#anne clock tower

[sofy-tofy]

Clock Tower: the First Fear fanarts:

- "Please dont cry Jennifer..."

- "Jennifer and her... friends"

[laurapalmersdiary]

[aneverydaything]

Day 1595, 4 November 2022

[listen-to-the-inner-walrus]

Again, not an exhaustive list but for anyone else in the UK, these are where riots are expected today:

Aldershot - Immigration Advisors at 40 Victoria Road GU11 1TH, starting at 19:30.

Bedford - Immigration INN (Inn?) on Ford End Road MK40 4JT, at 20:00.

Birmingham - Refugee and Migrant Centre on Frederick Street B1 3HN, beginning at 20:00.

Bishop Auckland - outside the Town Hall on Market Place DL14 7NP.

Blackburn - Rafiq Immigration Services on Whalley Road BB5 1AA, at 20:00.

Blackpool - Immigration Solicitors at the Enterprise Centre on Lytham Road FY1 1EW, starting at 20:00.

Bolton - Deane & Bolton Immigration Lawyers on Chorley New Road BL1 4QR, at 20:00.

Brentford - UK Immigration Help in The Mile on 1000 Great West Road TW8 9DW, starting around 19:00.

Brighton - Raj Rayan Immigration in Queensberry House at 106 Queens Road BN1 3XF, starting either at 19:30 or 20:00.

Bristol - Gya Williams Immigration on West Street BS2 OBL, at 20:00.

Burnley - at Thompson Park on 111 Ormerod Rioad BB11 3QWat, starting at 13:00.

Canterbury - UK Immigration Clinic in the Canterbury Innovation Centre CT2 7FG, at 20:00.

Chatham - Immigration Status UK on Maidstone Road ME5 9FD, at 20:00.

Cheadle - Intime Immigration Services on Brooks Drive SK8 3TD, at 20:00.

Chelmsford - UK Immigration Information Centre on Violet Close CM1 6XG, at 20:00.

Derby - Immigration Advisory Service, Normanton Road DE23 6US, at 20:00.

Dover - Kent Immigration and Visa Advice at 5A Castle Hill Road CT16 1QG, reportedly around 20:00.

Durham - in Crook at Market Place, at 18:00. (Unsure as to whether this is the same one as in Bishop Auckland as I know Crook is near there?)

Finchley - Immigration and Nationality Services within Foundation House at 4 Percy Road N128BU, around 19:00.

Harrow - Yes UK Immigration and North Harrow Community Library within the Business Centre at 429-433 Pinner Road HA1 4HN, in North Harrow, at 19:00.

Hastings - Black Rock Immigration at 37 Cambridge Gardens TN34 1EN, at 20:00.

Hull - Conroy Baker Immigration Lawyer in Norwich House, 1 Savile Street HU1 3ES, at 20:00.

Lewisham - the Clock Tower, SE13 5JH, 19:00.

Lincoln - Immigration Lawyer Services on Carlton Mews LN2 4FJ, at 20:00.

Liverpool - Merseyside Refugee Centre in St Anne's Centre on 7 Overbury Street L7 3HJ, at 20:00.

Liverpool - Sandpiper Hotel (might be on Ormskirk Old Road? if any scousers can clarify where that is, that'd be great) at 13:00.

Middlesbrough - Immigration Advice Centre which is the Co-Operative Buildings at 251 Linthorpe Road TS1 4AT, at 20:00.

Newcastle - United Immigration Services in Artisan Unit 3, The Beacon on Westgate Road NE4 9PQ, at 20:00.

Northampton - Zenith Immigration Lawyers at 2 Talbot Road NN1 4JB, starting at 20:00.

Nottingham - East Midlands Immigration Services at 15 Stonesbury Vale NG2 7UR, at 20:00.

Oldham - somewhere on Ellen Street 0L9 6QR, at 20:00

Oxford - Asylum Welcome in Unit 7 in Newtec Place on Magdelen Road OX4 1RE, around 19:00. [Updated as of 15:53]

Peterborough - Smart Immigration Services in Laxton House at 191 Lincoln Road PE1 2PN, at 20:00.

Plymouth - in a Morrisons car park, I don't know which but I saw Victory Parade associated with it? If anyone from Plymouth can clarify, please do. Not sure on time.

Portsmouth - UK Border Agency at Kettering Terrace PO2 8QN, at 20:00

Preston - Adriana Immigration Services at 109 Church Street PR1 3BS, at 19:00 or 20:00.

Rotherham - Parker Rhodes Hickmotts, The Point S60 1BP, at 20:00.

Sheffield - City Hall on Barker's Pool S1 2JA, at 13:00.

Sheffield - White Rose Visas at 101 Wilkinson Street S10 2GJ, at 20:00.

Southampton - Y-Axis Immigration Consultants, Cumberland Place on Grosvenor Square SO15 2BG, at 20:00.

Southend - MNS Immigration Solicitors on Ditton Court Road SS0 7HG, at 20:00.

Stoke-On-Trent - ZR Visas on Metcalfe Road ST6 7AZ, in Tunstall, at 20:00.

Sunderland - North of England Refugee Service which is in Suite 12 in the Eagle Building at 201 High Street East SR1 2AX, at 20:00.

Swindon - I have no details for this, just seen that something might be kicking off there.

Tamworth - Lawrencia & Co Immigration Solicitors within the Amber Business Village on Amber Close B77 4RP, no details on time unfortunately.

Walthamstow - Waltham Forest Immigration Bureau at 187 Hoe Street E17 3AP, at 20:00.

Wigan - Support for Wigan Arrivals Project, Penson Street WN1 2LP, at 20:00.

York - only detail I've got it is York Stay City Hotel.

[thetardisisnotourdivision]

Silly prediction for Empire of Death.

If they do get Carole Ann Ford back as Susan, I'd love them to do a scene like in The Empty Hearse in Sherlock. Like the Doctor's doing six things at once and trying to find the thingamajig which, it turns out, he'd have gotten far earlier if he'd just LOOKED at the random old lady who kept talking to him.

Something like:

Susan: oh, it's nice in here, isn't it? Doctor (not looking up): how did you get into the tower? Susan: I have my ways. Used to travel a lot. You pick things up.  Doctor (figuring out a complex formula because the world is about to end): well just stay over there and shut up, ok? Susan: I might have the answer? Doctor: no, you don't, just stay there.  Susan: I could always come back and help you later.  Doctor: please don't distract me.  Susan: I don't get anxieties, you know. And I don't cry, either. So I could be a good help. After all, we don't want a time war on our hands because of hysterical delays. Y'know. A race against the clock. Time. War.  Susan: and of course, a lot of problems look BIGGER than they are. Susan: on the inside. Doctor: sure, fine.  Susan (basically just having fun now): ooo, that police box is nice.  Doctor: that's my TARDIS, stay away from it.  Susan: TARDIS? What does that stand for? Doctor (as Susan mouths the words exactly as he says them): Time and Relative Dimension in Space, now stop talking.  Susan: haven't seen a police box since… ooo, November 1963?  Doctor: I really don't need this right now.  Susan: my husband used to say that there were a few up in BEDFORD, but I never saw them. (pointedly) DAVID. My husband's name was DAVID.  Doctor (not listening): wonderful.  Susan: and my kids. Who I named after people I loved. DAVID, IAN and BARBARA. They used to say that one day they'd go to SPACE and see MARINUS and SKARO like MUM DID.  Doctor: fantastic. Please be quiet.  Susan: you really are stupid, aren't you? Doctor: I'm currently trying to save all your lives, now shut up and let me work.  Susan: it'd be a shame if the planet got destroyed simply because nobody thought to ask the little old lady any questions.  Doctor: you've talked quite enough already.  Susan: after all, it is TELEPATHIC POWER you need. PSYCHIC POWERS. LIKE YOUR GRANDDAUGHTER.  Doctor: … Doctor: remind me to tell Kate to get better security on the Black Archive.  Susan: are you KIDDING me.  Susan: right. Ok. Perhaps you should look up the answer.  Doctor: Google can't help me here. Susan: no, I mean you should LOOK. UP.  *she makes him look at her and hands him the thingamajig he needed. Whatever is exploding immediately stops exploding.* Doctor: oh.  Susan: you get it now? Doctor: oh shit. 

Sorry for the long and weird post but I genuinely just think that something like this would be hilarious.

[imagrindylow]

Hi (Amit request here again hehe ) but if you’re comfortable with doing like short stuff or like headcanons could you do like the HLC reactions to you petting their hair like they’re just doing some thing or talking while sitting beside MC and theyre like zoned out a bit (MC is ) and decides to just start playing with their hair plz and thanks 😁

Hi again!! Thank you for this! I went with a little drabble of a fic for each of the guys, having each of them react to a different situation where they were frustrated and MC comforts them by petting their hair. This was fun! Hope you enjoy :)

Sebastian, Leander, Ominis, Garreth & Amit react to MC comforting them by stroking their hair.

Sebastian Sallow: The two of you were in the library where you’d spent many late evenings together, both of you reading through thick and dusty books, still in the endless search of anything that might lead to a cure for Anne. Your eyes were tired, your mind was tired, and if you felt like this, you couldn’t imagine how Sebastian must be feeling.

Closing the last book in the stack he’d combed through tonight, Sebastian let his head fall forward to the table in frustration, forehead pressed to the leather cover of the book. He thumped his head against the book a few times with a low growl of a sigh slipping through his lips in exasperation. No amount of time spent searching had brought you anywhere closer to an answer. You reached a hand out towards him, your fingers running over his hair slowly, again and again. He turned his head towards you, still resting it against the book, his other cheek laying against the cover. You remind him that he isn’t alone in this and that feeling is everything to him. He gives you a half smile and the most subtle nod, and he thanks you quietly. When he collects himself and sits back up, he leans in and kisses your cheek, making plans to meet back up tomorrow at the same time to keep on searching.

Leander Prewett: He was sitting outside in the clock tower courtyard after a rough round of crossed wands, in which he had gotten beaten quite badly – yet again – by Sebastian Sallow. You noticed him from across the way, looking worse for wear. You crossed the yard and sat beside him, offering to let him vent his frustrations on you, as he really looked like he needed someone to listen. He immediately took you up on your offer and started talking your ear off about the mistakes he thought he made in his spell combinations, and what he could have done differently that he didn’t see in the moment. He was clearly taking the loss hard. You got the feeling that he could use more than a listening ear, he was rather quite worked up, berating himself with self depreciating jokes that were getting progressively worse. You wrapped an arm around his back and pulled him in towards you, guiding his head to rest on your shoulder with your fingers in his hair. His immediate reaction was confusion and he stopped speaking when you continued gently running your fingers through the hair at the back of his neck. He took a deep breath before relaxing into your touch and resuming chatting with you, giving you a sweet smile and changing the topic to something sweeter. He was suddenly not feeling quite so down on his luck. He was truly appreciative of the gesture, and that you cared enough about him to want to calm him. Ominis Gaunt: You were awake in the common room reading late one night when Ominis emerged from the dorms and made his way silently through the room and sat on the sofa near the fireplace. You knew he had frequent nightmares, but hadn’t ever been awake yourself to see him still taken in the panic of whatever he had just been through in his sleep, until tonight

He didn’t know you were awake too, and you startled him further when you moved to sit beside him. You apologized, and he nodded, his body language stiff, and closed off. He didn’t say anything when you asked if he wanted to talk about it. Maybe the silence of your company was enough to help?

When you saw tear run down his cheek, your heart ached. This sweet boy did not deserve to feel like this, it was unfair. You wasted no time in trying to comfort him, brushing his tears away with your thumb before letting you hand slip back and into his hair and massaging his head softly. It only makes him tear up more, physical comfort like this was not something he was used to, but he loves it. He turns to you and wraps you in his arms, letting you carry on petting his hair. When he calms down and eventually heads back to sleep it’s you he’s dreaming of now. Garreth Weasley: The two of you were serving detention together. This evening’s task was writing lines. 12 inches of parchment, both sides, “I will respect the value of potions ingredients” to be written in fine, neat calligraphy. The two of you sat together at a desk in the detention chamber, supervised by Professor Sharp.

You each pulled your parchment, ink, and a quill from your respective satchels and got to work writing as quickly and neatly as you could. You finished just a few moments before Garreth, and watched him write the last line onto the page. The two of you got up together, to hand your lines in, Sharp looking over your parchment first, and giving you an approving nod. When he looked over Garreth’s parchment, he looked disgusted, the two of you watched in disbelief as the lines started to vanish from the parchment, slowly but surely. He had accidentally grabbed his bottle of Zonko’s Vanishing Ink from his bag rather than his standard ink. Sharp chose to be cruel, and insisted Garreth start the punishment over.

He sat back down, so furious with himself for his careless error. You sat back down beside him, which in and of itself shocked him, you were free to go about your evening! With a huff he slammed the correct ink bottle down on the table an muttered under his breath while starting his lines over, his hand shaking in anger. You stilled his hand with yours and brought your hand to his hair, combing the curls back and out of his face. You promised to wait for him, you’d gotten in trouble together after all. He leaned into your touch, suddenly this wasn’t the worst punishment. He finished writing quickly, hoping to spend more time with you and get your hands back into his hair. Amit Thakkar: He had spent the better part of his evening studying for an exam that he had the follow day after lunch. He carefully went over his text book chapter by chapter, reviewing all of the material that he knew would be on the test. He ended up falling asleep studying, his book in his lap and papers strewn on his bed, slumped back against his headboard.

When he woke up in the morning, he took a last scan over his notes and felt good about the exam this afternoon. As he got his books and parchments in order, he noticed an assignment due this morning that he had totally forgotten about in the midst of his exam prep. This was terrible! He had no time to complete it now, and receiving a failing grade on the assignment would surely bring down his grade overall in the class.

You knew something was wrong when he didn’t greet you first period when you sat beside him. When the professor came round to collect the assignments, you were shocked when Amit had nothing to turn in. His head was buried in his hands. You stroked his hair gently, whispering to him that he was more than just his grade in a class. He gave you a soft smile, but the disappointment was still clear on his face. Though he appreciated your efforts, and as much as he loved your affection, he was still going to beat himself up over this. He brushed your hand away gently, he wasn't going to let himself get further behind by letting you distract him.

[byooregard]

Since I spent like an hour on friday going through my copy of iwtv (1977 first Ballantine Books Edition) so here's where every episode title is said in the book.

possible spoilers for the show; definitely spoilers for the nearly 50 year old book.

S1E1 "In throes of increasing wonder" page 13, Louis only every directly says the words "increasing wonder" ("From then on I experienced only increasing wonder") about his first meeting with Lestat

S1E2 "...after the phantoms of your former self" page 81-82, said by Lestat ("You are in love with your mortal nature! You chase after the phantoms of your former self!") when they're having one of their many arguments about Louis' feelings about killing, right before they turn Claudia

S1E3 "Is my very nature that of a devil?" page 73, after Louis and Lestat are driven off of Louis' plantation & are rejected by a mortal woman Louis likes & thought would protect them

S1E4 "...the ruthless pursuit of blood with all a child's demanding" page 98, said by Louis about Claudia (in narration) ("She was simply unlike Lestat and me to such an extent I couldn't comprehend her; for little child she was, but also fierce killer now capable of the ruthless pursuit of blood with all a child's demanding)

S1E5 "a vile hunger for your hammering heart' page 116, Louis to Claudia, telling her the story of how she was turned ("I felt for you again, a vile unsupportable hunger for your hammering heart, this cheek, this skin.") While S2E7 gives us more context on how Claudia was turned, in the book it was very different-- Louis just straight up saw her and couldn't resist nearly killing her, & a few days later Lestat decides to turn her to save their marriage

S1E6 "Like angels put in Hell by God" page 148-- Louis says this to a priest in confessional after Lestat 'dies'. ("I am not mortal, father, but immortal and damned, like angels put in hell by God.")

S1E7 "The thing lay still" page 138, Louis' description of Lestat's dead (ish) body

S2E1 "What can the damned really say to the damned?" page 168, Louis contemplating what he might find in Eastern Europe as he and Claudia sail to Europe.

S2E2 "Do you know what it means to be loved by death?" page 224, said by Santiago in basically the exact same context, although the play is different.

