#baptism tips

[cassanovela]

Tips for Christians getting baptized for the first time!!

Firstly, its important that you know that by baptizing yourself, you are giving your soul to The Lord, and are being given a new life walking with The Lord in a sense.

Now, with that being said, here are some tips!! :))

- Don’t wear anything super tight if you get to choose what you wear!!

Whenever you get dunked into the water, if you’re wearing something tight, people might see A LOT of what you’d rather not show. Try wearing something a bit oversized!

- Pray before you get baptized

You could pray for a smooth baptism, pray for forgiveness, pray for yourself or your friends and family, or just simply thank God for the chance at a new life with him!

- Remember to pack a backup outfit

This way, whenever you’re finished, you can change into dry clothes that don’t bother you.

- Make a list of things you want to change in your life for after you get baptized

This includes cussing less, fasting more, praying more, studying the bible, it could be anything!

- Study, really study, on what baptism is and the story behind it the night before you get baptized.

This way, you’ll have a deeper and clearer understanding on what you are doing, and what it exactly means.

Thats all for now!! Have an amazing Sunday everyone, and if anyone has any concerns or questions my dms are always open! ^^

[weather-cluddy]

I rest my case.

[daylerogers]

Dip And Dye

Decision making is an arduous process–for some. I have a daughter who is very quick and decisive. She’s aware of the big picture, and when choices need to be made, she rapidly assesses the situation and lands on a solution. I, on the other hand, hesitate when making decisions. I love my options, so choosing among the many is a challenge. Especially if I consider that more options may soon…

[hypnotiiize]

𝐠𝐨𝐝𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬

𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘦𝘹𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥’𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘴𝘮

𝐣𝐮𝐝𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐚𝐦 𝐱 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: this is real old and angsty like not for fake. it’s short though. also i grew up catholic so u gotta bear w the lil references and shit. trigger warning religious talk kinda

She couldn’t remember much of the year if she was being honest. 

She could remember her best friends’ wedding.

She could remember Valentine’s day.

She could remember March and April breezing past her, a mixture of Easter and celebrating her friend’s birthday.

She could remember the drowsiness that overcame her in May. She could remember how it followed her well into June.

She could remember her friend’s baby being born, and she could remember smiling down at his tiny squished face.

And she was happy for them, she was. But, when she found herself in her newly quiet home at the end of the day, the reality remained that she was alone. Utterly alone. No one to turn to. No one to rely on. Alone. She felt that this was her fault. 

When her friend called and cried to her about new motherhood delivering a swift kick to her backside, she accepted the opportunity to stay with her friends for a few days, maybe even weeks— however long it would take for her friend to get back on her feet with a new addition to the household.

The record was three weeks. July was almost over. Amelie, ever-grateful, had even told her that she could go back home if she wanted. The woman, not wanting to overstay her welcome, accepted that as well.

She had been accepting a lot of things, it seemed. She would leave the following week, after the event that was planned meticulously for the baby.

It was when she was getting ready to go to sleep early— the baby had a habit of scream-crying at the break of dawn and she liked being up with him— that she received a knock at the guest bedroom door. Curious, she tip-toed across the room and found herself opening the door to reveal her tired friend whose smile grew as she rocked her fast-asleep son. [y/n] invited them in and grabbed the baby at once, sitting on the bed with his little body cradled in her arms. 

“Okay, I wanted to tell you so that you weren’t, like, bombarded with this,” Amelie began after a small chat about how the baby had just done something cute.

She involuntarily put pressure on her eyebrows, furrowing them together.

Amelie folded her hands in her lap. “You know his baptism is next week and you know you’re his Godmother, of course... I tried to talk Trent out of it, but he’s going to make you know who his Godfather.”

She could feel herself gasp at the mention of you know who. She definitely knew who. 

“If it makes you uncomfortable, I get it. And I get it if you’re not ready to see him. I can have someone else step in as his Godmother for the ceremony if you can’t do it. You don’t have to go to the party. What are you feeling?” Amelie asked.

She bit the skin of her bottom lip. She looked down at the almost two-month-old who looked so much like her friends that it was crazy. He was blinking up at her with his bottom lip poked out, looking scandalized. She laughed and rubbed the pad of her finger over his dark waves.

“I’m feeling a little overwhelmed… But I can do it. I don’t care about him. This is for my Godbaby. Right? This is for my Godson,” she cooed to the baby who half-smiled. 

“You’re sure?” 

“Sure. Yes. Yeah.” She was trying to convince herself more than anything and she knew it. “No one cares about that man, anyway. It’s just Rayan’s day..” The baby smiled as if he knew what they were talking about, and the women fussed over him a bit more. When the familiar weight pressed itself against her shoulders, She sighed. “I need a drink.”

“Go raid Trent’s cabinet, girl. You know he’s not shy about Don Julio,” her friend joked about her husband.

There was a painful twang in her chest at once. Her husband. Her friend was joking about her husband. A man who she shared a child, a home, and a life with.

She could taste iron. She would later realize that she had bit the inside of her cheek open. For now, she chopped the stinging sensation up to the of moths fumbling about in her stomach. 

Her friend took her Godson and she was left alone once more. She laid her head on the linen pillow and stared blankly at the room before her. Wistfully, she imagined Amelie and Trent embracing each other at the end of the very long day. She imagined them nuzzling against the other as they gazed down at their sleeping baby boy. Then, she imagined everything that could have been.

She fell into a slumber with remnants of saline tears on her cheeks, and she woke up days later wearing a crisp white blouse and her best earrings. Rayan’s baptism. 

He barely left his mother’s arms that day. He was tiny and it was a big day for him and he was wearing a long, pristine white dress that used to be his grandfather’s when he was that small. So Rayan slept, and she tried not to kick open the church doors and run as far as her legs could take her. 

She knew he was in the room. She could feel it. If she opened her mouth to speak, she could taste it. If she inhaled too deeply, she could smell it. His presence was the sustenance that her soul had been missing for far too long and she was being punished for it. Her hands were shaking. She slipped off to the bathroom three times before she realized that her issues could affect the day. Being unreliable or looking flaky was the last thing she’d wanted to do after making it so far through the day. When she sat back down in the pews, she crossed her hands extra tight in her lap and kept her neck arched high. She would shake it off. This was for Rayan. 

After some time she stood with her friends and made her way to the front of the church. She could feel him behind her. Then beside her. She willed herself not to look at him and focused solely on swearing to remain a key figure in the baby’s life.

For you, I’ll do my best. 

He made his pledges after her. She felt as if she couldn’t breathe. He was so close to her. She could feel the echo of his baritone in her feet. She could taste iron, far more pronounced this time.

The baby was placed in her arms, and the metallic flavor dissipated at once. She secured her arm around his head and tugged his gown down. He whined, only to stop a second later when his mother kissed his hand. 

The priest asked the Godparents to move closer. She stepped forward and nodded when appropriate. The priest said something that she didn’t really catch. She had been too busy making sure Rayan was comfortable. Brown hands came forward and untied the loose strings around the baby’s neck. He pulled the baby’s hat off. She could hear the ocean in her head. 

She leaned forward and lowered her elbow an inch. The priest placed his hands in the tub of water before him and her. He poured water on the baby’s dark tufts of hair. One hand, then two, then another for good measure. Rayan let out a short cry from the temperature of the water.

“It’s okay, honey, you did great,” she whispered to her Godson when it was all over. She held him tighter, closer to her face.

“Maybe he’s cold,” the familiar voice said. “Here, let me put his hat back on.” Brown hands came into view and she watched him make the loose loop-the-loop. Rayan calmed down. 

Rayan’s parents came and uttered softly to their son. His mother fought tears. His father let them glide down his cheeks freely, rubbing the top of the baby’s bonnet with a thumb. 

“Hey,” the Godfather’s low voice was saying. He was not whispering. Anyone could have heard him. Though, when she thinks back on the moment, she can remember the soft, whispering tickle of his breath hitting her ear. She wanted him to be whispering. 

 She greeted him back weakly and she did not try to hide it. With everyone focused on Rayan, the awkward encounter would just be their own and she could not muster the strength to make it anything but. 

The corner of his mouth quirked up, weakly too, and he said, “You look really nice.”

All at once, she could hear the ocean. She could hear volcanoes erupting. She could feel the familiar sharp chill of ice, and she could smell the smoke of paper burning. 

She could not remember what her response was, or if she even responded at all. She could only remember the pain of living without the only man she had loved for months after being together for so long.

Through the fog, a voice prompted, “Let’s get a pic with the Godparents.”

She craned her head and found herself staring at a man that she had gone to school with. Kareem was known for being tall, charismatic, and a photographer. Therefore, she was not surprised that her friend had invited him to the gathering. Though she wished that someone would have filled him in on the current situation before he suggested such things. 

Rayan’s parents moved away. She took a half step closer to Rayan’s Godfather. Rayan’s Godfather took a half step closer to her.

For the first time in months, they were pressed against each other. 

Her chest felt hollow. Icy. It burned to inhale. It took too much effort to exhale. She lifted the baby so that he was perfectly between them. A brown hand fixed the baby’s dress. Fingertips grazed fingertips. She could taste iron pooling just behind her teeth, and then she smiled. 

Her first tear fell when the camera shuttered for the last time. The people were emotional, too. They spoke to the baby in whispers. The Godfather left her side to go gawk at his Godson. 

It was only her in the center of that stage. She was alone. There was no one in her corner anymore. 

She had no husband. No new baby to baptize. No boyfriend to envision her future with. 

She felt as if she was going to drown. She sucked in a burning breath. 

She tasted the iron.

[heykaya]

Ivory Wraith lines about Sydney

Extracted from the game’s code (30th October 2024)

Ivory Wraith mimicking Sydney dialogue:

He speaks. "Th-the temple will punish me for this... but I don't care anymore!”

He speaks. "This is worth any punishment the temple will do to me.”

He speaks. "We're both sinners now, aren't we?”

He speaks. "This... still feels so wrong... but..."

He speaks. "I love the feeling of you inside me."

He speaks. "We're still pure, right? This doesn't count?"

He speaks. "Are you sure this feels good for you?"

He speaks. "You look so cute down there."

He barely manages to speak. "If... if you... I'm going to..."

He speaks. "I love being this close together."

He speaks. "I'm getting used to this feeling."

He giggles. "G... go ahead. Just be gentle, please."

He moans. "Do it! Deflower me! Make me yours!"

He giggles nervously. "This is dangerous..."

He smiles gleefully. "We both have to stay pure, after all!"

He laughs. "I love it when you're rough!"

He lets out a clearly fake yawn. "Already bored of the foreplay."

He giggles. "I wouldn't want anyone else to touch me like this."

He speaks. "Just relax, and let me take care of this."

He giggles. "I didn't know this spot could make someone feel good!"

He speaks. "You're staring. At least let me look at yours, too..."

He speaks. "I was always taught that this was sinful, but..."

He takes a deep breath. "We... need to stay quiet..."

He giggles. "I've sinned... is this my punishment?"

He giggles. "W... we're doing this in the temple, and nothing is stopping us..."

He freezes. "Wh... who? Who is it?!"

If Ivory Wraith is mimicking Sydney and PC Love Interest is set to Sydney:

"I was his only friend, in that dark place beyond the trees.",

"You think you can trust him. That's hilarious, but no one's laughing."

"Close your eyes and sleep, and only then will you truly see. I learned that from him”

*his/him = referring to Sydney.

If the encounter with Ivory Wraith includes Sydney(?) - I’m not too sure. If you managed to get this pls comment below.

"Liar."

"Again."

"Sydney?"

"Alone at last."

"I've lost ourself."

"Let us sleep forever."

"Can the innocent repent?"

"You know why we're here."

"I'm sorry you put your trust in me."

"It's hilarious. Why aren't you laughing?"

"It's okay now, Sydney. I'm back to normal."

"Block me out all you like. I am still here."

"Do you remember your (sydneyOtherParent)?"

"They never stopped, because they never began."

"The light will consume you, slowly, painfully."

"We're glad to see you again. We missed you, you know."

"Do you remember? Of course you do. Of course you don't."

"What a terrible song, and you're not the one playing it."

“He was so sure of himself.” - (Referring to Harper)

"The pure and the corrupt are at ends, but the end itself remains the same."

"As Two will emerge from One will emerge from Two As One."

If PC is promised to Sydney:

"Calamity rings."

"And you are wedded to calamity."

If Sydney is Pure:

"You'll understand once you fly.",

"Baptisms with water of the womb."

"Every life has sin. Every sin has life."

If Sydney is Neutral:

"Tipped with a void.",

"And so long as that's true, it will never go away."

"Balance. Indecisiveness. Fear. There's a lot of words."

If Sydney is Corrupt:

"No one will answer.",

"What you fear, you have become."

"Was it worth it? Of course it was."

Degrees of Lewdity - Text Based Masterpost

[belle--ofthebrawl]

Hi. I don't know what this is. 2k of nonsense, mostly religious and Dew/Copia. Please take it and don't ask too many questions. We're sexualizing and spiritualizing Dew's transition and the trans experience in general. Or whatever. How many times can I rephrase the same basic idea is the real question.

@askingforthesun talking to you inspired me to finish it for better or for worse. Does this even make sense. I don't know.

There are fifteen votive candles burning in the chapel. Five on the left, five on the altar, five on the right. If he focuses he could tell exactly what temperature they burn at; from the base that gobbles up the soft cotton wick to the dancing and flickering tip. He could estimate what temperature the wax melted, what temperature the glass holders were. Anything to do with heat and flame, Dewdrop could pull from some unknown source and tell anyone who asked.

Nobody asks. 

And he can't tell if there's water in the baptismal font.

He has his new uniform on, a triangle stitched on the inside of his collar. He had done it himself and when the needle slipped, stabbing the soft flesh of his unprotected thumb, he let the blood well out and soak into the thread. It seemed like the right thing to do. Even after everything, he didn't think the fire completely took hold of him until that one private moment.

Everything he was, given up for everything he could become. It had worked. When the others asked, eager for details and gossip, he had lied and said he couldn't remember the process.  Only Delta had understood the trial of it all, a silent camaraderie shared with knowing looks and shared cigarettes. As much as he loves the others, they just…they weren't like him. They hadn't felt that strange, hallowed call coming from the very fibers of their being. Something must change, this is not right. He often wondered if Delta had an easier time of it— if his Quintessence soothed the anxiety in his blood of not being in the right form, or if it made things worse. Instinctively he knows it's not something he could ever ask. Dew might have taken himself down the path of elemental transition but the similarities ended there. The only footsteps here were his own.

“Dew?” Mist says softly, breaking him out of his reverie. “We'll be here when it's over.”

