#before the first communion chapter

[sag-dab-sar-follows]

WAH WAH

[canarycolemine]

The Cardinale

Pairing: Cardinal Terzo x Female Reader

Summary: Cardinal Terzo is one arragont motherfucker.

AO3 Link

Warnings: MDNI, 18+ only. hate sex. lots of it. cardinal is a little cheeky piece of shit. WC 4.4k.

Heavily inspired by @mardyart's depiction of Cardi T. Such a phenomenal artist!

Cocky, arrogant, headstrong.

The third Emeritus brother, destined to become Papa one day, nepotism to the highest degree. His suave, angular face and his overly confident charms - how he assumes every Sister will fall into his bed.

How I despise him. How I hope to never fall under his gaze, never be subjected to his attention.

Imagine my rage when Sister Superior informed me that I, her star pupil, will be responsible for tutoring the bastard in English.

He was “reassigned” to the country-side Abbey after displaying what I can only imagine was simply inappropriate behavior for an upper clergy member. The man believes that he can seduce and bed any living thing! Perhaps it’s not a matter of belief, but a goal, rather. At his current pace, he will have had most of the Sisters in his bed before the year is up!

Watching him saunter through the halls, smoking his little cigarettes - inside! I always made a concerted effort to cough as I walked past, head held high. He would simply perish, it seems, if he did not attempt to woo a woman a day. Kissing their hands, wearing his stupid white gloves, and winking that shining white eye.

I love my Sisters, but please, have some self-respect.

Quite frankly, I’ve always been appalled by his behavior. He has never led an entire black mass by himself, needing his brothers to finish the job. There was even one instance where I could have sworn he had a sister hidden under the pulpit from where he stood, evidently having communion. No, Cardinal Terzo only ever wanted to lead the rituals - the demon and ghoul summonings (he needs new things to fuck), the mystic elements (anything he can light on fire), and of course, orgies. (duh!).

It was early fall when Sister Superior invited me to her office. I was promised tea; secretly, I had hoped she would invite me to teach a seminar or two over the semester. My lecture series on the invocation of Lilith and Samuel could rival even the Dark One’s knowledge, himself!

But, no.

“The Cardinal is in desperate need of more restraint, and he could benefit from a more rigorous understanding of the English language. He prefers to speak in his mother tongue, and truthfully, it is not accommodating to international chapters.” Superior started, my ears perked at the mention of my personal enemy. I brought the steaming cup to my mouth. “I could think of none other to teach him all of these skills rather than you, Sister.”

I could hardly register the hind notes of the tea before it went straight through my nose, burning the whole way up! I coughed and sputtered the hot liquid at the shock of my assignment.

Still catching my breath, “My apologies, Sister, but… why me?”

“Give yourself credit, Sister. You are a star pupil!” A shine in her eyes, a smirk in her mouth let me know two things - she meant what she said and there was another reason, too.

My eyes narrowed, seeking the answers in her eyes.

“And you’re the only student that the Cardinal has not gotten to know… intimately.” Her lips pursed, looking towards the ground.

“Sister Superior…” I started, not above begging.

“Sister, I will make it worth your while. I will make sure you have your lecture series as a mandatory presentation for all first-year novicates.” A smile crossed my face, but dropped; still, the deal was unsatisfactory.

I sat up a little straighter, now making a dare. “And, no kitchen duty for the entirety of his lessons.” I hated the kitchens. Everything I’ve ever made was burnt to a crispr, so I’ve always been delegated to cleaning the dishes - the worst thing in the world.

She nodded, “That can be arranged.”

I smiled, relaxing a little, but how it only lasted so long. Resigned to my fate, I was excused to prepare for my lesson with the Cardinal this Tuesday.

A pause from my duties was provided in anticipation - he needed to be assessed for his English skills - grammar, vocabulary and pronunciation. From my understanding, he had a functional grasp on the language. But I did not really know.

Truth be told, I have never spoken even a word to the Cardinal - always avoiding him, always souring my face when his eyes gazed at me. I wanted to be wholly unappealing to the man. For the most part, he had taken the hint and left me alone. Although, I could have sworn he said something in Italian as I walked past, something like “how I want to be the stick up her…” I didn’t inquire further.

By Lucifer’s grace, I had successfully avoided him. Until the sunset on the second day of the week, when our paths collide.

I arrived at our designated location - one of the older classrooms, repurposed for private studying, long abandoned by the day. Thirty minutes early to the beginning of the lesson, how I tidied our space, laid the materials out and cleaned the chalkboard.

The hanging wall clock, the ever present heartbeat, kept steady. It was almost unnerving, as if keeping me in tempo with the eventual encounter with the asshole. The old bell tower clock rang out 6 times.

And the aforementioned asshole was not here. The door was unlocked, the sun firmly setting. My lips tightened to a pout. I will give him five minutes - no more.

Electing to sit in one of the old desks I rearranged, I pulled out a trusty book, as I had anticipated his tardiness.

Some twenty odd pages in, and I had lost track of time entirely - forgotten the reason I was in this dusty room. The bastard didn’t even show up, easily thirty minutes late! Quite frankly, it was embarrassing that I managed to stay this long. But now, I elected to start the process of cleaning my things.

In the morning, I planned to tell Sister Superior that I will simply not take the Cardinal as a student, he had no respect for my time. Future Papa or not, not enough breaths on this Earth could be spared for a man with little regard for others.

I managed to talk myself through this script as I cleaned up my belongings, nearly whispering her retorts back. But I would not be deterred! Lost in the monologue, I heard a hoard of boys giggling, getting closer to the door.

No, no. It could not be.

The door opened, the raven haired cardinal stumbled in - his pack of brothers falling behind him. Laughing at some lewd joke, no doubt. He turned to look at me, suddenly stiffening his posture. The smug smile falling from his face. He offered some excuse to the men behind him, closing the door to the two of us. He leaned against the old door frame, creaking under his weight. As if that would make him look cooler. The black cassock he preferred was immaculately ironed - surely not by his own hands. Maybe he was screwing the laundry girls.

I tried hard to keep my gaze away from him. My rage and my pride wouldn’t allow it.

“Scusa sorella, I, eh, lost the time.” He offered with a shrug of his shoulders. His voice was rich with his mother tongue.

“Well, Cardinal, I won’t keep you long, then. Our lesson is canceled.” I coldly retorted.

“Che cosa?”

“Canceled, cardinal.” I spat back, lifting my book and walking towards him. “You were late.”

“But I am here now, no?” That white eye twinkled - a charm that assuredly got him into many sisters’ beds.

“And I have been here, Cardinal. For thirty minutes past our scheduled time. Either your watch is broken or you have so little regard for others that time is no object to you?” I said, every syllable articulated, glaring at him.

His eyebrow quirked, a challenge, he supposed. A grin crossed his face, a chuckle that died in his throat.

“It really is you, eh sister?”

“What?” I shot back, whatever could he mean by that?

“You - you,” he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, pulling one to his lips, lighting it, and puffing the smoke away from us, “I thought my school would be with you. You are the sister that always walks with a stick up her ass.”

I made a pointed effort to cough at his smoke.

“Some of us have priorities besides fucking an entire congregation, Cardinal.”

“Am I really so evil, Sorella?” he feigned offense, the cigarette affecting his enunciation. Removing from his lips, another puff. “To celebrate our eh, how do you say, istinti?”

“Instincts.” I corrected.

“Ah, si, instincts. That is why we are here, no? Our Lord calls us to do just that.”

“You’ve got quite the head start on the sin of lust, Cardinal, I don’t think you could ever live long enough to dedicate your life to such… dedicated studies of the other sins.”

“It is my favorite.” His white gloves took the cigarette from his mouth, curling it between his fingers, before dropping it to the ground to extinguish the flame. His shoes shined brilliantly, even I could admit, but as I gazed at his shoes, I swore he winked at me through the reflection of his face.

“You really shouldn’t smoke, you know.”

“It is not good for me, this I know.” “I couldn’t care about what happens to you, the flame isn’t good for these old buildings. You’d burn down the whole abbey.”

“You say you don’t care about me sister.” He moved past me, further into the room, settling in one of the old teachers' desks. He kicked those expensive shoes onto the desk, relaxing back into the chair. “But I do not think that is so true.”

I faced him fully, still standing near the door. “I promise you, I do not.”

“Hm,” he chuckled, bringing his gloved hand to his mouth, running the fabric gently against his lower, unpainted lip. “No.” He said so sternly.

“What?”

“What?” he mocked me, a voice that was far too high pitched to be an imitation of me.

I let out an exasperated sigh, to which he laughed.

“Fuck you.” I went for my bag, still at the old desk.

“Do you want to know how I know this?” He said, staring at my rage.

“I doubt you ever shut up, so it doesn’t really matter what I want.”

“Sorella,” he sat up in the chair, his feet meeting the ground and his hands coming together on the desk. “We have not spoken any words to each other. But you hate me so much?”

I huffed. “You have no respect for anyone but yourself!” I could feel an all too familiar lump in my throat.

“How do you know this?” His patience now wearing thin, I could hear it.

“You walk around the abbey like you own the place. I get it, I know you’re the future Papa, but God damn it, you are so arrogant. You’ve never had to work for anything in your life! You think you can just fuck anyone and anything that walks through these doors. You’ve had everything handed to you by a silver spoon, and I hate it.”

My eyes watered, I couldn’t look at him. Whether from my rage or some secret hopes I had, I could feel the emotion.

“I’ve worked so fucking hard to get where I am, and I will never be anything close to you, just because you’re, fucking, you! And now, I have to waste my time teaching you English because you can’t stay focused for more than five seconds!”

My fist met the school table. His face leaned into his hands, thinking too carefully about the situation. His eyebrow quirked.

“... You are jealous of me, then?” He hid a smirk behind his hands.

I glared at him, how I wish my stare could kill.

“Fuck. You.”

“That does not sound like a no.” No effort in hiding his smirk now.

“Since when does ‘no’ matter to you?” I baited.

He feigned offense, yet again, bringing his hand to his chest. “Sorella, I am offended! I can promise you all of my sexual encounters have been enthusiastic by all parties. I would not dare to violate another!”

“What a well constructed sentence, Cardinal. It seems like you have no need for any help with the English language.”

“Ah, she has gotten me off of the topic…”

“All I had to do was talk about sex, so it wasn’t too hard, was it now?”

“No, no, no, we were talking about you, si! About how you are so jealous of me.” He ran that stupid fucking gloved hand through his hair, slicked with grease.

“Even now, you cannot say you are not jealous of me. Admit it.”

I paused. “So what?”

He clapped his hands, catching me apparently.

“She is! She is very jealous of my status and my future. But, I think she is jealous of not only me, no?” His tone shifted, in a direction I was not comfortable with.

“What?”

“She is also very jealous of all of the people that I get to fuck.” He punctuated the syllables far too clearly.

I huffed again, rolling my eyes. “There it is again. She does not say ‘no!’”

I hated how well he was reading me.

“Why do you even care? You fuck everything with a pulse, so why do you care?”

Fuck. I was not selling this very well. His gaze told me everything. The raised eyebrow, the smug pull of his painted lips.

He tilted his head, as if to study me further. I could feel myself recoil.

“You have done too much assuming, Sorella. About me, about yourself.”

He stood from the chair and stalked towards me. Instinctively, I crept back from him, nearing the wall for safety.

“You think I do not care about anyone but me, and that is not true. You think I abuse my future position, but that is not true either. And you think I fuck anything with a pulse.” He reached me, cornering me against the wall.

“And that,” he brought his finger to my chin, forcing my eyes to his, “is not true. I only fuck the pretty ones.”

Here is where I could be offended, he never fucked me. I thought that I was fairly pretty, so damn, that kinda hurt my feelings.

Sensing the monologue, “And you are a pretty one.” His painted lips gently touched mine.

God damn it. I hated how good that felt.

“So you see, sister, I knew you thought all of this.” His other hand reached for my waist, exploring the dip of my body. “I saw the way you scowled at me, pretending to hate me. It was all jealousy. But there is something about the way you hated me that pulled me so, so close. I needed to have you.”

“But how to get to you?” His hands reached for mine, holding them in place, behind my back.

“Who better to teach me restraint?” he purred.

“I act like an asshole for a while, speak in Italian with my friends. I get the attention of the Sister Superior, who will certainly demand I be subdued by studies.” His painted lips traveled a path along my jaw to my ear. “And who here have I not fucked?”

His teeth grazed my earlobe. “I could deceive the world for you.”

I bit my lip. His gaze returned to mine.

“Pretty good, no?”

“Pretending you’re stupid was a very believable act, apparently.” I mustered out, flustered as I was.

“Don’t deceive me now, Sorella.” His lips met mine again, pressing his forehead to mine. “There is one thing I need to hear you say.” His words left his mouth easily, but he was not unaffected. Just as flustered as I.

I huffed, pausing for only a moment.

“Si.”

His lips crashed to mine, with a fire that was barely restrained before. He released my hands from behind my back; his hands traveled to my hips, lifting me. Instinctively, I wrapped my legs around his waist.

We traveled through the room, locked in the heated kiss, when he sat me on the teacher’s desk.

“On the teacher’s desk?” I giggled, taking in the chosen location.

“It’s always been a fantasy.” He laughed back, then resumed his fury on my neck.

His large hands reached for my habit, pulling it off in a fell swoop. Evident of his experience, it hardly hurt. He pulled away from me, just gazing at me for a moment.

“Pretty one.” As if he didn’t know he said it.

Fuck.

I lead the charge back to his mouth, my hands now locking into his raven locks. The diligent work of unbuttoning that goddamn stupid black cassock. I gave it my best shot. My hands kept slipping on the buttons, struggling to unhook them. He chuckled from our kiss, removing my hands from him.

“Having trouble, darling? It’s always difficult.” His gloved hands made the show unbuttoning each cotton button - traveling down in body in quite the show.

Once to the bottom, he stepped out of the garment and removed his crisp white undershirt. I was out of my body, unaware of how I looked as I looked at him. Each new sight of his skin lit a fire in me. He was as slender as I thought he would be, well defined, certainly. A healthy patch of hair on his chest - he was certainly Italian.

A glance to his eyes knew how I enjoyed his spectacle.

Cocky, arrogant, and headstrong was the Cardinale.

“Your turn.”

He came back to my neck, teasing the delicate flesh. The first moan slipped from my lips as he sucked the skin purple.

“Good girl.” He purred. He lifted my habit from my legs, over my head, leaving me in my undergarments. Pausing his efforts to take in my form. A glance in his eyes - like my body was a feast for his soul. Another look at my undergarments, “Matching?” in reference to the black bra and panties I was sporting.

Guilty.

He leaned closer to me, resting an arm on the table. Teasingly, looking into me.

“Women match when they are planning to be fucked.” My eyes turned from his, embarrassing me again. His other hand came to my chin, forcing my gaze to his. “Was there someone else, Sorella?”

I opened my mouth, but the words failed me.

“No.” He answered for me, feigning sympathy. “There wasn’t, was there?”

My mouth hung open, but I couldn’t admit it.

“Say it, then.”

Bastard.

“Say it, pretty one, I do not have all night.” His voice nearly sang.

The fire his was stroking in me burned, “I need you to fuck me.” I whined, my eyes nearly starting to water.

His hand, holding my gaze, went to my shoulder, forcing me to lay on the old, creaking desk. Quickly, he made work removing my bra. Adoringly, he stared at the exposed skin.

Wordlessly, he painted my breasts with his lips. As his lips latched around my nipple, I whimpered, already so sensitive. His other hand toyed with the opposite breast, kneading the flesh. As his teeth grazed the delicate flesh, he nearly pinched the opposite.

Another gasp escaped.

“She likes it when it hurts?”

Obviously. I fucking hated him so much.

He mirrored his actions on the opposite breasts before trailing his kisses further down my torso. Nipping at the skin, kissing it, dragging his tongue.

He left a particularly gentle kiss below my navel, as he gazed back at me. Wordlessly asking.

I nodded.

He hooked his hands to the elastic of the lacy panties, dragging them off of my legs in a well-practiced motion.

“Spread your legs.” I obliged, as he pulled the teacher’s chair to sit in between my legs.

His gaze never left my core, which he could see how he affected me. He lifted my legs onto his shoulders, granting a better view. Biting the fingers of his gloves, removing them. Gently working the muscle of my inner thighs, unconsciously creeping higher.

Reaching my core, his uncovered hands spread me open further to him. He gazed reverently.

“Pretty, pretty girl.” He stroked my slit delicately, I shivered and whined at the feeling. “Such a pretty girl.”

He brought his face close, kissing my mound and licking the slit all the way up. He left gentle kisses onto my already sensitive clit, dying for attention. He latched his lips around the bud, suckling softly.

As his tongue flicked my clit, I bucked my hips into his mouth, firming my grip in his hair.

He unlatched to drag his tongue, flattened, up and down my core. His tongue prodded at my entrance, lapping at my slick. His fingers moved towards my center, replacing his mouth, pressing into me.

One finger - pumping slowly into me - adjusting the feeling. Adding another one, stretching slightly. His eyes studied my face for discomfort. Once I adjusted, his divine mouth returned to my clit, alternating between kissing and suckling. His fingers curled into me, searching. When they found the spongy tissue inside, the moans fell easily. Begging him. He teased the spot, expertly. Pressing into it with each pump, as he sucked on my clit.

“Cardinal-” I started. “I’m getting - close” I managed to get out.

I could feel a smile on his lips as he continued, speeding his actions.

The band in my stomach was burning, stretching, white hot. At the precipice, as my cries started to build.

When suddenly he stopped. Sitting back, removing his mouth and fingers from me.

I shuddered at the loss of sensation, being so close. I sat up slightly to look at him.

The fucker was wiping my slick from his chin, licking his fingers clean.

Apparently, my face told him how close I was, how it was moments away.

“I wanted to feel it on my cock, darling.” His eyebrow raised. “Plus, it feels better when you ruin it a little bit.”

A fight was breaking in my head, an internal debate I was having with him.

His belt jingled, his pants being slid down and discarded. Left in pristine white boxers, which he lowered. His cock sprang free, dripping with his precum.

“I could have came just from tasting you, you know?” as he began languidly stroking himself, using himself to lubricate the movements. “All of your little sounds, they sounded so sweet. And you were oh so close, weren’t you?”

His teasing was back, his hand sped up, only to build himself up more. I whined.

“Just think. Even an hour ago, you were cursing my name, wanting me dead. Look at you now - begging for my cock.”

He pressed his cock into my core, rubbing the reddened head onto my clit. A guttural noise fell from me. An animalistic cry.

“She was so jealous of me, too. And now all she wants to be is fucked by me. Maybe she’ll die if she doesn’t get it, what do you think?”

“Please, Terzo.” “Oh, using my name now? What happened to ‘asshole?’” His voice cracked, unaffected by his own need.

“Please fuck me.” I cried out, a tear falling from my eye.

“Say it again.”

“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.” Tumbling out.

On command, he aligned himself and pressed into my dripping heat. Feeling every inch of my warmth, he shuddered and groaned.

“So, so good” he whispered.

He filled me exquisitely, pressing in carefully, allowing me to adjust. My nails marked his back, savoring every inch.

His hips finally met mine, I swore I could feel him in my stomach. He let out a breath, unsteadied from restraint.

“Don’t have that restraint now, Cardinal.” I teased. “Move.”

A low groan from him, as his hips rolled, moving back. “You won’t be able to walk tomorrow if I don't.”

“Try your worst.”

He slammed forward again, now setting a punishing pace. Feeling the drag of his cock on my walls, I whined. His hands tilted my hips further up, angling to my sweet spot. I gasped at the pressure. It was returning - the precipice. He couldn’t rob me a second time.

“Perhaps, sorella, it is you who needs a lesson, eh?” He nearly coughed through, maintaining his pace. “I could teach you something.”

His hand moved towards we were joined, circling my clit. It was becoming too much - the sweet pressure of him inside and now his devious fingers.

His fingers moved quickly on my clit, building the fire again. My moans telling him it all. As if in perfect rhythm, his pistoning hips and circling fingers.

“Let’s countdown, darling. In Italian.”

His other hand came to my chin, forcing my gaze. He nodded, as if to reassert his power. “It goes…dieci, nove…”

The fire was reaching a breaking point, I knew what he was doing now. His fingers still moved with a steady speed.

“Otto, sette, sei…”

“...Terzo…” I whined.

“Cinque, quattro, tre…”

“I’m gonna…”

“Due, uno.”

The waves of pleasure crashed down on me, my legs shaking. My vision blurry, white hot. His hips stuttered, as I felt him swell inside, riding out my pleasure. Milking him for all he had. The course of our cries rang in the old room. His fingers didn’t stop until I whined with oversensitivity, his spend leaking from me.

He stayed inside, pressing his full weight onto me.

We held each other in an embrace, coming down from divinity. Our breaths in sync, slowing down.

My breath nearly returned to me as I came to, laughing with what air I had.

“What’s so funny?” His smirk shined with a warmth I had not seen before.

“A countdown to my orgasm. Cheeky.”

He laughed. “It worked, eh?”

“Don’t be too full of yourself.”

“I cannot, you are full of me.”

“Ew! Don’t say it like that, dumbass.”

“There is the girl that hates me. I missed her.” He gazed at me, smiling more softly now, tucking an errant strand of hair behind my ear. Holding my face in his hand, so gently. He placed the last soft his to my lips.

“And I’ll never stop hating you, Cardinal.”

“So be it, but it has worked out well for me so far, huh?”

Bastard.

[doomhands-jr]

The Devil's Advocate - Chapter 7

Pairing: Delinquent!Noah Sebastian X Pastor's Daughter!Reader

Summary: Noah is a delinquent with a lot of anger at the church. You're a pastor's daughter plagued by moral perfectionism, charged with overseeing the community service he's been sentenced to complete. You've never encountered true temptation before. How will you fare up against Noah, who not only isn't bound by the same rules of purity as you, but actively scoffs at them?

Rating: 18+ Minors DNI

Warnings: Angst, religious guilt, mentions of religious trauma, mentions of masturbation. Mentions of anti-choice propaganda.

Masterlist

Banner by @flowerynerds

Authors note: Maybe grab a cup of tea for this one.

_________

Noah Davis didn’t like to think of his actions in terms of morality. He understood that right and wrong were subjective. That life didn’t exist in binaries of good vs. evil, and that things like virtue and righteousness weren’t so easily defined. 

That didn’t mean there weren’t some steadfast rules he followed: 

Do his best to act in a way that aligns with his internal moral compass

Reduce harm much as possible

Do what’s best for the collective, while still keeping his best interests in mind

That line of thinking has served him well over the course of his lifetime. He’d freed himself from moral obligations and had done what he truly felt was best, and in doing so, he was able to walk through life with his head held high, standing by his actions. 

The idea that some of his behavior was sinful had not entered his mind since he formally left the church. 

