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rxzennia · 6 months ago

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rare critters

– tales of the voracity pathstrider

✎𓂃 a healthy dose of curiosity (ft. dr ratio) yall if i have to write another report i think i might kms sorry im 3 days late lol i was busy making concept art

when dr ratio somehow acquired a few rare critters from herta space station, he thought of one person:

aventurine.

if he’s so bad at looking after himself, maybe he could take care of something else instead. and these cat cakes are pretty tame and adorable… seems just right for him.

ratio sent a text to let aventurine know he’s coming to drop off some souvenirs

said souvenirs being these critters

ratio has one on top of his head and two in one arm as he rings the bell

it’s sometime in the afternoon, and you’re not around

(you’re attending a meeting on aventurine’s behalf so he can have a longer lunch break)

(you do that pretty often, actually. that’s why your boss can have entire afternoons or evenings to himself)

nothing would’ve prepared ratio for what he sees when aventurine opens the door

one, no, two? no, three?? faceless serpents slithering around his feet

and one really huge one around his neck???

their maws, aeons, their maws. as stunned as ratio is, he’s also scared shitless

they remind him of a certain aeon and he isn’t sure if he liked the implications

though, that aeon has long since disappeared…

the very moment the serpents sniffed something in the air, they’re all right up in ratio’s face

the trash cakes are definitely scared shitless

they’re quivering and whimpering

ratio is trying so hard to hide his unease

“since when did you have pets, gambler?”

“oh, they’re my assistant’s – don’t bite, please.”

and these dangerous, dangerous noodles listened???

they backed off obediently while still scenting the air again and again

at least they’re not one hair away from ratio anymore?

wait, more importantly…

“you’re living with your assistant?” ratio can’t help but ask. “and… they brought their pets over?”

technically, the slithery creatures around the house aren’t your pets, they’re literally parts of you, but does aventurine want to get into the details? not particularly.

“doctor, it’d be heartless of me to tell them to leave their pets,” aventurine chuckled, “it’s a long story. are these…?”

“i thought pets would do you some good. seems like your assistant has the same idea.” ratio passes the three cakes over to him. “here – from the space station.”

aventurine tells the especially thick leviathan on his neck to get off so he could hold the trash cakes

more like patting its body a few times until it got the signal and slid off of him

the cakes like him!

once he’s passed the sniff test, the cakes are all over him

they do remind him of someone, with those yellow eyes and grey… trash can(?) like body…

he holds them carefully, because unlike your creatures, he needs to hold onto these little guys

else they’d fall

invites ratio in while he’s at it, and he sits down to properly examine them

ratio watches aventurine for a moment, until your serpents catch his attention

oh, he’s so unnerved by them, but also…

he’s so curious! his scholarly senses are telling him to seize the opportunity!

are they really the same creatures as the ones depicted in the scriptures for oroboros?

how did aventurine get his hands on them? or rather, how did you get your hands on them?

and why are they so, so… docile, if they are really what he thinks they are?

what have you done!? how did you get them to be your pets?

his academic interest in you might have just skyrocketed

he engages in a staring contest with a creature with no eyes

somehow, somehow he just knows it’s a staring contest

he’s debating between approaching or not

they look like they would snap his neck before he could even react

“don’t try it, doctor,” aventurine warns, reading ratio’s actions from a mile away, “they’ll probably bite.”

“huh…” ratio makes a sound of pure wonder as he stands still, staring at the few noodles slithering over each other and scenting the air around him. “how did you tame them, then?”

“i didn’t.” aventurine shrugs as he plays with the new critters in his arms. “just sit tight, my assistant should be back soon.”

does that mean you’re the one deciding who gets to touch your serpents and who doesn't???

meanwhile aventurine has taken to the cakes from the space station

they’re so delicate and adorable, with their huge eyes and how stretchy they are

such a contrast to your huge serpents

your serpents are curious about them too, it seems

they keep trying to slither up aventurine’s legs

he has to keep pushing them down, all the while their maws opened and closed

trying to get a feel for the taste of these critters

not trying to outright eat them, just trying to get a taste

ratio is itching to just… grab one of your noodles

he can’t

how devastating

just then, the door opens with a click

“i’m home, aven.” you enter and practically throws your shoes off.

the sudden need to retain some semblance of formality in your home feels foreign to you now, but you’ve sensed someone else’s presence. it can’t be helped, even if the name aven feels odd on your tongue.

weird, aventurine usually runs out the moment he hears you

when you made your way to the living room, you see him and… some random guy?

said random guy looks like he’s into greek mythology?

is he like zeus or something

no, more like male athena or something

“oh, welcome back!” aventurine perks up as he lifts one of the cakes and shows it to you like a proud parent. “look at these little guys!”

your eyes never quite look away from the stranger, but you also dazedly take the critter into your arms. “this is…”

you immediately catch ratio’s eye – the way you carry yourself, the way the ends of your scarf seem to move on their own, and the way the few serpents find their way up your neck without so much as trying to touch the cake in your hands (even though they’ve been trying to taste it when it was in aventurine’s arms).

“veritas ratio.” he stands up before aventurine could introduce him and offers you a handshake. “you might know me as dr ratio of the intelligentsia guild.”

you stare at him without much of a reaction

his hand stays outstretched as he watches you expectantly

after a few seconds, you give his hand a firm shake and introduce yourself

you do know him, actually, you’ve read a few of his works

you quite liked his takes on philosophy and natural theology

he’s very insightful for a mortal

“can i help you?” you ask, because you don’t think ratio would bother talking to you if he hadn't been curious about something.

“your pets are most fascinating,” he gets straight to the point, “may i examine them?”

???

your pets?

the serpents?

you look to aventurine, who just turns away like he didn’t tell ratio those are your pets

you pinch the bridge of your nose and exhales exasperatedly

then again, perhaps calling them your pets is the best course of action right now

because the other option is spilling the beans about yourself

yeah

so… nice save, aventurine

you set down the critter in your arms on a nearby table and turn to face the doctor

“here.” you pick up one of your leviathans and guide it over to ratio. “they might do… things around you, but they won’t hurt you.”

ratio tries not to flinch when the heavy leviathan slither up his arm and coil around his neck loosely, but he winces and backs away slightly anyway. “how are you so certain?” he watches the creature with so much wonder as it scents him, then lifts its head so he can stare at it properly. or the other way around; so it can stare at him properly. who knows.

a healthy dose of cynicism is always good

it’s not like you don’t understand where he’s coming from

you shrug, because you really have no better answer without outing yourself

“i have them trained.” you say, but at this point you’re just pulling shit out of your ass

aventurine immediately covers his mouth to hide a snort

you shoot him a quick glare

you run a hand along its smooth body to show ratio that yes, he can touch them

its maw opens a little wider and drools a little onto the carpet

ratio carefully puts his hand on top of its head

it turns its head on contact and nudges against his hand

trying to scent the thing touching it (aka ratio’s hand)

but it doesn’t do anything other than what appears to be purely harmless scenting

could this possibly be the subject of his next paper?

“don’t think about it, doctor.” you cut him off the moment you see the telltale glint of academic interest in his eyes.

“i must disagree; they are of leviathan descent, are they not?” ratio asks, now caressing the big noodle with both hands and handling it with less hesitation than before, “this is of utmost significance; they might shed some light on the mystery of oroboros the voracity.”

you narrow your eyes at ratio

he doesn’t even try to prod around the subject, he just hits you in the face with it

as expected of such an erudite scholar, but still

(aventurine is watching the interaction with much interest while he plays with the cats)

(it’s like he’s enjoying the show)

(the remaining free serpents of yours has coiled up by his feet and fallen asleep)

(since they’ve realized aventurine doesn’t want them near the cakes)

you don’t want to bring too much attention to yourself, or your serpents

you don’t want things about oroboros to spread, either

in fact, you’re quite thankful to the enigmata and the ipc for heavily censoring them

“with all due respect, i refuse.” you do not allow any room for disagreement. “you are prepared to uncover the truth. is the rest of the cosmos ready?”

that’s not all of your argument, but the one you determine would be enough to keep ratio from conducting and publishing research about leviathans for now. oh, right – you’re not against ratio’s curiosity. you simply don’t want that curiosity to spread far and wide.

ratio frowns, not expecting such a swift rejection from you, but you do have a point. he’s a little blinded by his excitement.

your rejection sounds a little personal, if aventurine may say so himself

to ratio, it is very much just you being overprotective of your pets

as all pet owners do

to be fair, it’s hard to say. ratio is a sharp man

you stare at him, and he stares at you

the leviathan hanging on his neck tilts its head in confusion

if ratio is anything, he’s persistent

especially when it comes to knowledge

he opens his mouth to try to convince you again

you beat him to it and raise a hand to stop him from talking. “you can examine them for as long as you do not make publications.”

ratio is taken aback, his brows furrowing as you give him permission for further interaction with these descendants of ancient leviathans. this is your first meeting, so why –

in fact, aventurine is wondering the same thing

like, why are you getting along with the doctor so well when you’ve only met today

he’s not jealous or anything, he just has a huge question mark on your reactions

you’re usually very, very guarded against people who ask questions

especially about your scarf

but then ratio did see your serpents slithering around

perhaps you see no way of weaselling your way out of this?

anyway

if we’re being honest, ratio also has a huge question mark on your reactions

“i am a fan of your philosophical works,” you say, guiding your serpent back around you, “hence i am willing to satisfy your curiosity… provided you agree to my terms. think of it as an invitation.”

ratio takes a moment to mull over your words. to think that someone under the ipc has read multiple of his works, and has enjoyed them… is that why you are willing to compromise? but, well… you give him a feeling of a learned person. perhaps he will enjoy debating you.

“very well, that is good enough.” he nods, even if he still feels just a little bit disappointed, he’s anticipating a good back-and-forth with you already. “in that case…”

“i will let you know when i am free.” you sit down next to aventurine and let the critters on his lap crawl over to you and knead your thigh with their little paws. “and, doctor?”

it’s apparent to you that ratio has the same thought as you did when you decided to let your serpents drop their disguises at home. you glance towards aventurine next to you, then back at the doctor.

“thanks for the critters.”

#honkai star rail #aventurine #dr ratio #aventurine x reader #dr ratio x reader #ares's voracity pathstrider tales #honkai star rail x reader

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supreme-leader-stoat · 3 months ago

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Where does "turn the other cheek" leave Christians in terms of self-defense?

Alright, so, big asterisk up front: we've been arguing about this among ourselves for about two millennia and it shows no signs of stopping. A Quaker is liable to give you a much different answer than a raised-Baptist.

First, some context. The "turn the other cheek" verse is specifically part of the Sermon on the Mount, where Jesus takes Old Testament law and raises the ante. The law says not to murder, He tells them not to let their anger overtake and control them to begin with. The law says not to commit adultery, He says not to even look at people with lustful intentions (this is the poke out your eye, cut off your hand passage). The law says that a man divorcing his wife has to give her the legal protections of a certificate of divorce, He says that anything short of cheating isn't valid grounds for divorce to begin with (this has a lot to do with the protections or lack thereof for unmarried women at the time, but that's a whole tangent I won't go into here). The law says to keep your oaths, He says to be such a straightforward and honest person that you don't even need to give your oath to begin with. And so on.

Now, with all that in mind; "turn the other cheek" is Him upping the ante on the segment of Mosaic law that literally gives us the phrase "an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth." It was half legal prescription on the just punishments for certain crimes, and half laying down the rules and restrictions of what constituted acceptable proportionate retaliation. If someone punches you, you can punch him back. Someone kills your brother, you can execute him. What you can't do is go and slaughter his entire family, because that's how you get blood feuds, and that doesn't end well for anybody.

Looking at it from that angle, "turn the other cheek" is a commandment against retaliation and vengeance, and this is the interpretation I've grown up around most of my life. Someone hits you and you've got the opportunity to walk away, then you take your lumps and go, and you don't stew and think about what you're gonna do to get back at him the next time you see him.

Active and immediate self-preservation is another matter. To the best of my knowledge, there is no clear prohibition in the Bible against such actions; even "he who lives by the sword shall die by the sword" is immediately followed by "Do you think that I cannot appeal to my Father, and he will at once send me more than twelve legions of angels? But how then should the Scriptures be fulfilled, that it must be so?" The rebuke isn't for acting in the defense of others, it's for getting trigger-happy when Jesus isn't in any true (immediate) danger and because it's ultimately a pointless fight; Jesus has to go to the cross.

If you'll pardon an older example, let's take a look at Esther Chapter 8. King Ahasuerus gives the Jews leave to form militias to protect themselves and their property against the lynch mobs that would be attacking them as part of Haman's genocide plot, and this is presented to us as an inherently just and sensible course of action.

So, to answer the original question, I don't believe that there's anything wrong with Christians practicing self-defense, "turn the other cheek" notwithstanding.

But.

There's one more thorny patch to consider in this whole argument, and that's the one bit of Matthew 5 that comes after "turn the other cheek": "Love your enemy, and pray for those who persecute you." The safety that Christians enjoy in the modern west is an anomaly both geographically and historically. Christianity is, at its very root, a religion of martyrs. Many and maybe even most of those martyrs have gone to their deaths, if not willingly, then at least peaceably. It's worth noting that we don't tell the story of Stephen, who made a valiant last stand against the mob that tried to stone him. We tell the story of Stephen the martyr. "Lord, do not hold this sin against them."

Honestly, I don't know that I'd have the courage to die like they did. If there's someone who's trying to hurt you, trying to hurt your family, I won't be the one to look you in the eyes and say you have to stand down; I'm already well aware of the decision I'd make in that situation. But from the moment we accept eternal life, our old lives here on Earth are forfeit. Any time that could be taken from us with our death is on loan to begin with. A hypothetical attacker in a self-defense situation isn't guaranteed that same benefit. They might very well have far, far more to lose than we do.

I don't believe Christians are forbidden self-defense, but I think we are expected to weigh the costs.

#Christianity

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comfortless · 8 months ago

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Hello! This is the Frankenstein anon back with more praise and another prompt that you might like. Again you are amazing and everyone you come out with stuff, I weep for joy! Please continue what you are doing because it is absolute art✨

Okay onto the prompt. So lately tiktok has been putting onto this telenova drama called Hilda Furcão which is pretty much this priest and prostitute fall in love but due to societal pressures, cannot be together. The YEARNING in this show is amazing and I can’t help but think of Priest Konig in this situation. Imagine he falls in love with reader who works at a brothel but because he’s a churchly man, he’s fighting demons in his head (and down yonder) cuz he YEARNS for her but the lord says no🥴

Please keep doing what you’re doing and I’m constantly cheering you on with your work! ❤️

In the Arms of Flowers

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. pining, lots of talk of religion/silly metaphors, fluff, ridiculous attempts at courtship from both, dark (if you squint), implied cyber stalking, violence/murder, minor character death, some angst, sexual violence (not done by König), König becomes horribly obsessed and reader is fine with it, virgin!König-> oral (both receiving) piv smut.

wc: 11k.

There’s a garden in the churchyard, one that’s always been, even before his vows were taken and the cassock was pulled around his shoulders.

It’s the very place that the arching den window in the clergy house faces out towards, and the very place that an angel descends from Heaven to stalk through night after night.

Even when the thunder clamors and rolls to light up the sky above, the pretty thing is there, kneeling amongst the blooming lilies. A listless sort of purity swallows over her, bathes her in the white of petals and the bright illumination of each bolt of lightning above, arcs a halo over her head like a proper mirage.

The whole town knows these doors remain open, but never does she even look toward the church or the home of holy men at all: only the flowers. The lilies and carnations seemed to be her favorite to haunt, weaving through the petals as they sway for her in breezes like whispers from the pouting lips of cherubim.

He’s prayed for this lost soul many times already; clutched the rosary between his fingers and whispered to the Lord to protect her, to heal whatever aches, to bring her wandering feet into the chapel one of these days. But as most lilies, this one’s beauty is gone away by mid-morning.

Tonight, he wills himself to bring her in for prayer and refuge from the coming rain. Its been a long time coming, and regrettably he’s hesitated at every other opportunity. Nothing’s changed, the scene was so commonplace even the others have commented on it prior.

Maybe he hallucinates her holiness; the halo has become made up of fallen petals now as they arch over the crown of her head where she’s found sprawled out amongst them. She raises herself to sit upright, dusts the dirt from her knees and offers a wary glance with each step he takes until his soles halt in soil that would soon be mire.

“I’m sorry. I’ll leave,” the angel breathes out with her eyes darting from his collar down to rest at the expanse of short blades of grass between them. “I don’t mean to cause you any trouble.”

She doesn’t meet the concern in his eyes, and König is no stranger to sin. To the shame and grief that he’s absolved from far worse than her in the stuffy wooden confessional.