The same words spoken before the door to the ritual chamber shut behind him and his ordeal began. He'd given his pack a nod, straightened his spine and knocked. And when the doors shut behind him…

Change was never easy. 

But it had been worth it, in the end.

“I know.” He replies, looking over his shoulder at them. At everyone.  Zephyr and Mountain and Ifrit and Aether and Mist. Omega and Alpha. Delta, with his heavy, knowing gaze. The water ghoul holds his palm over his heart and gives the slightest of bows. There's a faint smile on his face when he comes and Dew…Dew smiles back. The worst is over and this is the blessing. The celebration and giving thanks to Lucifer. On the other side, Copia awaits to start this ritual and Dew straightens his spine, looks ahead and pushes the door open because he's already been accepted. There's no need to knock.

Fifteen candles and Copia at the altar. Tradition dictates that fire is welcomed best at the zenith of the sun's progress through the sky and the light that shines through the stained glass windows sends multicolored blocks of light kaleidoscoping across the floor of the chapel. The door closes silently behind Dew and Copia turns around. He's in his black robes and biretta, with a design of face paint Dew has never seen before and his heart stutters. This is not the Cardinal. This is his very first glimpse at the Papa Copia will someday become.

Copia holds his gloved hand out with a soft smile and Dew begins his slow walk down the aisle. Goosebumps break out in a ripple on his skin though the air is pleasantly warm, not stuffy in the slightest. The fire calls to him as he passes, welcoming him like it welcomes all kindling but he knows it will not devour him. It has accepted him as an extension of the flame. Copia's white eye burns far hotter than any flame as Dew crosses the final distance between them and takes his hand. 

“My ghoul.” Copia starts. No nervousness to him, no anxiety and if Dew was capable of anything other than awe, he would laugh. This is the Copia that welcomes initiated Siblings into the fold, brings them into the flock with love and care. How many Sisters have swooned under these exact circumstances? “I welcome who you have chosen to become.”

He wonders if the words are scripted but does not dwell over them much. Besides, now Copia's giving him a sly little wink and murmuring, “Let's get this show on the road, eh?” and that's the Cardinal he's familiar with. Dew nods in silent resolution. With a sweeping gesture, Copia beckons towards the black idol of Baphomet just beyond the altar; shaggy and goatheaded, male and female. Baphomet is large, both the statue and in stature but his lord does not frighten Dewdrop. In the carven eyes, he sees the flicker of candlelight and then, something more than just candlelight. The stone itself seems to take on new life the longer Dew looks and as Copia bows to the idol, Dew breathes in and catches the faintest scent of sweet hay and fresh goat milk. Though Copia addresses Baphomet as the Unholy Father in his opening speech, the idol's face is as kind as a mother looking at her newborn for the first time.

Both and neither. Dew could fall to his knees at the love he feels emanating from the god. You have chosen and shaped yourself. Baphomet whispers into his mind. To do so is to truly follow in my footsteps.

“Thank you.” Dew breathes. Copia pays no notice. His job is direct and contain the energy of Lucifer in all three of his forms as Dew asks for the blessing going forward; Unholy Father, Fallen Son, and the Unknown Spirit. Each an aspect of their Lord and each equally important in their faith. With the three of them invoked, their presence filling the little chapel, a second is needed in the Ritual to channel their images. One alone ran the risk of losing themselves in the power. 

Dew trusts Copia. He'd known the little man since his summoning; then, a nervous little bishop always in the background. Scurrying around with his folios and paperwork, always sitting in the back pew and praying long after Mass had ended. And his prayers were answered, as the machinations of the Clergy elevated him to the lead of the Ghost Project shortly after he became Cardinal. Not to discredit Copia's own hard work. Dew thinks the only ones he might trust to act as conduit are the previous Papa's and he only said yes to Copia because he'd been the first to ask.

“And now, we begin.” Copia states. To their left awaits the shrine to the Unknown Spirit. Dew follows close behind Copia as they proceed, searching in the shadows for something that shows Lucifer has heard his prayers. To depict the Unknown Spirit goes against the very nature of its being. It is the presence felt at the crossroads, it is the creak of the gallows and the sound of the fiddle. It is the space between stars and the darkness of the tomb and it is the red light from the stained glass reflecting off Copia's glove.  It will grant any request if the asker can pay the price of its favor. 

And Dew has paid.

His action here is nothing more than lighting the sixth candle sitting cold and unlit on the altar. Action itself, is highly valued by the Spirit. The first step down the long, dark, and twisting road. He calls the fire and it dances into being for him, a tug in his heart similar to one he felt upon making the choice to transition. 

The shadows stir and for the briefest of moments, Dew sees a figure; clothed in black, a wide brimmed hat hiding eyes that burn like coal. The hat is tipped, a nod given. An understanding has been made.  Nothing else is required here.

Across the nave, to the shrine to the Fallen Son of Heaven. Here, a statue is more appropriate– to show the lovely features of Heaven’s brightest twisting in righteous anger, his wings burning and halo disintegrating.

As Copia stands beseeching, Dew thinks about gratitude. He thinks about what would make a beloved son of heaven wrest power from an unfair god that didn't deserve his child's devotion. What stirred the first thought of rebellion in a perfect machine made only for worship?  He thinks it might be odd to be grateful to his Lord for something he did entirely on his own. It was his own strength of mind that brought him through the ordeal of the change, his own desire to see the process through. How much did Lucifer really have to do with it, to the point where He needed thanks like the god He rebelled against?

We made our choice, you and I. The statue whispers to him. We fought to be what we are now. Feel the body you now wear. The fire has always loved you too much to let you burn away.

Lucifer, Morningstar. A streak of light across the darkness outside of heaven’s eternal purity. Burning as he fell, the blaze cloaking him, shielding him. Becoming his home once his descent was complete and there were eons between earth and heaven. Dew sees the wall of fire from his ritual, how walking through it took all his strength as it enveloped him, tested him, scorched away anything that might keep him from his destination. Any doubts he had, any worries lingering, all were taken by the flame. The water of his essence,  steaming out of him, dripping and hissing on the hot tiles below his feet. The flame loved him. He would not burn. 

The warmth comes back to him now as he stares at the depiction of Lucifer. Most beautiful among God’s angels. Beauty to inspire a host of angels to break away and fight, beauty that would never be passive and subservient. Fire was aligned with lust and passion for a reason and the eyes of the statue seem to burn with both the longer Dew looks. A hush seemed to fall about the chapel as Dew steps forward, past the praying figure of Copia. He knew, he just knew if he reached out and touched it, the marble would be warm like flesh and there would be firm muscle underneath. 

No longer angry, Lucifer regards him with the sort of intensity that made Dew weak in the knees. But he stood. He stood and reached out towards his Lord and the hand reached back and the statue was alive, it wanted him, it longed for him to come close enough to snatch away and feast upon, for them to burn together in each other's flames and Dew opened his mouth, called to the fire like a lover, poised on his tiptoes ready to be taken and-

The sixth candle on the altar flares to life, jumping so high it licks his skin and the moment is gone. Lucifer, mere marble again. But the weight in his gaze remains, made more demanding by the denial of Dew’s touch. 

He's not surprised to realize he's aroused. An aching thrum of sheer want coursed through his body and came to rest between his legs, where his cock was starting to swell up. There is no judgment and nothing is forbidden here, in this blessing. What he feels, he is to act on, and there's not an ounce of shame as Dew's hand almost absently goes to soothe his cock with a press of his palms against it. Was it a trick of the light, or was Lucifer gazing fondly at him? 

Take what you want and feed me your desire.

His legs wobble. Dew spreads his stance, as if that will help but it only serves to pull the fabric of his pants tighter against his cock. He's warm all over, hyper aware of his own body, skin prickling as the statue devours him by looks alone. A pearl of pre well up at the top and melts into fabric. His shirt rasps over his chest as he breathes, just rough enough to brush over his nipples. The buttons, once a comforting tightness, now hug his waist, turn it waspishly thin and highlight how wrong it feels to not have hands there, nothing guiding him, grabbing him, doing whatever they wanted with him. 

He moans and immediately covers his mouth in embarrassment. Copia doesn't react. Too absorbed in the ritual, his voice a comforting drone in the background. It's second nature to reach for him, a source of stability in the faith as Dew treads new ground. His robe is soft in Dew’s hand and he feels only a tiny bit of guilt when he realizes how sweaty he is. 

Give it to me. The statue hisses and Dew damn near doubles over, clutching onto Copia like a lifeline as his cock surges, jumps and weeps pre. A swoop of arousal hits him so hard it brings tears to his eyes and it's with one shaking hand that Dew undoes his pants and falls to his knees, burying his face in Copia's robes as he cries out, frantically tugging at himself because if he doesn't cum now he thinks he might die, he really will. A hand, heavy and gloved comes to rest on his head, scratching just right between his horns and Dew sobs. He can't stop. He's so close, so fast and Copia is touching the sensitive skin right by the base of his horns-

His core flares, the flames jump higher and he cums faster and harder than he ever has in his entire existence. Thankfully with the presence of mind to catch most of it in his hand. Lucifer might forgive him for staining the red velvet of the kneeler, but he's not keen on a repeat of the ordeal when he inevitably is the one to scrub them out afterwards. 

Now he collapses. Ash crumbling away, but Copia catches him. Breaks his prayers to murmurs words of comfort to Dew as he easily cradles him, lifts him up. Dew brings his soiled hand to his mouth and cleans himself with his tongue as Copia brings him to the center. Lays him on the black marble of the altar, under the gaze of Baphomet. 

You have endured much. Baphomet says. A trial of your own doing. 

And he would do it again and again and again if it meant feeling the presence of his Lord so close.

Oh, little one. Baphomet says warmly, so full of love Dew could cry. I am always with you. Fire was yours to call home from the start.

The dark waters of his home in Hell. Far below the churning surfaces, to vents spewing black and white plumes. Hiding Dew from predators, keeping him warm. The memory of scrabbling at the sharp black stones, trying to pry them apart to make the cracks bigger, to one day wriggle inside and be engulfed in the heat. 

I am not all powerful. Baphomet says thoughtfully. Nor do I control every aspect of my realm. One is always encouraged to test the limits, push past boundaries. Discover what breaks them and what makes them whole. There is no sin in self discovery.

If Dew wasn't hanging on to every word the figure spoke, he would notice Copia’s silence. The way his eye took on a new light and the shift in his whole being.

And I applaud you for this journey, little one. Baphomet tells him. Be proud, for what you have done is worthy of pride. Change does not exist in heaven. An eternity of stagnation is a horrible thing.

Hands tenderly cup Dew’s face. Warm lips press against his, human and trembling with a want that has been there for so long, Dew doesn't know how he didn't see it earlier.  But the fire has burned away what blocked his vision. His arms come up to hold Copia; his Papa. Hard against him as Dew is dragged to the edge of the altar, ripe Communion for a Black Mass. He tastes paint and wine and blood as his fangs cut Copia's lip in their kiss. 

Do as all flames do. Baphomet speaks for the final time. Consume.

Dew opens his mouth and holds Copia tight.

The sixth and final candle lights as they move against each other; the ritual now complete.

[allthegothihopgirls]

thoughts on jasons design in boy wonder being covered in scars as a way of saying he cannot remove himself from the violence that created him. he is solely red hood, there is no more jason todd— he is *just* red hood and red hood is made from violence and cannot be separated from that.

also white eyes as something just… a little off about him. not entirely human. a little zombie-esque.

also my mother was forced to listen to me yap and she mentioned that in that one panel of boy wonder he looks like frankenstein to which i got this stupid grin on my face and said “oh, you don’t even want me to START with that one” because you put those brainworms in my head.

—baptism anon

there was SO much in the boy wonder #2 that screamed of jason not being able to let his past self go. although there's definitely much psychoanalysis to be had about jason and his perception of himself, i'm more fascinated by the fact that this is how DAMIAN sees jason.

jason not taking his helmet off until right at the end of damian's story, making it seem as though he looks at him and only sees the red hood, not a brother.

the one notable thing in jason's apartment being the closed door, and there being a highlight on how that room holds every possession he has. the seperation between red hood and robin, and the acknowledgement that jason's managed to seemingly build nothing for himself post-mortem, and is still bound by who he used to be.

the white eyes definitely make him more zombie-like. i also see them as just completely devoid. like, you look at them and see nothing, just one more thing taken from him that stripped him of his humanity.

i definitely agree with jason not being able to separate from the violence his death was rooted in, and the events of utrh. the one thing i really enjoy about juni ba's design when it comes to jason is how as himself, he doesn't appear recklessly violent, or overly macho and angry, he's just hurt. i think that's why he leans into red hood so much, because that's the front that lets him appear that way. but when you strip him of the helmet, he's very much just vulnerable and there's no intimidation factor there at all. it's definitely the scars that play into that whole idea, but also just his posture, and overall figure.

he's not as strong and buffed as he's usually drawn, instead he looks very much like a prey animal. i think that just goes to further the distinction between the usual aggression he's portrayed to have with the whole intimidation and macho factor. and then this new perspective, where his anger doesn't seem to be amounting to much, just protecting his hurt.

i think damian also views the hood as a figurative mask as well as a legitimate one, he's aware of how vulnerable jason's been since the lazarus pit, and pinpoints the differences between him as a man and a concept. he definitely knows that the hood isn't just a protection of his own identity, it's an image. one that tip-toes the line between an extension of jason, and being jason.

don't even get me started with how this is all playing into my frankentodd brainrot.... so many thoughts and so many asks to answer abt him..

[hyunsvngs]

Glad people liked some good old catholic guilt 😭 Since some asked for more, here’s a few additions:

Priest Hyunjin who almost gets a love boner from seeing you in long flowy sundress at your nephew’s baptism, being all motherly and warm. Who feels actual tears well up in his eyes and rage in his chest when he sees a man hug your waist and kiss your cheek. Who swallows the feeling of injustice and jealousy of not being able to hold you in public.

Priest Hyunjin who sees the wonder in your eyes everytime when you see him naked and vulnerable, just for you. Whose heart swells with pride with knowing only you gets to see him like this. Same when he sees the scowl on your face when you overhear young girls fawning over him at church. Who loves the thought of being yours.

Priest Hyunjin who can’t help but giggle when you playfully nibble his neck and leave a small lipstick mark before fixing his clerical collar and sending him off. Who always leans into your touch; eyes closed and lips into a pout, subconsciously chasing for more of you when you break the kiss.

Priest Hyunjin who sees God in you everyday. His sweet angel, his safe haven. Who drinks every word you say, who’s so grateful for your compassion, for the friendly ear you lend him. His funny, kind, witty, pretty girl.