S2E3 "No pain" page 225, said by Armand, who is onstage & is the one who kills the woman in the first performance we see at Theatre des Vampires

S2E4 "I want you more than anything in the world" page 284, said by Armand to Louis when they're on a little date in this abandoned tower Armand likes to hang out in, notably after Louis turns Madeline without approaching Armand about it; I believe he also repeats it twice same as the show

S2E5 "Don't be afraid. just start the tape" page 3; said by Louis to Daniel basically the same way it happens in the show.

S2E6 "Like the light by which God made the world before He made light" page 142, something Louis says while contemplating his existence directly after Lestat 'dies'. ("I had now lived in two centuries, seen the illusions of one utterly shattered by the other, been eternally young and eternally ancient, possessing no illusions, living moment to moment in a way that made me picture a silver clock ticking in a void: the painted face, the delicately carved hands looked upon by no one, looking out at no one, illuminated by a light which was not a light, like the light by which God made the world before he Had made light.") (jesus, anne. i thought i wrote horribly long sentences)

S2E7 "I could not prevent it" page 307, said by Armand, also repeated twice like he does in the show, although this is said as he's saving Louis rather than in the present day interview

S2E8 "And that's the end of it. There's nothing else" page 341; idk if this is the actual episode title, but it's what wikipedia is telling me and it makes sense enough. The last thing Louis tells to Daniel before ending the story

under the cut-- other lines i remember from the show that i underlined while reading the book; please add on if you have any more or correct anything i got wrong

(also this is all just my memory while reading the book, so it's messy and imperfect) (all of the book quotes should be correct, but forgive me if i cannot remember the lines from the show exactly and don't bother to search for them)

interview begins with "You weren't always a vampire, were you?" and then "There's a simple answer to that. I don't believe I want to give simple answers. I think I want to tell the real story." page 4

Daniel says "ah, that's the accent" and notes that there's a "slight sharpness to the vowels" also page 4

the monologue louis has about becoming a vampire "A dull roar at first and then a pounding like the pounding of a drum" to "i realized that drum was my heart" page 19

various things louis says about lestat in the first interview. i can't remember the exact lines in the episode but i think i remember "I was his complete superior and I had been sadly cheated in having him for a teacher" from page 31 and "he appeared frail and stupid to me, a man made of dried twigs with a thin, carping voice" on page 34

"The blood poured out of him, down his shirt front, down his coat. It poured as it might never pour from a mortal man, all the blood which he had filled from before the child and from the child..." page 137, describing Lestat dying

After they first attempt to kill Lestat, Louis also says the words "beginning the great adventure of our lives" page 142

page 216, when Armand and Louis meet, Armand does say "I will not harm you", and the note on his buisness card says "Bring the petit beauty with you. You are most welcome, Armand."

page 244, parts of the shpiel about concious & unconcious death from the first theatre performance

page 339, Armand says "She never loved you, you know. Not in the way that I loved you, and the way that you loved us both." after which he leaves Louis, something he hasn't managed to do in the show yet, though, to be fair, in the show after he said this Louis immediately ran into the sun

page 343, "This... after all I've told you... is what you ask for? " and "You don't know what human life is like! You've forgotten. You don't even understand the meaning of your own story...", though in the show they change this line a bit to make it sound more natural for a high 20 year old in San Francisco in 1973

[chimivx]

‘…and when you’re gone, i’ll tell them my religion’s you…’

Jisung’s dreams are an arms length away, lying in the hands of his superior who gives him a test, one that challenges everything he’s ever known, a taste of a life so intriguing. It’s only a matter of time before he’s faced with a choice… Who’s hands does he take?

✞ sacrilegious!minsung au

✞ 12.5k { one of ??? }

✞ ‼️ 18+, sacrilegious- it says it up top, blasphemy, its all very religious, they live in a clergy home, religious imagery, praying, god/christ/lord usage, they’re all devoted, eventual explicit sexual content, alcohol use, cigarette smoking, mentions of drug usage, light cussing, once again they spend a lot of time at church doing church things and working in a church, if something offends you it costs nothing to keep scrolling, IF I FORGOT ANYTHING PLEASE LET ME KNOW !!

Three times.

Deafening, three chimes of the clock tower is all it took for Han Jisung to stretch his legs through the courtyard, skipping over the crooked cobblestones, slipping into the crack of the dilapidated wooden door of the clergy house.

Just through the back door hanging on its hinges lived a kitchen, one always hot and steaming. The house's caretaker, Ann, slaved away day and night ensuring that the men who resided within the home were well fed and taken care of. Between long hours lost in books or prayer, Jisung has had his fair share of visits from Ann, the tall, hollow cheeked, grey haired woman knocking on his door into the hours of the night after he’s missed dinner, or if he’s left his light on for too long.

Many times he’s found himself being dragged out of the church by his collar, the elderly woman forcing a meal into the gangly boy with a waist no wider than the length of his forearm. While he’d sit on the stool beside the stove shoveling whatever it was she’d filled the bowl with for him, he’d listen to her scold the older men, the priests in the other room, damning them for working him too hard.

Sunday was the big day, Jisung couldn’t help himself, they were his favorite. Everything would be perfect, and they always were perfect, ever since he’d been granted the internship everything has been perfect.

If he ever caught himself lost in daydreams, gazing out the window at the land draped in green, the tans and beiges of the courtyards speckled with pink and purple flowers, he’d sometimes begin to wonder if that was why he’d never been offered a higher position. Everything’s perfect. If he were to acquire what he wanted the clergy would be forced to pick someone new to fill his, now, entirely too large shoes. The three priests who lived in the home, who preached in the church just next door, they’ve grown accustomed to Jisung and his perfectionism, though it’s the very thing that made him consider himself flawed.

He’s spoiled them rotten, and if not to excel himself forward in his career, his lifelong dream of becoming a preacher, showing off to the older men that he was worthy, that he was more than capable of reading his own sermons and shaking parish members hands after mass was held, being showered in their thanks, their gratitude- he did it to spite them. Not that he’d ever admit that. 

It was a feeling he’s swallowed down his entire life, one he’s often attempted to pray away. Not the overwhelming infatuation with being absolute perfection, but a constant berating need to be so terribly good that no one else could ever compare. 

Only one priest above him could come close in the race that was perfect intern. Christopher, a man five or so years older than Jisung who always wore his curly hair short and well kempt. A man who Jisung noticed liked to undo the first two buttons of his black shirt while he read in the study late into the night, a hand rolled cigarette burning between his plump lips that pursed as his eyes scanned over the words scattered about the page. Christopher took pride in being the one to hire Jisung, taking him beneath his wing, cracking jokes over drinks with the members that Jisung had surpassed him in expectations. That was how he knew it wasn’t his time. Until right now.

Quickly approaching two years of daunting tasks, cleaning for hours on end, preparing for masses, ensuring the hours of worship went exactly as planned, Jisung was instructed to meet with Christopher after he finished his duties in the sacristy. Organizing book after book, arranging throws of freshly cleaned fabrics, sorting through hundreds of candles, dusting antique gold, the second that tower told him it was three o’clock and that he was free to go, he bolted.

Years he’s worked for this, sleepless nights he’s acquitted for this, it was finally here, minutes away from falling right into his slender little hands. As he barreled through the kitchen, making sure to express his greetings to Ann who gave him nothing but a smile, he couldn’t help but begin to wonder what he’d be allowed to do first. Surely not Sunday’s mass, it was only two days away, he wouldn’t have enough time to prepare, and besides, Christopher was set to preach then. 

Breezing through a short hallway that toward the left led to a laundry room, and toward the right led to a small bathroom, Jisung stepped into the more than adequate living room with ample space to house three large couches around an apple wood table facing a fireplace with a structure that matched the cobblestoned sidewalks outside. To his right, a wall of glass outlined and accented in dark wood, the study, a room through the chestnut archway with bookcases for walls and comfortably cushioned chairs that Jisung has fallen asleep in once. Hardwood creaked beneath the sunken blue rugs all of the furniture sat upon, the house impossible to sneak around in. 

Behind the fireplace there was a staircase that matched the floors, hardwood that took one up to the second floor where four bedrooms fit the men with ease. Christopher in one right at the top of the stairs, the two other priests, Hyunjin, a quiet man who used to scare Jisung a bit, and Jeongin, the eldest and wisest, resided in the two bedrooms to the left of Christophers. Their three rooms were close to the stairs and big enough to house another person within it without feeling cramped. Jisung’s bedroom was shoved toward the back. Up the stairs to the right, down the hall and around a corner. A bathroom separated the pattern of rooms, but regardless, his room may as well be off the map. There certainly was little to no one room to house anyone else with him.

With a promotion though, things could change. Jeongin did just hit his mid-thirties, certainly he wouldn’t want to live out his entire life in a home with three other men. Though he did appear to be the one most dedicated to his faith, following every little detail of every single scripture like his life depended on it, Jisung couldn’t imagine Jeongin living here forever. Perhaps a promotion meant other things would change as well. 

Passing by the staircase he calmed his racing heart with a deep breath, pushing the air deep into his chest, repeatedly telling himself to not get his hopes up too high. There was just no way that this was anything else, Christopher asking to meet with him, setting up an appointed time and everything. This had to be it. 

Tugging at the collar of his white button up Jisung stepped into a dark hallway standing in front of a white wooden door with a golden handle. The smell of cigarettes and musky cologne wafted through the cracks, through the broken keyhole beneath the knob. Christopher was here, he was already inside. Jisungs heart sprung up into his throat.

Wrapping his hand around the cool metal, Jisung pushed the door open with a breath, stepping into the sunlight that poured through the white linen curtains into the office. Unable to help the smile on his face, he grinned as he closed the door gently behind him, placing his hand flat to it for a few seconds before he turned to face Christopher, the broad shouldered man perched upon the edge of the large desk.

A cigarette hung from his lips, the glowing tip bobbing as he smiled larger than he already had been. “Jisung!” His deep, melodic voice echoed in the room full of chairs that matched the couches out in the living room, bouncing off bookshelves and filing cabinets.

Smile faltering as Jisungs eyes spotted another head in the room, dusty brown hair in a chair pointed toward Christopher, the boy took a couple steps forward and planted his focus on his superior.

“Christopher,” he breathed, nodding his head as if to bow to the older man who waved his formality away and beckoned him closer with a wag of his fingers. “I came as fast as I could.” Jisung started through the room, his focus forward.

“I’m sure you did,” Christopher said, something sly pulling at his lips, cigarette ash sprinkling onto the hardwood of the office. Jisung approached the desk and the priest gestured to a chair to the right of him. The other man in the room was seated to his left, dressed simply in slacks and a button down like Jisung, but with silver jewelry dripping from his wrists and his neck.

Glancing from the man who didn’t spare him a look just yet, Jisung set his gaze on Christopher as he sat down on the edge of the flattened cushion, a curiosity growing within him. 

Taking the rolled paper from between his teeth, the priest stood to his feet, adjusted his belt, then rounded the worn wood carved desk that had been set in this clergy house for decades. History was written within it, written on it, beaten into the top of the wood, whispers of clergy members' past left behind for future ones to remember, to protect. He sat down in the chair behind it with a creak and folded his hands, resting his muscled arms over the desk.

Christophers brown eyes darted between the two sitting before him, the ghost of a smile making a home on his plush lips. “Jisung, I’d like you to meet the newest member of our parish,” he said, eyes zeroing in on his intern. Trying to hide the breath that corrupted his lungs, Jisung folded his hands in his lap and pressed his lips together. 

Here we go.

They’ve found a new intern, someone to take his job from him, and he was about to be handed a new one. Interesting choice though, Jisung would tell Christopher later, considering this man wore a straight fringe over his forehead slightly parted toward the center, with silver jewelry wrapped around his joints, chains linked together like Jisung’s never seen before. His jaw, sharp, matched his nose in curvature, the details carved delicately. His features may as well have been handcrafted by Michelangelo himself. 

His neck, slender in size, had one of those silver chains wrapped around it, hugging it ever so perfectly. Beneath it lived another. Beneath that one, a cross, dangling between two milky buttons. It seemed ordinary, the shining cross generic, not like the one made of pure gold, encrusted with genuine jewels that hung around Jisungs neck. He tucked it into his shirt every morning. The crucifix belonged to his grandfather, a token passed down to him from his grandfather. When the time was to come, Jisung would hand it down to his grandson, hopefully after a marriage or when he would take up the family trade and work in the church, serving his God.

He appeared legitimate. Strong faced, proper posture though his legs were crossed, an attentiveness while Christopher spoke. His dark eyes, a deep brown, or a mahogany, or a warm, rich chocolate, they studied. Analyzed. So statuesque, when he turned his chin to look at Jisung, the boy nearly leapt back into place.

“This is Lee Minho,” Christopher said, holding out a hand toward the man who’s analytical gaze had gone cold. Rich milk chocolate turned dark and bitter, and Jisung didn’t like the way it tasted. Within seconds this man had gone from someone whom Jisung would like to get to know to someone who just set their boundaries without even opening his mouth.

Facing him completely, Jisung was now able to see just how beautifully crafted Minho's being had been blessed. Completely symmetrical, his eyebrows set in place above his eyes, two straight lines that set further boundaries for him, his slender lips, the top plumper than the bottom, softening the sharpness his edges created. This was a man who was to not be messed with. Every little siren, every red light going off, flashing in Jisung’s head told him plenty. 

Minho was here for business, he was going to get what he wanted, and Christopher made a mistake hiring him.

“Pleasure to meet you, Minho,” Jisung said, dipping his chin.

Something shifted within his jaw, a setting taking place as the analytical eyes flashed back onto his face. Then, he smiled, only the corners of his lips lifting, rounding the apples of his cheeks. “The pleasure is all mine, Jisung.” He didn’t seem to blink often. His eyelashes have dusted his cheek maybe three times since he’s looked at Jisung.

Beneath his gaze was hot. It wasn’t fun being on the receiving end of someone studying you. Since he was young Jisung has always been the studier, not the one being studied. If this was how everyone he’s been caught observing felt he’d regret every single one. Like Minho had reached over the chairs and wrapped his hands around Jisung’s neck, warmth crept up through his chest, his cheeks hopefully not turning pink. Air a foreign subject, the darkness within his eyes wound Jisung thoughtless, the bitterness laced with a charismatic charm. He felt so small. Minho had only been looking at him for not even a minute and he’d already established his dominance. His place.

Jisung could only suck in a breath when Minho turned to smile at Christopher.

“He’s moved down here from Soro,” the priest said, nodding toward Jisung, “and he’ll be working beside you. I wanted to formally introduce the two of you here.” Parting his lips, Jisung sat straight up, tucking his ankles beneath the chair, knitting them together. “I’ve already told Minho how great you’ve been, Ji. The straight A’s in school, the honors, the awards and degrees and all the decadence from every institution you’ve walked into and tribalized into your own.” Christopher glanced at Minho with a smirk. “He is the best of the best. You’re going to learn great things from him, and one day, because we have the space, you’ll be one of us.”

You’ll be one of us.

Jisung narrowed his eyes, pointing them back at Minho who shared a smile with Christopher, his teeth making an appearance, all perfect in a row.

Today was the day Jisung was supposed to be made one of them.

“We’ll find space for you in one of the bedrooms upstairs, though you may be paired with Hyunjin or myself. Jeongin, since he’s been here so long, we allow him this sort of seniority, you know, for lack of better terms to describe it. I’d say that you could room with Jisung, but I’m not sure the space is enough. Though it’d be perfect, wouldn’t it?” Christopher smiled at Jisung, the boy now watching him with his brows nestled above his eyes. “The two of you will be spending a lot of time together, it’d make sense to share a room, Minho, you’d be a pro in no time.”

He couldn’t get a read on the situation at hand, couldn’t make sense of it. Picking it apart, putting it back together, it was too simple. Too simple for Jisung to come up with something logical to explain why he hadn’t been granted a higher position. Now that Minho had arrived, he’d been hired, taken under here at the house like Jisung had been two years ago by Christopher… Or, maybe, that was it.

Jisung’s last and final task.

Lee Minho.

Something about it didn’t feel right, however. Whether it be the way Minho carried himself or the way his eyes seemed to devour Jisung on the spot. It’d be a challenge. As threatening as he came off, Jisung mentally prepared himself to take this on, to whip Minho into shape and mold him into Han Jisung quality. No matter how painful the matter appealed to Minho, a certain dread was written on his face whenever his gaze brushed over Jisung, the man bobbing his clenched jaw while Christopher spoke, spilling more stories of Jisung and his successes.