“You’re welcome to stay.” A silent prayer rests there in his breath — please stay, though even he wasn’t certain as to why there’s a demand stirring in the pit of his stomach for this woman clad in a dirtied white dress.

She smiles then, gazes right up at him in such a way that immediately sparks something misplaced, something tucked away beneath studying scripture and kneeling before the wooden altar. A sin of the flesh, a heated poker jabbing at both his heart and his loins.

“No, I’m okay,” she assures with a slight dip of her head, already taking steps back to dart away, back to whichever gilded little nest of baubles and starlight she took flight from. “I was just heading home.”

And that’s it. He doesn’t plead for her to come inside, the offer has been laid out already. It’s not his job to force a belief that one doesn’t want, only lend a kindness and a cushioned pew, advice for the lost and a choir for bleating lambs.

He bids her goodbye and walks back to the clergy house, ignoring the strange looks of his peers as they all prepare to bed down after a nightly prayer. It’s rare to smile here, when sacred words are passed from the wrinkled, cracked lips of his seniors. But König does smile, the grin is as bright as the seconds of white lighting up the sky in intervals as he silently thanks God for such a sweet vision amidst such darkness.

The fixation does not falter for the following three nights. She doesn’t return to the churchyard to whisper secrets to the blooms, but the angel weighs on his mind so heavily that König finds himself convinced that she must have been his calling, a soul that he would assuredly save.

His sermons now lack their passion. The parishioners come to him with weighty hearts and misery in their eyes, but bless him all the same, even when he’s distant. Away with the fairies, some would say. He can’t help but wonder when one such service rolls to a closing prayer if whoever conjured such words had also been in the presence of a seraph.

“Do you need prayer?,” one of his fellow priests asks as the flock trickles out, worry clear in the wrinkles laden beneath this eyes and the way his lips draw down before pressing thin. “You don’t seem to be sleeping well.”

And König regrets the words he speaks next, when he describes the woman from the flowers in detail greater than necessary: how her eyes seemed so soft, her smile fragile, and her body language more docile than that of even a lamb. He mentions the dirty dress, the way she seemed to be trying to escape something yet refused the shelter he offered.

The other priest nods and sighs, his eyes squeezing shut in thought, and though König has not feared a scolding since he abandoned home nearly two decades prior, the way the ordinarily calm priest seems so frustrated by this sends a swell of fluttering anxiety beneath his ribcage.

“The woman you describe is a temptress,” his elder explains coldly. His sharp, dark eyes rest on König’s face as though the disparity in their height does not exist at all. “Best to let her be, she does not want our help. Leave it alone.”

“Ja. Verstanden.”

The warning is enough to dull the buzzing in his chest, the mush that’s been made up of his head until he sees her again.

The bakery in town regularly makes donations of pastries and thick loaves of bread for church goingson. It isn’t regular that he’s been asked to pick them up; the eldest of the priests usually does so, some blood relation to the owners that König has never cared enough to ask about. The old man never did well in the summer months, though, far too frail now to bear the heat snaking over his pale skin and leaving burns.

With the mistake of rambling onward about this perturbing fascination still grating at his mind, he doesn’t hesitate to volunteer, to take the old truck and step away from the stained glass and crucifixes for a brief outing. A moment of respite.

There’s a complimentary mug of coffee presented across the expanse of the counter when the cashier greets him with a smile so broad it seems faked.

König’s fingers twitch when he grasps at the handle; the uncertainty was something he had sworn he would outgrow one day with God’s healing, but it never seemed to stray far from him. It rests over the back of his neck like a feeding vampire when he takes his first sip, one that burns his tongue and stings at his eyes when he notices the woman seated at a table in the corner.

It’s her: temptation and fate packaged up in a loose fitting sweater that covers the pulse in her neck and a short skirt.

She holds her phone, not the mug stationed before her, staring down at the thing with the most somber expression he’s ever seen on a lady before. She taps her thumbs at the screen, talking to someone, but there’s a loneliness in her expression apparent like the rust on the old truck parked outside.

Poor little thing.

She glances up when his staring is detected, confusion stripped bare upon her with a pinched brow and a slack jaw. Then, follows realization and she offers the same smile she did that night, some seventy or so hours prior.

“Morning, Father.”

There’s not a fractal within König that wants to make the sweet spirit uncomfortable, but each step he takes towards her table seems to make her shoulders tense. She knows that he knows, sees that sympathetic look in his eye and hates it.

Maybe even hates him for the divinity he wears in the sable cloth pulled over his shoulders.

That doesn’t stop his approach.

König sits across from her with shaking hands and a forced smile like the one the cashier wears, drops his mug onto the table and offers her his hand. Fingers bending to graze the palm as though beckoning a frightened animal when it’s he who feels most afraid.

The angel merely eyes him cautiously for a moment before she takes the cup into both of her hands and gives him a fragile huff, dismissing his attempt to pray for her soul. Again. Yet, the sting he feels is not from a lack of a starved savior complex being satisfied, only… that he has yet to touch her somehow. That sudden thought stifles him in full.

But angels are nothing if not merciful and loving; she picks up on his dejection and speaks again in his place.

“How are the carnations?”

“Hm?”

“The flowers in the garden… the red ones,” she elaborates with a soft laugh, hides it behind the rim of her cup when it’s raised for her to take a sip. Her mouth looks soft, compelling, and he’s staring again. “I like them the most.”

He knows he should stop this, that what’s become of an innocent meeting has left him feeling anything but. There’s a howling chasm in place of the heart of a worthy devotee. She’s nothing like the women who frequent the church — the only other women he sees. Brighter at best and alluring at the worst.

“I thought the lilies were your favorite…” It’s unsuited for a priest and a man so tall and broad to sound so breakable, but his voice only comes in an hurried breath, embarrassed and small.

She shakes her head, tousles her hair in the process. “I like all of them. The ones at your church grow prettiest.”

“I see…”

The woman gives him an expectant look, as if prompting him to speak more, before her phone chimes and the air seems to shift from tentative yet sweet to something vast and cold. She doesn’t seem eager to be interrupted in such a way, either; her expression falls from that subtle playfulness to something akin to a regretful acceptance.

She stands from her seat abruptly and takes a step towards the door. “I have something I need to take care of.”

God gives and takes away.

“I can bring you some,” he offers, winding in the too-small wooden chair to face her. Too late to reel in the flirtatious nature of such an offering, too late to bite his tongue and remember the vows he had taken. The burden upon his heart seems far more pressing than any words from an old book. “Carnations and lilies… some of the others, too.”

The woman almost seems shy when she glances over her shoulder and offers him the most imperceptible nod. “Yeah, sure… I’ll see you around.”

His angel leaves him to rot in thought at that lonely table, in this tiny bakery. He does not think to repent for the way his temperature and pulse spiked in her presence, for the way he takes her empty cup and stuffs it into one of the boxes of baked goods to collect later.

Riding back to the church is dreadful, because she’s already fastened to his heart like a ribbon on a pretty bouquet. He’ll ask the sisters from the cloister to clip flowers for him, tie them up in a lace that will leave her face warmed and lips pouting.

When the people in the church have their fill of sweets and bread, König tells a lie, maybe several.

He claims he doesn’t know why that innocuous porcelain thing is resting where food once had, doesn’t know why the baker would have stuffed that in there too. He takes it to his room and claims that he would return it come morning.

The bed has always felt far too small for him alone, but he pictures her there with him, sat upon his lap when he brings the cup up to his lips with his eyes closed.

It’s cold and hard, difficult to imagine it to be a kiss at all, but he pretends her lips are upon him, eager and willing. It takes only rolling his tongue back to flick over itself, envisioning it being her own, for him to feel his trousers grow too tight. He doesn’t touch himself. He can’t bear the thought of it, not with the cross staring down at him from the far wall.

And finally, regret comes.

Shame, too, because König is aware he’s become a bit of a creep; enchanting himself with second hand kisses whilst his angel takes another man to bed. A man undeserving, but… he could be. He was deserving enough to become a holy man, surely she could see he was worthy of her as well.

The bed is too small even when he curls into himself and pulls the blanket up passed his eyes. Sleep is too skittish to come for him, even when he prays in a whisper to be absolved of his lust.

The dreams are only filled with images of an angel trapped in a rose bush, the thorns sinking into her wings until blood is drawn, but still she smiles. She reaches toward him with shaky limbs, whispers something so dreadfully mournful he knows to his very soul that she is his purpose alone.

It’s what wakes him in a fit, compels him to venture out through the yard with a heart set on seeking guidance. There are moonbeams above and animal calls from the surrounding trees. All of God’s creations are in perfect, dreamy harmony.

Why couldn’t he be the same? Always the outsider in one way or another; always the sore thumb rather than the loving green. Desolation is an art, a skill he’s learned to hide back: clenched teeth to still a wrathful tongue and a layer of muscle to guard that wounded thing in his chest.

There is no better peace than the quiet of the church in the late hour. Moonlight through stained glass and empty, antique seats that would make the worldly whip out their phones to snap pictures in a heartbeat. The doors are always open, for the sinners and the devoted alike, though the confessional is rarely touched when there would be no saint awake set on absolving.

Perhaps that’s why he takes to the booth he needs to make himself smaller to fit into: one shoulder and one foot first, then the next set. He’s never cared for it, left it to the better and smaller. The sound just past the thin partition rattles him. It isn’t the creaking of wood below his feet, but something softer. A weak sniffle. A cry from the other side.

“I’ll leave in a moment,” comes a voice, broken from tears and so horribly sad that the usual script entirely fails him. He recognizes the voice, though a bit warbled now. The voice that would make the choir pause, an angel’s sweet tone.

“Wait… no. You can stay. I’m hiding, too.” A breathy laugh comes forced and misplaced. Priest or not, König has never been the best at consoling anyone, let alone one so far above him.

“I’m not hiding,” she tries to sound braver now. He can imagine her chin tilted forward and that sweet smile trying it’s damndest to paint its way across her face. “But… why are you?”

“Don’t know.”

“Who are you?” The crying seems to have ceased entirely for now. Clearly whatever seemed to ail her could be remedied by her own curiosity. A cute, unorthodox little thing.

“König.” It served well enough as a confirmation name when he could not settle on one of the saints. King of them all, one of the other saved men had said in jest. Ironic, now.

“I like your voice, König,” she murmurs, deliberately testing the pronunciation on her tongue in such an alluring way that a small shiver runs its way down his spine.

“Danke… and you?”

God forgive him, he doesn’t even try. Doesn’t try to bring shame or guilt, read her scripture or pray for her soul. He only listens in silence when she tells him her name, beautiful and charming as he had expected it to be. The woman then tells him of her work, of the motel she ventures to at night… the troubles with money and even vaguely, some of the men she suffers through. This had been a bad night. Strange how a singular hour could have broken someone down to such a desperation to open up, to grasp for what small comfort they could receive.

But she came for him.

She must have hoped to see him.

He thanks his god for that.

— — —

“I bought a phone.”

“I see that.” Her fingers graze over the stems of the flowers, cleanly cut by hands more patient and stable than König’s own.

The angel isn’t looking up at him, not this time. There isn’t even a smile on her face when she cradles the bouquet close to her chest, petting over it where she sits upon the motel bed wearing nothing but some strappy, barely-there lingerie. Pure white with pink lace over the cups of her bra where her breasts swell with each shaky intake of breath.

In this week apart, he’s kept the device hidden in a loose pocket and spent many a night scouring the seediest websites looking for a hint of a body that may belong to her in this very area. Only one seemed to match. The messages exchanged were about hours and pricing, establishing a location, and terms he didn’t quite understand. He didn’t harp on the small details, but finding her messages to be so rigid and dry did surprise him. There were no cute hearts or winking emojis, it all felt horribly transactional.

Priests don’t make a lot of money, it all goes back to the church, but he’s thieved enough from the offering bowls to have a night with her alone. As disheartening as the lack of flirtations seemed, he hoped not to squander whatever opportunity this outing proved to be.

The balaclava covering his face wasn’t purchased with the intention of making her nervous, only… shielding himself from curious stares. The whole town knows his face, his name, the words he speaks so resolutely to his flock. Just as well as they know of who she is, what she does.

Even this knitted shield couldn’t hide himself from her, though. The very moment he entered this drab, modestly decorated room with flowers in hand she had only looked further lost.

“You look very pretty,” he tries as he removes the mask and drops it to the floor, kneels just a hair from where her feet dangle from the bed. “I’m glad that I found you.”

“Thank you.”

The flowers are placed on the side table, petals falling down to the thin carpet below. A cascade of red like blood and white like doves feathers. Purity and a wound in one.

The poor thing looks scorned when she does give him a glance then, but she forces herself into a position that stokes a hellish, unnatural flame within him. Her thighs part as her hands rest on the cups of her bra, pushing the thin fabric down to reveal areola, her soft nipples, sights that he had never seen before.

“You shouldn’t even be here, König,” the lady warns when his gaze sweeps over the innocent flesh laid bare before him. The angel isn’t even wet. Her panties are pristine over her womanhood, and it dawns on him that… she wouldn’t risk what he was even for the generous donation he had given.

“I don’t want to ruin you.”

But she should. Crumble him into salt, cast him away with the wind. Should.

She sees something holy in him too… albeit, not in the way that he would like for her to.

He swallows hard as he rises to his feet and sits next to her. The hands that were so accustomed to being joined in prayer find her breasts now with tentative touches, a curious squeeze, until he wills himself to readjust the fabric and conceal her properly.

“Ja, but… I just wanted to visit you.”

“You don’t need to pay me just to see me.”

The tension in the room finally begins to dissolve. Not by much, but when she sighs something that sounds like amusement, the restless throbbing of his heart does begin to settle.

As much as he would like to take her like some beast in rut, lay some claim to her in bursts of white seed, he doesn’t even know where to begin. Each curve of her body looks as though it would feel like a miracle beneath his palm, under his tongue.

It’s just that nothing is going to happen, not here, not now that he’s brought a prostitute flowers and revealed who he was to her. She sees something pitiful, where he only sees someone to love.

He can’t tell her that he dreams of her, that he views her in the same way he views his god. That would only scare her away, lead her to believe he’s a lunatic rather than a man only just now having his first taste of love.

“Then could I see you every night? So that you don’t have to…” His head dips, because no matter how he tries he knows any word he says is foolish.

This isn’t something she’s doing because it is fun for her; it’s a job just like his own. Flesh or words spoken… did it even matter? And yet, König could feel a malicious, gnawing envy at the thought of a bolder man taking his place tomorrow evening. That man wouldn’t hesitate to peel away her pretty lingerie and fuck her, shove his tongue into her mouth while his cock sat between her legs as if it belonged there.

“König,” she sighs next to him, pityingly.

His jaw tenses as his fingers curl into his palms. The hopelessness of it all crashes down around him as though sung out from the loudest of the choir. He hardly notices when she presses her head against his shoulder, only realizes how close she’s come to him when her hand curls over one of his own.

“You’re the strangest man I’ve ever met.” It’s not a compliment but it feels like one when she laughs like that, airy and soft. “The sweetest one, too.”

He smells her perfume from this close, something scented like fruit or maybe maple, sap-sticky and saccharine. All of her flesh feels warm against the plain t-shirt he wears, a warmth he would give anything to dive into, but not without her explicit command. A powerful seraph in the form of one painfully cute, gentle lady. If anyone could see what he saw now, they too would forsake those holy books and eat from her open palm instead.

“I don’t know what to do,” he confesses, a peculiar bitterness hanging on his tongue.

“How about a walk?”

He pulls the balaclava over his face again when they make their way out into the quiet, darkened street. Hand in hand. It’s not from shame, but a necessity, perhaps, because his pale face has only flowered into a lasting pink since laying eyes upon her on that mattress, sprawled out and waiting. The blush only deepens with every squeeze she blesses him with, every hushed word spoken as she tells him about her favorite places.

She’s dressed in the same white dress they had initially met in, now clean of the dirt from flower beds. Somehow even more radiant at this close, too.

The churchyard and the clergy house are nothing in comparison to the way the rest of the town feels when the moon rises. It’s a world all their own, a place where no one looks at her as if she were a simple harlot, but a queen amongst chipping wood and tarmac. There’s even a skip in her step as she walks ahead of him, her hips swaying beneath her skirt. All because there’s no one here but she and her most loyal and only acolyte.

He wills himself out of her grasp when they cross the threshold into the cemetery. The darkness there is enough to pull him back to earth; thoughts of how easily swayed he’s been linger in the back of his mind. The want doesn’t even begin to reel back its claws, but the guilt does sink its pearly fangs in alongside it.

