#escaping church leaders

[kitten4sannie]

blinding faith (1)

fall in line now, bow your head

pairings: cult leader! yunho x disciple! reader (fem) x elder! mingi feat. husband! seonghwa

genre: twisted religious romance (if you can even call it that), smut, late 1970s setting

summary: when it’s revealed that you and Seonghwa are having trouble conceiving, the founder graciously offers his own divine solution.

bend your knee, Child of God

w.c: 4k

warnings: aged up dom! yunho, switch! mingi, subby innocent (?) reader, corruption kink, pet names (for mingi too <3), light pain kink, perversion, major sacrilegious vibes and behavior, heavy mxm, mingi sucks cock, breath play (m receiving), light spit/sweat kink, oral (receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, implied marathon sex, breeding kink, cum eating, squirting, an attempt at impregnation

a/n: this is dedicated to my loveliest lily <333 tho this is just part oneee i hope this helps you see the light if ykwim~ happy birthday babi 💕 so yeah this is pure filth,, like idk something must’ve happened to me when i wrote this but it’s prob bc i’m a yunwhore what can i say 🙂‍↕️🫶🏼 oh and thank you all so very much for getting me to 4.6k followers ;; it means the absolute world to me >< anygaysss happy readinggg and please do lemme know if you’re excited for the second part 🖤

song recs: sunshine of your love by cream - starboy by the weeknd - judas by lady gaga (i’m just a Holy Fool, oh baby, it’s so cruel, but i’m still in love with Judas, baby~~)

As a broke, faithless runaway, especially during such a turbulent decade, you didn’t have many options, to say the least. There was no phone that you could use for miles, not a single soul in sight that you could ask for directions or for a dime they could spare, no map to look at to familiarize yourself with your surroundings — not that it mattered. Why would God provide you with what you needed when your existence itself was an accident? Your own flesh and blood didn’t want you, instead dropping you off at some rundown orphanage while you were still coated in your mother’s vernix caseosa, and crying incessantly for her, for someone, to feed you. 

When you were old enough to make rash decisions, you decided that anywhere else was better than that hellish place, tired of waiting for a new pair of faceless parents to force you into their life like a misshapen puzzle piece, instead taking your fate into your own trembling hands. 

That was what led you to come across the small, seemingly abandoned town that was located within the forest that you had been wandering inside for so long. All of the quaint, hand-built houses and buildings surrounded a tall, white picturesque church — one you had recognized from the various postcards that you and some of the other orphans had been handed by someone in a long white robe outside of the orphanage, listening intently to their promises of the love and acceptance you would feel if you joined their cause. 

And that was when you met him, the man that would alter your life forever, taking away what could’ve been, and instead molding it into what He wanted, what God wanted.

He was hammering in the very last nail into the very last board of wood that kept the church together when he heard the sound of your dirty feet shift through the forest foliage behind him. As if he had been waiting for your arrival, he hummed softly and headed into your direction, not giving you the opportunity to escape when his sweaty, calloused hands enveloped yours, inviting you in with his friendly honey brown eyes, his cracked lips twisting upwards into a smile that sent a wave of instinctual fear into your heart, before his soft, warm words lured you in, forever holding you captive. 

“You’ve finally arrived, my child. Welcome home.” 

-

Over the years, you were taught by Yunho, your beloved leader, your savior, your everything, that God allowed those he loved the most, those that remained tied to their earthly bonds, to endure deep suffering and endless tribulations — because within that pain, within that humiliation, laid pleasure. Unimaginable pleasure that sat just below the surface. Yunho took great satisfaction in reaching into the darkness, into the depths, and ripping it out with his silver trimmed talons, always willing to graciously bestow it upon his followers. 

There was no greater joy than to witness the moment his dear flock began to walk in the truth. He savored the sweet sounds of ecstasy that tore out of their sweat-ridden throats, longed for the moment their rosy faces ceased their contortions, their lips, wet with saliva, their unfocused eyes, wet with tears, knowing that another one of his beloved disciples had seen the light. And they would always look up at him with delicious desperation, begging for another chance to catch a glimpse of heaven once more. And, only because of his unending benevolence and boundless love, he brought them back, expecting nothing in return, except for their undying loyalty. 

Yet, none of them were ever as loyal as you, even after you met a lovely man within the congregation to wed. You were still his angel from above. If only he had clipped your wings sooner.  

There you were, sitting inside the garden with the other couples, the prettiest flower of them all, just waiting to be plucked, with your husband’s arms wrapped around you from behind, his hands resting gently against your stomach, your hands over his, your head hung downwards, a small, sullen frown gracing your lovely face. Why was his sweetest lily wilting the way she was, instead of holding herself high, closer to the sun, to his everlasting love?

As soon as Yunho made his presence known within the bountiful garden that he had planted with his own two hands so many years ago, his followers grew quiet and offered him their full attention. He basked in it as he made his way in your direction, offering his touch to many of the people nearby, allowing them the privilege of bringing his jewelry-adorned hands up to their cheeks, which he caressed, or their trembling lips, which he brushed gently with his thumbs. 

The warmth and light of the sun on your face suddenly disappeared, causing you to look up, your reddened eyes growing wide upon the sight of your savior standing before you. You watched with bated breath as he reached his hand out from behind his back and brought it up to your face, placing a small flower behind your ear. “Savior…”

“Savior, what have we done to be blessed with your presence?” Seonghwa asked, nuzzling his cheek into Yunho’s rough palm once he offered it to him. 

“I wanted to check on the progress of your union.” Yunho smiled kindly down at Seonghwa, before returning his attention to you, who continued to gaze up longingly in his direction. “Are you with child, my dearest Y/N?” 

You bit down into your bottom lip, your eyes brimming with tears. “I’m so sorry, Savior….We’ve been trying our hardest to contribute to your beautiful congregation, yet I remain barren.” You shook your head out of frustration, a stream of tears spilling down your cheeks. “We don’t understand why God has not graced us.” 

“Oh, my sweet child. Do not ever allow yourself to cry for sorrow, or pain, but out of joy, of pleasure,” Yunho taught, angling his head down further to gaze at your deliciously distraught expression, unable to keep himself from running his tongue across his bottom set of teeth, pressing one talon underneath your chin, so that you obediently angled it upwards without him having to tell you.

“Yes, Savior…” you whispered, gasping softly at the feeling of the cult leader’s sharpened fingers carefully wiping your remaining tears away, your admiration and love for him sprouting more and more within your beating heart. 

Humming, Yunho lowered himself to his knees in front of the both of you, pressing his hands into your stomach through your thin garments. His benevolent smile deepened, his eyes displaying a darkness neither of you could see, not with the allusive veil he had placed over your own. “I will assist you in bearing offspring, my dear. Please come to my bedchambers after supper, and I will show you the true meaning of faith.” 

“We offer you a thousand thanks for your grace, Savior…” Seonghwa bowed his head to Yunho, just before he pressed his lips lovingly against your cheek, which you reciprocated without hesitation. Your dear husband sighed with great relief, resting his temple on yours, his long, curled locks tickling your face, his hands returning to your stomach, placing them over Yunho’s this time around. 

Despite the tranquility you felt, the sun still shining, a gentle breeze cooling your warm skin, the comforting smell of earth and flowers keeping you grounded, the sound of birds chirping in the trees above your head — there was still something else that you couldn’t quite shake off, something that sat just below the surface of your distorted mind. If you truly wanted to see what it was, you would have to get your hands dirty and dig it up yourself. But, for now, you would live in bliss, in heaven, feeding off of the love and mercy your savior offered you.

Yunho tilted his head to the side, reaching up to adjust the flower that began to fall from your ear, pushing a few strands of hair behind it. He studied your suddenly unreadable gaze from underneath his wispy lashes, his tongue just barely slipping past his curled lips to lick at them. “Is there something on your mind, my lily?”

You simply smiled back at him, your eyelids lowering, batting your own lashes at him. “I’m just admiring my savior and the safe haven he created for us. Makes me want to cry those tears of joy.” You briefly mirrored the perversion he had let slip out only a moment ago. “Of pleasure.” 

It was then that Yunho began to grow stiff from beneath his heavy garments, biting at his lip as an attempt to keep himself grounded. This was why you were his favorite. You were his flower to water, to grow, and to tear away from your roots as he pleased. Everything in the garden was his, after all. God told him so. 

-

“My love, my heart, my dearest angel, why do you look at me this way?  With those tears in your eyes? With such devotion?” Yunho sighed out against your flushed cheek, his body flush against yours, the cold metal of his rosary splayed across your hot skin. You simply couldn’t speak, not with the way he was spilling inside you yet again. 

The corners of his lips quirked up into a sadistic smile, his warm, uneven puffs of breath hitting the bottom of your jaw, as he clutched your slick, trembling thighs, holding them farther apart to ensure that he could continue accessing the heaven you kept in between them, the hot, wet haven you allowed your savior to access. “Is it because I’m filling you with my own devotion? Does knowing that my seed will soon grant new life inside of you bring you to tears, Y/N?”

You gazed up at your savior past your wet lashes, reaching down to press your hands into your stomach, feeling the outline of his pulsing cock that twitched inside of you and dribbled a few more beads of cum into your womb, a lust-struck expression carved into your flushed features. “It would be an honor to carry your young, Savior. I’d do anything to carry on your legacy of love.” 

“Anything, my dear?” Yunho whispered carefully near your ear, as though he were testing you, before running his tongue along your jaw to get a taste of your essence, slowly making his way down your body, unable to keep himself from tasting your salty skin along the way. “Even though Seonghwa is your beloved husband?” 

“Anything. I might be his wife, but you’re my savior, Yunho,” you sighed lovingly as a delightful shiver shot down your spine, not a single doubt present within your meticulously molded mind. Your ideas of the world, your life, its purpose — your saving grace had always been Yunho. How could he not be? Considering he built you himself, with great precision and care. You were the intricate tapestry he painstakingly sewed together year by year, each painful jab of his silver needle acting as a reminder of his divine love for you. 

“Say my name again,” Yunho exhaled, his lips ghosting along your abdomen to your navel, unable to keep himself from tonguing it for his own pleasure, his talons leaving red streaks along your skin. 

“Yunho,” you repeated, watching as the older man settled in between your thighs, his lips and tongue already exploring your slick entrance, gasping at the sensation of him lapping up his own release once it dribbled out of you.

“Again,” he commanded, his sharp eyes boring into yours from below, pinching your clit in between his teeth, his talons digging into your thighs. 

“Yunho..!” You looked down at him with such sincerity, it had the potential to touch Yunho’s corrupted heart, your fingers sifting through his sweat-soaked raven locks, tugging on it once he filled you with his long tongue. You were growing feverish, losing sight of why you were there in the first place. “Don’t stop, Savior…Need more...”

Yunho dragged his tongue over the entirety of your cunt, blowing on it just to make you shudder. “Is that what you tell your husband when you want his cock? What else do you tell him?”

You chewed on your bottom lip, feeling your cunt pulse. “Am I selfish for wanting more of your love? Am I a sinner for wanting you to fill me? I’ll go to hell a thousand times if it means I can have my savior’s love inside me once more...”

The seasoned cult leader’s long-lasting poison was far stronger, far more potent than your sincerities, especially when he administered it to his favorite prey in the most pleasurable, most effective way — with his sweet, saccharine lies that poured out like honey past his shiny, pointed teeth and rough, curled tongue that continued its ministrations on your puffy, used cunt.  “Oh, please don’t say things like that, angel. You’ll ruin me for everyone else.” 

In reality, you were the one he was ruining, corrupting, defiling — and all in the name of God. It made the cult leader so stiff, he could hardly keep his composure. 

You whined softly, shuddering underneath his touch, your hand forming a fist, gripping Yunho’s hair tighter and tighter, the longer he licked at your slit and sucked on your clit like a starved man. “Yunho, please…I won’t last much longer….” 