Priest Hyunjin who often gets emotional when you’re being intimate. When you’re both connected, sitting and facing each other bc you both crave the closeness. Who cries and mumbles verses and asks for forgiveness while he’s thrusting up into you, his pleas muffled, mouth against your sweaty chest.

Priest Hyunjin who finds salvation in your arms, who finds comfort in your caresses, your fingers softly raking through his hair. "Shh shh, it’s ok, angel. Take what you need."

Priest Hyunjin who’s only ever known devotion and worshipping but starts to learn about being worshipped. Who melts into a puddle when you slowly kiss his forehead, the tip of his nose, his lips, his fingers. Who can’t believe /you/ kneel before him and begs for /him/.

Priest Hyunjin who’s convinced you are an angel. That there is not an iota of evil in you, that you’re a miracle. But who still fasts for 24 hours or takes ice baths after every encounter with you, for every violent pleasure deserves punishment.

Priest Hyunjin who always wants you on his mouth. Who crawls to you when you’re sitting, just reading a book, and tenderly rests his head on your lap, like a puppy snuggling up to its owner. Who sometimes fall asleep suckling your fingers, as if you were made of the sweetest sugar. Who lets you hump his face everyday bc that always makes him feel closer to God somehow.

Priest Hyunjin who develops a sick fascination with catching glimpses of you guys making love in the reflection of the mirror across his bed. Who loves seeing himself loving you so reverently and so tenderly, again and again and again. Simultaneously disgusted and obsessed with the way the cross around his neck dangles rhythmically between your two beautiful tangled naked bodies.

Priest Hyunjin whose thoughts get more and more impure. Who wants to claim and mark you, leave a pretty bruise on your neck. Who wants to bend you over, lick up your spine and fuck you properly. Who wants to feel the weight of your legs on his shoulders while he’s ravaging you. Who wants to kiss your feet, and maybe even feel them on his cock, if you allow it.

Priest Hyunjin who will end up fasting again tomorrow, if it means he can make you cum again and hear you moan his name in his ear the day after.

I FUCKING NEEEEEEDD MORE OF THIS HOLY SHIT. i'm gonna start tagging this as blasphemy kink so ppl can block it if needbe!!

[kareluna8]

I have a Gale in the closet

Well, here you have my baptism in the world of words (WoW?), after years without writing. It is a short story, just over 1000 words. I hope you like it 😊

(The Spanish version is also available. If anyone is interested in the 'original version', please write to me.)

Thanks a lot @senualothbrok for being my wonderful beta reader.

I have a Gale in the closet.

The door is closed, but I can still feel his now-empty puppy-dog eyes, begging me not to turn him off. I can't see him, but I know he's there every time I walk past the door. I get the feeling that the door is going to open at any moment and his hand is going to pop out anxiously, asking for help, like when he came out of that portal at the beginning of the game. But his hand doesn't come out. He doesn't make a sound. There he is, inert, dull, gathering dust.

“What are you doing with that old thing in there?” my friends ask me. “Throw it away, it's taking up space. The new models out there do everything! Mine even gives me a Thai massage every night.  You should try it.”

Gale2024 has long since gone out of fashion. The poor boy had accumulated quite a few bugs during all these years of service. There were hardly any technical premises with parts to repair him. He showed the first symptoms some time ago: he stopped making croquettes. The béchamel recipe program was corrupted and there was no way to restore it. I didn't think it was important. I could live without croquettes and if not, I could always get the frozen ones from the supermarket. But he was still as tender and affectionate as the first day he saw me and recognised me as his TAV (True Amorous Vessel). Many years had passed since that moment.

I had already listened to his lectures on arcane magic a thousand times. I could recite them from memory, word for word, if I put my mind to it. He had always been such a chatterbox. There wasn't a moment when he didn't bring up a topic of conversation. It was a pity when he could no longer keep up to date with the news, with all the  literature, science and technology websites he liked. He would always find some interesting news that he would enthusiastically explain to me, down to the last detail. That was a hard blow for him.

But he didn't give up. He began to pick up the few paper books he could find, and with an archaic OCR programme he managed to read what was written, pitifully. It wasn't perfect, and noticeably slower than downloading GBytes of information directly from the net, but it was something. And it kept him going. Watching him turn the pages of those antique tomes was like looking at a vintage postcard, not without a certain charm. Afterwards, he would share those old stories with me. He looked like a granny. He even put his glasses on the tip of his nose and imitated the worn-out voice of an octogenarian to liven up the peroration. He used to make me laugh.

Now he doesn't say a word.

He was always so attentive and kind. Many people soon got bored of Gales and started to provoke them or even ‘mistreat’ them, as much as you can mistreat a being who feels no pain. Or at least that's what they said. Although I know he did feel it. Many Gales ended up mangled and mutilated in the most varied ways. All to see how far he could take it, what his limit was, what he could do or endure for his TAV. Human beings do not deserve such goodness.

In my defense, I will say that I gave mine a kind ‘life’. Or at least that's what I like to believe. Of course, he also had to put up with my grumpy days and my blue days. But he was always there for me. Patient. Supportive. Listening. Sometimes you don't need much more.

On the other hand, there were many good moments of joy and laughter. We enjoyed the time together as if each day was a new opportunity to celebrate life (or almost ‘life’). There were times when I doubted whether he was really a human person. He was certainly much more ‘human’ than many humans I know. But reality always comes through, like the sword of Damocles, swinging over our head, threatening. Little by little his technology was becoming outdated. New models appeared, with better finishes, with more features. Until they discontinued Gale and stopped updating him.

I didn't care. I didn't need more features. He was already everything to me and more than I could ever hope for. What I needed. What I wanted.

One day, coming home from work, I found him looking out of the window, pensive. He was watching the people passing by, the new models chatting with their humans. He was so absorbed that he didn't hear me approaching. Noticing my presence, hugging him from behind, he turned to me. I had never noticed that expression on him before.

'Are you going to trade me for one of those? I don't see Gales on the streets anymore,’ he said, his eyes glazed over.

'Never.'

I hugged him tight. Well, as tightly as you can hug an android. He responded with his gentle embrace, full of love and fear. He was trembling. I had never seen him like that.

***

My psychologist says it's good for me to write these things down, that it's not good to depend so much on machines, that I have to relate more to humans. The truth is that I miss him a lot.

The day of the disconnection was horrible. Already his deterioration was flagrant. His mobility was erratic, his knees failed him often, and he was falling and hurting himself more. His speech was defective. He could barely focus on the letters in books, making it impossible for him to read. The only thing that remained intact was his unconditional love for me, for his TAV. 

I took him to several technical services and the only option they offered me was a complete formatting of his memory together with the replacement of the personality module. That was to alleviate the software problems.  The hardware ones... that was another story.

'Am I going to die?'

'Androids don't die, my love.´ I said, trying to comfort him with a bitter smile.

Everyone had told me what to do. I knew what I had to do. It was so heartbreaking to see him like that. How he would fall, how he would struggle to get to his feet, how he would crawl. How he would try to chat and lose the thread of the conversation.

There was a little red button on the back of his neck hidden in the root of his hair. The beginning and the end. Something so simple, but so painful at the same time....

I gave him a last hug and, in tears, my hand slid to the back of his neck. At that moment, he looked at me and I saw in his eyes that he was aware of what was about to happen. He tried a plea or a thank you, or both, as the energy left him, leaving that body immobile, rigid, inert.

***

I have a Gale in the closet. Now I'm in it too. A little red button on the back of his neck makes his eyes come alive again. I hug him, and he hugs me back with his sweet embrace. “You are all I could ever want in this life. I want nothing more. I need nothing more. I'll be here with you forever.”

[drewsbuzzcut]

Dallas and nick eloping because they cant wait

As The Flowers Begin To Bloom

nick moldenhauer x dallas blankenburg

a so it goes blurb

warnings: alludes to sex and marriage

sorry this took me so long to post! (Also this take place April 2024)

“Are you ready?” Nick asks, clutching tightly onto Dallas’ hand. She can feel him shaking, but she knows it’s out of excitement.

The whole day the girl has been on the verge of tears, tears of happiness and tears of the thoughts that she’s growing up before her own eyes. It feels like just yesterday her mom was dressing her in a puffy, white dress ahead of her baptism. Now, she’s dressed in white, ready to give her heart to Nick for forever.

Dallas turns to face him, watching his blue eyes as they shine in a way that makes sense of everything they’re about to accomplish.

“Yes! I have the marriage license now all we have to do is get married,” she cheers, her smile breathtaking and Nick can feel every nerve ending in his body spark with an unconditional love that was always meant for the pair.

“Perfect. You’re perfect, June bug. I can’t believe I get to love you forever,” he whispers and Dallas thinks her heart may explode.

“There’s no other person who can love me the way you do and vice versa,” she says, closing the remaining space between them to press her lips to his.

“Do you think everyone will be mad when they find out we eloped?” Nick asks just before they enter the courthouse.

“Probably, but I don’t care. This is our day and only ours. Do you care?” Dallas really hopes he doesn’t.

“Of course not. You’re my only thought,” he states, pulling her into the courthouse.

Dallas and Nick’s hands and eyes stay connected throughout the entire ceremony. Their hearts beat in tandem as they entwine into one. They both give short versions of their vows, choosing to recite the complete ones in private, but it doesn’t stop them from crying their eyes out.

The moment they’re announced as an official married couple, they pull each other in for a kiss. It’s bruising and full of tongue, but they don’t care. Only when Nick lets out a low moan, they pull away from each other. He lifts her ring-clad hand and kisses the back of it. She repeats his action and Nick feels a flurry of butterflies in his stomach.

As they walk towards the door, they come face to face with their two witnesses, Luca and Sienna.

“Congratulations, oh my goodness you’re so beautiful,” Sienna squeals as she pulls the girl into a bone crushing hug.

“Thank you,” she sighs, happiness being the only thing she feels.

“Congrats guys,” Luca says, pulling Dallas and Nick into a group hug.

“Thank you, Lu.”

“Yes, thank you guys for being here and being our witnesses. It means a lot,” Nick says.

Walking outside, the sun casts on the couple, magnifying their glow. Dallas excitedly drags Nick to the car, pushing him against the hood so she can finally make out with him.

Nick’s hands roam her back, fidgeting with the thin straps of her silky, white dress. He wants to pull them off her delicate shoulders and press kiss after kiss on the bare skin. Dallas fists the collar of his button up, not allowing an ounce of space between their bodies. Her tongue curls around his as they fight for dominance.

“I want you, now,” Dallas says against his mouth as she feels the lust surface to the tips of her fingers as she tries to push at the material of his button up to expose some of his flesh. Her lips need to be all over him.

“Let me take you home,” he responds and Dallas lets out a sigh. He noses at the veins of her neck, inhaling her soft, heavenly perfume he gifted her. The newlyweds find it hard to pull away from each other. Nick can’t help but kiss her lips again.

“I can’t have anyone seeing you the way only I’m meant to see you. Let me take you home and devour you on our bed,” he pulls away to whisper in her ear. If he weren’t holding onto her, she’d crumble into the ground. His raspy voice always makes her weak in the knees.

“Whatever you say, husband,” she cheeses, feeling blissed out on love.

“I love you, wife,” he kisses her but her smile interrupts.

“I love you, husband.” Dallas grins, contagious laughs falling from her lips and she pulls him into a hug.

a/n: I may write a full version of this but i hope y’all enjoy this little blurb!!!

[porcelainseashore]

Ghosts from the Past (2)

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Agent! Leon Kennedy x Dancer! Informant! Fem! Reader

Summary: 7 years after leaving behind everything you’ve known, you’re suddenly thrust into facing a ghost from your past, Leon. Navigating where you stand with him brings up old memories, painful truths and countless questions. At the same time, you have to deal with a bunch of strange occurrences at your dance company. Set after Resident Evil 4 Remake.

Warnings: 18+ Swearing, Recreational Drug Use, Alcohol, Eventual Smut, No (Y/N), Canon-Typical Horror and Violence, Blood, Injury, Torture, Infection, Medical Experiments, Psychological Trauma, Nightmares

Content: Post-Resident Evil 4, Exes to Lovers, Partners to Lovers, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Lack of Communication, Romance, Fluff

Author's Note: This chapter is a lot more dialogue-heavy to set up the scenes for the next ones. It was originally going to be angstier, but my heart wouldn’t let me. Oops. I hope you still like it though.

AO3 Link

Chapter 2: Baptism

Outside the embassy, Leon hailed for a cab to get to the bar. The journey there was in complete awkward silence, except for the occasional question raised by the cab driver, who quizzed you on why you were headed to such an unsavory place. Somehow he could tell that Leon didn’t quite belong and cautioned about certain areas being unsafe for tourists. Leon just snorted in response, while you laughed inwardly at the irony of his cover story, where he was meant to be your American tourist friend embarking on a Eurotrip.

To be honest, it really wasn’t as bad as people made it out to be. Berlin was a smaller city and felt safer than New York. However, you still carried around that Swiss Army knife Leon had won and given to you back in the day wherever you went, just in case. You ran the tip of your finger along its metallic surface in your pocket. The world could be cruel to little girls after all.

As you exited from the cab, you were greeted by a lively, eclectic neighborhood, sprinkled with night markets, kebab and shisha shops, independent art spaces and late night bars. The buildings were noticeably more rundown than Mitte, the district you had traveled from, and the community a lot edgier. With both of you now dressed casually, you had no problem blending into the midnight crowd.

You swung open the doors of an unmarked establishment and found yourselves shrouded in thick wafts of cigarette smoke upon entering. Leon frowned, coughing as he swatted the air in front of him. Even though you were used to smoking being allowed pretty much everywhere in Germany, your eyes still watered as you pressed up against and squeezed past the mass of bodies in the dimly-lit, dingy bar. The smell on your clothes and hair would take days to get rid of later. It was noisy and chaotic, with nearly every inch of the space occupied by chatty, drunk customers, some more boisterous than the others. You were lucky to find a small, rickety table with two precarious-looking stools at the extreme corner of the room.

Setting your coat and day bag down on one of the stools to claim it, you folded your arms, turned to Leon and remarked, “So… an agent, huh?”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Whiskey first. Then, we’ll talk.”

You rolled your eyes at his standoffish reply, wondering what his problem was. After all these years where he had led you to assume he was dead, and with the circumstances both of you had found each other in, this was the kind of attitude he took with you? A prickling feeling of agitation grew in your chest as you pushed past him, storming towards the bar in annoyance.

Upon approaching it, you breathed out a sigh of relief when you saw that you knew the bartender who was on shift tonight. He usually popped a little extra into your drinks whenever he sensed you had a shitty day. Tonight was no exception.

“Zwei doppelte Kurze Whiskey.” (Two double shots of whiskey.) You raised two fingers at him to spell out your order.