“I get it. You don’t want to be seen with me,” she says a small step away, drawing her hand up to her chest. It’s the saddest she’s ever looked, and he doesn’t have the words to further explain that he has no god damn idea what he’s doing: here, with her, in the midst of something that feels so normal even though it should not.

“Nein! That’s not—“

“You don’t want to touch me. You barely talk…”

Because the words don’t come easy. Because he’s never felt such an overbearing devotion to anyone, anything apart from what he prays to. How could she… this woman that shared in such loneliness with him not see him for what he was, not see him in the way that he sees her?

“You’re misunderstanding.”

“You just want to… to convert me, is that right?,” she hisses, sounding more shaken up than he had ever hoped to hear.

All hesitation had to be swallowed back.

There was no other option. He could feel her slipping away, a pain he wasn’t prepared to face.

God gives and takes away, but König refuses to let go.

His eyes narrow, his breath halts entirely, and he cups her face in his hands as gently as he can. The distance between them feels like miles as he lowers his head to kiss her through the knit barrier. It’s flighty and petrifying on his side… he feels cold sweat wet his brow when the warmth of her pulls through.

She could hit him, spit her curses like a proper witch, and he would only fall to her feet and kiss her heels. But… she does none of those things. Whatever pain was brewing here is ripped away with the night breeze.

Her hands peel away the balaclava, discard it somewhere into the tall grass where it wouldn’t be found, and she grants him his first, proper kiss.

With only the cracked headstones and cemetery angels watching, what once was tentative becomes a full indulgence. König samples from her mouth as though it weeps honey when the gentle peck graduates to a parting of lips. His hands run down the length of her sides as she grasps at his shirt, they pull her in close until her chest meets his own and two pairs of eyelids flutter.

She feels more heavenly than his imagination could have prepared him for, her tongue hotter and her sounds… the soft sighs and shaky murmurs of approval that fill him with both a maddening love and an urge to burn everything away if only it would keep her safe and near.

The world ceases to be entirely, cast down with Lucifer to the sulfur and smoke. Her lips remain parted when they break apart, a haze over her eyes reflecting the veil clouding his own irises.

Was a kiss really forsaking his vows? Was that really such a painful treachery? No… no it shouldn’t be. The issue remains that he can not see her as just some woman. Something as small as this could consume him entirely.

The night is spent with an abundance of those shared kisses when they return to the motel. Tentative touches, too. He’s never held a woman, not in the way he gets to hold her then. She presses tightly to him, her back to his chest with her hand keeping his own in place over her middle. She’s so soft, swans down plush and smooth as silk ribbon.

There is mint lingering on her breath each time she speaks. No talk of her work, only… she confesses how she had feared him so initially, how she worried that a holy man stepping into her life would only be further condemnation: an angel terrified by a devil that does not exist at all.

He knows he’s lost a part of himself here when he tells her he wishes to meet with her again, that if the church is no longer the place she fancies to walk, he’ll meet her amongst the dead again and again when the old clergymen sleep. Those promises he had reserved solely for God turn on themselves now, when he reveres the idol he shares this bed with.

Though her hips press back against his groin when his fingers crawl up to her sternum, and the desire strikes up within him, his cock remains untouched here. He doesn’t whisper a prayer for forgiveness into her hair when he grows hard, just tucks her in closer and smiles where his head rests atop her own.

It’s the closest to bliss he’s ever felt.

— — —

“You weren’t here for morning prayer.” The voice isn’t accusatory, just observant. The nightly prayers were missed too, though a reprieve is granted by way of those remaining unmentioned.

But the guilt does eat at König when he sees the concern in this man’s eyes, splinters at his very soul until he asks in a fragile voice if he can speak to the old priest in the confessional.

Everything here feels much too small and the booth is more or less the same. The wood closes in around him, bathes him in a blackness that even the glow of candlelight within these walls can not reach. The partition separating them does not help bolster courage, it only leaves him feeling more alone.

The clergyman listens in silence as König confesses that he has become weak. He does not mention the lady of the night, but there’s no need to at all: finding himself so captivated with a woman that he considered breaking every promise to the higher power was bad enough. He does not mention how he’s considered pleasuring himself, touching her too… only that they shared a night together embraced, counts the kisses that were exchanged with each digit of his hands.

There’s a pitying sigh from the other side before the man begins a lengthy prayer that König does join him in. With the “Amen” that follows, he’s told only to rid himself of those thoughts, to bury them with fasting and prayer. No more visits with this temptress, remain on the right path. The very, very simple things he must do to receive God’s forgiveness and favor once more.

“You are not a disappointment,” his elder reminds him with a small pat to his cheek and a smile. It’s more fatherly than the sparse affection he received from his own flesh and blood before coming here.

“Danke… thank you,” he breathes when his eyes bear the burden of tears.

God loves him and so do the sainted men.

But to never see her again would be worse than flagellation.

He chokes down the pain with more water when his stomach roars with hunger, hides the broken heart with smiles and prayer. Holy clothes feel heavier now. The money he stole to spend that night with her is returned to the collection pool in a week's time. The smartphone he had purchased is tossed out with the rest of the garbage in the bins. Even the cup is returned to the bakery after being rinsed in the sink.

Still not a part of him feels absolved from this torturous puppet show.

He thinks of her more than he ponders over his fear of Hell itself. God feels like an old memory as the days pass. He counts them in his daybook, an ‘X’ next to the dates he had gone without seeing her. Ten becomes twenty, and it becomes no less agonizing.

The prayers come easier, at least. He joins with his fellow men, kneels with his hands clasped before him, speaks such heartfelt words now that on more than one occasion he’s shared a healing tear or two with the other clergymen.

God is an old friend, yes, but that title is just a placeholder for the one his prayers are truly for. The little angel of the garden, the woman who has given him nothing at all but stole his heart all the same. Was she not the same as God from that aspect?

After a month, he’s finally given the privilege to stand before the altar and preach to the parishioners again. His sermon is directed by the other clergymen, a subtle admission of his own misdeeds as he guides the flock away from the sins of lust, of worldly pleasures that would steer them away from the right path.

Amidst the men and women crowding the pews sits a new face. She wears a hat, looking uncertain and skittish as a bunny amidst a pack of starved hounds beneath its curved brim. Her coat is tugged tightly around her where her hands grip to keep it closed and snug. No one is out to get her, not here, but there’s a purplish bruise on her neck. A sad stare trails up to meet his gaze when he stammers through the words of scripture.

Then, she smiles and his heart only feels full.

The sermon ends clumsily enough, but she waits for him in the center pew. He ensures the others have cleared out before he takes rigid steps toward her, where he sits a foot or so away on the bench; the feigned friendliness is only a front for the rapid beating of his heart and the way the blush upon his face paints up to his ears.

“I waited to walk with you… like you promised we would,” she says in place of a greeting. There’s no chiding in her tone, just curiosity. Gentle, like she’s speaking to a wounded bird, and perhaps that’s what he’s become: some big, ugly vulture. Holy in its love of everything from the sky to the rot down below.

“I’m sorry. I..,” he laments, grasping for an explanation that does not come.

“No, I understand. It’s alright, König.”

He knows he doesn’t deserve the gift of her redemption with how easily he turned away from her, from the blooming of… something. It was best not to use that word anymore.

“I just didn’t want to wait any longer. I missed you,” she huffs when the silence extends between them, breaks up the tension in the air but not what creeps over her own shoulders.

“Your bruise..” He wants to tell her of his sleepless nights, of how he pictures her in place of any old deity upon a throne in heaven, but settles for where his eyes linger on her neck.

No explanation is provided, but she lets him bring his fingers to it, ghost over where the purple melds to yellow in the shape of thick fingerprints. Add wrath to the ever growing list of his sins, because it’s all he feels amidst the envy and love.

His fingers dig into the plain back trousers when they rest upon his lap again, something foreign buzzes beneath his skin. The thought that any man would be brazen enough to lay hands upon his very own angel.. It’s unbelievable, unforgivable. His thoughts spiral so quickly it’s frightening. Timid things can become vicious, too, when backed into corners.

She manages to keep this growing storm in check when she stands and smooths her skirt, and offers to tidy up the church in an act of ‘repentance’.

The chores are simple and the sisters that linger far past service seem grateful to have her here as she takes up the broom and sweeps away at the dusty floor. They chatter away with her, take her hat and rest their hands over her shoulders when the cleaning winds to an end. His angel closes her eyes in prayer, doesn’t so much as open them to send him a knowing glance when they pray for her to find a good husband, someone who deserves such a lovely, godly woman.

She shares a meal with them while König keeps to himself with scripture in hand, mindlessly roving over the words even when his thoughts drift to the night of their first kiss.

He reasons that it’s only natural when she gives him such a display of acceptance too. It only solidifies what he knows already: this woman is no succubus— she has not crawled from the depths of Hell to drag him back with her, she’s only heavensent. An angel with a broken wing or a gaping wound somewhere… something to care for.

She’s encouraged to return by several fond voices. A few of the women even offer to walk her home, the daylight is dying and it’s dangerous for a lone lady out at night. The angel smiles at him then, sharing in the knowledge that she prefers the dark. Not the wicked things, but the peace and the beauty of the moon.

And she returns when he abstains from her.

She confides in him after each sermon that she does long to see him more often, but she likes the way he speaks of Mary Magdalene and the other women in scripture, pokes fun at the lilt to his voice when he notices her amidst the crowd of others. She says she likes him a lot before they part ways in the evenings, but she doesn’t tempt him with pouts or trailing fingers.

He thanks her for respecting his faith each time - despite being the one who crossed several boundaries initially. Though he keeps his hands to himself now, the looks he gives to her are pleading and soft. If she would pull him into a kiss now, he would let her have all of him. They could run away together, from the church, from her clients…

It’s on one of those cloudy Sundays that he does ask her if she’s stopped. He braves the look she gives him when his question comes as a hushed stutter. The comfort between them no longer feels tentative. It’s just there. Ever-present as the sky above.

“Well, you haven’t,” she whispers in response, propping her elbow up on the back of the pew. It’s as if she believes it could be so simple, but it’s not. Not for either of them.

The spiels of Heaven and Hell won’t reach her, so he doesn’t bother with those. She offers him an invitation with her words and the way she remains so open that it’s difficult not to take.

It’s been months since he touched her last and the love has only seemed to have grown. Strange. Perhaps he is as odd as she’s imagined him to be. There have been weddings in this very church, talks of long years of courtship, and even then what those men must have felt for their brides had to have paled in comparison to this. It had to.

“Tell me how to,” he breathes without any underlying thought. Saints don’t question their gods, they only serve them.

“You’re actually considering it…?”

“I might.”

The silence crowds around the bench while her fingers brush over the pages of a hymnal in repetition and his only inch closer to her clothed knee.

“You could meet me at the cemetery tonight… We could talk more there.”

“At night is probably not the best time.”

“Well, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

Friends don’t kiss. Friends don’t feel the way he feels now, or how he’s felt for the past few months. Platonic arrangements don’t require repentance. But, he bites his tongue and tilts his head back, lets it roll off the shoulder when his hand draws back to his lap. Another time.

Not where the Heavenly Father could see, if he were even watching any longer.

“… Tomorrow morning would be better.”

“Then I’ll come get you. Don’t you dare try and get out of it,” she chirps with the wildest glint of mirth alight in her eyes.

Stay.

If the church caught fire now and the rafters came to sink into the earth not a part of him would or could even care as long as she were just here. But he watches her go without a word of opposition, watches her nod toward the sisters standing out in the yard and clasp her hands in front of her, smiling to herself as though the world were made for just the two of them.

It stings during nightly prayer, and it burns when he lies in bed to wait for the morning. There are cicadas singing and footsteps on old wooden boards to remind him that he isn’t entirely alone, the scent of tobacco drifting from his window when another plaster saint hides beyond the veil of night to smoke. He doesn’t sleep, his eyes remain fixed upon the ceiling until the darkness of the room drifts to a dull gray with the sun’s slow rise.

And König does not wait for her to fetch him. Morning prayer dissolves into a mournful cry because there is no part of him that can fathom or interpret any of this. A trial should not feel like a blessing when he’s faced with it. God must be playing the stupidest game imaginable to test him with someone so lovable, so charming. Where the church leaves him feeling filthy with remorse, she purifies him with only a curl of her lips and starlight dancing in her eyes.

None of it is fair.

The guilt must be something obligatory, summoned up like puffs of dust from the floorboards. Worshiping idols is a sin, but it’s not the angel that feels like one, it’s the attention he pays to the cloud in his head that does. That’s the one that should go.

He grits through prayer with the other men, doesn’t chime in with unnecessary words of devotion this time. The coffee burns his tongue when he downs the mug and forgoes breakfast. There are dark rings beneath his eyes when he ventured to the washroom to brush his teeth, and there are whispers in the halls that the young priest must be either coming under a possession or God is preparing him for something. Something big and exciting. He ignores those and the stern glances from the little nuns in their robes, huffs something of a joke about a momentary sabbatical when he lumbers out of the walls of the church.

There are no new bruises this time, but König has the memory of the last ones stuck in his skull. A clear image of four small marks on the side of her neck, another on its opposite. Larger, more pronounced. Five marks from a hand that never belonged there. Kerosene and a match are what the thoughts running rampant in his head would look like to an outsider.

She tells him on the thin picnic blanket that she’s got a new client, that he gives her enough to where she doesn’t have to consider any others now. The man has a much stranger set of interests, ones she hadn’t delved into before him, but she’s merciful enough to withhold the details that would lead König to make the crucifixion seem a gentle affair.

She tells him because she wants him to be proud that it’s only one now. That she’s making some sort of progress for him. None of it is fair, and he knows without asking that she feels more akin to the way that he does than any of the holy men.

And still he can’t help but ask, “Do you love him?”

“Of course not,” comes her immediate response, and there’s a near imperceptible glare there, judging by the fire in her eyes. It’s cute… and he feels the world's ugliest fool for daring to ask for reassurance as though this relationship was any sort of normal. If it were even a relationship at all.

Their hands touch, reaching for the same flaky pastry in the basket she brought along and Heaven’s bells ring out in his ears when her gaze sweeps over him. Everything is sugared dough and right again. She offers him her lap in place of a pillow for his head when the clouds grow thick and gray above, feeds him from her own hand and runs her fingers across his face with the other.

“How did you get the sky in your eyes?,” she asks him, makes him blush so easily his heart stutters within his chest. He feels like a boy in her presence, and in a way, to her, maybe he even is just some inexperienced whelp nipping at her heels.

The angel does not judge, she softly rakes her nails behind his ear and neck until he shivers in her hold. His hair is next, a victim to her comfort as she tousles it between her fingers, strokes him like the smallest of kittens when he feels anything but.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he mutters, raising a hand to brush at her cheek. Warm as he expected, yet softer. There’s nothing wicked here, only a woman. A woman who loves him as he loves her.

“Your eyes are pretty… sad. I love them,” comes the sweet reply that reduces him to nothing but scattered feathers and a howling ache.

Did he even exist before now? Before her? This woman has filled him with such purpose, breathed new life into a stagnant soul. The church was a safe place for a man scorned by the rest of the world, but that blanket felt unnecessary now. He wanted to feel her hands move over him like this, smell the petals in her perfume, hear her voice speak to him, all of it. Forever.

“I think that I lose myself when I’m with you.”

“Does that hurt you?”

“Nein… I’m happier like this.” It’s the closest to a confession he can whisper.

And he returns to her, morning after morning König rushes through paying his dues to God and his men to return to her like this.

When the graveyard is silent and the dew still sticks to the blades of grass, her voice sounds sweeter somehow beneath the glow of the rising sun. The birds sing around them and often she pushes wildflowers into his hair, clasps her hands around his neck and teaches him to kiss.

Her tongue moves with grace, his is only a thing of greed. Each chaste peck is met with a hunger from somewhere so foggy and forgotten it never had a home at all, not before now. The angel needn’t show him where to rest his hands, they pry at every part of her: gentle brushes against her cheek and neck, kneading at her shoulders, further, further until he does finally starve off any lingering thought of what is good or evil to explore the curve of her lower back.

Most of the time words come in afterthought, once lips are wet and plush from this gentle devouring, after she steels herself from running her hands any further down than his stomach. He tells her in truth that he prays to her, not for. Not anymore.

The shadows cast from the aspens keep them tucked far away from sight, from God and his people alike. A temple for two without four walls to close them in. The only place on this earth that he’s ever found himself in perfect solace.

“I want to try something,” she breathes just when he’s prepared himself to leave. The tree at his back, knees parted, where she remains sat across from him. There’s nervousness there, not the fretful way she looks after a long night, nor the way she looked to him upon their first meetings. “Do you trust me?”