But now, as he laid in bed, recovering from the tsunami of brain chemicals that just flooded his system, he felt like a sinner . 

The sin coursed through his body, sick and bittersweet. It flowed through his veins, infecting his cells and rotting his bones like a poison. Like a drug. 

He scrubbed a hand over his face, clammy palm meeting clammy forehead, cock still twitching with the aftershock. 

He’d expected you to put up more of a fight. He’d banked on you shutting him down, batting him away and telling him to behave himself, but you’d walked so willingly into his snare, so eager and needy, offering up yourself on a platter with almost no hesitation. 

It was a vile thing that you brought out of Noah. An ugly, profane creature that lurked in the shadows of his soul. He’d been aware of its existence in his periphery. It had been a sleeping beast. One he’d hoped he’d never have to contend with. 

But now? It had taken its first shuddering breath, and with it, thrown down its gauntlet. Its demand? You—not as a partner, but as a sacrifice. Sprawled out on an altar for it to consume and defile. To claim for the sake of hubris. 

Noah longed to find a way to cleanse himself—confess his sins and pray the rosary. Baptize himself in holy water. Take communion and walk forth a forgiven man. Would that be enough? 

War had been waged within Noah, and the odds were stacked against him. He was David, standing at the feet of Goliath. Jonah, staring down the gullet of the whale. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and the image of you at the apex of pleasure flashed across his vision. You’d made that offering to him. It was sacred. He’d cherish it for the rest of his life.  

_______

Noah had no holy water available to him to wash his sins away. He did have a hot shower, though, and at least that was a start. 

Turning on the water, he allowed the steam to gather in clouds around his bathroom. His skin had grown sticky with sweat, and his shoulders ached. As soon as he stepped under the spray, the tension began to dissipate. 

He pressed his forehead against the cool tile wall and allowed the stream to trickle down his back. 

He had a duty to himself—and to you. There was no denying his affection for you, but therein lied a glaring problem: you were ready for more. You deserved more. You deserved to push past these boundaries of purity and explore who you were outside of faith, and that made you vulnerable. Because whatever sickness lived inside Noah was itching to exploit that vulnerability. Not for your benefit, but for its own.

“Help me figure this out,” he whispered against the shower wall. It was a prayer in the most ironic sense. He wasn’t sure if he even believed in what he was praying to, but without any other ideas, it felt like the right thing to do. “I don’t want to hurt her, but I’m afraid.” 

He received nothing but silence in response. 

He scoffed at his own actions. What did he expect? Divine understanding? 

He grabbed the soap, lathering it up before scrubbing it over his disgusting, unclean body. Why did he even bother? He learned long ago that nobody was going to save him but himself. If he wanted his demons to die, he’d have to be the one to kill them. 

________

On a snowy Sunday morning, Noah didn’t have a church to attend, but he did have a pair of work boots, a heavy coat, and a trail through the woods that allowed him to commune with nature. 

He also had a pre-roll he stole from Nick, which he cupped against his jacket to light. It took a few tries. The wind wasn’t biting, but it was present, and it flickered the flame in his lighter. He eventually got it lit though, and he took a deep drag, holding the smoke in his lungs and waiting for it to take effect. 

Exhaling slowly through his nose, he closed his eyes to focus on the high setting in. His body began to lift, a warm, cloudy, hollow feeling expanding out from his chest to his limbs, and ten minutes later, the joint was spent and Noah was intricately connected to the forest around him.

He walked on the trail, delighting in the way the frozen leaves crunched under his boots. He forgot his gloves again, so he stuffed his hands in his pockets as he walked. 

You were probably in church right now. Might even be on stage leading the praise and worship music alongside Isaac, where you were safe. 

No, that wasn’t true. You deserved more than the life you’d find within the church. If you stayed put, you’d eventually find yourself on the arm of some 30-something with a trust fund and a perfect attendance record at Sunday school. You’d have to hide who you were from society, pretending to fit in where you didn’t belong. 

Noah dug his nails into the palms of his hands. He wanted you to have more than that, but he wasn’t the right person to give it to you. At least not in his current state. 

Giving up the idea of you was painful, yes. But it also gave him time to figure out how to contend with the ugly parts of himself. If he could let go of his desire for you, then he wouldn’t have to risk that part of him taking over. He could lock it back into the cage he’s kept it in for so many years and continue on in life as if nothing had ever happened. 

He’d never have to know that hunger again. 

He breathed in deep, allowing the frigid air to sting his lungs and throat. It wasn’t painful enough for him. He needed to toil and sweat and suffer to repent for his sins. He picked up his pace, letting his feet fall heavy onto the ground. Within a few minutes, his heart rate sped up, lungs stretching to accommodate his increased need for oxygen. All systems firing to pump fresh blood through his body. 

That helped. Maybe he could sweat the fever out. Force the toxicity to exit through carbon dioxide and leave it as an offering to the forest so it can convert it back to oxygen. 

He broke out into a run, thinking back to the time he caught you running in the rain and wondering if you’d been seeking the same energetic cleanse. 

You’d cried in his arms that night. 

He slowed his pace, down from a run to a jog. 

It was the first time he’d noticed something wrong—the first time he sensed that his control was slipping. 

A stray root caught his foot and he fell hard to the ground, catching himself with his palms and knees. He stayed there for a moment to assess his body and see if any damage had occurred, and when he found none, he rolled onto his back and laid in the snow and mud, stretching his arms and legs to the side and creating a snow angel. 

The snow fell lightly, catching on his eyelashes. He stuck out his tongue, allowing the tiny flakes to melt upon contact and tasting the nothingness of it all. 

He closed his eyes, and he was thirteen again. A nude magazine lay open on his floor. He’d just finished masturbating for the third time that day. Sobbing, he grabbed the leather belt hanging over his desk chair and whipped himself across the back with it. Harder this time than last. Perhaps with enough pain, he would learn his lesson. 

He bunched a shirt up and stuffed it into his mouth, biting down hard to muffle himself as he wept. God surely wouldn’t forgive him again after this. He would be sent to hell for being so unclean. 

For months, he’d tried to break this disgusting habit, but it was to no avail. He was sick and perverted, and lacked the self-control he needed to resist temptation.  

He didn’t want to go to confessional. He didn’t want to have to hear his priest’s disappointed voice telling him to say ten hail-marys. 

He took a deep, shuddering breath in, noticing how the icy air stabbed at his lungs. He didn’t want to dwell too long on that memory. He could already feel his throat constricting. 

It wasn’t until he befriended Ruffilo that he realized he wasn’t uniquely perverted. Ruffilo hadn’t been raised in a church. He talked about porn as if it was something exciting, rather than shameful. He’d been the first one to bring up the subject of masturbation, making casual comments and jokes about how often he got himself off. 

Ruffilo’s world—a world without shame—had been a foreign concept to Noah. After being exposed to it, he realized that faith and freedom were mutually exclusive. There was no way to balance the two, so he chose freedom and never looked back. 

Noah’s fingers found a frozen leaf. He caressed the edges, feeling how smooth they were and remembered brushing bits of leaves off your coat that time you’d jumped in the leaf pile. He remembered how you gasped when his frigid hands ghosted over the nape of your neck. He could have cut the tension with a knife. 

He couldn’t go back to the church. There was too much pain there to revisit. He cut off that part of him a long time ago, back when believing in God meant engaging in his own self-destruction. 

Being with you meant dipping his toes back in the water of religion. You and faith were a package deal. He knew that. You weren’t going to give it up any time soon, and certainly not for him. 

He closed his eyes again and felt the sting of saltwater. He wasn’t going to cry. He’d done enough of that in his adolescence. But the feelings were there, and they weren’t going to let him off the hook without being felt. 

It was you or self-preservation.

He inhaled deeply and forced himself back up, turning to start the long trek back to town. A conversation needed to be had. 

________

There was no priest to whom he could confess his sins, but there was Folio, and late on a Sunday afternoon, he could be found stoned in his room. 

“I fucked up,” he announced, standing in the doorway.

Nick was on his bed, controller in his hands and headset on. From where Noah stood, he couldn’t see the screen, but he guessed his friend was mowing down enemies in Call of Duty. 

“In the middle of something,” he said. “Give me a few.” 

Noah invited himself into the room and sat in Nick’s desk chair, observing the décor. Nick decorated his walls with posters of women in various states of undress. Some of them were holding fish. Others were posed on top of cars. 

His fishing rod and tackle box rested in the corner next to his desk. An electric drum kit lined the far wall. Clothes were strewn about the room, along with drumsticks, food wrappers, and half-empty water bottles. A few cans of beer spilled out of the overfull trash can. On the nightstand sat an ashtray with the spent ends of several blunts stuffed in the center. 

Quite the confessional booth. 

“What’s up?” he said, taking his headset off and turning his attention to Noah. 

“I fucked up,” Noah repeated. 

Nick blinked twice, but made no other movement. “Okay,” he said. “In what way?” 

“You already know.” 

“The pastor’s daughter?” Nick guessed, tilting his head lower to stare at Noah through furrowed brows. “Did you fuck her?” His tone was accusatory, and deservedly so. 

Noah shook his head. “Not exactly.” 

Nick turned on his bed to face Noah head-on. “What did you do?” 

Noah deliberated over exactly how much to tell his friend. What happened between the two of you last night was private and he didn’t want to share your business with someone else unless you said it was okay, but he needed to get some things off his chest. 

“So,” he began, taking a deep breath and shaking his head. “I think I need to stay away from her for a while. I’ve got some stuff to sort out and until I do, I might hurt her.” 

Nick gave himself time to fully process what Noah had just said. He inhaled deeply through his nose, letting his eyes drift away from Noah and relaxing his focus as he mulled it over. 

“You really care about her?” he asked. 

Noah nodded. 

“Want me to stay away from her, too?” It was an honest question, and Noah was suddenly struck with how much his friends cared about him. 

Noah squeezed and relaxed his hands a few times to increase circulation in his fingers. They were still cold from his walk. 

“No, actually. If anything, I think you’d be a really good influence for her. She could use someone like you.” 

Nick’s eyebrows pulled up in the center. He tilted his head to the side. “Why do you say that?” 

“She needs to have more fun,” he said. “She’s been repressed for a really long time and I think she’s ready to break out of that and live life.” 

Nick’s eyes went wide and he  pointed to his chest. “And you want me to be the one to help with that?” 

Noah didn’t want Nick to do that. The last thing he wanted was to see you enjoying yourself without him, but if it was between that and you staying miserable under the church’s influence, he at least wanted you to be happy. 

“I think you’d be good for her,” he said, working hard to make sure he didn’t sound bitter at all. 

“What if I fuck her?” he asked, his momentary sincerity seemingly over. 

Noah’s face dropped. “Don’t fuck her.” 

“But what if I do?” 

Noah clenched his jaw, grinding his molars together as he steadied himself. He knew Nick didn’t mean anything by it. He was just being himself and trying to rile Noah up, but Noah wasn’t about to give in. 

“Then make sure you’re on the same page with her about what it means. Don’t lead her on.” 

Nick chewed on his tongue. “Where is all this coming from?” He asked. “Why do you think you’ll hurt her?” 

“I guess,” Noah said, picking at a bit of dead skin on his lip, “It’s sort of just a gut feeling? I don’t know how to describe it, but there’s something in there that tells me I gotta sort myself out before I get involved with anyone.” 

Nick blinked up at his friend, softening. “I didn’t realize you were so serious about her.” 

“I don’t know what I feel,” said Noah. “I just need some time to figure that out.” 

“You okay?” he asked, hand coming up to scratch an itch at the back of his neck. 

Noah nodded. “I will be,” he said. It was true, he would be okay eventually. He was sure of that. He’d survived worse than this. He just needed to figure out what the best course of action would be. 

Nick’s eyes flicked back to the paused game on the screen. “So you’re saying it’s cool if I fuck her then?” he said. 

Nick could be a real asshole at times. He was abrasive by nature. Many found his personality overwhelming, but the ones who stuck around knew that he was an antagonist, not to be mean, but to challenge people—coax them out of their comfort zones and force them to confront their triggers. He wasn’t always right, and he often stuck his own foot in his mouth, but when he was right, he was so right, it made up for all the other times. 

This time, however, he used his skill to diffuse the tension. 

“Man, fuck you,” said Noah, slapping the ash tray off the end table. It tipped over sideways and spilled its contents onto Nick’s bed, coating his sheets with ash and spent roaches. 

“Bro!” Nick shouted, but Noah was already out of the room, hissing to himself with laughter, and Nick was too couch locked to chase him. 

________

“Noah said to tell you he’s sorry. He got called in for overtime again,” Nick said as he walked into the community center seven minutes late. 

Your heart sank. Not just because you wouldn’t get to see Noah, but because he could have easily texted this information to you himself. 

It was as you’d suspected. Noah was avoiding you.

Over the course of the week, you’d grown more and more stressed. Sunday was fine. You’d woken up feeling well rested, having dreamt of Noah throughout the night. At church, you couldn’t focus on any of the sermon because you were too consumed reliving the previous night. 

Monday came and went with no word from Noah. You thought for sure he would have texted you to say hi or check up on you. Some sort of acknowledgement that the dynamic between the two of you had shifted. But you’d also heard it was customary to wait three days. 

So you waited. 

By Wednesday, your patience had grown thin. You’d given him the benefit of the doubt, wondering if maybe he was nervous and waiting for you to reach out, so you had, sending him a casual hey . 

He never responded. You’d been checking your phone religiously over the course of the week, but it had been radio silence on his end. 

“Okay. Thanks for letting me know.” You kept a straight face and a steady voice while you spoke, but it took effort. “We’re supposed to be shoveling snow today but since there’s only us, I’m going to veto that.” 

Nick sighed in relief. “Thank god . I wasn’t built for the cold.” 

“Get inside,” you nodded towards the doors. “We’ll start with windows.” 

He offered up a salute and bounded through the doors, eager to escape the cold. 

As Nick got to work, you processed this information. 

Noah’s silence was deafening. 

Was this your punishment? Was God unhappy with your behavior and was this his way of letting you know? 

An element to this was fitting. This was the cost, you realized. This was the price you paid for giving into temptation. 

A bitter laugh escaped under your breath. 

Was the church right about everything? Was there a reason you shouldn’t fall into temptation? 

Maybe Hell did exist—and it wasn’t a lake of fire, but the absence of Heaven after you’d already tasted it.  

Even after everything, you probably would still have done it all over again if you had the opportunity. He’d introduced you to a part of yourself that had been dormant for a long time and for that, you were grateful. 

But the price was steep. 

Your biggest regret was that you hadn’t even gotten to touch him before it was all over. You felt so stupid. Why couldn’t you have held out a little longer? Resisted temptation until you had him fully within your grasp? 

But then again, perhaps the loss of him would be even more painful, wouldn’t it? 

You sighed and stretched your arms up, resting your forearms on your head as you observed Nick spraying down the windows with cleaner. 

You could get through this. It would be hard, but it was within your grasp. People have survived much worse. In the grand scheme of things, this heartache was minor. It would hurt for a while, but eventually you’d recover and life would go on. 

It was just a matter of getting to the other side. 

You wanted to remember this pain. Savor the full impact and hopefully this would be the only time you needed to learn this lesson. You’d grow, heal, and move on a better and stronger version of yourself. 

Eventually. 

Right now, you needed to focus on the task at hand: overseeing community service without getting yourself into any more trouble. And that’s what you were going to do.  ________

That did prove to be a tougher job than you anticipated. Nick was charismatic as ever and kept trying to get your attention. 

You’d throw him a bone every once in a while, if only because it genuinely did lift your spirits to be around him. He was a much safer presence. 

“How many weeks do I have left?” 

You were strewn across the back pew, doing your best not to wallow, but failing pretty spectacularly, when Nick’s voice broke you out of your ruminations. 

“I’m not sure,” you said, sitting up and looking at him. He leaned casually against the back of the pew, rag thrown over his shoulder. His fingers tapped a rhythm on the wood. “I have it written down somewhere. I’d have to look.” 

“Can you let me know next week?” he asked, bouncing on his heels. You could see what attracted Ava to him so much. 

“Yeah.” 

“Or actually, maybe this Friday. Isn’t that when your Christmas thing is?” 

You blinked stupidly up at him. You’d forgotten all about the upcoming showcase. 

“Oh, yeah. It is. I didn’t realize you knew about it.” 

“Yeah,” he said, and then shifted on his feet as if he was trying to figure out a way to avoid saying that Noah told him about it. Which would mean that Nick was also aware of the awkwardness between the two of you. 

“Were you thinking of going?” you asked. “You don’t have to.” 

“I thought it might be fun to see you sing,” he said, voice soft and lips smiling.  

You were momentarily taken aback. You didn’t think Nick cared about anything you were doing. The thought that he might be interested in your life outside of community service was one that hadn’t crossed your mind. 

“Really?” you asked. 

He looked side to side and nodded, as if it should have been obvious to you. 

“Nick, that would mean so much. I would love for you to come.” 

“Good,” he said, a self-satisfied smile back on his face. “But try not to suck or I won’t be donating anything.” 

You snorted loudly. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.” 

“Anytime.” 

The conversation died down, and you could feel the elephant in the room rearing its head. 

You could ask how Noah was doing. It wouldn’t be too out-of-character. But you’d give yourself away easily if you did. 

Besides, nothing good would come of it. If Noah wanted to contact you, he would. If he didn’t, then he was just someone you needed to get over. 

Nick lingered, just as hesitant to leave the conversation. 

“You doin’ okay?” he asked. 

You sighed, leaning into the back of the pew. “Yeah,” you said. “I’m fine.” 

“Wanna talk about it?” he asked. 

You rolled your head across the pew to look over at him. His face held a neutral expression, but there was softness in his eyes. 

“Maybe some other time,” you said. “Thank you, though.” 

“No problem,” he said. “I’m here if you need me.” He punctuated it with a squeeze to your shoulder and your hand came up to clasp over his on its own accord. He was warm, and truth be told, you really needed the gesture. 

Perhaps you’d be okay. 

_______

“And there were no signs prior to this?” 

“No,” you said, collapsing on Ava’s bed while she worked on her Contemporary Art project from her desk. It looked like a big lump of Styrofoam. She held a strip of sandpaper, rubbing it back and forth over a corner and causing little pieces to flake off and litter the desk and floor beneath her. 

“And neither of you talked beforehand about what it would mean?” 

“No,” you grumbled, recognizing your first mistake. You absolutely should have talked about what it meant for the both of you before doing anything, and you can’t understand why you’d been so foolish to skip over that. “It just sort of…happened?” 

Ava fixed you with an imploring stare. 

“Babe, I’m really sorry that you got hurt, but. I don’t know,” she began. “Aren’t you always the one preaching about that kind of thing? It seems like you could have used a little bit of your own advice, don’t you think?” 

You turned over and let out a loud groan into Ava’s pillow. 

“Not helping.” 

“I know, I know. That was probably insensitive. I just,” she trailed off, turning back to her project. “Maybe this was a lesson you needed to learn? Not to look down on others for the things they struggle with. And maybe also to recognize that we’re all human. We’re all sinners. Even you?” 

You pouted. “You really think I needed to learn that?” 

“You’ve been known to judge in the past.” 

“I’ve been better about that!” you said, throwing your hands up in the air. 

“I know,” she said. “I know you have.” She pouted back at you. “Maybe I’m not the best person for this kind of talk.” 

You sighed, crossing your arms over your stomach. “No, you’re fine. I think I’m just feeling sorry for myself is all.” 

Ava got up from her desk, brushing as many Styrofoam flakes from her clothes as she could, and crawled into her bed with you, wrapping her arms around your shoulders. You melded into her touch. “You’re allowed to feel hurt. He did send you mixed signals.” 

“What about you and Nick?” you asked. She chewed on her lip for a moment. 

“Nick and I…we talked about it beforehand. We knew it was just for that night going into it.” She rested her chin on your shoulder. 

“You didn’t want to pursue anything more?” 

Ava shrugged beside you. “Neither of us is looking for anything.” 

You leaned your head on her shoulder. It would have been nice had you had the same disposition going into the encounter with Noah. You could have just enjoyed it for what it was and then went your separate ways without any complicated feelings. You admired Ava’s ability to do that. 

“You’re right,” you said. “We should have talked about it beforehand. Made sure we were on the same page.” 

You turned to bury your face in her shoulder, squeezing your eyes shut to keep any tears from escaping. 

“It doesn’t always work out that way,” she said. “Don’t judge yourself for your mistakes.” 

She stroked your back as you failed to prevent your eyes from leaking. “Is it okay if I cry on you?” you asked, voice muffled by her shirt, a stray piece of Styrofoam finding its way into your mouth. 

“Babe, of course. I’m here for you.” 

You nodded into her shoulder, allowing the first of many sobs to fall. She continued to stroke your back, soothing you as you wept. 

It hurt. You’d trusted Noah to care for you. You never would have believed him to be the type to get what he wants and then not call. 

Plus, he still had five weeks of community service (you’d checked), and there wasn’t any way he could get out of that. 

“How am I supposed to face him on Saturday?” you whined. 

“Hmmm,” she said. “Is Folio talking to you?” 

“Yeah,” you sniffed. “He’s actually been really nice.” 

“What if you just talk to him? Use him as a distraction so you don’t have to talk to Noah. Who knows? Maybe having fun with him would help you move on.” 

You pulled away to look at her. 

“You mean like…?” you trailed off. 

She laughed. “I’m not saying have sex with the guy,” she said. “I doubt he’d do that since Noah’s like, his best friend. But he’s a good guy and he’s fun to be around. And you could use that kind of energy in your life.” 

You sniffled again and let your head drop back down to rest on her, spitting out another fleck of Styrofoam. It truly was everywhere. 

You doubted that hanging out with Nick would help you get over Noah. If anything, it would just remind you of him. But you did need more friends in your life, and he was someone you could see yourself getting along with. 

Perhaps focusing on your friendships would help. You squeezed Ava’s middle. 

“I love you,” you said. “Please be my friend forever.” 

She breathed softly, squeezing you back. “If you play your cards right.” 

______

Friday’s showcase had a much larger turnout than expected. People lined the pews and even stood in the back after all the available seats had been filled. You peeked through one of the side doors that entered onto the stage and saw Nick sitting in a middle row. Ava sat a few rows in front of him. She caught your eye and gave you a big thumbs-up for good luck. 

Your eyes scanned over the crowd, searching for a tall, tattooed figure and coming up short. 

He said he was going to come. He was the one who had pressed you for the information in the first place. 

You looked down at your phone screen. 6:53. He still had seven minutes to make it. 

You exhaled a deep breath and shook your hands out, trying to calm your nerves. 

“Want to pray?” came Isaac’s deep voice to your right. You looked over to find him standing quite close to you. His usual v-neck and beanie had been swapped out for a white button-down and black tie, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair was tied neatly in a bun atop his head. 