“Would that be such a sin, angel? If you released onto my tongue?” Yunho asked in between lingering licks, his tongue hot and heavy against your leaking cunt, using two fingers to keep your fluttering hole on display for his viewing pleasure, his silver talons gently pressing into your soft flesh. He wondered if he should continue admiring the mess of cum he painted your walls with, or use his saliva-streaked tongue and lips to slurp it out of you, his free hand attempting to milk his slick, throbbing cock. Decisions, decisions. 

Yunho wouldn’t have the time to make one, because just then, the cult leader’s most trusted confidant, Song Mingi, knocked on the door and entered without being granted permission, very aware of the privileges he had as a respected elder. The white-haired man saw the nude, disheveled state you were in, your white ceremonial garments laying in a pile on the floor, the love-struck look in your teary, doe eyes, your trembling, marked-up legs still obediently spread open wide for your savior, knowing you’d let Yunho fill and abuse your poor cunt until he saw fit. 

“Elder Song, are you going to continue standing there drooling like a dog or are you going to come here?” Yunho asked gruffly, rubbing the pad of his thumb relentlessly into your clit, all while he glowered at the younger man over his shoulder. 

Mingi quickly strided over to his leader’s side, sinking to his knees, looking up at him with his apologetic, round eyes. “I…have news, sir. It is of great importance.” 

Yunho shook his head slightly, letting out a small chuckle. “The news can wait, Mingi,” the cult leader began softly, reaching over to caress the other man’s cheek, making sure the younger man’s gaze was fixed solely on him. “Can I ask you for something?” 

Mingi nodded intently, his lips parted, taking short breaths, as if he was waiting with great anticipation. “Anything, Savior. What do you need from me?” 

It was then that Yunho brought the tip of his reddened cock to Mingi’s mouth, drops of pre-cum getting onto his plump, parted lips, his once softened gaze contorting into one of pure perversion. “Can you be a good boy and open up? Hm, princess?” 

Mingi closed his eyes, as an attempt to hide the way they rolled underneath his eyelids and the influx of arousal that had spread throughout his body like a virus, his sudden heavy breathing and flushed cheeks betraying him. “Yes, savior,” he moaned out, just as Yunho’s stiff cock filled up his drooling mouth, trying his best not to choke as he repeatedly took it down his tight throat. 

Yunho tossed his head back, a few drops of sweat sliding along his straining jaw and staining the bed below, gripping the back of Mingi’s head to make sure he didn’t stop worshiping his cock. “That’s it, princess. You’re taking it so well.” 

Mingi groaned wantonly, beginning to grind his own leaking cock against the side of the bed, not even caring that his knees began to ache from being pressed into the hardwood floor below. He found himself gazing down at you, his body on fire from being watched by his savior’s favorite angel, beginning to gag around Yunho’s thick length once he began ramming it down his throat with abandon. 

When you let out a small whine from witnessing such a visceral display of power and submission taking place right in front of you, Yunho reminded you with shaky words, “Don’t worry, my angel, this is all for you. Mingi here is going to transfer my love to you once I…Oh, God–”

Mingi’s gaze returned to his savior above, a few tears slipping down his flushed cheeks, his jaw aching from the way Yunho bottomed out completely inside his bulging throat, only to find his oxygen supply suddenly being cut off when the older man pinched his nose. 

“You trust me, don’t you, princess?” Yunho asked in an eerily calm tone, not bothering to hide his sadistic tendencies in that moment, throbbing inside the young man’s throat upon seeing his small nods and hearing the tiny, breathless squeaks he made. It was then that he held Mingi completely still until his face began to grow red. 

Just when he thought he might pass out, his vision sporting a fuzziness around the edges that reminded him of the television set Yunho had put inside the community room, his throat had finally become unblocked. As he gasped for air, he watched Yunho’s eyes roll into his skull, hot, white ropes of cum splattering onto Mingi’s lolled-out tongue. Before he could swallow, Yunho grabbed his chin and guided him in between your legs. 

“Impregnate her, princess. For me,” Yunho whispered into Mingi’s ear, his digits forming a V against your pulsing cunt, spreading you open for Elder Song. 

Not letting a drop go to waste, Mingi pursed his lips and sent a wad of cum directly into you, before shoving his tongue in as deep as it would go. He fucked the warm milkiness into you, with sloppy desperation, like the demon dog he was. He looked up to you for approval, which you gave, through your cries of pleasure and your fingers suddenly tugging at his snow white hair. He didn’t even realize he had lost his own composure, until he was whining and whimpering against your slick cunt, soiling his once pristine garments with his sticky load.   

Once Yunho watched Mingi pull his tongue out, a few strands of milky saliva connecting his plump lips to your cunt, the cult leader tapped your puffy pussy. “Good boy. Can you fill her up with those thick fingers of yours now?” 

Mingi huffed and puffed, trying to catch his breath, his pupils blown wide when he looked to Yunho for guidance. “Two? Three? How many, sir?” 

“As many as you need to make sure my seed reaches her womb,” Yunho reassured in a gravelly voice, watching as Mingi hovered over you, drops of saliva falling from his open mouth and onto your pleasured face, easily slipping in three fingers up to his knuckles. 

Yunho leisurely flicked, squeezed, and rolled your puffy clit, admiring Mingi’s relentless pursuit in finger-fucking you into a state of pure ecstasy, throbbing at the sight of his precious loads dripping down along the other man’s straining wrist and along his veined forearm. “Very good, princess. She’ll be nice and round soon, thanks to your support. Your hard work won’t go unnoticed.” 

Mingi bit down into his bottom lip, a few groans slipping out, despite his effort to conceal just how much his leader’s praise affected him. “Thank you, Savior. Now, I’ll make your angel cry out to the Lord,” he began breathily, locking eyes with Yunho for a moment, their digits working in tandem to send you over the edge, their focus returning to you. “Let it be done.” 

“Amen,” Yunho sighed, bringing his precious rosary up to his mouth to kiss, the metal cold against his warm lips. 

When you began to writhe around, your focus shifting to the various crosses that were nailed to the wall, your forceful release causing your bruised body to seize up, the cult leader suddenly grabbed your chin with his talons, the tips of them stabbing into your skin, drawing blood, making you whimper. His crazed eyes bored into your barely open ones, looking as if he was about to come undone himself, despite not touching himself. “You see it, don’t you, Y/N? Heaven? Isn’t it beautiful?” 

It was all too much. The pain. The pleasure. Elder Song watching closely as your squirt soaked his tan skin and the mattress underneath your jolting body, a demonic smile painting his sharp, seraphic face. Your savior clutching you so tight that you bled, his seed blossoming within your womb. It was then that you fell unconscious, your body falling limp against the feather-filled quilt. 

Yunho ran his jewelry-adorned fingers along your jaw, letting them graze your neck, down to the cross necklace that laid against your chest. “What did you need to tell me, Mingi?” 

Mingi pushed his sweaty bangs back, taking in a deep breath and letting it out, trying to find his composure. “We have two new visitors. They mentioned Y/N by name, and claimed that they grew up in the same orphanage as her. They were hoping to find her here, so that they could…” 

Yunho turned his head to glare at Mingi, his gaze alone making Mingi cower. “They want to take her away from me, don’t they? From us? From God?” 

Mingi began to scratch at his neck, leaving red streaks behind. “They believe that they can provide her with a better life.” 

“And what life could be better than one of enlightenment? Of purity? What could those heathens possibly offer my Y/N that I can’t?” Yunho suddenly erupted, his anger being directed towards Mingi, who lowered his head down, staring at the cross that hung past his chest. 

Yunho’s face twitched slightly, his once rage-filled expression dissipating as soon as it had surfaced, as if it had never been there in the first place. It was a simple trick of the light. He placed his hand on Mingi’s shoulder, squeezing it gently, until the unusually timid man found the courage to meet his gaze. “Mingi.” 

“Sir?” 

Yunho hummed to himself, catching onto the way your breath hitched, as if you had suddenly held it, his honey brown eyes gleaming with pride, and something else, something indistinguishable. “Offer them a room and dinner, oh, and invite our guests to the annual communion on Sunday.” 

“Right away, sir,” Mingi replied, getting up from the bed and exiting the room. He pressed his back into the mahogany door and shut his eyes, carefully sliding his fingers into his drooling mouth to savor the taste of his savior’s seed and his angel’s release. 

Once he was alone with you, Yunho reached down to brush a few strands of hair out of your eyes, smiling knowingly at the sight of them opening. “How much did you hear, sweet girl?”

“Enough,” you whispered carefully, as if you were testing him. You might have been the flower inside his clutches, but you still had thorns. 

Yunho began to chuckle softly, before it grew louder and louder, his pleased laughter ringing out through the halls. 

One of your threads was beginning to come undone. Nothing a little stitching couldn’t fix. 

Apply for the taglist here ⇢ ♡

blinding faith taglist: @onerubii @ateez-atiny380 @holytidalwavechees3cake @frzzenfrxg @spaceunicorn293 @neosexuals @leehangf @booyoungie @boosberrie @cann1balistic @certainsaturn (if you cannot be tagged pls check your privacy settings <3)

general taglist: @dazzlinglight @thefinerthingz3 @cosmiczen @choerryge @arusio @ethicalz @jinsonaz @kitty4hwa @purplechannie @jazzymoore @kodzukein @asjkdk @chanst1ddies @createyour0wnworld @roarmingi @simeonswhore @k0rean-big-mini0n @bls-luv-me @igotlockedout @fl0r4f4wn @miriamxsworld @woosmaid @kawaiikels @azcon @allofuswantgwinam @breezy-simp @eastleighsblog @singularity777 @san-realblkwife @kawennote09 @feuille-et-pain @slut4hwa @owjohny @hijeongguk @lilramennoodle @leo-seonghwa @staytinydegenerate @greenymar @8tinytings @baguette-atiny

© kitten4sannie, 2024.

[enhaflixer]

newly turned vampire! riki x 400 y/o vampire f!reader - VAMPIRE SUPPORT GROUP

pure crack. fluff. i def got an ask for this but rn i cant find it at all.

-

You've been dead for 400 years, but nothing has made you feel more alive than watching this disaster unfold.

The vampire support group meets in the basement of an abandoned church—cliché as fuck, but the rent is cheap. You're only here because eternity is boring and watching newly-turned vampires panic about their condition provides at least mild entertainment. Four centuries of existence have left you with few novel experiences.

Until him.

He slouches in fifteen minutes late, wearing sunglasses indoors, at night, in a basement. Riki Nishimura, according to the name tag he reluctantly sticks to his leather jacket (which still has the price tag partially visible underneath the collar).

"Sorry I'm late," he says, clearly not sorry at all. "Had some, you know, vampire business to take care of." He flicks an imaginary piece of lint from his shoulder.

The support group leader—Gary, turned in 1983, still wearing the same outdated suit—gestures to an empty folding chair. "Welcome, Riki. Would you like to share your turning story with the group?"

Riki slides into the chair like he's auditioning for a yakuza film. "It's whatever. Got bit last week. No big deal." He shrugs with such calculated casualness that you have to press your lips together to keep from laughing.

"The transition can be traumatic," Gary offers. "It's okay to have feelings about it."

"I don't really do feelings," Riki says, adjusting his sunglasses. They slip down his nose, revealing eyes that are very obviously bloodshot from crying. He pushes them back up with his middle finger, trying to make it look intentional.

You've watched newly-turned vampires react in every possible way: the screamers, the deniers, the embracers, the religious crisis-havers. But you've never seen someone trying so desperately to seem unaffected while clearly being a complete internal mess.

"So what can you do?" asks another newbie vampire, Emma, turned three months ago. "Can you transform into a bat yet?"

Riki scoffs. "Transformation is for vampires with something to prove. I'm secure enough not to need to show off."

You know—everyone knows—he can't transform. Most new vampires can't. But his absolute commitment to this façade is fascinating.

"What about blood?" asks Gary. "Have you adjusted to your new diet?"