“Ja… more than anyone,” he reassures in a soft tone of voice, tipping her chin up with the tips of two fingers to further accentuate it. Her beauty and her uncertainty always strike a chord within him, a fire that never dwindles. When her eyes search his own, his breath catches.

He doesn’t say a word when she peels away the robes from the front of his trousers. Her hands linger on at the waistband for a moment, takes enough time to offer the gentlest peck to the side of his neck before continuing. It’s another first, being exposed to a woman like this when she lowers the band and has him shimmy backward to free his cock from his pants. Soft with shame or embarrassment, a concoction of other things he could not name, but the moment she looks up at him with pure delight he feels himself grow stiff.

“Wow… You’ve got a perfect cock,” she assesses with a laugh, finger running up the length of it as it twitches to life under her touch.

Scheisse.

He strokes her cheek with reverence as she bends down before him, watching him carefully through her eyelashes. Her warm breath drifts over his manhood and he’s already horribly aware that this would not last long. Another lesson, like the kisses, maybe. She could mold him any way that she likes and he would be pleased to play the role of her Adam.

The tongue isn’t what he anticipated. She flattens it against the tip, breathes a laugh when a keening whine is pulled from his throat. To see such an ugly, vulgar thing pressed to the beautiful mouth he’s kissed a dozen times now. It feels wrong. There’s no hesitation when her lips wrap around him. And then all of it— everything is just right. Every moment spent in this hazy, loving glow with her is right. If Hell were to come from this, then let it.

He can’t tear his eyes away from her, can’t bring himself to speak when he feels the way his cock hits the back of her throat, feels her swallow around him and make such a pleased noise as she wraps her fingers around the expanse she can not take.

Its pitiful, the way he must look: mouth agape, eyes lidded and heavy… He brings a hand to her hair, and runs his fingers through it as if she isn’t letting him fuck her mouth, but rather in the midst of something far holier, softer. Sacrilegious or divine. If God we’re watching, let him.

She pulls back a little, an obscene, wet sound in answer when her mouth is drawn back enough to merely press a kiss the tip, puffy lips glossy with drool. “Is this okay…? Not too much?”

“You are so pretty… it feels… just keep going.” His voice no longer possesses any feigned confidence, it begs like a wounded thing, chanting, “Bitte. Please…”

His hips tilt up when she parts her lips again, all trepidation be damned. This is something, something he’s aches for and never had the chance to feel. All of the ache, the longing to be diminished, to unite with the angel who fled Heaven for him. The cock pushes at her open mouth, smears thick beads of precum over her cheek, before she takes him in again with a delighted, muffled sound. Her soft mouth, the tongue that thoroughly laps at his shaft and follows her movements to wrap and suck at the head. Otherworldly, and… unfathomably bittersweet.

Her lips suction around him, the movements of her wrist only increasing, and with the second roll of his hips he feels his stomach begin to tense as pure heat rolls its way through him. A gentle coursing becomes a blinding inferno in mere seconds, and regrettably, instinctively, that hand so gently combing through her hair comes to snare it instead and force her down further.

His soft grunts and low pleading morph to something choked and almost agonized. It’s the purest rapture, a pleasure so absolute his eyes prick as he bows lower to cover over her as she swallows his devotion by mouth. The angel pants breathlessly when she pulls away with saliva and semen still stringing them together, cleansed by his thumb tracing over her lips, replaced so swiftly by his own mouth. The kiss is so chaste it feels misplaced here, but she nuzzles against him in this comedown from ecstasy, doesn’t even chastise how he lasted a mere two minutes.

And he vows, vows in the sweetness of her comfort and love that no one else will ever have this again.

— — —

Abstaining from meals during a fast is a struggle in and of itself; abstaining from her is some long-forgotten circle of Hell.

It’s not avoidance, but a necessity.

To think that his first sexual encounter would provoke days of concern, a wistful daydream about a future he never would have thought to have had otherwise. There was a desperate, starving desire to repent when he first arrived home after that, but nothing that a bottle of communion wine and a cold shower could not wash away. Repentance has lost its merit to him.

And after seven days, he’s perfectly aware of what he must do. To absolve them both from things where atonement seems far from a necessity at all. He folds his holy robes and leaves them on the bed in the room too small, set neatly next to his Bible. The rosary was the one thing that König could not bear to part with. The beads, red and shimmery, were chosen and strung together with him in mind. It’s slipped into the pocket of his jeans after the plain, black t-shirt is pulled over his head.

There’s a hammer in his gloved hand, and he doesn’t recall where he found it. Lying with its head rusted in the churchyard, perhaps half buried beneath the soil. Some of the other clergymen are talented at fixing things, but König’s never been very good with that. His first rosary was broken with a careless slip of his fingers, and he’s shattered more porcelain than he could count on accident.

Even communion wine can be a bit too strong, sometimes. Or maybe that’s only when the bottle’s been entirely downed. He’ll blame one of his betters when the stock is counted and one turns up missing, if they bother to come seek him out again at all.

The motel is dead at this hour, so late into the night. The few normal visitors have already been accounted for with watchful eyes, and the angel waits in one of the rooms on the second floor. He imagines the laces on her lingerie, the healing bruises on her throat, and that sweet expression upon her face. Or maybe that one was reserved solely for him. He prayed… no, he hoped so.

After tonight, there would be no more mercies for him. Or perhaps there would be an abundance, blessings from the vultures and the wolves and the maggots he would feed. New gods that were still far lesser than the angel who suffers men in sheets, but only looks to him with love.

And he doesn’t have to wait long, because the demon finds his way here with haste. Does he come here every night looking as proud as he does now? His attire even resonates with death, black with those white details, a costume that seems so fitting for one about to meet the very face he wears.

Killing someone isn’t so easy. Cain murdered his brother with a rock, described in such loose detail that one would think a playful throw led to Abel’s end. But it’s not so, not when the victim is hellbent on living.

The demon is smaller, but strong. He’s been in situations like this before, doesn’t have to spit the words to tell König so. They’re felt with each blow, with the sharp edge of the knife this bastard manages to dig into his side. Just barely, before it’s jerked out of his hand and thrown several paces away. The skittering across the tarmac is enough to chant doom.

There’s blood. More with the first strike of the hammer. It seemed so much easier in thought rather than practice. In his imaginings, the head would split with the first fall like an overripe apple, crumple in and the breath would leave the demon in an instant. Instead, it’s dozens. Blow after blow while the smaller man struggles below him.

A strange catharsis comes over him when his soul grows murky, when his hands are slick and the struggle comes to an abrupt end. The sobering only comes when he’s spent an hour driving down the most forested roads to find a place to dump the body. There’s no tact to it, laying a man to rest in shrubbery and dirt. With a head so collapsed it’s hard to think of this as a man at all. A corpse, something no longer simply human.

König does not pray for him when he rests the hammer in the deceased’s hands. Does not offer it more than a passing thought when he peels away back toward home. The deed is done and he’s free of those horrid burdens tainting his heart, keeping him held back on a short leash to divinity.

Like fate, she’s found out in the garden again after the bloodied shirt and stained gloves are discarded. The wound is patched with what he could find available, a hastily tied strip of gauze covers his side. A week or so at best until the gash would heal into an ugly, jagged scar. It seemed even a bastard devil’s blade couldn't be sharp enough to fell a Goliath when he’s caught by surprise and horny.

He feigns merely emptying the garbage into an outside bin, plays off the sting of the gash with a humble, lumbering gait. She beams up at him through lines of tears running down the sides of her face like small, silver streams beneath the darkened sky above.

He’s not a saint anymore, no… a guardian angel. The archangel Michael with his sword set ablaze and divinity scrawled into every scale of his chest plate. Something holy and glowing, unsullied and beautiful.

Like her.

“You’re crying…”

“Sorry… bad night. Client just ghosted me.”

No. This was good, couldn’t she see that? All the sleepless nights, the prayer and the constant, overwhelming longing. Everything he had suffered for her, and still she only comes to him with the thought of that horrible thing in mind.

“He’s dead.” Maybe it was just the fear of a loss of money. He had enough saved up someplace, and the collection pool would be beneficial enough to pivot them towards a new life. No church. No lonely motel. He had to test it, give her a trial and hope that she did not simply break.

The look that crosses her face is one of confusion… Then comes a strange twist of relief. Her mouth falls slightly agape and her arms squeeze slightly around his middle.

“We just spoke a few hours ago. How…?” Finally, suspicion.

Maybe he’s too drunk on playing God now to care, to realize this isn’t how a good man would have handled things. The only thing that holds any weight, that resonated with him any at all is the thought that he loves her, that he will protect her until his dying breath, pray at her feet and anything else she might ask.

That’s what pulls him to press her down against the bed of the truck, to kiss her with every lesson she’s blessed him with in mind. Tongue and teeth, fire and spit, she accepts all of it. She doesn’t beg him for an answer: she’s seen the worst of men, taken cocks far less deserving. Her hands find his hair as they drift away here, gives the strands a sharp tug to usher him closer, roll her tongue against his own.

The sheer tights she wears beneath her skirt are ripped at the seam between her legs by large hands, panties pushed to the side before she finally presses against the broad chest against her to gain some space. Her breath is shallow, face warmed and hair a mess, still the loveliest thing he’s ever laid his eyes upon.

“Are you afraid?” He tilts his head to the side, curious, as if there were no reason for her deny him of this now after he had just *killed for her*. After he forsook what once was all he knew all for her. He would do it again without question, with no gain at all, but the sting of rejection was not something he could entirely choke back.

But his angel never runs out of mercies, it seems.

“No… just give me a second.”

She slips her hand down between her parted legs, demonstrates for him just how to prepare a woman. He watches, mesmerized, as she circles the bud above her slit, dips her finger downward to spread wetness along her flesh. Dew over petals. A finger slips inside of her, and all at once is shoved aside.

“Let me,” he pleads, already pressing both hands to her inner thighs, tilting her hips upward as his head sinks between them.

“You don’t have to,” she whispers, but grants him his wish with feverish nods that betray her words, allows him to kiss her sex as he shifts himself into a better position.

There’s nothing to go off of but her sounds, the cries of pleasure when his tongue lolls out to lick at the nub where most of her reactions stem from. He mutters against her about her taste, something so ethereal he could not even begin to place. Her scent envelopes him in full, and he’s never felt closer to anything prior. She allows his clumsy licking, moans louder for him when he can’t stifle his own groaning. The pants are too tight around him, and patience is another virtue he finds that he lacks.

She doesn’t reach some fantastical height of pleasure when he presses a finger into her cunt, but her body seems to fit even that like a glove, squeezing around him as he lazily circles her bud with his tongue. She doesn’t come, but she tugs him by the hair to usher him back into another kiss, hands roving down his abdomen to free his manhood from the barriers of fabric. And finally… finally he’s granted entrance to Heaven.

The first thrust leaves him spiraling, lost into a world of silk and honey. And the angel does not give him any time to recover, she writhes beneath him, shifting her hips to pull him in deeper, muffles each whine and groan from his lips with her tongue hungrily lapping over his own.

He’s thought about having a woman many times, but never imagined it could feel this good. To be so complete, every woe or fear cast aside in the act of mindless pleasure.

He doesn’t know where to put his hands, to keep his eyes shut or gaze down at her and cease this assault on his mouth to tell her that he loves her, that she feels like pure fucking paradise and he’s already on the verge of coming undone. He settles for moving, dragging himself in and out of her in slow movements, turning his face away to bite down on her shoulder when the feeling of her walls cinching him like a vise threatens to spur him into finishing on the spot.

“That’s just… god… you’re good at this,” she gasps when a hand is sunk between their bodies, flicking at her clit as he spears her open. Her hands find his back, raking her fingernails down past his shoulder blades. It’s agonizing, trying to fight back the urge to breed her full, watch his come spill out from her perfect cunt until he finds himself hard again. The very thought makes him gasp, grind himself deeper inside of her as her nails dig into his back.

“Mein… this is… you understand…,” he’s babbling, hardly coherent, and she only seems to accept it. The angel chants her agreement amidst the beginning of her rapture.

She cries out for him when she comes, her sex pulsing around him as she shivers that all restraint is immediately lost. She hugs him so tightly, squirms as she hisses a curse into his ear.

It’s a miracle he’s even lasted this long. He halts his pace for a mere second to prop himself up, gaze down at her in absolute reverence before that fire swallows him whole. It’s unceremonious when he comes: a growl and a wail as he buries he face into her neck and pumps every last drop of his seed into her pussy.

He doesn’t want to pull out, doesn’t want to leave such a complete embrace. The world has already ended for him, a long time ago on the very night they met. There’s no need to drag out their ruin with whatever else occurs when she’s out of his grasp.

She strokes over the marks she’s made, gentle, tickling touches of her fingertips and shy giggles when their eyes meet again.

“I thought I would never get to do this with you,” she admits, quiet when her hands drift to cup his jaw instead. “You’re perfect, you know that…?”

He wants to cry, wants to fuck all of his woes away, kneel before her and beg that she find a place where they can never be apart. Steal her away to some cabin up in the Alps, where flowers grow in thick patches on the hillsides, a wild garden of her very own.

“… You should stay with me,” he huffs into her ear, fingers dimpling the flesh of her hips as he tries desperately to force himself closer to her.

“You can’t mean the church,” she giggles. “So where should we go?”

“We can figure that out in the morning, hm?”

#könig x reader #konig x reader

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cloudluvrrr · 3 months ago

Note

fluff with obsessive (ok sounds hella creepy lmao) madly in love sunday but NOT LIKE THE YANDERE TYPE IF YK WHAT I MEAN. LIKE THE TYPE WHERE HE WILL WORSHIP THE GROUND U WALK AND THANK THE AEONS HE BREATHES THE SAME AIR AS U

basically sunday who sees you as the aeon of beauty herself

a/n: i love sunday guys hes so cute i wish he wasnt so negative and traumatized. Also idk if it was but i just made him like love bomb you but its permanent and he just loves you a lot and worships you and also general ideas 😭🙏

loving! sunday x g/n reader

Angel

virtual angel - artms

-hes very busy, with meetings and constantly is in his office. Reviewing plans or studying the scripture. But he never fails to send you texts

'hello angel <3'

"I will be home late, please don't stay up for me <3."

“I’ve made us restaurant reservations, so be ready when I get home <3.”

-his texts are always grammatically correct, since hes always writing to his colleagues or to other families.

-but sometimes he tried to incorporate emoticons.

“How are you my angel? :3”

“These meetings are boring. ;-;”

"Hello darling, I bought take out! o((>ω< ))o"

-he’s so cute

-but he often checks in when he has a chance too, and often responds quickly. And always ends his message with a heart.

-when speaking of you or to you he smiles with his eyes closed. He will find any excuse to talk about you

-and he’ll likely bring your flowers after a long day, as an apology for taking too long.

-taking you to his 'family' dinners, and parties.

-and help you dress up and even put on your makeup, jewelry, and help you with your zipper/tie/buttons.

-kissing your cheek, and shoulder as he does. Whispering sweet things in your ear.

-he'll always have things for you incase of an emergency as well, if you find yourself with a spill or your shoes are hurting. He'll tell his assistant to bring you a new pair and escort you to a private room.

-during parties he'll drag you away, to walk around just the two of you

—

Your sitting on the couch on your phone, reading the latest news before your attention is turned to the door opening. Revealing Sunday as he carried a small bouquet of flowers “I apologize the florist didn’t have any that were bigger my love” he began as he closed the door “I’ll buy you bigger ones next time”

"you and your gifts for me sunday" you spoke taking the flowers from him and arranging them. "I love giving you things, I have money to throw around why not spend it on my lovely fiance" he replied playing with your hair, and burying his nose into your collarbone "you're so wonderful... " he uttered his hands gently rubbing your waist "so perfect.. I love you very much you know"

-Sunday only works during the week, on weekends he's all yours.

-you both wake up late in his expensive bed, he'll be all over you in the morning whispering sweet nothings.

-he'll make breakfast, whatever you want he'll make.

-Making a plan of what you want and organize the day to fit your schedule. Ordering his driver around and having a private shopping day

-giving anyone a look if they look at your a little weird

-buying you anything and everything 'I dont have any other use for my credits' he'd say as he placed another ring on your finger.

"Sunday I can make pancakes" you huff trying to take the spatula from his thin fingers

"You work too hard, It time for me to pamper you" he said slyly, bringing up your hand and kissing your knuckles. "You do that every week"

"oh do I? I guess i forget" he chuckles flipping the pancakes.

"Would you like bacon with that my love?"

-you spend weekends together, in restaurants or shopping.

-or just at home lazing around, watching tv, scrolling through social medias or just petting his wings.