“Sure,” you breathed, figuring you could use some prayer. 

He grasped your hands in his. His were warm. Steady. They helped to soothe your nerves. 

“God,” he began, “please watch over us and guide us as we work to spread the good news of Jesus’s birth. Let us not falter. Allow our voices to ring true and fall on ears willing to hear. In your name. Amen.” 

“Amen,” you repeated, working hard not to roll your eyes. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate the prayer. It was just that Isaac talked as if he were living a hundred years ago, trying his best to sound profound, and you weren’t entirely convinced it was solely for God’s listening pleasure. He was a performer, after all. 

He squeezed your hands, smiling. “Almost time. Are you nervous?” he asked. 

“A little bit,” you said, noticing the discomfort in your gut. 

“Don’t be. You’ve got this. It’s just the one solo and then you’re in the choir for the rest of it.” His thumbs rubbed over the backs of your hands, and you were about to pull your hands away from him, but it actually was quite soothing. He seemed like he genuinely cared about you. And he smelled nice. Some sort of expensive-smelling cologne that was the complete opposite of whatever spiced oil Noah wore, but in a really good, clean way. 

“You look great, by the way,” he added, taking a step back and giving you a once-over. “I like the dress.” 

The dress in question was a high-necked A-line in a bright shade of red to match the holiday theme (Christmas theme, your father would correct you, because apparently no other holidays existed to him). 

You wore a dark green cardigan overtop, along with a gold necklace and black heels. Your lips were painted to match the dress. It was the most dressed-up you’d been since last Christmas. When you chose the outfit, you were still under the impression that a certain tattooed someone would see it. 

“Thanks,” you said. 

You could tell by the way Isaac lingered that he wanted to continue the conversation, but you didn’t feel much like talking. Needing an exit, you excused yourself to go get a drink of water. 

Weaving through other soloists and members of the church choir, you made your way down one of the two hallways that flanked either side of the main sanctuary. You rounded the corner, where one of the members of your church’s worship band—Darian—was passing out programs for the event. 

“Hey! You ready for your solo?” he asked when he saw you. 

You smiled, breathing out a nervous laugh. “Yeah,” you said, scanning the stragglers still arriving for any sign of Noah. 

“I’d be nervous if I was on first,” he said. You took your eyes off the latecomers and looked to find him smiling encouragingly at you. 

“Yeah,” you said, shifting your weight awkwardly. “Isaac insisted for some reason that I open.” 

Your stomach sank even more. You couldn’t see Noah anywhere. 

“He mentioned it was because your song would set the tone for the evening,” said Darian, but you were only half-listening. “Do you want one of these?” 

You looked back at him. “What?”

He held out a program for you to take. “In case you wanted to keep it. For posterity, or scrapbooking or whatever.” 

“Yeah, sure,” you said, grabbing it without really thinking. 

Your emotional bandwidth had been all but used up, chest tight and head foggy. You felt bad that you weren’t really engaging in conversation, or even paying attention to it for that matter, but hoped Darian would forgive you. 

Sensing that you weren’t in the headspace to talk, Darian wished you luck and went back to handing out programs. You thanked him and continued walking across the foyer and down the opposite hallway with no real destination in mind. You were to go on in less than a minute. 

You shook your head, trying to get out of it and into your body. You needed to connect with your voice in order to perform, but you couldn’t seem to steady your breathing. 

The sanctuary was laid out in a rectangle, with the foyer lining the back, hallways with classrooms running the length of either side, and then a room behind the main stage, so from where you stood at the end of the hall, you could see through the windows of the doors to the stage that the lights had dimmed. 

Isaac walked out to the center of the stage from the hallway opposite you. A spotlight appeared on him, and with an abundance of charismatic charm, he thanked the audience that had gathered, before leading them in yet another prayer to bless the evening’s performance and to let God’s will be done. 

Throughout the entirety of his introduction, you’d zoned in and out. Your nerves ate at you, consuming your focus and leaving you feeling detached from your surroundings. 

You’d performed this song a dozen times at least, and in front of much of the same audience, too. You performed every week in front of the congregation on Sundays. Perhaps you’d struggled with stage fright at one point in your life, a decade ago when you were still fairly new to performing, but these days you were at-home in front of a microphone. 

And yet. 

Your knees shook. A cold sweat had broken out on the back of your neck, and your stomach clenched and released several times in quick succession. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please enjoy O Holy Night, performed by my dear personal friend, and co-leader of our praise and worship team,” Isaac began. 

You heard your name being called, snapping you out of the haze. 

The audience applauded. Isaac gestured to the doorway opposite you, where he assumed you would be entering from. 

Taking a deep breath, you opened the door and walked to the center of the stage. Isaac turned when he heard the doors open, looking caught off-guard for a moment, but he recovered quickly, gesturing to you and clapping to signal to the audience that they should keep their applause going. 

He slowly backed away and gave you a double thumbs-up before exiting the stage. 

Recognizing you were still holding the program Darian had handed you, you clasped your hands behind your back and stepped up to the microphone. 

The soft piano intro played out over the loud speakers. You closed your eyes and inhaled deeply. 

O holy night,  

The stars are brightly shining,  

It is the night of our dear savior’s birth.  

The first note came out shaky. You’d pushed too hard with your diaphragm, allowing more air than was needed to pass through your vocal folds. You closed your eyes and focused on breath control, feeling the spotlight heat your skin. 

Long lay the world 

In sin and error pining  

‘till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.  

Back in the late 1843, a church in the south of France had its organ renovated. After the renovations were complete, the church reached out to a French poet by the name of Placide Cappeau, asking him to write a poem that could be used as a hymn. In response, Cappeau penned the first iteration of O Holy Night.  

Placide Cappeau was a known atheist.  

A thrill of hope. The weary world rejoices  

When the Catholic Church got wind of an atheist creating a Christmas carol, they did their best to bury the song. They claimed it lacked musical flavor. At the time, the idea of all men and women owning souls was highly radical. 

For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.  

O Holy Night has since become one of the most popular Christmas carols known to western society, thanks in part to John Sullivan Dwight translating it to English in 1855. 

You knew this, because you’d written a history of the carol for an end-of-semester project back when you went to high school at Calvary Baptist. 

Fall on your knees. O hear the angel voices,  

At the time, you’d wondered how an atheist—someone who, in your mind, stood against everything you stood for, could write such a beautiful song that touched the hearts of you and so many others. 

O night, divine. O night, when Christ was born.  

How could someone with no connection to God write something that so clearly captures the essence of the Holy Spirit?

You chanced a look out at the crowd, once more searching for the familiar face you so wanted to see. The atheist who understood more about Christ’s love than so many in the church ever would, and found no sign of him. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, preparing for the high note that signaled the climax of the song. 

O night, O holy night. 

Your voice rang out, loud and with a pleasing vibrato you’d finally learned to control three years ago. You paused for effect. The music cut out, and you sang the last line. 

O night divine!  

It was over. You’d done it. The piano melody came back in for the closing notes, and you curtseyed elegantly as the crowd applauded. 

You exited through the same doors you entered, heading straight for the restroom so you could take a moment to yourself before you had to be back on stage in the choir for O Come All Ye Faithful.  

Placing your program on the sink counter, you ran your hands under cool water, intending to splash some on your face when a small blurb on the bottom of the pamphlet caught your eye. 

Collection plates will be passed around. Please help us save countless unborn lives by making a donation. 

Unborn lives. 

Isaac was donating the proceeds to a pro-life organization. 

You’d been unknowingly roped in to an anti-choice fundraiser. 

A wave of anger erupted from deep within you, washing over your entire body and pulsating through it. 

You snatched the program from the counter, storming out the bathroom, across the foyer, and to the adjacent hallway Isaac stood at the end of. 

“What the Hell, Isaac!?” you near-shouted, bounding toward him. 

Isaac’s eyes widened upon your approach. He took several steps back, running into two of the other choir members, but it wasn’t enough. You slammed the program into his sternum. 

“Whoa!” he said, grasping the program you’d thrust at him with one hand and holding the other out to keep you from coming any closer. “Where’s the fire?” 

“What is this?!” you said, stabbing the program on his chest with your finger where the blurb appeared. 

He looked at you bewildered, then down to where your index finger pushed into his chest, and then back to you like you were a mad woman. “We said we wanted to give the proceeds to charity.” 

“Yeah,” you said, ripping the program out of his hand and throwing it down at his feet. “Like a soup kitchen or a toy drive. Not to Life Alliance!” 

Isaac’s eyebrows pulled together in blatant confusion. “What’s better than saving innocent lives?” he said. 

“Oh my God,” you scoffed, not caring whether or not it counted as taking the Lord’s name in vain. 

 Suddenly all the air in the room felt like it had been vacuumed out and you found yourself struggling to breathe. 

Taking a step backwards, it dawned on you that this was your limit. The church had compressed you your entire life, and you’d finally reached your breaking point. “I can’t participate in this.” You said it not to Isaac, but to yourself. “I have to go.” 

“Hey! Hold on,” Isaac said. “You can’t leave. You’re our first soprano. We need you for the high G.” 

You shook your head, turning on your heel. You wouldn’t have been able to hit that note even if you wanted to with how your throat was constricting. 

“We can talk about this. Maybe we can do more than one charity,” he said, but you were already halfway down the hall, tears threatening to spill over. 

The heels you wore made it hard to run down the icy sidewalk, but run you did. Down the sidewalk, down the street. You didn’t stop running until you’d put several blocks between you and the church. 

You’d once thought of it as a sacred place—a home away from home. 

Now, the only time you felt at home in it was on Saturday mornings, sharing the space with two delinquents who didn’t even believe in God. 

Nowhere felt sacred anymore. 

Nowhere except the shed in the backyard of Jolly’s house. But you were cut off from that now, too. 

Where did you belong now?  __________ How are we all feeling after that? Also, if anyone has any artistic skills and would like to help me make a moldboard or a banner or something for this story, I would be forever grateful!

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[daydreamtofiction]

Thou Shalt Not Covet // 15: Blessed

Contents | Chapter 14 | First Person Version [AO3]

Summary: (Priest!Benedict x Female Reader) New beginnings bring Ellis face to face with an old 'friend'.

Word Count: 5.9K

Warnings: Strong language, irreverence, dark humour, adult and sexual themes. Smut: penetrative sex, quickie, semi-public, dirty talk, mouth covering. Readers must be 18+

The creak of a door stirred you from sleep. You opened your eyes to the sound of a gentle cough, a blurry figure moving gracefully across the room. Your neck felt stiff, the side of your head resting against the arm of the couch at an awkward angle. You groaned and began to sit up, blinking away the tired itch from behind your lids. 

Father Benedict was standing on the other side of the office, shirtless, his back to you as he rummaged quietly through the wardrobe. He glanced over his shoulder as you sat up, smiling warmly before turning away again. 

"Did I wake you?" he asked.

"I can't believe I fell asleep," you croaked. 

"You must've needed it." 

You rubbed your eyes, pressing your fingers firmly into the inner corners. "I'm so sorry." 

"Don't be sorry, it's fine." He pulled a shirt from the wardrobe and turned to face you, looking down at his watch. "You were only asleep for about forty minutes." 

"Really? I don't even remember dozing off." Your gaze moved to his fingers as he unbuttoned the shirt from its hanger. "What are you doing?" 

"Getting ready for evening mass." 

You sighed in realisation, rolling your shoulders to ease the ache in your neck. "I really am so sorry."

"Stop apologising," he laughed. "I was just going to leave you there to sleep."

You chuckled softly, leaning against the back of the couch as you watched him dress quietly; eyeing his bare chest, the divots of muscle over his ribs, the flex of his arms as he shrugged on his shirt. You weren't sure you'd ever been this attracted to another human being before; so beguiled that even the most basic actions could arouse you.

"Ellis, you have to stop looking at me like that," he said, smirking slightly as he buttoned the shirt up to the collar. 

You snapped out of your daze, breathing out a laugh and looking down at your hands. "Sorry." 

He tucked the shirt into his trousers before clipping his clergy collar into place, checking his reflection in the mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door. He lifted two long pieces of fabric from their hangers and held them up at you.

"Which one?" he asked.

"What's the difference? They're both green." 

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah but look at the detail at the bottom of this one, and this one has this little pattern here. See?" 

You deliberated for a moment. "I like the left scarf better." 

He pressed the tip of his tongue to his top teeth, suppressing a laugh as he put the right one back in the wardrobe. "Stoles. Not scarves." 

"Stoles," you repeated. "Noted."

He put on a long white alb, adjusting it in the mirror until it sat just right over his shirt, before draping the stole around his neck. And before your eyes, he had become a priest again; his vestments like a costume, concealing the parts of him only you got to see. 

You stood up, swaying slightly before steadying yourself. "I better get going."

"You can stay for mass if you want," he said as he shut the wardrobe. "Some of the kids from the class you helped with are doing their communions tonight." 

You crossed your arms over your chest, narrowing your eyes in thought. "It depends which kids, because some of them were arseholes." 

He laughed and walked to his desk, sifting through a pile of papers before picking one up and reading from it. "Er let's see... Nancy, Louis, Harper, Theo, Dottie, Ethan-"

"Dottie? As in Dot? The little one?" 

"I think so."

You sighed. "She's the one who told me I was pretty." 

"The one who thought you were my wife?" 

"Yeah." You gave an exaggerated groan, throwing your head back dramatically. "I guess I'm staying." 

He chuckled, throwing the paper back on the desk and making his way over to you. "Wow, so all someone has to do is give you a compliment and you're completely at their mercy..." 

"What can I say? Easily pleased." 

The corner of his mouth raised into a half-smile, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He gestured with his head towards the door. "Come on, I need to get set up."

You nodded and turned around before stopping quickly, looking back up at him. "Wait, do I look okay? Can you tell I've been sleeping?"

He took a moment to look you up and down, bringing his thumb to the side of your mouth. "Well, besides this big streak of drool..." he teased.

You batted his hand away with a laugh. He smiled, taking a moment to run his hands through your hair and gently swipe his fingers under your eyes. 

"There," he said. "You look fine. Beautiful, as always."

Maybe you really were easily pleased; his simple flattery sending a flush of warmth to your cheeks. You smiled and averted your gaze, making your way towards the door. 

You walked down the corridor together towards the chapel. 

"Oh by the way," you said. "I never got to thank you for the other day. The grief meeting. I've never heard Mara talk like that about Cain before." 

He grinned proudly. "I said it'd be good for her, didn't I. And you know she's welcome to keep coming. They're weekly; same time, same place." 

"I doubt that," you laughed. "But still, I... Just thank you."

"You don't have to thank me." 

You emerged into the quiet chapel where a small group of church volunteers were already setting up. You stopped, gently tugging on Father Benedict's sleeve, making him turn to face you.

"What?" he asked quietly.

"It's just so weird," you said, shaking your head and staring up at him in awe. "I feel like... I met you and then suddenly everything snowballed. My life's unrecognisable." 

"Coincidence," he said with a smile. 

"Maybe," you replied. 

Your usual spot was taken at the back, a large family already there by the time you went to take your seat. You found an empty spot in a middle row instead, sitting closest to the aisle, shifting uncomfortably against the hard, wooden backrest, a child further down the pew opening and closing the cushioned kneeler at your feet. His mother hissed at him to stop, turning to you with an apologetic smile.

You recognised the school children as they walked in; the boys in their white suits, girls in puffy dresses and veils in their hair. You watched as Father Benedict directed them to sit at the front, welcoming the parents warmly and high-fiving the kids as they passed. You wondered if he ever wanted children of his own, or if a family was yet another desire he'd denied himself when choosing this life. He'd make a good dad, you thought. Loving, patient, sensitive, the kind of dad who'd play tag and give piggy backs until his legs gave out, who'd act like every drawing was a masterpiece and never miss a bedtime. 

You shook away the thought and crossed one leg over the other, glancing over your shoulder as another family made their way down the aisle, little Dot holding her mother's hand as they walked together. She looked adorable; her long white dress decorated with appliqué flowers, hair parted neatly down the middle, pulled back into two puffs that sparkled with pearly gems. She seemed nervous, lips pressed together as she glanced around, big brown eyes wide with apprehension. 

You gave a subtle wave as she passed. "You look lovely," you whispered.

Her face broke into a grin when she saw you, waving back shyly and continuing on.

You were awful with children; unable to soften yourself for them, feeling fear where others felt a desire to care. You didn't know how to hold a baby, how to comfort a crying toddler or talk to an inquisitive child. But there was something about Dot that made you want to be warm, made you hopeful that perhaps you were capable of nurture after all. 

The mass began, and a strange sense of comfort came with it. Father Benedict's voice echoed through the chapel, silky and rich, so deep and captivating that you felt yourself hanging on his every word, even if you didn't believe any of it. He spoke confidently, delivering his sermon with a charm that made it all seem less boring, less preachy and derivative. 

He brought up a member of the congregation to give a reading, sharing a smirk with you as you pretended to yawn at the woman's droning voice. And you couldn't help but wonder, why you? Why, in a church full of people, were you the person he looked for? What was it about you that he felt so drawn to?

The sun was still shining, illuminating the patterns on the windows and melting into the church with a warm glow. You'd come to know the order of mass, how long was left based on what part of the service you were at. And as Father Benedict welcomed people to the front for a blessing, you knew it was almost over, breathing a quiet sigh of relief to yourself. You watched as the aisle filled with a queue of people, a flush starting in your chest as you remembered kneeling before him, taking the wafer into your mouth as he stared down at you in anger. 

The flush crept up to your face as the memories morphed to the last time you'd been there. You watched each person approach him, looking down at where they stood, the place you'd knelt as his cock filled your throat, the sounds he'd made, the way he held your head in his hands. He looked over at you, brows heavy over his eyes, and you knew he was thinking about it too. 

Everyone returned to their seats and he finished the service with a prayer, asking the congregation to applaud the children for making their first holy communion. You clapped along, smiling when Dot turned around to wave at you again. 

"Thank you, everyone," said Father Benedict. "I know some of the families will have their own celebrations planned, but for anyone who would like to stick around, we've got tea and coffee in the next room."

There was a collective shift as everyone began to get up. You sat for a moment, watching as parents stood their children at the front of the chapel, posing them for photos, palms pressed together like a prayer. You giggled as one mother dragged Father Benedict into a picture. He crouched down to the little girl's height, placing an arm around her shoulder and smiling at the camera. 

The church emptied out after a while. You got up and made your way to the exit, waiting in a small line as each person stopped to shake Father Benedict's hand. When you finally reached him, he seemed to smile with relief, as though you were a comforting presence, fresh air he could breathe in. 

"That was a nice service," you said sincerely.

"Thank you." He smiled softly.

"Bye, Ellis," a little voice chimed from behind you. 

You looked down to see Dot waving as her family wandered out of the exit. 

"Bye," you replied, turning back to him and pushing out your bottom lip. "She remembered my name." 

"You've made quite the impression." 

"I think I might steal her." 

He laughed. "She is very cute."

People continued to pass by as you stood quietly, eyes locked on each other, as though being formal and polite felt more unnatural to you now than touching, kissing. 

"Well I'll get out of your way," you finally said.

"You don't want to stick around?"

"I'd like to, but I should probably go and get the ball rolling on this whole flat thing. Call Mara, let her know my priest gave me his blessing to go for it." 

A smile slowly crept across his face, creating lines around his eyes. He leaned in close. "Congratulations," he whispered.

"Thanks," you whispered back. 

You remained closer than you should have, your eyes darting between his eyes and lips, the temptation to rise up on your toes and kiss him so strong you feared you might actually do it. He swallowed so hard you could see his throat ripple beneath his collar. God, you wanted him. You always wanted him.

You coughed quietly, looking around before speaking. "Actually, I don't have to go right this minute..."

He shut his office door and pressed you back against it, mouth finding yours in a fevered, hungry kiss. You dragged the stole from around his neck and threw it to the floor as he pulled off the rest of his robes, one of his hands working the buttons of his shirt while the other cupped your face. You tugged away the white collar from his neck and moved to his trousers, your fingers working quickly as he parted your lips with his tongue, sweeping it into your mouth. 

You knew there wasn't much time, but the impatience with which you moved seemed more about desperation; you needed each other, needed to quell the thirst, to put out the fire before it burned you both to ash. His shirt opened and he moved immediately to yours; dragging it over your head and pressing his lips to your neck, biting and sucking a path down to your chest as he unbuttoned your trousers. 

A moan escaped you as his hand slipped down the front of your underwear. He shushed you, bringing his face back to yours and kissing you, fingers rolling over your clit as you finally got his trousers open. He groaned quietly into your mouth as you reached in and gripped his cock, working your hand up and down his length. You moaned again as he applied more pressure to your clit.

"Sssh," he whispered into your mouth. "You need to be quiet." 

You nodded, closing your eyes and pressing your lips together firmly, his teeth nipping at your ear, tongue trailing down your jaw back to your neck. 

He slid his fingers through the wetness at your entrance, humming his approval, before pushing two of them inside you. You made no sound but your breath was heavy, the sudden penetration making your insides coil, your legs almost give way. He began to move them, curling and pushing in search of the spot that would make you melt, and when he found it, you couldn't stay quiet. 

"Fuck sake, Ellis," he growled, his voice a heady blend of anger and arousal as his other hand came up to cover your mouth.

You whimpered into his palm as he fucked you with his fingers, wrapping both of your hands around his wrist, eyes locked on his.

There was noise in the corridor outside, footsteps passing and muffled voices, the utility cupboard opening and closing. He let go of your mouth and reached down to lock the door, sliding his fingers out of you and moving you quickly to the desk.

He bent you over it without a word, hand pressed to your back to lay your chest flat. You grabbed the waistline of your trousers and underwear in one, pushing them down as you pressed your cheek against the cool wood of the desk, desperate to feel him again, willing yourself to stay quiet. 

You heard him spit, the warmth of his saliva dripping over your pussy as he rubbed the head of his cock through the slick. He sank into you in one firm slide, and you bit down on your knuckle to hold back a cry. You could hear his laboured breath, could feel the tension in his touch as he dug his fingers into your hips. 

The voices returned outside, the rattle of a mop bucket being wheeled back down the corridor towards the chapel. But he didn't stop, pulling you back to meet every deep, hard thrust.

"Fuck," you gasped.

He shushed you again.

"I can't," you whispered, a soft moan catching in your throat. 

He reached down and grabbed you by the shoulders, pulling you up and holding you back against his chest. The change in angle sent a jolt of lightning to your core, his cock grinding against the soft, sensitive walls of your pussy. His hand came back up over your mouth, his breath hot against your ear. 

"You need to be quiet," he whispered breathlessly.

You hummed into his hand.

"Trust me, I want nothing more than to make you moan. But if we get caught..." 

You nodded obediently, mumbling a weak 'I know' against his palm. 

"Good girl." He took his hand away, moving it to your neck, holding you in place as he continued his hard thrusts.