He came from Soro, this man with the bitterness steaming out of his ears, a town poorly developed with only one church in the center of the madness they considered community. Jisung had visited twice. Once on his own while enrolled in his years at university, and another with Christopher, accompanying his senior on a matter of business, an exchanging of private documents that Jisung has yet to read with his own eyes.

That trip had only happened a few months ago, sometime in the spring. He supposed Soro wasn’t so bad then, the flowers along the streets reminded him of here, Avida, home. Trees greener than green lined streets of cracked pavement and misery, an immediate heaviness invading his chest when the car crossed the lines of Tamoe, the neighboring town, and sped them deep into Soro. It wasn’t a nice place to be in terms of people and behavior, Jisung had been told his entire childhood to avoid it.

The only reason he’d ventured there on his own after he’d turned eighteen… His own pure, impulsive curiosity. Jisung needed to know. Sitting beside his treacherous perfectionism, one throne below, his insatiable need for knowledge.

Lee Minho came from Soro, from that church he’d visited months ago with Christopher. In fact, he may have even been there when Jisung stepped through the gnarled wooden doors accented in faded bronze and tarnished gold. The tiled floors needed to be redone, the pattern had been chipped, the colors dingy from years of dirty shoes treading over them, like no one took the time to scrub between the grout. His heart seconds away from sinking in as he tipped his chin backward, up toward the high ceilings as he walked and found dust layered on the ornaments, cobwebs hanging from chandeliers with flickering bulbs.

Jisung had been able to care for his church for years without help, on his own, with the occasional five minutes of straightening up after a service by the priest. How someone could and would allow their sacred place, their sanctuary, to be so mistreated, it drove him mad. It fueled the passion he held for his own church. He would never see it turned to what he experienced that day, he wouldn’t stand for it. Priest or intern, Jisung intended to care for what he loved.

Minho came from this church. He must have. If he was their intern, or something of the sorts, if he worked for them, it meant he had taken part in the church becoming so desolate. Uncared for. Messy and one gust of wind away from ruin.

This would be a challenge. Jisung would need to watch him like a hawk.

“I’m very happy to be here,” Minho said, his voice like a needle to the skin, like the rest of him. He stood to his feet, his slacks loosening around his thighs. Stretching a hand toward Christopher who also rose out of his chair, the priest grabbed onto it and shook it with vigor. 

“Spend the rest of your time today getting acquainted with the place.” Christopher's grin made Jisung’s skin crawl. How he could hold his hand innocently without a second thought as to who he was allowing into this parish… They walked into that church together. They experienced the heaviness together. And Christopher now held it by the hand and welcomed it into his home. Their home. Jisung’s home.

Minho thanked the priest, then turned to Jisung who sprung to his feet. Stepping closer to the boy, the bitterness evident in his eyes, Minho held out a hand, one Jisung took out of pure submission, not knowing what else to do. His grip, strong, tight, dismantled any chance of defense Jisung could muster up. His hand engulfed Jisung’s entirely, his fingers reaching his forearm, the digits probably capable of making a perfect circle around his wrist. In more ways than one, Minho was much larger than him. With him standing on his feet he towered over Jisung by a few inches, looking down at him, his eyelashes unmoving.

That energy from before that rendered him breathless came back, a weight sitting on his chest, triggering a tingling within his veins, a nervousness. Tearing his hand away Jisung shoved them in his pockets and glanced toward the floor, swearing that Minho snickered to himself as he turned back toward Christopher who sat back down his desk. 

“Thank you for this opportunity, Father,” Minho said, a smile on his lips, one Jisung could hear. Bowing his head Christopher smiled back and gestured toward the door. With one more look down at the boy in front of him, Minho blinked and the smile wiped from his cheeks instantaneously. “Shall I meet you outside?”

Jisung cleared his throat and pressed his palms to his thighs within his pockets. Shaking his hair aside, he met Minho’s eyes and stuttered before pushing, “I’ll come find you,” from his lips, just above a whisper. Three seconds of silence passed, then Minho removed himself from the room, his shoes clicking on the hardwood until the door was pulled shut.

“Jisung,” Christopher said softly, allowing the boy to take however long he pleased to look at him. To his surprise, it took no time at all. Jisung, with his hands pressed to his legs, bounded for the front of the desk, twisting his eyebrows together. Christopher froze, his jaw agape with lost words between his teeth.

“No warning at all,” the boy whispered, tightening his jaw. “Do you know how-” Jisung cut himself short, shoving the tip of his thumb between his front teeth. Christopher waited with a patience unknown to the pistol in front of him. “Why blindside me?” Jisung took a breath, dropping his hand to his side. “I’ve been here two years, I’m in full control of this position, and you throw me this.”

Christopher shifted in his chair, sitting backward. “It was sprung on us, Ji, I had no choice but to do it this way. I’m well aware of the high standards you hold yourself to, and you know we admire you as you are, but keep that ego in check.” Jisung gulped, lowering his glare to the wood of the desk. “Show some humility. Minho came from a place that couldn’t shelter him, he needs our support. Welcome him, show him around. You remember your first day here, don’t you?”

“I do,” Jisung whispered, looking the priest in the eye. “I was twenty, about to turn twenty one, and I held within my heart a desire to serve you, to serve Hyunjin and Jeongin, to serve our Lord, and continue this journey in my faith.” A smile tugged at Christopher's lips. “With a single bag on my shoulder I left my parents behind, whom I served all my years prior, and I devoted my life to you. To Christ.”

Nodding once, Christopher thought with his hand, drawing it around in a circle before pointing it toward Jisung, stating the obvious that flew over the boy's head. “Jisung,” he breathed, taking the fingers to the bridge of his nose, “I admire your devotion, I really do. If anything, that is where you outdo all three of us.” Christopher looked at the boy, his wide, somewhat saddened mocha colored eyes and his fluffy hair laying over his forehead. “I know what you expected, coming here today,” he lowered his voice, “I feel sorry for not being able to give it to you.”

Jisung pressed his fingers to his palms, willing away the urge to snap at him out of frustration. It wasn’t his fault, Christopher was a mere pawn for the bishop to play with, giving his orders for the priest to flesh out within his own parish. All over the country it worked this way, Jisung knew his place, he knew Christopher’s place. While in this house he was the one to carry out these decisions made together with the three of them, most of the time they were ordered by the bishop to follow through, which in turn meant Christopher had to follow through.

Hyunjin argued he was too softhearted to deal with being the bearer of bad news, even good news, any news at all. He didn’t want the responsibility in his hands, he knew Christopher had a clearer way of speaking, of relaying his thoughts. A confident charisma. Jeongin had the position before and simply didn’t want it any longer. When Christopher came around the eldest handed it over with little worry that he wouldn’t be able to live up to the expectations. Like Jisung, Christopher straight away proved himself more than worthy.

“You deserve it,” the priest said, and Jisung softened. “Trust me on that, Ji. You of all people deserve to be where we are,” he paused for a moment, making the boy look up at him, then, he whispered, “You just have to do this one last thing. I promise.”

“He’s come from Soro, Chris.” Jisung’s concern spread onto his face, his soft cheeks.

The priest hung his head for all of two seconds. “I know,” he whispered.

“The church of Saint Denis,” Jisung continued on, “We both walked through it. That’s where he’s come from, isn’t it?”

“He’s right out there, Ji, why don’t you go find out for yourself?” Christopher leaned forward onto his desk, his hands folding over a grey folder full of papers with 1959 written on the front. A full report of the year so far, the records, the history made. Some type of paperwork from Minho would be in there, just like Jisungs was in the folder labeled 1957. “You could make a friend, you know, he’s not much older than you. Surely you can’t enjoy spending all of your time with us old people.”

Jisung cracked a smile, one Christopher returned. “You’re only thirty, I’ve just turned twenty four. We’re not so different.”

“Ah,” the priest raised his chin and his brows, “So you think.” Pressing his lips together he flickered his eyes toward the closed door and sighed. “Go, Jisung. I’ll be here if you need me, but I have no doubt that you can handle this on your own.”

Jisung stepped out of the office, pulling the door closed behind him quietly, always careful to not disturb the peaceful air that hung about the house. The priests moved just the same, quietly, with a poised purpose and a courtesy to the other men that resided within the cinder block walls. After speaking with Christopher Jisung’s doubts for dealing with Minho had faded somewhat, that is until he turned within the dimly lit hallway and found him perched against the wall opposite of him.

Arms folded over his chest, over the cross that hung from his neck, he had one foot on the wall, the other outstretched before him. That stone cold look was on his face, and it felt as if Jisung hadn’t spoken to Christopher at all. In a single look Minho could swallow him whole and spit him back out, only to devour him once more, finish him off. Jisung, not usually uncomfortable in front of new people, part of the reason why he was so certain he could preach in a room full of utter strangers, felt nervous. Especially now that he stood here alone with the man.

Somehow, beneath the chilling rest of his face, Minho wore the ghost of a smirk, a reminder to Jisung of that arrogant snicker that left him in a breath so quiet that Christopher couldn’t hear it. Jisung wondered if the priest would even believe him if he told him about it.

“Uh, I’ll be honest with you,” Jisung willed his breath to remain steady, “I wasn’t prepared to give out any tours today.”

Minho’s eyes looked from Jisung’s attempt at a smile, then drew back up to his eyes. “That’s not very star student of you, is it?”

Lips parting in shock, Jisung couldn’t tell if it was sarcasm or not. “I just… No one told me that you were coming, I didn’t have the chance to…”

His smirk grew ever so slightly, his fingertips pressing into the fabric of his white shirt around his biceps. “Relax, Han Jisung, I’m messing with you.” Pushing off the wall with one foot, Minho took a step closer to the boy. “Besides, you’d be able to pull something out of your ass in seconds wouldn’t you?” 

“Oh,” Jisung sighed, his eyes widening. “We don’t use profanities on property.”

The dark chocolate of his eyes danced around Jisung’s face, the analytic showing through once again. “‘Course you don’t,” he said above a whisper, narrowing his glare slightly. “Apologies, Han Jisung.”

Tilting his head, the boy let out a quiet laugh. “You can call me Jisung.”

“How old are you, Jisung?”

The intensity of his stare had the boy rocking on his feet. “I’ve just turned twenty four a little over a week ago.”

Minho was a statue. “Happy Birthday.”

“Thank you,” Jisung whispered. “And… and, you?” 

“I’ll be twenty six in about a month.”

“That’s great,” Jisung swallowed, hard, “We’ll certainly celebrate, Hyunjin is a stickler for recognition and tradition. He’s our feeler, if you will.” Minho turned from him, releasing the strangling hold he had over Jisung, the boy feeling like he was allowed to breathe again. He studied the walls and the next room while Jisung spoke. “Christopher’s the brains, as you can probably tell, you go to him if you have any issues or things you need to work out. Jeongin, he’s rarely seen unless it’s for meals or prayer, but he’s our scholar. A teacher. I learned a lot from him and I continue to do so, if you ever need to-”

Minho turned to face him abruptly, cutting him clean off. “And what of you, Han Jisung?” 

“I’m- I’m sorry?” Jisung stuttered, shaking his head. Minho prodded his cheek with his tongue.

“Come on, don’t get humble on me now.” Minho smiled. He actually smiled, and Jisung’s knees buckled. “You’re all three of them wrapped into one, aren’t you?” 

Jisung never thought about this. He was always his own entity. Sure, he was inspired by the priests he worked for, but he’d never compare himself to them. Every move he made was his own. 

“I- I never… I don’t think I’d say that,” Jisung laughed, a nervousness wavering within it, “The three of them, they’re extraordinary, the best our church has seen in years, I cannot compare.”

Minho dropped his gaze down to Jisungs shoes and allowed it to drag up his stature with ease. Jisung longed to shrivel into a ball of nothing. “Interesting.” A curiosity burned where the bitterness once lived. “Han Jisung of Avida, belonging to the Saint Joseph Calasanz Church, astronomically successful in his schooling which then led him to his position here working alongside the best and the brightest?”

Mouth suddenly dry, Jisung gave a meek nod. “That’s… that’s me.”

“I feel like…” Minho paused, walking closer to the boy, a few inches between them. Jisung held his breath. Lifting a hand above the boy's head, Minho measured a foot of air. “I feel like you need to be here,” he muttered. Jisung blinked fervently, pointing his eyes up at his hand, then to his face where he believed a smile was resting. Minho moved his hands to Han’s shoulders, hovering them above the white cotton, then extended them outward. “And, here.” 

They met eyes and Jisung pursed his lips, Minho blinking down at him.

“You’re so…”

“Small?” Jisung offered, a mere squeak from his squished lips. 

Minho squinted, his lips crinkling. “Hm, no, I was going to say awkward,” Jisung gasped, his eyes shooting open, making Minho laugh, “But, small works, too. Maybe you are somewhat self aware, Han Jisung.”

The boy cringed. “Call me Jisung.”

Rubbing his lips together, Minho then nodded, and said, “Okay, Jisung.” Stepping backward, he nodded behind him. “Work your star student magic, this is a test. How perfect will this tour be?”

With one word he managed to wreck the ‘he’s kind of alright’ image Jisung attempted to build. Here in this hallway, within a few minutes, Minho undid what he’d done in the office, but with one word tangled it all back up again.

He’s the test.

Lee Minho, the challenge.

A cathedral stretching tall into the greying skies of the September-esque weather lived cozily on the edge of the massive green plot of land, the clergy house situated directly behind it, hidden by the peaks and towers atop the church. Around it, the crooked cobblestones, the path winding around the building on both sides, meeting the grand staircase that led up to the delicately carved, well preserved double doors that one often needed two hands to pull open. Along the grainy bricks of pure stone that made the two stories of the church were gardens of flowers and freshly trimmed hedges and bushes alike.

Trees lined up, separated by four feet of space on the other side of the cobblestones would grow across the way, their branches hanging over the paths, creating a canopy of sorts, granting passerbyers a break from the beating sun. Soon the green would settle, and the happy hues would turn a warm yellow, and orange, a comfort, the leaves one day covering the stones. 

Oftentimes when it’d rain in autumn, they’d become so slippery that one would have the hardest time rushing from place to place. An act that took Jisung three times to learn. One can only hit the ground with books stacked in their arms so many times before realizing the leaves were trying to teach him something.

Everyday when he passes through the alleyway, the small strip of stone between the church and the house, he’s reminded to slow down. To breathe. To take him time. To think things through.

The round stones laughed at him, rattling as he stepped over them with Minho trailing behind, the man lagging by a few steps, hanging behind Jisung as they walked throughout the house, brushed by Ann in the kitchen and stepped outside to the overcast skies. 

“She’s always in that kitchen,” Jisung said, wiggling the heavy back door to the clergy house open so that Minho could follow him out. The wood drug, caught along the concrete of the step. Minho, once outside, tipped his chin backward, his stoic gaze taking in the church and its size. “Ann is kind,” Jisung said, forcing the door shut with both hands, then joined Minho at his side, “As long as you’re kind to her.”

“Learned that the hard way, did you?” Minho asked, shifting only his eyes sideways to look at the boy who shrugged. 

“Ever since I’ve been here she’s been kind.” Jisung stepped off the concrete and onto the colored stones, starting for the back door of the church. “Christopher used to tell me I was lucky that I didn’t deal with her rigidness the first few weeks. Both Jeongin and him endured it, before they earned her trust.” 

Three strides. 

Jisung grabbed the shining handle and twisted it, yanking the door open with ease, a blast of heavy, musky, incense filled air washing over him. Glancing over his shoulder, Minho was already there peering inside, his jaw closed tight. With a slight jump, startled, Jisung whirled himself around and stepped inside.

“What of Hyunjin?” Minho asked, letting the door close gently behind him, one of his hands guiding it shut. Dim light engulfed them. A soft glow from the stained glass, well sheltered windows illuminated the space, but nothing more. 

Having taken to putting things in their place already, as if he wasn’t here an hour ago, Jisung straightened out some books and gave Minho a curious look. “What about him?”