-he spoils you in every shape and form.

-buying you earrings, rings, necklaces and all kinds of stuff that'll make you happy

"this looks lovely on you doesn't it" he said pulling out a frilly shirt, with a gentle smile. "Sunday I have that one in 3 colors"

"it looks so beautiful on you why not have one more" he said putting up again your torso "its on sale as well" he added placing it on the overfilled basket

- He'll try to hide his stress and his own emotions from you, in an effort to not affect you.

-sometimes he'll open up about his past if hes tipsy enough, his wing piercings, his clipped wing on his torso, his trauma with the family, loosing his mother.

-especially when its something with that gopher fuck gopher wood

-you could tell when he was anxious, he would touch his piercing on his wing or play with his gloves

-that and he'll be spacing out during dinner

"did something happen a work" you asked taking his hand from his wing. "Nothing to worry your pretty head about" he said calmly kissing your hand, and smiling. "your sure.. you seem antsy" you insist "Just a bit antsy for the festival.. Hoping everything will be perfect, especially you. We have to find a new outfit for you don't we?"

-he was always a smooth talker and manipulative, hes able to easily do it when your worried as well.

-he does it so you dont think about it too much, as well as using gifts to lead you away from the conversation

-he doesn't like manipulating his love he'll avoid it, but its so you dont ask too many questions.

"I love you, you know that" he said not looking up from his desk, as he spoke to you over the phone "I know that.. I'm just worried you know, you haven't taken any days off this week." you vocalized as he continues his paper work "I'll make us reservations at your favorite restaurant" he suggests finally picking up the phone

"Sunday.. I just want to know you're okay"

"I am my angel, please stop worrying we'll see eachother at dinner. I love you, alright? I love you.. very much" he murmured before hanging up. His mind had many thoughts but you were always on top, he smiled to himself as he looked as the many photos of you on his desk.

Sunday loves you very much, his only regret it not showing it more. As he fell from the penacony theatre, his eyes following the horizon as he envisioned your smile. The only thing giving him hope, that he'll survive this fall.

STREAAM TTYL BY LOOSEMBLE GUYSYY

also kinda got carried away 😔😔

-- navi >.<

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eldritch-spouse · 3 months ago

Text

Next part to [this series]

[Minors DNI][Fem reader][Interactive poll!]

TW: Kidnapping; Descriptions of gore.

He watches you put the cup back down.

It had been a bad decision to give you a taste of such. Hudsyn can admit that much.

Could he be blamed however, in his want to make you appreciate your time with him more? An angel's tears- The delicacy of times forgotten, something both holy and blasphemous, rich spoils only he can gift you. Can you even comprehend the magnitude of what he's offered you?

The two of you, enjoying a priceless commodity, one which no other common mortals in this world can even conceive of in this day and age. It's poetic, it signifies your importance, your achievements to come- It's romantic, dare Hudd say.

And yet, it was also a mistake. More and more, he gets painfully reminded of the risks of romanticism, of letting that little spark of pride in him -What's left of it- Blind him to reality, sideline his goals. Hudsyn's never wanted to impress someone as badly as he does you and it shows. Perhaps to you it doesn't, but to the few who know him, it'd be the most glaringly obvious slap to the face.

Point being, that drink had its uses. It was meant to keep you lulled, susceptible, easy to grasp his meanings and emotions. He didn't plan for the possibility of him being unable to keep his feelings in check, which, to be fair, isn't something Hudd often has to worry about to begin with. They bled into you, some less pretty things dancing around his excited mind… Put you on edge, overwhelmed you. Whatever channel was formed between you two was interrupted by something else at the end, something Hudd desperately hopes he can keep at bay now that you've obediently placed the cup down.

Dangerous. Dangerous unknowable variables. Thorns.

That cup. He wanted to blurt out the oh so riveting references it possessed instantly, but far be it of the demonoid to prematurely ruin a surprise. The feathers, the eye, the celestial tears- Oh, it's in moments like this that he can't help sing his own praises. He's charming. He's clever.

Hudsyn admits he's been stalling.

Not that it's detrimental to his goal, he was entirely honest when he told you that you still had a nick of time to converse before things got serious. And it's only natural he'd want to take advantage of every second he so graciously granted the two of you to ground himself, to calm down, to focus. Because, as he said, you're about to do something very very special together. It's a tricky situation, but if it all goes swimmingly, you'll be the ones to fix Hell's murky history, to finally glimpse into the world before monsters, before abandonment, before sin. Translating it into scripture.

The one true scripture of the world that formed Perdition.

Just thinking about it has Hudd a little emotional. Okay, very emotional.

Can he cry? These eyes, the way they work… Hudd has wept enough. Perhaps angels can weep in his stead now.

To think that you'll do this with him, for him, his darling precious mentee- There for him always, understanding, empathetic, a breath of much needed fresh air for his starved lungs and unfortunately also the bane of his loins. It's been too long since the demonoid was this consistently aroused. A state that should disgust him, yet the images conjured in his mind never seem to let him get rightfully upset. Oh, you and him will be beautiful. You will make everyone proud. Hudd only wishes he could make you see that now, take away the little seed of doubt he sometimes sees in your eyes. You need never doubt him, he knows best, and you've been aware of such up until now too.

" Mentee. " He starts, after a pause. " We ought to get to work. "

There. Focus. Good.

When you look at him, hues betraying an inner battle, hesitant yet curious, he really cannot fault you. For as much as Hudd has spent small eternities planning this day from start to finish, he alone cannot guarantee its success. You play too large a part to do so, without you, without your cooperation, everything will be so needlessly hard.

And yet… In the time he's come to know you, Hudd’s sixth sense hasn't technically failed him. You fit the profile of someone he needs for this kind of thing. Why, at times, you even revealed yourself as knowing more than any ordinary human should.

You wouldn't just walk out. Wouldn't get in his way.

You're better than that. You're intelligent enough to understand, you will know to make the correct choices when the time comes.

He trusts you with the most important moment of his life.

And the realization sends a rattling shiver down his spine.

When he stands up, so do you.

This has been scaring you a little.

Hudd was never someone you'd consider easy to read, not exactly an open book, even if he seemed to want to be transparent at times. Intriguing, cultured, fascinating and… Unsafe. Frantic. Invasive.

Hudd is a man on a mission, that much has been clear from day one.

And the depths of his dedication are something you're only truly grasping now, after being… Kidnapped, into this location. After becoming a part of his project.

The historian had yet to lay a hand on you. There's no immediate danger, only tension, unease- And that ever present morbid curiosity that begs you to discard any crumb of self-preservation you have.

What were the images you saw in his mind? Why did you see those things?

Who talked to you?

Help. Who asked for your help?

" What are we doing? " Something you feel the need to ask again. Maybe this time you'll get an answer.

The demonoid pauses, a hint of irritation flashing there for a moment. " Follow me, if you will, there are some things you need to see to understand, and I do not enjoy wasting breath. "

That robe-clad form turns towards that hall again. The voice… It came from there. No, you heard it in your mind, but the fact that it beckoned you to glance that way... Does something loom there? Hidden in that thick blanket of darkness that threatens to swallow the rest of the room? Whatever it is, if it is there at all, sounded small. Helpless. Corralled.

Desperation, but entirely unlike the one you felt in Hudsyn.

" My, are you really that tired? I need you to make an effort to keep up with me here, Mentee. This is important. “ The demon tuts again, coming closer to you. It's odd, you've never really paid that much attention to the difference in heights between yourself and the historian up until now.

He's taller than you. Not by that much. If you had to guess, around the six foot mark, six foot something. But those horns, the way they curve over his head like great symmetrical arches, the pitch black canvas of his face and the mystery of what lies beneath, what he tries to cover thoroughly enough to never wear anything other than those plain robes. Hudd is a tad creepy.

“ You won't forgive yourself if you falter during this. “ He warns, stern.

There's a gulp, you don't like the way he's talking. It's very clear you'll be doing something risky eventually, and you don't particularly want to chance being harmed. The fear has to be evident in your face, because he continues.

“ I have mulled over this for more years than you have been alive, protégé… So long as you follow my instructions, everything will go perfectly, and we'll emerge with the answers we need. “

A pallid palm extends in your direction, fingers curling slightly and claws glinting. “ I chose you because I know you are capable of doing this with me. Come. “

And, maybe because you can’t control your rabid curiosity anymore, maybe just because he believes in you so much, you take that hand in yours.

It feels like the seal of a promise, a contract officialized in impulsive compassion.

What would happen if you denied him now anyway? You haven’t the faintest idea where you are, bereft of any personal belongings except the very pajamas you went to bed with. Could you find a way out of his home if things went south? Could you find help in time? Would Hudd hurt you? Or… Would he simply drop you back home?

No, this is too important to him, you’re not willing to believe breaking the perception he has of your “potential” is something the demonoid would take very well.

He smiles, nodding.

Pulled along by said hand, its hold more of a periodic squeeze than anything, you’re guided into that hall. And, as soon as you set foot in said ambiguous darkness, the shabby lamp that furnishes the wall at its very edge crackles loudly, the bulb within it giving its last few sparks of light before becoming utterly useless. In that moment, you truly become submerged in a sea of blackness, unable to pinpoint where you're going at all. Hudd, on the other hand, seems hardly bothered by the change. Perks of being a demon, you presume…

When you step over something that creaks, your hand instinctively tightens around the historian's, causing him to audibly halt.

“ Oh… “ He starts, a giddy hint lying there. “ You can't see very well, can you? “

" No. "

“ Forgive the lapse, this house… It's been a while since I did maintenance checks on it. Here, I will guide you, mentee. “

A warmth envelops your side, one of Hudd's hands presumably sets on your right shoulder and the other balances your front. The sensation of those pointed claws poking through your pajamas is mildly stressing. If he were to put the smallest amount of pressure on them, he could probably draw blood.

The demonoid's closeness is a tad confusing, the only thing audible now being soft footfalls and his slightly uneven breathing. Why not just get a flashlight? Does he seriously not have any?

A sudden intake of air has the hairs on your back rising. You'd rather stumble through the dark than feel this stifling hold upon your form. Hudd hasn't said a word but he feels and sounds even more excited than before. Like this, you are once more reminded of your short-comings as a human, and how every one of them is against you if you were to attempt to flee.

“ There's a staircase ahead, you should… Grab onto me. “

Ah, that makes a little more sense.

He wasn’t lying, because sure enough, you feel the first step, as well as his hands tightening around your body. Although your arms spread in an attempt to perhaps find a wall or a handrail, you’re unable to, having to pace yourself and take Hudd’s advice instead.

“ I won’t lie, sometimes I do forget how fragile humans are. Just look at you, blind like a bat, a fall from this staircase would probably break more than a few bones. Hm… Now that I think about it, you could die, if you fell just the wrong way. “

What the Hell is his problem right now…

“ Ah, I didn’t mean to alarm you. “ He has the nerve to say, helping you down yet another step. “ Besides, I’m here, I would never let that happen to you. “

Reassuring. Totally.

Just how many steps does this staircase have? Maybe having no vision alters your perception of time, or maybe he's descending at a snail's pace, but it feels as if you've been going down for too long. You're antsy.

“ In any case, it's rather convenient the lights aren't working very well in this next area. A different kind of lighting is necessary for it all to work. “

It all… You still don't know what he's on about.

When it feels as though you two have finally reached another division, a pause unfolds. Instead of letting you go, you feel him move to stand behind you, silently. Both of his arms shift to now hold you against him by the waist. Sensory experiences heightened by the lack of visual input, the soft rise and fall of his chest is felt clearly, as is the shape of a rather thin build behind those deceitful robes.

Seconds pass in this stillness. Part of you is hoping he'll reach for some kind of light switch on the wall or continue to guide you somewhere else, but all the demon seems content to do is stand there. If you didn't know better, you'd say he's lost too, or falling asleep.

" ... Hudd? "

No response.

" What's happening now...? "

For a few more moments, he doesn't make a peep. The very second you're considering ripping yourself free of his grasp, the monster finally speaks.

" I've been waiting for this long enough that it almost feels like a dream, you know? "

" H- Huh? "

" Shh... "

A palm slithers up your front, a finger tapping at your chin before softly resting on bottom lip.

" Ever since that night, actually. "

You figure he's going to enter another one of his long-winded speeches, so it's better to just let it happen.

" At the time, fool that I was, my act of theft was done out of spite. I wanted to save my dignity, to lash out in the only real way I could before disappearing... " He sighs. " Turns out what I unknowingly got my hands on was the very key to my success. To proving everyone wrong. To be more than any of those worthless, cowardly animals ever could amount to- "

His tone dips to a growl so bitter it drips poison.

" For decades, I have been putting everything together, down to the last detail. Mentee, I've translated ancient infernal enough times that it could be my mother tongue by now... "

There's shifting, warmth reaches the side of your face. When he opens his mouth again, a dialect you can't make heads or tails of is whispered into your ears. It's harsh and grating, aggressive, filthy. It makes you want to scratch your face.

" There was a time when things were so different. It's almost hard to conceive of now... I ventured into a place I should never have, according to them, but it opened my eyes. Perhaps I didn't leave unscathed, but it gave me the courage to do what I'm doing now, to do everything that has lead up to this. And even, to seek you out. "

" I persevered. I didn't let them dictate what I should do, I didn't let them define my actions or even continue to punish me for daring to make a breakthrough! "

His hands move again, this time to grab yours and place them on your front, wrapped by his.

" Perhaps it doesn't matter to you, but I want you to know that I've lost a lot in this search, and you can't fathom how much getting this far means to me. "

" I know you're scared. In the past, I would also see this as something frightening. But both our fates will rely on one thing alone today, your ability to listen to me. "

" O- Okay. "

You're not sure what to say to that, or even if you should pry into what little of his past this demon has let slip.

" Are you ready, protégé? "

What use is there stalling anymore? You can't even go back up the stairs alone. " ... Yes. "

" Very well. Then, I ask you to remain calm. "

Finally, almost begrudgingly even, Hudd detaches from you, moving fluidly in the darkness, the sound of a match being lit resounding across the walls. Little by little, candle flames soar, you can see the silhouette of his horns as the historian moves to quickly create a dimly lit atmosphere in the room.

The sight that greets you is more than a little disconcerting.

This room, or basement rather, is in disrepair. Wherein the living room you had been conversing with Hudd looked rather spacious and and well put together, even comforting- This division barely has any kind of furniture in it aside from shelves and work benches currently drowning in ambiguous paraphernalia. The walls themselves are badly chipped and cracked, no semblance of paint to cover what you really hope aren't splashes of long-dried blood. Some long gashes running their length can only be the result of claw marks. Scuffles. Papers litter the place. Some printed, others harshly scribbled, pages ripped from books, hurriedly pinned or glued to walls, combed over so many times that their edges start to crinkle and yellow, text fading. Pens and markers in various states scatter on the ground.

This... This is like a madman's playground.

Not that you ever though Hudd was very down to Earth.

It feels as if just stepping into this room has drained some of your very sanity. You can picture him clear as day, bent over these tables, scribbling frantically, pinning things together, wrangling someone or something into this location to do who knows what with. The more time you spend around this demonoid, the less you seem to know him.

Opting to say nothing regarding this mess of a room, you focus instead on the larger illustrations half-covered in illegible text. It only takes you a few seconds to realize how similar in nature they are to the ones you spotted upstairs, on his wall. Granted, those were a little too far away for you to actually discern what contents they displayed. But the one he specifically showed you, the one with the angel, is similar to these.

Truth be told, you don't want to believe Hudd. When you looked at that creature he had drawn, many things came to mind but an angel was your last ditch answer. And yet, he eagerly confirmed it. Told you there were more even, here on Earth. Madness, maybe he really is starting to see things, maybe he's ill. Perhaps all this time you've been humoring the drivel of a demonoid entirely disconnected from reality. Well, either way, it doesn't really matter, you just have to make it through whatever this is, right?

He's been... Nice to you, so far. Kind of? You're pretty sure he likes you. Yes, that's a point in your favor.

The illustrations on these walls depict the same being, different parts of their body in more detail. It's a fascinating thing to look at, several notes and underlined information accompany these decent sketches of the lifeform itself, the angel.

What did Hudd say it was again, a guardian?

You confess you don't really understand why this entity looks the way it does or why the demon is so obsessed with it. Might as well ask.

" Hey Hu- "

" Ah, don't mind those. " He starts, close enough to your figure that the skin nearly leaps off your body. " We don't have time to comb over my documents, as rich in knowledge as they are, yes, you will listen and learn as we go along, yes? "

" ... Uhuh. "

" I will ask you, once more, to remain calm. "

It's hard to do so when he keeps reminding you of such. Paranoia dances just beneath your skin as you attempt to nod slowly.

