#and i use the little ½ <- fraction symbols

[timiddot]

i think i may have a very distinct typing style

[marchwardenofmordor]

Since people liked my post about the new Nosferatu film, I’m gonna go a little more in depth about some of the things that REALLY stood out to me

- The sound design of his voice and the blood drinking: a fucking genius choice. Each horrific rattling inhale before he speaks and the way he trails off at the end of his sentences because he’s manually breathing for the EXPRESS PURPOSE OF SPEAKING. That monotone is fucking perfect because he sound like the air is being squeezed out of him with each word. The monstrous gulping and slurping as he drinks blood is great because it sounds equal parts disgusting and sexual.

- I think, as a personification of shame, that he is SUPPOSED to make you want to crawl out of your own skin. The moaning, the nudity, the squelchy sounds… if you went to the cinema to see it, I think the idea was to make you blush and perhaps have a bit of a bodily reaction that would have you glancing around at other people in embarrassment. Not everybody is going to want him, but he will tap into the shame of witnessing something sexual in public. If we take the particular time period the film is set in, too, I think he’s supposed to have us clutching our pearls, making us collectively hearken back to the victorian attitudes towards sex and shame.

- You know what else is great about putting us in that mindset as an audience? It makes us remember that talking about sex and death are still considered shameful and taboo - the Victorian period really wasn’t that long ago, and some aspects of that history still casts its shadow of shame over us. But as ashamed as we are, we’re also curious creatures.

- Sex and death are very closely linked. Again, a little death being a term for an orgasm, the fact that indole is a chemical that both repels and attracts us (the scent is commonly used in perfumery, and in small amounts, smells alluring and seductive, like white florals, or the literal smell of sex, but in large concentrations smells fucking rancid, like rotting bodies). When we die, our brains release a rush of endorphins, etc. Dead bodies have a ‘sweet’ smell before they begin rotting - again, that’s probably indole, and would explain some of the subconscious urges of a necrophiliac.

- He is also called ‘death’ multiple times, and we know that a little fraction of his power is bringing ‘la petit mort’ (a little death / orgasm) to his victims.

- Even rats are symbolic here of sex, death and disease: we know terms like ‘multiplying like rats’ obviously, and how rats are symbolic of the plague (even though it was the fleas that caused it). The presence of the rats and the cries of townsfolk about ‘disease’ and ‘plague’ are less like the actual literal plague, and - considering that Orlok is ‘shame’ - more like a metaphorical miasma sweeping through victorian society, reinforcing ideas of shame and purity and what is or is not proper.

- Bodily fluids!! There are tears, there’s cum, considering the rats (again) there’s excrement (also on the walls of the cell in the asylum??), and with the Renfield-type character there’s also saliva. This isn’t just for shock/horror - the main fluid shown is blood, and in the mindset of a victorian christian (historically, blood transfusions could only really be shared between a man and a woman who were married because blood was a life-giving bodily fluid likened to the life-sowing fluid of semen), the idea of a blood-drinking monster was fucking horrific and blasphemous, sinful beyond measure.

- Orlok’s appearance and the treatment of the G*psies in the town (once more - “bringing shame to this inn!” Likening them to the vampire) is indicative of the xenophobia and prejudice towards Romani Jewish people of the time period, where white victorian christians feared Romani people as being ‘child-stealing’, ‘blood-drinking’ (again, look up Blood Libel) barbarians prone to SA (stereotypes which sadly persist today), but also fetishised them as mystics. (I did my university dissertation on ‘boho’ tattoos, cultural appropriation and the origins of the ‘boho’ aesthetic and why it is just ✨not it✨ but I won’t go into that in depth because my analysis was literally over 5000 words)

- I love that the message at the end was basically ‘the only way to kill your shame is to lay with it, to accept it and love it’ - which is honestly true. If you learn to accept uncomfortable aspects of yourself and face them, they no longer have any sort of power over you.

- The female protagonist is dressed all in white, indicative of her purity and chastity, and it’s interesting to see how her wardrobe gradually darkens throughout the film, showing her becoming quite monstrous herself in one particular scene where she rips open the top of her dress and demands Thomas to ‘take her’, up until the final scene, where she is stark naked and covered in blood. Honestly wicked. I love a good corruption. Her character is so symbolic of the struggle of someone who is deeply repressed and chastised for her desires. Desires which started innocently and then - through suppression in an oppressive society and household (her father discovering her naked and screaming at her for being sinful)- were twisted and given form as something monstrous that literally eats away at her and those around her, because she brings her shame wherever she goes, and in the end, even though she faces it and sets an example, it ultimately kills her to do so.

- Also notice how NOBODY fucking listens to her. And every time nobody listens to her, Orlok grows stronger as she grows angrier and more frustrated. They’re feeding him by ignoring her. It’s sad that they look at her in the end, and deem her ‘sacrifice’ as noble, only really paying attention to her once she is dead, with her shame laying on top of her, crushing her. This is the torment of the Victorian Woman, told that she must deal with her problems alone by the male characters.

Edit: Also because the film is German in origin, I’d recommend looking up the ‘Nachzehrer’ creature - a ghoulish vampire-esque creature that would rise from the grave to drag its victims into death with it through various means, known to devour its own funeral shroud, rendering it naked. Fun fact: it was said that if a corpse was clutching its left thumb in its right hand with the left eye open (I think? It’s been a while since I researched it), it would rise as a Nachzehrer. They are also thought to be able to drain their victim’s life force remotely. The threat was said to be particularly great if the living gave the Nachzehrer a personal affectation - in the case of Orlok, it would be Thomas giving him the locket containing Ellen’s hair.

[yourfingeronmytriggers]

Ok maybe I'm obsessing a little bit I just noticed something else interesting.

When Cooper is watching his old film at the SD Mart, lost in his reminiscing, he imitates his character in the infamous scene he struggled with so much due to the sheriff killing for the first time. And when he does this he uses "finger guns"....except....

...Lucy took his trigger finger. And if you look closely you see the moment he realizes and snaps out of his daze to regard it thoughtfully. Just for a fraction of a second. You'd almost miss it, especially with the gloves on. But he VERY deliberately folds the empty gloved digit in half, emphasizing its absence further.

What do you think he is thinking in that moment?

Personally, I can't ignore the potential symbolism behind the juxtaposition of these two pivotal moments in his life. The way he watches his former, *human* self in the very scene that transitions him from the lawful sheriff to a darker character (one who kills), foreshadowing the loss/reshaping of his moral compass. Yet simultaneously becomes distracted by the loss of the very thing that represented that spiral: his trigger finger.

When he loses Barb he loses faith in the goodness of both himself and others. His world literally falls apart and everything boils down to the bottom line of the wasteland: kill or be killed. You can't trust anyone. It's becomes an inevitably etched in the stone of his heart.

But now he's met Lucy and she's surprised him. Made him question things. This woman for all her naivety and sheltered way of life did not react as he assumed she would. Instead, she proved strong enough to survive while managing to hold on to a part of herself she deemed important.

And maybe, just maybe the loss of one thing could gain him another in the future? Perhaps Lucy will help reshape his outlook once more. Restore his faith in a faithless world.

Does losing that vital piece of himself and quite literally having Lucy fill its absence portend things to come?

What do you think?

I don't know about you but I'm here to drink up every last drop of the dark romanticism being served up in their pairing, whatever the future holds for them.

[purplelupins]

Lamb

|Midnight Mass|

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI

Father Paul Hill/John Pruitt x fem!reader

Word count: 13.7k

Summery: An entire life of being a good girl was a difficult cross to carry...especially in a tiny town with 127 residents on a good day. You kept the town fed and spirits as high as you could, but when a new face steps off the afternoon Breeze, things around you start to change; you don't even know you're in the eye of the storm.

Warnings: nsfw, reader is religious, religious symbolism, ideology, explanations and general conversations of religion, age gap (like this man is 80 technically and he watched reader grow up, and can remember reader as a little girl so if that’s creepy to you then go no further), stalking, manipulation, murder (hello have you seen the show?), drinking of blood, hunting of a person, grief, description of animal death, reader is described as blushing, character death, non consensual help showering, guilt and god maybe more but I think that’s it…this is not really a fix it fic

Notes: this is it…the final chapter of Lamb! Thank you all so much for reading…thank you to everyone who has supported me and commented and given me feedback. I love each and every one of you. It’s been a pleasure.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

It was nearly noon when you stirred.

You had expected to awaken in bed, just as you usually did these days when you dozed off; it was not a pillow under your cheek that morning, though. There was a steady rise and fall under your ear, and a security to where you lay. You slowly cracked your eyes open, and took in where you were. Certainly you remembered falling asleep on the couch, but you did not recall laying on Father Pruitt. And yet there he was slumped uncomfortably against the wooden arm on the couch with you pulled over his chest and into his lap like a makeshift blanket.

You had assumed he generally didn’t sleep- either didn’t need it or didn’t choose to. However as you looked down at the peaceful man, you found you were wrong. As you rose your head, those dark lashes of his brushed his cheeks as he lay under you in a slumber. You stilled and stared so as to not rouse him; whether it was out of fear of waking the beast, or manners for not stirring your host, you were not sure.

It seemed fate would come to your aid. Father John’s brow twitched in the same way it used to when he would start to fall asleep during a lengthy conversation after Mass when his hair was grey. His wrinkled face would go lax, and he would slump slightly then catch himself and pass it off as him thinking.

You watched his eyes slowly crack open, then it seemed his senses returned to him all at once as he sat up a fraction a little too fast. You fell a little forward and caught yourself on his shoulder and he caught your waist and your upper arm.

“Oh I’m- I must’ve…-“ he trailed off as sleep still gripped him.

You watched him wake up and laugh a little at the slight awkwardness of it. Then he seemed to finally realize that you too had only just awoken.

“You slept.” He stated, voice thick with tiredness.

You nodded.

“I’m sorry I- well I would have moved you, but I didn’t want to…” he could have stopped there and it would have been true too, “…wake you.” He added.

Your silence made him swallow. Making him nervous was not your intent, though somehow seeing him a little uncomfortable made you enjoy your position a little more.

After a moment he sighed and gently guided both of you to sit up and he pulled at the neckline of the sleep dress you wore. You tilted your head away from him for a better view, and the action itself made his nostrils flare.

So trusting for me…

“No more bleeding. Well done little one.” He hummed.

You waited for him to put the fabric back, which he did after another moment; a gentle sweep of his fingers over your collar bone. Soft and unhurried. Nothing like you had seen and felt from the other men of the island. Rough hugs and claps on your shoulder or an entitled hand on your back. Anything but ginger and gentle.

“Why me, Father?” You whispered suddenly. It was a question that you had repeated over and over until your throat went dry. Why me? Why me God, why me?

John sighed out through his nose. You had always been one to not shy from difficult questions. He could remember your mother chastising you when you would pose such queries to the aging Monsignor at 10 in the morning. He tucked his chin to his chest as he thought then turned back to you, eyes soft.

“Because you were perfect.” He muttered.

Neither Eve nor Lilith. You were neither made from his rib nor from the same soil as he, and John basked in that realization. You were his lamb. A willing and trusting creature who only wanted a Shepard, yet so tempting in its soft flesh and sweet smell.

His words hung in your ears. You nodded- not in understanding, because you did not understand, but because it was a truth he believed. You hoped you would come to understand it, too.

You sat up off his lap, and stretched- the bones in your back popped and your tentons pulled against tissue until you were satisfied.

John watched you unabashedly, a small smile on his mouth at the sight of you.

“I don’t think you know this…but you were always my favourite.” Came his low rumble of a voice beside you.

You settled, and looked over to where he was already turned towards you. “What do you mean?” You asked.

He breathed out a laugh, “It look me a while to remember, but over several months the pieces of my fading mind slowly fell together. I remember always enjoying your company…your dedication, your selflessness and selfishness…your curiosity…so sweet.” John recalled the last twenty odd years following your birth. The birth of a child on Crockett was always a true gift. He had watched you go from smiling and wailing in your mother’s arms to walking down Main Street as fast as your chubby legs could, to you being the last remaining light of the island as you pedalled to the marina with the stiff sea breeze sobering you.

Even in his deteriorating body he loved seeing that little face, in and outside St. Patrick’s. Your wit and comforting nature. The look of regret and apology tugging your pretty mouth into a frown when you would see the filthy floors of the church after a rainy day. How the sunshine of summer mornings would reflect off your face through the church windows. Those dresses you would wear under your warm sweaters; colours of lush fauna, blue skys and spring.

You listened to him, and watched as the good Father seemed lost in thought.

“I don’t know if you remember when my family left…but I was so scared. Independence had always been something I was used to, but something about loneliness…I suppose what I’m trying to say is St. Patrick’s was a home for me.” You returned his thoughtfulness with your own.

John smiled again to himself and patted your hands that sat on your thighs, “And it will always be a home for you…even when it stands in ruins.” He murmured.

You sucked in a breath, and looked away. His stare grew far too intense for you at times.

“Come…you need to eat, sweetheart.” Father John sighed and stood, his hands outstretched to help you up. You took his hands, and let him make you food.

The supplies for the island were simple and repetitive. Nothing fancy. It had been months of similar meals and uninteresting ingredients, but you found that you couldn’t complain. You were alive, and that was what mattered.

“Can I ask you something?” John’s chest rumbled as he spoke across from you at his desk.

You looked up from the book you had been reading- your knees tucked up to your chest in the old chair. “Go ahead.”

The Father took a moment to think of the best phrasing while he put his pen down. This had been something that ate away at him for months, but it had never been an appropriate time to ask it. He prayed this was a corrected time now.

“That night…Easter…you came back. You didn’t look afraid…sad and horrified, yes, but not afraid…” he said, “I was afraid. I was grieving…why were you not afraid?”

You looked away, and thought.

“I was afraid but not…not of what you think,” Your eyes glazed over as you recalled that night. How the church smelled of candle wax and iron and wet wood, “I thought I was going to die that night. I did. And I was okay with that. It wasn’t death that frightened me. There was something else that did.”

He hung onto every word, “What was it, my child?”

You swallowed and finally looked up at him, “You- you weren’t violent. When you first got back to Crockett you weren’t violent.” You shook your head.

Your statement surprised him.

“Well- I - had my limit…Joe- well…he suffered but…I suppose that was a circumstantial thing…for the majority of the time yes I was…fairly docile.” He nodded along.

You felt your throat tighten and your nose prickled, “Then why did they rip their families to shreds? Why did they attack like that…they were possessed,” you said and shook your head, “What scared me and still scares me, Father , is that I think those people were just looking for an excuse to be savage. I knew Wade and Dolly so well and I had to pull a Leeza away from them…their own daughter…are we all just…savages safeguarded by laws and manners and faith? What scares me is that I wonder what they really are capable of. And now that…I’m weaker than them, I would be defenceless. It’s the suppressed urges that scare me.” Your voice trembled.

Father Pruitt hadn’t entirely thought of it in such a way. But once you laid out what the islanders had done in that manner, he found himself a little more horrified.

“I can understand why.” He leaned back and rubbed his brow, “I haven’t…I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

You nodded, “It’s why I run, I can handle dying. I can handle God. But the thought of being torn apart and drained by people I loved is what scares me.”

John regarded you- his cupids now pulled into a straight line.

“I know you’re sorry, Father…it’s not you that scares me.” You said gently. You opened your book and picked up where you had left off; leaving the older man to stew and mull over your answer to his question.

Father Pruitt pulled his messenger bag over his shoulder, and sighed as he readied himself for Mass. The black button-up plus that crisp white collar were back in place from his sweater. He took a quick breath as if to say something, then he seemed to decide against it.

You watched from your spot on the couch, and waited to see if he would give into the itch and say what was on his mind-

“You…you can come. If you’d like.” He tried to say it far more casually than he felt, and it showed.

You stifled a laugh, “To a church full of v-“

“I know…just…I thought you might miss it.” He stumbled a little to correct himself. He missed seeing you there. He missed feeling your glow.

You thought for a long minute. You did miss it. You missed the church, you missed seeing other faces…you missed hearing his sermons and the hymns.

“I do…” you whispered.

“Then come. I promise you will not be harmed, there’s been a steady supply and everyone is fed. I promise you.” He spoke almost pleadingly.

You stared up at him, and clenched your jaw.

John’s chest ached. Too soon. “I’m…I’m sorry I shouldn’t have-“

“Okay.”

The ache tightened, but it hurt so nicely. He looked at you in the eyes, “…okay?” He repeated.

You nodded.

A rush of air left Father Pruitt’s lungs in shock, “Okay. Okay…okay, c’mon, little one.” He held out his hand to beckon you to him.

You stood and padded to the bedroom to retrieve a pair of wool tights and a sweater to have over your dress. When you returned, Father John already had your coat and boots ready for you. It was only a short walk, but the church had always been drafty, and winters were not kind on Crockett.

He helped you into your shoes and closed your coat, “There. Now come along. You’ll sit at the front…no one sits there anymore.” He thought aloud.

But you weren’t listening. You were watching that handsome face as he fretted over you. It was so much all at once how he looked after you. Too much but not enough.

What you didn’t expect was how he took your hand in his larger one and guided you down the rectory steps and out past the cemetery and the rec centre. You had noticed ages ago how many new graves there were, though you never mentioned it.

Father Pruitt drew small, soothing circles along your knuckles and led you up through the back vestibule of the church.

You held your breath and paused in the doorway. The last time you had been there, Erin had shot Bev in the chest. You sucked in a sharp breath suddenly and it hurt your lungs.

You needed to do this.

Closure.

Though you wished that Bev was still on Crockett. You would have enjoyed giving her a piece of your mind now that you weren’t terrified. But alas, she was a long gone pile of dust.

“"When I am afraid, I put my trust in you. In God, whose word I praise, in God I trust; I shall not be afraid. What can flesh do to me?"…He is with you, little one. If I am not enough then know that He is with you.” The Father bent to murmur in your ear.

You swallowed the saliva that had pooled in your mouth and nodded.

He took that as an invitation to proceed. You stayed with him as he retrieved his green chasuble and slipped it over his head.

“Ordinary time…” you whispered to yourself.

John pretended not to hear you, and continued on. He knew you were reliving and processing what he had put you through.

When he filed out to the body of the church, he placed a gentle hand on your back and pointed to the front pew where Beverly used to sit, “Everyone thinks that spot is haunted by Ms.Keene. I assure you it is not. You can sit there.”

You looked from the pew to him and felt anxiety start to fill you.

John turned back to you and brought his hands up to cradle your soft face.

“I am with you. You will not leave my sight I promise.” With that, he placed a small kiss on your forehead, and released you.

Trust.