“You didn’t mention him,” the man said, his voice the quietest it’s been. Inside the sacristy, a room half the size of the sanctuary that resided through the curtain on the archway and outside the double doors behind that, the air was still. Every sound that they made became incredibly muted, yet entirely loud for either of them. Almost sound proof. The fabrics hanging around, draped on the walls, and the books lining the shelves acted as a barrier, a different type of sanctuary.

Minho stepped around with a caution, hands in his pockets, letting his eyes do the discovery of the cluttered, yet organized space around him. His gaze fell upon Jisung a few times, the boy never happy with the placement of something.

“That’s because the two of them started like Ann and I,” he reached above his head, rising to his tiptoes, pushing a line of books back on the shelf so that they were in line with the rest. 

Minho stopped behind a table with wooden chests stacked on top of it, little and large and all sizes in between. Dragging his middle finger along the edge of one he popped the yellow gold latch open and lifted the lid an inch. Three thick cream colored candles laid inside, every single one of them in their purest form, perfect and untouched. When Jisung turned toward him, wiping his hands on his slacks, Minho closed the lid and met his eyes.

“Hyunjin joined our parish when he was a child.” Jisung came to Minho’s side, his attention dropping the table where he flicked the latch of the chest to lock it, then brushed his hand over the lid, wiping away imaginary dust. “He’s lived here in Avida all his life, his parents belonged to the church.” Minho watched Jisung work, yanking at the chests, pulling them out of place just to put them back where they started. “He decided what he wanted to do with his life when he was very young, and he’s been working here since age ten.”

A smile tugged at Minho’s lips. “Someone more ambitious than yourself, I see.”

Jisung straightened himself out, taking in the amusement that trickled onto Minho’s expression. It jostled something within him. Jisung couldn’t place if it were frustration or anger, or both. The feeling wasn’t debilitating, he could handle it, he wouldn’t let it fuel his response. Swallowing it down, fingers curling over top of a wooden chest, Jisung bobbed his head and blinked.

“I, uh, I suppose so,” he said, willing his tone to be strong, telling himself to ignore the comment. Minho’s the challenge, he was meant to come with these types of hurdles. The frustration settled in further as Minho’s amusement grew. 

“How old is Ann, anyway?” he asked, dropping his eyes to the table and Jisungs clenched fist. His eyelashes fanned along his prominent cheekbones. With a breath, Jisung shrugged.

“No one knows,” he said, and Minho looked up at him. He glowed in the splashes of color from the windows, the warm tones setting his skin alight with a blush Jisung wasn’t sure Minho would be able to produce naturally. Shadows contoured his already chiseled jaw and nose, deepening his artisan aura.

Jisungs frustration threatened to turn sour. No man's appearance ever filled Jisung with envy, his faith wouldn’t allow it. 

‘All men are created equal.’

‘We are all equally made in God’s image.’

‘Every human being is the object of the love of God.’

Through his word Jisung has never needed to feel inferior, nor has he ever been presented with a situation where he’d feel less of himself. Standing here with Minho, since he’s laid eyes on him in the first place at that, he begins to assume that that's what this feeling is. It has to be. An envy of how perfectly symmetrical his features had been placed, a jealousy being spurred on by the utter man he was. Strong, wide, taller than Jisung. A man who’s filled out his face and knows how to fix his hair. A man who knew what to say to knock Jisung down a peg when for two years he’s been living in a comfortable solidarity that everything he’d been doing was perfect.

Jisung couldn’t remember to comb his curls some mornings, not when there was work to do. The mess would hang over his forehead, the black locks brushing his eyebrows unless they were pushed backward from his forehead hours into work. He wasn’t tall, nor would he consider himself strong. Compared to most men, including all three in the clergy house, Jisung’s probably half of what each of them weighed. His clothes hung off of him, his belts desperately clinging to his waist to keep his slacks in place. He was small.

Growing up he’d never been an object of affection, not that it was his goal, nor was it ever really a thought. Girls in school would pay attention to him, but he’d go through his days without needing that attention like other boys would. The matter never bothered him, he had his school work to worry about, he couldn’t see why some of his old friends would waste time running after girls. Little did he know his round cheeks, fluffy hair and gentle build were what the girls wanted.

Inferiority. That’s the feeling Minho gave Jisung. That was the lesson to be learned here.

Puffing out his chest, or attempting to, Jisung nodded toward the curtain. “Shall we continue?” 

Minho relaxed his face and blinked. “You’ve not told me about this room.”

God, why did he talk like that?

“Surely a man of your expertise who can land a job like this knows what room this is, Minho,” Jisung said, snapping his jaw shut. With a harsh turn of his body he hurried away from him, tugging the curtain in the curved archway aside. 

Through the archway was a long, skinny hallway stretching to the right and left, both ends winding around to the front of the church’s entrance hall where the double doors and grand staircase hugged the outside. Along the hall were a few doors to offices, small rooms where records were held or where the priests would work for church matters only. The floor, covered in marble tile outside of the carpeted sacristy, shone in the light fading in through the small rectangular windows built into the walls just below the tall ceiling.

Jisung flew through the double doors, the sound of them being pulled open echoing into the spacious sanctuary, the church. Hidden behind the altar, a tall marble structure that built into the ceiling, Jisung ascended a staircase of five steps, matching the tile of the floor, and took a moment to himself. Closing his eyes, folding his hands over his chest, he breathed in the crisp air laced with nostalgia and released with the quick mutter of a prayer, one his father and his father before him taught him.

‘Oh Jesus, my King and Lord, by the grace of the heavenly Father and the power of the Holy Spirit, guide me in all righteousness as I serve You today at the Altar so I may be always worthy of Your presence.’

Engraved in his mind since he was a young child, Jisung recited the words aloud, whether quiet or with his chest, whenever he was to cross the altar or approach it. A sacred place, the most intriguing part of all for Jisung. The body and blood of Christ, the Bible, one that’s met the hands of priests from centuries before Jisung, before Christopher, before Jeongin.

Unlit cream candles upon it now, in their golden candelabras matching the sconces along the pristine walls of the church, ones Jisung has replaced and scrubbed clean again and again. The altar, free of any objects now aside from the candles as there was no mass taking place, glittered in the sunlight of the fading afternoon. Along both walls that seemed a mile high lived matching sets of stained glass windows telling the story of Christ, of the Virgin Mary and her life's journey with her one and only son. In the four o’clock hour now the sun poured in casting rays over the chestnut pews that Jisung adored much more when they were full of smiling faces, old and young.

Walking across the front of the altar, many steps above the church, looking down into the pews, he imagined what it’d feel like to stand here in a sanctuary full of people. Full of worshipers like himself, their eager ears listening to what he’d have to say, his own homilies, his own take on the scripture left behind for their naked eyes looking for direction. A direction he’d give them, he’d guide them, he’d take them someplace unimaginable, a place full of hope and undying love.

“This place is huge.”

Startled once again Jisung’s shoulders ate his ears, his heart leaping into his throat.

“I’m sorry,” Minho muttered, and Jisung could hear the smirk he wore. Turning to face him, evidently he didn’t wear much on his face which was somehow worse. Standing on the altar within the town's most beautiful, most prestigious church, walking into it for the first time he didn’t show an ounce of appreciation in his stoic self. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Jisung sighed, giving his head a shake. “You’re sneaky,” he said quickly, shoving his hands into his pockets. Averting his attention to the altar behind him and the angelic statues situated above and around it, he took another longing deep breath. “Are you always so quiet, Minho?” Stepping up to the shining altar Jisung took out a hand and placed it on top, the marble cool to the touch, soothing his frustrations within. 

The man’s feet scuffed along the floor, alerting Jisung he was moving closer to him. “I suppose I am,” he said. He snuck up to Jisung’s side, placing a hand on top of the altar. Continuing his slow stroll he rounded the side, dragging his fingers along the marble until he was across from Jisung, their hands mirroring each other, fingers splayed out to cover as much space as they possibly could. Three feet separated them physically, but the moment Jisung looked into his eyes it was as if the air between them ceased to exist.

“Your church in Soro,” Jisung said, keeping his voice low though it bounced around the vacant space without even trying. “The Church of Saint Denis.” Minho’s eyes shifted to the marble, his chin maintaining its height. “That’s where you’ve come from, isn’t it?” He nodded in answer, his brown eyes taking back to Jisungs, now a grappling hold. “I wanted to ask you if it was alright… I’ve visited before, and-”

“I know you have,” Minho whispered. Jisung clamped his jaw shut. The mans demeanor didn’t change, but Jisung did not like the way those words spewed from his lips. “And I know what you’re going to say, Han Jisung.” Every pause between his words festered a nervousness in Jisung’s gut. “I encourage you to not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned.”

Jisung hung his head. “I know the words,” he whispered. “Please accept my apology, it was not my intention to offend.”

“You really do live your life by the book, don’t you?” Minho asked within a breath after a beat of silence. Jisung looked to him in surprise, eyes wide and shining, finding Minho waiting for an answer with baited breath, his own gaze engrossed in a curiosity Jisung couldn’t make out. “Surely I thought you’d be able to weasel the information you wanted out of me, or you’d fight back with something smarter, more obscure than Matthew or Luke, but… Simple words from simple passages and you’ve been subdued.”

Jisungs fingers on the altar moved into a fist. Minho took note. “The words aren’t simple, they’re sacred, as are the passages.”

“Of course they are,” Minho said, beginning to round the other side of the altar, approaching Jisung with a tenacity. “The word of the Lord.” Pausing at his side, Jisung turned his chin to look up at him. “Have you never wondered what life would be like if they were wrong?”

“Never,” Jisung whispered.

“Have you never looked on the outside, have you never challenged the text, never thought your own thoughts? Never wondered why we’re confined to the rules within the passages written by, and translated by people of the past again and again, where something could’ve and may have been misread?”

That frustration Jisung attempted to hide away leapt into his chest, his blood boiling beneath his skin, a disbelief clouding his expression as this man stood inches away from him, a man he’s to share his position with. A man speaking words Jisung has never before attempted to think about in his life. He’s never seen the other side, he’s never wanted to. Never has his curiosity ever threatened to drag him that way, never threatened to take him down a path that goes against everything he’s ever known.

“I challenge you to do so. It wouldn’t just open you up to empathy beyond your imagination, it would broaden your perspective as a preacher. How do you expect to stand up here in front of hundreds of imperfect people looking for answers if you don’t even understand where they’ve gone wrong to have the need or the desire to sit within these pews? Every person you’ve ever met, every person you will preach in front of has sinned somewhere in their life whether or not you have, Han Jisung.”

Jisung gulped, willing his voice strong enough, he said above a whisper, “I liked you better when you were quiet.”

A toothy smile flashed onto Minho’s face, knocking Jisung breathless. “And I like you just the way you are, Jisung.” He held onto his eyes for a few more seconds before directing his attention toward the entrance hall doors that seemed a mile away. “The choir sings from there, correct?” Minho gestured a hand to the second floor balcony that opened up above the church, shoved toward the back behind all of the pews so the voices in the choir would shower down onto the churchgoers.

“Yes,” Jisung said, unable to produce anything else to plead his case, or argue back. Minho knew it too, and that killed Jisung tenfold. The amusement in the man's cheeks made him sick. 

“Take me there,” he said, looking at Jisung, knowing.

The boy sighed and glanced up to the balcony nestled under the painted ceilings of the cathedral, saints and angels dancing about the blues and whites of the ethereal sky. “Ann will have us for dinner soon, we shouldn’t take too long. It’s your first dinner, that’s important for her.” It also explains why she’s been working in the kitchen since early afternoon. She only did so for special occasions, Jisung should’ve seen Minho coming.

Putting his hands in his pockets, Minho, still wearing a smile, said, “The clock hasn’t struck five. When it does we’ll head back, I’m not done here yet.” Jisung didn’t have anything to say, he was entirely defeated, pacified. “Not done with you, either.”

Within the warm kitchens brick walls there was a table that could seat six and this evening five of those chairs were occupied. Sitting at the end of the table Jisung had Christopher to his left and Hyunjin to his right. Beside Hyunjin sat Jeongin who took a sudden interest in the house's newest addition, Minho, sitting at the other end of the table, directly across from Jisung. In the yellow glow from the light fixture mounted into the ceiling the men ate, they sipped their wine, and they laughed.

Conversations flowed through stories of the past, Jeongin ensuring that Minho knew his fair share of history before he retired for the night. The eldest telling stories meant that his first descendant below him was correcting him, Hyunjin flashing looks at Jisung that were making him giggle when Jeongin would get details all wrong.

“You’re thirty six, have you left your memory in the first half of your thirties?” Hyunjin hollered, outstretching an arm to shove Jeongin’s elbow off the table, the man with neatly styled hair scoffing at the one with hair that grew down his neck. Thin, half rimmed glasses sat on the end of his button nose, Hyunjin tossing his head back with a laugh, catching the spectacles before they fell to the floor. “I mean seriously, Yang, pull yourself together, it’s no wonder you can’t keep your mother happy.” 

Snickers sounded around the group, Christopher nearly spitting out his wine across the table at Hyunjin. Jisung laughed along with them, picking at his plate of various meats and veggies. The others had scarfed it down it seemed, the moment they were presented with the food it was gone in a flash. Even Minho at the other end of the table, he filled up a plate after watching the elders do so and had dug right in. Acting as if he’d been here for months, Minho slipped into the laughter and chatter with ease, asking all the right questions at the right time.

At Jisungs first dinner the boy couldn’t shut his mouth. Full of excitement that bled everywhere on top of everyone, he overwhelmed them with questions, with statements, with facts. The elders couldn’t get the information out fast enough, they were forced to, otherwise Jisung would begin assuming things on his own. They learned quickly that night that his brain worked faster than his mouth, more often than not that first dinner his foot may as well have been on the plate because it made a happy home in his mouth.

With Minho, maybe it was his age. Jisung was a mere child when he started. Minho has had years of practice in another church, he was about two years older than Jisung, so it wasn’t a wonder as to why this socializing came easy to him. He portrayed himself a different Minho than Jisung had just spent two whole hours with, however. For some reason once he shook the hands of Hyunjin and Jeongin it was like a wall melted away. At the table tonight as he smiled at him, the rigidness of his being didn’t exist.

Until he’d spare a glance toward Jisung moving food around on his plate with his fork knitted tightly in his fingers. Then the walls built back up.

Maybe Minho was right, maybe Jisung was just awkward.

“A working memory is important to women,” Christopher said, adding to the teasing of Jeongin. Tipping his glass toward him, he pulled his lips down into a smile and laughed.

Jeongin exchanged a glance with Minho who took a sip of his wine, enthralled with the discussion. “You’d know all about that Christopher, wouldn’t you?” 

“Oh, you’re a nuisance!” Christopher threw a hand toward him, sitting back in his chair. Jisung nibbled his bottom lip and gave a look to the man to his left. As if he could feel it, Christopher looked back at him while the men talked amongst themselves. “He’s kidding, Ji. Don’t you let those words get stuck in your head.”

“A joke from years ago, Jisung,” Jeongin said, turning the attention back on himself. “Before his sudden switch to God's grace your role model there was quite popular with the ladies.” A small smile took to Jisungs lips as he glanced to Christopher.

“You’ve never told me this before,” Jisung said, and the older man shrugged, sipping his wine.

“It was never important,” he muttered. “Besides,” he sighed, sitting forward, setting his glass on the table, “It was why I made the sudden switch. Women are wonderful gifts from God, but involvement with the wrong kind and you’ll be wishing for more than forgiveness.” Christopher gave the boy a look that informed him he’d speak of it later, that now was not the time.

“What about you, Jisung?”

The question shot a hole into his gut. Christophers face lit up, his eyes darting every which way, Hyunjin furrowed his brows, and Jeongin chuckled aloud. Meeting eyes with the man who asked the question, Jisung tightened his grip on his fork. The insecurities he felt looking at his face seemed to double beneath the pressure of the question.

When it took a few seconds for him to sort out his thoughts, the older men around him attempted to answer for him.

Hyunjin uttered, “Jisung is a sweet boy.”

“Our Jisung certainly wouldn’t think that way, not after all he’s been through,” Jeongin said.

Christopher listened, then added, “He’s so one track minded, I’ll be shocked if he…”

Minho held up a hand with a smile and slight roll of his eyes. “Let him answer for himself,” he huffed a laugh, and the men around him agreed. How? Jisung wasn’t sure, because if he were him he’d be reprimanded until the following morning. “Seems you all need to learn about it, too, let’s see what he has to say.”