You rolled your eyes; his words filling you with a shivering pleasure that rivalled any sex you'd ever had. 

"I love your voice," you whispered. 

"My voice?" 

You nodded. "Keep talking to me. Please." 

He moved his lips closer to your ear. "Why? Does it turn you on?"

"Mm."

He paused for a moment, as though he was thinking about it. "You want me to talk you through this? Tell you how good you feel?"

Your knees buckled, his grip on you the only thing keeping you upright. You shuddered, your arousal overflowing, rippling through you in waves and pooling at your centre, soaking both of you.

"Fuck, you're so wet," he growled. 

You moaned in response, louder than you'd meant to.

"Sshh." His hand immediately returned to your mouth. "I know it's good. You're almost there."

Your spine curved, head falling back against his chest. You fell silent, closing your eyes as you lost yourself in him; the fullness, the friction, the swelling pleasure deep in your belly. 

"That's it," he whispered.

He let go of you and you leant forward, pressing your chest to the desk again, covering your own mouth as he quickened his pace.

"Are you going to come for me?"

"Yes," you replied breathlessly. 

"Are you going to do it quietly?" 

"Yes."

His nails dug into the flesh of your ass, pulling you back as he drove into you. You bit your lip and clutched the edge of the desk, willing yourself to stay silent, the rhythmic connection of your bodies providing the only sound. 

You felt yourself becoming lightheaded, the tingling pressure in your core beginning to swell. Your walls tightened around him, making him groan quietly, putting all of his weight into burying himself to the hilt. You shuddered as your orgasm began to bloom, blanching your knuckles and curling your toes. His cock throbbed as he came inside you, his body collapsing on top of yours.

You remained there for a moment, still connected, breathing heavily as the last echoes of your mutual climax rang through you. He lifted his head, laying soft kisses across the backs of your shoulders.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Mhm." You nodded weakly, entirely spent.

He pulled out of you slowly, before bending down and kissing your hip as he carefully pulled up your underwear, fixing it in place with a touch so gentle it was hard to believe he was capable of anything other than tenderness. 

"How did I do?" he asked.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, brushing the hair out of your face and turning to look at him. "Hm?" 

"The talking stuff," he said as he fastened his trousers. "I've not done it before. Was it... okay?" 

You stared at him with wide, glassy eyes, struggling to believe he even had to ask. It was endearing, how someone so commanding could be so unsure of himself, how in the wake of his own orgasm, his only concern was your pleasure.

"You were perfect." You gave a breathy laugh. "Honestly. It was... perfect." 

He smiled, buttoning his shirt as he wandered over to the door. You stood up and pulled up your trousers, watching him press his ear to it. 

"Do you think anyone heard us?" you asked. 

"No, I think we're good." He turned to you. "Probably best we don't make a habit of this though."

"Shame, it was fun." 

He gave a deep chuckle and bent down to pick up your top, throwing it across the room to you. You caught it and slipped it on, flicking your hair out from beneath the collar. 

"That's inside out," he said.

You looked down, noticing the thick seams in the fabric, the silk tag sticking out at your waist. You huffed, lifting it over your head and turning it the right way. 

He watched you quietly, eyes trailing your body; your comfy bra and exposed stomach, hips and arms and scars and marks.

"You really are beautiful, you know," he said. 

You pulled your top on again, looking over at him skeptically.

"You are," he insisted. 

"Thank you. You are too. Like... Greek statue beautiful. It's quite annoying."  

He laughed and looked down at his watch, letting out a sigh. "Right well, hopefully no one's wondering where I am yet." 

"You go," you said. "I'll sneak out the side door." 

He picked up his collar and slipped it around his neck, fastening it into place as he walked over to you. You gazed up at him as he approached, standing perfectly still as he took your face in his hands and leant down to kiss you. 

"See you soon," he said. 

You nodded, a sense of longing overcoming you before he'd even left the room.

There was a furniture shop you'd always wanted to go in but never had. You would pass it every morning on the bus, the same dark green velvet chair sitting in the window for so long it had become a landmark in your commute. You'd made a deal with yourself to buy that chair one day; to put it in your own living room, in your own home, to turn a landmark into a milestone. 

It had been a month. A blur of contracts and phone calls and so many documents that the scent of warm printer ink had permanently settled in your nostrils. It was all moving so quick, yet still you found yourself itching with impatience, as though every day the flat sat empty was a day gone to waste.

You wandered around the small, cluttered furniture shop, picking up trinkets and switching lamps on and off. You crouched next to a small, antique drinks trolley, trying to think of a reason to buy it, when a laugh caught your attention from the other side of the shop. You stood up straight and peered over the shelves towards the counter, your stomach turning as you laid eyes on the back of a familiar head, a jutted hip and smokey voice. 

"Shit," you whispered to yourself, crouching back down quickly.

You hadn't seen Gina since the day you left her house. Hadn't heard her voice or smelled her perfume, hadn't showered with her hair clogging the drain or scrubbed foundation stains from the tops she borrowed without asking. There was a time you called her your best friend. Yet seeing her now, just a few feet away, brought no wistfulness. And it made you wonder if you were truly ever friends at all. 

"No worries, thank you," she said to the woman behind the counter, heels clacking against the floor as she began to walk away. 

You breathed out a quiet sigh of relief, standing up again and reaching up to read the price tag on a mirror. 

"Ellis...?" 

Fuck sake. 

You turned around to see her standing behind you, large sunglasses sat atop her head, red lips parted slightly.

"Oh, hi," you said awkwardly.

"What are you doing here?"

"Shopping...?"

"Oh, yeah, obviously. Sorry." She gave an uncomfortable laugh, shifting her weight from side to side. "Are you here by yourself?" 

"No, I'm... My brother-in-law's here somewhere." You looked around in search of Nathan, finally noticing him on the other side of the shop. He caught your eye, immediately putting down the ornament he was holding and making his way over to you. 

"So how are you?" she asked. 

"I'm fine." 

She nodded, looking around before returning her gaze to you. "I tried to call you. A few times, actually." 

"Yeah, I... I had nothing to say." 

Nathan appeared at your side. "Hi. Gemma, isn't it?" 

"Gina," she corrected. 

You suppressed a smirk. 

"Gina, of course," he said. "Sorry, think we only met a couple of times." 

"Right." She gave a polite smile, and you could tell it was killing her. "Anyway, I was just here to see if they had this side table I was... erm-" Her tone changed suddenly, picking up speed. "You know I only wanted to apologise. That's why I tried to get in touch. I don't care about who said what or anything, I don't even care about the priest beating up Alfie-"

"He didn't beat him up," you said. "He punched him. Once. And he felt very bad about it afterwards." 

She rolled her eyes.

Nathan laughed. "Wow, you've got to be a special type of arsehole to get knocked out by a priest. Thats like... getting stabbed by a nun. Kicked in the bollocks by Elmo."

You dropped your head, hiding a laugh. 

Gina huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "Can we talk for a second? Just the two of us?" 

You looked up at Nathan. He held his hands up in surrender and wandered off to the other side of the shop. 

She took a small step closer to you, lowering her voice. "Look, going behind your back with Alfie... It was- It's- I'm sorry." She paused, giving a defeated shrug. "But hey, turns out he never actually liked me, so you win." 

You inhaled slowly, cocking your head. "What did I win?" 

"What?" 

"You said I 'win'." 

"Well yeah, you... I'm the one that's come out of this the worst. I had my heart broken and I lost my best friend." 

You thought for a moment before shaking your head softly. "We were never friends, Gina." 

Her brow furrowed in confusion. 

"You only liked me because I made you feel better about yourself."

"That's not true." 

"Yes it is. I had no money, in swooped Gina with the cheap rent. I had no friends, so how nice of Gina to bring me along to all of her parties and nights out. Isn't Gina so confident and outgoing, especially when you compare her to that weird, meek awkward friend she's always dragging around? Those clothes, they look so much better on Gina than they do on Ellis. And gosh, Gina is just so attractive and irresistible. She can fuck any man she wants, even her best friend's boyfriend..." 

Her face hardened as she pressed her lips together, like a stubborn child. 

"Now you say I win. Because that's all our relationship was, wasn't it. A competition you always had to make sure I was losing." You shuffled past her and began to walk away.

"I admired you," she said quietly. 

You stopped, turning back to face her. "You pitied me." 

She wiped a tear that spilled onto her cheek. 

"Now I pity you," you said with a shrug.

She cleared her throat, but instead of retorting, she turned around to leave. 

Nathan peered over the top of the shelves, waving and calling out to her. "See you, Georgia."

"Gina," she snapped, before pushing through the door and disappearing onto the street. 

You wandered over to Nathan with a slight smile. "You knew her name." 

"Of course I did." 

You giggled, taking a deep breath and brushing your hair back with your hands. Your heart was thudding, limbs gooey, fingers trembling. 

Nathan held up a ceramic dog ornament. "Do you think Mara would like this?" 

You looked down at it; the gaudy colours and weird face, the novelty hat sitting between two misshapen ears. It was the ugliest thing you'd ever seen. 

"Yes," you said. 

"Fucking hell, Ellis, do you have any upper body strength whatsoever?" said Nathan with a grunt, bearing the entire weight of the green velvet chair in his arms. 

"I'm trying, you keep moving away from me," you replied, holding the other side with a weak grip. 

He swung his foot under the bumper of his car, the boot closing automatically with a beep. He heaved the chair up the driveway of your father's house. You pretended to help, walking backwards to guide him. 

"Useless," he said breathlessly, lowering it to the ground and wiping the sweat from his brow when you reached the house. 

You knocked on the garage door, waiting a moment until a sudden hum of machinery roared to life, followed by the rattle and squeak of metal as the door began to rise. Your father was on the other side, ducking his head to greet you before it had fully opened. Behind him, your belongings stood packed neatly against the back wall. Your entire life in a collection of boxes and bags, taking up so little space it was almost laughable. 

"Y'alright?" he asked, wrapping his large arms around you.

He'd never been much of a hugger until he met Nicola. You weren't a hugger either, but still you accepted it, resting your head on his chest for a moment until he let you go. 

"Just got a few more bits in the car to store here if that's okay?" asked Nathan as he made his way back to the car. 

"Been on a shopping spree, have you?" asked your father jokingly. 

"Just some furniture and kitchen stuff," you replied. "Not the most exciting haul." 

He patted you on the back with a chuckle. "Nicola's inside, go see her and I'll help Nathan with all this." 

You walked through the garage, stepping through the door that led to the kitchen. It smelled like lavender and patchouli, the floral aroma hitting you like a cloud as you walked into the room. 

Nicola was standing at the kitchen counter, her curly hair tied up in a wild mound on top of her head. She was a beautiful woman; big and tall, never afraid to take up the space her body deserved. She wore her personality on the outside, every curve and round of her frame draped in ruffles and printed fabrics, jewellery and shocking orange eyeshadow. It still stunned you to think she was married to your father. The gruff tradesman and the whimsical Wiccan; newspapers and tarot cards, cigarettes and crystals, builders brew and loose tea leaves.

She was pouring a large jug of lilac gunk into a tray, another waft of lavender drifting across the room towards you. You closed the door behind you and she glanced up, flashing a full-cheeked smile. 

"Hi, love," she said. 

"Hi. What are you making?" 

"Soap! It's my new thing." 

You walked over to her, watching as she sprinkled dried flowers across the top of the lilac goo. 

"Lavender?" you asked. 

"Yes, very calming. You'll be getting a big slab." 

You laughed, leaning over and inhaling the scent again. 

Her eyes followed your face, as if she were studying you. "You've got a glow," she said. 

"A glow?" you asked with a furrowed brow, leaning back against the counter.

"Mhm. A good sex glow."

You almost choked on your own saliva. Nicola was younger than your father, happily child-free, a stepmother by title only, but a friend, mentor and confidant in practice. She never shied away from personal subjects; immune to embarrassment, no such thing as taboo. But still, it would always catch you by surprise.

"Nic," you said with an awkward laugh. 

"Oh don't worry, your dad can't hear me." She waved her hand breezily. "I can just sense these things, y'know. And it's very clear someone's been showing you a good time." 

Your mouth opened slightly, lips parted in a daze. She'd always claimed to be psychic, clairvoyant, able to see auras and read energy. Your aura was grey, apparently, your palm difficult to discern. You weren't sure you believed much in any of it. But how else could she know? You distractedly rubbed the side of your neck, wondering if there might be a love bite there. 

You'd been with Father Benedict last night. You'd been with Father Benedict a lot lately; coming to each other for comfort and release, pleasure and intimacy. He never left you unsatisfied, you weren't sure he was even capable of it.

"Who is it? New boyfriend?" she asked as she placed her tray of liquid soap on the window ledge. 

"Wh- No... No." 

"Girlfriend?" 

"No." 

"Hm." She narrowed her eyes. "I'm just really getting the sense that there's a new energy in your life. It's changed your aura." 

"What colour am I now?" 

"Oh you're still grey. But there's spots of pink in there too." She moved to another jug, adding more dried flowers to a milky white mix. "And you really are glowing. It's in your skin, you look... healthy. Happy." 

You felt a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, clearing your throat to hide it. "Well I've finally got a move-in date for the flat, maybe that's it." 

"Maybe. When do you get the keys?" 

"The first of Sept-"

"Oh you're definitely seeing someone," she interrupted. 

"Nicola," you laughed.

"Sorry, sorry I just... I knew when Mara met Nathan, didn't I. And when my cousin Andrea met Chris. I'm just getting that feeling again." 

You paused, pressing your lips together as you watched her walk back and forth across the room, her long skirt flowing as she moved. 

"I'm not seeing anyone," you said.

She looked at you, leaning her hip against the counter and tilting her head slightly to one side. "You know... If there was a man... I hope you know that you deserve someone who'd shout about you from the rooftops, not hide you away like a secret." 

The door to the garage opened and you glanced over your shoulder as Nathan and your father walked in. They were talking, complaining about the heat, stopping suddenly when they got halfway across the room. 

"Smells like a florists in here," your dad said. 

"Better than it smelling like your sweaty work boots," Nicola quipped.

He laughed and opened the back door. "We're just taking a break," he said, stepping aside for Nathan to walk out into the garden. 

"Okay well shut the door," she replied. "I don't want your cigarette smoke ruining my soaps." 

He gave a kind wink and closed the door tight behind him. She smiled and turned her attention back to you, waiting for you to speak. 

You folded your arms defiantly. "There isn't a man," you said. "But if there was... I'd assume there was a good mutual reason for keeping it private..." 

She nodded with understanding, glancing out the window, then back to you. "Well as long as you're happy. That's the main objective of life, isn't it, happiness. Whether you get it through good sex or... making your own soap."

You breathed out a laugh. 

"Just remember, happiness doesn't have to be fleeting," she said. "You don't have to accept less than you deserve in exchange for small moments of joy. It can be an all-encompassing, constant thing if you want it to be. You just have to realise you're worthy of it." 

She picked up the jug and poured the second soap into its tray, stopping before it overflowed and swiping her finger under the spout to catch the drips. 

"Is he nice to you?" she asked softly. 

Your eyes flickered up to meet hers. She was looking down at you, brows curved with hope and concern. You gave a gentle nod and she smiled. 

"Good." 

*Tags: @evelynrosestuff @thealleydog @lexlexigogh @allie131313 @simpingbestie @ironstrange1991 @witchoftheages @hiddendiary @swds @jyessaminereads @withalittlehoney @hunterofshadows04 @slytherindoctorsat221b @diabaroxa @phoebe221 @hai-kbai @downtownshabby @dara-of-qui-zi @unfilteredmoonchild @classicrebound @bigratbitchsworld @aphroditesdilemma @bloodyxsaint @ployavengersog1 @spectaclebitch @paola-carter @gordorio @shjl15 @thedaredevilsgirl @howardtonypotts @ceccille @wllsfer @thelostsmiles @vi0letdaze @stanfanfiction @king-kongbebe-blog @sof38 @doctorscarletwitch @rmoonstoner @intrappolatatrairicordi @ehuether @dragonqueen89 @estheticwh0re @Lfp10836 @kanyewestest @star-girl-05 @theothersideofthescreen @battledress @chaosdorito @vlqueen @erratica47 @happybunnyclumsyduck @bloggerbatch @bimrwolf

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[frattweek]

This blog is happy to announce… FRATT WEEK 7 !

From October 28 to November 3, this blog is hosting an entire week about Matt Murdock and / or Frank Castle, but their exact relationship is up to you - lovers, fuckbuddies, enemies, friends, partners… you pick! You can also do a Matt-only or a Frank-only work. OT+ (Fratt+) welcome!

All versions of Frank Castle & Matt Murdock are welcome: comics, TV shows, movies… All lengths and sizes, all types of fanworks welcome: fic, art, fibercraft, translation, podfic (don't forget to check in with the original creator if you're podficcing/translating!)... or a new chapter of a fic, an outtake from a series...

Halloween is also right in the middle of FW 7 so if you're in the mood for a little spook... feel free to add bats, spiderwebs, or ghosts to all your Fratt content!

Each day comes with a theme: Monday 28: Blood Tuesday 29: Bar Wednesday 30: Trust Thursday 31/Halloween: Spirit Friday 1: Pray / Prayer Saturday 2: Bag Sunday 3: Free topic / Amnesty day if you couldn't post before!

You can participate as much or little as you want, it’s all up to you!

If you create art / graphic works, a description for accessibility purposes would be much appreciated.

Don’t forget you can already post in the dedicated AO3 collection earlier - one month before the start of the event, the collection will be set so that all new works are invisible! All newly posted works will be revealed on Fratt Week, so you can start as early as you’d like ^_^

On Tumblr, just @frattweek us and #frattweek in the first five tags :-) More info in the FAQ (open the link in a browser!) and if you can’t find your answer, send an ask or leave a message on DW!

Banner art by @nkeiiin

Detailed ID under the cut, as well as extra ideas for the prompts!

Digital art of Matt Murdock and Frank Castle stand back to back on the left of a dark red grid background. Matt is in his red daredevil suit, hanging upside down and his head resting on Frank's right shoulder. Frank is angry frowning and looking up. Two white lines form a tilted X are on the right side of the art. The text on top of the line is "Fratt Week 7 28th Oct - 3rd Nov", the text at the bottom of the line is "Frattweek.tumblr.com"

1/ Blood -- bleeding, family, kin, clan, spill, martyr, thicker than water, vampire, fake, communion… 2/ Bar -- drinking establishment, bar exam, disbarred, rebar (construction worker!Frank, anyone?), ka-bar knife, to bar someone from something, things going fubar... 3/ Trust -- trust fund, to trust, trust in god, mistrust, trusty (gun, fist, baton, friend/partner…) 4/ Spirit -- ghost, alcohol, spiritual, spiritism, spirited, sprite... 5/ Pray / Prayer: religion, Madonna (Like A Prayer;-), misheard prey... 6/ Bag -- under the eyes, heavy bag, grocery bag, to bag (a criminal?), baggy (clothes?), gym bag, duffle bag, bag over the head, bodybag, bagged a criminal…

[onskepa]

Syawn ch 2

request:

Halo Hello Halo! I hope you are having a mighty fine day/night!

I hope this is alright but could I request a neteyam x avatar,na'vi! Reader?

Basically the reader is pregnant with what's supposed to be their first born. However, fate would have it that y/n would give birth to triplets! A never before heard of phenomena, due to na'vi usually having children one at a time and even then twins were a very rare event to occur!

I dunno I just like the idea of reader giving birth to triplets much to the sully family's surprise. Plus I couldn't help but think of how funny it would be for neteyam to be pacing outside the door for hours and the almost faint when finds out he doesn't just have one or two babies, but three!

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This is part two of Syawn request. Go check that out before reading this one! Now that aside! here is the awaited chapter two! enjoy!

Syawn series

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This communion with Eywa will be one for the books. Or in this case, a mark in na'vi history. Word spread of Eywa's miracle. Three na'vi children born at once! and from a dream walker no less!

All na'vi clans near and far wanted go and see for themselves. Because many refuse to believe such words, thinking its merely lies. But curiosity got the best of them.

When a day was set for the triplets communion with Eywa, many clans were set to witness it for themselves.

When such news got back to the Omatikaya clan, the world "overwhelmed" doesn't even begin to cover what everyone is feeling. While it is a huge honor for the clan to receive such guests, there is so little time to prepare who knows how many!

While jake and neytiri who are respectfully the Olo'eyktan and Tsahik of their clan, it was neteyam and syawn that were overwhelmed to the max.

So many people are coming to see their children bond with Eywa. The fear of seeing so many people just because of a impossibility happened.

Neyetam and syawn worry for their little ones as many people can scar them. Only having them for a few days and already both parents are being over protective and only want to keep their children safe.

"is this right...?" syawn asks neteyam as they gently rock the children's large basinet with them sleeping. "Let so many come see them...?" syawn says with clear worry in her eyes. Afraid that maybe what is happening isnt right.

"This is the first time many clans have come to see another's communion. It is a high honor....but I understand you yawne..." neteyam looks down at his sweet children. So small and already the three were making a impact on the world.

"to have them be shown like some spectacle, I fear the clans would see them as something else. Tell me nete, am I in the wrong? is this just my mother instincts seeing danger everywhere?" syawn goes on.

Neteyam brings her to his chest, her arms over his neck and his around her hips. The need to be closer to each other as means for comfort never dimmed with time.

"I can speak with my parents...I know they will understand and take our side" neteyam suggests. He felt his mate nod, her breathing slow as she relaxes in his embrace.

However as much as jake and neytiri understands their concerns, it was too late. By the next day, three clans arrived.

The Tipani clan, Anurai clan, and the Twakami clan.

And they all brought gifts for the children and the parents. Neteyam and syawn were grateful, but their worries never waivered despite the kind generosity the clans showed.

As the day goes by more clans appeared, even their closest ally, the Metkayina clan. Ao'nung and his beloved tsahik, Unyor came as well as bearing gifts from their island.

Tonowari and ronal, aged well but still in their prime, congratulate the couple and surprisingly, they along with the other metkayina members were allowed to the see the triplets first before everyone else.

Syawn understands the deep trust the sully family has with the metkayina clan, so she puts her trust in them too.

Ronal, Tonowari and their youngest, Ti'ong were given the privilege to carry one of the triplets in their arms. Ronal was happy, even though she isn't Tsahik anymore, she still blessing them like one. Giving each one a prayer and to hope for them a bright future.

As a warrior, Tonowari senses great strength in each of the little ones, sensing their hearts beating mighty and strong. Why, the one he holds already has a strong grip on his finger. That says a lot about them.

Ti'nong was looking at them with love and adoration in the young one's eyes. So small and so cute! Already seeing themselves as like a older distant cousin. But a fun cousin no less!

Ao'nung and Unyor were next to carry the two. Ronal held the other triplet a bit longer. Reminding herself of when her children were young.