You took another shuttering breath in, and out, then stepped out into St. Patrick’s. It was still empty, and your footsteps echoed in the bare building. You looked down at the floorboards, and at the stairs to the pulpit, then finally you dared to look down the aisle to the door. Flashes of Easter make you blink hard to force them away. Now there was no blood, nothing left to portray the carnage that occurred there.

You eyes fell upon the crucifix, and you forced yourself to sit down in the pew. You needed watchful eyes on you that night. Your fear began to bubble up into your throat and constricted it. You needed to not be alone.

You reached into your coat pocket, and clutched your rosary, and you began to pray.

“Angel of God, my guardian dear, To whom God's love commits me here, Ever this day, be at my side, To light and guard, Rule and guide. Amen.” You whispered to yourself.

John still stood in the vestibule, readying the communion when he heard your little voice start to pray. He swallowed thickly at the memory of last muttering that same prayer; clutching at his stomach and screaming for that winged beast to come to him…he might have given into the grief, but John had long since worked through the guilt that did eventually come, contrary to what he told Riley. Instead, he blinked a few times, and began to recite the prayer with you under his breath.

The doors to the church were opened, and your baby hairs stood on end.

“Angel of God, my guardian dear, To whom God's love commits me here, Ever this day, be at my side, To light and guard, Rule and guide. Amen.” You finished and crossed yourself.

There were slow footsteps as parishioners entered, and noticed you. You knew they noticed you by the way conversations stopped and whispers began. You didn’t dare look behind you.

No one approached you, just like your Father had told you. You kept waiting for someone to grow bold and take a seat beside you, but it never came. Even as you all rose for the hymn, and began to sing, you remained alone and untouched.

You sang quietly, and kept your eyes low until Father Pruitt passed you and took his place at the pulpit in front of you. You had to crane your neck now to look up at him, and you found a twinge of pain there in your shoulder from the bite. A cruel reminder.

“Good evening everyone…here we are again as Christmas approaches and the New Year. It’s during this time of year when I am reminded of gifts. Gifts come in so many shapes and forms…at so many times. A shiny new bike, a gift card, a new dress…wrapped up and then torn apart to emphasise the excitement…then there are other kinds of gifts. The gift of seeing a loved one again. A child, a new house, a hot meal. Sometimes a gift can come in the form of a person. Jesus was a gift to mankind…our Lord and our Savour who leads us even though he has left us…” he spoke gently, and you found yourself softening. You felt like you were listening to your Monsignor again. No agenda…no manipulation. Just a man with a collar trying to remind people of God.

“People can be the biggest blessings…we give each other connection, and we empower each other. We can remind each other of better times and push each other to move forward. To recover, to learn, to get out of our comfort zones. To be more pious and to think of God more. People can be reminders for each other just as much as a crucifix…Gifts. Meant to be treasured…” he glanced down at you, and his heart swelled at the sight of you being there, “And cared for. We must nurture and care for those around us who remind us of God, and who push us to be better. We must be selfless for them.”

You listened to him, and rolled your rosary over your fingers. Like little drops of water. The last memory you had of being in church was full of so much fright and anxiety as you tried to get a grip on yourself- telling yourself everything was fine when it evidently hadn’t been. You sometimes wondered what would have happened if you had listened to your gut and left long before Easter. Would you have lived? Or would you have returned to Crockett after to come home only to be devoured at night because you didn’t know about the islands nightly tendencies? Was there any way to escape or were you doomed from the start?

You didn’t stand in line for the Eucharist. You didn’t watch the rest of the flock accept it. But as the final person left to sit down, you heard your name being called gently. You slowly rose your gaze, and met with Father Pruitt standing just feet from you.

“Body of Christ, little one.” He said to you, wafer in hand. You took a moment to catch up with his offering, and when you saw a paper cup in his other hand, you gave in.

“Amen.” You held your hands out to accept it the wafer, and let it dissolve on your tongue.

“Blood of Christ, little one.” He said, holding out the cup to you. You flicked your eyes up to his for just a moment.

Trust.

“Amen.”

You leaned forward, and let him tip the cup’s contents into your mouth. Your tongue was flooded with grape juice.

John watched you proudly, and finished service.

You didn’t stay. You couldn’t. Of course you wanted to see Annie, and to hold Leeza and to look Dolly in the eye. But you couldn’t. The thought alone had your stomach churning with upset. You wordlessly brushed past Father Pruitt as he descended the stairs to bid his parish a goodnight, and he watched you go. You slipped out the back door and ran back inside the rectory and slammed and locked the door.

You ripped off your coat and hung it up with shaking hands, and toed off your boots and yanked off your tights because everything felt too tight and too warm and too itchy all at once and you couldn’t breath.

You turned off the lights and ran into the bedroom and pulled the blankets up and over your head as you tried to find an equilibrium in your breathing. Your ears were ringing and your stomach felt uncomfortable like you had either eaten far too much or far too little.

After a while, you heard knocking on the front door. Your nerves lit up at the idea of one of the islanders being the visitor. Your stomach only dropped further when you heard keys. You knew Father Pruitt was the only one with keys, or so he said. What if this was all a trap? What is he asked you to come that night so he could let the parishioners on you? What if he was lying all along? What if-

“Y/n?” Came that low hum of a voice that you had grown to know. You still didn’t move. What if he had other people with him?

You could hear footsteps coming closer. You pulled the covers closer, and tried to hold your breath.

“Little one, what are you doing?” Came his gentle whisper.

You didn’t reply, staying as still as you could.

He sighed.

“Give me your hand, my sweet girl.”

You didn’t.

“Trust me.”

You slowly moved your arm and released the death grip you had on the blanket to produce your hand to him.

John tutted your palm where little crescent moons were etched into your skin where you had clenched your fists.

You felt him take your hand, and raise it up until you felt him press it against his cheek.

“See? I’m here…you’re okay.” He whispered into your skin and leaned into your touch. You moved your fingers over his cheekbone and along his jaw, then down over the corner of his mouth and over his Cupid’s bow until you returned to holding his face. You felt the light press of a kiss to your palm, and your breath hitched.

“Come here, sweetheart…”

You very slowly pulled the blanket off your head and turned your head up to peak around the room. It was dark. So dark. You knew he didn’t need the lights on to see you clearly, and when your eyes found his, his gaze were two pinpricks of light bouncing off his pupils.

With his other hand, he coaxed the blanket off you a bit further until your thighs poked out.

“There she is…” he whispered, and pulled on your hand to sit up until he was sitting beside you and guiding you into his lap,“You did so good, I’m so proud of you, my girl.”

Your limp grip on his shoulders tightened quickly until you were wrapping your legs around his hips and locking your arms around his shoulders; face buried in his neck.

John exhaled into your hair as your scent flooded his senses.

“I’m sorry I ran…” you murmured.

“Shh..nothing to apologise for.” He kissed your temple, and pretended to not notice how your legs tightened around him. How close you were.

“I know they want to see me…I just…I don’t think I can…” you sniffled.

“That’s alright…they understand.” He cooed, stroking your hair.

You sighed and suddenly felt so embrasssed for running. You felt like a child.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” He breathed against the crown of your hair.

You shook your head.

“Do you want to come sit with me? I can read you one of those terrible German fairytales.” He offered.

You laughed shakily, “I’d rather go back to the church, Father.”

He laughed with you, and you enjoyed the vibrations it made in his chest. You slowly pulled away from him, but kept your gaze lowered to his chest. You thought you were stronger than that.

His sigh fanned over your forehead, and his finger came under your chin to tilt your face up to his. Your eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and you could see his face. His breath mingled with yours, and you swallowed it down.

“Come sit with me.” He said gently, “Keep an old man company.”

You relented and untangled yourself from him.

“Slowly…there you go.” He helped you to stand, and put a hand on your lower back to nudge you out from the bedroom.

Your bare feet were cold against the wooden floors. When you sat, you immediately tucked them under you to warm them; you didn’t want to ask for a blanket, you had been enough trouble already.

John shucked off his coat and hung it while watching you in his peripheral. You were cold.

He walked past you and retrieved a blanket from the closet, and grabbed a book he had seen you eye, then returned to you.

You looked up when you heard Father Pruitt round the couch, and your cheeks went warm when you saw the blanket.

“Sorry…” you whispered and accepted the plush quilt.

“Hush.” He whispered and took a seat beside you, then held his arm out for you to come closer. You shuffled tentatively towards him, and he tsked you before putting the book down momentarily to pick you up and slide you over his thighs. You gasped a little and tried not to be uncomfortable for him; squirming to keep most of your weight off him while he pulled the blanket around the two of you and up around your torso.

“Better?” He asked, leaning away from you to see you.

You nodded, and he hummed before picking the book back up and flicking through to find a spot to start.

You sighed, and still felt ridiculous. But then you remembered the last time you had felt silly, and you had had every right to feel what you did. Terror or embarrassment, it didn’t matter. With that thought, you allowed yourself to settle into his collar which dug into your cheek.

Father John began to read aloud. After several minutes, you felt his free hand leave you and reach up to his white collar, and pull it free. You watched him put it down beside you, then return to undo a few buttons as he spoke. You were transfixed by his hand, and then watched it stop and return under the blanket to your thigh.

An odd sensation filled you then. One that caught you as off guard as when you had compared Father Hill to Jesus Christ. It was something that coiled low in your belly…constricted yet not unpleasant. You shifted to alleviate it, and while it did dissipate, it didn’t disappear.

You tried to focus on the Father’s voice as he read to you. But it felt as if his words went in one ear and out the other- all that was left was the gentle hum that resonated from his throat.

“I liked your sermon, Father.” You interrupted him.

John paused at your comment, “I’m glad you did.”

“Reminded me of the ones you’d give when I was little.” You said.

He smiled, and patted your thigh, then continued his reading.

After an hour, your eyes began to droop and your head grew heavy.

John could feel your heart rate slowing, and your weight leaning into him more. He finished the paragraph he had started, the snapped the book shut and placed it beside him.

“Let’s get you to sleep, little one.” He whispered and worked his hand under your legs and the other behind your back before standing up with you in his arms.

You nestled further into his arms, and protested when he went to let you down at the bed for your nightly prayers.

“Just a few more minutes then you can sleep.” He chastised you, putting your feet onto the floor.

You nodded, and stretched then carefully got to your knees; the Father joining you.

You both crossed yourselves and began to pray.

“Jesus, through the power of the Holy Spirit, go back into my memory as I sleep. Every hurt that has been done to me, heal that hurt. Every hurt I have caused to someone, heal that hurt. But Jesus, if there is anything I need to do, if a person is still suffering from my wickedness, bring to my awareness that which I have hurt and need to remedy. I choose to forgive others and I ask to be forgiven. Remove whatever bitterness that remains in my heart, and fill it with Your everlasting love. Amen.” John murmured beside you.

Your heart ached, and you sobered at his words. “Amen.” You whispered and after a moment you looked over at the man beside you. He returned your stare; the light from the living room outlining his face.

You swallowed, and forced yourself to stand. John followed you up and bent his neck to look down at you at his full height.

“Good night, my sweet girl.” He whispered to you, and tucked a stray hair behind your ear.

“Goodnight Father.” You replied, and sat down slowly. John picked the blankets up, and helped you under. You noticed his hesitation. And you waited.

He stared down at you for a long moment, then leaned over you and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek.

“Sleep well.” He whispered just a breath away from you.

You felt that warmth coiling in your belly again, and you blinked more than you should have in an effort to force it away. “Thank you.”

He sighed, and leaned away from you. You watched him clench his hands, and you wondered if he had eaten recently. Just as he went to turn away, you put your hand on his arm, “Father?”

“Yes?”

“Are you…you…you don’t seem yourself, have you eaten?” You asked quietly.

John gulped down some air and looked down, “I’m just fine, thank you. Not to worry.” He tried to reassure you, inching out the door.

It isn’t thirst that ails me, little lamb.

He was never one to brush you off. Which was why is attempt did nothing to smooth you. You sat up, “Have I done something? Did something happen?” You asked.

“No…no nothing. I just…I just need some air.” He tried, his smile tight.

You felt a pang of hurt at his stiltedness, but you didn’t press him anymore. “Alright…goodnight.” You whispered.

He nodded and closed the door halfway.

“So you’re saying you grew up on the Mainland, became a priest…did a little preaching in the cities but said “no thank you.” then came to Crockett in your late 20’s?” You asked as you made yourself a cup of tea.

John nodded from his place at his desk, “It was the 50’s and there were just…so many domestic issues at that time. By the end of confessional I wanted to go home and cry. Crockett was simple and a breath of fresh air. Dull, I know. ” He chuckled.

Your face flushed, “No! No I just…always wondered.”

He smiled, “It’s only natural…I grew up in a non-religious household…Christian but not really practicing…my sister’s passing led me to God. Your curiosity is genuine and fair…who knows where it may lead you.”

You sat down across from him and looked over at his writing.

He peaked up at you and tutted, “Nosey.”

You looked away, and took a sip of the hot drink with a little smile.

It had been over a week now since you had been bleeding out in the cellar. You were completely healed, and truly faced little danger, but both of you refused to acknowledge the elephant in the room.

You didn’t want to go home.

And you weren’t sure if that was a good thing.

“I always wanted to travel.” You mused.

“Where would you go?” John asked you, slowing his writing.

“…I think Spain first. See the Vatican…go down to Italy and Croatia then back up to Germany to curse whoever came up with those grim fairytales.” You smiled into your drink.

The Father laughed at that then put his pen down, “I’m sure you will see all of those places and more.”

Your smile faltered a little. If you could get of that island, maybe. Did you want to get off Crockett? Would it be so horrible if you died there?

Your mood dropped.

Father Pruitt’a mouth sat in a straight line when he saw your smile drop. You deserved more. A part of him wondered if the reason you weren’t fighting to leave anymore was because of him. Was he keeping you there? Clipping your wings?

You hadn’t attended Mass since that night. John didn’t ask you to come, he knew you would go if you wanted to. You prayed together every night, and listened to him talk about God in your private hide away. Where you could ask questions and interject.

“Your family called today?” John asked to change the topic.

You sucked in a breath, “Yes…a short call but it was nice to hear their voices…they want me to come for Christmas.”

John clenched his jaw, “I see.”

“I told them the ferries aren’t running very well. Not a total lie.” You shrugged and took a long drink.

He stayed quiet for a long moment.

“Why don’t you go?” He asked.

You looked up at him and laughed a little, “I think we both know the answer to that, Father.”

John looked away, and down at his pen, “If it weren’t for the…what happened, what would you do?”

“I’d…I’d probably go. Take some time away. Maybe book a ticket somewhere and see a piece of the world that isn’t Crockett shaped.” You thought aloud.

He nodded.

“That sounds nice.” He smiled quickly.

“We all have dreams, Father.” You replied.

You finished your drink and stood to place the cup in the sink. When you went to pass by him to return to your seat, the Father’s hand caught yours.

“Come here.” He hummed and pointed to the paper infront of him, “What do you think of this?” He asked you.

You looked down over his shoulder and saw a paragraph he was writing for his sermon. You pursed your lips, and found that your neck was growing stiff at the angle, so you scooted between him and the desk and sat on his lap to read better. You had grown used to sitting in close proximity to the Monsignor, and simply began to read.

John’s breath hitched at your action and he went still for a moment. Certainly you had both been close, but you had never plopped yourself over his legs before. He knew it was just you gaining comfort around him, which was positive, but the action still had him swallowing thickly. Closeness was still something he was being accustomed to after a lifetime of so little. It used to be so easy to ignore any sort of…feelings such as this, but since his regained youth he truly felt like a young man again, and found himself relearning to temper his humanity.

“Well?” He asked in your ear, steadying his breath.

You shifted a little and cleared your throat, “Um it’s good.” You said, “You might want to rephrase this part…sounds a little “holier than thou”.”

His brows pitched up and he leaned closer to read. He looked over the sentence you pointed to and nodded along, trying to ignore the warmth your body bled into him. It seeped into his skin and heated his veins.

“Good…thank you, my dear.” He murmured from behind you, and you turned your head a little to see him in your peripheral.

“My pleasure, Monsignor.”

He grit his teeth at the name. It wasn’t that it bothered him. There was just something about you saying it that reminded him of himself. He gave you a tight smile.

You went to stand, but he slipped an arm around your waist to keep you there, “Sit with me for a while.” He hummed, but had already begun to rewrite the section. You might have protested…or your might not have. You didn’t know which you would choose if you did have a choice.

With his large hand planted against your stomach, and curling to your hip, you stayed put. You shifted to let him see what he was doing, and rested your head into the crook of his neck. He wore no collar nor black shirt…just a tshirt and cardigan. You reached out and picked up his rosary from the desk, and toyed with it. After a moment, you opened your hand, and placed the cross against the little scar you had from your own digging into your hand on Easter.

“Must’ve hurt.”

You jumped a little at his voice and looked up. Your nose bumped his. You hadn’t noticed he had stopped writing altogether, and had been watching you.

“Not as badly as you’d think.” You whispered, looking away quickly to stare down at your hand again.

You saw his arm move from around you to grasp your fingers and bring them up to his mouth where he placed a kiss over the pinkish scar. You felt your ears grow warm, and you tried to pull your hand away, but he wasn’t done. John stroked his thumb over it, and leaned away from you to relax into the back of his chair.

“We should get you to bed, little one.” He mused.

You nodded, though you didn’t feel very tired.

He helped you to stand, and guided you into the back of the rectory. You both knelt facing the cross above the door, but when you went to hand his rosary back to him he shook his head and took yours from the bedside table. It felt oddly intimate to be using each other’s rosary for prayer, and you found your cheeks warming again at the thought of it.

You heard Father John begin a prayer for the night, and you forced yourself to focus on it. Not on how his voice dipped into a low hum that vibrated in your ears and made your fingertips tingle. You told yourself it was just the proximity of someone you had once admired. Someone who, despite the horrible things he had done, cared for you. Not the warmth that simmered just below your pelvis.

“Amen.”

You blinked and glanced at the man beside you and muttered a quiet amen like you had been listening. When he went to rise, you found yourself still rooted to the spot; John halted his movement and settled back down next to you. He didn’t ask any questions nor made any comment. He was patient for you, and if you needed a moment longer, he would join you.

Your eyes were glazed over as you stared at a chip in the paint on the wall, but your ears were alive with the memory of that song the Father danced with you to.

Hallelujah…hallelujah…

You blinked, and sucked in a breath, then released it slowly through your nose. Father John tilted his head to watch you thoughtfully, and you copied his movement. The dim light from a single lamp in the living room cast a warm glow over half his face; one eye glinting in the darkness. Your gaze met his, and you felt your lungs beg for air when you saw reminiscent of the man he used to be. His face soft and vulnerable as he watched you with such fondness.