Riki pulls out a thermos with skull stickers on it. "It's fine. I'm on this special blend. Very exclusive." He takes a sip and visibly gags, then pretends he was just clearing his throat. "Smooth," he comments, voice strained.

It's too much. A small laugh escapes you.

His head whips toward you, noticing you for the first time. You, with your simple black turtleneck and jeans—no need for gothic theatrics when you've been dead since the Edo period.

The moment his eyes land on you, he chokes on his blood drink. Like, actually chokes. He spends a good ten seconds coughing into his elbow while trying to look like he's just thoughtfully clearing his throat.

"You okay there?" you ask, deadpan.

"Yeah, totally fine. Just, uh—" he straightens up, runs a hand through his hair, and somehow manages to make it worse. "Just giving my professional assessment of the, uh, acoustics in here. Good echo. Very... echo-y."

"Fascinating analysis," you reply, face completely blank.

He stares at you for a beat too long, then realizes and quickly averts his gaze, pretending to be deeply interested in a water stain on the ceiling. A faint reddish tint creeps across his pale cheeks—he must have fed recently for that to be possible.

"And you are...?" Gary prompts.

"Riki. I said that already," he mumbles.

"I meant her name," Gary clarifies with infinite patience.

"Oh." Riki's eyes dart back to you, then away again, like he's afraid looking directly at you might turn him to stone. Which is ironic, considering the whole vampire thing.

You don't volunteer your name. Names have power, and you've learned to be selective with yours over the centuries. But something about his painfully obvious awkwardness makes you say, "You can call me Y/N."

"Y/N," he repeats, like he's testing how it feels in his mouth. "Cool name. Very... name-like."

"Jesus fucking christ," mutters Emma under her breath.

The group moves on to discussing practical matters—how to get blood legally, avoiding sunlight, explaining to family why you can't do brunch anymore. Riki interjects occasionally with comments like "Sunlight? I think it adds character to just power through the burning" and "Family? I'm a lone wolf. Always have been." This last comment is immediately undermined by his phone lighting up with a text that clearly reads "MOM: Don't forget to call Grandma tomorrow, she's making your favorite cookies."

He hurriedly flips the phone over, then glances at you to see if you noticed. You maintain your perfect poker face, honed over centuries of watching humans make fools of themselves.

Throughout the meeting, you catch him stealing glances at you approximately seventy-three times. When you make eye contact, he either pretends to be looking at something else or gives you what he clearly thinks is a cool, aloof nod. It's like watching a middle schooler with his first crush, except this middle schooler has fangs.

"Before we conclude," Gary says, checking his notes, "a reminder that Councilwoman Bathory will be conducting inspections next week. All newly-turned vampires must register with the Council to receive their blood ration cards."

Riki perks up. "The Council? Like, vampire government? That's a real thing?"

You roll your eyes. "Of course it's real. Who did you think keeps humans from finding out about us? Pure luck?"

"I figured it was just, like, an understanding," he says, waving his hand vaguely. "Nobody talks about it because it's cooler that way."

"Yes," you deadpan. "Vampire society has survived for millennia on vibes alone."

Emma snorts. Gary shoots her a look.

"The Council is very real," Gary explains patiently. "And very serious about registration. Unregistered vampires are considered rogue and... well, it doesn't end well."

Riki's attempt at looking unimpressed falters slightly. "What happens to them?"

"They get staked," you say bluntly. "Or worse."

"What's worse than getting staked?" he asks, sunglasses slipping down his nose again.

You just stare at him flatly. "Use your imagination."

When the meeting ends, you find yourself lingering. He's trying to look disinterested, scrolling through his phone, but his thumb isn't moving. He's just staring at a black screen while casting furtive glances your way.

"First meetings are the worst," you say, approaching him.

He jumps like you've shocked him, then tries to play it cool by leaning against the wall. He misses the wall entirely and has to quickly readjust. "Nah, it was cool. Good to know there are other vampires out there, I guess. Not that I need, like, community or whatever."

"Of course not," you agree flatly. "You strike me as someone who has it all figured out."

"Exactly," he says, missing your sarcasm entirely. He runs a hand through his carefully disheveled hair. "So... you come to these things often?" He immediately winces at his own cliché.

"Only when I'm bored. Which is frequently, after a few centuries."

His eyebrows shoot up above his sunglasses. "Centuries? Holy shit—I mean, that's, uh, cool. Very cool. You don't look a day over..." he falters, realizing he doesn't know how to age you.

"Four hundred and twelve," you supply.

"Right. I was gonna say that."

"You know," you say, your lips curving into a slight smirk, "technically that makes me the ultimate cougar. I've got about four centuries on you."

His mouth falls open slightly before he catches himself. "I, uh—I mean—"

"I've literally known shoes that lasted longer than your entire existence," you continue, enjoying his flustered reaction. "I was drinking blood when your ancestors were still figuring out indoor plumbing."

"That's..." he swallows hard. "Actually kind of hot?"

Now it's your turn to be surprised, though you mask it better than he does. "Interesting response."

He shrugs, a hint of genuine Riki breaking through the cool façade. "What can I say? I've always been into older women. Though usually the age gap is more like five years, not five hundred."

"Four hundred," you correct.

"My bad. That makes all the difference."

For the first time in decades, you laugh—a real, unguarded sound. His eyes widen at it, like he's witnessing some rare astronomical event.

"You know," you say, "the sunglasses at night thing is very 1980s. If you want to seem current, you might want to update your 'cool vampire' aesthetic."

He whips them off so fast you're surprised they don't break. "These old things? I don't even like them. Just, you know, had eye surgery. Laser. Very... futuristic."

Without his shield, his eyes are a warm brown, currently dilated from the darkness and from staring at you like you're the last blood bag in a famine. They're surprisingly gentle for someone trying so hard to seem tough.

"There's a night market that caters to our kind a few blocks from here," you say. "They sell blood that actually tastes decent, unlike whatever you've got in that thermos."

"It's not that bad," he lies, clutching the thermos defensively.

"It's pig blood cut with iron supplements and probably hot sauce to mask the taste."

He stares at you. "How did you—"

"Four hundred years, remember? I've seen every trick." You turn toward the exit. "Coming?"

"With you? I mean—yeah, sure, whatever. I'm not doing anything else tonight. So yeah. Cool. Let's do it. The night market. Together. Walking. Side by side. Cool." He's nodding way too much.

"Or I could just go alone," you deadpan.

"No!" He clears his throat, lowers his voice. "I mean, no, I'll come. It's fine. I'm fine."

As you lead him up the basement stairs, you catch him frantically checking his reflection in his phone screen. Except, of course, there is no reflection—a fact he seems to have momentarily forgotten in his panic. He pockets his phone with a muttered "fuck."

-

The night market exists in a dimensional pocket beneath an ordinary-looking pawn shop. To human eyes, it appears closed, with dusty guitars and outdated electronics visible through grimy windows. To supernatural eyes, the neon sign reading "OPEN 24/7 FOR THE ETERNALLY DAMNED" is unmissable.

"No way," Riki breathes as you lead him toward the entrance. "I must have walked past this place a hundred times."

"That's the point," you say, pushing open the door. A bell jingles, but instead of the cheerful tone humans would hear, it emits a low, ominous toll.

The shop owner—a wizened, ancient vampire named Ichiro who came to Japan even before you did—looks up from his newspaper. "Y/N," he nods respectfully. His eyes slide to Riki. "New pet?"

"New community member," you correct, though you're amused by how Riki puffs up indignantly at being called a pet.

"I'm nobody's pet," he mutters, trying to appear intimidating. On a scale of one to threatening, he ranks somewhere around 'disgruntled kitten.'

Ichiro snorts. "Of course not." He turns back to you. "The usual?"

You nod. "And something palatable for the newborn. He's drinking pig swill."

"I told you, it's a special blend—" Riki starts, but Ichiro is already laughing.

"Follow me," the old vampire says, lifting a section of the counter. "And don't touch anything unless you can afford to replace it. Some items are older than your entire bloodline."

As you browse the market, Riki trying desperately to look unimpressed while clearly fascinated, you become aware of Council enforcers moving through the crowd. They're looking for unregistered newborns—apparently there's been trouble with newly-turned vampires killing humans.

"We should go," you murmur to Riki, whose face has gone even paler than vampire-standard. "Now."

You guide him through the back of the stalls, taking a circuitous route to a secondary exit you know from centuries of visiting the market. Once outside, in a quiet alley behind the pawn shop, you explain the situation.

"So there's killer newborns out there?" he asks, genuinely concerned.

"Seems like it," you reply. "Which means you should lie low for a while. Go straight home, stay inside, don't talk to vampires you don't know."

"But I barely know any vampires," he points out. "Except you. And Gary, I guess, but he's—"

"Riki," you interrupt, "I'm serious. This could be dangerous. Someone might be targeting new vampires."

He studies your face, seeing the genuine concern there. "You're actually worried. About me."

"I'm worried about the situation," you correct.

"Right." He doesn't look convinced. "So, this is goodnight then?"

You nod. "Go home. Stay safe."

"You too," he says, then adds awkwardly, "I mean, obviously you can take care of yourself. Being super old and all. Not that you look old. You look great. For someone born when people still thought the plague was caused by bad smells."

"Miasma theory," you provide.

"What?"

"That's what it was called. The theory that disease was caused by bad air."

"Cool. Very cool scientific fact." He shifts from one foot to the other. "So, uh, will I see you again? At the next meeting maybe?"

You consider him for a moment. There's something oddly endearing about his transparent attempt to seem aloof while being so obviously eager. It's been a long time since anyone looked at you the way he does—like you're the most fascinating thing they've ever seen.

"Probably," you say noncommittally. "If you don't get yourself staked before then."

He tries to look offended, but can't quite hide the smile tugging at his lips. "As if. I'm very stakeable. I mean un-stakeable. Fuck."

You roll your eyes, but there's no real annoyance behind it. "Goodnight, Riki."

You turn to leave, but his voice stops you.

"Y/N?"

When you look back, he's closer than you expected—he must have moved toward you without your noticing, which is unusual given your heightened senses. There's an intensity in his eyes that wasn't there before, a momentary break in his carefully constructed cool-guy persona.

"Thanks," he says simply. "For helping me tonight. For not laughing at me. Well, not laughing too much."

The sincerity catches you off guard. "You're welcome."

He nods, then seems to gather his courage. "Can I ask you something? Why did you help me? I mean, I'm nobody to you. Just some random newborn vampire you met at a support group."

You consider how to answer. The truth is, you're not entirely sure yourself. Maybe it's boredom. Maybe it's curiosity. Maybe it's the way he looks at you, like you're something special rather than just another ancient creature going through the motions of immortality.

"Let's just say you're more interesting than most," you finally reply.

"Interesting?" he repeats, a slow smile spreading across his face. "I'll take it."

There's a moment of silence between you, charged with something unexpected. His eyes drop to your lips, then back up to your eyes, a question in them.

"I should go," you say, but you don't move.

"Yeah," he agrees, but takes a step closer instead.

You can smell the blood on his breath—Jin's special blend, rich and complex. His pupils are dilated, whether from the darkness or from looking at you, you're not sure. Probably both.

"This is a bad idea," you murmur, even as you find yourself leaning slightly toward him.

"Probably," he agrees. "But I'm full of bad ideas lately. Becoming a vampire. Wearing sunglasses at night. Crushing on someone who was alive during the Spanish Inquisition."

"I was in Japan during the Spanish Inquisition," you correct, your voice softer than intended.

"Right." He's close enough now that if either of you still breathed, you'd feel it. "Still a bad idea though?"

"The worst," you whisper, and then close the distance between you.

The kiss is electric—literally, a small spark of supernatural energy passing between you. His lips are cooler than a human's would be, but still impossibly soft. He makes a small, surprised sound against your mouth, like he wasn't actually expecting you to kiss him, before responding with unexpected intensity.