"May Eywa bless you three with thriving joy and great bliss. Enjoy the gift she has given you and brace it to the fullest" Unyor says as she blessed the children. Syawn smiles, feeling pride and joy that her children were giving such blessings.

"I still don't understand how it is possible" ao'nung says, still confused of seeing triplets for the first time in his life.

"believe me brother, we don't either" neteyam replies.

"It is Eywa's will. She saw syawn worthy and blessed her with a great gift. That all is to it" ronal quickly tells. As Tsahik, one of the main things to do is try to understand and interpret what Eywa's will is and repeat it to the people.

The time came, where neteyam and Syawn's children would have their communion with Eywa. Thousands of na'vi from many tribes came to witness it. To see for their eyes of three of a kind na'vi.

Neytiri took charge, smiling happily as she recites the words, as neteyam, syawn, and kiri were each holding one of the triplets.

Neytiri took her time on each child, gently holding their queue and connecting them to one of the hanging vines, feeling joy as she is reminded of her children's communion.

She makes eye contact with neteyem. Love and pride seep from her golden eyes, smiling proudly at her eldest son.

"I am so proud of you ma'itan" she says lowly. Neteyam smiles, "thank you sa'nok". She goes to syawn and they make eyes contact with the same love and pride.

"May Eywa bless you ma'ite, to live long enough to see your children thrive. Protect and love these beautiful children unconditionally" neytiri says. Syawn nods and smiles lovingly, "yes, with all my heart".

It was a beautiful sight. Kiri felt proud to be part of the communion, to see her brother and his mate smile and beam with joy. She knows Eywa feels the same, deep in her heart.

Seeing the three children's golden eyes light up, smiling in daze. She wonder's what the triplets are seeing. Maybe seeing their great grandfather, Eytukan, or someone else. But either way, she is happy to see them happy.

After the communion, the celebration was large and loud. Many still hand neteyam and syawn gifts. There was so many, it began to build a hill. From fruits, medicines, beads, necklaces, bands, bows, arrows, you name it. There was so much, the parents believed they wont worry about shortage. All the Olo'eyktan's and Tsahik's gave their blessings to the triplets. Their eyes now believing the expansion of Eywa's gift.

For what they witnessed will be told throughout time. That the future generations must know about this wonderful night.

By the end of the night, everyone was tired. Syawn and neteyam brought their children back home. Where its warm, safe, and cozy. The children themselves were tired and slept peacefully, the three holding each other and snoozing as one. The three tucked in their big soft bassinet and syawn rocks them gently.

Neteyam adds beads to their children's songchords, singing out their life story, even if its short. Now a new bead to add of their communion. Syawn doing the same, as parents seeing their children connection with their great mother for the first time. She adds three purple colored beads, different shades, one for each child. She sings of her love and joy into her songchord.

Neteyam and syawn hug each other once more, and once again looking down at their children. Love is all they feel for their little ones. As they can only hope and see what will become of their little ones. And Eywa wonders too, to see what her little three souls will do with her gift.

Aaaaaaaaaaand that is it for ch 2! I loved this one and I hope you all do! Until next time! see ya!

taglisht: @quirkyhero , @theunfortunateplace , @moonchildxoxx

Unyor = sweetly aromatic, (a flowery or aromatic woody sort of smell). (may also refer to some spices used in Na’vi cooking)

Ti'nong = blooming, unfolding

[nocturnesmoon]

Chapter 3: Ghosts Of The Past

(Series Masterlist: Divine Violence) (Read on Ao3) (Inspired Playlist)

Series:The Divine Violence - Chapter 3: Ghosts Of The Past

Wordcount: 5.5K

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x John "Soap" MacTavish x Gn!Reader

TW: (View masterlist for series tw and tags) - DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, Religious Trauma, PTSD, Flashbacks, Hallucinations, Anxiety, Paranoia, Disturbing themes, Implied eating disorders, Jealousy, Past abuse, Underage drinking, vomiting

Description: Soap approaches you to eat lunch with him, you begrudgingly accept.

A/N: Wooo another chapter done! Finally getting into some of the angsty bits that's gonna be a gateway to things we're going to expand upon later in the story. Everybody stay hydrated and I hope you enjoy it!

[Prev chapter / Next Chapter]

The night is young and beautiful. Stars would cover the sky above you if it wasn't from the pollution of the city lights. You can still count a few, one, two, three, even four. They're bright here, one even seems to be blinking at you before you realize it's a plane.

It feels almost too ceremonial with the full moon in the sky, and Simon standing by the little makeshift fire in the pile of trash. It reminds you a little of your confirmation, years past by now. Though the church was a lot cleaner, the people like minded. Clothing of white making you shine in the sun, your proud mother with her uptight smile, and your father who had never before seemed proud of anything you did, now smiled warm toned at you.

You can still remember each word the priest spoke to you. Etched so deep in your brain it might as well have been carved into the back of your palm.

Thinking back to it, you realize it's different to this, so much different. The grittiness has a charm to it, but the real reason your nerves have skyrocketed is because of him. You take a step closer to the fire, watch him pop open the bottle of vodka. The one he had stolen from his father’s cabinet. Easier now that he wasn't home as much.

"Nervous?"

He grins at you, grabbing your fidgeting hand in his own. "We can still leave it be?" he offers kindly, but you quickly shake your head no. You had asked for this, you wanted to try it, because you knew the closest way you'd ever come to alcohol otherwise was the wine (Which wasn't even wine, it was grape juice) at the communion in church.

Simon had so graciously offered when you mentioned your want in passing. The curious nature in your soul wanting to try it at least once, even if you turned out to dislike it. You squeeze his hand, as if to jitter out your nerves. Being this far from home never felt good to you, a festering anxiety in your mind that your parents would find out and punish you.

There was a lot of things Simon could help you with, even take the fall for you should the situation call for it, but not this. No, this would be on you, and it would not feel good.

The fire crackles in front of you, something sharp snaps and brings your focus away from the bottle. You had no clue what was burning in there, but it provided a warm place for you to be so you didn't have much to complain about.

"Whenever you're ready Little Spider," he teases and brings the bottle to your hand.

You scoff and roll your eyes. "Does it really burn that bad?" you take the bottle with a small grimace. Your eyes nervously flicking from the liquid to him and back again.

"You seem very determined that this is what you want to do, so why don't you take a sip and find out?"

Another moments hesitance, and you bring the bottle to your lips. In the first second it doesn't burn, just so that the little thought of relief can enter your brain, before being squashed by the lit fire in your throat.

He quickly grabs the bottle away from you, when you start coughing and spurting. The sounds of your distress drowned out by his roaring laughter. His hand comes to pat you on the back, his eyes almost filled with tears from his laughter.

"Oh my oh my oh my, why why why did I do this."

"Oh c'mon, it wasn't that bad, was it?" he looks down at the bottle experimentally. Acting as if he hadn't tasted it countless times before. He brings it to his lips when your outburst calms down, taking a sip seamlessly, taking the burn proud and easy.

"How in the world," you sound astonished by his display. He tries to keep a straight face, but fails very quickly when he sees how you look at him like he's crazy. "Hey don't laugh!" you swat his arm, but soon fall into the laughter along with him.

The fire illuminates his face, casting shadows of you both behind on the wall. The soft orange glow makes some of his features stand out more than normal. His little scars close to his mouth that's normally almost invisible, now almost makes him look scary if it wasn't for how his face was lit up with joy.

"Oh wow," you grab the bottle back to read the inscription as if that would give you more clarity. "I don't understand how people drink stuff like this daily...I mean it's not that good."

His smile falls a little, his breathing catching up from the fit of laughter. "Well, drink enough of it and you'll start to feel funny," he explains simply instead of doing in-depth.

"Huh..." you look at the little alcohol percentage on the bottle, "have you been drunk before?"

He doesn't respond immediately, almost as if he seems ashamed of it. "A few times," he admits and trails closer to the wall, "with a few other guys from school." He leans on it, crossing his arms over his chest. It makes him look edgy, his dark attire and the illumination of a dumpster fire. He looks older than he is like that.

You come closer, tilting your head to the side slightly. He looks at you tentatively, taking in all that is you, the way you look, the way you move, the way you position yourself in front of him, so very close.

"What else have you done?" you ask in a knowing tone that didn't know much at all, "that you haven't had the heart to tell me about yet?" His eyes widen slightly panicked for a moment. You already know how he's compiling an excuse in his brain, or some way to explain himself away from anger, but you aren't angry.

"I just didn't think it was your thing...didn't want to bother you with it...make you feel like you had to," he explains quickly. You shake your head, making sure to give him a small smile as reassurance. His shoulders sag more.

"It wasn't..." you tell him, “But now I’m curious."

"Are you now?" his voice turns back to teasing. How you'd love to smear that smug smile off him, one way or another.

You bring the bottle to your lips, drinking way more than you probably should.

"Yeah, so let's find out."

Your throat burns whenever you throw up. It's become a much more frequent occurrence. The stress of your problems taking wear on your mind. You're no more surprised to find a singular grey hair protrude from your scalp, than you are from the blood mixed with bile in the sink.

That had been your breakfast most likely. The only meal you had found yourself able to sneak away to eat in peace of your assigned room. It left your stomach empty again, the pained hollow feeling you despised despite how much of your life was spent in it.

You'd take anything over this. Oh, how you wished you could be like anyone else, the majority of the reasons to throw up being a hangover, or being sick. Though alcohol hasn't touched your lips in years.

The fluorescent lights blink above you, the little buzzing drowned out by your heavy breathing. The space is better than what you've had the past while, but you did miss the privacy of the motel. People had a tendency to stare here.

You turn on the water, guiding it along with your hands to wash away the bile. Blood trickles down from your knuckles, the split ends of flesh flaking off the bone. You can see the white underneath. The sound of the door opening brings your attention away from it. You avoid the mirror despite its desperate pleas.

No what you can't just leave me here! Please you can't be serious! You're just going to let him keep me in here?! Please just look at me, don't go.

You look towards the mohawk showing itself first.

When you first met Soap, you had been taken aback. He had a very intense personality, a fire within that outshined in his actions. You have yet to determine your own disposition on him. He's friendly enough towards you, all things considered.

"Ah there ye are." He's been standing outside that door for who knows how long. He likely heard the wretched sound as your stomach gave in on itself. Why he chose now to step in, eludes you.

You clear your throat, the hunch in your back stretching out after you turn off the running water. Your fingers run over your knuckles; the wounds gone. "Do you need something?" keeping your voice steady and polite proves a more difficult task than you'd like it to.

"Have ye had lunch yet...?" he's being careful with you. It's a revelation you didn't expect to have for him, did he figure something out he shouldn't have? Does he know?

"Ah was gonna invite ye to join us this mornin' for breakfast, but ah couldn't find ye." Good that had been the intention. A part of you did recognize you couldn't hole yourself away forever though. You were already the odd one out in the group of four.

"Oh.."

Your voice is too weak

The mirror echoes.

"Right...I..."

You clear your throat again, it feels too constricted, the air in here is not enough for you.

You catch yourself in his vibrant blue eyes. You could see an ocean in them, the beautiful waves at sea, the smell of salt in the air. You can feel the surgent winds ghosting over your skin, the sting and burn as water enters your lungs, a warm hand on the back of your neck holding you down. A faraway chanting of prayer echoes muffled in your ears.

"No...I haven't" you try to muster a smile.

"Good," he says pleased "ye're with me then."

The sea is faraway.

The mess hall is the exact kind of hell you expected it to be. Loud, obnoxious, filled with potential social threats and unnecessary questions on the verge from the man sitting in front of you. The only bit of luck you seem to have kept, shows itself in the lack of soldiers here at all. Most of them had likely already eaten.

The meal Infront of you looked anything but appetizing. Yet Soap seemed all the more happy to devour it with no complaints. He's been talking your head off ever since you sat down, clueing you in on things at base. Most of it is useful information you manage to retain, but after awhile your ears goes deaf despite how much you want to listen.

Though you have to admit that it sounds like they're a tight knit group. The 141 formed quite awhile ago, managing to take out several high-level threats. It made sense to put them up against the divine principle, but you couldn't help the doubt in your mind that anything would come of it. Even if you managed to take the group down once more, they would just resurface years later until you took out the root of the problem.

You had failed to do it once.

"...are ye listening?"

Your eyes flicker up from your murky food, locking eyes with Soap. What the hell kind of name was that anyway. Was he good at cleaning dishes? A lot of code names tend to be teasing or insults, so maybe he got teased for it?

"Yeah," you reassure him by briefly giving him your undivided attention. You'd quickly trail out again.

"Ye can tell me to shut up, ah know ah talk a lot" he doesn't sound ashamed of it, but you can hear the hint of self deprecation. Someone's definitely shamed him in the past. You had no intention to do so, you quite preferred people who talk a lot. They talk fast, easy, and typically give way more information than they should which paints you a better picture. A bonus point that it fills out the silence you bring.

"No... it’s nice," you mutter and pick up your fork. You might as well try to fight some of it down, you hadn't even touched any of it yet, and Soap was practically done even with his rambling.

You didn't know whether the lack of people in a typically populated space made you more or less anxious.

"So, ye used to hunt these people a few years ago?"

You meet his eyes for the first time in what feels like forever. You're not sure what you were supposed to find in them, but definitely not the curiosity that shines. This entire taskforce is playing with a hellfire they do not understand. It's practically impossible to take it down, even from within, lord knows you've tried.

"Yeah."

You could bite your lip bloody trying to think of ways to continue the conversation from here. He goes wildly quiet for you. Is he expecting for you to elaborate? What does he even want you to say? What were you allowed to say? What did they know? How much information is appropriate over a lunch in a very public area?

You were starting to regret your decision of agreeing to all of this. You hadn't even started and the stress was pulling you down under.

"They're hard to find, even with a full team" he shakes his head amused, "ah can't even imagine what it must've been like hunting them practically all alone."

"I wasn't alone."

He seems surprised. Good.

Kate hadn't told them every detail.

"They were tenacious then; I don't doubt the group wont behave much different this time around. They always end up with the same values, the same goal." You ramble on, catching yourself by biting your tongue.

"What's the goal?" he asks.

"Doomsday preppers in a nutshell, just add a slimy layer of misguided religion on top of it." You finally take a big bite of your food. It slides down your throat slowly, the dryness, or size catching you off-guard.

Soap slides your glass closer to you. "Not new, but also not every day ye see it to this large of an extent."

"It's been organized for years now, they're not likely to stop from a threat from the authorities. Only way is to take out the roots." You mumble on after getting your throat cleared. There were quite a few ways to go about doing that, all of them left an acidic taste in your mouth.

You could see the way he wanted to ask more. He should refrain, wait for it all to be revealed in proper time instead of probing you for information in an informal interrogation. A quite nice one at that.

You had yet to decide on how close you wanted to get to him.

John MacTavish, Soap.

He was a sergeant, chatty nature, one for jokes, witty, smart. A person worthy to note, despite rebellious appearances.

The captain had yet to earn your respect, and likewise yours his. He was impressive on all accounts. He would also be the first person to throw you off this mission at a sign of weakness. Valuable in its own right.

Kyle was indifferent towards you, a bit cold perhaps, though he seemed a gentleman when it came down to it.

Ghost was......Simon.

You didn't know what you expected when you met Simon again. He's a lot more different than you thought he would be. Taking on the persona of Ghost, you suppose you can't blame him for needing an escape, but the motif still stirs something awful in your chest. Neither of you really got over it.

Maybe you'd have preferred it if he wasn't so aloof with you, a bit more direct in your long-awaited reunion. Perhaps it would have been better if it had mimicked TV, the rain and yelling and screaming in a scenic location to make it more meaningful to you. Unfortunately, reality tends to be far more boring.

"So did he always wear that mask?"

"Ghost? Aye, as long as I've known the bastard," he chuckles "can ask Price about before that, he's known 'im the longest."

There's a pang in your heart, something that feels an awful lot like a drop jealousy, but you can't allow that. It wouldn't be one bit fair. If you were the one to walk away from him then, were you really allowed to feel anything at all for him? Certainly not jealousy over the new relationships he'd build. You should be happy, you really should.

But how dare he abandon you so fast.

You shake your head free of the feeling. Wrongful, wishful, thinking wouldn't change the truth nor the fact he was supposedly better off here.

"Known him long?"

"Ever since we got assigned on this taskforce, give or take a few years now. And Ye?"

"Old acquaintances."

There's another sting in your heart that burns something fierce. All the nights you had spent wishing you were still in contact with him coming back to you. Times when it felt like a single word from him would make life worth living again. A single glance from him could make it worth anything.

You tried to ignore that bit.

But the mask had a symbolism you didn't like any better. You'd only be arrogant to think or claim that you still knew him and his thoughts, but it was still distasteful. Had he forgotten? You had both ran from it, difference was he now wore it on his face and you watched it creep in the shadows.

You had always hated the cold streaks in first signs of winter. When the temperature went freezing, the trees losing their colour, the sun hiding more often now behind threatening clouds. However still no snow. All the unfortunate parts with none of the benefits.

And standing on Simon's freezing front porch didn't help. He was taking too long. It had been half a minute since you rung the doorbell. Where the hell was he? His parents were supposed to be out, and despite his little brother still being home, the two of you would take any opportunity you could take.

You wrap your jacket closer around you. The biting frost nipping at your cheeks and nose. For a moment you debate whether you should ring the bell again, but you remember his words clear, he had told you to just go in, even if it felt wrong to do that without a formal invitation straight from the door.

You hadn't been here too many times. Some part of yourself too scared that the smell of smoke would sting your clothes, and that your parents would know exactly where you had been. You needed to be careful, one wrong decision and they'd forbid you from seeing him again.

You aren't sure if you could handle that.

The door creeks when you open it, too loud for your taste. It makes you grimace. You try calling out for him, to no response. There's a smell of freshly baked bread, likely at the hands of his mum.

A smile tugs on your lips, your stomach twisting hungrily in your body. Hurriedly you kick off your shoes, and hang up your jacket, emerging in the home's living room. For a moment you wonder if anyone is even home, it feels cold from the lack of interaction.

"Simon?" it's not like him to leave you alone like that. Was he even home?

You tiptoe towards the hallway peeking down the dark way. When you stare too long, the shadows move occasionally, takes shape like moving smoke. Another time you softly call his name, slowly coming up to Simon's and his brother’s bedroom.

It's cracked open very slightly, the shine of light coming from the slit. It illuminates the dying flowers placed neatly on a bookshelf. You move to open the door, but before you can get there, you feel a tap on your shoulder.

The hairs on the back of your neck rise, the subtle warm breath from someone else hitting your skin. It felt wrong, and in the back of your mind you knew who it was, what he was doing. You whipped around, the fear having already seeped into your eyes. You were ready to shield yourself, stare into the tall figure that looked like the personification of death.

The scream that erupted from your lungs, weren't only of fear but also from genuine shock. The figure wasn't tall like you had expected, instead you had to glance downwards to meet the eyes behind a white skull mask. You stumble backwards, crashing your body against the door and falling all the way down to the floor.

The boy stands above you, a fit of psychotic little giggles come from him which make your stomach churn with disgust. He holds a butterknife in his hand. It's the only reason you haven't gotten up yet as you stare at his display, trying to mimic his father.

"Tommy what are you doing!" you shout out offended. You hope it covers the tinge of fear you carry. In no universe should Simon's little brother look like this, in no world should he be able to scare you this badly.

The antsy sensation isn't just from the initial surprise, it swirls in your blood at the sight of a raised knife. It doesn't matter that it isn't sharp, it doesn't even matter that it's not directly pointed at you.

It makes you remember. The late nights, the early mornings, the fights that took place within your own home. The list of threats you'd heard, you could recite them as clear as your favourite quote from your favourite book.

"Tommy...put down the knife." You don't hear the tremble in your voice but he does. He tilts his head; a line of light falls over the skull mask. His eyes are illuminated beneath it, they carry nothing but distaste for you.

He's never liked you. You were fine with that, but this is just too far. Where was Simon anyway!? If Tommy was home then he should be as well, maybe even his mother if anything at all.

Like a saving grace, an angel sent from the heavens, you hear his uncertain voice call out shakily.

"Tommy what are you doing, give that to me."

Simon pulls you even closer to his form, your legs shift from how you're sitting halfway into his lap. He had practically forced you this close when you started to complain about the cold. Not that you minded the proximity itself.

"Are you sure we can't just lock a room, so he won't disturb us?" You nuzzle closer into his side. A big breath exits your lungs, it rises upwards like a little cloud. His arm pulls your jacket closer around, his hand settling on your waist to give you a little squeeze.

"We're fine here," he mumbles into your hair "got you all to myself."

"I know," you say exasperated "it's just why would he do that...it's not...its..."

You don't know how to formulate your words right. It's hard to explain exactly what you saw from your perspective on the floor. A terrifying display you never want to see on Tommy's innocent face again. That look was reserved for his father, not that you were any happier seeing it on him either.

"He's been acting up...mood swings and all that" Simon sighs and shakes his head. "He's done it to me too a few times when mom and dad are fighting...I... don’t understand it. Even when dad brought that snake in, he was all giddy...I don't think he really understands," Simon confesses.

"Wait, what snake?!" you manage to pull yourself away from his arms. You stay close in his hold to keep sharing body heat, but you raise yourself on your knees so you're looking down at his face. "Your dad brought a snake into your home, to you, and he just laughed?" you sounded pissed off, and rightfully so you were. He'd never told you this before now.

"Yeah, were years ago now but..." he raises a hand, his thumb brushing over to dull marks above his lips "it bit me."

Your eyebrows furrow and you have to hold yourself back from not yelling out in frustration. You bite down on your own lip hard, and reach a hand up to gently run your fingers over the two scars in the form of dots. He closes his eyes as he feels your skin on his, let's out a shuddering breath. He always gets like this now at your touch, he always seems so affected, always positively.

In the beginning you thought it was just hormones, puberty for him now that you're both well into your teenage years. A round of "Boys will be boys," as your mother would keep saying whenever you told her how you saw the boys at school pick on the girls in the most horrendous ways.

Simon's a boy but you've never seen him be that cruel. And then you started to think it might just be you he's like this with, that to anyone else, any other girl or boy that gets close never gets to see him have this kind of reaction.

He opens his eyes and your breath catches in your throat with an ugly little sound. It makes you snort, giggling into your hand as you listen to his rumble of a chuckle. His arms snake around your waist, bring you in closer, pressing your bodies up against each other as much as can be.

He looks up at you like you're the only person in the world.

Like you're everything to him, as if you were to go his world would collapse around him. And you know it's true because you feel the same way. If he were to ever leave, you wouldn't know how to function, you wouldn't have an escape from the abuse, a person to keep you afloat when you're drowning.

You lean down a little to place a soft peck just above his lips, on the dotted scars.