The selfish and childish part of you whispered to itself in question, “Did love feel like this?” And your other part wished so badly to say no, but it stayed quiet because it didn’t know…and it let that other half wonder idly.

You repeated that question over and over in your mind. Is it? You didn’t know. Not that you had to wonder for long, not when he bowed his head and pressed his lips to yours…and the question vanished. It wasn’t answered, but when he kissed you again, you had no space for wonderment. His hand came up to the nape of your neck to cradle your jaw, stroking small, encouraging circles there. If they could speak they would whisper, “That’s it…that’s it. I’ve got you.” in your ear.

You timidly brought your hands up to his shoulders, not certain if you were to push on them or tug them closer. Your uncertainty seemed to have an answer when he gently ushered his tongue into your mouth. Your little fists slipped over his shoulders just as they did when he carried you to bed at night, and his hand eased around your waist like he did when he held you in his lap while he wrote.

You let him press you close, and you could feel his lean frame flush against you; he elicited a moan from you that he gulped down.

A precious sound.

Then as you sunk into one another, he pulled away just momentarily to pick you up and ease you onto the bed. The plushness enveloped you and his hand slipped to the back of your head to cradle your skull as he returned his mouth to yours and climbed over you carefully. This time you tentatively licked into his mouth, and received a pleased hum in reply as he allowed you.

You repeated the action as you welcomed him over you, placing your knees on either side of his hips. This time he shuttered ever so slightly, and pressed himself closer. You felt one of his hands move to your thigh, stroking it softly like he cherished it, while his other had his fingers twisting into your hair to hold you in place as he grew greedy, and stoked your pining.

Slowly, John pulled away, pecking light kisses to your lips until he was bracing himself over you.

““He who guards his mouth guards his soul. One who opens wide his lips comes to ruin.”…I would happily let you be my ruin.” He whispered.

You stared up at him, eyes heavy, “And what of my ruin, Monsignor?”

He smiled thoughtfully, brushing hair from your forehead, “You will have no ruin. Sunlight cannot be ruined.”

“And what about nightfall?” You countered as his face inches closer to you.

“The sun will always be shining somewhere…and if not then let me be that temporary darkness that borrows your glow if only for a while.” He spoke against your lips, and kissed you slowly.

That warm constriction in your belly wove and churned until the heat of it gave you made your toes curl in your warm socks, and arch your back into him like he wasn’t close enough. You hadn’t the faintest idea a body could be capable of such want, and you were intent to allow it to run its course.

That fist that cinched your hair tugged when your thighs tightened around him to draw him closer. A gasp pulled from your lips and John pressed his hips into you, and the rough jean rubbed you so suddenly you cried out into his mouth and along his tongue that knew your taste.

You whined and tugged at his shoulders; that feeling inside you becoming overwhelming. You were at a loss for words to communicate what you wanted, and it was as if he could feel your need for something…something.

He slowed his mouth and pulled away just a breath, “Tell me what you want.” He hummed.

Your eyes went wide and you looked away only for him to chase your gaze, and tut you. “Cmon.” He cooed. You might have thought he was teasing you if he had been anyone else. But John Pruitt was staring back at you like your answer to his question would determine the course of the rest of his life.

“I-…I don’t…I don’t know I’ve never…” you stumbled over your confession.

John nodded, gaze locked on you intently, “Of course…I understand.”

A beat passed between you two, and you were preparing yourself for him to pull off of you and tell you that he couldn’t-

“I’ll be good to you…if you’ll let me.” He whispered.

Trust.

You bit the inside of your lip as you thought; he didn’t move an inch.

Very slowly, you nodded, “Okay.”

He grinned ever so slightly, just enough to show those pointed peaks of his teeth. “Okay.” He repeated.

He leaned away from you then, and helped you to sit up while he rocked back onto his heels to give you room. He pulled off your sweater just as carefully as he had when he had undressed you after your attack.

“Arms up.” He murmured and you did as he said for him to tug your dress over your head.

A part of John was wailing at him to look away from you and to let you keep your dignity. Told him to dress you and take you home and tell you that he wasn’t a good person. But John had always had a tendency for selfishness, and he knew you were letting yourself be just as selfish as he. He knew you were likely having the same or similar thoughts.

So when he let himself look at you.

He let himself gorge on your beauty.

Greedy. Gluttonous.

He remembered then when he was on the cusp of priesthood when he must have been just a little younger than you. How his mentors would remind him of the perils of the seven sins, and how they would test him when he least expected it. How he would have to employ the Lords graces to overcome them. But John more vividly remembered how those same priests would overfill themselves at holiday feasts, and how he had caught a few staring a little too long at women and girls during services. It was difficult to fear their words when they themselves betrayed them.

Which was why John felt guiltless as the fabric came away from you.

Because he would much rather fear the true wrath of God than the intimidating warnings of men. And if God disapproved of the admiration of one of his creations, then John would take the punishment if he was granted this one time to fill his senses with you.

Your hands shook. And you dropped your arms back down as he placed the garment to the side. You half expected him to remain clothed, but he remained where he was and shrugged off his sweater, and grabbed the back of his plain shirt, and pulled it over his head.

You stared up at his form- still and curious. John took your hand in his, and placed it on his chest where his heart used to beat. Feeling his skin somehow made him feel so much more human. Like there wasn’t a lifetime between you and different blood in your veins.

He sighed at your touch and closed his eyes when he sunk back down to you and your hand moved along his collarbone to his neck to the nape where his dark hair curled. Your other hand joined, and tugged a little on the tender hairs there.

He took his hands away from you for only a moment to kick his jeans to the floor, then he returned to you- skin against yours and the veil of your underwear between you. It felt so foreign to know what his flesh felt like. Of course you knew he was born to this world just as every other being- bare as a babe. But he had become so superior in his status that the idea that he had calves and biceps and skin and hair under his chasuble took away so much of that inhuman pedestal you had unknowingly put him on.

Heat seemed to radiate between you both, and your skin became sticky against the winter chill that crept inside through minor holes and cracks in the old building. You pulled at him and tried to press him closer but it wasn’t enough. You didn’t know what it was, but your greed that you had so perfectly neglected since childhood seemed to rear its head with the Father against you.

You found your dwindling strength to push him away and he chased your mouth for a moment and you let him- open mouthed kisses from afar.

“F-father I’m- I- I um…” you tried to shift and squirm to get your point across but even you didn’t know what you wanted.

The older man above you watched intently with almost a paternal care as you tried to explain yourself.

“Is there a gluttonous warmth that’s settled in that belly of yours, sweet girl?” He asked with a small smirk that truly caught you off guard. You suddenly remembered that he was not entirely inexperienced such as yourself, and you briefly wondered if he has always been a little domineering, or if his age had snubbed it or perhaps it was an embraced trait with his renewed youth.

Your mouth lay agape for a moment, then you nodded and squeezed your thighs around him. The stiffness you felt there pressing insistently against your clothed flesh managed to intimidate your insatiability, but didn’t curb it.

“Would you allow me the gift of bringing you to rapture?” He asked so softly, pecking a kiss to the corner of your mouth and caressing your cheek while his other hand’s thumb stroked under your bra’s band.

Your poor mind attempted to catch up, but his touch was making your head spin and melt. His purred question had you recalling everything you had been taught since childhood by your family, “Father isn’t…we…it’s a-“ you started.

“You might think that…but it cannot be a sin. Not when you are this lovely and willing…You are no temptation…you are a gift.” He countered easily. Like he had thought about this before in detail.

“What if you are the temptation, Father?” You asked.

He grinned a little at your retort. Always one to keep him on his toes.

“If I am that, then is it not better to indulge in me than an irrefutable sin another time?” He nudged your nose with his.

You realized then that never once had you ever heard him preach the sins of the flesh. Indeed that temptations were made to misguide us, but never specifically that.

You breathed his air, and flushed your eyes between his, “Then bless me, Father.” You whispered before you could tell yourself it was wrong.

John’s breath caught in his throat, and he could almost feel his pupils expanding into dinner plates.

Cheeky girl.

“It was always going to be you…” he mused aloud, looking over your face, “No disobedience like Adam and Eve listening to the serpent… no you are…you are too good. My holy deliverance.” He kissed you so tenderly.

Then he kissed your cheek, and down your neck to your shoulder where he pulled the strap of your bra down. He followed the elastic to your chest and he helped you remove the article entirely. You looked away shyly, but he brought your attention back to him with a finger under your chin.

“There we go…look at me…you’re alright…” he whispered, a slight shake to his hand, “I’m with you.”

You nodded and sighed as you fought to not overthink.

Once Father John was certain you were alright, he kissed you one more time and began kissing your chest. His hands were a little timid and out of practice as he squeezed your opposite breast, though did not fail to make your toes curl as he pulled sounds from you that you stifled late at night and shamed yourself for; Hail Mary’s falling from your lips like breaths. He lapped at your skin as he descended down over your belly where your ecstasy lay tightly wound and molten.

He stopped then, and looked up at you , face a little shy in his want.

“Your fruit is the only harrowed offering I desire to eat…and if that makes me a sinner then I will humbly accept my punishment.” He murmured.

Your face was so warm you thought you may faint. You didn’t know the man with the stiff white collar and slightly nervous disposition could have such a blunt, honeyed tongue.

You leaned up a little then to look down at him as he kissed at the top of your panties.

“What are you…” you trailed off. You had had an educational sex talk with your mother when you were a teenager, and had read mentions of the various acts you could do, but you were at a loss with how Father John seemed to wish to venture further than just your stomach or hips.

It was no willing education that the holy man had gone through for sexual acts. It had been decades of confessions from islanders and tourists alike back when the island was alive. Some explicit ans some leaving him curious. Tales from visitors he didn’t know who came to spend a few weeks on Crockett and took advantage of the anonymity of the village confessional booth with a young pastor to hear their sins and absolve them before they returned to the city.

It took years, but after a while, he began to piece things together. They made his ears grow hot and his hands grip his rosary a little tighter.

But curious he remained.

Was a woman’s body so wholly splendorous that a man desired deeply to kiss upon her lips where no tongue sat between them? Would she taste as addictive as they said?

“I’d like to kiss you h-here…”he whispered, and so gently ran his index finger down the edge of your underwear where it curved down your thigh, “…please.”

His eyes were wide as he stared up to you; still so unsure but so lost in his desire to think twice.

“…okay.” You managed. Just as lost as he.

His veiny hands ran gentle trailed up and down your thighs, and he peppered kisses in their wake. You shivered and squirmed under the sensations he drew forth, and you wished you knew what to do with them. Were you supposed to moan or tell him what to do? Were you supposed to ask for more? You didn’t know. What you did know was that you wanted his hands to touch you, and that seemed like a good place to start.

It seemed you hadn’t been paying full attention for a moment, though your focus returned tenfold when you felt a warm kiss there against you. You twitched in surprise, and stared down at the man sat between your legs; his dark hair all tousled curls that fell over his forehead and gaze intently immersed in your reaction. He repeated the action, his lips caressing the fabric that still covered you. Your breathing became something you had to actively remember to do when he grasped the undergarment and pulled it down your legs.

With yourself bare to him, you reflexively notched your knees together, though he easily parted them with a little coaxing from his tongue running up your inner thigh.

“Fa-Father Pr-“ you stuttered out breathlessly.

“Shhh…I know…”he whispered against your hip where he kissed and ran a pointed tooth over your skin. He could barely hide the fact that you using his title affected him more than it should have. “Say a Hail Mary with me, sweet girl.” He said.

Your eyes went wide, and the devil in him reared its head for just a moment. He liked seeing you so shocked. But when he began to recite the prayer and you followed his lead, that heathen calmed a little.

“Hail Mary, f-full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed…” you realised the Father had stopped speaking and had begun running his lips down your hip to your pelvic bone, and he tilted his head to nestle his cheek against you for a moment.

“Continue.” He murmured.

You remembered to breathe, “B-blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb-“ you lost any ability to talk when Father Pruitt leaned down and pressed an open mouthed kiss to the delicate flesh between your thighs. You felt the tip of his tongue against you, and his large hands held you firmly in place.

“J-Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.” You rushed the end.

John looked up at you and kissed your thigh with a proud look in his dark eyes. “Amen.” He whispered.

Then slow and deliberate, he leaned back down and kissed you again, this time ushering his tongue into the slick pedals of skin. You stuttered out another deep breath, and clutched at the sheets beside you. He lathed his tongue in you and swallowed greedily, rutting himself into the bed while his long legs braced him. His hands began to guide you to roll your hips up into his open mouth and you found that sensitive spot that had your squeezing your eyes shut and your mouth dropping open in sinful gasp.

When your movements became more bold, and your fingers wove into his thick hair, Father John settled deeper into your flesh. He worked his jaw slow and steady. He was an attentive learner and listened to when your breathing stopped and felt your legs shake or your fingers pull him closer into you.

Then like he could hear your mind, he removed one of his hands from your legs and ran his index finger down the curve of your thigh to your entrance when he carefully pushed in; just as careful as when he turned the pages of the Bible. Your body jerked, and you couldn’t help the cry that he pulled from you as he sunk into you to the knuckle.

“How’s that?” He asked you just as breathless as you.

You couldn’t speak, and you found yourself starting to grow far too warm all at once.

“Good?” He prompted, patient as ever, “Tell me if it’s nice, young lady or I’ll have to stop.” He chastised you.

His comment curled deep inside you like his finger as he stroked you and lapped at your tender clit.

“I-it feels go-good Monsignor.” You managed to shoot back.

He grinned and suckled you into his mouth as he pumped you firm and slow. He knew there was somewhere inside you that would make heighten your pleasure, and he slowly teased and touched every inch he could reach until he found that patch of membrane inside you that had you bolting up and pushing his face into you harder.

“S-sorry I’m- I- Fath- Joh-“ you began to babble and try to form an apology as you immediately backed off, but his used his free hand to bring yours back to his head and had you push down again as he sucked and kissed and lapped at your sweetness.

The pressure of his touch had that coil in you start to vibrate and heat up to uncomfortable heights. Your moans came in constant succession, and you found that you couldn’t breathe without making a needy sound.

You were so lost in your own building euphoria that you didn’t see how Father John devoured and held you with such need that he shook and shuttered. A voice in his head asked him if this was for your pleasure alone, or was this his devout need to know what heaven was like when he was surly damned. His hips rocked and ground into the mattress making his ears ring with want.

Your movements met with his and he let you use him to catch that pleasure you had worked so hard for until your body went ridged. A relieved cry tore from your throat and your muscles constricted around his fingers- when had he added another?- and coated his tongue in his prize. You muscles ached from the tension you endured as you rocked against him to ride out your ecstasy. He licked at you gingerly, helping you through it as the blood stopped rushing in your eardrums.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, your eyes lost their glaze and you could look at him. John kissed your thigh, and slowly drew his fingers from you. You winced slightly, and your eyes grew heaviler when he lifted them to his mouth and sucked them clean like he had been waiting for that.

“There she is…” he whispered and kissed you one more time before climbing up your body and nestling his face into your neck. You locked your legs around him and pressed him against you, your breath hitching at the firmness there that prodded at you insistently.

“Wa-was that okay?” He murmured, and kissed your cheeks.

You nodded lazily and laughed a little. So old fashioned at heart, even in his youth. He smiled back, and blew air over your flushed face. He might have been about to say something else, but you tugged him down to your lips before much more than a muffled sound could come out. It couldn’t have been important as he gave into your want and returned your kiss.

It seemed you both grew aware of the heady need that still hung in the air and your joined lips slowed and stopped until you were both simply laying there with your mouths close to one another.

You flushed with embarrassment when a thought crossed your mind- one that belonged in the gutter. Evidently your burning cheeks were observed by the older man, and his eyes grew searching.

“Tell me…” he whispered, and kissed your temple.

You looked away and fidgeted, then subconsciously looked down.

John tracked your gaze, and when it flickered between you, he had a small idea of what was ailing you.

“We- we don’t…” he started, but you shook your head.

“Its not…I- can- can I-“ you fumbled and squirmed.

He stared at you, and felt your hands toy at the nape of his neck.

“Touch me?” He asked, seeing if that was what you wanted.

You couldn’t look at him, but you nodded ever so slightly.

He sucked in a breath to steady himself as he grew lightheaded.

“…give me your hand, sweet girl.” He shuttered and swallowed.

You timidly removed one of your hands from his neck, and gave it to him. The good Father paused for just a moment to check on you, but you bit at your lip and nodded again, and he continued. He rolled a little to the side, and guided your hand down to his waistband. He didn’t take his eyes off you for a moment, and you followed suit in staring back. He helped you slip your little hand inside, and you could feel him pulse against your palm.

Johns breath caught in his throat, and he closed his eyes when you shyly touched him. You ran your hand gently up his shaft, and grew a little more empowered when his hips jerked towards you. Then, you slowly wrapped your hand around him, and his eyes fell shut and his mouth dropped open with a sigh.

You watched him closely, completely unsure of what you were doing as you moved your hand up and back down. You squeezed him slightly, and his head fell into your shoulder with a soft groan. You dragged you hand back up to the tip, and found a wetness there that helped you. It only took a few moments before he was gently taking your wrist and rolling you back under him.

“I’m- I’m sorry…I can’t- please…” he murmured and you nodded again as he took himself out slowly. John braced himself above you, just a few inches away to see you properly, and he sighed. You really were so…so beautiful.

So lovely.

He blinked, and swallowed.

You started breathing deeply when you felt his slick skin against you, and he kissed you again.

“Shh…take a deep breath for me, litttle one.” He said calmly like his own hands didn’t have an elated tremor to them, “C’mon, with me: in…” he took a breath in, and you followed his lead; his eyes held yours in the dim light, and you felt safe.

There was a pressure at your tender flesh that you seemed to crave as your cramped muscles relaxed and gave away to his body.

“And out…” he imitated for you, and you did as he said, though you found it difficult to breathe. The fragile skin slickened, and welcomed him inside you, and you found yourself pressing every inch of yourself against his damp skin to touch, touch, touch.

John sighed and buried his face into your shoulder where your scar was still fresh. He kissed there and scraped his teeth over the unevenness; your nerves were set alight, and you constricted around him suddenly at the sensation. He smiled and kissed again then trailed up your neck to your cheek where he gathered your lips with his again and swallowed your gasp as he pressed himself further until you couldn’t take anymore.

“There you go…such a g-good girl…you alright?” He whispered as he gasped in his own euphoria.

You took a couple breaths then nodded; the stretch that your muscles completed to accommodate him made you ache, but when his addictive kiss coated your lips with his saliva, it ebbed away.

“Deep breaths…there we go just like th-that..”