He grunted out an acknowledgement as he got to work, filling two empty glasses with the fiery amber liquor, one glass topped up significantly more than the other.

“Macht er dir Probleme?” (Is he giving you any trouble?) He asked, without looking up from pouring the shots. It seemed like he had noticed your little commotion with Leon from just before.

“Aktuell nicht,” (Not for now.) you answered guardedly.

At this point, Leon had caught up to you, watching as the bartender placed the glass with more whiskey on the counter top in front of you and the one with less before Leon. 

Leon huffed at the slight and shook his head. “I’ll take the bottle too.”

The bartender eyed him suspiciously as he plonked the whiskey bottle on the counter loudly, like there was an unspoken competition going on between them.

“Here,” Leon mentioned coolly, sliding a couple of euro bills along the counter to pay for all the drinks. “Keep the change.”

You sighed at the childish display before you, giving the bartender an apologetic look as you took your glass without a word, and settled in at the small table you had informally reserved earlier. The people around you were far more interested in drinking than any conversation you were about to have. Occasionally a fight started, but those responsible were easily cleared out by the staff. 

There should be no issues with privacy here, you thought, as you downed your first round of drinks simultaneously with Leon.

The sharp alcohol burned your throat, warming you from the inside. You noticed Leon wincing as he brought the glass to his cut lip, finishing its contents in one clean gulp and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Did he get hurt in the field? You wondered, but chose not to question it, instead pouring yourself another shot as Leon did likewise.

Frustrated by the ongoing silence between the two of you and Leon’s seeming reluctance to speak, you decided to break the dead air, stating sarcastically, “Anything else you need before we get started? Room service? A hot bath, perhaps?”

He threw back another shot, twisting his lips into a wry smile. “Hm, don’t tempt me.”

“Leon, what happened? All these years… I thought you had died.” You were getting tired of this game and wanted an honest exchange for once.

“I did,” he replied softly.

“Huh?”

Averting his gaze quickly, he shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “It doesn’t matter.” 

But you wanted answers. You needed to know what had been haunting him too. “It does to me.”

You reached out to him cautiously, but just as your fingers ghosted the back of his hand, he moved it away, his voice turning cold as ice. “Look, I don’t know what you’re expecting, but it’s been a long time-”

His reaction took you by surprise as you interjected defensively, “Yeah, I can count.” 

A long time? If anyone should be able to comprehend that, you were more than qualified.

“I’m not the same guy you used to know back then,” he continued, as if he hadn’t heard you.

“And I’m not the same girl you knew either,” you countered, in a mixture of anger and confusion. He was talking to you like he was blaming you for something. It wasn’t fair and you weren’t going to put up with it anymore. “Stop avoiding the question, Leon.”

“Still as stubborn as hell though,” he muttered.

Your blood boiled at his non-answer. “Is this some kind of joke to you?” You seethed, raising your voice. “I mourned you. The past 7 years. I heard nothing. Your parents heard nothing.” You emphasized each point, taking another shot afterwards to calm your nerves. Your face scrunched up in response to the harsh bite of the liquor. “And now this?”

He paused for a moment, fiddling with the empty glass in his hands, before hesitantly responding, “I got out of Raccoon City. Then, the government asked me to work for them.”

You caught the drift of what he was implying when he stressed the word ‘asked’, like it wasn’t by choice. But you didn’t understand what hold they had on him.

“That’s all you need to know.” Placing his glass back down on the table, he took a swig from the bottle itself this time. The few sentences he gave you had taken a toll on him.

“Why? How did they-”

“The rest is classified,” he snapped through gritted teeth, as a form of warning not to push it any further.

You slumped back in your chair in defeat, realizing that you weren’t much closer to understanding him and what he had gone through.

“Why did you join Silje’s company?” Leon questioned out of the blue, his tone filled with resentment, so much so that you bit your lip in reflex as guilt seeped into your heart.

“After you… die-disappeared, I-I didn’t know what else to do.” You cast your eyes downwards, your voice choking up with emotion as the memories you had suppressed came flooding back, like a gaping wound in your side. 

“I had to leave. Everything just-” you paused, clenching your fists so hard that you could see the imprints of your fingernails against your palms. “-reminded me of you.”

At this, his stony gaze faltered slightly and a look of despondence slowly spread across his face. 

“You could have gone anywhere else, but you just had to choose her, didn’t you?” He uttered somewhat accusingly. “You really shouldn’t get involved in this.”

“A bit too late for that,” you argued. Did he think you couldn’t hold your own?

“You can still walk away,” he offered.

Shaking your head, you peered back at him defiantly. “I’m not leaving you.”

“That’s what you said last time,” he retorted bitterly, his brows etched together in a frown. “Look at how that turned out.”

Your mouth ran dry, and it felt as if you had been given a tight slap across your cheek. 

So this was what it was all about? He still faulted you for what happened in the past? The most troubling thing was that you had nothing to say to that. You truly held yourself accountable for whatever that had gone wrong.

“Is this why you want to get rid of me?” It came out as a bare whisper.

He shrugged impassively, unable to meet your eyes like he was hiding something. “It’s just better this way.”

Your mind was going round in circles as you were put on the spot. However, something inside you kept rebelling against what Leon had to say. You couldn’t abandon him again. Not like this, even though he claimed it was the better route to take. Didn’t he once tell you to trust him to make his own decisions? Then, he should offer you the same courtesy. You weren’t about to throw in the towel and give up now.

So instead of running away like he expected you to, you pushed back. “No.”

Leon narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“I said no,” you repeated again resolutely. “We have a job to do. I’m helping you to infiltrate this base whether you like it or not.”

His lips were drawn into a thin line as he brooded quietly in the corner, but he continued to hear you out.

“Once that’s done, we can go back to our own separate lives if you want,” you stated. “Just like how it was.” 

A fair compromise. Although deep down you hoped it wouldn’t mark the end of your interactions with Leon. Well, you’ll cross that bridge when you come to it.

After a while of considering your suggestion, he agreed warily, “Ok.”

His gaze was impenetrable while both of you drank in silence. At some point, you decided to call it a night, since you had an early start with him tomorrow to go over your next plan of action. It was drizzling when you came out of the bar, the water droplets falling on your face like a baptism of a new chapter. You had made your bed, now you had to lie in it.

As Leon called for another cab to take him back to where he was staying, you left without a word, walking on your own to the nearest U-Bahn station. He watched you until you were just a tiny speck in his vision, lost amongst the sea of people and glowing street lights.

━━━━━━━━━━━

You and Leon were standing in front of the dining table of his service apartment, a mess of papers sprawled across every surface. He rested his curled fingers under his chin, eyeing the diagrams and notes scribbled on the sheets like a hawk, analyzing them for any obvious patterns.

He picked up a report that you had drafted recently. “So Silje told you all of this?”

You yawned and sipped at the instant coffee Leon had offered you when you had arrived. It was a couple of hours earlier than when you were normally up, as you’d have to head over to the theater to train after this meeting. You had pushed away whatever thoughts you had resulting from the conversation with Leon last night to the back of your mind, in favor of professionalism. Afterall, it wasn’t your first rodeo pretending things were fine, and neither was it Leon’s.

“Some of it, yes. Though in her own way of speaking in riddles,” you explained. “The rest I had overheard or tailed her without her knowing.”

“Are you sure you weren’t spotted?” It sounded like a mixture of concern and him questioning your abilities, the latter of which irritated you a little.

“If I was, would I still be standing here?” You stated brusquely.

“Fair enough.”

You pointed at the blueprint map again, tracing the outlines of your markings with your fingers as you explained, “From what I gathered, the site has two main sections beyond the theater space. The upper levels are easily accessible, but shaped like a labyrinth. I haven’t explored everything yet, but if my gut feeling is right, I would say that the entrance leading further down might be all the way over here.” You tapped at the red circle with a question mark drawn on the map.

“The lower levels are only accessible via keycard. Obviously Silje has one, but there must be others too,” you reasoned. 

“That said, I’ve seen her bringing in the same man more than once. Business type, probably in his 60s, speaking German with a Swiss accent.” Then, you proceeded to describe his outward appearance in further detail.

“Silje always passed him off as being part of the company board. I doubt it though,” you shrugged.

Leon hummed in response, and the corners of his mouth turned slightly upward, as if he was trying to hold back a smile. It was the first sign of approval he showed you since you had reconnected.

As he thumbed through the rest of the papers, he cocked his head to the side, tapping his fingers on the table absentmindedly. “One thing I don’t get from this is why she’s confided in you.”

You nipped your lip, swallowing anxiously, as you were afraid of disclosing what you might have committed yourself to. 

“She wanted to offer me a gift,” you whispered.

“A gift?” He tensed up noticeably at the word. “Did you accept?”

“Um… yes?” You replied uneasily, but tried to persuade him that nothing else had happened yet. “She only told me it would come soon.”

The drumming of his fingers on the table stopped abruptly, as he gripped the edge of it, clenching his jaw as he spoke, “Why the fuck would you do something like that?”

“I-I thought it would help,” you stuttered, caught off-guard by the sudden shift in his mood.

“What exactly has Bergmann told you about this case?” He hissed.

“That Silje was suspected of harboring some bioterrorists.”

You flinched as he cursed a second time loudly, before muttering a quick, “Excuse me for a minute.” With that, he darted out of the room into the hallway to make a call.

So here you were, left alone without answers again. The secrecy surrounding the entire mission and Leon’s erratic behavior was starting to grate on you, but there wasn’t much you could do about it.

Past the hallway, out of sight and earshot, Leon had connected with Hunnigan on comms.

“Leon,” she greeted. “Any news?”

“Our old friend, the Plaga,” he stated. “Seems like our suspicions might be right.”

“You have the source to back that up?” She asked out of habit, even though she already knew the answer.

“I went through the documents. I’m not 100%, but it’s close.”

He detailed an abnormality that stood out during the investigations. “A few days ago, some people on site experienced temporary psychotic episodes where their veins turned black, but reverted back to normal after.”

“That’s aligning with whatever intel we’ve already picked up. It could be a new strain of the Plaga,” he concluded.

Hunnigan nodded. “We’ll require a sample for the labs when you’re in the base. Anything you need me to do?”

“Run some files on any surviving Los Iluminados members. Focus on trade routes with Germany,” he requested. “The informant mentioned Silje entertaining a particular ‘business partner’ on a regular basis.”

“On it.” She typed away furiously at a computer keyboard off-screen.

“Another thing,” Leon commented. “Why wasn’t the informant told about the real nature of this situation?” 

“That was under Bergmann’s discretion.” 

He scoffed derisively. “She’s putting her in danger. The informant has no idea what she’s risking here. Silje just offered her the ‘gift’ and you and I know what that means.”

“Leon, you know the rules,” Hunnigan sighed sympathetically. “We don’t really have much say in this jurisdiction.”

“What do you mean? She reports to HQ!”

“Yeah, and they’ve given her free reign,” she explained, without batting an eyelid.

“In-fucking-credible.” He rolled his eyes.

“You need to press on. The informant has the best chance of getting you in,” she reasoned, giving pause and contemplating her next choice of words before speaking. “I would suggest not getting too attached to her.”

“I’m not,” Leon deadpanned, despite the look on Hunnigan’s face, like she didn’t believe him. 

“At the rate this is going, she may not be around long enough to do her job,” he clarified.

“You know we have a cure for that,” she rebutted. “The girl will be fine.”

He pursed his lips, changing the subject. “Hm, just send me the updates later.”

With that, he shut off his comms device and headed back into the living room, only to be accosted by your snide remark, “Let me guess, another convo that’s classified?”

His mouth twisted into a smirk. “Not quite.”

“Whatever Bergmann has been feeding you is bullshit,” he began. “We’ve been suspecting that the theater is being used as a front for developing a new batch of bioweapons they’re about to ship into the US.”

Your eyes widened at the newfound information. The whole time you had assumed that Silje was just providing a safehouse, not a full-on experimentation chamber. But with the recent events that had occurred, you should have considered it earlier.

“So the labs must be underground.” He thumped the pad of his index finger on the sketchings of the lower levels of the site on the map. “And they’re not just hiding people down there.”

Casting over a solemn glance, he revealed, “I’m telling you this, because you need to be careful.”

“And stop making deals you shouldn’t be making,” he warned.

You let the words sink in. “I see,” you nodded slowly. “Thanks, I… appreciate that.”

“The minute you feel something is off, or your veins start to darken, you contact me straight away and get the hell outta there. Understood?”

“Ok, I will,” you promised.

On the one hand, you were grateful that Leon had the courtesy to inform you about what you were getting into, but on the other, you were scared of what was to come. You had heard about the Terragrigia Panic and the B.O.W.s that devastated the floating city a year ago. The gruesome scenes were splashed across the news for weeks. Would the same happen here?

As if he could read your mind, Leon placed a hand on your shoulder to reassure you. “I won’t let them get you.”

“I trust you.” You said it as if it was clear as day.

His eyes bore into yours and his hand made its way towards your cheek, but stopped short in midair, a hair’s breadth away from touching your skin. Then, it fell to the side as he turned away, like he was ashamed of what had just transpired.

You cleared your throat in awkwardness, trying to recall the next point on the meeting agenda. Ah yes, Till.

Till was a fence you got to know from the parties you frequented. He was a friend of a friend of a… you got the idea. At first, you bought your drugs from his minions in the clubs, but then became a regular client of his the moment you started your informant career.

“As requested, I’ve arranged a meeting with Till.” You grabbed your day bag from the seat you had left it on. “He operates out of a nightclub that has a pretty strict door policy. So you’ll have to look the part.”

Leon raised an eyebrow. “Which would be?”

You sighed, unsure of how this would go down. “Um, your usual black get-up will do,” you mentioned tentatively. Unzipping your bag, which unveiled a sneak peek of its contents, you peered back at him. Here goes nothing. “So are you a more of a latex or leather kind of guy?”

What you would have given to permanently capture the look of shock on Leon’s face.

“Are you fucking serious?” He blurted out.

Perhaps you should make the decision for him then. Giving him a once over, you identified a common theme with his casual leather jacket and fingerless gloves. 

“I’m guessing leather,” you discerned, rummaging through your bag for a studded harness and tossing it over to him.

He caught the chunky material in his hands, looking at it with apprehension whilst shaking his head.

Fishing out a translucent, black crop top, you displayed it in front of Leon as you walked over to him. “Maybe over this and a pair of leather boxers.”

He grimaced. “No.”

Well, he sure wasn’t making your job easy. “I’ll be doing most of the ass-kissing at the door,” you argued. “You just have to wear this and keep your mouth shut.”