For someone so awkward in conversation, he's surprisingly confident in this. His hand comes up to cup your face, touch gentle but certain. When his tongue traces the seam of your lips, you grant him access, and the kiss deepens.

You can taste the blood he's consumed, feel the newborn vampire energy thrumming through him—wild and untamed compared to your carefully controlled power. It's intoxicating, this blend of inexperience and eagerness. His fangs accidentally graze your lower lip, drawing a drop of your ancient blood.

The taste hits him like a drug. He groans, a deep, primal sound that resonates through you. His hands tighten on you reflexively, pulling you closer.

"Fuck," he breathes against your lips. "You taste like...I don't even have words."

"Four hundred years gives the blood a certain complexity," you murmur, slightly dazed yourself. It's been decades since you've allowed anyone to taste you.

He stares at you, wonder and desire naked on his face. All pretense of coolness has evaporated. "Can I—"

"No," you cut him off, regaining your composure. "One taste is all you get. For now."

His eyes widen at the implication of 'for now.' "Right. Cool. Very cool. I can work with that."

You step back, creating some distance between you. The kiss was more intense than you'd anticipated, and you need a moment to collect yourself. Four centuries of existence, and you're rattled by a kiss from a week-old vampire with a cool-guy complex and a price tag still visible on his jacket.

Pathetic.

And yet.

"Go home, Riki," you say, your voice steadier than you feel. "Stay safe."

He nods, still looking slightly dazed. "Yeah. Home. Safety. Got it."

You turn to leave, using your vampire speed to put some distance between you before you do something even more foolish.

"Y/N!" he calls after you.

You pause, looking back over your shoulder.

He's standing there, hair mussed from your fingers, lips slightly swollen from your kiss, looking simultaneously like the disaster he is and something unexpectedly precious.

"Just so you know," he says, a genuine smile breaking through his usual smirk, "I'm totally cool with the age gap. I've always said age is just a number."

"In my case, it's a pretty big number," you call back.

"More to love!" he retorts, then immediately looks mortified at his own words. "I mean, not love. Obviously. Just a figure of speech. Very casual figure of speech."

You laugh despite yourself. "Goodnight, Riki."

"Goodnight, ancient one," he replies with a mock bow.

As you disappear into the night, you hear him whisper, "Holy fucking shit" to himself, and then a triumphant "YES!" followed by what sounds suspiciously like a victory dance.

Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

And yet, for the first time in centuries, you find yourself genuinely looking forward to next week's support group meeting.

Maybe immortality isn't complete bullshit after all.

[teriri-sayes]

Reactions to The Light's Chapter 421

Brief summary: Cale's group escapes. The twins decide to escape too. Cale realizes that the hunters now knew of his involvement. Cale proposes a main quest to System AI. Alberu is pretending to be asleep like Cale too.

==========

The leader of the jungle's dark elves was the Witch, but she was not here. Rather, it was her right hand person who was present. That dark elf told the other Hellhole forces that Cale's group were their allies and that the GoC cult and wanderers were enemies. Afterwards, they helped Cale's group escape.

The twin wanderers let Cale's group escape, not wanting to turn the entire Hellhole into an enemy. But they figured out Cale's identity, recognizing him as the main culprit behind the failure of the White Star Project.

They also suspected Cale to be a transcendent, a godlike being who was not bound by any name and had transcended all limitations by being themselves. 😂😂😂 So they thought of leaving Cale to their leader, the FW, who was on the way to becoming a transcendent.

Of course, since the GoC cult betrayed them, Ryeon killed one surviving bishop before escaping the place. The Hellhole residents dealt with the GoC cult survivors.

Cale thought it was a problem that the hunters recognized him, and thought of a diversion. He would show his face in the Demon Realm. After all, he needed to save CJG. As for the hunters, he thought of pitting the game users against the Five-Colored Bloods in the game via a main quest.

He suggested that to System AI, and the AI accepted it. The main quest name he proposed for it though was... "The Birth of a Hero." 😂😂😂

Unfortunately for Alberu, it seemed like he was also having his own legend and birth of a hero. 🤣🤣🤣

The next day. “Uh… um…….” Cale looked up. A pure white space, holy and beautiful. Brilliant sunlight streamed in from a hole in the ceiling, enveloping Cale and Alberu. “Th-This can't be happening- No way!” “Ah, the sun!” Boom! The paladin, Sir Boltien, in a fit of passion, fell to his knees in prayer. Sniff. The saintess wept. The pope was already wailing loudly. “Alas, this warm light! So dazzling that it almost blinds the eyes yet its gentle touch brings the only warmth from the cold! Alas, the sun, the most splendid, beautiful, and wonderful sun in the world! The sun, the suuuuuuuuunnnnn!" He almost cried out. And this Pope talking was not unusual. “Sniff.” “Aaaah-” Behind the three of them, in a circle of space, the bishops were kneeling. In the center of the circle. Where the light shone. There, Cale sat meekly beside the still unconscious Alberu. 'How did this happen?' . . . “Ah, the loving sunlight that reminds me of my mother's touch as she stroked me as a newborn eighty years ago- Ah, I will dedicate this body and throw everything I have at this sun!” Cale thought, as he listened to the pope's exuberant exclamation. 'I'm tired.' I'm already tired of this. Shake. 'Huh?' Cale, who had been sitting quietly on his knees, glanced sideways. Shake. Alberu's closed eyelids twitched. 'Oh.' The corners of Cale's mouth turned up. 'He's awake, but he's not getting up.' Perhaps, he must be trying to figure out the situation now. “Heh.” Alberu's body shivered slightly at Cale's uncontrollable laughter. Looking at him like that, Cale remembered what had happened yesterday.

Alberu pretending to be asleep too. 😂😂😂 And why was the Sun God church's pope here? Why were the Sun God church clergy crying as if in worship at the lying Alberu who was being shined down by a sunlight beam? 🤣🤣🤣

Ending Remarks Alberu on the start of his hero journey. 😂 Next chapter would be Alberu finally waking up. I look forward to his reaction at the Sun God church NPCs. 😂

[anarchy-and-piglins]

Have an AU! Just for you!

Forced Sainthood AU

Technoblade is a demi-god. He doesn't know one of his parents was a god because he never knew either of his parents. He is raised in an orphanage run by the Blood God's church. He is well taken care of but not pampered. They don't abuse the children, but the children don't have much.

Technoblade's childhood is mostly normal. He is a little smarter than his peers, a little more physically gifted, but nothing too out of the ordinary. Just a gifted little kid.

Helping out in relgious rites is mandatory for the orphans and one day, during the ceremony, Technoblade gets the sudden feeling of dread and without thinking pushes a nun out of the way.

Just as a light fixture falls from the ceiling. It would have killed her. He is lauded for his quick thinking.

But he starts to stand out.

He predicts more misfortune, stepping in to stop it when possible. He lifts a fallen tree off a farmer after a terrible storm, all by himself and only ten. The sermons he helps with seem a little MORE. The plants in the gardens he helps with grow more fruitful.

It causes quite a stir. The congregation and town are excited to have such a spiritual young man. He is such a help. People start visiting the little church just to speak with him. He's shy and introverted, but he tries to be kind before running away from the social interaction.

The priests are...not too happy about this. Like, sure, the extra money given is great, but THEY are the religious leaders, not some orphan brat.

When Technoblade gets injured during a festival and everyone sees him heal instantly, the priests decide they have to act.

Technoblade never suspected they would poison him.

Usually, he probably would have noticed it before it happened. The voices in his head are so helpful. But he was tired. He had been given SOO many extra tasks for a fortnight. He was wrung out. He didn't notice the voices warning. He didn't notice the strange taste. He only noticed when he tried to stand and collapsed, his whole body going numb and his vision tunneling.

A person only becomes a saint after they die.

People flock to places where a saint's body lay.

Technoblade is immortal. He cannot die. He heals almost as fast as he is injured. The priest and his conspirators discover that when he keeps trying to wake up.

So, they lay him in a glass case, mouth stuffed with poison to keep him unmoving. The fancy clothes hide the way he is bound in the case. The loudly mourn the young man, only sixteen. So devoted. So kind. The priests preen under the attention. That it was their guidance that led to such a wonder as Saint Techno.

Years pass. Technoblade is not asleep. He can hear. He can listen. He just can't do anything about it. And he is partly divine. The prayers offered his way DO have power. And that just makes more and more people flock to his prison. He can't move. He can't speak. The tears he sheds are just attributed to miracles.

Philza wasn't born a demigod. He was made into one when he got married. He jokes that while most couples just take a last name, he got to take godhood. He loves his wife, Lady Death, dearly and he loves to travel to her temples across the continent.

Occasionally, he stops in other gods temples out of curiosity (and to shit talk them to his wife. Her temples are FAAAR better than PRIMES). So, when he hears of the famous little temple, he visits.

And is horrified when he immediately realizes what has happened.

In the middle of the night, he breaks in. He breaks the glass coffin and carefully lifts the now adult Technoblade and spirits him away into the night. Removes the poison. Removes the chains. Hunkers down in the wood, ignoring his paid for hotel room.

It takes two days for Technoblade to fully regain consciousness, and in that time, a manhunt happens to try and find the person who stole the saint's body.

Cue hijinks of Philza and Technoblade trying to escape the country while being hunted. Maybe, Priest starts to think that two saints will be better than one.

Anyway, time to go back to my boring job so I can't say anymore. Have a good one, Sharada my beloved!

I definitely made this joke before, but since this is a Lenn AU I was waiting for a Dark SBI twist kekw /lh

Jokes aside, a wonderful premise as usual. A great amount of Techno whump potential hehehehe. But also some comedy! Because I can't stop thinking about Techno going about trying to tell people he was held captive but they're all like "He came back to life, it's a miracle!!!" poor guy.

[k-nayee]

Saints and Sinners Devil All The Time

wc: 3.9k a/n: Song Inspiration: Take Me To Church by Hozier; recommend you listen while reading!!

Traveler M.List

ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

The heat clung to Arvin like a second skin, the late afternoon sun turning the school parking lot into a sweltering wasteland.

He stood next to his truck with a cigarette hanging from his lips, the brim of his cap casting a shadow over his eyes as he waited for Lenora—something he did every day, watching the doors of the school for her figure to appear.

His patience was wearing thin, the relentless humidity weighing on him, but he didn’t dare leave without her.

Not here. Not in this town.

His eyes scanned the yard, and that’s when he saw it: Lenora, standing off to the side, clutching her books like a shield.

She was surrounded by a trio of girls, their voices sharp and mean, cutting thick through the hot air.

Arvin could see the way she shrunk, trying to make herself smaller as their words slicing into her without mercy.

A surge of protectiveness flared—the same way he always did when someone threatened her,

He flicked his cigarette to the ground, stomping it out with a curse under his breath.

Just as he was about to intervene when you appeared, striding through the dust and heat with the kind of confidence that turned heads and stopped conversations.

You walked right into the middle of the scene unbothered by the sneers and whispers thrown your way.

“Didn’t think she’d need a slut to protect her,” the leader of the group spat, her posse snickering behind her.

You didn’t even flinch. Cool as ever, you reached into your pocket and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with a effortless precision that had Arvin mesmerized.

“Slut, huh?” you echoed. There was something almost playful in your tone, like you were amused by her attempt to insult you. “Ain’t that what your boyfriend calls me when I see him?”

The girl’s sneer faltered, her eyes narrowing as she tried to hold her ground. “Wha...what’re you talkin’ about?”

"Your name’s Gina, right?" you asked, exhaling smoke into the humid air.

Gina stiffened, sensing the shift in conversation. "Yeah, why?"

You shrugged, flicking ash off your cigarette and giving her a once-over that made her bristle. "Just something your boyfriend mentioned."

Gina blinked, her face twitching with confusion. "And what the hell's that supposed to mean?!"