He started slow. Gentle rocking of his hips into yours as he stroked your thighs and distracted you with sweet encouragement in your ears. Introducing your body to sensations it began to crave and demand. And after a few minutes, your pelvis began to chase his as he moved until he started to lengthen his rocking- drawing further and further out of you and rooting himself inside you like a plant looking for soil.

Your whining in his ear only furthered his chase for pleasure. Your pleas and moans that he savoured and swallowed. Then when one of his hands left you and disappeared between your bodies, you tried to see what he was doing, but your curiosity was sated when you felt him press just above where he entered you, and stroked you so gently. The sounds you cried out into the small, dark room were enough to summon angels and demons alike to bear witness to your willing invasion.

“How’s that sweet girl?” Came his whisper that curled in your ear and peaked your nipples.

“I’m- I-“ you breathed out an attempted response to convey your approval but to no avail.

You could feel his smile against your skin, and you let him touch you like it belonged to him. You rolled your hips to meet his- slow and steady. You began a succinct string of breathless supplications that played in repetitive order in Johns head as he felt you begin to constrict around him. It took his well practiced willpower and patience to remain composed with you. The selfishness in him wished for him to lock his arms around you and take his pleasure from you as if it was something owed, but he knew he was better than that. He was more than the poison in his veins.

For you he would be better.

Then your nails found purchase in the skin on his back as his pace grew insistent, and he groaned a low hum into your neck. But despite the mounting pressure of sybaritism, he kept his hand steady and calm as he helped you meet your own bliss. It wasn’t that he was well practiced or that he knew what he was doing, but he had hearing that could detect every time your breath caught and when a secret gasp would sit in your throat. Just as he had been with priesthood, he was an eager and curious learner, and he was just as dedicated to knowing what your body craved.

John paused for only a moment to readjust you against him; he knelt before you and shifted your hips up to compensate for the change, then his hands gripped your thighs and pushed them down to your torso and guided your hands to hold them. As he slipped back inside you, your swollen mouth dropped open and he crawled back down to you.

“There we go…that’s it.” He whispered, voice shaking so slightly.

So many explicit confessions from his youth had initially made his ears turn pink and his hands shake from the salaciousness; yet now here he was murmuring those same words into your eager ears.

Any Hail Mary’s he might prescribe after having you under him would be hollow. Not when he knew the enjoyment of such tender flesh. You were the epitome of sublime in your chase for pleasure, and he knew he shouldn’t find such carnal desire in seeing you lose yourself. Yet there he was, wanting to savour every moment of your young body falling apart for him to devour.

Your eyes grew heavy and nearly slipped shut. That furnace in your belly was on the brink of combustion, and the good Father only stoked it. So you let him. You relaxed completely and let your mind go blank as he moved you to completion. You could feel your muscles start to tighten around him, and curl to pull him deeper and closer.

Then bliss…

You could barely register your elevated cries into his shoulder as he brought himself closer to you, his eyes crinkling with pride. You rolled your pelvis up to meet his at pleasure overtook you and used you like a marionette to procure every ounce of your deserved euphoria.

Warmth filled your tummy when Father Pruitt went still. He shuttered and sighed low in his chest as he held you tight and filled you.

Your heartbeat pulsed between your chests, and was like thunder in John’s ears. The rush of your blood through veins and your body trying to recover were like music to his ears. John kissed your shoulder, and sighed.

Neither of you spoke…no words to say or sound to make. A mutual silence.

Slowly, he drew away from you, and you found yourself feeling empty. Had you always been so empty?

He lay to your side and pulled you back against him like you used to embrace a pillow on stormy nights as a child.

It was only when he brought your hand up to his mouth to press a kiss there did you both notice that you still clutched his rosary; an imprint of its beads and cross evident in your palm.

“Amen.” He hummed and looked up at you softly.

You faintly smiled and he savoured the expression. A look of fondness.

There was a peculiar feeling inside you, and it wasn’t the way you ached from him or how warm you were. It lasted days as they passed, and only seemed to grow with the more kisses you shared.

When he would run his nose along your neck and hold your hips against him or when he would tilt his head down to you when in the middle of reading and taste your tongue with his if only for a moment.

But also when he would remain calm and honest when his hunger grew. When fear never returned to you. When you both would visit Hassan’s grave at night and he would tell you stories as you readied for bed.

It was the startling question of whether you wanted to stay. And what that would entail. When he had asked you just days ago about your wishes, you had of course wanted to see your family and travel, and in the depths of your heart you still wished to do those and more. But the longer Father John held you, the further those dreams seemed to be.

Would it be so horrible if you stayed? If you lived there forever with John Pruitt and rebuilt your routine there? Would it truly be sinful to alter Gods plan and will and give in to eternal life? Something you had so greatly feared?

Which was why you turned to John one night as he lay beside you. He held you in his arms and was waiting for you to fall asleep before feeding when you sighed.

“Father?” You asked.

He smiled, “You know you don’t ha-“

“Force of habit…forgive me.” You smiled a little too, “I…I’d like to stay.”

Johns brow pinched, “At the rectory? My dear I think we’re past-“

“No I mean…I mean here. On Crockett.” You murmured into his clavicle, and he took a steady breath, “I’m ready.”

He was quiet for a moment, then he nodded, “Alright.” He whispered and kissed your hair.

You thought he sounded pleased. In a way he was. Turmoil had been making his stomach sour as he dreaded that moment. Wondering what your choice would be. But as you said those words into his skin, it was as if a weight had been lifted.

This was his moment to set you free.

You fell asleep on him just as you had often now, and he let himself indulge in your sweet warmth for a while longer.

His last selfish act.

They say if you’re hungry enough, you’ll start to eat your own heart. John’s was gone long, long ago, with only a cavernous need to adore and worship left behind. He knew that one day his hunger would grow too much for his abilities to curb it, and he was not about to let you meet that same horrible fate.

He needed to do right by you.

For you, he would be better.

He knew that having you to hold each day and converse with and grieve with and laugh with would be a paradise, but he knew it wasn’t what you deserved. John hoped you would forgive him one day for what he would do.

But he knew it was what you needed, just not what you wanted.

He slipped from your grasp and found that bag that you counted as your home. He gathered all your little trinkets and books, and found that knife you had long forgotten about. John found his eyes start to prickle as he finished. Your little life in one bag all because of him.

Next, he sat as his desk, picked up his pen, and began to scrawl a note on a piece of paper.

What have I done…

John sighed and continued. His chest ached a terrible pain, and he feared it may fall right out of his chest. Of course it didn’t, but somehow he was certain the pain still wouldn’t have surpassed what he felt then.

He signed it, and folded the paper into his pocket, then he began writing another note entirely. This one he didn’t fold- instead this one would sit atop his desk for the time being.

Then, he picked your bag up and slung it over his back, and moved back to where you lay. It took him half an hour to sit you up gently and slip your coat on without you waking. He knew he didn’t have long. John finished dressing you- socks and boots and all- and hoisted you into his arms.

He forwent his own coat, and cast a look around the rectory to see any last reminders of you. There was only a cup in the sink from you. And he smiled at it.

With you tight against his chest, the Father left the rectory, and strode through the damp grass to the main road. The stones crunched under his boots, and he let his vast memory overtake him as he walked. Memories of seeing you that first morning when he returned. How he had danced with you; how he had looked forward to seeing you. How badly he wanted the best for you, and how poorly that had turned out. He thought of how wonderful it had felt when you finally let him help you…your smile, your kindness, your resilience, your intelligence, your selflessness. He let it all fill him up. John pressed a kiss to your head when you stirred a little, and shushed you until you settled.

His precious little lamb.

You didn’t even bleat as a wolf held you.

A chill brushed your cheeks as you awoke. There was a calm rock that soothed you and kept you just on the edge of opening your eyes. You nuzzled your face further into John’s chest , but something felt off. You sighed, and thought nothing of it until you realized it was your own arm that you were laying on.

And you were cold.

You jolted awake and sat up. Your eyes flickered around in a fright. Under you was a bench, and as you looked at your surroundings, there was water. You were on the Belle.

Alone.

A lump rose in your throat as you pushed yourself up and nearly tripped over your bag that was at your feet. You ran to the railing, and saw that you still weren’t too far from the marina. The next thing that dawned on you was that it was getting light out.

As you gripped the railing, you felt something dig into your hand, and when you looked down, you fought for breath.

“No…” you whispered, “No, no…”

Father Pruitt’s rosary was wrapped around your hand, securing a note to it.

You unwrapped it frantically, and opened the note with shaking hands. At first you didn’t look down at it as you began walking down the side of the boat to look back at the dock. A single tear broke free from your eye when you saw that familiar figure standing on the edge of the platform staring back at you.

You gasped for a breath, and finally began to read. But as you did, you had to fight against tears to see the elegant handwriting.

“Hello little one,

You may not understand now, but I need you to know that you are free now. You had always been sunshine, and you deserved to shine. I have been a selfish man for much of my life, but you would be my one selfless act.

You will find a church with a preacher who reminds you of God and lights your soul. See the world that is not shaped like Crockett Island and breathe in its splendour.

Look for me in solar eclipses, sweet girl; when the moon touches the sun just as you let me grace your glow. You might think of me in years to come as a dark time in your life…and know that I will indeed think of you.

You were a blessing.

You were everything.

Saying goodbye isn’t close to what I want to say, but it is what you need to hear.they say that the worst farewells are the ones unsaid and unexplained. I do not wish to give you any more grief. Which is why I must hurt you this one last time…then no more.

I am with you, sweet angel girl.

Always.

Yours,

John M. Pruitt”

Your head felt far too light at your body far too heavy. You felt bile rise against the lump of grief in your throat.

“John…” you whispered like you had never spoken before. You could barely hear yourself against the ringing in your ears. Then all at once, you realized how bright the sky was, and he wasn’t moving from his place on the dock.

You cried his name louder than you thought you could.

John stood, watching you from the pier.

You screamed his name.

You were terrified for him.

John knew he had to hurt you one last time. Just one. He needed you to never come back.

One more time and then you would be free. John knew better than anyone that grief was just love with nowhere else to go. It was bottled up and leaked out through your eyes and scraped at your esophagus.

“It’s alright, little one…” he whispered, “You don’t need me anymore.”

His dark eyes gleamed with tears that once would have been hot against his cheeks as they fell. Grief. Just love compressed with a cork.

You frantically looked from him to the thin white line that was beginning to form on the horizon as the sun rose. You saw him say something, and somehow you knew he was trying to comfort you.

“John!!! JOHN GO HOME!” You cried, anxiety starting to squeeze your throat, “Please!!”

You could see a fond smile on his face as he gazed at you, and he extended his arm in a wave as if to say “See you again old friend.”

Come back soon.

But you knew then that he had no intention of letting you see him again.

He was setting you free.

And John knew then.

He knew that when you finally passed and you drew your last breath, you would feel a spring breeze against your skin and smell fresh flowers and live in the sunlight for eternity.

But with that realization came his own fate. John knew that when he had enough, and he let his body burn, he would only awaken to the scent of scorched forests and stale air.

Much like the smell following the Easter vigil all those months go.

And John realized that he had indeed already been living in his own death all along.

His own personal hell.

And John remembered then how he had once compared you to a person trying to stay afloat in a body of water with nothing but hope to keep you going. But he saw then that you had never been near drowning; you had never been on the cusp of being dragged down into the depths of the ocean.

He had been the one astray.

And John saw that now, as the sun crested over the empty horizon.

So he took a breath…and let it out.

And he let the cold swell of his fate pull him under.

His eternity.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

@littleredwritingcat @zaunite-leo @f4er1e-g1rl @purplemotif @vampyre-kin @hamishlinklaters @spacechupss @pansexualpamandabear @ebiemidnightlibrarian @erialuna @nilla-bear @vintageglassheart02 @ethanhoewke @dancingisdangerouss @cherrysugarx @daisychainsinknots @thesoundresoundsecho

[sissytobitch10seconds]

So I'm going to go on a little tangent here. I usually don't do the whole symbolism is the actual meaning thing because it doesn't make sense to me most times.

But I keep seeing the take that the ending of the Umbrella Academy is telling abused people that it's their fault and they have to die for the sin of being abused. I don't think this is what the show was telling us at all, if we're going down the route of things not being taken literally.

When Five goes to Max's diner and meets all the other Fives, they're distinguished by one word in front of their name, which implies that they're not really all that different from each other. Otherwise, they would have chosen other names for themselves. This is an important part of my theory for what the ending actually meant.

The timelines fractured when the marigold was released and created the forty three kids. I believe that because Marigold is such a strong element that literally warps the environment it belongs in (In the comics Allison created a giant John Wilks Booth to kill the Abraham Lincoln statue that had come to life, Klaus can basically raise the dead, Diego can warp space to make things turn and move, etc.) it also fractured the bodies that it inhabits. It created life inside of those women and thus it's not that far of a stretch to assume that each timeline has a part of the people it created instead of it being the standard timeline nonsense.

I mean, if it were the standard theory with timelines (i.e. the timeline is always divulging with each action or inaction that we perform) then Five wouldn't have said they needed to come together. We have always trusted Five when it comes to timeline stuff before, he was intelligent enough to have created the Commission after all.

So if the timelines hold a part of the forty-three, then they have to come together for all of the Marigold Holders to be whole. Their souls may exist in the singular timeline where the durango has consumed the marigold, but we don't know that for sure.

Thus, because each timeline represents a fraction of our beloved characters, the ending where they die is not actually telling them that they have to die because of their abuse. It's telling them (and us) that to recover from abuse and become a non-fractured person, you have to let the version of yourself that your abuser created become a part of you or die off. I know that I had to let go of the person that my abusive ex-girlfriend made so that I could feel more like my true self.

We see Lila and Diego's three kids, Claire, and Lila's parents playing in the park in the end-credits scene. Umbrella Academy isn't a stupid show, it already showed us what happened when kids without parents are born. So it implies that some form of at least Lila, Diego, and Allison exist in the final timeline.

Thus, the ending is not telling us that abused people have to die to stop causing pain or whatever the inane take is, it's telling us that to heal you have to come to terms with all the parts of yourself and let go of the bad behaviors that you exhibit. I could do a whole other post about how the Umbrellas aren't really full people, they're defense mechanisms walking around in people-suits. Our Umbrellas aren't gone, they're existing in a better form and without the pain that Reginald caused them which would fundamentally change them as people and make them unrecognizable to us.

The flower represent the abused part of them, the powers and the Academy and the end of the world and the Commission and Oblivion, that still exists but is so small in their healed selves that they don't even have to look at it if they don't want to.

[kkeidawrites]

Study Partner

Welcome to Day 17 of Blacktober!

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Marks of algebra equations littered multiple pieces of paper, each one crossed out with an in red ink. Y/n places her forehead on the table, the stress and frustration getting to her as she tried endless amounts of times on at least ten pieces of paper, front and back, trying to learn how to use the equations for her math homework.

Nothing was working no matter how many times she did it by hand, used her calculator or the apps on her phones would give her different answers.

“Oh my god~~~~“ she yells out in frustration.

“You know what, I quit!” Y/n bawls up the current paper she was working on and throws it to the trash can, missing it like the other ones.

“Having trouble with math?” She looks up to see her best friend Dick Grayson walk up to her. He sits next to her at the table and picks up one of the bawled up pieces of paper on the table, looking over the contents.

“Yessss~~I swear Mr. Hudson cannot teach.” She whines and Dick just smiles.

“Okay, walk me through it.” Dick places the paper in front of her and Y/n groans again, slapping the table.

“Come on, I know you can do it.” Y/n looks up at him and sees that he raised his eyebrows at her expectingly. Rolling her eyes, Y/n sits up again and picks up her pencil, trying the equation again.

Dick watches her with a lowered gaze, his eyes taking in her side profile and especially the pout on her full lips.

“Okay, do I do 2x and multiply it? Dick?” She asks. Y/n looks up to see him looking at her with an off gaze and snaps her fingers in his face. His eyes were still unfocused.

“Richard John Grayson! Hello?!” She exclaims.

Dick finally snaps out of his stupor and refocuses his attention to Y/n who was frowning in confusion at his behavior.

“If you’re not going to help, then do me a favor and pick up the papers that I missed.” She says with an eye roll.

“Sorry, I just got a little…distracted. What were you asking?” He looks over the paper she was working on and sees she was stuck on a step.

“So with the 2x you have to divide it, then you have to change the whole fraction into an improper fraction and that gives you the final answer.” He instructs.

“Okay, so divide this…with this, then…” Y/n writes down the equation as he instructs and stops again.

“Wait, you said change the improper fraction?” She asks looking at Dick.

“Mmmhmm.” He hums and Y/n continues the problem.

“Ohhhh, okay I get it now! Alright hold on, let me try on this problem.” Y/n takes her homework paper and proceeds to do another equation using the same steps.

While she was doing that, Dick is back to admiring Y/n, her hair was pulled into a high curly bun as some curls framed the side of her face. Her black eyes roamed the paper while her brown hand was wrapped around her fuzzy pencil, writing in precision. Her brow was tinted in concentration as she finished up her equation.

“Okay, did I do this correctly?” Handing over her paper, Dick looks over the sheet, taking in each number and symbol before turning to look at her fully.

“Congratulations Y/n, you may pass Algebra and graduate this year.” He teased and Y/n nudges his shoulder playfully.

“Not everyone can graduate early, Grayson. Thanks for your help, I need it for this test tomorrow.” She said.

“No problem, that’s what friends are for.” He says.

The next day, Dick waited outside of the main building of the college he had recently graduated from and leaned against the stone stairwell, scrolling through his phone.

Seeing students appear in the courtyard of the collage, Dick looks up to see the students clamor and rejoice as they stepped out of the double doors of the building Y/n was currently attending class.

He looks around for his best friend, Y/n in the crowd and so far he didn’t see her. He was about to use his phone to call her when he heard his name called.

Before he had a chance to react, Y/n suddenly hugs him, with a delighted scream as her cheek rubbed against his. She held a paper in her right hand and from what he could see from his squished face was a big red 98% printed at the top of the paper.

“I passed! I passed my test, Dick! I’m graduating this semester!” She shouts excitedly, and Dick wraps his arms around her waist returning the hug just as tight.

He then felt her shaking and looked down to see, her eyes closed and tears rolling down her cheeks. Y/n sobs into his black shirt and he is more than happy to comfort her.

“I’m hoping those are happy tears?” He jokes and Y/n nods, burying her face deeper in his generous embrace.

“I’m so proud of you.” He says and then his eyes widen when Y/n suddenly kisses him.

Once she pulls away, she’s rubbing her left cheek of her tears and smiles.

“Can we get ice cream?” She asks the stunned man.

“Uhhh…”

“Come on, it’s your treat for all my hard work.” She sniffles and grabs his left hand pulling him along.