Four sets of eyes burned into him, Jisung only able to stare into the ones that taunted him from the other end of the table. Sitting backward in his chair, his legs crossed, his silver cross hanging over his chest, he was smug as ever. In seconds he’d been able to tug him right back into the church, on top of the altar where he blatantly asked him of his sins. And now, here he was, at the dinner table with men who have become his family, asking him again.

Christopher may have been able to admit it, his history before he ventured into the church, but Jisung? Not only was there nothing to admit, nothing to say, but there was a disgust that grew there in that empty spot, and Jisung couldn’t place why.

“No,” Jisung whispered, glancing down at his full plate he certainly wasn’t touching now.

“No?” Christopher asked, his voice soothing the harshness this once comfortable setting was turning into. Jisung dropped his fork and tossed the napkin from his lap onto the table. “Ji,” Christopher nearly shouted as the boy pushed his chair back abruptly. 

Standing to his feet, Jisung threw his hands out to his sides and looked over the men around the slab of wood. “How can you all sit here and have this conversation? I preferred the stories, or when we discussed scripture, not women.”

“We weren’t even discussing it, it was only a question, we’ll move on,” Hyunjin said, willing Jisung to sit with a wave of his hand. The boy grabbed the back of the chair and shoved it under the table, rattling the glasses on the surface as he did.  

“Han, sit down,” Jeongin said, acquiring a look from Minho.

“No, I’m sorry, I can’t,” the boy muttered, dragging a hand through his curls, exposing his forehead. Without another second or another peace offering from one of the men, Jisung turned on his heels and hurried from the kitchen, through the living room and up the stairs. He left them in silence, feeling sick and hungry all at once.

“Strong sense of justice that one has,” Jeongin said, shaking his head. “Even jokes he can’t take.”

“But, it wasn’t a joke,” Hyunjin said, his voice smooth and melodic, entrancing Minho every time he spoke. “It was a legitimate question, he has every right to feel upset or uncomfortable.”

“Of course you would say that,” Jeongin muttered, reaching for his wine.

Hyunjin jutted his head backward. “You know how he is, Jeongin, it’s not like this is the first time you’ve met him, Jisung has stormed away from this table more times than I can count. Even when we’ve had guests, members of other parishes here with us, other priests from other churches. You know Jisung, we all do, he’s going to stand firm in what he believes in even if that means causing a scene.” The man with the long dark hair and glasses balled up his own napkin and tossed it beside Jisungs, rising from his chair. “Now let me go talk to him like I always do, I’ll get him back down here.”

“No,” Minho said suddenly, politely holding up a hand. Three heads turned toward him. “Please,” he said, standing up, tucking his chair beneath the table neatly. “Let me. I think I may have said something to him earlier that brought this on. Please, let me apologize to him.”

Hyunjin, after a glance at Christopher, sent Minho on his way with a nod. “Up the stairs to the right, around the corner.” Once he was gone, a satin white flash, Hyunjin sat down and leveled with Jeongin, focusing on Christopher. “Has it been decided where he’ll be living?”

“I was thinking of putting him with me, but Hyunjin, if you’re up for a roommate…”

Hyunjin narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips, the man the face of peace and serenity, a calmness exuding him. “Put him in your room, Chris,” he said, then looked at Jeongin who gave him a nod. “He got comfortable way too fast, you’ll need to keep your eye on him.”

Up the stairs to the right, around the corner.

The floor creaked louder on the second floor than it did on the first, Minho approaching Jisung’s door as quietly as he possibly could. Behind the inch of plywood Jisung sat on the edge of his bed, leaned over his knees with his head in his hands. The light bulb hanging from his ceiling flickered as he took deep breaths down into his stomach, easing the emptiness and the nausea that existed in unity. 

The entire day played through his head, a cassette rewound and replayed as soon as it was over. A normal morning spent preparing for the weekend, for the three days of mass, in peaceful quiet, nothing more to do than hum to himself while he prepped the books and set up the candles. Waiting anxiously excited for his meeting with Christopher, he had no idea that his entire belief system was hours away from being threatened, questioned. 

He’d been told stories like this one, how temptation would waltz straight up to the door and not even knock before allowing itself inside, seducing one without them even realizing it was being done before it was too late and they had nothing left to do but beg the Lord for forgiveness. It looked him in the face, it said the words to him, it put thoughts in his head he’s conditioned himself to ignore. When it came from such a pretty face it became believable. Considerable. His tongue was persuasive though Jisung batted it away, fought it out of his head. 

Then, at dinner, to involve his seniors in such a discussion, one he didn’t even start, but continued. They’ve never spoken that way around Jisung before, that could only mean it was his doing, his persuasion even if he didn’t speak it aloud. He brought an energy that encouraged others to turn, even the strongest of the strong.

He’s just arrived, it hadn’t even been a full day, and he was already infecting the house and the men that lived inside. Jisung wouldn’t allow it. He wouldn’t stand for it. Tomorrow he’d speak to Christopher, he’d express his doubts whether or not the elder assumed it came from a place of envy, which it did not.

A knock sounded at his door.

Dropping his hands he glanced up at it and sighed. He’s met Hyunjin this way numerous times, he was simply waiting for the knock at this point. Sliding off his bed he took three strides over the hardwood and gripped the handle.

“I know what you’re going to tell me,” he said before he opened the door, “You can save your breath if you’d like.” Stepping back from the wood as he pulled it open, his breath catches in his throat.

“Do you?” Minho asked, a different type of emotion laced in his brows as he stood in the doorway, an emotion that Jisung couldn’t place.

Jisung longed to slam the door in his face, but he was paralyzed in place. “I thought you were Hyunjin,” he mumbled.

“I asked him if I could come instead,” he said, pressing his hands to his thighs. “He defended you, by the way, after you left.”

Jisung clenched his jaw and perked a brow, Minho watching it. “He usually does,” he whispered, sure of himself, and Minho swallowed a laugh. “Why are you at my door and not him? Go back downstairs and involve yourself in conversation of wrongdoings with men I thought I knew.”

He bobbed his head every so slightly, that ghostly smile hanging around his lips. “I need to apologize to you, may I come inside?” Jisung lowered his brows and pouted in thought. He wanted to come into his room and apologize. “Better to not do it out here where everyone may hear me, I want to talk about what happened in the church.”

Jisung scoffed. “You keep your irreligious ideology out here, Minho.” Pushing the door shut, Minho caught it with one hand, staggering Jisung backward a bit.

“We started this all wrong,” Minho said, poking his head around the wood to keep his eyes on the boy. “Please, hear me out.”

“We didn’t start anything,” Jisung sneered. “You let me know exactly who you are and what you’re here to do.” A crack appeared on Minho’s face for the first time since Jisung had laid eyes on him. The cold exterior, the walls he’s built up, the facade he’s been portraying. It cracked, and Jisung sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and Minho took a step back. 

Christophers words came back, “Minho came from a place that couldn’t shelter him, he needs our support.”

‘Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away from you, with all malice, and be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.’

“Ephesians 4:31-32,” Jisung whispered, stepping back from his door, opening it as far as it would go. 

Minho blinked, taking Jisung walking into his bedroom as an invitation and stepped inside. Taking the door in his hands he closed it gently and took his time turning around. He recited the passage aloud, the one Jisung stated, and turned to find the boy waiting, a plea for forgiveness on his face.

“You don’t have to give me that, it is I who needs to apologize to you, and ask for your forgiveness,” Minho began, taking a step closer. “I went too far. I said some things I didn’t mean, things that have been stuck within me since I was young.” With a twist of Jisungs brow, Minho breathed through a laugh. “People like you, people who have nothing but faith and total trust in their God, you challenge me.”

Jisung took a step backward and sat down on his bed. Gesturing to the desk in the corner and the space beside him, he allowed Minho to make his own decision, finding a spot to sit in the wooden chair that he pulled from under the old school desk, sitting on it backwards.

“If I give you a life story I expect one back, Han Jisung,” he smiled.

The boy nodded, his face never changing. “Just speak, please.”

Intaking a breath, one far too deep for Jisung’s liking, telling him he was about to get hit with the cold hard truth, Minho settled his arms over the back of the chair and spilled his mind.

“For the record, I’m not here to be a priest, even though Christopher said it when we met,” Minho shook his head, “That’s not what I am here to do. I’m quite content living my life doing your job. I stated that when I moved here, and I’ll be willing to say it again, as many times it seems fit so that you know that I am not here to take something away from you.” Jisung swallowed, keeping his head moving as Minho spoke, expressing he was actively listening. “I’m not fit to be a preacher, it’s not in my nature, I mean, look at us right now. You’re sitting here listening to me apologize to you when we’ve only met hours ago.”

“People aren’t my forte,” Minho said, then nodded his head. “But, they are yours. This life was meant for you, Jisung. I’ll admit, my behavior stemmed from a place of envy.”

Jisung sat up straight. “Envy?” he muttered, and Minho nodded again.

“You’re a legend now, Han Jisung,” Minho said, squinting his eyes. “Everyone who comes up in the schools behind you, they know your name. The two years you’ve spent here, creating another perfect name for yourself, you’re setting the standard. All of us in your position, we’re compared to you, and so many of us are rooting for you to move up.”

“Even you?” Jisung whispered, his eyes locked on the man in his chair.

Minho tightened his jaw. “Even me,” he raised a brow. “It may not seem like it based off of today, but I am.”

“What was all of that?” Jisung asked, gathering the fabric of his slacks between his fingers. “You had me up here contemplating whether or not to tell Christopher to fire you.”

A flash of that cracked expression hit his face as he looked away and shook his head. “Deserved, I suppose.”

“The words you spoke,” Jisung breathed, the disbelief clouding over him like it once had, “They were unnatural to me, Minho. A person in your place, here in this church, you can surely understand why it scared me.” 

“Of course I can,” Minho answered. “Please understand I am still learning. I wasn’t brought up like you, like Hyunjin. I am much more like Christopher, having lived a whole other life before turning to Christ.”

Silence fell between them. After three seconds, Jisung lifted a hand, encouraging him to continue. The two sitting with one another like a sinner and preacher in penance. Minho, fluttering his lashes, pointed his eyes to the floor and dropped his chin.

“I was lost. I’d just started my late teens, maybe nineteen if I can even remember correctly, and I fell in love.” Lifting his eyes he met Jisungs. “Not with a woman, not with a human being, but poison. I was around some bad people at the time, the kind of people who speak like I had spoken to you earlier. Their influence was intoxicating, sometimes even more so than the garbage we fueled ourselves with.” Minho’s lashes brushed his cheeks with every blink. “I grew up with God, my mother, a single woman who had me quite young, she introduced me to his word the day I was born. We attended church every Sunday, that church up in Soro,“ he flashes Jisung a look, “Sometimes we’d even go during the week if she was able to get us there.”

“She was beautiful, everyone tells me I have her face,” he laughed to himself, and Jisung yearned to smile, because he believed it. “I left her when I turned eighteen, don’t ask me why. If I had to come up with a reason I’d tell you what I tell everyone else, that that teenage syndrome got me. She gave me everything and I ran from it, I abandoned her, my faith, my life that was quite alright, all because I met some people who sparked my interest. People who questioned my love for Christ, people on the other side who challenged me like you do, and you’re on the right side.”

A long sigh left him, Minho taking a second to collect his thoughts. The right side, Jisung was on the right side. According to Minho he’s been on the right side his entire life.

But, what of this wrong side?

Minho never said it was wrong. He’d simply addressed, and suggested believing in Christ was the right side, the right thing to do. Jisung knew what existed, he knew his probabilities after death, but this one was a new one.

Where there is right, where there is wrong… Is there something in the middle? A place in between it all where neither right or wrong exist? Could both be true at once? Could someone be right and wrong?

“What of the middle?” Jisung whispered, and Minho looked up in a hurry. “I was wrong as well, Minho. To dismiss your words in such a hurry that is, though I’m certain if they delivered differently and not in a way that attacked my faith I may have listened to you. I now know that either way I should have just listened to you, you know, if I’m looking to become a well rounded preacher.” Minho smirked. “I’ve never seen this other side, I’ve only known faith. Forgive me for the judgment, I don’t want to be this… know it all who looks down upon others.

“Just a know it all, then, right?” Minho teased. Jisung rolled his eyes while he laughed. “Come on, star student.”

“No, I don’t want that,” Jisung said, relaxing his smile. Shaking his head he took a breath and ran his hands along his thin legs. “I’m very good at what I do, but I’m humble about it.” Minho perked a brow. “I’m learning to be humble about it.” The boys shared a soft laugh. “When you’re isolated here with three other men who praise you like their lives depend on it, it’s a little hard to come down.”

“They care about you,” Minho said, and Jisung expressed his gratitude by closing his eyes and pressing his hands together, tipping his chin backward. “They want you to succeed. But, they keep you in check.”

Releasing a breath, Jisung dropped his hands and shrugged toward Minho. “They do, it’s necessary.”

Minho narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. “Do you ever get time to yourself? When you aren’t serving them?”

A playful smile evaded Jisungs face, his disproportionate lips flattening. “Don’t test me, Minho.”

“I’m serious,” he held up both of his hands, his dark eyes shooting open wide. “I’m asking you person to person, unrelated to faith.” Grasping the back of the chair he tilted his head again. “I think it’s also me… checking on you. Do you ever get the chance to be you, and not Han Jisung?”

Looking from his hands to Minho, Jisung clenched his jaw along with his fists. After a breath, he mumbled, “I don’t think I ever allow myself to.”

Something flickered into place on Minho’s face, his eyes blinking, reopening to a complete fresh start. “Perhaps I can teach you, while you teach me.”

masterlist ✧ ao3 ✧ talk to me ✧ thank you for reading

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[ravenelyx]

I Love You In Every Timeline - Sebastian Sallow

My Love is as a Fever, Longing Still

Fic masterlist

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x Fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, fluff, Harry Potter characters appearance, no name appearance for the reader

Themes: angst, temporarily unrequited love, pining, some form of transference¹, developing relationship, slow burn, explicit (eventually)

Summary: "He turned around, and the world seemed to stop around him. She had followed him: into another timeline, into another universe." In which Sebastian, in his search for a cure in the Dark Arts, finds himself 100 years into the future and meets his most trusted companion's descendant (who looks far too similar to the girl he was once secretly in love with).

A/N: SHE'S BACKKKK

AO3 • Wattpad

--

Sebastian decided to walk to the Defence Against the Dark Arts tower, to the Undercroft, praying it would still be there, untouched by other students. When he arrived, he saw the familiar clock, and his heart swelled in fear and anticipation as he took out his wand and flourished it like he had done so many times he practically relied on muscle memory alone.

The clock hands started to turn, and he breathed a sigh of relief as a door opened to the familiar room that he considered an analogue to his house. He stepped in carefully and looked around. The furniture hadn’t moved an inch in a hundred years, still in the same position that Ominis knew by memory. He wondered about him: if he knew Sebastian would one day disappear forever only to remain stuck in the future, if he had waited for him in that same room hoping for him to come back, or if he was glad he was gone after all.

Sebastian wondered if he would ever return to his time: if Ominis and Anne had been waiting for him their entire lives, getting old without him, and if they had hoped that they would one day see him again, and then he had another terrifying thought: what if he went back yet it was too late?

What if all of his pals were much older than him once he did? What if, upon his return, he discovered Anne still suffering the effects of the curse, or worse yet, already deceased? What if Ominis had been made to return to his family, where he would have either changed into one of them or been tortured and murdered? What if she had found someone else to fall in love and share the rest of her life with, or what if the perilous journeys she was compelled to take killed her and he had not been there to save her?

" Scourgify!" he declared, pointing his wand at various objects around him to clean them, wishing he could reproduce the same effect on his mind.

Once he was done, he sat down, leaned against a column, and put his head in his hands, breathing deeply and feeling his eyes burn.

The calm had gone, replaced by pure, utter despair and panic. It had only been a few hours since he'd found himself there, confused and startled, and he knew it would be many more until he went back — if ever.

If ever .

The thought cut at his lungs like sharp glass, drawing quiet and wet sobs. He didn't know whether the artefact could ever be repaired at all. He didn't know whether he could control it enough to go back if it was repaired. For all he knew, he'd find himself in bloody Mesopotamia, if he was lucky enough to survive another travel. Or he'd get stuck between time and space, forever embedded in the threads between realities.