"You know you're cuter than I expected," ignoring her question you blew smoke into her face, making her take a step back. "Then again, don’t remember much he said when his face was buried between my legs."

The other girls gasped as the color drained from Gina’s face. She opened her mouth, but she struggled to find the words in a sputtering rage.

Arvin, caught between surprise and amusement, couldn’t stop the choked chuckle that escaped his throat.

His sudden sound made everyone turn, including you.

Your eyes landed on Arvin, still smirking as if you’d known he was watching the whole time.

Gina, humiliated and seething, took the chance to storm off with her friends trailing behind her.

"You...you disgusting WHORE!" she screeched over her shoulder, her voice cracking in anger.

You didn’t miss a beat. “Funny, that’s not what your boyfriend was saying,” you called after her, your voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Ate me up quicker than a sundae in July!”

Arvin shook his head in disbelief as the trio disappeared from sight, trying (and failing) to suppress his grin.

He glanced back toward you and Lenora, who was still clutching her books like a lifeline, her face flushed with embarrassment.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Lenora murmured, her voice soft, full of gratitude but laced with worry. “People already—"

"—talk about me?" you cut in with a shrug, flicking the cigarette butt to the ground and crushing it beneath your boot.

“Don't worry 'bout it Bible Thumper.” Your tone was playful, the nickname clearly something affectionate between you and her.

You lift your chin, gesturing toward Arvin’s truck. "Looks like your ride’s here."

Lenora gave you a small smile, casting a final glance at the ground as she shuffled over to the truck.

Arvin hadn’t moved though. He was still standing there, watching you.

You were dressed in a tight, low-cut top and a short skirt that hugged your curves—clothing considered vulgar by small-town southern standards, especially for 1965.

The bright red bandana you had tied in your hair made you look even more rebellious, standing out like a beacon among the pastel dresses and modest cardigans the other girls wore.

Then there was the fact your brown skin was a rarity in Knockemstiff, Ohio. The town wasn’t overtly racist, but had an undercurrent of prejudice was always lingering like smoke in the air.

You raise an eyebrow at him, catching him staring. "Got a problem with your vision church boy?"

Arvin flushed, realizing he’d been caught.

"No, uh... no problem," he muttered, fumbling with the brim of his cap before awkwardly tipping it in your direction and stumbling back toward the truck.

Lenora was already in the passenger seat, her wide eyes watching the exchange with mild curiosity.

He shot you a final glance before getting behind the wheel, hands gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary.

As the truck rumbled to life Arvin couldn’t help but steal one last look at you in the rearview mirror.

You were leaning against the side of the building with another lit cigarette, your form growing smaller as the truck rolled away.

The road stretched out in front of him but his mind lingered behind.

It wasn’t until a few miles down the road did Arvin work up the nerve to ask, “That girl...back there. She, uh...you know her?”

Lenora didn’t look up, instead trained on the frayed strap of her bag that she was nervously fidgeting with.

“Her name’s ____,” she said, her voice soft with fondness. “She’s been helpin’ me. You know, with the girls at school.”

Arvin frowned, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. “Helpin’ you? Didn’t seem like the kind of person who—”

Lenora snapped her head towards him, eyes fierce. “You don’t know her, Arvin.”

“She’s good!” She continued, more certain, like she needed to make it clear before he could form any more judgments. “She’s not what people think.”

Arvin raised an eyebrow, giving Lenora a sidelong glance. He wanted to believe her, but it didn’t add up—not with what he’d heard, not with what he’d seen of you.

“Doesn’t even come to church,” he tries.

Lenora shrug, facing the window. “Doesn’t make her bad Arvin. Jesus loved Mary Magdalene, didn’t he?”

The statement hit him harder than he expected. He wasn’t sure why, but the comparison lingered.

Lenora, despite being the town’s purest soul, seemed to see something in you that no one else did.

“Mary Magdalene,” he muttered, as if testing the words on his tongue.

“Mary was a sinner, wasn’t she? A woman with a reputation. Jesus showed her love and forgiveness. He saw her for who she really was, not what people thought of her.” She paused, her eyes back on her lap. “I think ____ is a lot like that.”

Arvin fell silent. He had grown up hearing stories of redemption, how Jesus saw past sins to the heart beneath.

It was one thing to hear those stories in church—to recite scripture and praise, but to apply it to someone like you? Could it be that simple?

He thought about the way you had stood in that parking lot and how you defended Lenora without hesitation.

You did cared about the insults thrown. You didn't falter when they spat the word slut in your face.

Then there was Lenora, tucked behind you, her wide-eyed innocence protected by someone the town swore was trouble.

Arvin didn’t know what to think. Part of him—the part raised under his grandmother’s strict moral code—wanted to reject it, to cling to the safety of what he’d always been taught.

People like you with a reputation weren’t to be trusted. They were trouble. They’d drag you into the dirt with them if you weren’t careful.

But another part of him couldn’t stop thinking about you.

The way you had looked at him, with that teasing smile like you knew something he didn’t. Like you weren’t afraid of him, or the town, or anything.

There was something so free about you, so untouchable...and it was dangerous.

It stirred something deep in him, something that had nothing to do with right or wrong.

“I don’t know,” he muttered finally, more to himself than to Lenora. “Just seems like the kind of person you shouldn’t be hangin’ around with.”

Lenora’s head snapped up at that. “I mean what would Grandma Emma say?” he added quickly, trying to justify his hesitation.

He didn’t want to sound like he was being overprotective, but the thought of Lenora getting caught up in your world—it didn’t sit right.

“She knows,” Lenora said, her voice surprisingly firm. “She doesn’t like it, but... she lets me. Because she knows that ____ is kind. She helped me, Arvin. No one else stood up for me the way she did.”

Now that stopped him cold.

If Grandma Emma with all her devoutness and strict adherence to Christian values could allow Lenora to be around you, then maybe...maybe there was more to you than what he thought.

Arvin glanced at Lenora then back at the road. The thought gnawed at him, your image lingering in the back of his mind like a half-formed idea he couldn’t quite grasp.

He was caught between two worlds—his grandmother’s moral code and the inexplicable draw you had over him.

Temptation, that’s what it was. Plain and simple.

It didn’t feel simple. It felt heavy, he wasn’t used to feeling that pull,

But maybe Lenora was right. Maybe, just like Mary Magdalene, you were more than what people said.

Maybe he’d been too quick to judge.

The drive home was quieter than usual, each of them lost in their own thoughts.

════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════

The weeks that followed your encounter with Arvin in the parking lot slipped by slowly, each day dragging with the heavy heat of summer.

You had begun to linger in his thoughts, creeping into his mind in the quiet moments when he least expected it.

He noticed you more now. At first, it was accidental—a glance here or there when he’d pick up Lenora from school or drive through town.

Sometimes you’d offer him a nod, a faint smirk playing at the corner of your lips as if you knew exactly what you were doing to him.

You didn’t go to church, not like the rest of them.

Every Sunday without fail he'd catch you: leaning casually against the brick wall near the chapel as you waited for service to end.

It was one Sunday, Arvin stood with Lenora under the oak tree by the steps, half-listening to her talk about something from the sermon.

His eyes drifted across the street, scanning the quiet neighborhood out of habit—and there you were.

The sun caught the edge of your dress, and for a second, you looked like something out of place. Not of this town, not of its rules or restrictions.

Like you were from another world entirely.

Without thinking, his gaze lingered too long, and you caught him. Your eyes locked onto his, and for a split second, Arvin felt that strange tightening in his chest.

Embarrassment crawled up his throat, but you didn’t look away. Instead you smiled—the corners of your lips curling up as if you’d expected him to be watching.

He swallowed hard, quickly glancing back to Lenora who was still talking, completely unaware of the silent exchange.

He tried to brush it off—told himself it didn’t mean anything. But the feeling of being seen by you, noticed in that way, was something new.

The feeling stayed with him long after you were gone.

In the weeks that followed he caught himself looking for you more often. He’d spot you from a distance, sometimes walking by the side of the road as he drove by in his truck.

Your posture was always casual, unbothered. Your dress would sway with your movements, your hips rolling in a way that defied everything about this small, stifling town.

There was nothing modest or demure about you, and Arvin couldn’t stop looking.

And whenever you catch him staring, that same smirk tugged at your lips before you’d nod in acknowledgment.

At night, when the house was quiet and everyone was long asleep, Arvin would lie awake, your image burning in his mind.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He wasn’t supposed to think about you.

His grandmother’s sermons about temptation played on a loop in his head, warnings about sin and damnation ringing out in her voice.

But you weren’t just a temptation; you were kind to Lenora, protective even. Arvin had seen it, the way you stood by her side without expecting anything in return.

People called you all kinds of names, painted you as something to be avoided, but none of that matched the way you were with her. It didn’t make sense.

As for Lenora, she spoke more often of you now. She adores you—admire even. That always struck Arvin as odd.

There were days when Lenora would beg you to join her in the woods, sitting under the trees while she read aloud from her Bible.

You were nothing like the type of person he imagined Lenora would fall in line with, but then again, Lenora was far more forgiving than anyone in Knockemstiff.

She defended you like she had something to prove, telling him how you’d been helping her and that people didn’t know the real you.

════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════

The afternoon sun was beginning to sink lower in the sky as you and Lenora walked toward the Russell home.

You’d just finished leaving the woods, her familiar chatter filling the silence between you.

Lenora (ever the sweetheart), had invited you in, mentioning that it was Arvin’s birthday and they were planning a small dinner to celebrate.

Knowing the town’s judgment followed you wherever you went, especially in public spaces like the Russell home, you turn it down.

It wasn't until you saw Lenora’s broken expression did you hesitate. Before you knew it, you were walking up the steps with her.

You didn't plan on staying long, just until dinner started.

The idea of sitting down for a family meal, especially at the Russell home, wasn’t exactly something you were comfortable with.

As soon as you stepped inside, the scent of warm bread and mixing chatter of the Russell family greeted you.

Grandma Emma was in the kitchen, her back straight as she prepared dinner. She gave you a brief, suspicious glance when you entered with Lenora.

Earskell seemed to take an immediate liking to you. He was lounging in his chair by the living room window with a grin spread across his face, looking entirely too relaxed.

Arvin stood near the doorway. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, clearly caught off guard by your presence.

For a moment, the room froze. Your eyes met his and the tension was immediate.

You hadn’t been this close to him since that day at the school, and it was clear he hadn’t expected you here—certainly not for something as intimate as a family dinner.

His gaze flickered over you. It was more modest than usual, a subtle nod to Emma’s old-fashioned ways.

With a black knee-length skirt, your light-colored blouse clung to your shoulders, the neckline dipping low enough to be daring in this town.

Arvin’s eyes traced the curve of your collarbone, his throat tightening at the sight.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” Arvin muttered, low voice barely hiding the nervous tint beneath it.

You gave him a slow teasing smile, your eyes glinting with amusement as you stepped forward.

“Didn’t expect to be here either. Hope ya don't mind birthday boy,” you replied, the words rolling off your tongue with a soft lilt that made Arvin shift on his feet.

Earskell watched with a grin, clearly enjoying every second of the interaction.

Blissfully unaware of the tension swirling around the room, Leanora hurried back to the kitchen when Grandma Emma called for her, leaving you and Earskell alone with Arvin.

“Well, well, well. If it ain't miss ____." Earskell drawled, his voice carrying a hint of Southern charm laced with mischief. “Didn’t think we’d have such fine company tonight. Sure do brighten up the place.”

You grinned at that, makin your way to sit on the couch next to his chair, arms casually crossed. “You flatterin’ me old man?”

Earskell barked a laugh, eyes twinkling. “Just callin’ it like I see it. Ain’t often we get someone who can keep up with me.”

“You ain’t wrong about that,” you shot back, your voice low and teasing, the crassness in your tone catching Lenora by surprise as she returned from the kitchen. “Though I’m not sure your nephew here knows what to make of it.”

Arvin tensed visibly, his ears burning red at the way the conversation seemed to be shifting toward him.