Dick doesn’t respond but, he does have a goofy smile appear on his lips, he would buy all the ice cream in the world for her if that earned him another kiss.

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Thanks for reading! Please make sure to like, reblog, and comment! Let me know what you guys want to read by using my inbox!

Happy Blacktober!

[mayvora]

ㅤㅤHello!! I write things sometimes and have a habit of writing my random thoughts and saving them for later!! and then never using them. lol. so I bring them to you today!! with hope that they can inspire you !! tell me if you like them! (likes are cool but sharing is caring! :D)

ㅤㅤLook under the text block to see them!!

‎‧₊˚✧ [ Accidental Thoughts / Ideas ]

I'm a storyteller; I love my stories, I live them, I love telling them to others and dragging them into my world.

But sometimes my stories start telling themselves in my head...

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

Lips with a taste of stars...

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

" So this is love... "

With their blood on your hands, with their lips whispering one last breath?

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

Just ask me and i will answer

Just ask me and i will answer

Just ask me and i will answer

Just-

But no one ever does.

And the world are burried in chest, the fire in chest, so hot and painful.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

Words are meant to be shared, not hoarded!

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

We learn to dream to fight the nightmare.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

The story has a soul when the creator loves their creation.

Love is in small things; in little symbols, in second-lasting smiles, in carefully written words, in songs and rhythm. The more you give in the beginning the more you get in the end.

We step our ways through nothingness into everything.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

Without falling you will never learn to love flying.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

I do not want the pedestal, I do not care for role of sun; I can lead but do not want to, I can shine but don't wish to; my role is to mirror the light I see in others so the world can know the beauty of the stars that surround me and love them like the suns; and love them like I love them; the moon will always crave the shine of stars and give them back the fraction of their light.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

Through our light we reach immortality.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

"I don't miss you. I miss knowing that you're safe. "

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

Loving people is easy. What's not easy is being hurt by what you love most.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

You run away with my heart in your hands

And I feel that it is how it ends

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

Some sing about love

Some sing about fate

And duets sing about falling again.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

I wanna breath in my last life;

Breathe before I die;

I choke on broken lullaby

And sing my last goodbye, I sing my last goodbye;

Heart is silent; a simple lie; I die, I die, I die.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

Any happiness must be returned.

One good word can save someone's life. One bad thing can kill.

Other people's anger is not your problem. It's a problem for them. they have to live with hatred and anger in their hearts, and you can move on, because the only one who should suffer from evil is its creator.

‎‧₊˚✧ [ Parts of the unwritten stories ]

The gates of the kingdom of death opens with the fading light of dawn; the clouds shape the gate, forming it's structure on the star patterns created by the loving hand of death themselves.

Would you dare to walk the paths of dead?

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

Time is running out. It is fleeting, rapid; we do not see its real power, looking only at what seems to us eternal and reliable.

But the rocks are breaking. The seas are drying up. Epochs are passing away.

Epochs... they leave with the people who held them on their shoulders.

Are you still here?

Go home.

Go.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

Everything in the world ends one day. Good things go away faster. Not because they are short-lived, but because we do not feel the time when we are happy. And we get lost when it turns out that it's gone.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

They were dying in the arms of their love - but they were smiling anyway.

"I want you to forget me."

I want you to never miss someone who cannot come back.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

[Character name], rolling up their sleeves; tattoos on their arms; pattern glows with a cursed green, and their eyes twinkle with pure darkness; they are a magician, and magic awakens on their hands, obeying only a confident smile and one simple yet crushing word.

"Fall down."

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

their blood on her hands / drawing blood patterns on their cheeks / a dead soul on her cold lips / her broken heart in crystal tears.

I want to love you / I never want to love again.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

The hand of cards has always played in your favor.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

Sometimes she will hear a song of wind in her heart; the sound of universe singing to her the melody of a thousand lives she lived.

She opens her eyes - the feeling dissapears.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

No one ever loved him. So how could he learn to love if he never had a good example?

‎‧₊˚✧ [ Bits of dialogue ]

" I can take the pain! "

" We can't. Do you want us to live with bargain of guilt, knowing that we hurt our love with every touch?"

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

"I wanted to do something special. I felt the urge and couldn't resist it! Its like a fire burning down my bare chest, something I can't summon with a simple word. I wanted to move, I wanted to dance, I... "

"You were still hurting. "

" I felt better! I swear I did! It was just shiwers, I got up so easily, I... I thought I could make it. "

" It wasn't enough. "

"No... No. It's never enough. Im always behind and always crashing. "

"It doesn't make us love you any less. "

"...you know, huh... What is inside of me. You always do."

Their partner smiled - but their eyes were full of pain, and soft laught didnt reach their sea of sadness.

"I always do."

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

"The time is not right. Go home. "

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

"I collect stars for you. I think they would look nice on your skin. The universe needs their stars, don't you think so, my precious galaxy?"

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

"I don't want your soul"

"Then what do you want?"

"Your love."

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

"I adore what you are deeply."

"The bump of chaos, humor and impulsivity?"

"The universe itself recreating its own code in such small yet beautiful shape. "

‎‧₊˚✧ [ From the One Special Au ]

"You always take care of everyone around you. Let me take care of you this time."

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

"Emperor... "

"Don't call me that."

"It is what you are. Making choices for the whole world. Like it's yours. "

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

How long did you think you can take it?

"As long as my lungs would breathe and my heart would burn. "

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

"You wanted to make me a king, Fate? Here's your chance! I accept my crown."

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

The Storyteller never got a chance to ask for forgiveness. The Leader never had the time to tell them that they forgave them long time ago.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

He was a hero. And a hero is a very bad thing to be.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

"Its MY destiny to die for them, why did you take him? Why couldn't you take me instead? It is what you predicted to me, why did he had to pay the price?"

"Everyone has their own destiny. He completed his."

"What WAS his destiny? To DIE?!"

"No. To bless you with his love when he was still living."

"I don't understand."

"You will."

...

[the last moments of their life] "I do now."

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

"I was supposed to die."

"Who told you that I'll let you?"

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

"The sun will never stop shining, and you will never stop loving; I was not wrong about you."

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

"It was so easy to love you. You've always been so sincere. You admired us, you loved us; sometimes it seemed to me that you had been waiting for us all your life, keeping love in your heart for us to drown in it when we met. I longed for this love, I wanted to fall into the ocean of your heart, burying my soul and all of myself in it; I had to bury the stubbornness that kept me so far from you, convincing my anxious mind that I should not trust you. I shouldn't have, but I couldn't help but believe, because that's how you are... You can get into the heart of anyone and stay there forever. You're a whirlwind that couldn't be resisted; at some point I stopped and just... accepted you. And what was supposed to burn with cold turned out to be a warm spring wind, smelling of lilac and warming every cell of the body better than any fire. "

"You are my fire. I love you. "

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

"Until my faith is extinguished or I find out that he is dead, my connection will continue to give me fragments of his emotions, creating a lie based on hope, even if he is no longer alive. My brain will deceive me over and over again until I accept that I have lost him forever. "

"There have been stories about souls who, even after seeing the death of their loved one with their own eyes, still felt these ghostly emotions – this happened to those who went crazy, refusing to admit that their soul mate was not alive. They could keep talking into the void, looking for them, cooking for two, making a place for them, calling their name... I was always afraid that this would happen to me, I was afraid of this madness. I felt contempt for it. "

"But now I understand... that I couldn't give him up even if he died in my arms. He's like breathing to me, you know? And my people get attached strongly and never let go."

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

How it begins.

"They say that we always get what we deserve. But did we deserve to die? What have we done to be exterminated? Burned at the stake?"

And how it ends.

"Shh, sunshine, it's okay. I deserve it. I deserve every bit of pain that fate puts on my shoulders; I let down those who trusted me and betrayed their love. I get what I deserve."

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

"The poem of the End on his last breathing lips."

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

People were afraid of magic; but They wanted to drink it like the purest water, they wanted to breathe it in full, so that magic filled every alveoli and soaked into hot blood.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

"The war is on our heels; it follows every step we make, never too close and never too far, not losing us no matter where we try to hide, not letting go no matter how hard we fight. "

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

"Let me explain. There is a theory that says that our planet and all other planets revolve around the Sun. And the Moons circle the planets and reflect the light of the Sun. Of course, I'm not saying that this theory is true. But if we lived in a world where we all circle around the Sun, then you would be our Sun. And each of us is the Moon, circling around its goals, motives and beliefs that make up our planets. And we all reflect your light."

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

"You are all that I am and all that I want to be. I would give you the world, but you are my world. "

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

How it begins.

"This place is my home.".. I would like it to become your home too. "

And how it ends.

"Thank you for sharing your home with me. "

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

He loved them more than life; he shouldn't have.

He was born to love; he had no right to love; his love would have killed them as it once killed him.

He won't let them experience the pain he went through once.

Even if it means cutting them all off from himself.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ‎‧₊˚✧˚₊‧

"The universe began with infinite Darkness; Darkness was its first creation, its first essence, its first state. At first there was only Darkness; but Darkness was not alone forever. In the midst of Darkness, in its dim surface, the very first Light was born; the opposite of the Darkness, so fragile, but so infinitely strong; The Darkness hated her. In the Light, she saw her main enemy and sought to destroy her immediately, to engulf her, as the sea buries ships in the waves. But the Light turned out to be stronger than Darkness might have seemed; she did not want to lose the fight, not daring to give her very first life into the arms of death."

" Light was the first Life; Light gave birth to the first World. It wasn't our world, and no one knows if the first world still exists in the universe. But many people strive to find it, to touch its origins; even, it seems, in human religion there is a mention of the first earth, abandoned a long time ago. There were the first creatures in the first world; not the humans, no, we do not agree to admit that humans were the first. Because people are not capable of what the First Ones could do! The first ones could create worlds, you know? And ours was created like this too! Created by them!"

"You believe me, I know. You're not one of them; you never have been. One day you will understand my faith in them, one day you will hear the universe singing; it is something that cannot be forgotten. But I digress! Shame on me, of course. And we were talking about the First..."

"He was one of them, the first son of Light, the first birth, the first life; he was the first love. He loved the world he was born into; he loved admiring the Darkness at the edge of Light, he loved the dance of creation and the birth of worlds, he loved his brothers and sisters, he loved Life. But it was hard to keep alive; The Darkness was hungry, angry and merciless, sweeping away everything in her path, biting into the Light with sharp fangs, destroying young worlds. Pain pierced his crystal heart when he saw Her cruelty. And at some point, he couldn't afford to just watch anymore."

The Storyteller raises his eyes to the sky, peering into the endless darkness; the stars blink at him and he, smiling absently, reflects their light, shining in rhythm with his distant brothers. His friend, delighted with him, does not even dare to breathe; he only freezes, not taking his gentle gaze away from the light that has taken such a fragile and beautiful form and descended to this earth.

"He loved as none of us can love," the Storyteller whispered, suddenly turning to his listener and looking at him as if he was... everything. "I thought so before. But now I understand that he loved the way you love. I look at you and see his gaze, his touch; his love in your eyes, in your heart and your immortal soul."

A moment of silence; a moment of awareness. A moment of sacred silence. The Storyteller looks away, but it is clear that he is trembling from this confession...

"...He gathered all the love that was in his heart and turned it into the purest Light. It is said that at that moment his heart was beating to the beat of the universe itself; therefore, his spell, his sacrifice, his oath is called by us "The Last Heartbeat". He gave us every beat of his heart. He gave himself to us, turning into the brightest of the stars, illuminating each of the worlds of the universe, no matter how far away it was. He shines for us, allowing us to live at the expense of our lives; we all owe ourselves to him, my friend. He is our Sun, and he will shine for us until the universe dies, destroying us all along with itself."

ㅤYou are still here? Want to stay and hear campfire stories? Or you wanna go? Don't forget the lamp then. Nights are dark; don't get lost. And visit me again! I love telling stories :]

ㅤㅤ

ㅤㅤ

ㅤ

[cinnies-stories]

alex morgan / the essence of what made winning so special.

2800 words or so. I got a little carried away :) enjoy!

The stadium erupted in cheers as the final whistle blew, declaring the San Diego Wave as NWSL shield winners. Confetti rained down, and elated teammates embraced each other, their own cheers almost drowning out the roar of the crowd. Amidst the jubilation, you caught Alex's eye, and a spark of shared victory ignited between you.

As the celebration continued in the locker room, teammates exchanged high-fives and hugs. You and Alex found yourselves side by side, sharing the euphoria of your triumph. Your shoulders brushed, and stolen glances lingered a fraction longer than necessary. A subtle electricity hummed between the two of you, heightening the celebratory atmosphere.

Post-match interviews and team photos followed, each moment drawing you and Alex closer. The trophy glittered between you, a symbol of your combined efforts.

Later, in the hotel, the team gathered for a post-victory banquet. The atmosphere was charged with excitement, and you couldn't shake the magnetic pull drawing you toward Alex. Seated next to each other, the conversation flowed effortlessly, punctuated by stolen touches—a hand on the shoulder, a brief brush of fingers.

The line between teammates and something more blurred in the warm glow of success.

As the night unfolded, you and Alex found yourselves in a quieter corner of the hotel. The air was thick with unspoken words, and your eyes met once again in a silent exchange that spoke volumes. Longing glances hinted at a connection beyond the confines of your soccer triumph.

With the hotel room door closing behind Alex, the tension reached its peak. The glow of victory illuminated your faces as you stood on the precipice of something uncharted. Conversation turned to shared laughter, and stolen glances evolved into purposeful touches.

The hotel room was bathed in a soft, comforting glow, creating a haven of tranquility. You and Alex sat on the edge of the bed, the residue of her victorious return to the soccer field lingering in the air. The room seemed to echo with the triumph of overcoming unexpected challenges.

Your eyes traced the lines of resilience etched on Alex's face, a testament to her journey from motherhood back to the soccer pitch - to the winning days.

"You're incredible, Alex. I can't believe you came back after everything," you whispered, your admiration evident in your voice.

Alex smiled, a mix of exhaustion and fulfillment in her eyes. "I never thought I'd be back here either. But the team, you – it's a part of me."

Your fingers intertwined, a silent acknowledgment of the shared triumphs and struggles. You could see the strength that emanated from Alex, not just as a player but as a mother who defied expectations.

"You're the strongest person I know," you said, voice filled with sincerity. "To balance motherhood and a soccer career, it's beyond inspiring."

Alex's gaze softened, the weight of her experiences reflected in her eyes. "I wanted to show Charlie that you can pursue your passions - no matter what."

You slowly leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss on Alex's forehead. "You're not just showing her, Alex. You're showing all of us. I'm honored to be on this journey with you."

Your embrace lingered, the warmth of shared triumph and unspoken understanding enveloping you both. Alex, moved by your words, met your gaze with a depth that mirrored the vulnerabilities of motherhood and the strength it brought.

In a moment of shared surrender, you cupped the forwards face, your thumb tracing a gentle path across her cheek. Your lips met immediately in a kiss that spoke of admiration, connection, and a shared journey that surpassed the boundaries of the soccer field.

It was a tender exchange, a bridge between friendship, motherhood, and the unexpected twists life had thrown your way.

As Alex pulled away, the room held an electric charge, a magnetic pull that neither of you could deny.

You, with a subtle smile, whispered, "I meant every word."

Alex nodded, her eyes reflecting a mixture of gratitude and longing. "Thank you, Y/N. For understanding, for being here."

In the quiet aftermath of your shared moment, you found yourselves drawn to each other once again. This time, the kiss held a different resonance—a merging of your worlds, a celebration of strength, and an acknowledgment of the uncharted territory you were entering.

As you both lay side by side, the room cocooned you in a gentle embrace. The celebratory echoes of victory outside seemed distant, replaced by the quiet intimacy that filled the space between you and Alex. With whispered words of gratitude and unspoken promises.

The night became a chapter in your shared story, one marked by resilience, understanding, and the beauty of unexpected connections.

-

The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow on the hotel room. You stirred, blinking away the remnants of sleep, your hand instinctively reaching out to where Alex should have been. The disappointment hit you like a wave as reality settled in—the space beside you was empty.

A sinking feeling crept into your chest, and you sat up, glancing around the room. The realization that Alex was not there, that the person you had connected with so deeply the night before was absent, left you with a sense of abandonment.

The hurt lingered, and you couldn't shake the feeling of being left behind. The warmth of the shared night seemed like a distant memory, overshadowed by the ache of solitude. You couldn't fathom why Alex had retreated, leaving you with a void that was both confusing and painful.

Despite the disappointment, you couldn't deny the genuine joy you had experienced in this connection. The tender moments, stolen kisses, and shared vulnerability were etched in your memory. It was a bittersweet recollection—a night that had held promise and intimacy, yet now seemed tinged with the sorrow of unmet expectations.

With a heavy heart, you traced the outline of the empty space beside you, contemplating the unspoken questions that lingered in the wake of the night's intimacy. The disappointment weighed on you, but somewhere beneath it, the memory of the shared connection held a flicker of warmth—a reminder of a night that, despite its complexities, had been a moment of genuine connection and shared vulnerability.

-

The hotel's breakfast buffet was a bustling scene of teammates reliving the previous night's triumph. You scanned the room, your gaze settling on Alex at a distant table. Determination etched on your face, you approached, but a knot of apprehension tightened in your stomach as you noticed Alex avoiding eye contact.

"Hey," you greeted, trying to mask the growing frustration beneath a smile. "Last night was incredible, wasn't it?"

Unbeknownst to your teammates, you meant a lot more than just winning the shield with San Diego.

Alex, engrossed in picking at her breakfast, gave a brief nod without meeting your eyes. "Yeah, it was something."

You hesitated, sensing a shift in the air. "You okay?"

A forced smile played on Alex's lips.

"Yeah, just tired."

The conversation hung awkwardly between the two of you, the unspoken tension palpable. Your frustration simmered beneath the surface as you tried to breach the distance Alex had created.

"I was thinking we could grab lunch later, talk about the game, maybe even about what happened afterwards?" you suggested, an attempt at casual conversation masking a deeper desire to understand the sudden change.

Alex's response was a noncommittal shrug, and she focused intently on her plate. "Maybe."

Your frustration bubbled up, but you swallowed it down, trying to empathize with Alex's potential insecurities. "Alex, what's wrong? It feels like you're avoiding me."

Alex's gaze flickered, and a vulnerability flashed in her eyes. "It's nothing, really. I have my own things to figure out."

Frustration and confusion warred on your face as you searched for words.

A sigh followed, the forward's shoulders slumping with a mix of defeat and insecurity.

"Last night happened, but it doesn't change who I am."

Right, of course.

Alex Morgan, the soccer star.

Alex Morgan, straight.