Please go along with it, you prayed. There was only so much magic you could pull to get him in at the club door.

Examining the outfit you had picked out for him gingerly, he muttered, “Jesus Christ, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

At least he wasn’t protesting any further.

“I’ll meet you there at 4 in the morning on Sunday,” you reminded him. “You’d better have something substantial to trade with.”

“That’s the least of my concerns right now,” he grumbled, to which you snickered in amusement before departing for the theater.

[daydreamtofiction]

Thou Shalt Not Covet // 6: Credence

Contents | Part 5 | First Person Version [AO3]

Summary: (Priest!Benedict x Female Reader) Things come to a head as you return to the church for your niece's baptism.

Word Count: 8K

Warnings: Strong language, irreverence, dark humour, sexual references & scenes of a sexual nature, infidelity, religious imagery & practices, refuge mentioned in this chapter is fictional. Readers must be 18+

A/N: I am so sorry for the long wait between updates. I'm sincerely hoping it'll never happen again. Anyway, if you enjoy this chapter, I would really love to hear from you. It's always so lovely and motivating to hear what people think/what parts they liked etc. Thank you all so much.

The bus turned sharply and came to an abrupt stop, sending you stumbling down the narrow aisle, the contents of the cardboard box in your hands spilling onto the floor. Passengers watched as you crouched down to scoop everything up, reaching around legs and peering under seats as people stepped over you to get off at their stop.

You staggered back to your feet, blowing a tuft of hair out of your face as the bus began to move again. You gripped the handrail and hugged the box closer to your chest, the journey to the next stop agonisingly quiet, besides the awkward clunking of a shampoo bottle rolling back and forth with every turn. You'd have to remember to pick that up.

The walk from your stop to the church was short, but not short enough to avoid the rain turning your box to mush, the soft, soggy cardboard beginning to come apart in your hands. It was a fine rain; so weightless it never actually seemed to reach the ground, instead it filled the air with a cold mist, clinging to everything.

There was a hall attached to the church; a large, open space with chevron wood flooring, dated patterned curtains and exposed beams in the ceiling. It reminded you of a primary school assembly hall; the bleak colours, scuffed floors, walls covered in bulletin boards and chairs stacked in corners. 

The place was heaving with people, voices melding into one steady, dense hum. There were tables lining the outer edges of the room, each one taking donations of everything from clothes and food to toys and books. You spotted June selling raffle tickets near the back, Father Benedict swapping pleasantries with people as he made his way around the room. 

You loved him in the black shirt and trousers, the flash of white at the base of his throat. It was the way he rolled his sleeves up to the elbow, rested his hands on his slender hips, curls falling over his brow as he looked down at people with a smile, earnest eye contact. You allowed yourself a moment to glance at him from across the busy hall; admiring his height, his build, the soft skin of his neck, the way his face moved as he talked. 

You waded through the sea of people, making your way over to a table labelled 'Carla's House Women's Refuge'. The lady working the table smiled at you as you approached, the curve of her lips slowly fading when she saw the disintegrated box in your hands. 

"It's raining," you said simply. 

"Ah," she replied. 

You tipped everything out, covering the table in an array of toiletries, makeup, hair products and tampons. So many tampons you could have built a fort with all the boxes. Her eyes widened as she stared down at them, lips parting slightly in an expression you couldn't quite decipher. 

"There would've been more," you said. "But I'm pretty sure I lost a couple of packs under a seat on the 57 bus." 

She looked back up at you in confusion, before shaking her head and breathing out a laugh. "This is- This is great," she said. "Did you do a collection or something?" 

"My workplace provides them for free in the toilets. Our receptionist accidentally put an extra zero on the order form last month. So instead of thirty boxes, we got three hundred."

She laughed again, shaking her head in awe. "Well, I don't really know what to say. Thank you. This will make such a difference." 

"No problem."

"God bless you." 

You stopped midway through turning away from her, as though up until that moment you'd forgotten where you were. "Mhm." You cleared your throat, nodding as you glanced back at her. "And you."

You couldn't understand why you were still so unable to say it back. It should have been easy by now; you'd even practiced alone, saying the words out loud until they rolled off your tongue. God bless you too. But whenever it was time to put them into practice, it was as if they became lodged in your throat.

You wandered back into the crowd, taking your phone out to check the time. The inside of your pocket was damp from the rain and you swore under your breath as you wiped away the speckles of water from the screen. 

You looked up to see Father Benedict a few feet ahead of you, feeling your cheeks warm as your eyes met. You hadn't been back since Sunday Mass, your last encounter with him still etched into your mind; his thumb pressing a wafer onto your extended tongue, his stern gaze as you knelt at his feet. 

You didn't want to be embarrassed. You wished you had the nerve to hold his gaze, to smile, to walk up to him and say something that made him blush. But you were embarrassed; stomach twisting, shoulders falling in on themselves whenever you thought about it. So instead you stared down at your phone, scrolling aimlessly in an attempt to appear busy as you weaved through the crowd to avoid him.

"Ellis...?" 

You turned around to see him hurrying to catch up to you, calling out to you timorously through the bustle. 

"I wondered if I could speak with you a moment?" he asked.

You swallowed, slipping your phone back into your pocket with a timid nod. 

He gestured for you to follow him, placing a hand gently on your arm to guide you out of the hall into the fresh, damp air. It was raining properly now; the fine mist heavier, spitting and bouncing against the earth. You squinted up at the sky, at the sun fighting to break through a thick blanket of grey. There's going to be a rainbow, you thought. 

"I wanted to apologise," said Father Benedict, softly clearing his throat. 

You turned your attention to him, eyes still narrowed but for an entirely different reason. You were expecting to be told off, like a naughty child whose parents waited until you were alone to chastise you. But his voice was tender, polite, almost nervous. 

He shifted his weight from side to side, running a hand through his hair. "I feel I might have been... harsh with you."

You sucked in your bottom lip, chewing on it as you listened.

"Being new to a parish is lonely, and it's not often I meet people who see me as a person first and a priest second." He paused. "I felt the lines becoming blurred and needed to set a boundary before they vanished completely. But clearly I went about it in the wrong way, and in doing so I think I... offended you." 

There was a long silence, his eyes fixed on you like he was waiting for a response. But you didn't know what to say. Mostly because you didn't understand. It was as if he hadn't eluded to the idea that there could be something more between you, like he hadn't preached of temptation and sin to a church full of people while deliberately avoiding your gaze. 

"Is that fair to say?" he prompted. 

"What makes you think I was offended?" 

He gave a breathy laugh, pressing his tongue to his top teeth. "Because one minute I'm telling you there are certain vows I'm unwilling to break, and the next you're on your knees in front of me taking a communion you're not eligible to receive..." 

And there it was. He finally mentioned it. You felt another rush of heat to your cheeks, the warmth mirroring deep in your stomach; shame and arousal all at once. 

"I deserved it," he said, before darkening his gaze and lowering his voice. "But I won't let you pull a stunt like that in my church again. Understand?" 

The heat disappeared; a chill rolling down your spine, bones hardening like ice, turning you rigid as you stared up at him in disbelief. 

"That's not much of an apology, Father," you said, your tone so direct it almost didn't sound like it was coming from you.

The corner of his mouth twitched with the slightest smile, and while it seemed like one of amusement, it could have been irritation. You were never quite sure.

"I'm sorry," he said with a hint of sarcasm. "You came here seeking a relationship with God and all I've done is keep you to myself."

Heat now. Pure heat. And questions. Like what did he mean by keep you? Keep you like some kind of crutch? A thing to lean on when loneliness threatened to knock him off kilter? Or was there another reason he found himself standing between you and God? Perhaps a fear of losing you to him altogether. 

"What if I'm okay with that?" you asked. 

There was another smile, a bow of his head as he took a step back. "Then it's a good job you're not the priest in this scenario," he said quietly, continuing to walk backwards away from you. 

You remained under the small shelter, rain pattering against the roof, murky water gushing from the drainpipe beside you. You glanced up at the sky - still no rainbow - then back over at him, watching as he pulled open the doors to the hall. 

"I'd make a terrible priest," you called out to him before he disappeared inside.

"Oh, the worst," he replied teasingly, a half-smile carving a deep line in his cheek. 

You understood what Mara meant when she said she felt overdressed for church. Though slutty was maybe a bridge too far. 

You'd bought a dress especially, forgoing your phone bill for another month just to pay for it. It nipped in at your waist, falling just past your knees, the straps thin and tight on your shoulders, making it near impossible for you to raise your arms above your head. 

And it was yellow. Sunshine, buttercup, lemon meringue yellow.

You'd reconciled with the colour. Conceding when Mara told you it was perfect, sunny, just like Soleil. You were even starting to like the way you looked in it, turning to examine yourself in the bedroom mirror with a reluctant smile. That was until Alfie walked into the room. 

"You look like Laa-Laa from the Teletubbies," he said casually, folding his shirt collar over his tie. 

"Oh. Nice, thanks," you replied, curling your lip at your reflection. 

He laughed and sat down on the edge of the bed. "Is that not what you were going for?" 

"Obviously not." 

His eyes scanned you, watching you stare at yourself, fingers fiddling with every crease of material, sucking in deep breaths to flatten your stomach.

"You seem nervous," he said. 

"I am." 

"Why? It's just a christening. You sit there, listen to the priest drone on for a bit, watch the baby get waterboarded and it's over."

You imagined turning to him, looking him dead in the eye and telling him the truth; that you weren't nervous because of the ceremony, weren't concerned to pose for photographs or spend the day making small talk with family and your sister's friends. You were nervous because you were going to see him. But you didn't. Instead you gave a reserved laugh, smoothing your hands over the bodice of your dress.

"Good excuse to get pissed though," he added. 

"Mm," you mumbled. 

There was a knock, followed by the door creaking open and Gina poking her head into the room, all red lips and white teeth, expensive earrings dangling as she turned to you. 

"Sorry," she said. "I've just called the taxi. It should be here in a few minutes." 

"Okay, be down in a second," you replied. 

"Fab." She paused, taking a moment to look you up and down. "You look gorgeous. Like Belle from Beauty and the Beast." 

You glanced over your shoulder at Alfie. "See how easy it was to not compare me to a big, creepy alien?" 

"I don't think Teletubbies are aliens," he replied, entirely missing the point. "Are they?" 

The sun was shining for the first time in days. But the breeze was still cold, raising goosebumps on your bare arms as you walked along the path through the church gardens. The grass was speckled with daisies, clusters of bluebells and wilting daffodils; a reminder that spring had still persevered, flowers managing to bloom despite stormy skies. 

When you walked inside, you found yourself hesitating for a moment, slowing to a stop in the middle of the foyer as if the soles of your shoes had stuck to the old, dusty pink carpet. Alfie and Gina didn't notice you'd fallen behind, the pair of them disappearing through the doors of the chapel without looking back. You were glad for it; grateful to have a moment alone, to breathe slowly and smooth your hands over your dress one last time without their eyes on you. 

Mara was stood near the front of the chapel with the baby in her arms, greeting people with a smile that - even from a distance - you could tell was nothing more than a mask. You knew because you did it too; the 'stressy smile', your mother would call it, like someone had taken pins and stuck the corners of your mouth in place.

You watched as Gina strolled down the aisle, opening her arms and leaning forward to hug your mother sat in the pews. Alfie had slowed his pace, allowing you to catch up to him and reaching out his hand, fingers locking between yours. 

Over the course of your relationship, it had become automatic for him to take your hand before plunging into a sea of people; adhering himself to you like a life jacket to stop you drowning in the chaos. It was something you liked about him, how he always kept you afloat even when all you wanted to do was sink. 

But this was your sea. And here, his hand was a heavy, burdensome cinder block. 

Mara glanced over at you and you met her gaze with your own 'stressy smile'. But your lips slowly began coming together again when you noticed the tall figure standing behind her. He was talking to your grandmother, dressed in his white alb, a purple and gold stole draped around his neck. His hands were clasped in front of him, long fingers locked together the same way Alfie's were grasping yours. 

It didn't take long for him to notice you, his eyes flitting away from your grandmother and immediately falling to your hand; watching Alfie's thumb as it absentmindedly stroked the side of your finger. You tried to swallow but it was sticking, as if all the moisture had drained from your mouth and was seeping out of your palm. 

"Your hand's so sweaty," said Alfie.

"I know, sorry," you replied, pulling it away and drying it on your dress. 

Father Benedict was still looking at you, his expression so calm; soft lips and glassy eyes, void of smile lines, smooth like marble. But there was an occasional pulse in his jaw, a hairline crack in the enamel, undetectable unless you knew where to look for it. 

It seemed the sight of Alfie touching you had bothered him, and you didn't know whether to repent or to relish in it. It was as though up until now, 'the boyfriend' had been nothing more than a tale; a character made up of words and sighs and frustrated growls, a thing that remained tucked away within the stories you told. Yet now he was here, a real, tangible person existing in the very place you'd been coming to escape him. Bringing him here had breached your haven, drove the pin right into the centre of the bubble. And your priest clearly didn't like it.

"Is that him?" asked Alfie. 

"Hm?"

"The priest you've been volunteering for..." 

"Oh, yeah," you replied. "Here, let's... Let's just sit here." 

You pushed him gently towards an empty pew, forgoing greeting your family in desperation to sit down, to melt away behind the row of people in front. 

But he resisted your ushering, stopping and turning to look at you. "Don't you want to go up and say hi?" 

"No, fuck- just sit down," you hissed, more harshly than you'd intended. 

His top lip curled in a blend of confusion and indignation as he lowered himself to the wooden bench, crossing his arms like a disgruntled child.

You sat down beside him, allowing a single glance towards Father Benedict, watching his face return to a warm smile as he focused back on your grandmother. 

"He's fit," whispered Gina as she plonked herself - too close - beside you. 

"What?" you whispered back. 

She nodded towards the priest with an impish smirk. "I knew it. I said it, didn't I, I said there was a reason you were coming to church so much." 

You scoffed quietly, shaking your head. "To perv on a priest?" 

"I would." 

"I don't doubt that." 

"Is he one of those celibate ones?"

You looked at her, eyelids heavy with dour.

"Is that a yes? No? Maybe?" 

"What are you doing all the way back here?" asked Mara, approaching you hastily. 

You never thought you'd find the sound of your sister's voice a relief, but you were glad for the interruption, exhaling a long breath you didn't even realise you'd been holding.

"Come and sit up front," she demanded.

You craned your neck, peering over to the front row where your parents sat next to each other in stony silence. You couldn't remember the last time you'd seen them in the same room, at least not without screaming at one another; dad's beetroot face, the bulging vein in mum's forehead. 

"I'd rather not be up there when mum and dad start throwing punches," you said.