Based on those thoughts alone, Sebastian felt like he should be grateful to have found himself still in Hogwarts, as safe as he could be, but he wasn't.

He missed his routine, his life, his friends. He had disappointed Ominis, but he would give anything to hear his voice now, even if he yelled at him, to see Anne even if she did not want to see him, to read their old letters over and over again, to accompany her on whatever adventure she was setting out on. Heck , he wanted to hear Headmaster Black's voice scolding him for his horrible detention record, listen to Poppy ramble about her dear magical creatures, see Garreth blow up his potions, and even wanted to hear Imelda complain about Quidditch being cancelled. He missed it all.

He spent some time there alone — he did not know whether it was minutes or hours — weeping silently to himself. His wrists copiously moved to his eyes in a weak attempt to dry his tears, which kept falling nonetheless, undaunted, wetting his cardigan and shirt and skin.

Sebastian had always prided himself in his capacity to bottle up emotions, to avoid the crying and instead channelling those goopy feelings into something more useful, like studying or spellcasting. That had backfired, and Sebastian had to learn, awfully, that doing that didn't mean those emotions wouldn't force their way out in a way or another, and after what had happened in the Catacombs, where his feelings had exploded in the worst way imaginable, he had reluctantly decided that crying alone was the best way to let them flow naturally. With that and everything that had happened to him within a few weeks, not to mention the previous events, he felt overwhelmed.

He hated it.

After drying his tears as best he could, hoping that no one would notice his glistening eyes or swollen face, he decided to leave the Undercroft and find Ron and Hermione again; they were to give him his timetable, as he would join their class starting the next day. That was before he abandoned them.

He stepped out of the room and froze in his steps. You were sitting on the ground just outside, back against the wall, focused on your textbook. You looked up once you heard a noise, and saw a dishevelled and surprised Sebastian staring straight at you.

"Oh, well, hello again, new fifth-year!" You smiled politely.

He cursed under his breath, turning his face away slightly and rubbing the back of his hand under his nose again, in case any stray tears were still present.

"'Didn't know about another secret passage in the school," you continued, apparently ignoring his actions, before muttering to yourself, " It wasn't on the Map. "

"Map?" he said in a rough, unfamiliar voice, surprising even himself.

You examined him, a quizzical expression on your face. "Have you been crying?" you asked bluntly, raising your eyebrows in surprise.

Great job, Sebastian. Perfect disguise.

He felt his cheeks warm up, and he turned away again. "No... not at all." He cleared his throat, trying to find a way to switch up the conversation when his eyes fell on your book. "What are you reading?"

You frowned slightly, obviously not believing him, but understanding that he wasn't willing to talk about it, and looked back at your book. "My Herbology book. Ron gave it back to me at lunch. Finally , I’d say."

Sebastian paused for a moment, unsure whether it was appropriate to ask about what happened in the corridor, but then he felt that ache again, right above his navel, and the words slipped from his mouth without restraint. "Did you two—"

"Don't." You interrupted him and averted your eyes, staring down at the cover musingly. "Don't bring it up again. That was already embarrassing as it was."

Sebastian stayed quiet, his eyes never leaving your form. He would very much have liked to just plunge into your brain at that moment and make himself at home there.

Perhaps he needed to add 'Learn Legilimency' to his to-do list.

"How so?" he asked at length, quite stupidly, he realised.

"I lost my temper," you said simply and forced your eyes back towards him. Your next words seemed to eject out of your mouth painfully, like they were unfamiliar to you, and it took a while for you to utter them. You sighed, "I— I suppose… I owe you an apology."

An apology never felt so forced and so sincere at the same time. "Oh, you don't have to—"

"I do. It wasn't the best impression I made of myself." Your lips parted as you leaned your head back on the wall. "I suppose I have to apologise to Ron as well — properly, I mean."

Sebastian stayed quiet, observing you curiously. Why were you telling him all that? "I... suppose," he uttered, not knowing what else to say. That appeared to be enough for you because you didn't even seem to acknowledge his words.

"He was looking for you, you know? Hermione, too. They said they needed to give you your schedule."

"Ah, yes, they mentioned that before," said Sebastian, glad to change the topic. "I’ll meet them promptly then, I was—"

"—Too busy hiding in a place no one else knew about," you continued for him.

That made him still in his steps, a chill running down his spine. Your eyes met: his open wide, yours unwavering and daring him to contradict your statement.

Perhaps the previous topic was way better.

"I just..." Come on, Sebastian, think!

"I just stumbled upon it!"

Usually, he was one to conjure lies out of thin air, but being around you made his brain seem to melt. Sebastian thought that it was because he didn't really want to lie to you, or perhaps it was because, with the way your eyes pierced him, he felt as if you already knew all his secrets, all his lies, and you certainly wouldn't be fooled, not even if he made up a whole story full of intricacies and chapters worth publishing.

He knew, however, that the answer was neither, and it lay deeper than anything he was willing to admit to himself so loudly that he had to face it.

"Right."

You closed your book and stood up, facing him. He couldn't read your expression properly, but he felt his body start to uncharacteristically shrivel at the intensity with which you stared him down. He was in Ron's place.

"Strange, isn’t it? how the new student suddenly stumbles upon a secret room on his first day — a room not even Fred and George know about."

You had spoken that last part quietly, as if only to yourself. In fact, Sebastian didn’t know who Fred and George were at all. And, frankly, he didn't want to. "What can I say? I’m full of surprises," he replied smoothly.

"Or full of lies." You hadn’t missed a beat.

It was frightening how easily you had switched back to the girl he had met in the corridor. And he pitied it. And he liked it. And perhaps he was a fool for liking it, and an even bigger fool for pitying it. "I didn’t know it was illegal to be in this room," he said, scowling.

" Illegal ? Oh, not at all. But certainly unusual for someone who has supposedly never set foot in this school before."

You took a step towards him, and he had to fight the urge to take one back himself. There was something wrong in the air — something goopy and misty and heavy, penetrating his skin like Mallowsweet fumes, inebriating and dizzying and frighteningly close to losing control. He had only felt it once, in Hogsmeade nonetheless. Electric and impatient, but, now, shrouded. That day, it had been galvanising. Now it was almost shy — almost… veiled.

"Hermione told me that she barely only took you through the first two floors. You're not even supposed to know about the classroom's whereabouts, and yet you seem all too comfortable with your surroundings," you continued, unaware.

He felt his heartbeat accelerate. Why did you have to be so inquisitive? Was he supposed to tell you the truth now?

Dumbledore’s voice came back to his mind: "... unless it's absolutely necessary. "

"I don’t know what you're talking about. It was an accident, as I said," replied Sebastian in a poor attempt to reason again, knowing full well you wouldn't believe him.

"Certainly a convenient one." He twitched involuntarily, like he had just got a shock. The corners of your lips lifted in a sneer. "You are an interesting case... Sebastian, was it?"

He nodded hesitantly and narrowed his eyes, baffled at your countenance and your confounding words. An interesting case?

You shuffled on your feet in a nimble movement and pressed your back against the wall again, leaning onto it. "Don’t forget to show me that room sometime, too."

"And why would I do that?" Sebastian was growing impatient at your behaviour, while some part of him was thrilled at your nonchalance. The more you bantered with him, teasing him like that, the more he felt his stomach flutter. He hated himself for it.

He felt a sudden urge to leave. To run to his Common Room, or back into the Great Hall, where the noise cramming his ears would be enough to shut down each and any possible much-too-loud beat of his heart, as if the mere sound of those tiny pulses would beguile him into wandering proscribed feelings. A deceit of his own body he wasn't willing to face, not even through his love of the forbidden. The hunger and ache had to stay just that: mere curiosity, more about her and her family than you.

But he stayed in the silence of the corridor, with a loud pounding noise in his ears.

[sloanesallow]

The Call of the Void | Chapter 4

Shy girl meets distracted boy. Chaos ensues. This is my "canon" retelling of Siobhan Sloane and Sebastian Sallow's story. (full synopsis here. Chapter Summary: Sebastian finally notices the new fifth-year. This chapter features art by @puridewart 💛 3.5k words Chapter warnings: Mild Leander-Slander, but that's mostly because this is a Sebastian POV chapter. [Ao3] | [Wattpad] [PREVIOUS] | [NEXT]

IV: D u e l

Sebastian wakes up on Tuesday in a bad mood.

Only a week into the new school year and he’s already regretting the choice to overload his class schedule with extracurriculars, bringing the total to fourteen. Combined with his late-night research in the restricted section on possible cures for Anne, Sebastian is lucky if he sleeps for more than a few hours if he sleeps at all.

The previous evening was supposed to be spent in the library, but instead, he stays up writing forty inches on ancient runes, cursing under his breath at the absurdity of a professor assigning such a task the first week of school. He falls asleep before he can finish, slumped over his dormitory desk, quill in hand. When Ominis wakes him up the following morning, Sebastian’s neck is stiff, fingers stained with ink, and stomach rumbling. The clock in their shared room shows breakfast isn’t possible, not if he wants to be late for Defense Against the Dark Arts.

“Why didn’t you wake me sooner?” he grumbles, shedding the clothes he fell asleep in for a clean set as he weighs the pros and cons of skipping class in favor of leftover toast.

“I did,” Ominis counters, flicking his wand to remove the wrinkles from Sebastian’s uniform. “You told me to quote, eat runes and die.” He turns to leave. “At least, that is what I think you said—your sleep-deprived Gaelic needs some work.”

Sebastian rolls his eyes, securing the knot of his Slytherin-green tie as he follows after Ominis, the two walking in amiable silence from the dungeons to the western tower. His eyes are still heavy as he thinks about the day ahead, thankful there are only two classes to suffer through, with the rest of the afternoon and evening to do as he pleases. While sleep is preferable—and desperately needed—he still has several other assignments to work on, readings to complete, and projects to get a head-start on. Not to mention wanting to follow up on a promising lead for Anne, discovered while researching abnormal curses. There simply isn’t enough time in the day. 

He sighs, I’ll sleep when I’m dead.

“Merlin’s sagging arse, Sallow. You look terrible.”

Sebastian clenches his jaw in annoyance as Leander greets him outside the D.A.D.A. classroom. “Prewett.”

The Gryffindor certainly became bolder over the summer, likely due to the growth spurt that finally brought him to the same height as the other fifth-year boys. Sebastian doesn’t want to think Leander’s newfound confidence has anything to do with Miss Morrison—how the gangly redhead managed to woo her is anyone’s guess.

The statues framing the doorway blink as the two exchange similar scowls, only moving when Ominis sighs in the threatening way only he can achieve. Leander doesn’t let up, however, taking advantage of the fact Professor Hecat hasn’t arrived yet.

“Rough night?” he prods. “We missed you at Crossed Wands. Does that mean you’re too busy to defend your title?”

“Like hell!” Sebastian exclaims, catching the way Leander’s eyes widen in alarm, but it’s too late for Prewett to back down now. The reminder of what else he’s missing out on only adds to his stress. Sebastian rolls up his sleeves and brandishes his wand. “No time like the present.”

“Sebastian,” Ominis warns. “No.”

Sebastian laughs, “yes.”

Leander falters, stumbling as he barely deflects Sebastian’s first cast. “No fair, Sallow!” he complains, the two moving into taunting stances on opposite sides of the classroom. “I wasn’t ready!”

“You should know by now that I don’t play fair,” Sebastian counters with a sarcastic chuckle. “Stupify!”

The impromptu duel excites the rest of the class as they arrive, quickly gathering to watch as he and Leander exchange a flurry of spells. It’s frustrating how good Prewett is—he wouldn’t be a member of Crossed Wands otherwise—but Sebastian knows he is better—the best.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he taunts after blocking the redhead’s attempt to disarm. “Bombarda!”

Leander’s last-second shield charm doesn’t save him from the aftershock of the small explosion, propelling him backward into a large stack of books. His fellow Gryffindor, Cressida Blume, runs to help while the others cheer for Sebastian’s victory. He cockily grins until Professor Hecat appears in the doorway of her office that oversees the classroom. She sighs, shaking her head in disapproval before slowly descending the stairs.

“Perhaps I should be grateful you avoided the Hebridean this time.” Her ire shifts to Leander, who fails at shrugging off Cressida’s fussing. “I see a review in deflection is needed. Let’s begin with the known variations of Protego.”

There are a few mumbles and groans as the professor gestures for the class to cease their gawking. Sebastian slinks back to his assigned seat, noticing briefly that his deskmate is already there, focused and quiet as ever. Sloane—the new fifth-year. He waits to see if she will say anything as he settles onto the bench, but like every day since her arrival, she remains silent.

Odd.

It isn’t like he’s said anything to her either—he hasn’t had a reason to and isn’t one for forcing conversation, especially on an unwilling participant. What little he knows of the new girl is based on unreliable hearsay and his scant observations of her behavior in the last week. At least she seems a little less terrified than before, undoubtedly due to being rescued by Poppy Sweeting. He’d seen her small triumph at Summoner’s Court, but the use of Accio is hardly impressive. The conclusion Sebastian arrives at is that Sloane is not worth his time.

Under different circumstances, he might find it in himself to be cordial, or even friendly, but those carefree days are in the past. Of course, there is a small flicker of curiosity that anything new brings, but he quickly extinguishes the thought, steeling his mind. There is no time—Anne is his focus, and everything else is a temporary distraction.

He switches his attention back to Professor Hecat, even if today’s lesson is redundant, information he taught himself long before it was required. Instead of taking notes, or at least pretending to read along in the textbook, he fiddles with his wand, twirling it between the fingers on his left hand. He starts to imagine all the other things he could be doing right now, like finishing his Ancient Runes assignment or charming a Prefect to look the other way as he digs through Professor Sharp’s supply room, or—his stomach growls—eating breakfast.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Sloane glancing at him, her face contorted in concern. She parts her lips to speak, closes her mouth, and then repeats the action a few times, looking very much like a fish. He might have thought her mute if he hadn’t seen her talking with Poppy in class the day before. Her insufferable shyness reminds him of the first-years who are too nervous to ask him for the common-room password when they’ve forgotten. Mildly perturbed, Sebastian raises an eyebrow, turning his head to look at her directly.

“Can I help you?”

Sloane snaps her gaze back to her notes, scribbling her quill against the parchment, and he leans over slightly to see nonsensical squiggles rather than actual words. Realizing his sudden proximity, she flinches and he immediately pulls away, more perplexed by her demeanor than ever. What he should do is continue to ignore the strange newcomer, but between Hecat’s droning and the girl’s flustered state, he finds the latter more compelling. He continues to look at her, studying her profile and smirking when a flush of pink tints her cheeks.

Cute.

And she is cute, objectively speaking. Sebastian hasn’t given his preferences much thought before, but he isn’t blind. The sunlight spilling in from the windows illuminates Sloane’s ashen-blonde hair—she’s finally cut off the damaged ends, leaving behind a short and wavy crop. The yellow of her jacket makes her look golden, envying Ominis with how tidy her uniform is. She’s pale in a way that accentuates her blush and the dusting of freckles across her cheeks. There’s a faint scar on the bridge of her nose, and he wonders if the cause is magical or mundane.

Her eyes, however, aren’t as doe-like and innocent as he expects; rather, they are a stormy shade of grey with an unsettling depth. A well of sadness, one Sebastian has seen before in his own reflection. Sloane is a kindred spirit, or at least that’s what intuition tells him. His curiosity burns anew. 

He should say something.

Maybe.

Professor Hecat speaks first, preventing further rumination. “Since you were all so keen on using this space as a dueling hall, we will now practice these defenses with each other.”

Her announcement excites the class all over again, everyone moving to stand on either side of the room as Hecat moves their desks aside and raises the long dueling table. Cressida and Sirius Black are the first to demonstrate what they’ve learned, and it takes all but a few exchanges for Miss Blume to knock the Headmaster’s son onto his back. He sneers, flicking dust off his tailored jacket as Cressida flourishes under the attention and praise from her classmates.