Unable to meet your eyes, Alex pushed her chair back. "I need some time, Y/N. I'll see you around."

As you watched Alex retreat from the breakfast table, her emotions in disarray, Naomi, noticed the subtle change in atmosphere. Concern etched on her face, she approached you.

"Hey. Is everything okay?" the younger defender asked, her tone filled with genuine worry.

You mustered a small smile, trying to downplay the turmoil within. "Yeah, just some post-celebration exhaustion, you know?"

Nai studied your expression carefully, sensing there was more to the story. "Just remember, relationships—whether friendships or something more—they take time and understanding."

Once again, you thought about how the young defender was incredibly wise for her age and so much more mature than you were at that age.

Naomi placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder. "Give her some time, Y/N. People have their own struggles. Maybe she needs a moment to figure things out."

You nodded, grateful for her comforting words. The breakfast scene continued around you two, teammates chatting and laughing, but you carried the weight of uncertainty and the unanswered questions about the connection that had unraveled overnight.

-

The hum of the plane's engines created a backdrop of distant melody as you settled into her seat, the anticipation of departure overshadowed by a quiet ache. You glanced towards the boarding passengers, heart pulsating with a mixture of hope and trepidation. The empty seat next to you yearned for the familiar warmth that Alex's presence once provided.

As the last boarding calls echoed through the cabin, your gaze lingered on the entrance, searching for the one person who had shared a night of triumph and intimacy, only to slip away in the light of day. Your stomach knotted with a bittersweet turmoil as each passing moment deepened the void beside you.

Then, there she was. Alex, a silhouette against the entrance, moved down the aisle, but instead of approaching you, she exchanged a smile with another teammate and took a seat elsewhere. The subtle rejection hung in the air like an unresolved chord, and your heart sank.

The empty seat, a poignant reminder of unspoken words and shattered connections, seemed to reverberate with the echoes of their shared moments. Your fingers traced the armrest, yearning for the touch that had once felt like a promise. The cabin lights above flickered, mirroring the flickering hope within your own chest.

The gentle hum of the plane transformed into a haunting melody, an anthem of solitude that accompanied your silent contemplation. The passing clouds outside mirrored the shifting emotions within you—a turbulent sky of uncertainty and longing.

As the plane taxied down the runway, you felt the weight of the unoccupied seat beside you, a physical manifestation of the emotional distance that had grown between you and Alex.

As the plane ascended into the sky, your eyes, like a compass seeking north, found Alex's across the aisle.

Alex's eyes, once a familiar harbor, now held a tumultuous sea of uncertainty. Lost within their depths were questions, hesitations, and the weight of uncharted territory. You sensed the struggle within, a silent plea for understanding that Alex's eyes conveyed more eloquently than words ever could.

In that fleeting moment of connection, you saw a vulnerability in Alex's gaze that mirrored the tremor in her own heart. Alex's hands, clasped tightly together, betrayed a subtle trembling—an outward manifestation of the inner turmoil she grappled with.

The symphony of the plane's engines became a muted backdrop to the silent conversation within your locked gaze. There was a yearning for a return to the warmth of shared moments, yet an unspoken understanding that something had shifted. The uncertainty in Alex's eyes was a puzzle that you longed to unravel, a puzzle whose missing pieces seemed to scatter with each passing second.

You wanted to bridge the distance, to hold Alex's trembling hands and reassure her that whatever complexities lay ahead, you could face them together.

But the plane, an intermediary in their shared journey, continued its ascent, and the distance between you and Alex remained insurmountable. Your eyes held onto each other for a moment longer, a silent acknowledgment of the uncharted territory that stretched before you, before Alex looked away, her gaze retreating like a ship disappearing on the horizon.

The tremor in Alex's hands, the uncertainty in her eyes—it left you with a lingering ache, a sense of longing for a connection that seemed to slip through her fingers like sand.

-

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a warm glow through the living room window. Alex sat on the couch, cradling a tired Charlie in her arms. Her medal, a symbol of triumph and challenges overcome, stood proudly on the coffee table.

"Mom, why is winning so special?" Charlie asked, her innocent curiosity echoing in the quiet room.

Alex smiled, gazing into her daughter's eyes. "Well, sweetheart, it's not just about the trophy or the game. It's about the people—the teammates who become family, the ones who support you through thick and thin. They make winning something truly special."

Charlie pondered Alex's words, her eyes wide with wonder. "Like Y/N?"

The name hung in the air, and Alex felt a subtle shift within her. She looked down at Charlie, her heart warming at the mention of you.

"Yes, sweetheart, like Y/N," Alex replied, a softness in her voice.

As Charlie nestled against her, Alex's thoughts drifted to you. The realization settled in—the depth of the connection you shared went beyond the soccer field. You had been a pillar of support, a constant presence throughout the highs and lows of this remarkable journey.

A wave of longing washed over Alex as she thought about your unwavering encouragement, the stolen glances, and the warmth of shared triumphs. The realization hit her with a clarity she hadn't fully embraced before—you were not just a teammate; you were the essence of what made winning special.

As the evening sun bathed the room in a golden hue, Alex held Charlie close, the echoes of their conversation mingling with the subtle ache of missing someone who had become an integral part of the forward's journey. In that quiet moment, surrounded by the tangible proof of victory, Alex understood that winning was about more than the accolades; it was about the people who turned those moments into cherished memories. And in the delicate tapestry of her reflections, your presence stood out as a thread that she couldn't help but miss dearly.

-

In the quiet of her living room, with Charlie in bed, as the shadows danced with the fading daylight, Alex sat alone with the weight of regret settling like a heavy shroud. The echoes of your absence reverberated through the room, and a profound sadness gripped her heart.

She reached for her phone, a glimmer of determination in her eyes. The realization of how she had distanced herself from you, how she had let insecurity overshadow your connection, weighed heavily on her soul. With trembling hands, she began to type an apology, a heartfelt confession of the regret that consumed her.

Yet, as she opened her messages, a notification blinked on the screen. Your name illuminated the darkness, and a knot tightened in Alex's chest. Her eyes scanned the words, each one a sentence of separation, a declaration of departure.

"Alex, Utah wants me. I said yes."

The room seemed to close in, and the air grew heavy with the weight of realization. Alex's heart sank, the words on the screen a painful reminder of what she had unknowingly let slip away. The regret that had fueled her desire to reach out transformed into a profound despair as she read your decision to leave.

A silence enveloped Alex, broken only by the distant sounds of the world outside. The phone slipped from her hands, as if unable to bear the weight of the truth it carried.

Alex's gaze fixated on the empty space where your name had been moments ago. She felt a profound emptiness, a void that seemed insurmountable. In the quiet aftermath, the realization hit her—the most important person in her life had slipped away, leaving behind a sense of loss that felt irreversible.

Regret became a bitter taste on her lips, and she found herself yearning for a chance to undo the distance she had created. But the message on the screen stood as a testament to a choice made, a departure that left Alex alone in the echoes of what might have been.

[vermilionsun]

Hewoo, In light of the beach episode RSS is preparing for us, I wanted to ask if you could write how the LIs would react to seeing the MC for the first time in a bathing suit and discovering the have a spine tattoo (star and moon inspired).

Hope your doing well :3

Hi hii!! I tried to made this in a way that can be interpreted both romantically and platonically :))

Ais

✩ I–don’t–care–that–I’m–banned–from–the–beach–take–me–with–you

✩ Motherfucker wants them to put on a show “since I can’t tag along.”

✩ W̶a̶t̶c̶h̶ h̶i̶m̶ d̶r̶o̶p̶ o̶n̶ h̶i̶s̶ k̶n̶e̶e̶s̶ t̶h̶e̶ m̶o̶m̶e̶n̶t̶ h̶e̶ s̶e̶e̶s̶ t̶h̶e̶m̶ i̶n̶ s̶w̶i̶m̶w̶e̶a̶r̶

✩  PRAISES PRAISES PRAISES

✩ When he first gets a glimpse of the tattoo, he slowly walks towards them to investigate

✩ “Bold sparrow…”

✩ He’d lean down to admire it, close enough for him to see every detail but far enough so that he isn’t invading the MC’s personal space

✩ “Hm…” *poke poke poke*

✩ He’d then sneakily wrap his arms around them and pull them flush against his chest, his head coming to rest on top of their shoulder

✩ “You look damn good.”

Kuras

✞ If he holds something, it’s now on the ground. A very permanent blush creeping up his neck to decorate his cheeks. 

✞ He opens his mouth, and closes it again, before letting his eyes roam up and down their body for a fraction of a moment.

✞ He coughs. Then, with what looks like effort, he looks away.

✞ He shifts, leaning against the side of the nearest object that can hold his weight and crosses his arms.

✞ The look in his eyes when he sees the tattoo can only be described as intense curiosity.

✞ He steps closer. A hand reaches out, brushing over the dark ink staining their bare back. He pauses. 

✞ As if he can’t help himself, he trails a finger down the length of their spine. His touch is light, barely there, as the callused pads of his fingers skim over the design.

✞ His lips part as if he’s holding back words that are trying to force their way out of his mouth. He swallows, an almost imperceptible action.

✞ Suddenly, he seems to remember himself. He steps back.

✞ All while staring at their back as if it held the secrets of the universe.

Leander

🗡 Another I’ll–join–you–no–matter–what dudebro

🗡 His eyes wide in surprise, a faint blush creeping onto his cheeks and ears

🗡 A low whistle escapes his lips, eyes lingering on the tattoo on their spine.

🗡 Another touchy boy. His hands immediately reach out to trace the intricate design, feeling the slight bump of the ink against his fingertips, the symbols seemingly drawing him in.

🗡 “When did you get this? …I’m sure I'd remember that sight and every inch of it.”

🗡 “It really suits you! :D”

🗡 When he lifts his gaze, his eyes tell a whole different story

🗡 He’s looking at them intently, searching for something, any answer for questions he doesn’t care asking and isn’t willing to pay back for.

🗡 "Another little hidden secret of yours..." His knuckles graze the skin, every touch almost electrifying "I like it."

🗡 “Y̶o̶u̶ k̶n̶o̶w̶ t̶h̶a̶t̶ j̶u̶s̶t̶ m̶a̶k̶e̶s̶ m̶e̶ w̶a̶n̶t̶ t̶o̶ s̶e̶e̶ y̶o̶u̶ m̶o̶r̶e̶, r̶i̶g̶h̶t̶?̶”

🗡 "Sorry, got a bit carried away there.” He clears his throat and chuckles nervously, but his hand still doesn't move from the MC's back.

Mhin

🕊 Jaw? On the floor. Eyebrows? Reaching their hairline. Ears? Tomatoes. Body? Frozen. Hotel? Trivago.

🕊 “Oh… Oh…”

🕊 The inhale following is sharp; it could cut a fucking Soulless in half without effort

🕊 They seem almost entranced by the sight of it.

🕊 Even when they regain their composure, their eyes keep darting back to the design. 

🕊 Nonchalantness, casualness and apathy have evaporated from their vocabulary

🕊 They want to ask questions but don’t want to seem too interested.

🕊 They take a few steps closer without realizing, their expression faltering for a brief moment.

🕊 "It... It looks really good." They finally say, their tone almost begrudgingly sincere.

🕊 T̶h̶e̶y̶ m̶i̶g̶h̶t̶ b̶e̶ c̶o̶n̶s̶i̶d̶e̶r̶i̶n̶g̶ g̶e̶t̶t̶i̶n̶g̶ o̶n̶e̶ o̶f̶ t̶h̶e̶i̶r̶ o̶w̶n̶

Vere

✦ He blinks for a terrible, long moment, before his lips are morphed into a smirk

✦ He hums in interest, tilting his head to the side slightly.

✦ "Well, now, that's quite a lovely piece of art.”

✦ He takes a step closer to them his fingers tracing the outline of the tattoo.

✦ One would expect him to be teasing, scratching around, but his touch turns out gentle, careful

✦ He seemed lost in thought for a bit, his expression softening slightly

✦ before he stiffens and his gaze darkens, pink eyes now almost glowing

✦ If they try to move away at that point, they’d be stopped by the firm grasp he has around their nape, his hot breath fanning over their ear dangerously.

✦ “"It looks good on you…” He compliments, the words drawn out, voice so low it’s practically a pur. “Mind if I take a closer look?”

✦ "I̶ w̶o̶n̶d̶e̶r̶… h̶o̶w̶ f̶a̶r̶ d̶o̶w̶n̶ i̶t̶ g̶o̶e̶s̶...?̶"

[rachaels]

I'm rereading the Hunger Games books and I truly cannot overstate how little grittiness and bite and general depth of emotion has translated over to the movies. I know it would've been difficult to really capture how Katniss thinks and feels without the aid of her internal monologue, but the viewers lose SO much here.

in the movies, when Katniss visits District 12 after it's been reduced to ash, the only thing you realize is that it was her home and now it's gone — you don't feel the weight she feels, because none of the characters who are presumed dead by the start of the third book were ever introduced in the movies to begin with.

she walks through the remnants of the bakery where Peeta's family used to live. through the books, you know that Peeta had an abusive mother, and two brothers who were either too old to volunteer for him in the games or simply wouldn't sacrifice themselves to save him. and you know Peeta's father, who promised Katniss he would feed and care for Prim before Katniss went into the games in the event that she didn't come back, who bought game from Katniss and Gale when his wife wasn't home, who knew Katniss's mother when they were kids and dreamed of marrying her one day.

and as she walks through the ashes of their home, her internal monologue says they all died. just like that. she's numb to the emotion of Peeta having no family to come home to. she's numb to the fact that her childhood friend and the Mayor's daughter, Madge, who gave her the pin and effectively started the mockingjay symbolization, died along with her parents. and as she passes by skulls and bones, she tells them, "I killed you. and you. and you." because she blames herself for every single death in District 12.

the movies never stood a chance. they can't be meticulous enough to introduce the Mellarks, or Madge and her parents, or Bonnie and Twill — and that's just a fraction of the characters who were cut for time. they can't effectively make you feel exactly how Katniss feels. and they had to stay within the confines of a PG-13 rating. they never stood a chance and it wasn't even close.

[seramilla]

Imagine Vaggie needing proof and when she's looking at the results of the tests that show she is Carmillas daughter she just stares for a long long moment and then she slowly looks up at Carmilla and chokes a bit before eventually asking what this meant...if this meant Carmilla had wanted or loved her and Carmilla just can't help but hug her close and whisper how she had been so wanted so so loved

"Show me."

"What?" Carmilla asks, trying to calm down, and allow Vaggie to calm herself down, as well.

"Show me the results. I need to see with my own eyes. Please!"

Still wiping tears from her eyes, Carmilla complies, and after rummaging around in her bag for a moment, pulls out a few leaflets of paper and hands them to Vaggie. The papers look so...boring and clinical. With a bunch of numbers, symbols, and indices that hold no meaning to Vaggie.

Except the result at the bottom, which is abundantly clear. Probability of parentage: 99.999997%. Vaggie's not a math person, but that seems statistically significant. Basically a certainty. Undeniable.

Vaggie places the papers down on her lap in front of her. She's visibly shaking now. Pushing them further down the bed, she seems to want to get them as far away from her as possible. Her head starts to spin, as she realizes her breathing is labored, like she's hyperventilating. Carmilla seems to recognize it too, because she's by her side in a fraction of a second. A large, strong hand is placed securely on her back, saying, "Breathe, mi querida."

Vaggie wants to tell her to stop calling her that. The test may be undeniable, but she's not...she's not this woman's darling. Not her mija, not her daughter, not anything. They just met barely a month ago. This woman doesn't know anything about her, has no right to be this affectionate, this parental, or...whatever else she feels entitled to.

"Please, stop," Vaggie begs, pleading with Carmilla, and pushing her hand away. "Please, Carmilla."

"I'm sorry," Carmilla says, a huge lump evident in her throat by the way her voice cracks. "I just wanted to...to comfort you."

"What, like a mom would?" Vaggie asks, her voice full of mirth she hadn't realized she'd been harboring. "We may be related, but I don't even know you! You almost left Charlie and me to fend for ourselves during that last Extermination! Now I'm just supposed to let you hug me? Treat me like I belong to you? Like you care?"

"What? No! I didn't know! That's not--!"

"What is it, then? Huh?! What kind of mother puts herself in a position to be killed when she's pregnant? Was I that expendable to you? Did you even care if you survived? If I did?"

"Vaggie, stop it--"

"Did you even want me in the first place?!"

"STOP!"

Carmilla's voice is so loud, it practically shakes the walls of the hospital room. Vaggie shrinks away, folding her small body in on itself out of fear of the woman losing control right in front of her. She covers her eye, expecting to be hit, like Adam or her commander would do sometimes. Her body is tense. She's bracing for it. But when nothing else happens, she opens her eye again, wondering at the impact that never comes.

Instead of an overlord, or a demon standing there, she sees a tired, defeated woman, using every bit of strength she has not to collapse into a heap on the floor in front of her. Carmilla is still crying. She looks back at Vaggie, and takes a few tentative steps toward her. When Vaggie doesn't protest, but looks up at her instead, full of an ache she didn't know needed to be filled, Carmilla collapses on the bed.

Carmilla doesn't ask permission. All of Carmilla's better judgement has already left her body, so everything that comes next is out of pure instinct. She needs Vaggie to understand. If Vaggie would only listen, she would know how much--how long she'd been--

"I'm sorry," Carmilla says, taking Vaggie into her arms, crying openly and longingly into the little angel's soft hair. "I'm so sorry. There's never been a day--a moment that's gone by that I haven't thought about you. Worried about you. Wondered where you'd gone and if you were okay."

Carmilla cradles the back of Vaggie's head tenderly, pulling her closer into her chest, where she used to hold her other girls. Where they'd always felt safest.

"You were always wanted. You were so, so loved. I...we cried for you. Grieved for you. Mourned the person we never knew. Please, Vaggie, believe me. We wanted you so, so much, mija."

Vaggie's not sure if she believes her. Not sure what to think. This is all too soon...too sudden...too much of a shock to her system. She's not even certain if she's in her right mind at this moment.

The emotion in the room is intense. Maybe it's the adrenaline of the last few days, or the pain medications finally kicking in. Whatever the reason, Vaggie grips Carmilla's shirt tightly. So tightly, her nails start to pierce fabric. She sobs into Carmilla's shoulder. Carmilla's shirt is soaked with her tears, but the older woman doesn't seem to care, and holds the fallen angel through it.