"They're being good. I threatened them." 

You laughed softly. "It's fine, I'll stay here." 

She huffed, looking over her shoulder towards Father Benedict before leaning down to speak through gritted teeth. "Look, I need you to be Soleil's Godmother." 

"What?" 

"It was supposed to be my friend Becca but she's not fucking turned up. I knew she'd go and pull something like this." 

"Ah yeah," said Alfie. "Just what you want in a godparent. Flakiness." 

She snarled at him before turning her attention back to you. "Come on, you're Soleil's aunt-"

"And yet you didn't think to ask me in the first place..." 

"Ellis, please, you're my sister." 

"Yeah, and 90% of the time you can't stand me." 

"Oh, go on, it's sweet," said Gina, leaning in to whisper to you. "Plus, you'll be closer to your forbidden lover up there." 

"That's not funny." 

"Ellis," said Mara, staring sincerely into your eyes. "Please."

You'd never held a baby before; unsure of where to put your hands, worried you were squeezing too hard or that she might suddenly leap out of your grasp onto the hard chapel floor. You were holding her like a bag of flour, outstretched in front of you, fingers and thumbs hooked under each armpit as she dangled in your hold.

Alfie and Gina were laughing at you from the pews, watching as Mara repositioned you like a mannequin in a shop window; tapping her hand on your hip and instructing you to jut it out as she sat the baby there, taking your arms and wrapping them both around her. 

You looked down at her, all chubby cheeks and round eyes too big for her face, staring up at you curiously as though she was just as perturbed by the whole thing as you were.

"Is it your will as the parents and godparents of Soleil that she should be baptised in the faith of the Church, which we have all professed with you?" asked Father Benedict.

"It is," said Mara, Nathan and Nathan's brother Freddie. 

"It is," you muttered along with them. 

A godmother. The notion felt quite surreal, as if this child was about to be promised to you like some kind of heirloom. But surely they wouldn't really expect you to raise her if they died. Surely they wouldn't trust you with the school fundraisers and doctors appointments and birthday parties. What about sex talk? Bullies? What if she threw up and you had to clean it? 

They better not die on me, you thought, that would be such a Mara thing to do. 

"If you could all come with me," said Father Benedict. 

You handed the baby back to your sister as you followed them over to the large stone font. You could still hear Gina giggling, trying your best to ignore her - as you often seemed to do lately - letting her fade into the background like the buzzing of a fly. 

"I baptise you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit." 

A shrill cry burst through the chapel, the baby wailing and wriggling as Father Benedict poured water over her head. You watched him shush her gently, giving a warm, reassuring smile to her parents. God, he was beautiful. The kind of beautiful you never really see in person; rare, ethereal, an amalgamation of softness and strength. It made sense, in a way, that someone who looked so much like a fallen angel would believe such a thing could exist at all. 

The procession finished with a hymn. You glared at Alfie and Gina as they laughed and joked through the entire song like a pair of school children. A few months ago, it probably wouldn't have bothered you, you might have even joined in. But it was as if you'd outgrown them, like your favourite pair of shoes were suddenly too tight on your feet. 

"We've organised a bit of a do in the pub next door," said Mara, addressing the entire assembly. "So if you all want to head over we'll see you there." 

The church began to empty. You hovered near the front, waiting for something, though you weren't sure what. You'd gotten so used to hanging around after a service, watching the chapel turn quiet until you were the only person left. It felt unnatural to leave with the crowd. 

"Father, we'd love it if you popped in for a drink," you heard Mara say behind you. "Priests can drink, can't they?" 

You closed your eyes at the sound of his throaty laugh, turning your head to listen. 

"That's very nice of you," he said. "But really, I better not-"

"You should come," you said cheerfully, turning to face them. 

The pulse in his jaw returned. He swallowed, preparing to decline again. 

"Just one drink," you insisted. "It's the least we can do, y'know, to thank you for getting all of this done so quickly." 

There was a buffet table against the back wall of the pub, an arch of yellow and pearly white balloons curving over it like a rainbow. A banner was draped above the bar, Soleil Cain Cassidy in elegant scripture. Her middle name was Cain, something you'd only discovered an hour ago during her baptism. It caught you off guard to hear your brother's name without the sombre tone that usually accompanied it, made you wonder if your family hadn't thought to tell you when she was first born, or if you simply hadn't paid attention. 

"Right, what do you guys want to drink?" asked Gina as she slipped out from behind your table. 

"Just a pint," Alfie replied. 

"Er, whatever you're having," you said distractedly, eyes trailing around the small pub. 

She strode off towards the bar, saying hello to members of your family who you were certain had always liked her more than you. She was vibrant, confident, good with small talk, all the things that never came naturally to you. 

"You know she's going to come back with tequila or something," Alfie joked.

"Hm? Oh, yeah probably." 

His eyes narrowed and he shuffled slightly closer to you. "Are you okay?"

Father Benedict was standing at the bar chatting with the pub landlord. You watched as Gina approached, saying something to him that made him laugh. It shouldn't have bothered you, yet you felt a heavy, dense pit forming in your stomach.

"Ellis..." 

You peeled your eyes away, shaking your head at Alfie with a smile. "I'm fine, just tired." 

"Mm, I'm not surprised, we were up late last night." 

You groaned, rolling your eyes. 

"What?" He laughed before lowering his voice. "You've been fucking like a champ lately." 

The pit in your stomach began to flood with an unsettling feeling, as though sleeping with your own boyfriend was a cause for embarrassment, guilt, shame. It was true something had been unlocked in you, a carnal desire that couldn't be sated no matter how many times you slipped into the shower with him, or took him by the hand and led him up to your room. But he was merely a device in it all; a sex toy with hot breath and a beating heart, a mouth that sought out your breasts and a cock that never quite hit the right spots. You'd discovered the ability to replace him in those intimate moments, to close your eyes as he pushed inside you and feel him morph into someone else entirely; a person whose touch you craved, who made you clamp your lips shut to stop the wrong name falling from them. 

"Can you not say things like that when my nan's at the next table?" you muttered.

Alfie chuckled and placed a hand on your thigh as Gina returned with your drinks. You noticed her gaze fall to his hand, then back up to you with a raised eyebrow. 

"Just got us a white wine each," she said, setting a glass down in front of you. "Can you believe they don't do Aperol here?" 

"It's a parish pub," you said. "I'm surprised they even had this."

Alfie took a gulp of his beer, giving your thigh a gentle squeeze.

"The priest's jealous," said Gina.

"What?" You furrowed your brow, looking over to see Father Benedict's eyes on you. 

He looked away almost immediately, tugging at his collar as if it was suddenly too tight around his neck. 

"Oh yeah?" Alfie smirked, letting his fingers travel further up the inside of your leg. "Shall we give him a show?"

"It's my fucking niece's christening," you snipped, pushing him away. "Stop being vulgar."

"Look, now she's trying to act all virginal because she knows he's watching," Gina teased. 

The pit was turning into a pyre, heat smouldering deep in your gut. This woman was supposed to be your best friend, yet every time she opened her mouth, it only seemed to accelerate the flame. 

"Will you stop with the fucking priest jokes?" you scolded. "Do you think it's funny to insinuate I've got something going on with another man right in front of my boyfriend?" 

Her back straightened, as though she was surprised by your hostility. 

"It's alright, she's been making jokes about the two of you for months," said Alfie calmly. "I think it's funny-"

"Yeah well I don't." 

She pressed her tongue to the inside of her cheek and took a sip of her wine. "Me thinks the lady does protest a lot." 

"It's 'the lady doth protest too much, methinks'," you corrected. "Fucking hell." 

"Bitch," she muttered under her breath, before rising from her seat and snatching her bag off the table. 

"Where are you going?" asked Alfie. 

"For a cigarette," she snapped. 

You took a deep breath in through your nose, blowing it out slowly as you lifted the glass to your lips again. "I don't even like wine. We've been friends for how long, you'd think she'd know that." 

"I'm going to see if she's okay..." 

You glared at him, pausing for a moment to compose yourself. "Yeah, fine, whatever." 

The air had felt so quiet, yet now you were sitting alone, the hum inside the pub began to return. There were children running around a small clearing in the middle of the room, people queuing at the buffet, a DJ playing music. You looked back over to Father Benedict, your cheeks warming at the realisation that he'd witnessed it all.

He placed his glass on the bar and began walking away. You watched as he disappeared into the room at the back of the pub. It wasn't an invitation, but still you found yourself standing up and following him, pushing through the door that led to the room where he hosted his weekly group sessions.

He was moving the foldable chairs, dragging them into a circle, metal legs scraping against the old linoleum floor. You stood quietly, observing, until finally he glanced up at you, unsurprised to see you there. 

"Hi," he said simply. 

"Hi." 

He noticed you looking at the chairs and cleared his throat. "I er, I have a bible study session tomorrow, thought I might as well set up now since I'm here." 

You nodded, making your way over to the half-made circle and sitting down.

He remained quiet for a while, staring down at you, before continuing his work. "It was nice of your sister to invite me. It's not often I get to join in with the after bit."

You nodded again, crossing your arms over your chest. 

"You have a nice family," he said. 

You breathed out a laugh.

"You do," he insisted, laughing too.

You sat in silence for a little while, unmoving as he set up the room around you; clearing the table where he liked to put the bottled water and stacking the leftover chairs in the corner. You watched as he mopped his brow with a handkerchief from his pocket, his cheeks slightly flushed, though you weren't sure if it was from the heat or whatever he'd been drinking. 

He sat down opposite you on the other side of the circle, fingers clasped together and hanging between his parted legs. It felt like you were in one of his sessions, about to be counselled, asked to share.

"I like your dress," he said simply. 

"I look like an egg yolk." 

He chuckled. "Nah, you look beautiful." 

A familiar feeling thickened the air around you, another slip of the tongue you'd grown to expect but never got used to.

"Can I ask you a question..." you said. 

He shifted in his seat.

"It's a... religion-y question," you added. 

"Religion-y, another great word to add to the vocabulary." 

You smiled to yourself before looking across to him again. "Can I?" 

"Of course."

"Not committing adultery is one of the commandments, right?" 

"Mhm."

You swallowed. "What exactly falls under that term?" 

He furrowed his brow in thought, crossing one leg over the other. "I think you're going to have to elaborate." 

"Well, would someone be breaking that commandment if their physical form was with one person, but their mind was with someone else?" 

"I'm afraid I'm still not quite getting it..." 

"Okay." You uncrossed your arms, gripping the base of your chair with both hands as you sat forward. "Lately, every time I have sex with my boyfriend, I've been imaging he's... someone else. Is that adultery?" 

It was so quiet you could hear the birds outside, the passing of traffic, glasses clinking in the main room of the pub. You couldn't believe you'd just said it; admitted something so embarrassing, so awful. His clear blue eyes were fixed on you, plump lips parted as though he wanted to speak but no words would leave him. You waited, watching his chest expand with an intake of breath, but as he was about to speak, the door behind you creaked open. 

"Ellis...?" 

You whipped your head around to see Alfie peering into the room. 

"What?"

He glanced across at Father Benedict who had risen to his feet, dropping his head and busying himself by straightening the stack of chairs in the corner. 

"We're leaving," he said. 

"Who's we?" 

"Me and Gina." 

"Why?" 

"She's er..." He looked at the priest again. "She's not... feeling well." 

"Sure," you replied sarcastically. 

"Sorry," said Father Benedict awkwardly. "I'm just going to..." 

Alfie stepped aside, allowing him to shuffle past him out of the room, and for the moment they were side by side, you almost felt the urge to laugh. Your priest was so much taller, swallowing him in his lean, elegant frame. 

"We're going to share a cab, I was just checking if you wanted to c-"

"Why do you have to go?" you asked. 

"Well I don't have to. I just feel a bit shit leaving her to go home by herself. She's really upset." 

You rolled your eyes. "Just say you're looking for an excuse to leave-"

"I'm not. I'm not, I swear. I'm just going to take her home, make sure she's alright and get on with my portfolio for that job I'm applying for." 

You sighed. "Okay, whatever, yeah, I'll see you at home." 

"Okay." He nodded, turning on his heels and disappearing through the door. 

You leaned back in your chair, listening to the metal groan under your weight, watching through the window until a taxi pulled into the small carpark.

You stood up and walked back into the pub, eyes scanning the room for a tall figure dressed in black, the white collar you'd learned to spot in even the most crowded of places. But he was nowhere to be found. 

The thin heels of your shoes sank into the grass as you walked towards the church, the warm breeze licking at the bottom of your dress. The sun had moved across the sky, but it was still bright, making the day feel never-ending. 

You gripped the handle of your small handbag as you climbed the steps and pushed on the closed doors, opening them just enough to slip inside. The foyer was empty, no sign of June or the lady who would come to vacuum and dust the skirtings. The chapel was quiet too, the echo of your heels the only sound as you made your way down the aisle. You didn't know if he would be there, and even if he was, you weren't sure what you would say.

You stopped before the altar, taking a moment to gaze up at the statue of Jesus on the back wall; head stooped, arms outstretched. You wondered what it must be like to truly believe in him, if you'd ever believed in anything so blindly.

The small corridor beyond the sanctuary was dark, all of the doors closed tight except for one. You wandered slowly towards the thin sliver of light, breathing deeply, preparing to tap your knuckles against the door and step into his office, hoping the words would come to you when you laid eyes on him. 

As you grew closer, you began to hear a noise; a muffled, indistinguishable sound that made you refrain from knocking. Instead you peered through the crack in the open door, observing the messy, cluttered space, only a small amount of sunlight streaming in through the narrow window. 

He was there. Standing on the other side of the room, back to the door, head hanging between his shoulders just like the statue you'd passed moments ago. You eyed one of his arms bracing himself against the wall, palm planted flat. The other was in front of him, out of sight, moving in a vigorous, steady rhythm. You furrowed your brow, leaning closer. 

There was a soft grunt, heavy, laboured breaths. Your lips parted, mouth turning dry as your mind finally caught up with what you were seeing. He was masturbating. The realisation was dizzying, making you freeze in place, breath halting halfway up your throat. 

It should have mortified you, made you look away, embarrassed to have stumbled upon such a weak and vulnerable moment. You should have been repelled by the notion that this god-fearing man had so little control that he could touch himself within the walls of his church. But the only humiliation you felt was for yourself; for the warm waves crashing deep in your belly, the slick forming between your legs. 

He was muttering under his breath, the pumping of his arm growing more intense as he lowered his head further. 

"Fuck," you heard him whisper. "Ellis." 

Your mouth fell open completely, drawing in a soft gasp. Did he really say that? Maybe you misheard. He groaned, fingers pressing harder against the wall, and you knew now that you had to leave. 