Sebastian watches the matches intently, making a mental note to mention the outcomes to Lucan Brattleby at the next Crossed Wands meeting. Everett Clopton and Isaac Cooper are next, showcasing how they ought to stick to flying rather than spellcraft. They are shooed from the table when it becomes apparent they’d rather showboat than have a proper duel. Ominis and Adelaide Oakes follow, and their drastically different dueling styles cause Professor Hecat to declare a draw after five minutes. Thereafter, Aurthur Plummy loses to Grace, and Leander suffers his second public humiliation of the day when Imelda sends him toppling from the table and into the same pile of books as before.

While Cressida and Hecat check to see if Prewett is conscious, Sebastian sees Sloane in his peripheral, fidgeting with her wand. It dawns on him that they are the last pair to participate. She holds the same worried expression that she always does, her eyes wide with panic as they flick back and forth between him and the purple-draped table.

“Have you ever dueled before?” he asks.

Sloane hesitates before shaking her head.

“Well then,” Sebastian smirks as Hecat instructs them to take their places. Maybe the new girl will surprise him. “Time for a proper Hogwarts welcome.”

It isn’t until Sebastian turns around in his spot to face his opponent that his bravado fades at the sight of Sloane, her demeanor reminiscent of her arrival to the opening feast. Nervousness is one thing, but Merlin, she looks miserable and afraid, her petite stature doing nothing to help the situation. 

Pride won’t allow him to go easy on her—she has to learn somehow, right? Still, he hesitates, even as Professor Hecat allows them to begin. Sloane glances down at her hands before gripping her wand a little tighter, raising her arm defensively. Knowing she is unlikely to cast first, Sebastian flicks his wrist, almost thankful when she blocks the blast of magic at the last possible moment.

She stumbles backward, rebounding when she more easily deflects his second attack. Sebastian relaxes, wondering if the new fifth-year really is the prodigy rumors claim her to be and is hiding her talents behind a meek facade.

He tests this theory, casting with more conviction. “Stupify!”

Her shield charm appears without an incantation, and he’s stunned long enough that her basic cast slips past his Protego. Sebastian staggers, widening his stance to avoid falling over. He’s been hit by all sorts of spells in his lifetime, but whatever power Sloane possesses feels different—unnerving and pleasant at the same time.

The strange sensation doesn’t stop him from returning fire, the class collectively gasping as she fails to protect herself in time. Sloane takes the full brunt of his magic, yelping as she’s sent flying off the end of the table. Even though he’s just won the dual, victory feels hollow. Sebastian may have the reputation as Hogwarts’ best duelist, but he won’t be known as a bully.   

Before he realizes what he’s doing, Sebastian rushes down the length of the table, hopping off the edge in time to see Sloane slowly pushing herself off the ground, clearly dazed by the outcome. She rubs the back of her head, wincing in pain. Guilt churns his stomach and he reaches out, offering his hand.

“Here,” he murmurs, hoping he looks as non-threatening as possible.

Sloane stares up at him with glossy, storm-cloud eyes and the sight makes his chest weigh heavy with shame. He can’t tell if her unshed tears are from embarrassment or a bruised skull. She shakily reaches up and Sebastian can’t blame her hesitation, grasping her hand to hoist her upright. As soon as she is standing, her gaze darts away, and before he can ask if she’s alright he is being pushed away by another flash of yellow as Adelaide arrives to help.

“That is enough for today,” Professor Hecat announces, dismissing the class with a wave of her hand. “Please continue to review and practice your defensive spells without hurting each other.”

Sebastian frowns and looks down at his right hand, flexing his fingers as they tingle. He lingers, eavesdropping as Hecat offers some encouragement to Sloane before suggesting that Adelaide take her to the hospital wing for a quick exam.

“You as well, Mr. Prewett,” she says, just before the Gryffindor wobbles out of the classroom. He groans, rubbing his temple as Cressida happily offers to escort him. Just as Sebastian moves to leave as well, Professor Hecat clears her throat. “Mr. Sallow.”

He stops and slowly turns, attempting to charm the professor with a cheeky smile. She isn’t impressed, hands on her hips as she shakes her head. Perhaps one day, he won’t be such a disappointment.

“Yes, Professor?” he inquires, feigning innocence. Hecat rolls her eyes, unimpressed.

“I have a request for you,” she starts, clasping her hands. “It appears our newest student could use some help with her studies. Are you familiar with Miss Sloane outside of class?”

Sebastian wonders if Hecat is making the assumption based on his chivalrous behavior. He lifts a shoulder in a noncommittal shrug. “Not really,” he answers, even though the real answer is not at all.

“No matter,” she dismisses his response. “Perhaps you’d be willing to invite her to that little dueling club you think is a secret from the staff.”

“What?” he says, in disbelief, shaking his. “You have to actually be good at dueling to join Crossed Wands.”

“So that is what you call it,” Professor Hecat’s sly smile makes Sebastian nervous. “But that is exactly my point, Mr. Sallow. Miss Sloane needs to catch up with the rest of her peers, and what better way to accomplish that than to be tutored by the best?”

Sebastian should be flattered by the compliment, but he remains reluctant to agree. “Might I think about it?” he asks, unsure if even he has the time to attend Brattleby’s club, let alone take Sloane under his wing. Maybe he can set her up with Onai—she’s talented enough, and the two are more likely to get along.

“So,” he drags the word out in an attempt to change the subject, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Am I—”

“Still in trouble?” Professor Hecat finishes, and he swears she looks amused by the situation. “Yes.”

“But—”

“I warned you about using unsanctioned spells in my classroom, Mr. Sallow,” she reminds and he sighs, knowing she is right. “Not to worry, as soon as his head clears, Mr. Prewett will be spending the next several days organizing and repairing the books he damaged.”

It’s never been easy for Sebastian to apologize. “I—” he swallows thickly. “I’m sorry, Professor Hecat.”

She nods curtly. “Good. Now, run along. I’ll let Professor Binns know to expect you this evening.”

Detention—Sebastian’s mood worsens as he finally leaves the classroom. He should’ve gone to breakfast.

|_ | _ | _ | _|

After devouring his evening meal in the great hall, Sebastian begrudgingly makes his way to the dungeons, but instead of returning to the Slytherin common room for the evening, he diverts toward the familiar door at the end of a long hall. The detention chamber is a dark, cramped room, full of old desks and oddities from a bygone era. He eyes the stockade in the corner and shivers, grateful he didn’t attend Hogwarts when the torture of students was permitted.

Sebastian is surprised to see Professor Weasley instead of the ghostly Binns, and she greets him with a cordial smile, even as she confiscates his wand. It’s only for the next few hours, but the separation creates an uncomfortable knot in his chest. He sighs, flopping down into the least dusty bench, unceremoniously dropping his satchel on the desk in front of him. He waits to see if anyone else enters the room, but of course, he’s the only one with detention this evening. The school year has only just begun—this must be a new record.

He glances at the clock—three hours until curfew. Easy enough.

For the first hour, he finally finishes his assignment for Ancient Runes, pleased with the results. Next, he reads through an old tome, carefully moving the pages so they don’t turn to dust. Most of the text is in Sanskrit, which even Sebastian cannot begin to fathom how to translate. Still, there is much to be gleaned from the diagrams and drawings of ancient rituals depicting what he can only guess is dark magic.

“Mr. Sallow.”

Sebastian flinches, momentarily worried he’ll be caught with such an illicit book. He pretends to be taking notes as if it is just another one of his many coursebooks, anxiously glancing up as Professor Weasley stands to approach.

“I have a request for you,” she says and he nearly tells the professor to queue up behind Hecat. Instead, he neatly folds his hands over the tome in a poor attempt to disguise its true contents.

“What kind of request?” he asks, already suspicious.

Professor Weasley flashes another polite smile. “This concerns our newest student—”

“Sloane?” he confirms with a raised eyebrow. It has to be a coincidence.

“Why, yes,” the Deputy Headmistress replies. “You share many classes—are you—”

“Not at all,” Sebastian interrupts, biting his tongue when her expression falters. “I mean…” he taps his fingers against the desk. He and Sloane are in a lot of the same classes, but he isn’t interested in anything more. Especially after today’s events, he is likely a jerk to be avoided at all costs.

“I’d like you to escort Miss Sloane to Hogsmeade tomorrow afternoon,” she explains, ignoring his distressed state. “And before you worry about your classes, I have already sent an owl excusing your absence.”

Sebastian frowns. Why is he, out of all the students in the school, suddenly being trusted with such responsibility? “Are you certain?”

Professor Weasley nods.

“Is this punishment?” he asks next.

“No, do you think it is punishment?”

Sebastian doesn’t answer.

“You need a distraction, Mr. Sallow,” she sighs, and he realizes very quickly she—and perhaps the other professors—mean to keep him busy so that he stays out of trouble in his endeavor to cure Anne. Solomon—he grumbles to himself, knowing his uncle has something to do with this.

“You know the area, and understand how important it is to avoid danger,” Professor Weasley continues. “Victor Rookwood may be terrorizing the Highlands, but Hogwarts and the Hogsmeade village will be safe.”

Sebastian still isn’t convinced but doesn’t bother with arguing. He relents with a small nod, lips pursed in a straight line. “Fine.”

“I’ll have you know, Mr. Sallow,” the Headmistress speaks in a softer, kinder tone. “Despite your penchant for detention, you are one of the few students I can trust to be kind to the young miss.”

Ironic, considering what he’d done that morning. Kindness usually doesn’t result in concussions. Sebastian suddenly finds himself thinking about Sloane’s sad eyes and the sympathy he felt towards her at that moment. Maybe Professor Weasley is right, and he is kind, without even realizing it. His reputation could be worse, but first impressions are everything and he’d already made an utter arse of himself.

Tomorrow, he’d find out for certain.

[americanphysco]

Deadnames (8.23.24)

When I walked into work last night, already five minutes later than I should have been, my boss stopped me before I could clock in.

He placed his hand over my timecard, towering over me with a furrowed brown and a tight-lipped frown. I braced myself, expecting a lecture on punctuality. It'd been my third day late in a row, a pattern that surfaced every few weeks or so.

"Can I talk to you about something?"

I took a deep breath. "Marcus, you know my car doesn't always start, and sometimes I have to babysit for my sister, and-,"

"It's not about your late streak. I would've fired you a long time ago if I cared about that."

Marcus finally dropped his hand, running it down the length of his face as he sighs instead. The last time I saw him that tense was during an unexpected late night rush from a college soccer team passing through.

"So, Anne and I are pregnant." he said.

"Well, I know that she's pregnant, but the you part is coming as a surprise."

He pretended to laugh. "You know what I mean. We're expecting a baby, and she's been hung up on names. We have this big book that we've gone through twice and she hates every name I circle, and I'm not sure why I'm asking you this, but I just need an outside opinion. What do you think of the name Claire?"

I freeze. "Claire?" I hadn't heard that name in years.

"You hate it?"

"No, no. I-" The last time I heard the name "Claire" it was being spat at me between bouts of tears and pleas, my mother begging me not to mutilate my body or ruin my pretty face, or however she crudely put it. That was eight years ago, maybe nine now.

But that wasn't "Claire's" fault.

"I love it. It's sweet, simple, easy to spell." I paused. "I knew a Claire once."

Marcus raised his eyebrows. "Was she nice?"

Images of my teenage self had begun to surface, all hunched and scrawny, hiding away in oversized t-shirts and emo bangs. I was unhappy, but I was still nice. I always held the door for strangers and stacked my dirty dishes at restaurants and apologized to my friends for being chronically late to hangouts.

I smiled, albeit slightly. "Yeah, she was."

"Alright," Marcus nodded, "That's good to you. Thank you, Nick. I really needed that."

"Sure, anytime."

Marcus clapped me on the shoulder before walking away. I hope his daughter wears Claire well, and with pride.

[sofy-tofy]

Cloco Tower Jennifer (& friends) sprites edit + original comparision

[blueraineshadows]

Feelings and an Approval Badge

Imelda Reyes x F!MC 🌶

Part 4 - angst/fluff/indication of spice

Master List for this fic thread

The Clock Tower was busy this evening, more people coming along to spectate Crossed Wands than ever before. Its popularity was growing, and its main attraction was the teaming up of MC and Sebastian Sallow.

Imelda leant against the wall, arms folded, her eyes trailing MC moving across the floor as if in a dance, spells firing from the tip of her wand. Her face was set in deep concentration and it was as sexy as fuck. Imelda sighed and tried to look away, but her gaze was drawn back to MC, she just couldn't help it.

What pissed her off the most was the unspoken communication going on between MC and Sebastian. As duelling partners go, those two were undeniably unstoppable. They just seemed to click, their movements like a dance, in tune, and they didn't even have to speak to achieve it.

Then the duel was over. Of course, they had won. Imelda watched as MC and Sebastian turned to each other, smiling, hands raised for a victory high five in the air. Sebastian put a hand on MC's shoulder, and the look they shared was private, full of their secrets.

Imelda felt her guts twist with venom. Why did it bother her so much? Her spat with MC in the shower flashed through her mind, the rage, the envy, and the burning heat of MC's fingers fucking her. Imelda grit her teeth, her thighs clenching despite her best efforts to focus on the rage.

Had MC let Sebastian touch her? It was what she had threatened to do. Imelda told herself it didn't matter. Fucking was fucking. It didn't do to get attached. You only got hurt that way. She had learned her lesson.

Imelda pushed herself away from the wall, done with Crossed Wands for the night. As she strode for the door, MC caught her eye, Imelda scowled. MC seemed to sigh, but Imelda wasn't going to wait around to see anymore.

....*....

"Have I done something to upset you, Reyes?" Sebastian whispered. He leant across his studying towards her. "You've been extra prickly of late."

Imelda looked up from her parchment, her best 'fuck off' glower on her face.

Sebastian's eyebrows shot up. "Oop, and there it is." He shook his head and went back to his book.

Imelda flicked her gaze across the library before scowling back at Sebastian. "Not everything is about you, Sallow," she hissed.

He looked at her, thoughtfully, for a moment. They continued to make their notes. Imelda wished she had chosen another seat.

"Look, whatever it is, maybe I can help?" Sebastian said quietly. He sighed. "I know I'm not Anne..."

He trailed off. Imelda's lips tightened with fury. How dare he try and be nice to her! "No, you are not!" She snapped with a hiss. "And I don't need your help."

She didn't need anyone's help. She began to pack up her study things, her face like stone. Sebastian watched her, his face creased with frustration. "Well, don't say I didn't offer," he said, shaking his head.

"Oh, fuck off," she growled. She ignored his pissed off frown and marched out of the library.

....*....

With exam season approaching, and beyond that, graduation was looming, and then they would all be out in the big, wide world. Imelda was beginning to feel the strain. She had applied for several Quidditch team try outs, but had not received any word back yet. Her parents were pushing for her to get good grades as a back up, and that alone was enough to fuel her constant bad mood.

To make matters worse, Imelda seemed to come up against Hogwarts darling duelling couple everywhere she went. They ate side by side, they often sat together in classes, and he even came down to the Quidditch pitch when they did practise sometimes.

The only time she saw MC without him was in their dorm room, but Imelda threw up her icy exterior and refused to even look at MC. It was bad enough that she had to sleep in the bed next to hers, being able to smell her scent, to remember when she had slid into bed beside her that time.

One night she had heard MC quietly crying into her pillow. Imelda had lain there, stiff as board, hating the sound, but fought against the urge to go and offer comfort. Showing affection bred affection, and she wasn't that type of girl. MC needed to pull her socks up and grow a backbone. Imelda held her hands over her face, hating how mean that sounded in her own head. But, she was Imelda, and being harsh was her thing.

....*....

Imelda put her broom away and double checked the Quidditch store room before locking up. A quick flight before bed was always the best way to clear her head before settling for the night.

She strode across the grounds, her mind on the hopes of professional Quidditch team try outs, when she heard a shout. She turned to look and paused in her step. Sebastian was running, at least he was trying to, with MC cradled in his arms.

Her chest tightened, a flicker of panic flashed through her, MC did not look good.

"What happened?" She demanded, running towards Sebastian.

"We stumbled across some poachers," he gasped. There was blood on his face. He looked down at MC. "She was hit with a spell. I've given her Wiggenweld, but she won't wake up!"

Imelda hated the fear in his voice. It made hers flare out sharper. "Hospital wing, now," she snapped. "I'll come with you."

....*....

Sebastian was pacing the corridor outside the hospital wing, his own wound patched up and healing nicely, but he was pale. He was scared. MC had still not woken up.