He stayed quiet most of the time, barely able to meet your gaze. And now, with his uncle egging you on, he felt like a rabbit caught in a trap.

“Boy’s always been a quiet one,” Earskell said, waving a hand dismissively. “But I reckon he’ll come around, especially with someone like you lightin’ up the room.”

Arvin shot his uncle a sharp look, his face flushing even deeper. “Earskell,” he muttered, warning in his tone.

“Ain’t no need to be shy, boy,” he teased, leaning in as if sharing a secret. “Not every day a pretty girl walks through that door, is it?”

You couldn’t help but chuckle, giving Arvin a sideways glance, watching him squirm. He was trying so hard to keep his cool, but the flush on his neck and the way his hands fidgeted gave him away.

“Don’t worry, I won’t bite,” you say to him before giving a flutter of your lashes. “Unless you ask.”

Arvin’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, the tension in the room thickening for just a moment.

He couldn’t bring himself to respond, instead opting to drop into his chair at the far end of the couch, avoiding your gaze entirely.

The older man didn’t miss a beat, clearly delighted by your banter.

“Now don’t go thinkin’ you can outtalk me, girl,” Earskell said, leaning forward in his chair with a grin. “I’ve got years of experience on ya.”

“I ain’t scared of a little experience,” you replied with a smirk, flicking your eyes over to Arvin long enough to catch him glancing away.

He was practically squirming now, clearly unsure of how to handle the banter and the easy way you seemed to command the room despite barely trying.

You stood after a while, brushing your hands off on your dress and glancing toward the kitchen. “I should get goin’ before dinner’s on. Don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

Earskell laughed, waving a hand. “You’re always welcome here, girl. Don’t let these sour faces fool ya.”

Grandma Emma emerged from the kitchen just in time, wiping her hands on a towel and nodding toward you. “You’re welcome back anytime.”

You gave her a nod, offering a respectful smile despite the subtle weight of judgment that always seemed to hang around Emma.

She wasn’t cruel, not like the others in town, but she was set in her ways—rigid in her moral code.

You appreciated her decency, even if it was accompanied by a thin veil of disapproval.

Earskell leaned back in his chair, grinning as he turned toward Arvin to nudge him. “Why don’t you walk her out boy? Least you can do, seein’ as how she graced us with her presence.”

Arvin flushed at the suggestion, his hands immediately coming out of his pockets as he looked between you and his uncle.

“Uh... sure,” he muttered, the nervousness thick in his voice.

He rose from his seat and awkwardly motion for you to follow him to the door. The walk was short, but every step seemed to stretch out painfully for Arvin.

He could feel your presence next to him, the  faint scent of cigarette smoke and wildflowers clinging to the air.

It was intoxicating, and he cursed the way his skin tingled when your arm brushed lightly against his.

At the door, you turned to face him, your expression softening just a little.

The usual teasing glint in your eyes was still there, but something else had crept—something more intimate, more dangerous.

“Happy birthday,” you say quietly, your voice softer now, as if you didn’t want the rest of the house to hear.

Before he could respond you reach into your bag and pull out a small card, pressing it into his hand.

Your fingers brushed his as you passed it over, the contact sending a jolt through his body.

He stared down at the card, blinking as his mind scrambled to catch up. “What’s this?”

“Just a little somethin’ for later,” you murmured, your eyes locking with his for a heartbeat too long. “Don’t forget to read it.”

Giving him one last smile, you turn and walk out into the fading evening light.

Arvin stood frozen at the door, watching as you disappeared down the dirt road. He could still feel the ghost of your touch on his skin, the weight of the card heavy in his hand.

His heart was pounding, the familiar pull of temptation gnawing at the edges of his resolve.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he glanced down at the card.

His name was written across the front in your neat handwriting. And when he flipped it over, his breath caught in his throat:

Meet me at the abandoned barn by the cornfield.

His mind raced, the invitation clear—undeniable. His heart thudded in his chest, and a small voice in the back of his mind reminded him of all the reasons he shouldn’t go.

All the reasons this was dangerous, reckless. His fingers tightened around the card, and for a brief moment he wondered what the hell he was doing.

But he knew, deep down, that he’d be there.

.*.·:·.☽✧✧☾.·:·.*

The moon hung high in the night sky, casting a silver-blue glow over the fields.

Arvin could hear the sound of his own heartbeat echoing in his ears as he made his way down the narrow dirt path toward the barn, the folded card tucked tightly into his jacket pocket.

He’d read it at least a dozen times since you handed it to him, each glance sparking a new wave of heat that crawled up his spine. 

He should’ve stayed home. He knew that. He’d spent the last few hours after dinner sitting on the porch, wrestling with himself.

When he reached the barn door he stopped just outside.

His grandmother’s warnings about temptation played on repeat in his mind, endless sermons about purity and righteousness and the consequences that came to those who strayed.

It wasn’t just her voice he heard; it was the town’s, too—the collective judgment of the people he’d known his whole life.

They wouldn’t hesitate to condemn him, to call him a fool for even thinking about following you here.

Because no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop thinking about you

The way you’d looked at him when you handed him the card, the softness in your voice when you wished him a happy birthday.

The memory of it made his heart race and he hated how much he wanted more of that feeling. More of you.

His fingers nervously twitched at his sides as he took a breath, steeling himself before finally stepping inside.

You were already there, waiting for him.

[onedingo]

Helinho Justiceiro, the guy who killed more than 60 people when he was around 17/19 years old

a report from Portugal about the brazilian serial killer. Hélio's speeches are in brazilian portuguese

At the end of the 1990s, in the northeast of Brazil, a region that has always faced the greatest social and economic difficulties, a great wave of violence marked the region, where the first local peripheries were formed. In these peripheries, poverty was extreme, and crimes such as robbery, murder, rape, theft and embezzlement were rife.

This was the situation in Camaragibe, a city just 15 kilometers from Recife, the capital of the state of Pernambuco, in northeastern Brazil. As a response to crime, since the state did nothing because the region was ignored by the federal government, several extermination groups emerged, which were factions of vigilantes who went after these criminals and "favelados" to kill them. And it was in this environment that Hélio José Muniz Filho, also known as Helinho, was living. He was born in 1977 and lived in one of these peripheries.

Hélio was a normal boy. He had no schooling, having studied up to the 5th grade of elementary school. He had worked in various jobs, such as security guard, mechanic, among other simple jobs. He had no involvement with drugs or crime and drank very little alcohol. According to him, when he was at home, he lived all "morgado" which means bored. So he spent most of his time away from home working, always at honest jobs.

In 1994, Hélio's outlook on life changed abruptly. He saw his brother-in-law murdered with 10 shots during a robbery, when thieves tried to steal the man's bicycle. This revolted him. He decided to leave the church he attended, moved away from his family and made a decision: "To kill greasy souls" (as he put it). He said, during his interrogations and interviews, that he only valued one type of criminal: bank robbers. According to them, only bank robbers were "good", because they stole from those who had money and from those who stole from the people. Apart from that, he showed great contempt, disgust and loathing for thieves and criminals who committed crimes against the people.

With his outlook on life now very clear, Helio decided to mix with other like-minded people, young people who were tired of being victims and seeing people being victimized by "rascal" thugs (in their words). So Helinho formed the group "The Avengers", where he became the leader. He knew the names of everyone he killed by heart, because they were all criminals.

According to him: "Fun for me only exists when I kill. I do charity for the population. After I murdered someone, I felt like drinking, playing and jumping"

In 1998, Helinho's mother began to find her son's behavior strange: he would leave the house and come back late, laugh at everything and even talk to himself. She decided to have him committed. During this period, Hélio's reputation was already spreading throughout the city, but he denied having committed any crimes and wanted to maintain a good appearance. He was admitted to a psychiatric hospital, but left shortly afterwards, denying having any psychological problems or emotional distress. In 1997 alone, Hélio had already killed more than 40 people, all bandits, "with a stamped license", as he put it. Hélio became a kind of local court. People no longer went to the police, they went to Hélio, and told him who had robbed them, or done other crimes, and he would track them down, go after them and kill them.

He preferred to shoot people in the head, but often the shot would hit them in the back while they were trying to escape. So most of his victims died with two shots: one in the back and one in the head. Hélio always went with a friend from his group, who liked to be there with the criminal, because they were all vigilantes.

Thinking back to the death of his brother-in-law, Helinho decided to go after the person who had killed him, because now he had the fame and power he needed to kill whoever he wanted.

So he went after a drug dealer who was involved and, narrated by himself, he said:

"I told him to ask God for forgiveness for the crime. When he started to pray, I shot him in the head"

Gradually, the criminal began to show another face: he started to execute drug dealers with several shots, in the middle of the street and in broad daylight. He prevented anyone from going to help, and just stood there watching his victim die little by little.

The only one of his victims who wasn't officially a thief or criminal was 13-year-old Fabiana. According to Hélio, in an interview, she was dating a drug dealer (of legal age) and she was telling everyone that Hélio was exterminating bandits, Fabiana said that the drug dealers wanted his (Hélio's) head and that they were going to finish him off. According to the boy, he replied that before he went, she (Fabiana) would go first.

Helinho went so far as to kill five people at once, as a kind of spree-killer. There are two versions of the story of Helinho's arrest. The first is that he murdered a thug who was a friend of a policeman and was involved with the corrupt police, and the other story is that the police stopped him driving an undocumented car and identified him as the criminal and he was arrested.

Helinho was sentenced and tried for 44 murders. He remembered the names of only 46 victims, but he claims to have killed 65. He said he had no regrets, and that if he could he would do it all over again. Legally, they only presented the name of Fabiana and another victim called Luiz Gonzaga. He went to prison and said: "In prison, my life is summed up in three options: they're going to kill me, I'm going to kill people, or I'm going to commit suicide. I'm thinking of suicide because there's no point in being around bandits with nothing to defend myself, if I'm going to die by the hands of others, I'd rather it be by my own hands"

Hélio was convicted and was serving his sentence when he was murdered by three other prisoners who were carrying a box cutter and stabbed him in the neck and arm.

[inkmonster21]

Falling in Faith

Series Masterlist

Gideon Gemstone x Fem!Reader

Warnings: swearing

2. A Beautiful Angel

The weeks had flown by, each one filled with structure, routine, and stability. Six months had passed since you and your little sister Avery had joined your grandparents under one roof. Your lives have undergone a remarkable transformation. Every Sunday and Wednesday without fail, you and Avery found yourselves going to church, your faith growing stronger with each passing service.

Your grandmother's voice echoed throughout the room, her words tinged with both excitement and a hint of pleading. "Oh, just come to our service, please?" Her words hung in the air, her hopeful gaze fixed on you, silently imploring for your presence.

You couldn't help but express your skepticism, your brow furrowing slightly as you questioned her request. "You want me to skip my Young Leaders in Christ service, which is attended by 20 year olds, and sit through your apparently 'boring' sermon with Grandpa snoring like a baby?" You quipped, a hint of playful teasing in your voice.

Your grandmother's chuckle echoed through the air, her eyes sparkling with a mixture of amusement and affection. "Oh, come on now," she teased, a playful tone lacing her words. "Why wouldn't you want to experience the unparalleled boredom of our midweek service, surrounded by us old folks instead of those lively young ones in your service? Who knows? You might just get something out of it."

You rolled your eyes playfully, unable to fully suppress a smile as you responded with equally playful sarcasm. "Oh, yes, because nothing sounds more appealing than dozing off to the sound of an old man's sermons while surrounded by a snoring Grandpap," you quipped, a hint of teasing in your tone.

Your grandmother let out a playful huff and her tone took on a gentle pleading edge, her eyes filling with hope and excitement. "Just come, I think you'd enjoy it, please," she implored, the words carrying a mix of genuine desire and a hint of persistence.