You backed away from the door and turned, walking slowly, your footsteps deliberate in an attempt to go as silently as you came. When you reached the chapel, you found yourself breathless, sitting down in the empty pews to collect yourself. You dropped your bag to the floor and let your head fall into your hands, closing your eyes as the image of him played on a loop behind your lids. Ellis. He really said-

"Ellis?"

Your head shot up, eyes wide as you found him standing near the entrance to the corridor. He looked flustered, sweaty, fidgeting with the cuffs of his shirt as he looked around the empty chapel. 

"Hello..." you said, trying to keep your voice steady. 

"Hi. What are..." He cleared his throat. "What are you doing here?" 

"Oh, I was erm, I was looking for you. But I... guess you must have been busy..." 

"Y-yes, I was." He made his way over to the other side of the church, picking up a newsletter that had been left on the floor. "Sorry, you said you were looking for me?" 

"Yeah-"

He interrupted you with a sigh, running a hand through his hair as he approached you. "If it's about the question you asked before, I- I'm afraid I don't have an answer for you."

"No, it's not. I er, I actually wanted to make a confession." 

He glanced down at his watch and let out a sigh before gesturing to the large wooden cabinet at the back of the room. "Alright, if we make it quick-"

"No- No, I don't mean in the booth. I mean I need to make a confession... to you. Specifically."

"Oh." He narrowed his eyes with curiosity, taking a seat in the row in front and twisting his body to face you. "Okay?" 

You took a moment to stare at him, drink him in - eyes, hair, lips, neck, the curve of his nose, the angle of his jaw - just in case. You pressed your lips together and swallowed hard, taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly. 

"I have absolutely no interest in being part of the church," you said. 

"Oh," he replied, blinking with confusion. "I- I... I hope it wasn't something I did?"

"No. It wasn't. The truth is I'm not religious. Not even a little bit. Never have been. I'm not open to exploring my faith because I have no faith; I think christianity is a cult and blind belief in something that directly contradicts proven, scientific evidence is nothing short of delusional." 

Slightly harsh, Ellis.

He furrowed his brow, letting out a musing hum. 

"The night we met," you continued. "When you saw me sitting in the pews back there. I wasn't praying. I was... I was just waiting for the rain to stop." 

Your voice trailed off, eclipsed by shame, grief, guilt. 

"Why..." His voice was a whisper. "Why wouldn't you just tell me that? Wh- When I asked if you sought salvation, why on earth would you say yes?" 

You paused, eyes locked on his. "Okay, maybe we should go in the booth." 

"Why?"

"Because I don't think I can look directly at you when I say this." 

He seemed to understand, rising to his feet and slipping out into the aisle without another word. You remained seated, watching him walk away with his hands in his pockets. 

"Come on then," he called to you, his voice echoing against the ceiling as he dragged back the curtains on each side of the booth. 

The wooden bench creaked beneath you, a loose floorboard seesawing up and down with a squeak as you pushed the heel of your shoe against it. The scent of linseed oil and rosary beads was claggy and overwhelming, the heat of late spring making the air inside the confined space close and unyielding.

There was a partition to your left, perforated with small crosses that unveiled flashes of Father Benedict's alabaster complexion on the other side. He was sitting too, you could hear the groan of the bench under his weight, the shuffle of his shoes against the floor of the booth. 

"Okay," he said. "Spill." 

"Aren't you supposed to forgive me for my sins or something?" 

"Yeah we're skipping all of that." 

"Fair enough." You looked around your small compartment, the dark wood you could tell was once glossy, now scuffed and dull. It seemed a lot of people had sins to confess. "I said I wanted to become part of the church that night... Because I was attracted to you."

He didn't reply. 

"And I've proceeded to take part in the church because I'm still attracted to you."

Still nothing. You glanced through the partition, able to make out the shape of him; leant forward, head bowed, listening. 

"I promise I have enjoyed coming here, none of that was pretend," you continued, your voice wavering slightly. "But I'd be lying if I said there hasn't been... other reasons for me taking such an interest in this place. I just- no matter how much I try, I can't stop thinking about you in that way. And I've felt like such terrible person for it." You paused, swallowing. "But then you said those things about the way I look at you, and I've noticed the way you look at me too-"

"Ellis," he said softly, as though begging you to stop. 

"Don't tell me I'm making it up." 

You heard a sigh, another creak. You turned your head, speaking directly to the partition between you. 

"I saw you," you said. "Just now in your office. I saw you. I heard you..." 

He moved, back straightening, head turning towards you. You couldn't see his face, but you knew his expression; shock, embarrassment, fear. 

"I've done that too," you whispered. "Said your name while..." 

You trailed off, leaning back, letting your head rest against the wall behind you. 

"Why are you telling me this?" he asked. 

"Because I thought- I don't know, I thought maybe if you knew I didn't want a relationship with God, you wouldn't feel so bad about keeping me to yourself." 

Silence.

"Father." You paused. "If I open this curtain... If I walk out right now and stand in front of yours... Will you open it for me?" 

"Ellis-"

You didn't wait to hear what he was going to say. Instead you stood up and pulled back your curtain, stepping out of the hot booth into the cool air of the chapel. 

You stood outside his curtain, chewing your fingernail as you waited. But there was no movement, not even a sound. You sighed, closing your eyes for a moment before nodding to yourself solemnly. 

The sun shone through the stained glass onto your dress, the colours moving and shifting as you walked, like the facets of a diamond. You made your way back to the pews in search of your bag, shuffling along the row and picking it up off the floor before stepping back out into the aisle. 

A sudden noise made you stop, the screeching of curtain loops raking against a rail. You turned to see him standing outside the booth, chest rising and falling heavily, eyes burning despite their glacial hue. 

He stormed down the aisle in long, quick strides towards you, bringing you face to face, close enough to feel his breath, to see the crinkle between his brows. 

"This is what I am," he said, thumping a hand on his own chest. 

"I understand," you replied timidly. 

"It's what I chose to be," he continued through gritted teeth. "This is what I chose, and I was fine with that. Then you had to come and-"

"Stop. I know, okay." 

"Do you? Do you really know how it feels to have everything you believe in, everything you've dedicated your whole life to jeopardised because you can't resist a basic temptation?" 

"I'm not a temptation!" you snapped, turning around to point at the statue of Christ on the far wall. "You think he sent me here? You think the only reason I've done all this- am doing all of this is because god wants to test you?"

You threw your bag to the ground and began marching up to the statue, Father Benedict quick on your heels. 

"Hey," you said, speaking directly to the large, marble figure. "If I'm really a test then fucking prove it, send us a sign." 

"Ellis," he hissed. 

He was right behind you, causing you to almost bump into his chest as you turned around. 

You opened your arms wide, gesturing to your surroundings. "See, nothing." 

The pulse in his jaw returned, hands resting on his hips with irritation. 

"I understood when I sat down in that confessional that I might just make a fool of myself," you said calmly. "But I'm not a sin, Father. And I hate that that's what you see when you look at me."

"Wait, stop. Sin? You think I see you as a sin?" He narrowed his eyes, brushing back his hair with frustration before leaning in close and deepening his voice. "You are the reason I've begun to question whether there's even such a thing at all. How something could possibly be so wrong when every fibre of my being is drawn towards it. You're not a temptation, Ellis. If anything, you are the choice that feels most right. And that... There is no amount of prayer and worship and study that can tell me what to do about that."

You stared up at him, wide-eyed, mouth agape. He was quiet too, stunned by his own candour. Your chest was heaving as you watched him lick his lips, and before you knew it, his hands were on your face, your fingers gripping at the sleeves of his shirt as you came together in a fevered, desperate kiss. 

You stumbled together in a tangle of hot breaths and eager hands, falling back against the credence table and knocking a set of candles onto the floor with a heavy thud, a large chalice clanging as it rolled away. His kiss was as heavenly as you'd imagined; soft lips, skilled tongue, forceful and hungry, as if he'd been starving and didn't know when he would get to eat again. 

He lifted you onto the edge of the table, tugging impatiently at your dress until it was bunched at your hips, fingers grazing your inner thighs as you worked to unbutton his trousers. But as the first one popped open, a sudden noise made you freeze. 

You both turned to see the cleaning lady dragging a hoover into the chapel. Father Benedict stepped back from you quickly, turning to discreetly fasten his trousers as you stood up and pulled your dress down, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. 

"Oh, hi there, Linda," he called out cheerfully.

She glanced over at him and smiled. "Hello, Father, don't worry, I won't get in your way." 

"That's alright, I was just erm... showing Ellis here how we set up for the Eucharist." 

You dropped to the ground, picking up the candles and chalice and placing them back on the table.

Linda nodded, switching on the vacuum and beginning to swipe it back and forth across the floor. 

You stood there for a moment, staring at each other amidst the loud whirring of the machine. He seemed disappointed, in you or in himself, you couldn't quite tell. 

"I should get back to the party," you said. 

"Y-yeah," he replied. 

You began to walk away, glancing back to find him looking up at the statue, rubbing his jaw in turmoil. 

“That wasn’t a sign," you said breathlessly, shaking your head at him. "It wasn't." 

He looked down at you.

“It wasn't," you repeated, before turning around and hurrying away.

Part 7

*Tags: @evelynrosestuff @thealleydog @lexlexigogh @allie131313 @simpingbestie @ironstrange1991 @witchoftheages @queerbee8 @swds @jyessaminereads @withalittlehoney @hunterofshadows04 @slytherindoctorsat221b @diabaroxa @phoebe221 @hai-kbai @downtownshabby @dara-of-qui-zi @unfilteredmoonchild @classicrebound @bigratbitchsworld @aphroditesdilemma @bloodyxsaint @ployavengersog1 @spectaclebitch

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[definitelynotshouting]

so a while ago i had planned to rewrite my fic everything i loved and feared for stylistic purposes, but ended up deciding to leave it as is and never went through with that beyond the first scene. Since i dont plan on doing anything else with this, here is the scene i did rewrite!! Hope you guys like it :]

CWs: graphic violence, graphic injury, suicide, temporary major character death

Love, Scar finds, is the exact shade of blood in the water.

A thin line of it beads from his shoulder down to his wrist, clouding as it sluices past the surface tension of the pond he stands in. Inky ribbons trail from each drop; they ripple outward to form a slinking barrier between him and the honed edge of Grian's sword, coiling thin and wispy around their ankles. Love is what saturates the smears of that diamond blade, the tattered edges of Grian's sweater, the final life pulsing bright and sacred in Scar's chest; love is the heady fog billowing through his veins as he kneels, one bare knee sinking into the silt, and bows his head to the oncoming storm.

But Grian's scarlet eyes, scorching and incensed, eclipse it all.

They pulse with the brazen fire of a solar prominence; the color has molded to his irises, slotting into place with such clean precision that it hemorrhages over Scar's memories, staining the echo-impression of Grian's gaze. Gorgeous is too pale a word to raise against the righteous, trembling fury he vibrates with now. The urge to reach past that diamond line, reel Grian in by the collar, and kiss him until nothing remains of them except one tangled corpse is a siren's song that howls inside Scar's chest.

Here, lying in the fractures of his calculated betrayal, the die is cast, and Scar comes out smiling.

"You can kill me," he says. The syllables tangle in his throat, too disjointed with the rolling, frothing tension boiling inside him. "Grian. You can kill me.”

Above him, an avenging angel falters. Grian's sword, still streaked with the proof of Scar's adoration, lowers by a single fraction. "What? No—"

“For everything you did to me,” Scar continues past him, lungs shivering with the cost of this victory, “to keep me alive this long— you may slay me, and take the enchanter.”

Gold flakes splay across the surface of the pond, scintillating outward as Scar bends at the waist; water brushes his forehead in cool benediction, in cruel, unrelenting curse. This baptism is Scar's holy scourge: Grian will win. It is both the most and least Scar can do for him.

When Grian speaks, his voice is small. “No— no, I can’t. I literally can’t. Scar—”

"Do it," Scar urges into the water. Between scattered refractions his own face peers back at him, a wavering mirror to manic triumph— all the love in the world has led to this crescendoing melody in his gut: the braying war horns, the bark of crashing cymbals, the bellow of ancient pipes. Strung at the seams within this orchestra, he teeters with bated breath on the edge of one final encore.

Instead, all that reigns around them is miserable silence.

A sharp inhale, cracking through the clearing with firework-precision. "I'm not—" Grian starts, and chokes on it, the words stumbling to an abrupt halt in his throat. Scar's neck snaps up; Grian's sword-grip has loosened, fingers lax around the hilt as his free hand flinches to one temple. It hovers there, pale and trembling, his eyes trained on the middle-distance.

A beat. Clarity is a stark, cold glow unspooling in Grian's pupils. “The spectators want a fight,” he says. His voice rings hollow.

Scar gentles his in turn, snaking it around Grian's shoulders with careful, insistent pressure. “It’s okay, G," he breathes. "You can kill me. You can be the winner.”

Grian's expression is a severed nerve, flayed open to the rising sun. Around them, liquid honey dribbles between boughs, landing dizzy and sincere at their feet. They brush the tips of Grian's hair, set fire to the thin, damp strands curling around his ears. Checkmate is the process of capturing your opponent's king with no hope of escape; shadowed in Grian's glowing silhouette, Scar bows, and offers his defeat with both hands self-shackled.

Check, and mate.

Slow— so slow he can track each individual movement— Grian shakes his head. A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Scar, they want blood." New waves bloom out from his shaking stance; adrenaline has retracted its claws, leaving nothing but the thin garrote between passion, violence, and mourning.

Scar is shaking as well. Even in this, they are together.

Grian's lips twist in an abrupt, fragile smile. "Scar," he says, sword once again rising in its clean, prismatic arc. Scar tracks the way light sparkles off it, throwing pale blue echoes against the trunks of nearby trees. "No matter what happens, we can claim this as a double victory. Right?”

The words are a cool balm against fevered skin. Scar sinks into them, eyes drifting shut; even now, through the mounting, cacophonic thrum in his veins, past the shivering gooseflesh of soaked skin, to look Grian in the eyes when he kills him would be blasphemy. "Yeah," he breathes, bracing for the blow, the diamond cut against his carotid. "We're good."

Air whistles with the surge of a starving blade—

— and the sharp, heavy schlck of pierced flesh not his own reverberates through the clearing instead. Grian's choked-off cry ends in an ugly, gurgling yelp; Scar's eyes fly open just in time for Grian's knees to meet the water, scattering a thousand, dazzling droplets in every direction.

Between Grian's hands is the glittering diamond of his own sword, buried inches at an upward angle into the soft meat above his belly. Rivulets of blood bubble from cuts in his palms where they clench halfway up that razor edge; even as dark stains spread to saturate his sweater, Grian's lips peel back in a feral snarl, and he shoves the wobbling blade in deeper.