"Sit down, Sebastian," Imelda sighed. "You're making me dizzy pacing about like that."

He turned to look at her, his face screwed up in agitation, then he sighed and joined her on the bench. He put his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands. "It's my fault."

"Did you cast the hex on her, then?" Imelda asked.

"Of course not!" He growled.

"Then, how is it your fault?"

He sat up, leaning his head back against the wall. "I should have been there to block it."

Imelda looked at him. She had never really been into boys, but she wasn't blind either. He was a handsome fucker, she could see why he had little admirers sighing over him. His name was branded into more than one desk in the classrooms, surrounded with little hearts. It made her want to hurl her guts up, personally, but she supposed she understood.

He was the handsome, charming boy, with a quick tongue and an even faster wand. It was obvious him and MC were close, anyone could see it. And, of course he had wanted to save her.

The next words out of his mouth were like a punch to her gut. "I can't lose her too."

Imelda swallowed. Anne. She had suffered at the hands of a curse, never to be the same again. Her gaze swung to the hospital wing doors and she completely understood his pain. After all, she had lost Anne too. Sending an owl wasn't the same as having her here, having a friend to laugh with, share things with.

"MC is a tough one to crack, Sebastian," Imelda said. "Give her time and she will make it through this latest episode too."

"I hope you're right."

....*....

MC winced, her eyes fluttering open. The fuzzy surroundings of the hospital wing sharpened into view. She blinked a few times, mentally assessing the sore bits of her body, but her hand was warm, held gently by someone. She looked down.

Imelda was seated by the bed, her head resting on an arm on the mattress beside MC, sound asleep. She was holding MC's hand. MC took a moment to process what she was seeing. Imelda wasn't a hand holder. At all.

Rather than disturb Imelda, and risk the wrath that would be sure to follow the discovery of such a display of affection, MC closed her eyes again and drifted back into sleep.

....*....

MC returned to the dormitory after 4 days in the hospital wing. Imelda was dressed ready for classes when MC wandered back from the bathrooms after her shower, her hair still damp.

"All set to return to normal?" Imelda asked.

MC gave her a smile and nodded. "I can't wait, actually. I was getting rather bored stuck in bed all day."

Imelda could think of a few things to liven up a day in bed. The beginnings of a flush spread up her neck. She grabbed her robe and headed for the door, quickly. "Good to see you back on your feet," she said, pausing at the door. "I'll see you in class."

As she walked towards the Great Hall for breakfast, Imelda felt a strong hand on her arm tugging her in closer, her head whipped up, a retort ready on her tongue. It was Sebastian, looking rather serious for first thing in the morning. Her retort faded and she frowned. "What do you want?"

"I've got one thing to say to you, Reyes, and you'd better take note," he said, firmly. Her frown deepened. "You hurt her, even just a little, and you'll have me to deal with. Do you understand?"

Imelda stopped in her tracks and stared up at him. He paused too, his hand a death grip on her arm. He looked positively feral for a second. "Nobody hurts MC without facing the repercussions. Nobody."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Let's just say, me and MC had a little chat," he said, smirking now. He relaxed his grip a little, but didn't let her arm go. He started walking, leading her on. "At least I know now why you've been extra snippy with me. Had you scared I was getting a taste of what you've been enjoying, eh Reyes?"

Imelda's cheeks darkened with fury and embarrassment. "She told you?"

He shrugged, his smirk widening. "She's my best friend. Deep, dark secret sharing is kind of our thing."

Imelda had her mouth clamped shut tightly, her teeth grinding painfully. She couldn't believe MC had spilled the truth to him, and after she had been so nice to her lately. Well, sort of. In her own way.

Sebastian chuckled and leant close to her ear. "Don't waste this chance, Imelda," he said. "You've got lucky with MC. Don't fuck it up, or I mean it, I will come for you."

She glared up at him. "Oh, fuck off Sallow, you arrogant prick."

He laughed and let her go, pausing to watch her storm off towards the Great Hall. He pointed after her. "You have to love me now, Reyes. Especially since it sounds like I'll be seeing a lot more of you."

Imelda refused to give him the satisfaction of a reply. But she sure felt like throwing her head back and letting out a furious scream into the air.

....*....

Imelda fumed all day. She ignored MC's attempts to approach her, and she felt like slapping the smug little smirk off Sebastian's face every time she caught his eye.

She hated being caught at a disadvantage, and they had snared her like some idiotic mooncalf.

She hated people knowing her private business. She also couldn't shake the burning desire to grab hold of MC and fuck her senseless. The bitter pill to swallow with that was the fact that now, MC came with a little badge saying 'Sallow Approved'.

But, of course. It was like he said. Nobody fucked with MC without having to deal with him as well. Best friends for fucking life them two, and it grated on her nerves something terrible.

Or did it? Oh, what did she know? Her emotions were a stinking shit storm right now, and she had no idea what the fuck was going on.

When she entered the dormitory to change for Quidditch Practise, MC was sitting on her bed as though waiting. She leapt to her feet when Imelda appeared. Imelda grunted and made for her bed.

"Not so fast, Reyes," MC said. She darted forward and grabbed her arm.

Imelda stared down at MC's hand, scowling. "What is it with you and Sallow being all grabby hands today?"

MC giggled. "He spoke to you, didn't he. He said was going to."

"He's a first class prick," Imelda said.

Another giggle escaped MC and Imelda wondered if her bitch tongue was slipping a little. It wasn't the standard reaction.

"He just cares, that's all," MC shrugged. "We both do."

Imelda eyed MC, a little nervously, if she was honest. Then she gasped. MC leant forward and pressed her lips to Imelda's. It was a firm, quick kiss, and then MC let go, a small smile on her lips.

"Enjoy practise," she said, brightly.

Imelda licked her lips. They tingled hotly. "I thought you didn't want to kiss. It's too personal."

MC was making her way to the door, her arse looking fucking heavenly in tight trousers. She turned and smiled at Imelda. "Maybe I changed my mind," she shrugged. The wink she gave Imelda was sinfully flirty. "See you later."

And then she was gone, the door closing against the waft of her perfume. Imelda stood there for a moment, staring at the door. And then, slowly, a satisfied little smirk lifted her lips.

She always got horny after Quidditch Practise and she was going to pin that little minx down and fuck her senseless when she got back.

[erikiara80]

Stranger Things analyses and theories

There are clues everywhere. Like these possible "echoes" of other timelines: woman saying Jane! at the beginning of The spy, and another voice before El removes the Soteria in 4x07

Parallels with other stories

Byler-Polivia and other ST-Fringe parallels

Big parallel with IT-The Dark Tower: Will and the god-like Turtle

If Will is paralleled to the Turtle, El is paralleled to the cyborg Bear

Wayward Pines-Stranger Things parallels

The mystery of the only person who went missing before Will (1923)

More on the 1923 mystery, some interesting parallel with Ghostbusters

Ghostbusters parallel could explain the importance of the library

The mystery of the suicide in 1961

8:15pm, parallel with LOST Oceanic Flight 815

Will, The Last Dragon and the power of the Glow

Dark Crystal poster in Mike's room: a hint at Will and El connection

Will's vanishing and Laurie Anne's death (IT-the miniseries)

THEORY: a car crash in the winter of 1976 changed everything

Hints that there was a car crash in 1976 (Part I)

More hints at a car crash (Part II)

Hints that before or during the car chase someone was shot

TW: drowning and asphyxiation. What might have happened to El and Will in the past

Connection between Will, El and Saraha: Breathe!

- WILL BYERS: theories about powers, birthdaygate, his role in S5 

Will: S5 spoilers, UD and Nina flashbacks parallels, Will's connection to Vecna/UD

Hints that Will might have powers + paralles with other powerful characters

Will and the Mind Flayer in S3: another trap like in The spy?

Why Byler and Will having powers wouldn’t come out of nowhere

Vecna took Will at Castle Byers. The Demogorgon wasn't alone

Is Will in a Vecna vision at the end of S4?

How did El recognize Will in the photo?

Birthdaygate: he writers didn't forget Will's birthday: all the birthdays references since S1

Birthdaygate and Will the Wise

Birthdaygate: a different take + possible clue on the ST IG account

(A bit of) birthdaygate: connection Arcade scene in S2 and roller ring scene in S4

Will’s powers, Forever Clock and Cerebro (+ parallel with My Little Pony)

Did Will cast Fog Cloud in the tunnels in 2x06? 

Joyce really sees Will in 1x04: parallel with 2x05

The russian prisoners, the lab kids, Will, El and tears in time and space

KALI

Spiders and butterflies

All the signs in 2x07 that make Kali sus

Parallels and connection between 2x07 and 4x07

Kali, nickname K-street name for ketamine-the mean green and the green goo

Hopper, Ray Carroll and Alice as a slang for LSD

WILLEL AND TWELVEGATE theories

Terry’s memories are different from El’s

Hints that Jopper were a couple in the OG timeline

Connection El and Sarah: Shirley Temple, bonsai trees and Anne of Green Gables

Will, El and Hopper, a curious connection: the horseshoes

Why so many mentions of Barb in S4? Because it's not just about Nancy, Barb is paralleled to El (I need to update it)

Will and El parallels in 4x05

Another Jopper scene with hints at them being married

Hint that Joyce is the biological mother of three kids

Little parallel Jonathan-Will and Jonathan-El

Jancy’s first lie scene in S2 could be a parallel with Jopper and the curse 

Joyce and Hopper communicating with Will with or without words

Jopper sweet scene in Russia that could hint at Willel twins

Willel, Byler, Twelve and labyrinths

Willel and Twelvegate: Will, El and Joyce parallels

Analysis of the newspapers: inconsistencies are hints

Terry and Joyce connection in the S1 articles

Analysis of the Hawkins Post article in S3

Ray Carroll (S2) and the hidden connection to Hopper and Vietnam

Connection El-basketball article in 4x01

THE FIRST SHADOW

Something about Alice/Virginia's age

The cast

Brenner-Henry, Lonnie-Jon, Hopper-Will

WILL AND JONATHAN

A beautiful bond

BYLER  

Why Will won’t be rejected by Mike (about the 80s and queer love)

Keys, Willel and Byler

Mike’s respect and admiration for Will

Will’s painting is even on Dustin’s shirt

Analysis of 3X03: Byler and other theories

[peonyscorner13]

BSD: Order of the Clock Tower Head Canons

Since Agatha Christie first appeared in the Bungou Stray Dogs movie, I've always been intrigued by the organization she led. As a fan of English Literature, I always wonder who will be the members of the Order of the Clock Tower.

Well, here are my head canon characters for the Order:

Charlotte, Emily, and Anne Bronte

Based on the Bronte Sisters, I imagined them as the three sisters who came somewhere in the countryside of England blessed with abilities and unique from one another. Charlotte has an ability called Jane Eyre in which it takes the form of a golden string that enables to locate the heart of the person she is looking for. Emily’s called Wuthering Heights, in which she’s able to summon ghosts called Heathcliff and Cathy and would do some of her biddings. Finally, Anne has the ability called The Tenant of Wildfell Hall where it worked like Kunikida’s ability, except that she is able to bring the images to life she’s been drawing in her journal.

Lewis Caroll

Based on Lewis Caroll, I pictured him as a cheerful man with a top hat who’s carrying a mirror all the time. It’s actually his ability, Through the Looking Glass, where he is able to transport people inside the mirror and inside was an unusual place called Wonderland. Yes, it’s somehow similar to Lucy and Poe’s ability. Also, whenever he’s about to transport his victims, he would usually shout, “Now, off with your heads, gentlemen!”

Jane Austen

Based on Jane Austen herself, I imagined her as a composed lady who wears Regency era inspired dresses. She is sharp and witty with her words. I actually find it hard to name her ability yet I think I would go with Persuasion instead. Since Jane in this head canon is good with words, her ability enables her to persuade or manipulate someone to do her biddings with solely her words only.

Oscar Wilde

Of course he is included! Obviously, his ability is The Picture of Dorian Gray, in which Oscar is an immortal and his opponents always have a tough time whenever they engage in battle with him since he won’t die. However, the one thing that could kill Dorian is if they showed him the portrait of his aging, rotting self. (It’s actually inspired by Dorian Gray from LXG).

I will end this here for now. So, what are your thoughts about it?

[bestiarium]

Yannig An Od [Celtic/Breton mythology]

Imagine you’re taking a stroll on the bank of a river. In the distance, you see an elderly man rowing a little boat. Suddenly, you hear a strange bird calling once, twice, and a third time. It sounds like ‘Iouhou!’ If you answered or yelled something back, the enigmatic man on the boat suddenly takes a giant leap and devours you.

This is the Yannig An Od – a mysterious creature from Breton folktales. There are a bunch of different names and retellings of the story: Yann-an-Ord, Iannic-ann-ôd, Yannig an Aod, etc. But the basics are always the same: the spirit resides near a riverbank or seashore and calls out three times, and kills those who answer or return its calls. ‘An od’ and its variations mean ‘of the shore’ while Iannic, Yann and Yannig are given names (often translated as ‘John’ or ‘Johnny’).

Collectively, these similar folk monsters are often called ‘Yannig’ and they are sometimes likened to fairies or sirens.

The spirit was said to rule over the Odet River in Breton. It was the undead ghost of a drowned man and dwelt on the riverbanks and let out its strange cry three times in succession, which was somewhat similar to that of an owl, and to leap at and devour anyone who was foolish enough to answer or mock the cries. Eventually, it was defeated by the wit of a local folk hero, Konan Ruz.

As legend has it, Konan was on an errand for flour to bake bread when he heard the three owl-like hoots. Not knowing their origin but annoyed at the noise, he hooted back in a mocking tone. Suddenly, Yannig An Od appeared and threw the man on his side. Konan however was a physically strong lad and managed to overpower his assailant by hitting the creature’s feet and causing it to fall on the ground. Konan put his knee on the being’s throat and held it down. The creature, now struggling to breathe, begged Konan to release it since apparently he came out of the water too early (before midnight). The man agreed to release his captive but only on the condition that the spirit would tell him some secrets about the world it came from: not the afterlife, but the place between the plane of the dead and the world of the living. This did not please the spirit, who warned that this information was not meant for the ears of a baptized man.

Yannig An Od told Konan that the ocean is a living being who sent wrinkles/waves across its skin every day, to counteract aging. At sunset, the sun descends into the ocean, warming its heart and waking it. The sea then makes a loud noise with its bowels, and in that hour the morgans and other mythical creatures from the depths sound the bells of their underwater towers. At that hour, Yannig An Od rises from between the rocks of the riverside, as these rocks contain the souls of the drowned.

Konan remembered that fishermen sometimes see thousands of human corpses in the ocean and asked Yannig what this means. The creature replied that these were the spirits of drowned people who remain in the ocean. When they reach a certain age, drowned corpses can freely move around in the ocean and wander beneath the waves in great numbers. Yannig also told his captor about the green sun, which is the source of the unnatural power that he and the drowned ones have. This sun can be seen underwater at night and has a connection with the afterlife, though the details are not entirely clear to me. When daytime comes, the drowned dead retake their places among the rocks of the seafloor and wait until the green sun rises once again.

Konan did not realize the creature’s trickery until it was too late: Yannig An Od was buying time with his stories until the clock struck midnight and the green sun arose under the sea. Now back at full power, he fought and killed his enemy. Konan died but managed to scare the spirit and to this day, the creature is too afraid to let out its cry near Konan’s side of the river it inhabits.

That being said though, Yannig An Od is still a dangerous entity and should you hear its cry, take care not to mock it, for this will entice the ghost to attack you. It is said that if you encounter this spirit, you have to remove your shoes and run barefoot across the beach or riverbank with your shoes in your hands.

In addition, Yannig An Od may also come to peoples’ houses. He will knock on the door and ask for a small piece of burning or smouldering wood from the fireplace. You should never give in to this strange request, though it isn’t entirely clear to me what will happen if you do or what the ghost plans to use the wood for.

Sources: Garnett, L. M. J., 1896, New Folklore Researches: Folk-Prose. Modern Revolution. Historical Introductions. University of Michigan. Monaghan, P., 2004, The Encyclopedia of Celtic Mythology and Folklore, Facts on File, 512 pp. (image source: Cherryheart on Wattpad)