You hesitated for a moment before finally giving in, your voice tinged with a mix of resignation and curiosity. "Alright, alright," you relented, a blend of skepticism and curiosity lingering in your tone. "I'll come to your Blue Sea service."

Your grandmother's face lit up with joy, a radiant smile spreading across her face. Her voice brimmed with genuine gratitude as she exclaimed, "Oh, thank you!"

With a mixture of resignation and curiosity, you made your way up the stairs. The journey ahead seemed both long and intriguing. It was time to prepare for the midweek service.

Grandpa shook his head, his expression carrying a dose of skepticism. His low, gravelly voice filled the air as he spoke, "She'll get bored out of her mind. That service is for us old folks."

Grandma responded with a soft smile and a glimmer of optimism in her eyes. "I think she'll be surprised," she replied, her voice carrying a hint of playful mischief.

As you entered the church, following your grandparents, you were suddenly stopped by your little sister, Avery. She held onto your arm, her eyes shining with excitement. "I want you to meet my new friend!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with anticipation.

You couldn't resist rolling your eyes, sighing playfully as you looked at your grandparents. "I'll meet you there," you relented, resigned to your little sister's request.

Your grandmother pointed a finger at you, her eyes narrowing playfully. "You better not miss it."

You couldn't help but scoff, a mixture of feigned impatience and slight amusement. "I'm not going to miss it," you assured her, your tone tinged with playful defiance.

Your little sister, Avery, could barely contain her excitement as she tugged you down to the youth group area. Giggles escaped her lips, betraying her impatience to introduce you to her new friend.

Gideon takes a deep, steady breath and begins his lecture. "Good evening, everyone. Welcome to today's midweek service," he says, his voice commanding attention. "I want to talk about the power of gratitude." He continues, "As we navigate the complexities and challenges of life, it’s easy to neglect the blessings in our midst. We forget to be thankful for our love, family, and faith. Let me ask all of you something. When was the last time you thanked God for a-“

You pushed the door open, trying to be as quiet as possible, but the stupid door decided to squeak loudly in protest, making your efforts feel comical. Your eyes met Gideon's, his light blue gaze locking onto you. Suddenly, he froze in place, seemingly caught off guard by your unexpected appearance.

In an instant, Gideon’s voice breaks the silence, uttering a soft word in awe, “For a… beautiful…Angel…” His tone carries a mix of admiration and surprise, his gaze still fixed on your presence.

The room falls still for a moment, your presence having a noticeable impact as if everything came to a momentary halt. The silence fills the air, punctuated only by the gentle sounds of people shifting in their seats and the faint sound of hushed whispers, wondering what had caught Gideon's attention.

You quickly regain your composure, realizing how your unexpected entry had momentarily interrupted the flow of the service. With widened eyes, you make your way to your seat next to your grandparents, mumbling an apology as you settle in.

The silence persists for a moment longer as Gideon regains his composure, his gaze following your path to your seat. A mix of surprise and curiosity lingered in his eyes. After a brief pause, he composes himself and resumes his sermon, though a hint of distraction remains evident in his expression.

You sat in your seat, attempting to pay attention to Gideon's sermon. Despite the distraction caused by your entrance, you do your best to focus on his words, trying to absorb the message being delivered.

Throughout the service, Gideon's gaze intermittently lingered in your direction, his attention seeming to be drawn to you. Every time he glanced in your direction, a subtle distraction momentarily broke his focus, creating a visible tension in the room.

Your gaze locked with Gideon's for a brief moment, and a small smile curled at the corner of your lips. Gideon's train of thought faltered as he stumbled over his words when he noticed your smile. "and we as, uh..." he began, momentarily thrown off by your unexpected presence. He cleared his throat, attempting to regain his composure, but the sight of your smile seemed to linger in his thoughts, distracting him from his sermon.

Eli, with his sharp observation skills, couldn't help but notice the young preacher's preoccupation. With a knowing smirk, he turned to Jesse, nodding subtly towards you sitting next to your grandparents. "Seems like the boy has found himself a distraction," he remarked, his gaze flickering towards you with a tinge of amusement in his eyes.

Jesse, his disapproval evident in his expression, shook his head in incredulity. He directed his gaze towards his father, his words dripping with skepticism. "God, Dad. That's disgusting," he muttered, his tone laced with disbelief. "You think my son would go for a blue-haired puss?"

Eli rolled his eyes at Jesse's clueless remark, his patience wearing thin. "No, for heaven's sake, Jesse," he replied with a hint of irritation in his voice. "I'm referring to the young girl who's sitting with Bonnie and Johnny." Jesse squinted his eyes with curiosity, seeking confirmation. "The one in the white sweater?" he inquired.

You caught onto the whispers, sensing movement behind you, and couldn't help but turn around. There, you found Jesse Gemstone, the preacher himself, pointing directly at you. Eli, swiftly realizing the potential indiscretion, swiftly intervened by swatting his son's hand away to prevent any unwanted attention.

You offered a gentle and gracious smile, acknowledging the brief exchange before redirecting your focus back to the sermon.

As the service concluded, a sense of anticipation filled the air. People began to stand, and murmured conversations filled the room. Gideon, still preoccupied with the sight of you, appeared a bit distracted, his thoughts lingering on the impact you had made on him.

Gideon couldn't help but reflect on his earlier encounter with you, particularly the moment when his words slipped out uncontrollably, calling you “Beautiful Angel” out loud. He cringed inwardly, feeling embarrassed by the accidental slip-up. Fucking dumbass.

Gideon watched closely as you busied yourself packing up your belongings - your purse, Bible, notepad, and highlighter - a small smile tugging at his lips. His gaze remained fixed on your every movement, each task you performed capturing his attention.

As Gideon prepared to make his way towards you, a particularly determined church member demanded his attention which, somewhat reluctantly, shifted his focus away from you.

Your gaze locked with Gideon's once more, your heart skipping a beat in response. A sweet smile played at the corners of your lips, accompanied by a delightful blush that warmed your cheeks. The mere sight of him sent a wave of excitement coursing through you, and you found yourself acknowledging his striking attractiveness, unable to deny the effect he had on you.

Your grandmother leaned in, her eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief, and whispered, "Looks like someone's got an admirer." The playful undertone in her voice was unmistakable, as she teased you about the apparent affection Gideon was showering upon you.

You blushed, a delicate pink tinge coloring your cheeks, and softly responded, "Stop, Grandma."

She chuckled lightly, finding amusement in the way the preacher's eyes seemed glued to you before commenting, "Oh, look at that. He isn't taking his eyes off of you, you should go over and say hi."

You couldn't help but scoff at your grandmother's attempt to play matchmaker. With determination, you asserted, "Oh, absolutely not. I'm going downstairs to pick up Avery from youth group. I'll meet you two at the car."

Gideon's gaze trailed you as you left the room, curiosity etched upon his face. His mind was filled with a multitude of questions about you, wonderment stirring within him. He pondered over your identity and why he hadn't noticed your presence before today.

Gideon's gaze shifted towards your grandparents, who were familiar figures within the church community. He couldn't help but connect the dots, his curiosity piqued as he noted their longstanding dedication to the church's community. This realization served to further fuel his intrigue, as he pondered the significance of your connection to them and the sense of belonging you seemed to possess.

As the room began to empty, Gideon remained behind with his father and grandfather, the atmosphere shifting. His grandfather was the first to break the silence, offering a gentle critique of the sermon. "Your delivery was a bit more refined this time, more confident," he commented, "but you seemed a bit distracted when that girl walked in."

Gideon nodded in acknowledgment of his grandfather's astute observation, a contemplative expression on his face. "Yeah," he confirmed before pausing, his thoughts swirling with memories of your surprise entrance and the impact it had on him. "I'm used to seeing a sea of white hair," he added with a hint of humor.

Jesse couldn't help but join in the banter, a smirk playing on his lips as he added his two cents. "You stumbled over your words like a fool," he teased, "got all flustered, boi. 'Beautiful...Angel.' It's like you've never seen a woman before."

Gideon shot a quick glare at his dad, his annoyance evident in his expression. "Of course, I've seen a woman before, Dad," he countered, his voice tinged with a mix of irritation and defense. "She was just... different," he admitted, his tone growing softer.

Eli, the wise voice among the Gemstone family, stepped in to diffuse the tension. "She's a pretty young woman," he stated calmly. "I can see why you'd be distracted, Gideon," he added gently, hoping to bring some rationality to the conversation.

Jesse let out a scoff, his disgust evident on his face. "Ew, Daddy," he exclaimed, shaking his head in exaggerated distaste, “don’t be a pedo,” Jesse couldn't help but smirk at his son, "Can't be fawning over my son's crush," he taunted, his voice dripping with sarcastic amusement.

Gideon shot another annoyed glance at Jesse, his irritation mounting with each playful jab. "I do not have a crush," he asserted firmly, trying to justify his distraction. "I was just surprised to see someone so young in this service."

Jesse chuckled in disbelief, a skeptical smirk playing on his lips. "Yeah, okay, " he retorted sarcastically. He reveled in the knowledge that he had managed to strike a nerve with his comments, enjoying the sight of his son's defensive demeanor.

Gideon sighed in frustration, exasperated by his dad's relentless ribbing. He decided to extricate himself from the conversation, walking away in a bid to distance himself from his father's teasing remarks.

Gideon’s heart raced every time he thought of you. He was hoping he would see you again, wondering if you would be attending Sunday service. He wanted to introduce himself if he saw you, to get to know you. But he was also nervous. What if you weren't interested? What if he made a fool of himself in front of you?

You couldn't help but smile at Avery, "Stay still," you chide playfully, gently straightening her sweater.

However, Avery grumbles in response, tugging at the sweater to loosen it, her expression a mixture of irritation and discomfort, “stop.”

"You stop, this looks funky." You tug softly at the sweater, your fingers adjusting the fit with a light touch.

Avery huffs, and crosses her arms with a grumpy expression. “Why do I even have to wear this?"

You respond matter-of-factly, your tone laced with a hint of certainty, "Because it's pretty." The firmness in your voice effectively ends the budding argument, leaving no room for further protest.

Avery rolls her eyes, but deep down she secretly likes it. She runs her hand over the soft fabric of the sweater. “I guess it is kind of pretty," she admits grudgingly.

Your grandmother smiles warmly as she walks with you, your grandfather leading the way to the front seats. As you enter the huge sanctuary, you can feel the excitement in the air. Families have already settled in their seats, chatting quietly amongst themselves. You take your seats in the infectious atmosphere.

Gideon, who's been sitting in the front row with his family, has been trying to subtly look at you without being obvious. But as you take your seat, his gaze locks on you. His heart flutters in his chest as he tries to keep his expression neutral.

Amber, notices her son's distracted gaze and follows his line of sight. She sees you sitting with Bonnie and Johnny, her eyes narrowing slightly. She pokes his shoulder, whispering to him, “Who's that you're looking at?"

Gideon's breath catches in his throat as he sees you smile at him. Your smile is like a bolt of lightning, striking him straight in the heart. He looks away abruptly, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment, “no one.”

As the service progresses, both of you keep stealing glances at each other. It's like a magnetic force, drawing your eyes to one another no matter how hard you try to focus on the sermon. Every time you catch his gaze, your heart flutters and you look away, unable to maintain eye contact for long. But then, curiosity gets the better of you and you look back again, only to find his eyes still on you.

As the service concluded, Amber couldn't contain herself and approached Bonnie and Johnny with a wide smile, brimming with curiosity.

Gideon noticed where his mother was headed and groaned in response, resigned to the inevitable impending interaction.

Bonnie's face lit up with a warm smile as she greeted Amber. "Hello, Amber! How are you?" she inquired with genuine interest, her voice filled with kindness.

Amber warmly reciprocates the greeting, her smile bright and genuine. "Oh, I'm doing fine, thank you. It's great to see you." Her gaze then shifted to you and your younger sister, her curiosity piqued. She inquired with a hint of intrigue, her voice filled with genuine interest, "Who are these young ladies with you? Are they family?"