It seems to be confirmation enough, the demon only hesitating for a couple of silent seconds before moving further, into a section of the room you hadn't even cast thought towards. How could you, when everything else was so jarring? The obscured right edge, kept dark on purpose you can only imagine...

A final, tall candle is lit when Hudd stretches, and something likes beneath it, obscured by an inconveniently placed desk, revealing a smooth expanse of what you can only call a head. Immediately, you take a few steps to the left, forward.

The blood in your vessels stutters.

You had expected, unfortunately, to find someone else in there. Some poor soul who, like you, had gotten the bizarre demon's attention and, unlike you, didn't learn to manage his eccentricities well enough.

Little did you think reality could be worse than that already glum possibility.

Because, there, on the cold and harsh ground, shackled to the wall with rusted chains and scribbled magic engravings around them, is what can only be an angel.

The angel.

The one Hudd showed to you only mere moments ago! The one in these pictures, these sketches, detailed from head to toe like some kind of laboratory experiment, some rat.

They seem unconscious, huddled into as small of a ball as they can be, leathered wings frozen in an uncomfortable shape, like the crooked legs of a dead insect. Something mars their pale hide, a series of unknowable symbols expanding into every limb, looping around their torso, probably following into the expanse of their back and even reaching those... Odd tentacles on their lower-half. You're smart enough to understand this isn't simply a tattooed angel, how ludicrous, these scripts are magical in nature, and they've been inflicted upon the holy being. Every now and then, the darkened marks pulse a faint reddish light, and it takes you a moment to understand that the pace is akin to a heartbeat. Their heartbeat.

This lifeform is being kept in a stasis, an unpleasant one if you had to guess.

The crease on that thin abdomen you couldn't quite understand opens the slightest amount, revealing what must be a beautifully colored eye for a sliver of a second.

You can almost begin to imagine what they might look like, without those sigils, without the chains holding their wrists up to the wall...

Yes, beautiful in its own right.

Not your first idea of what an angel might be, but simply gazing upon them brings you an intense sensation of awareness. Instinctually, it's as if you recognize you're in the presence of someone that begets authority and safety.

Never have you felt something similar to this. Perhaps when you were but a youngling, feeling content in the arms of your parents as they pulled you out of a troublesome situation.

You want to get closer to this creature.

" ... please. you came! "

This time, the voice startles you. Because it sounds that much closer, that much desperate, as if a force were shaking you from top to bottom, begging, crying, do something-

" Mentee! "

The noise that leaves you is akin to a goat's bleating. Hudd blinks.

" You've been standing there like a donkey this whole time! "

You frown. " Hudd... That's- That- "

The demonoid huffs, combing over the scripts on the floor and hurriedly testing the sturdiness of the chains holding the angel's wrists. With their head bent at such an angle, you can see the cloth covering it droop, but there's no visible seam between it and the angel's skin. Whatever could be beneath it?

" The specimen I showed you, yes. That's it. Did you listen to a single thing I said just now? "

It.

The demonoid scratches his way back up to a rapid stand and approaches you with a look so dead serious that it deeply unsettles you. " I have come too far. You are not allowed to freak out on me! "

Yes. For your own good, you shouldn't freak out at all.

" But Hudd... Why is he chained to a wall? What- What are you doing to him? " It's impossible to mask the growing distrust, the anxiety, you have no idea what to think of this monster.

Clearly he's not well, and possibly, he's not sane either. But this franticness, as if he's on the clock for something incredibly important, what is driving him to be this unhinged?

The demon shakes his head like you're not quite all there mentally. " Do you sincerely think an angel would willingly converse with me, mentee? I hold no ill-will towards these beings, but all of them would have me set aflame in celestial fires! It's not as if I could merely ask one to clarify a few things... "

Point taken.

" I had... Well, I'm not happy about current circumstances, I know I must look like a mindless torturer to you, but to do this safely, I could only think to remove this guardian from his flock. Not an easy task, mind you. "

This is insane. A flock? Meaning there are possibly more angels out there looking for this one. How does he plan to evade them? Has he thought that far ahead? You hope, against all odds, that Hudd bothered with that. He tends to be thorough, maybe he does know exactly every single risk he's taking right now.

" Pay close attention. " He says, handing you a thoroughly yellowed scroll. The paper feels odd. Where had he been hiding that? " He's currently dormant, and I'm going to wake him up. "

" You're insane. " It escapes you before you can halt it.

Hudsyn very visibly fumes, growling and tugging at a horn. A tone you've yet to hear from the monster rips from his ribcage. " Will you just fucking listen! "

Alright. Okay. Sure.

Your silence calms him. " There's absolutely no reason to fear, I have him entirely under control, all you have to do is follow my instructions if I tell you to do something, it won't be too complex. "

The silence from your part continues as you merely nod, ever confounded and doubtful of where any of this is going. That's a common thing here, isn't it? No matter how much Hudd insists you're vital to this, no matter how eager he is to have you involved and to ramble, you never understood a single thing about his goals, about his methods. A historian, he calls himself, scorned, interested in mapping out the "true" history of Hell and its Rings. But how does a captured angel feature into this?

Hudd sees the annoyance written plainly on your face.

" Please protégé. I know this doesn't look right to you, I'm not dumb. And if we had more time on our hands, if- If I had structured things better, taking into account your- " He sighs, turning away like he just tasted something horrid. " I wish I could have explained things to you better. Talked to you better. But... "

There's a forced cough. " I haven't talked properly to anyone in years, honestly. Maybe, lost in the grander scheme of things, I forgot how to along the way. "

Something heavy starts hanging in the air, the atmosphere drips with sudden awkwardness. No normal demon of his kin would say such a thing if they weren't grasping at straws, if they weren't at the limits of their mind, fraying their nerve endings.

Maybe it's pity, maybe it's sympathy, but you can't help wonder why Hudd is the way that he is, if all this time he's just been calling out for help or acting out to process something he's yet to reveal. Truth is that, unhinged or not, the demon sees in you someone he can trust with what he considers to be the culmination of his life's work and his sole goal moving forward. You are, effectively, his only anchor.

One doesn't need to be a rocket scientist to understand abandoning the demon in this moment would cause him to break down spectacularly. Putting aside what might happen to you as well.

" So... " Breaking a tense silence has never really been your forte. " How do we wake him up? "

Hudd's head snaps your way, and like a switch, he dons the most excited grin. " Easy, mentee! See those symbols on the guardian's chest? I just have to smudge one away, but only one! " His finger raises humorously to emphasize. " We want him conscious, not alert and energized. "

" Is it... " You watch as Hudd shoves important items into desk shelves and arranges a wide radius around the chained angel. He seems to be thinking of any last minute adjustments before going through with this event. It's making your skin crawl. " Is it safe? "

Crouched next to the angel, Hudd gestures for you to get closer, which you tentatively do. Pallid hands grab onto one of yours. " Trust me. I have planned every detail of this. "

The very moment your anxiety starts to die down a little, Hudsyn lets go of your hand to reach under his robes and place, on the ground, a blade.

And his gesture becomes moot.

The entire thing is black, patterns of what you'd guess is gold lining the sleek segments. It looks incredibly sharp and emanates warmth, you'd be a fool to think of it as an ordinary knife.

" Alright, get ready. "

Trying to distract yourself from the nerves steadily climbing back up your spine, you instead inspect the scroll previously handed to you. Predictably, it's not in a language you recognize. It's definitely not infernal, in fact, this feels like a mixture of different foreign alphabets jumbled in a pattern that seems random, but you're sure must hold meaning, if Hudd is holding onto it. It feels old enough that it might disintegrate into ashes on your fingers.

" ... Hey, what does it say in he- "

A flap startles you, scroll clutched tight to your chest as the captured lifeform, the angel, starts stirring. Those leathery looking wings flap harshly a couple of times and his neck twists in a jolt of desperation to stretch, to rise, before the air escapes his chest and the entity sags, wilting to the side soundlessly.

Oh God. It's awake. The guardian is awake, it's alive!

You glance at its chest again, past the light blue cloth, seeing where Hudd wiped the sigil. He's just as still as you are, frozen, evaluating. You notice his claws hovering next to the blade.

In spite of being well awake, the angel doesn't do much of anything, limiting himself to breathing as well as he can in this position. Although his mouth is uncovered, he doesn't say a single thing. The eye on its stomach opens once more, this time fully, and you can hardly believe how beautiful it is. Looking into it, a swirl of warm hues welcomes you, this gentle warmth spreading across your whole figure the longer you stare into it. Hudd doesn't seem to feel any of this, unfazed.

Much to your surprise, that isn't the only eye that reveals itself, because the odd fissures in the angel's immobilized hands part, and from them, two smaller versions of his biggest eyeball are unveiled.

Woah, you've never seen that before...

The guardian looks around. Although, nothing about him betrays fear, sadness or even anger, he's just appraising his surroundings, as if relieved.

" Guardian. " Hudd begins, tone authoritative when he sits and crosses his legs. You don't quite know what to do, so you sit next to him wordlessly.

The angel senses your movement, three eyes focused solely on you for a couple of tense seconds. You've been trying to ignore it, but deep down, you know this is the voice that has been calling out to you this whole time.

" Demon. " He replies, calmly, with no real animosity or much of any inflection honestly. One of his eyes remains glued to you, the others disperse to the infernal monster. Yes, that voice, unmistakable...

" You have been transported here for one reason and one reason alone. "

Hudsyn looks serious in a way you've never seen him before. And you suppose that's warranted, this moment is crucially important to him. You can imagine all the nerves brewing under that impeccably collected act he's putting on. He even seems to think of his body language, keeping it entirely neutral, surveilling the angel with the eyes of a hawk. Even then, can those eyes compare to those of a holy creature?

Is Hudd not playing with something far too complex and foreign to be manipulated?

" I have something of great importance in my possession, and I only crave one thing, to understand it. " There's a measured pause. To the demon's credit, his captive does look engaged. " But see, for me to achieve such, I first need to understand something a lot more complex, something my kind wasn't made to grasp. "

The scroll is taken from your grasp, bounced onto his.

" The languages of siadar. "

It's a term not too well-known to you. Although you have a vague idea of what highers are, and recognize the names of the two apparently said to be on Earth at this moment, Hudsyn is a lot more well-versed in all of this than you ever will be, in all honesty.

The angel becomes, somehow, even more motionless at the mention of siadar. Like stone, really, unblinking, judgmental stone blazing into the demon beside you. It feels like a piercing gaze, a forceful stab into one's deepest wants. Whatever the guardian sees there, he doesn't approve of it.

" I would advise you not to meddle with what does not concern you, Hudsyn. " He starts, slow, tentative, trying to pass some sense into a monster that never had any to begin with.

" Spare me the moralizing, the lot of you are mere cattle. " Hudd huffs.

The angel tilts his head slightly, as much as he can. " Cattle... You find it demeaning that we have a purpose? That we exist to be extensions of our Mothers and Fathers? There is dignity in service. "

The demon looks ready to belt out a couple of retorts, yet holds his tongue at the last second, eyes narrowing in realization. The two are playing a game you're not fully aware of.

" I have no time to entertain this type of debate. " Clawed hands wave the topic away. " And I'm no fool either, I know every each one of you can read the scripts of your Lords, you will read one for me. "

Hudsyn caresses the scroll previously in your hold as if it were a newborn, fragile and immeasurably precious.

" Those scripts are incoherent to you for a reason. They are not meant to be interpreted by anyone other than celestials and siadar. " The other cautions once more.

" Bah-! That's for me to decide! " A growl rises in his throat, yet fails to instill the terror it should've.

" You judge yourself a lord of this world's balance? Delusion favors you greatly. "

You blink.

" Balance?! You call this putrid stagnation balance? If no one else will, then I must set the records straight, whether you like it or not. Balance... " Hudd huffs. " I don't care for it. "

" ... I see. " There's a long pause as the guardian takes that reply in, it appears to have revealed something to him. Eventually, that eyeless veil shifts in your direction, sending a paralyzing jolt right through your core. " And you? Do you value balance? "

You cannot answer. The words are stuck to the roof of your mouth, which seems to dry and burn whenever you so much as try to make a sound. Holding eye contact with him is not an option, for a mere glimpse of those hues fills you with too much emotion at once.

A snarl resounds. " Quiet! This encounter is between you and I only. "

" And yet she is here. " The other retorts easily. " Am I wrong to assume you value this lesser's input? "

" My mentee and I are on the same page, you won't bother her. "

Another pause. The guardian painfully rolls his head back in Hudd's direction. You wonder why he does that, when his eyes aren't there.

" Very well. "

Hudsyn unfurls the scroll, confirming to himself that this is, in fact, the correct one. Part of you is too scared to guess how many cursed scrolls he could have lying around.

" Protégé. "

You jolt.

" Grab a paper and a pen, you'll find some around. "

It's a while before you do, admittedly. Not only are you shaky with anticipation, this room is a complete mess. Eventually, you come across a crumpled stack of blank paper and a pen that has seen much better days. That'll do.

You're about to take your seat back when one long sleeved arm rises.

" No. Take a few steps back. " He waits until you comply. " Sit there. I don't want you looking at him no matter what, you hear me? "

" Y- " Your own saliva chokes you. " Yes. "

" Good. "

And just like that, the scene closes between Hudd and the captured guardian.

Hudd combs his fingers over the aged paper again, before holding it up to the guardian's main eye in complete silence for a couple of seconds. You don't know if the ensuing pause is born out of the angel's reluctance to translate or if he's simply processing the document. Hudd breaks it anyway.

" Now, I may not understand much of this language, but it doesn't take a genius to understand that these- " He points at a section. " Are supposed to be numbers. And these- " Another point. " Are axis indicators. "

That large celestial eye drifts from the paper, towards Hudsyn.

" These are coordinates. You'll translate them to me. " Seemingly getting excited by his own ingenious set up, Hudd has the nerve to tap a claw against the angel's veiled head. " Remember that you taint yourself everytime you lie to me, bahah... "

You have no idea whether the runes applied to the guardian's body actually hurt him whenever he attempts to deceive someone, or if Hudd is just being theatrical about the purity of angels as a whole.

The guardian doesn't find this nearly as humorous as Hudd does. " You know not what you ask me to do, demon. "

And, like a switch, the demonoid gets serious too. " Oh, but I do. Start talking. "

The aged paper is brought closer to the angel's main eye, not that you think a 'celestial' would have sight issues. Yet, perhaps in an effort to stall, or simply because he can't quite believe what he's reading, the guardian refuses to utter a single word. Tension wordlessly rises between the two monsters, thick enough to choke your own cool. Fortunately, or unfortunately, one of them is vastly immobile. The large orb on the angel's abdomen shifts and blinks, he's very clearly able to understand what's written in at least some of it.

It makes you wonder.

Is it just that an angel is prohibited from disclosing the nature of any higher documentation without explicit permission, or is it that the information contained in this specific one is of such abnormal sensitivity that he'd rather remain locked in a mad man's possession than reveal it?

Hudd's shoulders quake, you assume he's overwhelmed with rage until short, raspy chuckling rings.

" I don't think you quite understand that you have no choice. "

Anxious, you begin quietly tapping the pen on an empty page, soothing growing nerves. The guardian offers no direct response, silently and slowly turning his face away. Similarly, his hues point to any target but the scroll's contents.

" Very well... And I had been so clear about it too. "

When Hudsyn sets the scroll down neatly, his freed hands gravitate towards the blade and a lump forms in your throat.

Angels... Elusive creatures. For all his often concerning raving, the demon has been consistently right on one thing. We no longer know how they function, that information has been degenerated and lost. It's impossible to know what truly harms an angel. How to effectively kill one. Some records claim that an angel can and will heal from all bodily damage inflicted upon them, that one can only ever slow them down. Others say that no earthly weapon can even nick them. What of fiendish weapons? What of their own weapons? Has an angel ever pointed its tool at another and sought to harm them? How did the first angels and the first demons fight?

More importantly, what does Hudd think he's going to achieve with that blade?

The angel doesn't budge at the sound of its' sharpness grinding across the floor. Hudd rises, you can't even see his face from this angle, but you understand that he's staring the celestial being down, giving them a few seconds to reconsider, to lose bravado. They don't.

You expected many things.

Perhaps that Hudd would hold the blade to the other's neck, slice across their forearm, even jab that knife into those bizarre tendrils. But then, it's foolish to try and predict the moves of a monster so desperate to achieve their self-proclaimed life's goal.

A flash of movement unfolds, the candles around the room flicker, and a horrid wail pierces into your ears.

It's not the scream of someone who's been stabbed, it's a harmonious, broken screech of a creature that never knew real pain. More than suffering, it's a cry of pure shock and fear.