You're not sure what true love is, but if you'll ever have a chance at it, it has to be this. There can be no other explanation for that glint in his eye reserved only for you.

He looks at you with pure love.

Soap looks at you expectantly. The dull sounds of the mess hall fill your ears again, you didn't even realize you zoned out. You only pray it wasn't for an unusually long time.

"We knew each other way back, before he joined the military I think." You try your best to play it off as not a big deal. As if you hadn't been in deep with him once upon an easier time. You doubted Simon would want to bring more attention to it than necessary when it came to his teammates.

"Before? Woah, can finally say ah know someone who knew the legendary ghost before he became ghost." He sounds pleased with himself. You don't understand the difference.

Like speaking of the devil himself, the tall dark figure with a mask you wanted to rip off him, emerged into the hall. It didn't turn many heads, but the way you whipped your head dramatically brought Soap's attention to him as well.

"Well...speak of the devil..." he mumbled. You could hear the smile on his lips without looking.

It's a bit late to come in for lunch, but when you think about it you didn't see him go eat with the others, while you were actively avoiding them. He would always retreat into his own room or office, like you would do.

Both you and Soap watches as he goes up to select what his lunch will be. Occasionally you glance towards Soap, observing his interest in Simon, you try to gouge at their relationship. They'd likely be good friends, having a soldier camaraderie for years now. It made you wonder if Soap would now qualify as one to know more about the boy you used to be so close with, than you do yourself.

You look back to Simon, trying to get a proper glimpse of his mask again. You have to bite back an annoyed groan when they flood your vision again.

The shadows encompass his mask all around. They block out the once dirty white with a coal black. It moves around like a mass, obscuring his face, his head taking on spiky ends, then blocky, then smooth. It makes him look like the creatures in the mirrors, the only thing left being the uncanny clear view of his eyes.

They're so visible to you that they freak you out more than the moving shadows, looking straight out of an uncomfortable picture you'd find on the internet. When he finally picks up his food and turns to your direction, your breath catches in your throat with an ugly little sound.

Soap looks at you concerned, but you wave him off quickly taking a big gulp of your water.

You look back to see exactly what you thought it was. You'd recognize that look on him anywhere from just his eyes. People say eyes are the windows to someone's soul, you don't know if you believe it for everyone else or even yourself, your eyes look so dull in the mirror, but for Simon it's the truest statement you've heard.

Despite the time apart, that look is burned into your retinas. It's been an image you clung to over the years, you last remnant of him, something to remind you of what you once had.

And he's looking towards you, like he used to do.

He's looking towards you with an expression you haven't seen in person in years.

He's looking towards you with a look of love you'd never think you'd see on his face again.

He's looking towards you with such devotion that someone like you doesn't deserve from someone like him.

You realize it too late. You glance away from Simon and look to the man sitting in front of you

He looks at you with pure love.

He's not looking at you.

Are you seriously jealous over a man you haven't seen in years?

You know it's pathetic. You know it's nonsensical. You know you shouldn't.

Yet you pace back and forth in your room, the shadows louder than they've ever been in months. They corner you in on every side, lunge out at you when you get too close to the walls. Their thousand little voices overlap in a chorus of insults.

Vile, pathetic, weak, useless, killer.

Your hands raise up to cover your ears but it does nothing to dampen the intensity. Your clothes feel too tight on your body, the air too humid, a certain place in the room burning hot with agony and shame. The little space under your bed. The bag with the letters that once brought you comfort.

They burn hot even from a distance. A rush of hot and cold going through your bloodstream. Ice beneath your skin one moment and boiling blood the next.

Did he ever even look at you like that? Wasn't it different back then? He had the dumb puppy love for you none of that was real.

"Shut up," your voices breaks in your throat and comes out a meek whisper.

Just take a look at those pathetic letters.

"No..."

Each one of them so much later than the next. Spaced out perfectly to leave you in the dark, first a week then two then a month then two months then...

"Shut it!" you shout out with the animalistic ferocity you've been taught. The shadows retract slightly, giving you more room to breathe. Normally you try to ignore the voices that go through your head, you've found answering them only encourage their absurd bait. They could taunt you all they wanted. Voices instilled by vile men in your life, repeated over and over and over and over and over.

Until they manifested themselves within your skull and refused to leave.

In a way you know the things you are seeing aren't real, but it feels so solid. All of it just your fragmented mind trying to make sense of what you were forced to see. None of it could be real.

Sometimes you think that you could actually reach out and touch them, but anytime you've tried they just retract further away from you. You've always hated how it swims in your vision, distracts you from what's actually important.

You look towards the bed, under it, the bag, the letters that almost flood out of it from where you've thrown it. They call to you, scream at you so silently. Your legs are sluggish like walking through water as they carry you there. Your fingers touching what feels like knives as you pull out the nearest letter.

The little piece of paper he left on your bed before he left for the military.

To my love, my dear little spider

You read quietly, the whisper barely even audible on your lips.

I'm sorry that I have to go. Don't fall apart without me, okay?

See you soon, your Simon

Likes, Reblogs and comments are always appreciated, love ya! <3

Taglist: @chickennn-soupp @unlikelyaperson @ghostlythots @lilynotdilly @islnd-vybz @spicyspicyliving @kaoyamamegami

[art-that-fucks-you-up-tournament]

Behold, a bracket!

Text form below the cut because trying to copy all the 256 into the alt text sounded.... horrifying. Warning for 128 matchups, seriously, this list is long, and so I've avoided adding the artists until the polls.

a note: the pinned post has started misbehaving, so only open polls will be directly linked. closed polls instead have the results page linked in the set header, all the polls are linked from there

Set 1

The Lament for Icarus (Miao He) vs The Lament for Icarus (Herbert Draper)

The angel came to me in a fever hallucination, perched upon my bed as I returned from the bathroom. vs Sweet Brown Snail

Figures vs A Philosopher Lecturing on the Orrery

Happy Shoppers vs Hubble Deep Field

Lovers Painting vs Bath Curtain

Dr. Helen Taussig vs Une Martyre

Orangoutang étranglant un sauvage de Bornéo (Orangutan strangling a Borneo savage) vs Can’t Help Myself

Rape vs Technicolor Hiroshima

Set 2

A Walk at Dusk vs Based on “Autoportrait with the Model” by Maria-Rayevska Ivanova

Diary Page vs Les Jours Gigantesques (The Titanic Days)

Dead of Night vs You Won't

Christina's World vs Bobby

Untitled (I’m Turning Into A Specter Before Your Very Eyes And I’m Going To Haunt You) vs Two Sisters (On the Terrace)

Sharecropper vs Lustmord

The Parca and the Angel of Death vs Untitled (Zdzisław Beksiński)

Stress vs The Fallen Angel

Set 3

Device to Root Out Evil vs Travelling Light

Diana vs Fifty Days at Iliam: The Fire that Consumes All before It

The Plains, from Memory vs Exotic Bodies

Doubting Thomas vs Self-Portrait in the Bathroom Mirror

Empty Nest vs Somebody Fell From Aloft

Anguish vs If I Died

Cat in Obsolete Bath vs You're Not Boring Anymore

Salvator Mundi (Savior of the World) vs Untitled (billboard of an empty unmade bed)

Set 4

There Will Be No Miracles Here vs Symphony of the Sixth Blast Furnace

Fox Hunt vs Tarpaulin

Khajuraho Group of Monuments vs Ranakpur Jain Temple

ปราสาทสัจธรรม (The Sanctuary of Truth) vs Grande Panorama de Lisboa

Heroic Head of Pierre de Wissant, One of the Burghers of Calais vs The Weather

The Daughters of Edward Darley Boit vs If this is art

Statue of Vincent and Theo van Gogh vs Jeanne d’Arc écoutant les voix (Joan of Arc listening to the Voices)

Fountain vs Judith Slaying Holofernes

Set 5

Cueva de las Manos (Cave of Hands) vs Cave of El Castillo

Chauvet Cave Bear vs Uffington White Horse

Laocoön and His Sons vs Winged Victory of Samothrace

Crouching Aphrodite vs Statue of Taweret

Guardian Figure vs Kūya-Shonin (Saint Kuya)

Ancient Greek doll vs Arena #7 (Bears)

Enbu (炎舞) (Dancing in the Flames) vs Yearning Shadows

Belfast to Byzantium vs Freedom

Set 6

The Kama Sutra of Vatsyayan vs Portraits

The Blood Mirror vs Nighthawks

Electric Fan (Feel it Motherfuckers): Only Unclaimed Item from the Stephen Earabino Estate vs "Untitled" (Portrait of Ross in L.A.)

Lady Agnew of Lochnaw vs Forgotten Dreams

Saint Bride vs Pixeles (a group of 9 works)

War Pieta vs The Sunset

The Handmaidens of Sivawara Preparing the Sacred Bull at Tanjore for a Festival vs Ajax and Cassandra

Nāve (Death) vs Abstraction

Set 7

Yes vs Meeting on the Turret Stair

Hacked to Death II vs Stańczyk

Closeness Lines Over Time vs Voice of Fire

The Maple Trees at Mama, the Tekona Shrine and Tsugihashi Bridge vs Portrait of Sir Thomas More

Survival Series: In a Dream You Saw a Way vs Takiyasha the Witch and the Skeleton Spectre

Death blowing bubbles vs The Kitchen Table Series

Painting 1946 vs In the Grip of Winter

Untitled (Black and Gray) vs NAMES Project AIDS Memorial Quilt

Set 8

Blue Plate Special vs Red Cedar

Palace of Fine Arts vs Mosque–Cathedral of Córdoba

Le Château des Pyrénées (The Castle of the Pyrenees) vs Susanna and the Elders, Restored - X-Ray

Moby Dick vs Viva la Vida, Watermelons

Venus Envy Chapter One (Of the First Holy Communion Moments Before the End) vs how to look at art

St. Sebastian vs Untitled #12

Carroña vs The invincible one

Untitled (Two Dogs) vs The Dog

SECOND HALF

Set 9

David (Donatello) vs David (Michelangelo)

The Other Side vs The Temptation of St. Jerome

Seated Woman with Bent Knees vs Starry Night

Headdress - Shadae vs Untitled for the Image Flow's Queer Conscience exhibit

Woman with Dead Child (Frau mit totem Kind) vs Les Amants (The Lovers)

Siroče na majčinom grobu (Orphan on Mother's Grave) vs You Make My World a Better Place to Find

Fighting Against SARS Memorial Architectural Scene (弘揚抗疫精神建築景觀) vs Fallingwater

Resting vs The Hull

Set 10

Olive Trees vs Worship

Glow vs Wheatfield with Crows

Study after Velázquez's Portrait of Pope Innocent X vs Untitled (He Plays Very Badly)

D.I.Y. by John Wiswell vs The Tragedy

Judith and the Head of Holofernes vs Beethovenfries (Beethoven Frieze)

The Memory of Me (How Could I Forget) vs oh god i had a really big epiphany about love and personhood but i’m too drunk for words

I am happy because everyone loves me vs 瀕危形態 (Endangered Forms)

Three Scaffolders vs Ivan the Terrible and His Son Ivan

Set 11

San Giorgio Maggiore at Dusk vs Water-Lilies, Reflection of a Weeping Willow

The Grief of the Pasha vs Monolith in Vigeland Sculpture Park

Passion vs Space Diner

Hamlet and Ophelia vs Two Earthlings

Ellen Terry as Lady Macbeth vs Seer Bonnets

Photograph from "SNAP OSAKA" Collection vs Clytemnestra after the Murder

“Untitled” (Perfect Lovers) vs The Lovers (TIE)

Kedai Ubat Jenun vs Orange Store Front

Set 12

The Apotheosis of War vs Portrait of the Dancer Aleksandr Sakharov

Julie Manet vs Mouth

The Icebergs vs Kaleidoscope Cats III

Maman vs Caza Nocturna (Night Hunt)

The Book of Kells Folio 188r: Luke carpet page vs Ardagh Chalice

Yusuf and Zulaikha vs Dome of the Rock mosaics

Rowan Leaves and Hole vs Untitled (prisonhannibal)

Le Désespéré (The Desperate Man) vs The Dedication

Set 13

Deimos vs Dog and Bridge

The Mocking of Christ vs Prudence

The Broken Column vs Siberian Ice Maiden shoulder tattoo

Transi de René de Chalon (Cadaver Tomb of René of Chalon) vs Head of Christ

The Day vs Spirit of Haida Gwaii

Eleanor Boathouse at Park 571 vs Jatiya Sangsad Bhaban জাতীয় স���সদ ভবন (National Parliament House)

Juventud de Baco (Bacchus Youth) vs Barges on the Seine

Oath of the Horattii closeup vs Visit hos Excentrisk Dam (Visit to an eccentric lady)

Set 14

Christ Crucified (With Donor) vs St. Francis

Thunder Raining Poison vs Piazza d'Italia

The Grove vs Among the Waves

Pintura Mural de Alarcón vs Sagrada Família stained-glass windows

Noonday Heat vs La Dame à la licorne (The Lady and The Unicorn)

Matroser i Gröna Lund (Sailors in Gröna Lund) vs Gielda Plakatu

Reply of the Zaporozhian Cossacks vs The Garden of Earthly Delights

Kuoleman puutarha (The Garden of Death) vs Haavoittunut enkeli (The Wounded Angel)

Set 15

i've wasted a lifetime pretending to be me vs da oracle

minus #37 vs Panel from Fun Home

Excerpt from illustrated edition of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner vs La Mort de Marat (The Death of Marat)

The Veil vs Düsseldorf 4 (Museum Kunst Palast)

Capriccio vs Zodiac calendar for La Plume

The official imperial portrait of empress dowager Cixi vs José y Maria

Blooming Lilacs vs Lágrimas De Sangre (Tears of Blood)

An Interlude vs Boy Staring at an Apparition

Set 16

Mermer Waiskeder: Stories of the Moving Tide vs The Gran Hotel Ciudad de México Art Nouveau interior

Unfinished Painting vs To Arms!

Memorial to a Marriage vs The Island

Dropping a Han Dynasty Urn vs A Few Small Nips

Saturn Devouring His Son vs Guernica

Fairy Princesses vs Lamentation over the Dead Christ

Mummy with An Inserted Panel Portrait of a Youth vs Little Girl Looking Downstairs at Christmas Party

Agnus vs The Cup Of His Murders Is Flowing Over And In His Coat Shall Be Many Curses

[kingofbodyrolls]

Sprout | knj | one

| s.masterlist | m.masterlist |  next →

Summary: You love your plants, you love your garden, you do not love your new neighbor. You hate him with all your might— he wrecks everything you hold dear so you do the only reasonable thing: retaliate. 

Pairing: Namjoon x female reader 

AUs: neighbors au, gardening au, non!idol au → strangers to enemies (mostly one sided) to friends to lovers 

Genres: slice of life, smut, humor

Rating: mature

Word count: 3.7K

Warnings: Reader is morally grey; she’s being petty and bratty. There’s some immature pranks and vandalism. Yeah, she’s on a warpath. Otherwise this chapter is pretty tame 😛

Disclaimer: I do not own BTS or know them personally and this work of fiction is purely fictional and for entertainment purposes only. The actions and personalities described in the story do not reflect those of BTS— it’s just fiction. Also, if you would kindly read the tags/warnings before reading, that would be lovely: and if you don’t like whatever is described in the tags, just hit return and find something else to read. Thank you 🌸

Author’s note(1): this ended up being a mini series! After I wrote Friendcation I really wanted to write something shorter… So here it is! I really hope you like it 💜

Taglist: @svnbangtansworld

It’s been cross posted to AO3 if you prefer to read there 🙂

Your heart thrives in the lush embrace of your garden, where your love for nurturing life transcends the ordinary. 

It's not merely about gardening; it's an intimate rendezvous with nature's heartbeat. The simple act of plunging your hands into the soil becomes a euphoric ritual, a tactile communion that not only exhilarates your senses but also serves as a conduit to a world where each seed, leaf, and root tells a captivating story of growth and vitality. 

The intimate dance with the earth, the sheer joy that courses through you as you feel the soil's gritty embrace, transcends mere gardening; it's a symphony of life, a celebration of your role as both creator and nurturer.

Cultivating new life from the humble seed is a profound joy that resonates deeply within you. The enchantment unfolds as you witness the delicate emergence of sprouts, each one a testament to the potential contained within a tiny seed. 

It's a captivating journey, from the tentative first leaves unfurling to the triumphant bloom of fruits and vegetables, a tangible manifestation of the joy and sustenance your hands have meticulously cultivated for both you and your roommate to savor.

As the radiant embrace of summer envelops your world, an effusion of life bursts forth, a vibrant bloom unfurling its tendrils both in your garden and within the sanctuary of your greenhouse.

The greenhouse burgeons with a dazzling array of life—a cornucopia of tomatoes, watermelons, peppers, and cucumbers that stretches every inch of its confines. The air is thick with the heady scent of ripening fruit, and the vibrant hues of red, green, and orange create a kaleidoscopic mosaic that beckons exploration.

In your garden, three majestic raised beds stand like regal sentinels, cradling a treasure trove of nature's bounty. Within their elevated embrace, a symphony of flavors and colors converges, boasting a diverse ensemble that includes the earthy allure of onions, the crisp sweetness of carrots, the robust presence of pumpkins, the delicate charm of strawberries, the verdant allure of spinach, and an array of captivating salads. 

Each bed is a symphony of flavors and textures, a carefully orchestrated composition that invites both the eye and the palate to revel in the diverse tapestry of life thriving under your attentive care.

Your garden isn't just a source of pride; it's a living masterpiece, a testament to your dedication and nurturing touch. This verdant haven, bathed in the hues of your hard work, transcends mere admiration; it's your sanctuary, a sacred retreat where the stresses of the world dissolve. 

Each leaf, every bloom, whispers tales of resilience and growth, creating an intimate haven where you find solace and restoration.

In the embrace of nature's symphony, your garden becomes more than soil and seeds—it's a living, breathing refuge, a space where you not only cultivate plants but also cultivate peace and tranquility for your soul to flourish.

Within the heart of your greenhouse, nestled amidst the thriving foliage, is a cozy sanctuary—an inviting lounge set with a round table and two chairs. This intimate corner is not just a seating arrangement; it's a haven where friendship blossoms. Here, you and your friends can unwind, enveloped by the lush greenery, engaging in heartfelt conversations over steaming cups of tea or coffee. 

In the heart of your greenhouse, you stand amidst the verdant symphony, hands adorned with the earth's rich embrace—fertile soil clinging to your fingertips, a testament to the alchemy of growth you orchestrate. Here, amidst the fragrant dance of botanical life, you sow the promise of winter greenery. This isn't your inaugural venture into nurturing winter blooms; it's a sequel to a tale that unfolded with delight last year. 

The memory of vibrant winter greens thriving under your care lingers, a testament to the harmony you crafted within these walls. Driven by the echo of past success and an insatiable love for the seasonal metamorphosis, you embark on this green journey once more.

Within the expansive embrace of your bountiful garden, nature's generosity unfolds, providing an abundant harvest of fruits and vegetables that not only sustains you and your roommate but also extends its benevolent reach to your cherished neighbors.

Which makes you think of the dear Kims—Kim Seokjin and his wife—embarking on a journey to a larger home, carving out space for their expanding family, tugs at the strings of your heart. While you understand the practicality of their move, a somber melancholy settles within you, for they have not just been neighbors; they have been the epitome of kindness and warmth. 

With an earnest yearning, you cling to the hope that your incoming neighbor will show kindness, sweetness, and warmth akin to the cherished friendship you shared with the departing Kims.

He doesn’t.

The day has arrived when your neighbor, Seokjin, faces the bittersweet necessity of moving. The street is lined with colossal trucks, a tangible representation of the imminent change. As tears trace their silent path down your cheeks, you refuse to let the sorrow eclipse the spirit of friendship. 

Despite the weight of emotions, you join forces with Jungkook, your steadfast roommate, to transform the process into a collective effort. Together, you navigate the labyrinth of memories, carrying not just boxes but the shared history of laughter, shared moments, and the neighborly bonds that have woven through the fabric of your days. 

As the reality of parting sets in, the ache of missing Seokjin and his pregnant wife becomes a weight on your heart. Determined to express the depth of your sentiment, you envelop them in tight, lingering hugs, the warmth of your embrace carrying unspoken words of friendship and well-wishes. Amidst the bittersweet farewells, you articulate your genuine hopes for their future, weaving a promise of staying connected. With each heartfelt word, you convey that the physical distance won't sever the ties of friendship.

In a world where genuine connections with neighbors are as rare as finding hidden gems, you've recognized the preciousness of Seokjin and his wife. Their sweetness and kindness have forged a bond that transcends the typical neighborly exchanges. Their generosity extends beyond mere pleasantries—during a challenging chapter in your life, when the looming shadows of unemployment threatened your stability, it was their unwavering support that illuminated your path. 

Together, you navigated the uncertainty, and Seokjin suggested his friend Jungkook as a roommate to help you financially, and Jungkook has since become an integral part of your life as a steadfast and cherished roommate.

Undoubtedly, the Kims have not just been neighbors but pillars of unwavering support and kindness, surpassing any expectations one might have for ideal neighbors. 

In the wake of the Kims' departure, their once-vibrant house now stands silent, a poignant reminder of the cherished moments shared. However, your curiosity, like an invisible magnet, draws you to the window. From your vantage point, you observe with a mix of intrigue and anticipation as a moving truck sidles up next to their now-empty abode. You almost feel like a creep as you watch them unload furniture and boxes.

Whispers in the neighborhood had reached your ears—an intriguing coincidence as a man, bearing the surname 'Kim,' was poised to become your new neighbor. The town's gossip mill hummed with speculation, but you tuned out the rest, your focus fixated on the serendipitous arrival of this mysterious Kim.

Jungkook ambles over, his sudden presence jolting you against the window, prompting an involuntary jump. With a teasing grin, he questions your clandestine observation, his laughter echoing through the room. “Why are you lurking?” he jests, enjoying the playful spectacle of your eye roll in response. 

“I’m observing.” You declare with matter-of-fact precision, and in response, Jungkook simply offers a contemplative ‘hm.’

Throughout the day, the elusive presence of the new neighbor has been a captivating enigma, a puzzle you've been diligently attempting to unravel. Despite your earnest efforts, the quest for a mere glimpse has proven elusive.

“I'm just curious to get a read on the new guy,” you confess, drawing out your words with a touch of playful mystery. As you gracefully step away from the window, the allure of the unknown lingering in the air, you head into the kitchen with purpose.

You fetch the kettle and begin to boil some water for tea.

“Just give the guy some space to settle in, and when the time is right, you can whip up those mouthwatering cookies of yours and give him a warm welcome to the neighborhood,” Jungkook suggests, trailing after you into the kitchen. He deftly retrieves two mugs from the overhead cabinets, placing them in anticipation of the soon-to-be-boiling kettle.