[jackshiccup]

despite knowing what was going to happen, snotlout's redemption and eventual downfall was so so heartbreaking to me. we spend the past 10 books witnessing how much he's tormented and bullied hiccup that we all feel the same anger and frustration and resentment as fishlegs does in the beginning of 11. i was, maybe, even rooting for something a little bad to happen to him so that he can feel even a fraction of the humiliation that he put hiccup through. but time and time again hiccup, with his inherent goodness and wonderful capacity to always try and see the best in people, reminds us that people need and deserve second chances. even third, fourth and fifth chances. even when hiccup was faced with the certainty that snotlout was set on betraying him from the start.

that's why it was so satisfying to get to the emotional catharsis of the swordfight. snotlout practically begging for hiccup to hate him and hiccup genuinely not having it in him to be able to. and even after that, even after he disarms hiccup and is seconds from killing him - he doesn't. and then hiccup comforts snotlout through it. he tells him words that snotlout didn't know he's been desperate to hear. he tells him he's being too hard on himself. he tells him he's a hero. he opens a door inside snotlout's life for the first time in a long time. despite everything, he offers him another choice to join the dragonmarkers. and snotlout accepts. he bows to hiccup, he calls him king, pledges his sword to his service forever, shakes his hand and chooses to bear the dragonmark.

and it's this moment we finally seeing the seeds of change planted in snotlout sprout - instigated by gobber teaching him a lesson in the amber slavelands and reminding him what the black star represents: pride, honour, bravery. all the times we see snotlout give in to vulnerability and ponder on his choices, he's always holding onto it. which makes it all the more symbolic when he hangs it around hiccup's neck during his last act of valour.

just like how the book tells us that the tides can change so fast, through hiccup, my heart was able to give snotlout another chance too. and it's because of hiccup's belief in snotlout's potential for more that makes you feel so strongly about his death. snotlout's excitement at finally being on hiccup's side, at doing what's right, at having the opportunity to actually be a hero - we can't help but feel that burst of pride, we can't help but root for him. and so we feel the loss, as hiccup did. and it's a point driven home when hiccup ends the epilogue with how he’s carried snotlout and his sacrifice with him all throughout his life. and how time has rubbed away at the black star.

that now the star doesn't look black at all. just gold.

[indigosunsetao3]

Body Paint Session

I know I've posted a lot today but, ah, this idea came to me while mindlessly scrolling.

If anyone wants expansions on any of these just let me know! That's how 'One New Video Message' came about 😉 Feel free to give me ideas of what you're looking for as well! 18+, NSFW, Gender Neutral

Alex

"This is freezing...Hey!" He laughs as you fling a handful of paint on his face, watching it drip down his chin onto the canvas. You had already covered his stomach in blues and greens and he had gasped at the cold from each stroke. He warms his paint up between his hands before grabbing you around the waist and tugging you to the ground pinning you under him. You slide on the canvas as he presses a perfect palmprint on your behind before squeezing and smearing it. The excess paint runs over your skin in rivulets and his fingers chase it to tease you as it pools in the hem of your underwear.

Gaz

"Lean back a little more for me...yeah there you go." He has you straddling his lap and his hand grips your chin tilting you up and back to get you to arch to him, the paint smearing down your neck. A devilish grin spreads across his lips as he kisses your collarbone while staring right at the camera over your shoulder. You aren't sure if that photo is for you or for him. But when he gently bites you, causing to you gasp in surprise, you know that shot is just for him. You slide your paint coated hands down his back and laugh as he shivers when you dig your nails in ever so slightly.

Ghost

"Hold still." You've been laying on your stomach, head resting on your arms as Simon traces shapes and symbols all over your skin. His hand had slid down the back of your knee trailing a purple line which made you squirm from being tickled. You had told him the point to this was to paint one another and roll around and make a mess. He wasn't having that, you were his artwork and he was making a masterpiece. His fingers trace over your ribs spreading the green paint now and you glance at his hand as his knuckles graze the soft flesh of your stomach before he rolls you onto your back. He has a blank slate to work with again and he grins as your chest heaves with anticipation.

Price

"This gets hung in the bedroom. Our eyes only, yeah?" You nod from where you are kneeling in the center of the canvas, rubbing your fingers together to smear the paint. He was standing in just his pants watching you from the edge of the canvas, unsure if he was willing to do this. It was out of his comfort zone, even if it was in your living room with no audience. You knew you'd get him to join you eventually though. Keeping your eyes locked on his you trace a line of paint down your throat to your navel, spreading your knees another fraction of an inch. That's the final straw. He's quickly stripping out of his pants and walking toward you with a grin. He always did say you looked so pretty on his knees for him.

Soap

"No bonnie, I can't have an audience if I'm going to be rubbing paint all over you, I'll be thrown in jail. We'll take our own photos." He wasn't kidding. He's relishing in rolling you under and over him, the paint making both of your bodies slick. The canvas has paint smears all over it, from one corner to the other, as if Johnny was trying to use up every inch. Very quickly the art session turns from playful fun to something more and you haven't even added the third color yet. You whine as your hands slip out from under you again, the blue paint all over them making it difficult to hold a grip as Soap rocks into you from behind. He doesn't give you any mercy and as your knees slide in the red paint, he just laughs as he grips your hips and pulls you more onto him.

[lunarscaled]

🌿 (✨️🐗)

Send 🌿 to accidentally get caught under the mistletoe with my muse.

-> Tesla was right——there was a considerable amount of stacked up Christmas decorations stored away. Lyric was almost shocked at how much; Ulquiorra must have spent days decorating all of Las Noches under his previous Lord's command, and Lyric thinks even if they decorated both palaces head to toe in décor, they still wouldn't be able to use it all .ᐟ So they have to settle for a fraction. A tasteful amount, that makes their chest warm and their body feel fuzzy to look at it. Wreathes and garland wrapped around pillars and twinkling lights tacked up on the wall around the library. Lyric's own room benefitted from several festive looking bows and wreaths of ornaments and colored lights that they left on even when they turned everything else out to sleep at night, their many shifting colors steadily luring them into sleep with technicolored dreams. They even managed to find a tree! A fake one, yes, and a little bent up and scraggly, but a tree all the same! Lyric put it in the... what could generously be described as the living room of Ulquiorra's palace and decorated it to the nines with Tesla, eyes starry and wide. It made them giddy to see it in the mornings and late evenings, though they knew there would be no snow outside or chilly breeze. Just the feeling was enough.

"——Did you know there's a legend that says Mistletoe symbolizes the enduring love of a goddess who lost her son? He died to an arrow made of mistletoe, and she cried on it.

Supposedly, it swore that it would kiss anyone that passed beneath it, so long as it was never used as a weapon again."

-> Lyric hadn't personally hung up every decoration, obviously. It was faster in some instances for them to split up and cover two ends of a very very large room than to muddle over things together. They hadn't realized there were mistletoe bundles in any of the boxes to begin with, let alone that Tesla has seemingly gone about hanging them all up, but with a chance to eye the shiny white berries of the plant from below they feel compelled to share their insight.

"And in Saturnalia it was though of as a romantic wedding plant, and in another culture a sign of fertility... In Britian it became popularized through stories to kiss under a mistletoe and pluck a berry. It was good luck if you said yes and bad luck if you refused."

-> Beside twinkling white Christmas lights, in the dimmed ambiance of the palace hall to improve the visibility of their work, Lyric's eyes are filled with little stars. Their cheeks are touched a rosy red in the heights and in their ears, a soft smile graces their face. No matter how often they are despondent, now they are shining around him. For him, perhaps, in a way. He put all this up for them, after all. They rock back and forth slightly on their heels a few feet from him. Close but not as close as before. They look at the plant and then back to him, just once.

"——but mistletoe is parasitic and toxic. The leaves have a poison in them, and they rely on feeding off other trees to grow. Yet we still associate them with romance and luck in love and kissing. Isn't that interesting, Tesla?"

"One story even says a golden bough of mistletoe was used to enter the land of the dead so a man could speak to his father...

Luckily, I don't need mistletoe to talk to you, right? Hehe."

[hadesoftheladies]

Girlhood Is Surveillance

In the imaginations of most men, oppressive policing is done by a military force or officers of a district. Men are deployed, with weapons and uniform, to enforce the will of the state. They use violent means (or the threat of violence) to intimidate. Certain words are banned by the government and uttering them risks being locked up, done away with, killed.

Yet, the most powerful, pervasive, and far-reaching form of surveillance is the reality for most girls.

Oppressed groups typically go through more surveillance than the oppressing class. They are viewed with more suspicion, afforded less allowances, and must work harder to prove themselves worthy of basic rights. The government is aggressively involved. They mandate what schools can teach, what media houses can publish, what public speakers can say.

For girls, surveillance starts before they can walk. This kind of surveillance is an extension of the surveillance her mother endures from her peers. She is dressed appropriately in pink, in bonnets, in frills and baby bows. By the time she is five, she is policed by her closest relatives. She may or may not be allowed to run shirtless like her brothers. Especially when her uncles are there. She must not wear nail polish or she must play with makeup. She must wear tutus and dresses.

This also happens to boys, but in a much different way. The reason I describe girlhood specifically as surveillance is because in a patriarchal, pornified world, the boy's body is neutral, that is, not provocative. Not insulting.

The female body, on the other hand, is semiotically significant. It is a symbol of sex, of desire, of lust (at least as a man experiences it) and thus is wicked, crude, and crass. The girl is surveilled because on the streets, in the home, by anyone who looks at her, who she is is interpreted to be provocative. In other words, her femaleness, naked or evident, is hate speech. Or impolite language. Language that polite society cannot be seen to be having. Her shoulders, knees, hands, thighs, breasts, are pornography.

This is just a fraction of the surveillance of girlhood.

As she grows up, she learns there are ways she must sit, things she must not know, things she must not say, and things she must wear. Her mother (and sometimes father) are the chief police on these things. They watch her, check her before going out, frisk her to make sure the skirt is not rising above her knees, the hijab is in place, etcetera.

On the streets, the girl learns, that she is also being watched by others. Men whistle at her as she walks to primary school. She learns how easy it is to be shamed as a girl. By teachers, strangers on the road, girls in school, boys at the playground. For having hairy legs, a crooked (normal) nose, a bare face, a face that isn't bare, too much height, too big boobs, too small boobs, thin lips or full lips, a flat butt, a butt that shows, etcetera.

She censors her womanhood when it comes. For if her brothers or father see her blood in the toilet, that is her body once again being provocative. Perhaps she becomes aware as a teenager, of the inequality and injustice. If she speaks out, she will be met with a host of police ready to put a stop to it. Her best friend will say, "Some women like looking beautiful. It is not a crime to want to be beautiful. You are judging me." Her mother will say, "Girls libidos don't matter. Sex is not for girls to enjoy, but for men." Her father will say, "Don't worry your pretty little head about things you don't understand." They will all dismiss, all shame, all hush her. They will call her ungrateful, a lesbian (which means social outcast, unnatural, inhuman, wrong), a radical, or a child throwing a tantrum. All of which are threats, whether or not they recognize them as such.

This policing system does not need the use of officers or the military much because the narrative is in society's consciousness. The people will police deviants themselves after the government tells them what the deviants look like and gives them the stakes of noncompliance. This kind of surveillance is also older than the government, if not as old as it is. It's oldness makes it that much more difficult to notice and resist.

The people who love you become the police. They will snitch on you to their peers if you do not conform. Your mother will tell your aunts and grandmother. Your father will joke about you with your brothers. Your sister will tell on you to the popular girls. And these are not the worst kind. Most girls, like every other animal, every other human being, will go the route with the most ease and the best chance at survival.

They will conform. They will cross their legs. Do their hair according to their age. Paint or not paint their nails. Wear the hijab. Wear skirts that go over the knee. Wear the pink. Curl their hair. Smear the lipstick, eyeliner, mascara. Put the powder and glitter on themselves. Wear the heels and stockings. Kiss the boy, etcetera.

And now, because they've been told how closely they're being watched, for their looks, whether their clothes are appropriate or not, whether their mothers are happy or not, whether their brothers feel threatened or disgusted by their pads or their tomboyishness or not, whether they are excelling too much in sports or academia or too little, whether they are smart or not, whether they are fat or not, whether they are acceptable or provocative or not . . . it becomes of paramount importance that they surveil themselves. Because they are in a hypervigilant state. They are in survival mode.

Girls are their own self-police. Harsh on every angle and feature. Because they have been told that people pay special attention to them everywhere they go. And to some degree, this is true. Everyone is easily insulted by femaleness, because femaleness is provocative. Please note, not femininity, femaleness. Femininity is camouflage because it signals conformity. Agreeing with the narrative that insists that the female body is the symbol for sex or motherhood. That the female body is pornography. The women that flaunt their bodies and say, "I am sexy and want you to know it!" are conforming. The women that hide their bodies and duck their heads to show meekness toward their God are conforming. None of them challenge the assertion that the female body is by-default provocative, an invitation to sex, shameful.

Now, surveillance has expanded. You see girls tilting their heads in one direction on their cameras because they believe this is their best side. They all have makeup or makeup filters. That thin their faces and enlarge their eyes. That make their lips a little fuller. They gag themselves and retch up nutrients and food in order to keep themselves safe. Obsessed with beauty and meekness because it is their livelihood. What secures them in society.

And yet . . . does it? Little girls are killed for a little hair showing from beneath their headscarf. Young women are murdered by the men whose advances were rejected. Toddlers are whistled at by grown men on the street. Teenage girls are the sex symbol of the generations in TV shows, movies, music videos. Mothers starve their girls, physically and emotionally abuse their girls, to keep them compliant. Girls have burn marks, scars, wounds from conformity. They have blistered feet and bra lines burned into their ribcage.

The government is not inactive, either. It does not punish femicides. It mandates forced birth. It regulates population by regulating the human female, rather than the male that has been left to run amock. Who starts these pregnancies and is responsible for any statistic for violence in the general population. It ensures that women need men to survive the economy. It ensures that women are successfully sold and bought for the economy. The pimps need their money, after all. And the president needs the pimps. The oligarchs need their workers, too. Workers need mothers to create them and wives to sustain them. Girlhood is the governments business.

A girl will blame herself for how her boyfriend treats her, for being raped. She will then, instead of looking at the world, at the perpetrator, will police herself and other girls around her even more aggressively. Violently.

Surveillance is most powerful when privacy is destroyed and the person made into a data point to be exploited. Girls do not have privacy, for their private parts are taboo discussions in public life. They are offensive discourse and so must be suppressed and regulated.

Girlhood is living under the most extreme and powerful form of surveillance, where everyone is the girl-police, including the girl herself.

[domesticatedford]

A Day Out

(A good ending story)

The smell of dust and leather pressed down, mingling with the hot air to create a truly stifling atmosphere. The astonishing number of human bodies had the same effect. There were. Too many people. D's thumb raked back and forth against the handles mounted to H’s wheelchair. Traced the grooves that had been specifically made for him to hold; five divots. He really did want to be here! It was just a lot.

The Ren Faire had been Jean-Paul’s idea. He and H’s relationship had healed to the point where it could be called an odd sort of friendship. Given the standards of their interactions in the past, that was wonderful progress. Apparently, before his transformation, the polymorph had attended such events several times. This was his first time returning in his new body (not that it was “new” anymore; it hadn’t been in years.) He was perched on D’s shoulders as the old man pushed H through the wide dirt path between stalls. Jean-Paul was dressed as a little bandit, complete with a hooded cape and a tiny mask tied around his head, mirroring his markings. He had insisted it was funny. D supposed it was.

“Most of this is utter shit,” H sighed, staring through the slats of his polished helmet at a selection of necklaces. They were glass beads made to look like dragon eyes, strung through with rough-looking leather cords. D hummed, bending slightly to inspect a small sculpture of a cat. It had another one of those dragon-eye beads in its paws. “Have you seen the price on these? $40. What is this, $7 of materials? Less? Ridiculous.” D made another noise of mild agreement as he picked up the cat. H liked to complain. D rarely had to say much; his friend just needed to know he was listening, that his complaints were being acknowledged by someone. He needed, D had realized, to get these feelings out of him like a machine venting steam.

D placed his chosen prize on the counter, giving the woman manning it a smile. She looked away from H’s back, which she was glaring at, and gave D a much more vibrant grin in return.

“Will that be all?” She asked.

“Yes, thank you.” D retrieved his wallet from the pocket of his coat. The garment was a deep blue-black, studded with star formations in gold stitching. H had designed it, so of course it was beautiful. D hadn’t had a wallet in a very long time; he hadn’t needed one. Hadn’t been allowed to have money, then had no use for it. It felt a bit alien to pry the leather pouch open and pluck what was owed.

“I like your mask,” the woman said as she wrapped the little sculpture in stiff, cream paper. D absently pressed a finger to the thin curve of white plastic propped over his glasses.

“Ah, thank you,” he replied, his smile growing fractionally. The Eus had “printed” the thing for him, and he’d painted alchemical symbols and swirling patterns atop it in gold paint. Although it really did make an excellent addition to his costume, its main function was to hide his identity. They were on 04’\, after all, and this was a crowded event. D didn’t really want to chance being recognized. That was, he supposed, why H had chosen to wear a full-coverage costume; a black-and-silver gambeson with scale armor, leather gloves and a helmet with slats that put D in mind of a predator’s teeth. H didn’t have the same aversion to public confrontation that D did, though, so he guessed the outfit had been chosen for his benefit. H really was very sweet.

“I can’t believe you actually bought something from that tacky place,” H commented when D returned to him. D tucked his purchase in one of the leather bags on either side of the wheelchair.

“I saw a cat figurine I thought Mabel would like,” D explained. H snorted; he sounded congested.

“I’m sure you could make something better than that.”

“Maybe,” D hummed. “I’m not very good with sculpture, though.”

“Better than this shit that was probably squirted out of a mold and painted by a kid chained up in a basement somewhere.” D frowned.

“That’s… your dimension, I hope,” he said.

“Human depravity is pan-dimensional,” H replied. He wasn’t wrong.

The pair returned to Jean-Paul, who was sitting on a large rock; one of several that ringed a patch of manicured grass. He slurped down the last drops of a small water bottle. D stooped and held out his arms for Jean-Paul to hop into.

“Careful,” H warned as the raccoon skittered onto D’s shoulders. His perch. “Don’t go bending when you don’t have to. This is going to be a long day.”

“I’ll be fine,” D retorted gently, returning to his place behind H. “You’re the one I’m worried about.” H spread his hands, palms up. Leather creaked.

“I’m in the chair, aren't I?”

“You're also wearing a costume that weighs half as much as you do,” Jean-Paul put in. His voice came out choppily from the translator around his neck; bad connection. He dropped the empty water bottle into a trash can as they passed.

“Some of us value historical accuracy,” H snarked back. “My armor is a perfect replica of that worn by 72’\’s Fallen King, circa 1105. You look like a character from a children's cartoon.”

“You're so fucking pretentious,” PG replied.