As soon as the lighting stabilizes, you disobey the demonoid's wishes and crane your neck to see Hudd tightly gripping the angel's right wrist. The blade has pierced through their palm, through the eye that was supposed to be there. A sizzling noise stands out amidst the angel's shrieking, the rainbow-like hue of colors that ooze from the wound rapidly burning into a tar-like void. The blade... Scorched him? You don't understand.

All you know is that his cries are making your hairs stand, and that Hudd just stabbed someone. " Stop- Stop it! " You choke out.

It's only a few spine-chilling moments after your call that Hudd stops grinding the sharp object, yanking it right out and shaking the contaminated blood away before taking a step back. The guardian trembles, agony wracks him, the two remaining eyes shedding large, shining tears while the fingers of his mangled hand twist like the legs of a dying insect. He seems befuddled, staring at Hudd and the stained blade as if what just transpired couldn't be possible.

" That eye's not coming back- " Hudsyn snorts. " Believe me. "

Consistent in his madness, the demonoid clumsily wipes the knife on his robes, before making a much more shallow cut across his own palm. You hear the sound of his skin zipping apart, blinking when he quickly holds the dripping appendage over the angel's ruined socket.

All it takes is one drop of his blood.

The guardian grits his teeth, a sound not too different from the choked groans of someone who's bit their own tongue, before managing to throw his head back hard enough to make a gruesome thud against a now dented wall.

" GODDESS- "

It's a plea. Just the mingling of Hudd's blood with his own makes the celestial cry for their salvation, like a lost cub echoing calls for its' mother.

In the middle of the dread consuming you, it's impossible not to spot the veins of black spreading on his arm now, making small blisters on pale skin. An allergic reaction? Is his body trying to expel it in pockets? It looks incredibly inflamed and uncomfortable.

Finally, after allowing the angel's frightened sobs die down minimally, Hudd appears to be done with his torment. It's incredibly unnerving how he just... Sits back down, as if nothing had transpired.

" Are we ready to read now? "

" Stop this... Stop. "

The angel murmurs, voice small, a trembling whisper cradled in pure terror.

" I'll stop. I will, trust me, I'm not here to torture you- " Hudd laughs, as if the notion were ludicrous, as if he didn't just deliberately heighten the guardian's pain only moments ago. " Just read for me. "

The scroll is once more brought close to the angel's largest eye. Hudsyn looks serious, unrelenting. You can picture those pinprick white eyes blazing eerily at the celestial, the same way they once did when he showed up at your home. Unannounced, uninvited, with dubious-intent.

Imagine what he might have done to you then, if he felt like it. This demonoid has an angel subdued and wounded right now, a human is hardly an opponent. You picture yourself in the guardian's place, getting a knife drilled through your socket, a visceral chill shakes you.

" Read, angel. Or I'll scoop the other one. " Hudd turns back to you for a second. " Mentee, would you like a little souvenir from this adventure? Perhaps a resin paper weight with a guardian's eye? "

You don't answer. He's not looking for an answer anyway.

The guardian in question takes a few moments to deliberate on something. Probably the consequences of doing this, of providing a demon with information it most definitely is not meant to have. You have a feeling there's too much in that head for you to even begin to grasp.

More stiflingly silent seconds pass before his voice finally rings again.

" From the depths of our glorious Perdition, I pen these words with naught but ultimate scorn and haste, for my own existence is far from secured. Even now, I hear it all, above. Defeat, disorder, panic. I sense an age of calamity and ruination will befall this annex, His Kingdom, His chosen. "

The guardian pauses, likely to translate what must be entirely alien vocabulary into something tangible. Hudd fists the ground, not merely jolting you into action, but also reminding you to jot this down.

" Eden sings today, frivolous, mocking choirs in our skies, for their brutish extermination was successful, and they think themselves supreme. We know better, we are better, us the ones who were always loyal. He holds nothing from us, and this is not the end. May the Curator be as good as blind, for what he received was the mere flicker of Him. "

Hudd tugs at one of his horns, wheezing breathlessly.

" He remains with us, always. I do not weep, because the one who finds this finds Him. I will make sure of it. Welcome Him. Cherish Him. Make Him proud. Be more than us. Be worthy. "

" The great silence chases after me, these moments are my last, these breaths are my last. I beg you to seek Him, when the time is right, when the Dust has settled. Below lie the... "

The angel's voice dims into a whisper, then nothing at all. Your hand shakes over the paper.

" The coordinates! " Hudsyn all but shrieks, nearly ripping the scroll from how tightly he holds it. " Read them!! "

Silent and motionless, the celestial begins crying again. He knows what this will achieve already, he knows he can't lie. You have an inkling of what this scroll is conveying, and if it's enough to make an angel cry... If it's real...

" FUCKING TELL ME- "

The demonoid is hysterical. Understandably so, this is the very plateau of all he's worked for, and he's being unceremoniously edged along. You suppose you'd be half as mad as him too.

Patience eroded, nerves frayed, Hudd spares no mercy for the angel's continued stalling, picking the bloodied knife back up.

Quiet sobs turn into screams of desperation, distressing pleas for him to wait please wait don't please don't stop please-

You know what he's going to do, the second eye on the angel's unblemished palm will be destroyed, just as promised.

Time seems to slow down as your heartrate quickens. You ponder what to do. There's a heavy-looking vintage lamp beside you. It's not being used, of course, but it's there nonetheless, collecting dust. Quietly, you set the papers aside, rising to a squat and stretching just enough to grab it, the cord dragging along. The metal is cold and dense in your hands. It provides a sense of safety.

Do you trust the demonoid the same way he claims to trust you? Do you want to see where this goes? Is letting him achieve this the safest option? Do you share affections for this monster, in spite of his erratic nature?

Or... Is the angel, the voice in your mind, a way to avoid something catastrophic? A way to free yourself?

Hudsyn hunches over the wounded, begging guardian.

#Hudd oc #pinnie's art #monster oc #monster boyfriend #monsterfucker #terato #yandere monster #yandere teratophilia #monster x reader #monster x you #demon oc #angel oc #minors dni

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unbidden-yidden-deactivated20240 · 1 year ago

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In Judaism, one alternative way of referring to converts is "Jews by Choice."

If a parallel term exists in Xtianity I am not aware of it, but I would like to propose that it really should exist, albeit not just in reference to converts but to all Xtians. Every Xtian should get the opportunity to fully understand their faith in context and to make an informed decision to choose it for themselves. As it stands, many Xtians are deeply ignorant about Jewish history (before and after the formation of Xtianity), the original cultural context for the stories in the Old Testament, the cultural Jewish context that Jesus existed and taught in, the critical historical (scholarly) read of these texts, what they probably meant to the Israelites who produced them, and what they mean to Jews today and how we read these same texts differently in our religious context.

This creates a problem, where Xtians are taught only the narrow band of context that their church deems it important for them to know, and even that is frequently inaccurate or so limited in scope as to make it inaccurate by omission.

And this is because the reality is that the Tanakh (that is, the Hebrew and Aramaic scriptures that the Old Testament is based on) does not naturally or inevitably lead to the Jesus narrative. If you are starting from a Xtian perspective, and especially if you read the New Testament first and then and only then dive into the Old Testament, the Jesus narrative is obvious to you because you are looking for it, expect to see it there, and are coming at these texts with that reading lens in mind. And it's not that you or anyone else is nuts to see that narrative there - there are plenty of solid Xtian reads of these texts that make sense if you already believe in Jesus as presented by the New Testament.

But what the vast majority of Xtians aren't taught is how to approach the Tanakh from a Jesus-neutral perspective, which would yield very different results.

Now you might fairly ask, why would they *need* to approach the Tanakh with a Jesus-neutral perspective? They're Xtians! Xtians believe in Jesus, that's what makes them Xtians!

My answer is multi-pronged: First, I believe that G-d wants a relationship with all people, and speaks to us in the voice we are most likely to hear. That's inherently going to look different for everyone. And that's okay! G-d is infinite, and each of our relationships with G-d are going to only capture the tiniest glimpse into that infinite Divine. Therefore, second, when approaching religion, everyone sees what they want to see. If you nothing religion but find your spirituality in nature, you're going to come at these biblical texts with that lens and take away from them similar things that one might take away from other cultural mythologies. If you, like me, are coming at these texts with a Jewish mindset, you are going to come away with a portrait of Hashem and our covenantal relationship as Am Yisrael. And, of course, if you read with a Xtian lens, you're going to see the precursor narratives leading up to Jesus. That reading bias is not only understandable but good or at least deeply human. Everyone sees what they want to see in these texts. There is no objective or flawless way to read them, and to claim that there is, is to claim that not only is there only one answer, but only one kind of relationship that G-d wants to have with people, that you personally happen to know what that is, and that everyone else is wrong. I am sorry, but if you believe that - if you truly think that you in particular (and/or the people you happen to agree with) know the mind of G-d, then you do not worship G-d. You worship yourselves, because to know the entirety of G-d would require you to be G-d. There's a term for that. That doesn't mean there aren't wrong answers too. But it does mean that there is no singular unimpeachable reading of the texts. What you see in these texts then, says far more about you than it does about the texts themselves or G-d.

So the question then becomes: Why do you want to see this? (Whatever your "this" is.) If your read of these texts is something you choose, why do you choose to see what you see? And is it a meaningful choice if you are not taught other ways of knowing, other perspectives on these texts, and to think critically while exploring them?

Judaism inherently teaches a multiplicity of opinions on the texts, and maintains that they can be read to mean different things, even at the same time by the same person. Deep textual knowledge and methods for learning more, asking questions, challenging accepted answers as a way to discover new meaning, and respectful disagreement are baked into our culture and methods. Some Xtians of some denominations have analogous processes, although on the whole still emphasize correct unified belief over correct action with a multiplicity of belief. I am not suggesting here that Xtians stop approaching their own scriptures as Xtians or adopt Jewish methods instead. What I am suggesting is that Xtians should be taught a fuller picture of these texts and learn other perspectives so that they (1) understand their own beliefs and why they believe them (or after further inquiry if they believe them), and (2) understand and respect that this is what they are choosing to believe and that it is not the only thing one could reasonably believe. Because (3) if not, they are more susceptible to having their faith shattered at random by something unexpected, and will connect less to their faith as a relationship with G-d and more as an obligation based on an unchallenged world view.

And, frankly? (4) It will help them to be better neighbors, to love their neighbor as themselves, and to give to others the respect that they would like to receive.

Being taught the historical context, Jewish history before and after Jesus, the differences between the Old Testament and the Tanakh, the timeline of the development of Xtianity in relationship to rabbinic Judaism in the wake of the destruction of the Second Temple, the development of church doctrine and the various splits amongst the denominations, and Jewish readings of the Tanakh would give clarity and desperately needed context to Xtians about their religion. Is there some risk that some people, upon understanding these things would drop out of faith entirely or, like me, discover that they are actually meant to be Jews? Yes, definitely.

But let me let you in on a little secret: you don't want those people to begin with. You really don't. Because the reality is that if a person is not called to relate to G-d through Jesus, eventually that person will learn this about themselves one way or another. If they are given the information and tools to make a meaningful choice, they will part company on good terms. If not, they will likely become disillusioned and leave the church in pain, anger, and even trauma. They will bring that out into the world with them, and spread the bad news about the Good News making it even more likely that other people who were already on the fence will jump ship on bad terms. You cannot trick people into a meaningful relationship with G-d. You can only give them the tools they need in order to explore on their own and the rest is between them and G-d.

And the bottom line is that you don't need to and should not be afraid of knowledge. If your faith cannot stand up to scrutiny, then it deserves that scrutiny tenfold. The people you lose from the flock? You would have lost them anyway, because we aren't in the driver's seat here. G-d is. Hashem called me to be a Jew with just as much love and desire to connect as G-d calls Xtians to the church and to Jesus. A faith examined is a faith deepened or exposed in its weakness. And if it is the latter, don't you want people to know this sooner rather than later in order to fix it?

So my proposition and wish for Xtians is that they become Xtians by Choice. That they delve deeply into the origins and context of their faith so that they can be 100% certain that they understand their Xtian faith and why they choose to relate to G-d through that lens.

#every hour is theology hour around here apparently #interfaith #this is tochecha from an ex-Xtian ger #who desperately wants for my Xtian family friends and neighbors the level of peace and security in their faith that I now enjoy #the church is not doing its congregation any favors by under-educating them on these matters #Xtians deserve better and should demand better from the church #xtianity #anyway if I have any Xtian followers here who would like book suggestions lemme know

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winged-thinged · 6 months ago

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I lived for a while bending over backwards to try to justify how my liberal beliefs fit into my Catholicism, cherrypicking scripture and arguing with tradition. It's definitely possible. But you know what? It's exhausting, constantly fighting for a place in a community that ultimately does not want you and isn't interested in changing.

When I was a theology student, I snarled at people who suggested that what I was really doing was asserting my beliefs and then assigning them to God (because I knew that gay people were natural and good, and God was good, so God must think so too, right?). I talked a lot about "ongoing revelation." About "indwelling" and human reason. I had to justify it to myself, because I wasn't willing to question the foundation that I had built myself on.

Because so little of my belief was actually built on what the Church and the Bible said, many of the traditional debunking arguments just didn't work on me. I didn't think that. I was sure that I was right and those other Christians were wrong.

But all that work eventually begs the question. Is it worth it? Why call yourself a Christian at all, when you have already traveled so far away from the foundations of Christianity?

And so I took a good hard look at what most of the Christians around me actually believed and how they acted. I finally let myself ask the question: what if I do them the courtesy of taking them at their word? What if I take their claims seriously, instead of imposing my own ideas about right and wrong onto the god that they believe in?

And what I immediately felt was revulsion. If God was actually like what the Church teaches, and not like the image I had been building up in my head all these years, then I wanted nothing to do with him. I remember, shortly after asking myself this question, I took communion for what would turn out to be the last time. I couldn't swallow. I wanted to vomit. The idea of taking a deity who believed and acted like my community said he did into my body, letting him touch my soul, was despicable. I decided then and there that, if God was real, I'd rather go to hell than worship him. I walked away, and I have never looked back.

I am so much lighter, now, not having to twist myself into knots justifying how my beliefs fit into a Catholic structure. I cut out the middle man. It is enough to simply use my mind and my heart to observe the world decide what's right for me. I'm perfectly capable of philosophical and moral reasoning on my own. No divine revelations required.

#ex-catholic #deconversion #apostate #ex christian

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schoenpepper · 4 months ago

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Like Raven Feathers

Intro: Riddle does something against the rules. And because of that, he'll fall from Heaven, oh he'll fall, just for you.

Warnings: bad writing, awful grammar, proofread by quillbot, Riddle's mom is mentioned, lots of religious whatever, bro's a simp through and through

A/N: Lookie what I whipped up with a random dose of motivation. Riddle's not even in my top five faves so I'm not sure why the first full fic I'll ever post is one about him. This has no effect on my Isekai'd Chronicles series update schedule, but it does share the same universe so go check it out if you're confused.

Masterlist

Riddle has always lived his life by the Bible of the Church of Light. Every movement is according to scripture, and every choice is made under the guidance of his mother, the Saintess. Since she has the highest authority in Heaven and is the angel closest to the God of Light, surely she's correct in all that she does. Surely he's correct to follow her. He would keep his wings pure and abide by every rule; no one likes a fallen acolyte of Light.

In this little circle, he's safe.

He wakes up at sunrise every day and prays. He does as is taught to him: give his thanks for every blessing and apologize for every failure, for every sin, and for every wrong he's committed. Most days, he doesn't know why he's begging for forgiveness. Today, he does. "Forgive me, oh Lord of Light," Riddle mumbles piously under his breath. "I have done something unbecoming of your servant. I have developed…feelings, for a mortal nonetheless. I have given away the love that rightfully belongs to you. Please have mercy and forgive this poor soul."

He never says a word about repenting.

After ten minutes of prayer, he makes his bed, takes a bath, straightens out his feathers, and brushes his teeth. Then it's time to double-check all the items he needs for classes and ensure that he's done all the assignments necessary for each day. He has breakfast with the rest of his dormitory members after giving thanks to his Lord for the food. There's another prayer after eating.

Another careless apology leaves his lips.

Classes go by far too slowly for his liking. When he sits at the cafeteria for lunch, his blue-gray eyes search for the mortal that's been in his mind for far too long, far too often. They light up when he finds you.

There's you beyond his circle, just out of reach.

Riddle isn't shy when he asks you to spend lunch with him. When you agree with a smile, his heart seems to beat faster than before. Too fast for his brain to keep up with. He's short of breath around you; you make him unable to even think. He's like an electronic toy short-circuiting in water. That's what you are, after all—strange, unfamiliar territory he isn't allowed to traverse. But even the first angels fell to temptation, so who is he to be the exception?