Rummaging through the tea stash, you unearth aromatic sachets—one for yourself and another for Jungkook—and delicately place them into the waiting mugs. As the kettle sings its final crescendo, you pour the steaming water into the mugs, initiating the alchemical process that transforms the humble leaves into an elixir of warmth.

The synchronicity between you and Jungkook is seamless, a finely tuned rhythm born out of the years you've spent living together. Perhaps it's the invisible thread of familiarity that binds you, a connection so deep that you can effortlessly complete each other's sentences, the unspoken language of friendship. He’s much more than a roommate; you love him like a brother, an annoying little brother, even though you’re the same age.

“Good idea! The legendary triple chocolate cookies?” you propose, your eyes lighting up with the prospect of sweet indulgence. Holding your tea mug, you savor the warmth of the liquid against your lips, a comforting ritual that transcends seasons—you're an unapologetic tea enthusiast, even in the heat of summer. 

“Absolutely! Hell yeah!” Jungkook exclaims, his enthusiasm echoing through the room like a burst of unbridled joy. As he eagerly recalls the memory of the last batch you made, his words become a vivid homage to the culinary masterpiece, the taste still lingering on his tongue like a cherished melody. 

Throughout the entire weekend, the symphony of your new neighbor's move has reverberated, a lively crescendo of sound that paints the air with the vibrant hues of laughter and camaraderie. His entourage of friends, a boisterous ensemble, fills the atmosphere with the clatter of unloading boxes and the rhythmic shuffle of furniture being transported from the truck. 

Yet, despite the lively spectacle of your new neighbor's move, his actual presence remains an elusive mystery. The air is thick with anticipation as questions swirl within your mind: Is he old? Is he your age? Does he possess the warmth and kindness that endeared Seokjin and his wife to your heart? Your curiosity becomes a cascade of inquiries, a mental carousel that you acknowledge is just you being noisy.

Up to this point, the sole revelation about your new neighbor is his knack for creating quite the noise. The symphony of sounds, though vibrant in its own way, becomes a stark contrast to the familiar warmth and silence that once emanated from Seokjin and his wife's abode. 

Damn you miss Seokjin and his wife.

While the awareness of ongoing move-in activities tempers your expectations for noise, an unexplainable discomfort begins to settle in. The amalgamation of unfamiliar sounds, even in the midst of anticipated relocation clamor, manages to irk you. 

And you haven’t even met the guy yet.

Several days have elapsed, it appeared that your new neighbor had completed the arduous task of settling in. A glimmer of hope fluttered, suggesting that the relentless clamor would finally recede. Yet, to your dismay, a new auditory storm emerged—his penchant for playing music at an astonishing volume became the unforeseen soundtrack to your days. 

“I already hate him, Guk,” you declare with a melodramatic sulk, dramatically flopping down onto the couch beside Jungkook.

He swivels his head in your direction, a mischievous smile playing on his lips before erupting into a hearty laugh. “Come on, it’s just music. How bad can it get?”

After a patient wait, the oven radiates a palpable heat, reaching the optimal temperature to host the transformation of dough into decadence. With a sense of anticipation, you carefully place the trays laden with the promise of triple chocolate cookies into the fiery embrace of the oven. 

Despite the less-than-ideal introduction to your new neighbor, marred by his thunderous music and a symphony of questionable sounds that you'd rather not contemplate—, there's a resolute yearning within you to extend an olive branch. 

Fueled by the desire for neighborly harmony, you're determined to overcome the initial discord and approach him with a peace offering, a genuine gesture to welcome him into the neighborhood, hoping to mend the dissonant notes that currently define your thoughts about him.

Just as the first tray of cookies begins its enchanting transformation in the oven, your ‘girl boss’ playlist providing a lively backdrop, the symphony is abruptly punctuated by the unmistakable sound of shattering glass echoing from outside. 

A sudden chill races down your spine, the shivers intensified by the ominous realization that the shattering sound emanates from the vicinity of your garden. Locking eyes with Jungkook, a silent exchange of concern, you swiftly transition from baking bliss to a sprinting guardian of your sanctuary. 

The urgency in your steps amplifies the suspense, as you dash outside, propelled by a blend of curiosity and trepidation, determined to unveil the source of the disruptive crash that disrupted the tranquil rhythm of your day.

Shards of glass glisten like misplaced stars in the grass, guiding your gaze to a seemingly innocent purple ball. However, your eyes transform into metaphorical daggers as they lock onto the source of the havoc, revealing a telltale hole in the once-pristine surface of your beloved greenhouse. 

A surge of anger courses through your veins, a visceral reaction to the shattered tranquility mirrored in the glass strewn across the grass. While distant voices from your neighbor try to penetrate your consciousness, your focus remains ensnared by the chaos within the greenhouse—the fractured plants and the disarrayed remnants of what was once a sanctuary. 

Navigating the shards with cautious steps, you venture into the greenhouse, the air heavy with a sense of apprehension and loss. As you survey the wreckage, the toll becomes painfully clear—fragments of tomatoes, cucumbers, and watermelons lay strewn, their promise of abundance now reduced to a heartbreaking scene of destruction.

An inferno of rage surges through your veins, akin to liquid fire or molten lava, an elemental force consuming reason and calm. The greenhouse, once a sanctuary, now stands as a testament to the havoc wrought—its structural integrity compromised, and the once-vibrant plants broken and battered. 

Your gaze fixes on the offending purple ball, and in a sudden revelation, the realization lands like a forceful blow—it's a sinister gift from your new neighbor. A surge of fury engulfs you, a tempest that ignites within, transforming your blood into a boiling cauldron of rage until the world before your eyes is tainted with a visceral shade of red. 

Driven by an uncontrollable wave of anger, you storm outside, seizing the ominous purple ball with a fierce determination. Each step to your new neighbor is punctuated by the rhythmic thud of your stampede, a declaration of intent that resonates with your frustration.

Amidst the clash of emotions, a figure emerges—a man with disheveled silver hair hurtling toward you, hands raised in a gesture of surrender, a young child at his side. 

The ball gripped tightly in your hand becomes both a weapon and a question mark as you confront the silver-haired man. The fury in your voice is palpable, a tempest churning within each word as you demand answers. “What is this?” you seethe, elevating the purple sphere as a visual indictment, challenging him to reckon with the consequences of his actions. 

“A ball?” he responds with a nervous chuckle, his hand seeking solace through the disheveled landscape of silver hair at the back of his head. Beside him, a little boy, no older than six, clings to his leg with a grip that speaks of both innocence and trepidation. 

“You think you’re smart, huh?” you begin, the words laden with a potent mix of frustration and mounting anger. The simmering emotions rise like a tide within you, unleashing a renewed flood of resentment that threatens to engulf your entire being.

“I'm so sorry about the ball. We didn't mean to throw it over the fence—” the man starts to apologize, but your tolerance for explanations dwindles to nothing. You cut him off with an air of absolute dismissal, leaving no room for excuses or justifications.

“You shattered my greenhouse!” you roar in frustration, the anger propelling the ball from your hand towards him. In a deft move, he catches it effortlessly against his chest, the tension in the air palpable.

“I'm so sorry, I didn't mea—” he begins, but you cut through his attempt to explain with a dismissive wave.

“I don't care! You should be mindful of other people's property. I had plants in there that are now broken and useless,” you declare, your voice stern and scolding. The words emerge like a verbal reprimand, each syllable charged with the weight of your anger. As you speak, the intensity manifests physically, your breaths becoming huffs of air, mirroring the turbulent emotions that still churn within you. 

You observe the man's persistent attempts at apology, and the child clings even tighter to his sturdy thigh, as if seeking refuge in the face of the storm brewing in front of him.

“Fuck you. Don't let it happen again,” you spit, the words laden with an unrelenting edge. You observe him swiftly cover the child's ears, shielding innocence from the raw exchange. Just as you pivot to leave, a tense silence lingering, he finds his voice once more. 

Observing him withdraw his hands from the child's ears, he takes a measured step in your direction. “Look, lady,” he begins, his tone a blend of frustration and assertion, “I already apologized. There's no reason to be so crude, especially not in front of a kid.”

Your gaze swiftly traverses them from head to toe, a brusque assessment. “Like I give a shit,” you retort with a dismissive snort.

“Joon, why is the lady mad?” inquires the boy, casting a curious glance at your neighbor. 

“Well, we ruined her greenhouse, which we've already apologized for. Now I'm starting to think she's just stuck up and has a stick up her ass,” your neighbor explains in a composed tone to the child, who simply gapes at the blunt choice of words.

The audacity of his words hits you like an unexpected blow. Stuck up? The incredulity courses through you as you grapple with the absurdity of the accusation. Him, the one who shattered your pride and joy, casting you as the haughty one?

“Well, fuck you!” you scream in frustration, punctuating the sentiment with a defiant middle finger. With a final act of rebellion, you storm away, retreating back into your house, your fury a palpable force propelling your every step. 

Gasping for breath, you stumble inside, a disheveled embodiment of raw emotion. Jungkook gazes at you, confusion etched on his face as he questions, “What happened?”

In a huff, you explain, “Piece of shit neighbor broke my greenhouse,” the words tumble out, each syllable a testament to the frustration gripping you. With a perfunctory motion, you snatch the tray from Jungkook, who had kindly retrieved it from the oven when the cookies were ready. 

Now, the sweet aroma of accomplishment is tainted, and the once-desired treats feel like a bitter offering. You contemplate discarding them, convinced your neighbor doesn't deserve the indulgence born from your hard work and nurturing care.

“What are you doing?” Jungkook queries with genuine concern, his worry palpable in the furrow of his brows and the earnest tone of his voice. Clutching the tray, you navigate towards the trash can, your actions leaving an air of uncertainty hanging between you two.

“Throwing them out?” you retort, the words a sharp echo in the air as you lock eyes with Jungkook. 

“Don't! I'll eat them,” Jungkook pleads, motioning for you to spare the tray from its impending fate in the trash. 

A flicker of reluctance dances in your eyes, but the prospect of salvaging the cookies prevails. After all, it would be a shame to let them go to waste merely because your neighbor is a piece of shit

Despite Jungkook's plea for you to set aside your fury and accept the apology from your new neighbor, the ember of resentment within you refuses to be extinguished. 

For reasons unknown, a bitter taste lingers within you, refusing to let go. The turmoil is inexplicable, but the remnants of resentment persist. He didn't just break your greenhouse; he shattered a piece of your sanctuary. Now, held together with a temporary tapestry of plastic, the wounded structure serves as a constant reminder, a tangible testament to the disruption that's not easily brushed aside.

Not to mention the plants that withered away that fateful day. Yes, they perished under the weight of the intrusion, and no, you refuse to consider it as mere drama, as Jungkook suggested. 

Anger bubbles within you, a volatile force demanding retribution. In the crucible of resentment, a calculated decision takes root: to do the only thing that feels just—sabotage some of his. An eye for an eye, the ancient adage whispers in your mind.

Thus, you find yourself meticulously gluing his mailbox together, rendering it an inoperable shell that denies him the simple act of receiving mail or opening the damn thing! 

A sense of self-satisfaction courses through you as you observe him from the vantage point of your living room window, wrestling with his unyielding mailbox, frustration etched across his face. 

A laugh of vindication escapes your lips as you revel in his futile struggle. His bewildered gaze sweeps the surroundings, a clear sign that he fails to comprehend what's wrong with his once-functional mailbox. Frustration etches lines on his face before he concedes, retreating back into the confines of his home. 

Jungkook sidles up next to you, a quizzical expression on his face. “Is that your handiwork?” he inquires, pointing towards your neighbor's now dysfunctional mailbox. 

A chuckle escapes your lips, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “Yeah.”

“You're being childish and mean,” he reproaches, shaking his head in disapproval of your actions. A chuckle escapes him, a teasing glint in his eyes. “I bet you like him,” he remarks with a knowing smile, strolling past you. 

You gape at him, disbelief etched across your face. No. No such thing. “I fucking hate him, and he deserves it,” you retort vehemently, the raw intensity in your voice emphasizing the depth of your disdain. 

Author’s note(2): Thank you so much for reading! 🌸 I appreciate every like, comment and reblog, and please don’t be afraid to let me know what you think;  your kind words makes me extremely happy 💜

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[parasitical-if]

DEMO(Dashingdon) DEMO(Moody.ink) ——— Currently finished—Prologue, Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three. ~175k words, average playthrough ~48k. ——— His flesh, our sustenance. His blood, our drink. His bones, our foundation, His body, our haven.

Five hundred years ago, the Earth was dying. Water polluted, dirt infertile, forests and meadows crumbling to the wars of steel and fire. And so the Order called His Grace, the Lord of Communion, down from where He rested before and He allowed humanity to rest inside his body.

Or at least, that's the story the Order tells.

You grew up under the masked faces of their Exalted, under the stories of Earth past. Rusted metal and cracked plastic; His bone and His flesh. Conflicting worlds, conflicting times, and soon, it might all come to a head.

Play as a recruit of the Order, an Exalted.

Be male, female, or nonbinary.

Customize your appearance.

Romance five separate characters.

Shape yourself—are you pragmatic or empathetic? Do you speak out or remain silent? Do you trust the Order, and do they trust you?

Align yourself with different factions based on moral imaginings.

Experience a world of greater things than you can imagine, but where your choices still matter.

Tallis/Talyn/Talia: Green eyes and long, auburn hair. Your childhood friend—Or, at least, companion. They aren't the biggest fan of the Order. Perhaps that will have greater implications than simple complaints as the situation grows more dire.

August: Blonde, sharp, and severe, he's the one who brought you into the fold. A zealot, some might call him. The Order doesn't name His Grace as a God, but August certainly seems to think that He is.

El: Long, thick black hair, skin tanned and freckled. She's a mechanic of the Order. Talented, there's no doubt about it, despite her occasional airheadedness. Sometimes, you can't help but feel that she's hiding something.

Jasper: Gender selectable. Muscled either way, with dark skin and deep brown eyes. Loud and arrogant—and they have what it takes to back it up. As the first new arrival to the Commune in… all of history, they could pose as an omen or a savior. Either way, they might shatter everything that you thought you knew.

Icarus: The Head of the Order. Everything else about them is shrouded in mystery.

Copious mentions of blood/flesh(Nonhuman, not caused by violence.)

DISCLAIMER: I'm a student and a slow writer in general, so updates might not be very frequent. Nevertheless, I'll try to see this story through.

3/7/23: First posted with Prologue and 1/2 of Chapter One, ~22k words.

3/11/23: Second half of Chapter One was posted. Story now at ~30.5k words.

4/27/23: Chapter two posted, bringing story to ~47k words.

9/30/23: Chapter three posted, bringing story up to ~81k words.

10/3/24: Chapter four posted, bringing story up to ~175k words.

Up next: Chapter five. For more information, see: Forums page.

[gwen-dev-64e50]

1000xRESIST spoiler discussion: the bad kids stay the good kids go

//PLEASE DON'T READ IF YOU HAVEN'T PLAYED 1000xRESIST to completion

So I finished the game, replayed some parts, stewed over it... and I wanted to ask other fans, there's a lot I still don't understand, so I'll just list some questions here - questions Im not sure are meant to be open-ended.

///

What even is The Other Side?

We see it (more or less) only once, when Watcher steps off the train and finds Iris whispering to herself, and from the first chapter to the last... I was confused what this place even was? It seems to be a dead end, or perhaps those are different levels of walkways sorrounding the circular room? Regardless, we don't really explore it, but if Iris is just waiting here, not even expecting to be interrupted, is it just one room? Just like when she was younger, was Iris spending a long time talking in just one room?

But at the same time, most Jiaos, Fixer, and several other Sisters are sent here both before and after Iris' death, and they are all fine! So what do they even do here? Some Shells speak of the Jiaos "working" on The Other Side, do they mean the "Memorabillia Reproduction" Cherry talks about? Seems harsh to ship Jiaos to some distant point, just to make diaries and school uniforms... but I wouldn't put it past Principal, she's already sent untold Sisters to The Other Side.

I'm starting to believe that the Other Side is not real? Or at least the version we see: when Watcher kills Iris and Principal traps her, she surrounds themselves with magical doors and shadow people... so this definitely isn't real, right? Makes me think the actual murder of Iris was more mundane, and that the injections Knower and Mauve gave Watcher corrupted her memory and communion of it... do you see it the same way?

///

Who is the third Familiar?

Speaking of Principal, I was quite surprised we got almost no information on her Familiar, "Vice", and actually no information on the third, yellow Familiar, the one that follows Jiao-Prime AA... to the point that I feel like I must have missed a scene or something! Perhaps this is less of a question, and more of a complaint, but I do feel like we were missing something from not seeing much more of the other Familiars.

As a personal head canon, because we have "Secretary" and "Vice" (probably short for Vice President), I bet the yellow Familiar was named "President", "Minister", "Premier" or something like that.

///

{I'll add more questions and thoughts here later, I'd love to discuss this game more with others, I adore so much of it, I just want to understand the parts that I couldn't make sense of and even disliked!}

Hekki Allmo, Sisters

[lostloveletters]

Bruised Fruit Chapter 1 (Michael Corleone x OC)

Summary: Gloria falls like overripe fruit from a wilting tree branch, and Michael Corleone intends to devour her amidst the rot and decay that's long since taken root in his family, intent on dooming her with him for a chance at another heir.

Note: I first posted this and two other chapters to AO3, which I'll link if you'd like to read ahead as I begin cross-posting to here.

Warnings: Canon divergence, sexually explicit content, infidelity, period typical attitudes, negative discussions of abortion, Catholicism, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) related to WWII, breeding kink, death, angst, emotional manipulation

Do not interact if you are under 18 or post thinspo/ED content. I will block you.

AO3 Link | Masterlist

"I’m going to Cuba," he told her in a quiet, postcoital moment.

"Are you secretly a Red, Michael?” she teased, her brown eyes sparkling in the golden glow of the lamps in the hotel room they occupied. “Getting in with the rebels before they storm Havana? They’ve already got Santa Clara.”

He rolled his eyes, but the smile on his face betrayed his amusement. "You and your newspapers. Do you seriously think Castro has a chance?"

She took a long drag on her cigarette, pondering her answer for a moment. "His people have nothing to lose."

"I’ll be fine."

"How long will you be gone?"

"A few weeks, maybe a month," he said, twisting a strand of her long black hair between his fingers, silent for a moment as to test the waters, "I’ll wire you."

"Wire your wife."

"Gloria—"

"I’m not saying that to be confrontational. She’s pregnant, focus on her,” she said, passing him the cigarette. “Where does she think you are tonight?”

“She knows I’m in Vegas, just not with you.”

She hummed, her fingers brushing the tender, bruised skin on her hips, a shade of lavender that would no doubt blossom into a plum monstrosity by the morning. For a man over a decade her senior, he was insatiable, devouring her with a ferocity as if she were ripe for the picking.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked, his gaze following her fingertips.

She shook her head. “Are you staying over?”

“Yes. I have to head out early, though. Lots of people coming in for Anthony’s first communion.”

“Get some sleep then. Don’t let me keep you up.”

He grinned. “You always keep me up.”

“Bathroom’s that way. I’m tired,” she said jokingly, turning over to bury her face in her pillow.

“I’ll wire you when I get to Havana. A few days from now, probably. I have some things to take care of first.”

She mumbled something from her side of the bed, eyes closed while he continued on in Italian. He landed a playful swat on her ass. Yelping, she turned over, glaring at him.

“Rude,” she scolded, “you know I don’t understand Italian. What’d you say?”

He laughed softly, pushing some of her hair out of her face. “I love you.”

“That’s not what you said.”

“I called you lazy and insufferable.”

She smiled. “I love you too.”

“Good night, darling,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her lips.

“Night.”

When Gloria awoke the following morning, Michael was gone, though he’d left a note for her. With no reason to stick around, she returned to her apartment, the third one she has lived in since she moved to Las Vegas. It was more spacious than she needed, but Michael insisted, though he rarely visited her there. Their rendezvous were almost always in the hotel room at the casino that was exclusively reserved for him. Safer that way, a more public place with plenty of his men around. She wasn’t ashamed of their illicit relationship, but it made her feel exposed. As soon as they stepped into that elevator together, everyone knew what they were planning to do.

She sighed, sitting on the couch and running a hand through her hair. Her next shift wasn’t until the following evening, and she wasn’t sure what exactly to do with herself. Michael being in Havana was a test run of what was to come.

After Kay had the baby, she’d see less of Michael, busy being the doting husband, the proud father. Just as she didn’t receive an invitation to Anthony’s first communion, she wouldn’t be welcome at their new son’s baptism. She wasn’t sore about it. If she were Kay, she wouldn’t want her around the family either.

Her fear wasn’t that he wouldn’t return, but rather that he would, and she’d never work up the courage to build a life for herself without him. Moving to Vegas was her first attempt at that, but less than a year into the job, she was practically shoved into his hands, and he hadn’t let go since. 

She glanced at the box of newspaper clippings on the entryway desk, to most people, it was little more than evidence of an obsession with the Pacific Theater. Gloria had been young when the war broke out, not fully understanding the difference between the branches of the military, only that her brother wasn’t fighting in Europe, and she rarely heard from him. The newspapers she had poured over introduced her to places like Guadalcanal and Peleliu, small islands that she could barely see on a map, yet somehow Jackie and millions of other men were there. 

Then Life ran a special edition on war heroes, featuring Marines like her brother. A decade after its publication, when Fredo had requisitioned her to keep his brother company in the casino while he ran off to attend to some last minute business, she recognized Michael immediately, unable to stop herself from asking the former Captain about his service. When Jackie returned from the war, he had little to say about what he experienced in the Pacific. In fact, he had little to say about much of anything. Shell shock, they called it, aptly describing the shell of a man her formerly outgoing brother had become. Michael Corleone wasn’t a shell, enthralling her with the details of such places as Guadalcanal and Peleliu with the emotional distance of an observer rather than a participant. 

As their acquaintanceship escalated into an affair, she saw the scars for herself. Both the physical evidence of his being wounded in action, and the invisible ones that’d rear their ugly heads late at night when they’d begun sharing his hotel room. If not manifesting through bouts of insomnia, then through nightmares that left him dazed and agitated when she managed to wake him from them. 

Between the shell shock and his diabetes, she felt like she had to keep a close eye on him. Not only out of genuine concern, but a matter of personal pride. Just because he wasn’t her husband, it didn’t mean she couldn’t take care of him. God forbid he return to his wife in anything less than mint condition. It was the least Gloria could do.

He would be gone for some time, though, and as she always did during his longer trips, she grabbed her phone, making plans with friends to keep herself occupied. She had a life without him, secure in her independent lifestyle. If she were busy enough, she didn't think of him that often. 

Almost a week later, she received the telegram from Michael at work, nearly forgetting his promise to wire her from Cuba.

In Havana. Beautiful weather. Miss you.

She asked the front desk to wire him back.