The pair's bickering continued as D guided them through the crowd. Still too many people. D's heart rate spiked occasionally, and he tried to follow his grounding exercises, but everything was so loud and close and human that it really didn't help anything. Focusing on H and Jean-Paul's conversation did. The two of them were clearly having fun. Even with H's face obscured, D could hear the joy in his voice as he criticized the inaccurate matching of weapon to era in a shop display. PG countered with a point about marketability, further adding how, even in an event full of nerds, H got the gold star for being an obnoxious know-it-all.

“Oh, we have got to do the archery game,” Jean-Paul said. The words were warped, like they came from a toy that was running out of batteries, but were still understandable. “It's just up ahead, Phospho. Over there, next to the donkey.” H, who was walking beside D, taking some time to stretch his legs (that was the reason he'd claimed, anyway,) put a hand on his hip.

“You really are a child,” he said.

“No, I'm just not terminally self-serious, Mr. Goth Armor,” Jean-Paul sniffed. “Besides, you still have no idea how old I even am.”

“... Twenty-three,” H said after a pause. Jean-Paul chittered with laughter that his translator didn't know what to do with.

“He's in his late thirties,” D corrected. He sipped at a fluorescent lemonade he'd purchased to cure his parched throat. That, and the drink had looked interesting. He still had no idea what the chunks floating in it were, but he was excited to find out!

D set H's folded wheelchair against his leg when the trio reached the front of the small line before the archery game. He really would like to have sat down, but the very few benches D had seen were already occupied. He was getting a bit tired, and his feet hurt. He would be fine, though. Jean-Paul hopped onto the wooden fence that blocked off the grounds of the game.

“I'm a sophont and I would like to play your game,” he said. He'd gotten very direct about such things. The burly human attendant looked Jean-Paul up and down; the polymorph straightened fractionally.

“Yeah, think we got somethin’ in your size,” the man said. “Travis! Check the back.” Another man nodded, his thick, black beard bobbing, and disappeared behind the wooden wall that marked the edge of the game.

The fair had been erected within what had once been the bounds of the weirdness bubble. Not very far in, but an effort was being made to reclaim such territory. As such, while most of the guests were human, some were altered in one way or another through their exposure to weirdness. A few nonhumans were also present (D had spotted a small cluster of gnomes scampering about the periphery of the grounds,) but they were in the vast minority.

Travis returned with a couple very small bows. After giving Jean-Paul a once-over, he handed one to the first attendant and headed back to return the other weapon.

“Right, I’ll just be a sec,” the burly man said. He moved some of the smaller targets closer to the front, where Jean-Paul would be shooting from. The larger ones remained untouched. Jean-Paul grimaced slightly before hopping down onto the short-cropped grass within the fence, wobbling a bit as he landed. He was probably trying to keep his forepaws from touching the ground. The attendant handed him the tiny bow.

“You get six shots. Might want to aim higher than you think you need to, little guy.”

“I never would have guessed,” the polymorph replied.

Three of Jean-Paul’s shots hit a target. One even struck the second row of targets that had been moved for him.

“Excellent job!” D cheered, spilling a bit of his drink on his hand as he clapped awkwardly around the cup.

“Average,” H corrected. “You really are a median person.”

“Shush, he’s wonderful,” D chided.

“Thanks, Phospho, but my ego isn’t really riding on this,” Jean-Paul said. “I’ve never even done this before.”

“Then let me show you how it’s done,” H replied.

H moved into place with a showman’s confidence. Even now, crippled and aged, he hadn’t lost that. It was something D really admired about him. He slid into position easily, bow straight and arrow nocked. He pulled the string back. It looked like he wasn’t pulling back far enough for the shot he was trying to take. Six shots, six hits, all on the farthest targets. Still, D could tell by the hesitant way he lowered his bow, the slight tremor in his arms, that H was unhappy. None of his arrows but the last one had hit the center circle. He shouldn’t be upset with such a result!

“Fantastic!” D shouted, clapping again. Now both his hands were covered in sugary liquid. D could just hear the sigh that whispered through H’s helmet as he strode back.

“Humiliate myself in front of the fucking raccoon,” he muttered. D stiffened. H had gotten so much better about treating Jean-Paul like a human. He really was upset.

“Y-you didn’t, really…” D reached out a hand to offer H’s arm a comforting touch, but twitched away when he remembered his hands were still covered in lemonade, and H’s costume was very expensive. He bit his lip and took a step back. “Y-you really… um…” D fiddled with the cup, feeling stupid. “You really did very well.” He knew H had wanted to be perfect, though. He was in public, and he was in front of Jean-Paul. And D couldn’t even touch him because he’d thought clapping like an idiot would mean anything to anyone.

D started when he felt a tug on his coat. He looked down to see Jean-Paul staring up at him.

“Phospho! Do you want to give it a try?” He asked. D rubbed his finger back and forth along the plastic straw. It made a horrible sound.

“I… um…” Did he want to? He looked to H.

“… Go ahead,” the other man said after a pause. “It couldn’t hurt to give the boy another reminder of just how out of his league he is.” D replied with an uncertain hum. He felt that he should defend Jean-Paul, but he really didn’t have a counterargument.

D chugged the remainder of his drink (the chunks were blue-dyed watermelon!) and tossed the cup before stepping into the game area. He forced himself to give the attendant a polite smile as he was handed the bow. D knew he moved with far less grace than H as he lined up the first shot. He hadn’t used a bow in a while. He probably wouldn’t do very well. He would like to, though. Six shots, six hits, all on the farthest targets. Five out of six had struck the center ring. He supposed he’d done fine. He really should have been able to hit them all in the center; the targets weren’t even that far away. Dr. Oleander had told him to be kinder to himself, though, so. It was fine.

H was sitting back in his chair when D returned to him and PG, having given back the bow. Leather slapped against leather as H clapped; a moderate pace, like he’d just savored an extravagant performance and wished to retain the dignity of the moment.

“Well done, Kitten!” he boomed.

“Yeah, I seriously forgot how good of a shot you are,” Jean-Paul added. D fidgeted with the cuffs on his coat.

“Oh, no, I didn’t really do very well,” he said. “I mean, um. I was fine.”

“Stop being modest,” H sniffed. “Your virtue is one of your most annoying qualities. I’ll find a way to dampen it with a bit of selfishness one of these days.” His voice was regal yet fond. Warmth prickled in D’s chest.

“Before you go,” the attendant said, crossing the fence and approaching the group. “Got somethin’ for you.” He held out his hand, palm up, toward H and D. D took what was offered; a pair of plastic “silver” medals hanging from black, imitation silk bands. “You two are seriously good. You shoot often?”

“Not for some time,” D admitted. He held up the medal to inspect it. A lumpy gryphon was embossed onto its surface. D smiled. He made to hand one to H, but his friend held his palm up.

“Not a fan of tacky trash, Kitten,” he said. “You can keep it.” The attendant made an odd face, looking between the two old men for a moment, before crouching down to Jean-Paul’s level.

“This one’s for you, little guy,” he said. His voice pitched up when he addressed the shifter. “Those targets were really far!” He pressed a medal into Jean-Paul’s paws. The polymorph stared at it for a moment before pinning it to the front of his cloak.

“I am ecstatic to have the opportunity to provide you with free advertising,” he said. Instead of black, the medal’s fake silk was cherry red, and instead of a gryphon, the plastic circle bore a thumbs up sign. D’s face pinched.

“That’s the children’s design, isn’t it?” He asked. His voice had gone hard. The attendant looked at him as he straightened.

“I mean, yeah,” he said, like he didn’t understand the problem. D gripped his own medals tighter.

“He’s an adult,” he said, louder this time.

“It’s fine, D,” H said, grazing D’s elbow with his fingers. “That medal will fit well with his others. It’s even the same color as his Medal of Recognition from the Transplanetary Alliance.” The attendant raised an eyebrow, taking another moment to look Jean-Paul up and down.

“No, no, that’s not the right shade,” Jean-Paul added, adjusting the cheap plastic disc. “You’re thinking of the Sanctific Chrisming of the Bright God.” D took a deep breath in through his nose. His mask smelled like sweat and sugar. He saw the game now.

“If I recall correctly, that one’s black and gold,” he said. “Perhaps you’re remembering the Centennial Hallibraxian Medal of Service? I can see how it might be difficult to remember the colors, as you don’t wear them often.” He eyed the attendant. “Maybe you should.”

“Alright, man, you don’t have to wear these if you don’t want to,” the man muttered before turning his attention to a couple who had approached the game.

A couple hours later, the trio stopped for lunch. D was almost as grateful for the break, for being able to *sit down,* as he was for the food. His legs were properly hurting now, and stiffness had wrapped prickling chains around his spine. Jean-Paul had made him use hand sanitizer before he ate (an oversized turkey leg, its skin craggy from a rustic method of cooking. Fun!) He tried to pressure H into doing the same when he took off his gloves, but was summarily rebuffed.

“I’ve been wearing gloves all day,” he said. “Besides, hand sanitizer can damage leather.”

“Don’t blame me when you get sick,” Jean-Paul retorted, scrubbing down his own paws.

H slid off his helmet to eat the meal D had bought for him (he couldn’t refuse it that way.)

His face was red with blood.

“A-are you okay?!” D stammered, heart stuttering.

“What, what is it?” H asked, sounding entirely unconcerned.

“Y-your face! Blood!�� D grabbed H’s face in his hands, fingers pressing into hollow cheeks, and pulled him closer, inspecting. “It’s… it’s a nose bleed.”

“Oh, is that what that was?” H said. “I thought it was sweat on my lip.” He gripped D’s arms and guided them away, the touch lingering. “You know how often this happens, D. You know it doesn’t mean anything. My nasal lining is just fucked up. You know that.” His thumb brushed D’s arm, deforming the thick fabric of his coat.

D forced himself to take a deep breath.

“Yes… yes, I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” H chided gently. He scrubbed his face with a napkin with one hand. D frowned. H was *bleeding* and he was comforting him. That was a cycle that wouldn’t stop repeating.

Hooves thundered, kicking up dust. An announcer rambled out a story about rival houses over a loudspeaker. Two horses charged each other in choreographed unison. Lance struck armor and one knight slumped. Half the audience cheered as their assigned house claimed victory; the other half booed in good humor. D was supposed to be on the side that was cheering. He really didn’t feel like doing so. His legs, back and hips felt like they were on fire (not really; he knew what that felt like.) Sitting down wasn’t helping anymore. He gripped the fabric over his knees. Fuck, they hurt.

The crowd had begun to filter out of the open-air auditorium that held the jousting events. It wasn’t terribly large, but H’s wheelchair had granted them access to disabled seating. The other seats had been filled completely, leaving some to have to wait for the next show. H, with Jean-Paul nestled in his lap, had wheeled about, ready to move on. He was watching D expectantly. Only D couldn’t get up. His joints had locked up while he sat and watched the show. His body felt like it was eating itself, gnawing nerves raw as he tried to force himself up.

No, no, he could do this. It was just standing. That was easy. D gripped either side of his seat and slowly, painfully, dragged himself to his feet. He let out an involuntary groan through gritted teeth. H was standing beside him, out of his chair.

“I told you not to push yourself,” he nearly snapped. He sounded angry. Concerned.

“I’m f-fine,” D said. H pointed at his wheelchair.

“Sit down,” he ordered. D shook his head.

“N-no, that’s yours,” he argued. “You need it.”

“I need it a hell of a lot less than you right now. Sit.” D looked away. He felt himself hunching.

“I-I can walk,” he murmured.

“Barely,” H scoffed. “How do you fancy going back down that ramp; up the hill we took to get here? Please, Kitten. You need to rest.” H’s voice softened at the end. His hands wound around D’s arms and guided him down. He resisted at first, for a moment, before giving in. Once he was seated, Jean-Paul, who had moved to the bench when H stood, hopped onto his lap. D sighed and ran his fingers through the fur on his tail.

D’s arms, at least, were fine. He maneuvered the wheelchair far more awkwardly than H, but pushing himself was easy. H, who had retrieved his cane, walked beside him. D was glad he wasn’t trying to push him. He felt guilty for making H walk at all.

“What the fuck is this?!” D jolted. He wanted to turn toward the infuriated voice, but he wasn’t good enough with the chair to do so before its source had circled in front of him. They were just outside the auditorium now, and a red-faced man in a huntsman’s outfit was glaring between D and H. A woman was close by, holding a small child tightly by the hand.

“A raccoon,” H sneered, leaning on his cane. “I suppose, alongside the ability to mind your own business, you were never taught basic zoology.”

“I’m not talking about that, asshole,” the stranger snapped. “I remembered you two. You were behind us in line.” He jabbed a finger at D. “You switched places!” His glare shifted back to H. “You can fucking walk!” D gripped the wheels of the chair. He hated people yelling at him. He hated people yelling at H. He wanted to make him stop.

H paused before speaking.

“… My friend is tired,” he said. His voice sounded strained. “He’s having difficulty walking. Frankly, I don’t owe you an explanation, but maybe it can teach your child something. You certainly seem incapable of doing so.” The man took a lurching step forward. D’s hands shook. The man was getting in H’s face. D wanted to hit him. But he hurt, and there was a child. He groaned and pressed his hands over his masked face. There was a fucking kid. He couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t think of anything to say.

”You made my kid miss out on the show!” The stranger snapped. “You got let in after the cutoff because of the damn wheelchair you don’t need!”

“We were in disabled seating, moron,” H hissed. “It wouldn’t have made a difference. Count yourself lucky your child gets to attend events like this.” The barest tremor entered his voice. D should do something. He should fucking do something. Why wouldn’t his body move?!

“Dude. Are you screaming at a guy in a wheelchair?” Another voice had entered the conversation.

“He doesn’t need it,” the first man scoffed. “These two switched places!”

“Yeah, man, they’re old,” said the new voice. “They probably needed to.” D peeked between his fingers. A young man had forced himself between H and the angry parent. He was wearing what could generously be considered a low-effort peasant costume. The two continued to argue, the first man shifting his attention to his new combatant. Jean-Paul pressed his hand against D’s arm.

“Let’s go,” he said, as quietly as his translator would allow. D nodded, but he couldn’t make himself move further. H pulled him back and wheeled him away. As soon as D calmed down, he took over.

The little group made their way back into the main area of the fair. H had stripped off the outer layer of his armor, including his gloves, leaving the gambeson and helmet. The rest was stowed on the wheelchair.

“I’m hot,” he’d explained when asked. He accepted a water bottle from Jean-Paul, removing his helmet long enough to drink it.

Stress clung to D’s chest and shoulders, winding up his neck. His jaw clenched involuntarily. He was terrible with the wheelchair. He kept bumping into people. They glared down at him, making him want to curl up into nothing. It felt so much more crowded, too. He wasn’t exactly tall, but when he was standing, he was roughly head level with everyone else. Bodies took up more space; a sea of torsos, shifting and crowding and trying to choke him-

“Are you okay, Phospho?” Jean-Paul asked from his lap. D gave a strangled noise in reply. He kept wheeling forward, because if he stopped, he knew he was going to freeze again.

“What’s wrong?” H asked from behind him. He leaned heavily on the back of the wheelchair. Nothing, D wanted to reply. He didn’t say anything.

“Hey - do your breathing exercises,” Jean-Paul prompted. It was only then that D realized he was practically hyperventilating. He couldn’t slow his breaths. His head felt hot. “Seriously, Phospho, stop. I need you to calm down,” Jean-Paul said. D bumped into someone else. Another glare, followed by an expression of permissive pity. A whine choked from D’s throat.

A hand from behind pulled him to a stop. Jean-Paul hopped off his lap.

“Stay with him,” he said.

“As if I’d leave,” H replied. He put his hands on D’s shoulders. “It’s okay, Kitten.” Fuck. He was doing it again. He was making H comfort him. He was freaking out over nothing. It was nothing!

Jean-Paul returned some time later. D didn’t know how long. He was sure H did.

“I found somewhere a bit quieter,” the polymorph said. “Follow me.” With a bit of coaxing, D was able to make himself move again. He kept his eyes locked on Jean-Paul; tried to ignore everything else. The shifter’s cape dragged in the dust. He led them to an open, grassy area on the edge of the fair. There were still people, but fewer. There were even a couple free benches. D maneuvered himself beside one and H slumped down heavily. Guilt squirmed inside D.

Jean-Paul left again, returning with an icy lemonade and a large pickle half-wrapped in wax paper. He hopped onto D’s lap and offered them to him. D had calmed down enough by then to accept the gifts.

“You actually went to the pickle guy?” H asked, raising an eyebrow. His helmet sat on the bench beside him.

“Electrolytes,” Jean-Paul explained. “Plus, he was charming.”

D petted Jean-Paul while he ate the pickle and drank the lemonade (it was strawberry mint and he loved it). Jean-Paul and H’s easy banter resumed. It was nice to listen to. Suddenly, a wet nose pushed itself against his leg. D looked down to see a Labrador retriever tethered to a flustered-looking woman.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” she said. “Sally! You know better than that. Heel!” A quick, minute tug on Sally’s leash had her standing at the woman’s side. She was still staring at D with large, golden eyes that stood out against her chocolate-colored fur. She was beautiful.

“It’s fine,” D said with a smile. “I have treats. Does she have any allergies?”

“Um, chicken,” the woman replied. D nodded.

“A common one.” He reached into his pocket. “Is beef okay?” The stranger smiled back.

“Yeah, she’d love that.”

D held out a treat for the dog to take. At a command of ‘free’ from her owner, Sally trotted forward and lapped it up. D laughed and stroked the dog’s fuzzy head.

The woman sat on the bench beside H.

“I saw you guys earlier today,” she said. “Love the costumes. And your raccoon is so cute! Is it a pet or a service animal?”

Jean-Paul answered ‘neither’ at the same time H said ‘service animal.’ The woman blinked.

“He’s a human,” H said.

“I have a raccoon body now because of a series of frankly ridiculous circumstances,” Jean-Paul added. D didn’t have anything to say, so he continued to pet the dog. Her tail wagged lazily.

“Oh, I-I’m sorry,” the woman said. She nervously adjusted the front of her corset. “I shouldn’t have assumed.” Jean-Paul chittered a good-natured laugh.

“An honest mistake. Besides, my circumstances are pretty unique. Can’t expect every raccoon you see to have an undergraduate degree.”

The woman continued to chat with H and Jean-Paul, with D contributing occasionally. He slipped the dog a few more treats, lavishing her with attention. The crowd slowly began to clear. It was reaching the end of business hours. The woman parted with an amiable farewell, the feather on her tricorn hat bobbing in the still air as she departed. The heat of the day became less oppressive as shadows lengthened. H stood, looking less fatigued. The three friends slowly made their way back to the entrance.