You're the sweetest forbidden fruit.

He has to go back to class eventually, but he hates that he does. That's weird, that's wrong; he's Riddle Rosehearts, and studies should be his priority after his God. But his hand is out of his control when he doodles little hearts on the border of his notebook (why would he do that? It's so childish, so immature.).

After class, he sends you a text to ask you to study with him in the library. Alone, preferably, because your friends always raise a ruckus (that's the excuse he tells you and himself). He feels content, happy, when you show up by yourself. The two of you sit across from each other, and he reviews topics for you that he still remembers clearly from his first year. Riddle finds it fun. Perhaps some would call it tedious, but he thinks that you're a worthy use of his time. He gets paid by the way you pout when you're struggling with a question. He feels fulfilled when you smile that bright smile, all teeth showing, eyes squinted into crescents, when you claim to finally understand something you've been struggling with for a while. He thinks he can die happy in your arms when you hug him in excitement and thank him for tutoring you.

You trespass into his little circle.

He packs up too soon because you have some commitment with some other person; he's alone in the library now. He sees the way other people look at you. You're just so uniquely you; he understands they want you the way he does. It doesn't mean he'll relent his efforts to snake his way into your heart. You're something he desperately wants, needs, even.

He's envious of the way other people make you laugh. Riddle's never been the humorous type (do you like that type better?). He's too strict, too strait-laced. Maybe you don't think he's fun, or cool, or interesting. Do you even think of him at all?

He still can't touch you.

When he's back at the dorm, he spends the rest of his time buried in his assignments. Perhaps getting you off his mind is the best thing he can do today. He's unproductive when you're the only thing on his mind, so he buries you underneath mountains of schoolwork.

Why can't he reach you?

He lays in bed after another prayer. The same apology is said. He can't even bother to change it. At some point, he'll stop asking for forgiveness. Some time in the future, he'll only confess his love for you in his daily prayers without being sorry for it. Falling in love with a mortal is wrong. Praying insincerely is wrong. But you, you, oh, you're everything that's right in this sinful world. His mother will never understand him.

But the God of Light will.

Because he doesn't even know when it started, but you've become his light. He fears for the darkness that will swallow him when you're gone.

Don't choose someone else. Don't find someone else. Don't love someone else.

He'll leave his circle on his own.

And when the angel falls, he'll make sure he goes out with the most glorious fireworks.

With you.

#disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #twisted wonderland #gender neutral reader #twst x reader #x reader #riddle rosehearts x reader #riddle x reader #riddle rosehearts #heartslabyul #heartslaybul x reader

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devilslamb · 3 months ago

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i honestly think one hug could fix that old freak. just one massive bear hug that lasted a few minutes, letting dale linger on you. letting him indulge just a little bit.

he probably wouldnt know what to do with himself chsjsb. hands awkwardly set on your hips but not all the way because his grip is unsure yet wanting. he has to let his fingers linger in the air for a second, clenching them into a fist and then releasing nervously before he could allow himself to place his hands on you.

he'd press his nose into the crown of your head and nuzzle, breathing deep, as much as he could give his mouth-breathing habits. breathing you in uncomfortably loud like he's trying to memorize every note of you to lock away in his lungs where you'd be safe. to keep a part of you inside of him. to memorize you like scripture, to call upon like a prayer with whatever you leave behind in him when you're not around.

and when he does, it feels like. home.

feels like he could lose himself in you. then it would click in his head to actually reciprocate, and he'd tug you into his torso as close as he could get you, almost suffocating you and squeezing just enough to take your breath away.

he's broad, even hunched over you, it feels like he could shield you from anything and it instills a sense of security and fear in you. he could absolutely crush you if he so desired, he could do worse in truth, but he's holding you so intensely yet so gentle -- like a doll he had lost and now found again. as if he was afraid you'd be ripped from him.

his own scent would linger on you. he smelled like the earth. cold. like rain kissing the ground. it only encouraged you to nuzzle yourself into the little vest he adorned.

you'd have to pry his fingers from you, and him being still so unsure about the whole embrace, would let you. he'd give you a stare. an unrecognizable one. all you could feel were those piercing blue eyes shooting right through you like you had wronged him in some way, and in truth, you did. you riddled his head with hope, and satan willing you'd do it again, and again, and again if it meant feeling your heart go off again like a little hummingbird right against his. to feel your body give way to his grip again.

#sorry this was a little soft #i tried to make him creepy alas #i just need to Hug him so bad #this was self indulgent #ermmm maybe ill open like asks or smth cuz id really like to write more abt him #dale kobble #longlegs #dale kobble x reader #longlegs x reader

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sweet-as-an-angel · 2 years ago

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I may or may not have written a love poem about a COD character and I was wondering how the ones you write for would react to getting love poem from their s/o? Thank you :3

MW2 Reaction to Receiving a Love Poem from their S/O

Warnings: Pure Fluff <3, Just Big Military Men™ in Love, No Pronouns used for Reader Except 'You'.

Ghost

Dies on impact.

Will seize up like a mannequin for a solid three hours before he can even open the darn thing.

And when he does, with twitching hands and a flinching heart, the stiffness plaguing his body evaporates.

His heart leaps out of his chest with each passing word, and the world around him grows into blended shades of red and pink.

His skin is prickling, though not with injury, but abashment.

Love.

He’s sweating so much that, by the time he’s finished reading the poem, some of the letters where his fingers have been are smudged.

He panics, tears his hands off the scene as quickly and as delicately as he can before placing the poem somewhere safe.

From that day forward, he can’t seem to keep eye contact for as long as he usually could.

Or remain in as close proximity to you as he would like to.

One may take Ghost’s behaviour as stand-offish, perhaps even rude.

But you know otherwise. Especially when you see the corner of your love note peeking out from the pocket of his tactical vest, knowing that Ghost knows there is no place safer in all the world for it to be kept; the same reason he keeps you by his side. Because you both know that nothing short of an act from God can harm you when he’s there.

König

Regardless of how long you’ve been dating, König will always have to sit down for half an hour or so with your note across from him on the table before he can even bring himself to open it.

Why, you ask ?

Well, when you’ve gone without love for as long as König has, one typically becomes…unaccustomed to such grandiose acts of selflessness.

Especially ones as strong as love.

So, with the contents of your heart bursting onto the paper that König can so easily hold, crumble,tear in his hand, he wants to be extra careful.

To him, you are that paper. And he would rather face Hell and fury than let it get damaged in any way, shape or form.

When he eventually does pluck up the courage to read it, he’s never been so grateful for his veil.

His face blooms a deep red, burning his skin.

He’s certain it would show even beneath the war paint.

He doesn’t want to rush, to take anything you’ve written for granted, so he reads every word twice.

Sure, it takes longer to read your poem, but that isn’t a disadvantage to König.

That’s a bonus.

And he carries your words with him wherever he goes – memorises them like the holy scripture they are.

He doesn’t want to risk your note getting hurt or lost while he’s out at work, so whenever you visit his apartment when he’s away, you see it framed and hung up in his bedroom, right where it will be the last thing he sees as he falls asleep and the first thing he sees when he wakes up.

Soap

Though he won’t show it, he’s a bag of nerves.

But, he’s the type to deal with his anxieties as quickly as possible.

He’ll tear through your note like a summer wolf, thin and growling and restless as he obtains the general vibe of your poem.

But, even with a passing glance, he can feel how strongly you mean them.

When he’s prepared himself for the onslaught of feels your note is going to impart on him, he starts from the beginning.

And takes his time.

He wants to savour every word, every letter and syllable.

And he does.

Believe me, he does.

And when he’s finished reading it over for the eighth time, he folds the paper – carefully – and holds it to his chest.

He can feel his heart thrumming through the paper, feel it in his head like church bells.

And he remembers that feeling.

Whenever he’s scared, doubtful, alone or anxious, he remembers not only the poem, bu the feeling of it.

Your skin palpable in his hands, your spirit watching over him like Heaven’s Phoenix.

And the world isn’t so scary anymore.

Valeria

Don’t tell anyone, but she can feel her whole chest flutter when that slip of paper is pressed between her fingers.

She shuts herself off in a quiet room, unwilling to share your light with anybody else.

She wastes no time in uncrafting the lithe swan you’ve fashioned the paper into, deconstructing it like an anti-god and reducing it to its most basic form.

But that makes it no less beautiful.

Now, your love has nowhere to hide, not between the illusory feathers or the cracks in the body.

And Valeria, her heart stammering, reads your poem.

For a time, she forgets where she is – who she is – as her world is brought into focus with yours, two moons passing in a fleeting eclipse.

And in these twilight moments of you, Valeria feels what no amount of money, work, or euphoria can bring her.

Joy.

She can feel her cheeks lifting the deeper into this Aphroditecal fantasy she descends, for this feels more of a work of fiction than real life.

Caleria brings the paper to her nose when she’s done, her eyes close and in the darkness of her mind forms a likeness of you.

A crude recreation compared to your beauty, but a monument all the same.

And there, Valeria holds you, looks upon you, feels you, knowing that, even though she’s not with you, you can feel her and all the love that weighs her heart and keeps her human.

Price

In all his years of service, he’s seen terrible things, as well as the piques of human selflessness.

Sacrifices for the greater good, for love, the destruction of cities and lives.

But, as he sits at his desk, his cigar extinguished as he gives all his attention to the fragile poem in his hands, his eye twitches.

His heart pounds, spinning an orchestra of drums and nothing else.

Even in his infinite wisdom, his intellect and intuition, Price knows there is nothing in all the world that can prepare him for this.

He knows that, in his hands, he holds art.

In its purest and most innocent form, he holds a sliver of you, a wraith.

He unfurls the paper as if handling the gossamer threads of a spider’s web, the paper reclining into his touch.

And he reads.

He consumes every morsel of amour you’ve packed into the letters of your most soulful confession, that being the most universal phrase there is.

I love you.

Price is glad for his hat for, as he reaches your signature at the bottom of the note, he can feel his throat burning, his eyes stinging and straining.

A tear, mythical in its nature, a family of one in a species thought extinct, takes to the table. Makes it its home.

Price’s fist clenches, your note remaining uncastracted in his other hand.

He needs to be with you. Now.

And he does everything in his power to make it home to you.

Horangi

Considering how bare his existence once was – owing money to some very choice individuals, making poor choices, living a bleak existence – Horangi feels nothing short of overwhelmed when your poem sits in his hands.

His heart throbs and he can barely keep still as your love lies between a folded page.

And, excavating it, reading of its expanse and extent, Horangi’s throat goes dry.

All he can think, wonder, is what he did to receive such unconditional, unfathomable love.

And from you, of all people !

Horangi reads, re-reads, re-re-reads that poem every day, regardless of the time or how exhausted he is.

When he’s away from you, settling into bed for the night, he likes to imagine you there with him, laying at his side, your head on his chest.

And you recite the song of your undying love for him.

“I love you more,” he says to the darkness.

His words don’t carry to you, but he hopes beyond hope that the feeling, the sincerity, does.

In a world where hate is the greatest weapon, love is Horangi’s greatest defence.

Truly, with your letter nestled into the wristband of his uniform, right where his pulse is, Horangi knows there is nothing in the world that can hurt him.

Alejandro

He already knows what your poem is going to say.

How can he not ?

You’ve both already said all that can be said to each other a million times.

Every form and configuration of love is no mystery to the pair of you, having found and documented and catalogued each one.

Nevertheless, there is a harpstring thrum in Alejandro’s chest as he unravel your note, merely a bundle of thin strips of paper fashioned into an iridescent, gift-topping mass of brightly-coloured ribbon.

Each sentence could be read in any way, any order, any direction, and still make sense.

And Alejandro smiled, widely and unabashedly, for he knew the world that went into it. Felt the love, joy and logic that was demanded by your unique form of love.

And Alejandro read each strand.

For hours, he read each sentence backwards, forwards, in different orders, until every combination had been discovered. Found.

And, despite his preconceived notion that every form of love had already been ventured by you and him, he found excitement and gratitude for his incorrect assumption spark in his centre.

Much of the poem was familiar to Alejandro, yet the sentiment was…different.

It was not spoken in neither the dark hours of the night, nor the morn, but laid bare on paper in pen and ink.

Tangible.

Alejandro kept the bundle in a locked box in the wardrobe, covered by blankets.

And on missions where the hours gruel and the light never comes, he walks through his house, a phantom, brushes past you while you sleep.

He sees into the wardrobe, into the box, and reads your poem.

And he can feel the sun flicker against his eyelids.

Rodolfo

Giddy.

Does a little twitching dance and a squeal when he receives your poem.

And he squirrels himself away into another room, away from where anybody could see him and judge him, to read your note.

The love and effort you put into it is palpable in his hands, a live, beating heart.

And when he reads, he does not look upon your creation as literature, but as a painting.

He watches the shape of the words, a bobbing, oceanic rhythm, a tide lunging and baying.

When this planet is mapped, every continent, country, county and city, Rodolfo allows himself to read.

And he is lost to this familiar terrain, this best-selling concept which all artists mimic in some proportion or another, yet all fail exceedingly in their lack of experience.

And Rodolfo knows that you are writing from experience.

His experience.

Your tale of adoration is so distinctly and universally that of love that it could not be construed as anything but.

Love in both its simplest and most intricate form; to weave the fabric of your consciousness into the incomparably simple and cognitive language of humans.

Rudy doesn’t even let Alejandro see the letter.

To him, it is his slice of Heaven, a page from a human Bible, a declaration of epic proportions.

And the blanket warmth that overcomes him whenever he thinks of that poem – of you – fends off all manner of nature, of destruction and callousness.

Because, at the end of it all, no matter how dire the circumstances seem, Rodolfo can remember that, even if he dies, or succumbs to a medical sleep from which he will not wake, he was closer to Heaven alive than he is then for he, if only for a second, had you.

And you have him.

Graves

Just because he’s Graves doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate art.

On the contrary; he’s so rich that he studies it in his spare time for fun.

And not just your Michaelangelos or your Klimts or your O’Keefes.

This man knows art as if he’s created it.

And all that knowledge, that recognition and appreciation for art and artists either forgotten or rewarded by time is nothing compared to the overwhelming sense of uh-oh he gets when he receives your letter.

At first, he’s unsure as to what it is. But, inspecting your handwriting, the neat folds in the letter, he’s calmed by the fact that you did not write it in a hurry, nor did you seem panicked or hastened to get it to him.

But that begged the question…what were the contents ?

And, with neither caution, nor trepidation, he tore open your letter.

The desire to be patient has never haunted Graves more than it did in this moment.

The content of your letter didn’t sink in, even as he skimmed over it like blades across ice.

It was only after he’d finished it, laid it on the table, that his understanding unfurled.

Realisation dawning on him, he snatched the note back up, eyes softening as he noticed a crinkle along the edge, and re-read it.

It felt as if the words which were invisible to him before suddenly seeped through the paper, the letter feeling longer now yet not long enough.

Graves’ heart fluttered.

For the first time in…his entire life, Graves’ chest tightened with the feeling of crawling.

Restlessness.

He sucked the inside of his cheek between his teeth, his gaze settling on nothing in particular, only the off-white of your note and its incantations legible to him.

He knew the tune of this mood, heard it, saw it in other people, yet never recognised it in himself.

Until today.

A distant song, a relic of a time passed, he thought and thought, in his desolate office, for its title, its origin.

And it hit him.

The artist was you – your soundtrack to love.

And Graves was simply one of your instruments.

Leaning back in his chair, his discovery urging a smile onto his face, Graves looked back to the poem.

He knew all that you displayed so plainly for him to see was, in no uncertain terms, love.

However, what he didn’t expect, what had knocked him so far back that he was now staring at the dimly lit ceiling, the constellation of you appearing in his mind’s eye, was for it to afflict him, too.

Something that, until you, had never happened before.

Gaz

War is exhausting. Especially on someone as young as Gaz.

That’s why, when that little note with your handwriting emblazoned across the front lands in his hands, the weight of the world is lifted from his shoulders.

And your poem is nothing short of tranquilising as Gaz soaks the love poured into them, basking in a warm glow of a man-made sun.

He holds your poem to his lips and presses a spectral kiss to the letters, able to feel, just for a second, your lips doing the same.

Your letter is kept stored away safely with others you’ve sent over the past few weeks, in a padlocked box beneath Gaz’s bed which, occasionally, even he can’t access because he’s hidden the key so well.

He never takes your poems for granted, often reading them to help him get to sleep on the nights where work is particularly taxing.

And when he comes home, he plans on returning the favour tenfold.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

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