Miss you too. Have fun. Stay safe.

She didn’t expect a response. There was nothing else to say.  

Gloria went about her business as usual, working and meeting friends for dinner and dancing when she could. Her style was undoubtedly cramped by the Corleone family associates who tailed her wherever she went. She wondered if it was humiliating for them to be the ones assigned to covertly babysit the Don’s mistress. After all, if the people behind the attack at his Lake Tahoe home truly wanted to cause her harm, there were ample opportunities to do so in Vegas.

Her bubble was small, safe, and secure despite living in the City of Sin. Her proximity to Michael almost always ensured that. In his absence, a mere phone call popped that bubble. 

“Hello? Is this Gloria Marino? This is Kay Corleone.”

“Kay?” she repeated incredulously.

“Can we talk?”

The two women had met just once in person. Michael briefly introduced them when giving his wife a tour of the casino shortly after the family had moved from New York to Nevada. It was the only time Kay had ever stepped foot in the place. Even then, Gloria was sure Kay was smart enough to size her up at first glance, knew she wasn't just another back-of-house employee.

“I figure I’d be the last person you’d wanna talk to.”

“You’d think, but after all this, I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t warn you. No one was there to warn me, or maybe I was too stubborn to care.”

Gloria hesitated. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I know. Consider it my penance.”

“For what?”

“Michael’s going to divorce me when he gets back from his trip.”

“He would never do that.”

“He will.” The certainty in Kay’s voice was shocking, but she didn’t pry. Kay wasn’t telling her for a reason. Prior knowledge of whatever was being omitted would put her in danger with Michael. “He will, and he’s going to go to you afterward. He trusts you.”

“Kay, I don’t—“

“I did something very selfish and desperate, something I can never be forgiven for,” she said cryptically. “You’re going to bear the brunt of the aftermath. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Gloria whispered, unsure if things would really end up that way. 

“Goodbye, Gloria.”

“Bye, Kay.”

The line went dead, and she stared at the phone in her hand for a few moments. Michael would only divorce Kay if the baby were out of the picture, and the woman’s surety only confirmed that was the case. The aftermath. She could only hazard a guess as to what that meant. Nothing good if she needed to be forewarned.

Days later, when she heard about Kay’s miscarriage through the grapevine, it still didn’t exactly click. Not until there was a knock at the door at a little after one in the morning. She figured if she ignored it long enough, the culprit would get the message and go away, but the knocking was incessant.

Shuffling out of the bedroom, she turned on one of the lamps in her living room. She looked out the peephole, shocked to see Michael standing there, waiting impatiently for her.

“Gloria, open up!” he shouted, banging on the door again, causing her to flinch a little.

She took a deep breath, knowing it was a futile attempt to prepare herself for whatever she was about to get into. His expression unreadable when she opened the door, she gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“Michael, you’re back,” she said cheerfully enough. “How was the trip?”

He was silent as she ushered him inside. Turning on another lamp, she nearly froze at the state of him. Bags under his eyes, unkempt hair as if he’d been running his hands through it. 

“I warned you about those rebels,” she joked, only to receive a glare in return, his dark eyes almost black as they leered into hers. “Sorry, I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Okay,” he scoffed, a coldness laced in his voice that settled as an unfamiliar freeze in her veins. “You have no idea what I’ve been through these past few days.”

“I heard Kay miscarried. I’m—“

“It was an abortion,” he snapped. “She murdered our baby.”

Gloria’s eyes widened at the news. Her hand shook as she made a sign of the cross for his unborn son’s soul.

When Kay had called, she never expected the pious wife to commit a mortal sin, damning herself with no hope of reconciliation. Gloria knew other women who had gotten abortions, an inevitability when they weren’t careful enough with the carousel of carefree men that came through Las Vegas. It wasn’t something respectable women with husbands did. Being the wife of a crime lord was hardly respectable, though.

"He was a boy!" he shouted. His eyes were glassy, voice breaking in a rare display of vulnerability. "We were going to have a boy."

"I’m sorry."

"I can tell."

Exasperated, she asked, "What do you want me to do, Michael?"

"Marry me. I want you to marry me."

"No."

In the four or so years she’d been with Michael, she only experienced the lover, not the husband, a different beast entirely. Husbands meant expectations and ownership, something she was woefully unprepared for. 

"It wasn’t a question."

"Then I suppose you’re going to carry me off like the Arabian Nights? Drag me kicking and screaming to join your harem?”

“No harem. Just you.”

“Michael—“

“You’ll marry me. You’ll give me another son.”

Michael was the furthest from a holy man she could fathom, but the way his eyes blazed with a biblical ferocity, she believed for a moment that he could alter the will of God with the sheer magnitude of his desperation and humiliation. He wanted to send her into the depths of purgatory to retrieve the boy he was entitled to, the sacrificial lamb that freed his soon to be ex-wife from marital bondage. Forget that he already had a son, a young, healthy boy. It was the principle of the thing, a man of his influence and import being deceived by his otherwise unassuming wife, her dainty hand dealing the death blow. ‘It was an abortion.' Checkmate.

“Darling, you’re the only person I trust,” he implored softly, his hands cradling her face as he tried intentional gentleness over impulsive tyranny. “I love you.”

She wasn’t getting any younger. Most people considered her an old maid. Her mother sure did, sending letters that increasingly implored her to come home and settle down before it’s too late. Her best prospect was standing before her, a man who wasn’t one to be denied. Senators and executives bent to his will, whether a flexible reed or a rigid board, they all would bend. If not, they broke. He’d break her just to put the pieces back together in his image, a mosaic of desperate domesticity. 

Her time ran out. Perhaps wishful thinking, or naivety in hindsight, but she always expected Kay to grin and bear it. The expectations of Michael Corleone were her cross to take up. Seeing no better option than to give in, she kissed him, allowing the pads of his thumbs to dig into the peachy skin of her cheeks, deep enough that if they were fruit, the tender flesh would be pierced, juice dripping down his hands. He lapped her up in kind, his mouth laying claim to her.

“Tell me you love me,” he pleaded against her bruised lips.

“I love you, Michael.”

And she did love him, but loving Michael was a burden. She couldn’t blame Kay for what she did. It was a long time to carry that weight. His love was demanding, unforgiving, red-hot to the touch despite his cool exterior. There were only so many times a woman could stand to get burned.

They ended up in her bedroom, no longer her domain but his, she could feel the shift as soon as he walked in, eyes hungrily taking her in like a hawk circling above a rabbit. Her nightclothes quickly discarded, leaving her naked and vulnerable before him. She laid back on the bed as he shed his own clothes, and felt an unfamiliar nervousness settle in her stomach. Perhaps it was the magnitude of the act, no longer for leisure, but purposeful, real. If it didn’t take then, he would try again and again until he got what he wanted.

Michael climbed over her, stroking his hard cock before positioning it at her entrance. Leaning down, he kissed her again, his lips taking the brunt of her pained whimper as he slid his length inside her. 

His fingers made their home on her hips as they always did, squeezing as he thrust harder and deeper inside her. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks.

“That’s it, darling,” he praised. “You’re doing so well for me.”

Kissing the base of her throat while plowing into her appealed to an animalistic instinct in him, and he sunk his teeth into her tender flesh, claiming her, marking her.

In turn, she dug her long fingernails into his shoulder blades, only to find later she’d drawn blood. 

“Michael, please just—it’s too much,” she choked out.

“Just a little longer.”

He released one of her hips, moving his hand between them to rub circles in her clit. The moan she let out only encouraged him as he thrust faster, bringing the both of them closer to climax. 

Closing her eyes, she felt that familiar tightness build in her abdomen. Pleasure tingled through her brain, to her fingertips. She could grab it if she wanted to, reach out for ectasy and make it hers.

“Look at me, Gloria. I want to see you,” he ordered through gritted teeth. “I want to see you become a mother.”

Her eyes shot open, looking at him in near disbelief at his gentle vulgarity.  

Before she could even attempt to respond, he brushed the pad of his thumb over her clit again, and she came, her cunt squeezing his cock, coating it in her juices, hips involuntarily bucking in his unrelenting grip. His name fell from her lips in a delirious whine as her orgasm coursed through her body. He shuddered, cursing under his breath as he slammed his cock deeper into her, letting her cunt milk him dry.

They were silent for a few moments, save for the weak whine Gloria made when Michael pulled out from her. Glancing at her hips, he could see the familiar blossoming of finger-shaped bruises. He kissed her again, his fingers brushing her sensitive folds, collecting the cum that was leaking out before pushing it back inside her, nothing wasted, nothing left to chance.

His lips trailed down her face, to her neck and each of her breasts until finally settling on her belly. He nuzzled his nose against it, the soft, fertile flesh ripening beneath his touch. She felt almost dizzy at his primal display of affection.

“It’s gonna be a boy,” he whispered against her stomach as it rose and fell with her heavy breaths. “I can feel it.”

[randomidiocyncrazies]

continuing 1000xResist (LP by Welonz), chapter 5:

WAILING

like Watcher at the beginning having a do-over of her conversation with Fixer, ALLMOTHER is maybe trying to have a do-over with Jiao as she lays dying

AND I KNEW IT! I KNEW PRINCIPAL WAS WHO I THOUGHT! cause of her previous role before Principal, and Knower seemed to imply Principal had been around for even longer that she had. i thought i was reaching, but my gut feeling was right this time

WAILING!!!!

also i'm a bit iffy on the "communion is only what ALLMOTHER allows you to see", because Fixer was able to hack in in the first communion, meaning that the sisters can control the flow of information shown to Watcher as well... so Principal was setting up Watcher to be a tool of vengeance (and power...?) the entire time by presenting only the cruel sides of Iris to Watcher

and like. Iris clearly wasn't an angel, but neither was she a demon; she was just a teen girl. but she was deified, and when you're a deity, the ALLMOTHER, you cannot be human. every flaw is magnified and becomes unforgivable, because you are a god now

similarly some of the stuff seems to be from outside of Iris's experience (e.g. her parent's meeting and life in HK), but i guess those could be stuff she "dreamed"/imagined after hearing the stories from her parents (her dad, most likely)

we know Secretary helps with the Communion process and is Occupier/Occupier tech, so the i'm assuming the [redacted] stuff is Principal speaking Occupier (keeper???), maybe...?

PCWCW lololololol

also i'm not quite sure what to make of the incineration vs burial thing, so i'm gonna put a pin in it for now...

[lost-in-derry]

Communion

This is my belated Christmas present to @seth-silver-ink! A fic based off their sentient bo-rifle post. It’s also the first complete chapter of a fic I’ve ever written! Stay tune for part two.

********************** **********************

Kallus regained consciousness feeling completely fine, which was the first clue that something was wrong. Even on his best days some part of his body ached. Usually the leg he’d broken on Bahryn that had never healed quite right, his head from staring at his data pad until he passed out, or on very special mornings, both.

The second clue, upon opening his eyes, was that he appeared to be in an infinite void. Better than being strapped into an Imperial interrogation chair, but still concerning. Kallus sat up slowly to get a better sense of his surroundings. The ground beneath him was smooth and reflective. It rippled when he pressed his hand to it, but found himself completely dry as he stood up. The sky, if one could call it that, was a misty color. Squinting his eyes and staring hard, Kallus thought he could almost see stars. Everything around him was touched with the warm gentle colors of a sunrise.

With little else to do Kallus started walking. The ground rippled softly beneath him with each step and he tried to recall how he’d gotten here. Events wove themselves together slowly. There was a mission. An unusual mission. Zeb had come to him early in the morning and said the Ghost Crew had found something- no, someone. Many someone’s, and they were very important. Lasat. Prisoners in a labor-camp.

Kallus had helped the Spectres free Lasat before, but always from a distance. He would sneak into security rooms, open doors, take out guards, guide the others through escape routes, all the while taking care that he wasn’t seen. Afterwards he’d find his way back to the Glimmer and distract any TIE fighters while the Ghost snuck away with the prisoners. It’s not like he was allowed to know where they were going anyway. But this time had been different. There was a blockade around the planet the Lasat were being held on that only the Ghost could get through. The labor camp was the largest they’d ever attempted to breach. Security was much tighter and the control room was nearly impossible to get to. There’d be no time for him to get there before the rest of the crew was spotted. Kallus had to memorize the camp layout and guide everyone through in person.

It would be the first time he’d come face to face with a Lasat other than Zeb since Lasan and he was… scared. The whole flight through hyperspace Kallus could feel the icy grip of his sins crawling down his spine. He sat in the galley, staring at the camp blueprints and trying not to vomit. By the time the Ghost made it through the blockade and landed on the planet he’d managed to convince himself that none of the Lasat would recognize him. So long as he kept his head down and focused on getting everyone into the camp and back out safely, everything would be fine.

The moment he’d entered the prison Kallus felt strange. He heard something. A whisper, a buzzing in the back of his mind. Something was wrong but he didn’t know what. The further into the compound they got the louder the sound became. It almost sounded like a voice.

Chopper had just opened the main gate so the prisoners could make the last sprint across the landing pad towards Hera and the Ghost while Kallus and the rest of the crew kept the guards busy.

“Hey, traitor!”

Kallus whipped around, the voice he heard with his ears nearly drowned out by the one calling out in his head. In front of him was an imperial officer he vaguely recognized from his time on Thrawn’s ship. They hadn’t interacted much but the man had always seemed to dislike Kallus beyond the usual animosity between ISB agents and the rest of the Empire. The officer wasn’t important. What was important was that he had a bo-rifle in his hands. Kallus’ bo-rifle. And he heard it scream as the man clumsily ignited it.

Kallus’ body moved on its own. He closed the distance between him and the officer in one blink. His opponent raised the bo-rifle to block an incoming attack, but Kallus wasn’t aiming for him. The only thought in his mind was getting the weapon out of his hands. He wrenched the staff out of one hand, reached out and snapped the wrist of the other. The officer cried out in pain and kicked himself backwards, releasing the staff. Kallus felt it hum in his hands. He swung the bo-rifle, aiming for the officer’s neck with the bayonet blade attached to the side. He felt it connect at the same moment he heard the blaster he hadn’t noticed the officer pull out firing into his chest.

Kallus halted. Everything after that was black and he’d woken up here. It occurred to him for the first time that he might be dead.

“Not quite, but you’re close.”

Kallus’ eyes jerked up and standing in front of him was a Lasat. He recognized his face from one of the many that haunted his dreams. This was the Honor Guard he’d won the bo-rifle from.

Kallus opened and closed his mouth a few times before managing to get words out.

“It’s you.”

The Guard flicked his ears in amusement. “It’s me.”

Zeb had told him once that it was customary for a follower of Boosahn Keeraw to bow to whoever had given them their weapon. Kallus put a fist in his other hand in front of him and lowered his head. The Guard inclined his head in response. Kallus frowned in confusion.

“Are you a ghost? How are you here if I’m not dead as well?” He didn’t even know where ‘here’ was.

The Guard sat down and gestured for Kallus to do the same.

“I’m not a ghost. I’m not really even the Lasat you fought. I’m more… the bo-rifle’s memory of him.”

He gave Kallus a moment to process what he’d just heard before continuing.

“Right now you’re communing with the bo-rifle. It can’t speak, so it uses the forms of its past wielders to communicate with its current one.”

Kallus raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“I can’t be the current wielder.”

“Why not? You defeated me in single combat. You claimed the bo-rifle through Boosahn Keeraw.”

Kallus dropped his gaze to the ground. His reflection stared back from beneath him.

“There was no honor in invading your home.”

“True.” He flinched at the Guards bluntness.

“But the bo-rifle sensed the potential in you to become something better than you were. The Empire could not snuff out the light in you completely.” The Guard smiled slightly, like he knew something Kallus didn’t. “And you had a purpose yet to serve, Warrior.”

Kallus’ face pinched in confusion. Before he could ask what that meant the Guard made a dismissive gesture.

“An explanation for another time, perhaps. The bo-rifle called to you for a reason, aside from freeing it.”

All levity dropped from the Guard’s face.

“You have a choice to make.”

Kallus sat up straight and listened with bated breath.

“I said earlier you were close to death. You stand on the precipice between your world and the next. You are connected to the bo-rifle enough for it to tip the scales one way or the other. It can send you back or let you go.”

The Guards eyes softened.

“It has seen your life. It knows the pain you’ve endured. You’ve done enough good now to earn the peace death would bring you.”

“…And if I go back?”

The Guard was silent for a moment.

“You will face your sins. You will hurt and bleed again. You will meet your nightmares. You will stare the darkness of the abyss in the eye once more and I cannot promise you will survive.”

Kallus closed his eyes. He remembered watching his mother slowly die of a disease they couldn’t afford medicine for. He remembered starving in the Lower Levels of Coruscant. He remembered the Academy, how everyone looked at him like he was garbage that had crawled up from the sewer. He remembered Weiss and the ISB program and how they’d turned him into a monster his mother wouldn’t recognize. He remembered Onderon and how helpless he’d been. He remembered Lasan, standing in the ashes of the atrocity he’d been too blind to see he was helping commit. He remembered Lothal. Meeting a band of rebels. Chasing them through the stars. He remembered Bahryn and Zeb and a conversation that had changed everything. A spark igniting within him that had set flame to a rebel’s heart that had been growing for years under the surface. He remembered dragging himself out an escape pod. He remembered being shown kindness and compassion and forgiveness he didn’t deserve by people who would become the first family he’d have since he was nine years old. He remembered how he’d do anything to protect them and their dream.

The Guards green eyes stared back at him, waiting.

“It’s a hard choice.”

Kallus smiled.

“No. It isn’t.”

The Guard smiled back.

“Alexsandr Kallus, do you swear to use this bo-rifle with honor, to protect those who cannot protect themselves, and bring light to a dark galaxy?”

“I swear.”

They both stood. “Then it’s time for you to go.”

The world around them grew brighter and started to disappear.

“Wait!” Kallus cried as he felt himself start to slip away. “What’s your name?”

The Guard let out a gentle laugh.

“My name was Romai.”

[harmcityherald]

I am into the beginning chapters of Blood Communion by Anne Rice. I must admit, I am glad I had not read this or the Atlantis installment before this. Its absolutely lovely to return to her writing, its brilliant cadence opens like a flower at times. Her style has always appealed to me from her passages of silent ecstasy to her lurid descriptions of fast paced action. It's wonderful to be able to experience it again like it was the first time all over again. I am already wrapped tightly into the book And have let go of my trepidation of not having read The Atlantis novel first to correctly set the stage for me. We will just have to make do.

No matter what with the vampire chronicles, because of The film version of the queen of the damned, I cannot help but place Claudia Black In that role In my mind every time. I have always been quite the fan of her. It makes reading these particular passages describing Pandora particularly alluring to me. My copy of Pandora Is buried somewhere in a box In the nether world attic I still have yet to tackle. I literally have 5 keyboards Stashed up there with the PA system and the altec amps, All my books, All my mother's art. There is certainly going to be some fun to be had finding and reclaiming these things If they haven't been destroyed By 30 Years of former tenants debris. All of that belongs in another post. I can feel the presence of that Pandora book glowing in that hidden box, waiting patiently for me to pick it back up as if I sat it down yesterday.

I am absolutely loving Blood Communion and I'm enraptured by revisiting the chronicles! it's like a well worn cozy night robe I've missed. Lestat is a prince now no less, events, I'm assuming, that are probably relayed in the Atlantis novel. I'm reading it out of joint, yes, but I'm confident in my ability to handle that.

Lestat's new vampire friend Mitka is interesting as is the drama unfolding surrounding Pandora and Marius. Ah, Marius, I love that I'm starting the next chapter with another so beloved character.

I can't reiterate enough that I'm so happy I've inadvertently saved these books until now. To experience them as I did the other chronicle novels. It may speak to my lazy and incomplete idiosyncrasies but the joy I feel opening up an untouched vampire chronicles installment as if Madame Rice was still among us and I had spent a feverish few weeks waiting for it to hit the shelves. May she ever rest in peace. The joy she gave me with this saga and others is forever appreciated.

onward we read.

~ciao

[frattweek]

Matt Murdock and Frank Castle standing back to backFRATT WEEK 7 starts tomorrow !

From October 28 to November 3, this blog is hosting an entire week about Matt Murdock and / or Frank Castle, but their exact relationship is up to you - lovers, fuckbuddies, enemies, friends, partners… you pick! You can also do a Matt-only or a Frank-only work. OT+ (Fratt+) welcome!

All versions of Frank Castle & Matt Murdock are welcome: comics, TV shows, movies… All lengths and sizes, all types of fanworks welcome: fic, art, fibercraft, translation, podfic (don’t forget to check in with the original creator if you’re podficcing/translating!)… or a new chapter of a fic, an outtake from a series…

Halloween is also right in the middle of FW 7 so if you’re in the mood for a little spook… feel free to add bats, spiderwebs, or ghosts to all your Fratt content!

Each day comes with a theme: Monday 28: Blood Tuesday 29: Bar Wednesday 30: Trust Thursday 31/Halloween: Spirit Friday 1: Pray / Prayer Saturday 2: Bag Sunday 3: Free topic / Amnesty day if you couldn’t post before!

You can participate as much or little as you want, it’s all up to you!

If you create art / graphic works, a description for accessibility purposes would be much appreciated.

Don’t forget you can already post in the dedicated AO3 collection earlier - one month before the start of the event, the collection will be set so that all new works are invisible! All newly posted works will be revealed on Fratt Week, so you can start as early as you’d like ^_^

On Tumblr, just @frattweek us and #frattweek in the first five tags :-) More info in the FAQ (open the link in a browser!) and if you can’t find your answer, send an ask or leave a message on DW!

Banner art by @nkeiiin

Detailed ID under the cut, as well as extra ideas for the prompts!

Digital art of Matt Murdock and Frank Castle stand back to back on the left of a dark red grid background. Matt is in his red daredevil suit, hanging upside down and his head resting on Frank’s right shoulder. Frank is angry frowning and looking up. Two white lines form a tilted X are on the right side of the art. The text on top of the line is “Fratt Week 7 28th Oct - 3rd Nov”, the text at the bottom of the line is “Frattweek.tumblr.com”

1/ Blood – bleeding, family, kin, clan, spill, martyr, thicker than water, vampire, fake, communion… 2/ Bar – drinking establishment, bar exam, disbarred, rebar (construction worker!Frank, anyone?), ka-bar knife, to bar someone from something, things going fubar… 3/ Trust – trust fund, to trust, trust in god, mistrust, trusty (gun, fist, baton, friend/partner…) 4/ Spirit – ghost, alcohol, spiritual, spiritism, spirited, sprite… 5/ Pray / Prayer: religion, Madonna (Like A Prayer;-), misheard prey… 6/ Bag – under the eyes, heavy bag, grocery bag, to bag (a criminal?), baggy (clothes?), gym bag, duffle bag, bag over the head, bodybag, bagged a criminal…