outside, her knock firm against the door. You and Father Mayhew lock eyes, both silently exchanging glances that hold the weight of unspoken words. He knows your nature, the dangerous allure you carry, and in this moment, he acts on instinct. As he tries to compose himself, he quickly places his hand over your mouth, silencing any response that might expose you both. His expression is tense, a silent plea for discretion, as the tension in the room grows thick.

"Yes, Sister Megan. Do you need something? I'm just finishing getting ready," Father Mayhew calls out, his voice steady despite the situation. He glances at you, a flicker of anticipation in his eyes. It’s clear that, though he might never openly admit it, he's waiting for whatever mischief you might stir. He craves it—your demonic influence, your unpredictable nature—and the subtle tension in the air reveals that he is far more enticed by the chaos you bring than he dares to acknowledge. You then use one hand to masturbate Father Mayhew, who moans in response to the sensation of your hand touching his cock, which is already covered in pre-cum. Your fingers running the length of Father Mayhew's cock as he closes his eyes feeling you touch him.

"I would love your opinion on an article I'm considering publishing. It's quite intriguing, I must admit. It discusses some recent murders that are likely related to the church. I thought we could discuss it over a meal," Sister Megan says, her enthusiasm palpable. Father Mayhew shuts his eyes tightly, his hand still covering your mouth as he stifles a few muffled groans. The tension in the room is thick, a stark contrast to Sister Megan’s casual demeanor, as he struggles to regain his composure, caught between his duty and the forbidden thrill of your presence.

"Wait for me at the church entrance... I will, I will be there in a few minu...tes, now please allow me to dress in silence," he stammers, urgency lacing his voice as he attempts to gather himself. His eyes flicker to yours, a mix of desire and desperation evident as he fights to maintain his composure while you continue to captivate him. Your hand closed around the contour of his cock, moving back and forth, sometimes touching the head of his cock. He is on the verge of cumming, one hand under your mouth, the other under your breast, squeezing your breast, causing you a pleasurable sensation.

"I'll be waiting for you, Father," Sister Megan says before leaving, her footsteps echoing in the silence. You couldn’t care less about her departure. The tension in the room escalates as you release your grip on him, locking eyes with the Padre. He removes his hand from your lips, frustration etched across his features.

"Why did you stop?" Father Mayhew asks, a sultry grunt escaping his lips, revealing his longing for your sweet touch. His gaze searches for you, desperate and yearning, as he grapples with the overwhelming desire you stir within him. The air crackles with unspoken words, the thrill of the forbidden intensifying the moment.

"Next time, give me more importance. Your attention must be entirely mine, just like your devotion, but right now, neither belongs to me. I'm sure you can call Sister Megan in here to assist you if you wish. Until our next encounter," you say, your tone tinged with irritation as you reprimand him with a piercing gaze.

As he reaches out to touch your face, murmuring a soft, "I'm sorry," it’s too late. You vanish into thin air once again, leaving him frustrated and uncertain, haunted by the question of whether you will truly return. The echo of your presence lingers in the room, a reminder of the intoxicating temptation he now craves.