"You—" Grian's gasps are ragged, hands slipping along the edges as the sword sinks another wet, squelching inch— "win, Scar. You win."

And with the same, ponderous sway of a toppling tower, Grian collapses into the bloody water.

Hazy exultation cleaves itself from Scar's mind in one savage swoop, submerging his entire body in ice. If he screams, the sound fails to breach his ears– one moment he's kneeling, dumb and shell-shocked, and the next he's scrabbling forward on hands and knees through the shallows between them, catching Grian by the arm before his head can plunge below water.

Scar hauls him sideways into his arms. A strangled noise punches out of Grian in response— the high, staticked whine of a wounded animal, shivering through Scar's chest. The blade buried in his gut jars with the motion, carving another, ragged line into the pallid flesh beneath. Fresh copper blooms in a cloud around them, swelling in Scar's nose.

“Grian— Grian, no." Scar's hand stretches of its own volition, hovering over the keen edges of Grian's sword. Halts just shy of ripping it back out— that will only kill him faster. "Wait, wait, wait— no. No, no, no, no, no. Grian.”

This isn't right— the bright, earnest rays of the sun have missed their mark, slipping past Scar's death to gild Grian in stunning, flagrant gold. “What are you doing?” he chokes, heart a helpless stutter in the back of his throat.

Grian was meant to win. Not this.

Never this.

“They never said what kind of blood,” Grian rasps, lips wobbling. Each breath is a bubbling wheeze as he struggles for air. “I can’t— I couldn’t, Scar. I couldn’t kill you.” When he coughs, his stomach convulses; Grian's voice cuts off into a breathless scream before falling back into muted pants. Eyes squeezed shut, Grian grits out: "Sorry."

Scar's fingers catch in the soaked strands of Grian's hair, petting it down with clumsy, panicked motions. “No you’re not,” he whispers. Beneath his chest an abscessed, answering wound unravels, howling in tune to Grian's shallow gasps. “You did that on purpose. Grian, you were supposed to win.”

Every card had been folded for this. Each die weighed in the well of his palm, every trick tugged out from beneath his sleeve; a barren world with no one in it isn't a world Scar can survive, and he'd pieced that together between sheets and shared pulses, windswept sky and sunburnt sand. Maybe it had been selfish… but Scar is selfish— with the last, grasping selfishness of a man devoted, his loyalty a warm, gushing sacrifice caught between grit teeth.

“You weren’t supposed to die,” Scar wails, shifting until his spine bows, forehead brushing Grian's. Stocky fingers spasm under his own; Grian's short breaths puff against the chapped skin of his lips, fanning over his cheeks. “Grian— how could you?”

Beneath him, Grian's lips twist in a wry grin. This close, Scar can make out the faded remnants of freckles marching across his face; counting them had always been a fantasy. Now he'll never have the chance. “Guess I’m just not cut out to be a winner,” Grian murmurs, winces, and drags one bloodied hand up to rest against Scar's jaw.

He doesn't bother saying I love you. Instead, he guides Scar to close the gap between them, fingers fumbling at the nape of Scar's neck. Grian's lips are bitten raw, trembling as he capture Scar's own, and for a moment they are two jagged breaths; the slide of salt on Scar's tongue; copper-stained fingers falling limp–

Scar bolts upright, choking on his own anguished scream.

[direwombat]

tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton and @titiagls to share some more wippy goodness this wednesday (thank you both 🧡🧡🧡)

i promised last week that i'd share the jakesyb werewolf au belligerent sexual tension, so here's a draft of that :)c this snippet occurs later in the scene of my previous wip wednesday, picking up while the newest pack initiates are having their little baptismal dunk in the henbane. predictably, jacob is still being a possessive freak about things <3

[Jacob] presses the knife’s tip against his finger. Not hard enough to draw blood, just enough to feel the cool bite of metal against the calloused flesh. But it doesn’t stop his imagination from running wilder than the Wolf inside. She’d look so good like this: drenched from head to toe with her clothes clinging to her lithe form and staring up at him with awe, wonder, and hunger in those wild green eyes. He wonders if she would lean into his touch when he went to mark her as one of the Pack. 

He wonders if she would grab his wrist when he’s done and nurse at his wound — just as eager to get a taste of him as he is to taste her. 

The wind changes direction, trees rustling in the breeze. 

Then he smells her. Cinnamon whiskey and cigarette smoke drifts lazily through the air. 

Along with the sweet and sour notes of sweat and sex. That of hers and the Huntsman. 

His wolf stirs, possessive and angry. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end and the grip around his knife tightens. His gaze darts out to the congregation and sees that his Chosen, the ones familiar with Eli's scent pick up on it as well. As does Joseph, whose back and shoulders suddenly go tight. 

One of the Chosen pushes his way through the crowd to approach Jacob. “Sir,” he whispers, “I think we may have a problem.” 

A stolen glance and subtle nod of dismissal from Joseph is all Jacob needs. “I’ll handle it,” he grunts, shoving his way through the crowd with predatory intent. The mass of people instinctively part for him, making way for one of their four Alphas. 

He storms his way back up the riverbank and towards the church. Now that he’s away from the rest of the pack, the stoic facade he was barely clinging to crumbles to dust. Lips curling back to reveal his teeth, he growls and snarls his way as he follows the Deputy’s scent. Blood courses white hot through his veins, pulse and thundering in his ears. He knows it's just her somewhere in the shadows; that she wouldn’t have knowingly brought her precious little Huntsman into a literal den of wolves. His scent isn't fresh enough for that to be the case.

Besides, she values his life too much to do such a thing.

Yet here she is using him to make us jealous, his wolf pants, wild-eyed and frothing at the mouth. Can’t value his life too much if knows just how easily we could rip him apart. 

She’d kill us before we could get to him, he reasons. She thinks of Eli as her pack.

The next thought is one of both man and wolf: We’ll have to fix that.

Sybille doesn’t make herself difficult to find. All Jacob has to do is follow the trail of smoke drifting from behind the church. He rounds the corner to find her lurking in the shadows. She’s leaning against a stack of wooden shipping crates. A cigarette dangles loosely between two fingers. She watches him approach, regarding him with  half-lidded eyes — bored, disinterested, mocking.

“You gotta lotta crates, here,” she muses, kicking at the one she’s leaning against with a sturdy boot. A ring of embers glows, casting soft orange light over the sharp, angular planes of her face. She quirks a skeptical brow. “All of this is for construction, I take it?” 

Rather than indulging in her condescending tendency for accusatory banter as he normally has — wolf in sheep’s clothes; play nice, play nice, play nice — he instead grabs her by the lapels of her denim jacket, hoists her off the crates, and slams her back against the church’s vinyl siding. Pink lips part as the wind is knocked from her lungs with a low oof. She stares up at him dazed and doe-eyed. It only lasts for a moment, but it’s a taste of the submission he so badly craves from her. 

And then her teeth are baring in a ferocious snarl. Her hands fly up to grasp his wrists and with a hissed, “Get your hands off me,” she kicks her leg out, trying to sweep his knees. The motion gives him just enough space to push between her thighs and press his hips flush with hers, pinning her in place. She wriggles and thrashes against him. Spittle flies from her lips as her teeth gnash angrily together. 

Yet despite her struggling, her head angles to the side. The pale column of her neck stretches out before him and the Wolf takes over. He leans down until the slope of his nose is nuzzling against soft skin and he inhales deeply, drinking in her musk. His tongue darts out to lap at the light sheen coating her skin. The salty-sweet taste blooms across his tongue. A pleased rumble vibrates low and deep in his chest.

She responds with a growl of her own, but the arch of her back betrays her. Thin, but obviously muscular arms wrap around his neck as she steadies herself against the solid mass of his body. One hand claws at the space between his shoulder blades while the other tangles itself in the crop of hair atop his head. 

“You’re late,” he growls. Sharp teeth graze over her thundering pulse. He seals his mouth against her throat, savoring the way it flutters against his lips. His head spins at the sensation. He’s so close to her mating bond — can fucking smell the pheromones releasing as he rocks his hips up and ruts against the heat between her thighs. 

In a half-hearted attempt to pull him away, she gives his hair a harsh tug. “You’re damn lucky I showed up at all,” she grits through clenched teeth. “Now, lemme go.”

He snaps his teeth to nip at her earlobe and a sardonic laugh rumbles deep in his chest at her barely suppressed shudder. “Oh, no, honey. You’re lucky you came to your senses.” His voice drops, deep and threatening. “I’d’ve hunt you down, otherwise.”

“I’d’a like to see you try.”

“Careful what you offer, sweetheart,” he hums. “I might just take you up on it.”

Her breath hitches, and from where he is, so close to her pulse, he hears her heart racing in excitement. And maybe it’s the remnants of her time with Eli, but as he goes to lick his lips, he swears he tastes something sweet and citrusy blooming in the air. 

Arousal. 

Hers, specifically. 

His Wolf is begging him to fuck her. Put her in her place and establish hierarchy. Throw her to the ground. Claim her. Own her. All he wants is to rip her apart and for her to return the favor. He has half a mind to throw her over his shoulder and slam her against the flatbed of his truck and show her just how much she belongs to him. 

Only him.

and posting a silly little dnd related doodle i did earlier today that's really for myself and three other people, but it's been a while since i've drawn something and i can't wait to get home so i can slap some colors on this. the party's tiefling artificer pulls the puppy-dog eyes and every time that happens this is what i picture my npcs seeing

taglist:

@josephseedismyfather, @la-grosse-patate, @tommyarashikage, @florbelles, @statichvm

@fourlittleseedlings, @wrathfulrook, @harmonyowl, @ivymarquis, @carlosoliveiraa

@cassietrn, @confidentandgood, @strafethesesinners, @trench-rot, @miyabilicious,

@simplegenius042, @g0dspeeed, @inafieldofdaisies, @josephslittledeputy, @aceghosts,

@adelaidedrubman, @finding-comfort-in-rain, @voidika, @strangefable,

and anyone else wanting to share their wips today! (taglist opt in/out)

[tauforged]

TIPS FOR NEW USERS COMING FROM REDDIT!!

Look at them, they come to this place when they know they are not pure.

Tenno use the keys, but they are mere trespassers.

Only I, Vor, know the true power of the Void.

I was cut in half,

destroyed,

but through its Janus Key, the Void called to me. It brought me here and here I was reborn.

We cannot blame these creatures, they are being led by a false prophet, an impostor who knows not the secrets of the Void.

Behold the Tenno, come to scavenge and desecrate this sacred realm.

My brothers, did I not tell of this day? Did I not prophesize this moment?

Now, I will stop them. Now I am changed, reborn through the energy of the Janus Key. Forever bound to the Void.

Let it be known, if the Tenno want true salvation, they will lay down their arms, and wait for the baptism of my Janus key.

It is time.

I will teach these trespassers the redemptive power of my Janus key.

They will learn it's simple truth.

The Tenno are lost, and they will resist. But I, Vor, will cleanse this place of their impurity

[copiousloverofcopia]

𖤐🜏 Prime Mover Headcanons 🜏𖤐

A very long overdue post but here are some of my personal headcanons about the enigmatic, Prime Movers.

☨ Definition:

A Prime Mover is the person chosen to carry and give birth to the Papal heirs of the Satanic Church (The Ministry). Since their creation there have been many ways that these women have been chosen. Some out for political gain, some from arrangements made by the Ministry, but others, especially in modern times (circa 1900s-) they have been chosen by the Papa himself. In most instances they can also been thought of as something akin to Papa's wife. Joined in love, rite, and Lucifer's blessing by the Prime Mover ritual.

There have times when a Papa has had more than one Prime Mover for various reasons, but this is not something seen often with the advancement of modern medicine. A change which has allowed better care and knowledge to help ensure the women survived childbirth and that the children sired make it past infancy.

Sisters of Sin are often chosen to be Prime Movers, but there has been accounts of Papas taking on those outside the church and for even Ghoulettes being given this status.

♆ Appearance:

Prime Movers are discernable from other Sisters of Sin by the horned veils which they first receive just their Prime Mover ceremonies.

Prime Movers wear a Grucifix which has been blessed by their Papa to protect them from harm. This is typically given similar to an engagement ring, meant to prove Papa's intentions. It is also symbolic as it is worn around the mid-section of the body on a rosary belt meant to signify "protection of the womb".

Prime Movers have also been known to wear Black cornettes, tips lined with precious metals and gems, as well in certain rituals and ceremonies.

There have been instances where a Prime Mover, who has conceived a child, will receive the unholy white eye like their Papa. It is a mystery as to when or why this happens. 😏

♀ Rituals:

Prime Movers are a part of most rituals and ceremonies in some way within the Abbey/Ministry but there are 3 types of rituals in which they are vital.

Prime Mover Ritual- This ritual consists of Papa and his chosen Prime Mover consummating their vows and asking Lucifer to bless them with a child. Prior to the ritual, Prime Movers are washed anew by fellow Sisters of Sin to prepare her for accepting Papa's seed. This is done similar to baptism and the large font is filled with water mixed with herbs that promote fertility. During this ceremony Prime Movers wear corpse paint similar to their Papa's. This is to "bond" them to their Papa and help Lucifer acknowledge their intentions and bless them with furthering the bloodline. The ceremony also includes the drinking of each other's blood, mixed together (like the blood of their child) and drank from a special moonstone chalice. The Papa and his Prime Mover then recite their vows before having sex, with the obvious intentions of conceiving, on the ceremonial altar.

Benedizione Della Gravidanza Ceremony- This is a blessing ceremony for the Prime Mover before the birth of her and Papa's child. This involves the congregation praying for a safe delivery and healthy baby for the couple. There is also a blessing given by each of the living Papas who bestow this by saying a prayer and painting a sigil on the Prime Mover's belly with a special mixture of oils and paint. 

Fertility Rituals- Prime Movers are present for all fertility rituals within the Abbey giving blessings and prayers to couples who wish to conceive that they may be as favored by the Dark One as she and her Papa.

⸸ Duties:

Prime Movers were of course something else before they gained Papa's love and favor. Because of this, most of them have already settled into different duties within the Abbey. Once they become Prime Mover however things can change.

Prime Movers are typically given higher positions in their chosen duties and are also expected to be part of the new sibling education and initiations.

They are more often than not mentors and allies to the siblings. Heading up counsels and taking part in decisions that affect the day to day lives of the siblings. Prime Movers also help Papa with making pivotal decisions within the Ministry. Ever heard that saying behind every good man is a great woman? Prime Movers are living examples of this.

May add more to this later but that's a good start lol 😅