“Oh, yes, these are my two granddaughters." Your grandmother places a gentle hand on your shoulder, her smile radiating warmth. She looks over at you and your little sister, introducing you with pride, "This is (y/n), and this is little Avery."

You offer your hand to Amber, a gracious smile on your lips. "It is a pleasure to meet you as well, Mrs. Gemstone," you say warmly.

Amber's response is warm and familiar as she shakes your hand, her smile growing even wider. "It's a pleasure to meet you too, sweetheart. You can call me Amber." She then turns her attention to your little sister, her gaze softening, and she says, "I wasn't aware that you had grandchildren."

Bonnie sighs, her expression turning a bit sad, “Yes, things haven't been easy lately,” She glances at you and Avery, before turning back to Amber. "A lot has changed, but I'm grateful to have my granddaughters with me now."

Amber nods, sensing the sensitive subject. She looks at you and Avery, a hint of curiosity in her eyes. "They both seem lovely." Her gaze shifts to Gideon, who stands nearby, trying to pretend he's not eavesdropping. He averts his gaze as his mother looks over at him, pretending to be engrossed in a nearby conversation.

Amber smiles warmly, her eyes sparkling with a touch of humor, "Well, lunch won't wait for us forever. Remember, if there's ever anything you need or any way we can help, please don't hesitate to ask."

Bonnie smiles, grateful for the offer, “Thank you, Amber. That means a lot. We'll keep that in mind."

She looks over at you and Avery, a soft smile on her face. "We better get going as well. But it was lovely talking with you."

You smile warmly, your expression filled with genuine sincerity. "It was nice meeting you, Amber," you reply, your tone carrying a touch of cordiality.

Amber smiles warmly back at you, simply impressed, “It was lovely meeting you too, sweetheart."

Amber saunters back to her eldest son, a smirk playing at the corners of her lips. Her comment hangs in the air, tinged with a hint of mischief, "She's cute."

Gideon's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He knew what his mom was implying, "Mom...don't."

Amber chuckles, enjoying her son's discomfort, "Oh, come on, honey. Don't pretend you weren't staring at her the whole service."

Gideon sputters, his face turning even more red, "I wasn't "staring" at her. I was...just...looking in her general direction."

Pontius scoffed, “You were eye fucking her. It was fucking creepy.”

Gideon's face turned even redder if that was possible. He shot a glaring look at his younger brother, "I was not "eye-fucking" her! I was just... appreciating her... features."

Pontius scoffs, “fuckin’ creep.”

Gideon grumbles, sending his younger brother a glare, “You have no room to talk about being a creep."

You sat quietly in the back seat, gaze fixed out the window as your grandfather navigated the roads. Your mind wandered, replaying the events of the service in your mind. Images of his smile, the gleam of his eyes, and his irresistible presence filled your thoughts. You couldn't help but recall the way he kept stealing glances at you throughout the sermon. The memory of his gaze lingered in your memory.

Your grandma glances at you through the rearview mirror, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. She notices the hint of a smile playing on your lips, and her smile widens as she asks teasingly, "What's got you so smiley, dear?"

You snapped back to reality, looking up at your grandmother, “Hm? Oh, nothing, Grandma."

Your grandma chuckled softly, a playful glint in her eyes. "It was so kind of Amber to speak to us considering how busy she is these days," she agreed, a teasing lilt in her voice.

You hummed in agreement, trying to appear nonchalant, "Yeah, she seems nice." Despite your best efforts to appear indifferent, it was becoming increasingly difficult to hide the fact that your thoughts were preoccupied with Gideon's captivating presence.

Bonnie added a gentle reminder, her voice carrying a hint of familiar affection, "She's Gideon's mother" Her words hung in the air momentarily, carrying a weight of familiarity and significance.

You nod, acknowledging the confirmation, the information about Gideon's role as a preacher not slipping past your attention. "He's the one who preached on Wednesday, right?" you confirm, your curiosity piqued.

Bonnie nods in affirmation, a subtle smirk playing at the corners of her lips. "Yes, he is," she confirms, her gaze fixed warmly on you, seemingly anticipating your reaction.

Under the knowing gaze of your grandmother, you attempted to play it cool, but the quickening of your heart betrayed any false nonchalance. Softly, you responded, "He seems... nice, too."

Bonnie chuckled, the smirk never leaving her face. "Nice? That’s the word you're going with?"

You shrugged, trying to keep your composure. "Okay fine. How about, pretty nice,” You tried to act casual but a tint of pink on your cheeks gave you away.

With a glint of mischief, Avery couldn't resist seizing the opportunity to tease you. She leaned in and whispered playfully, "Looks like someone's got a crush."

You scoff, your cheeks growing warm as you insist, "Oh my god! No!" Your denial is quick and vehement, but deep down, you can't deny the tiny flutter in your chest at the thought of Gideon.

Avery couldn't help but grin, thoroughly relishing the opportunity to tease you. She retorted with a knowing smirk, her words tinged with playful banter, "Oh, come on, you were totally checking him out during service."

You retort defensively, your voice laced with a mix of defiance and slight embarrassment, "He was checking me out! There's a difference!" A hint of blush tints your cheeks as you attempt to downplay the moment, hoping to divert the conversation away from your undeniable attraction to Gideon

Avery laughed, not believing your little denial: "You were staring at each other the whole time. I bet you can’t even tell me what the sermon was about."

You sputtered, trying to come up with an answer, but she was right, you could only focus on him. "I, uh—"

Avery's smirk widened, clearly amused at your inability to come up with an answer. Bonnie chuckled softly from the front seat, enjoying the playful banter.

Your grandfather suddenly piped up from the front seat, his voice cutting through your embarrassed state. "Ah, young love. It reminds me of your grandma and me when we were first courting. Fuckin like rabbits!”

You let out a loud gasp of disgust, your voice filled with shock, "GRANDPA! WHAT THE FUCK?" Your face twisted into a horrified expression as the explicit image of your grandparents' intimate adventures invaded your mind.

[leftoversludge]

the thing about mickey 17 is that it isn't just another great capitalism metaphor by bong joon ho, it also deals heavily in the guilt that comes with merely existing at the mercy of a corrupt system, having no other option but to participate, basically holding all of its people hostage and trapped with no where else to go, no way to get out unless you have money, and all the people in this ship are here to escape hell already, so it's from one shitstorm to another, and yet it's us, the people who go on living day to day just trying to survive who feel all the guilt about our government when we most clearly have NO SAY in what is going on or how anything is being dealt with, we are at the mercy of these godless warlords galavanting around as if they give a shit about the people's interest, merely using religion as a scapegoat and a manipulation tactic. it's absolutely disgusting. mickey 17 is able to get away with these subtleties especially bc of the blantantly obvious callouts that people just disregard all the rest as meaningless plot just there to support the goddamn trump impression that people are getting all hung up on. he clearly wasn't just trump, either, and the church leader wasn't just elon, these are caricatures that have existed throughout all of history because everything just repeats itself bc no one takes the time to watch one goddamn crash course video on the great depression, and here we are doomed to recycle the same bullshit over and over again. bong joon ho, save us.

[girlactionfigure]

 THURSDAY HERO: Glagolev Family

It is undeniable that the role of Ukraine in the Holocaust was shameful. Almost a million Jews were killed by Ukrainian Nazi collaborators, most of them shot and dumped into mass graves, many while still alive. Because of this ugly history, and at a time when the Ukraine itself is under threat, it is crucial to remember those Ukrainians who did the right thing, even at great risk to themselves.

Alexei Glagolev was a Ukrainian Orthodox priest who practiced his Christian faith despite severe persecution from the Soviet communists. Together with his wife Tatiana and their children, Alexei hid Jews during World War II, a heroic act that almost cost the Glagolevs their own lives.

Born in Kiev in 1901, Alexei was raised in a devout Eastern Orthodox home. His father Alexander was a priest and professor at Kiev Theological Academy and known to be an ally to Jews at a time of rampant antisemitism. Alexei, a stand-out student in high school, enrolled in the Theological Academy in 1919, and studied there until 1923, even after it was shut down by the Bolsheviks and the students had to study in secret. Alexei married Tatiana Bulashevich, the daughter of a sugar plant owner, in 1926. They had three children, Magdalina, Nikolei and Maria.

In 1932 the Glagolevs’ world was rocked when Alexei was arrested by the communists for “anti-revolutionary acts.” He was freed after a week in custody, but was designated a “cult leader” and deprived of civil liberties. With his professional options severely curtailed due to his status as leader of a cult (the Soviets considered all religions to be cults), he labored as a construction worker and security guard. From 1936 to 1940 he studied Physics and Mathematics at the Kiev Pedagogy Institute, while secretly running an underground church. After the war in Eastern Europe began, Alexei was ordained as a priest and served in the Pokrov Church in Kiev.

In October, 1941, Alexei’s sister-in-law asked him to help her brother’s Jewish wife, Izabella Mirkina, who was in imminent danger of being murdered by the Nazis. Without hesitation, Alexei and Tatiana determined to do whatever they could to help persecuted Jews, despite caring for their own three children in difficult wartime conditions. Tatiana gave Izabella her own identity card and baptism certificate. In his memoirs, Father Alexei wrote, “My wife almost paid with her own life for her reckless action. The Gestapo was going from flat to flat asking for papers, and when they found out that Tatiana didn’t have a passport, they were going to arrest her. Very few people returned to their homes after such arrests. We begged and managed to persuade them to leave her alone after a few witnesses confirmed her identity.”

Even with Tatiana’s papers Izabella was unable to escape and returned to the Glagolevs in desperate need of a place to hide. Alexei later said, “Tormented, we searched for a way to save her. What kind of Christians would we be if we refused this poor woman, who was reaching out to us and pleading for help?” The Glagolevs welcomed Izabella and her daughter Irina into their own modest home. When other desperate Jews approached for help, Alexei gave them fake baptism certificates and hid them in his church, even though hiding Jews was a capital crime punishable by execution. The Glagolev children also helped care for the Jews and keep them safe and fed.

In 1943 Alexei moved out of his home and into the hospital at Pokrov Monastery, where he lived beside the Jews he was helping. This was very risky because the Germans had forbidden Ukrainians to live in that part of Kiev. He and his son Nikolei were arrested in fall of that year and deported to Germany, where Alexei was brutally beaten by the Nazis. Somehow they managed to escape and returned to Ukraine after the liberation from Germany in 1944. In 1945, Alexei wrote a letter to Nikita Khrushchev, Secretary of the Ukraine, about the Jews he had saved.

Alexei continued working as a priest in the Pokrov church until it closed in 1960. He worked in several other churches despite increasing ill health caused by his brutal treatment while imprisoned by the Nazis. Alexei died in 1972. Journalist Sergei Kokurin wrote in an article about Alexei, “It is hard to understand to an average man the determination with which Glagolev went against the tide. In 1936 this fragile-looking intellectual publicly carried the cross taken off the Church of Nikola the Kind, and despite threats from the communists kept it in his flat. He was the only priest in Kiev who refused in April 1942 to hold a church service to celebrate Hitler’s birthday.”

Alexei, Tatiana and their children were recognized as Righteous Among the Nations by Israeli Holocaust Museum Yad Vashem in 1991. In January 2002, to commemorate the 100th anniversary of Alexei Glagolev’s birth, a memorial plaque to him and his brave father Alexander was erected on the wall of the National University of Kiev.

For their heroic actions saving Jews, and for practicing their faith in defiance of Soviet persecution, we honor the Glagolev family as this week’s Thursday Heroes.

[the-owl-tree]

Everything seems to be connected to this Wolf. Who are they?

Wolfchase (She/Her) was a former warrior of TempestClan, born to Stoutsnarl and Oatwhisker, she had a tumultuous upbringing after Oatwhisker fled TempestClan and was raised by her abusive father. She was a closeted trans she-cat, something that was further wielded against her during her upbringing in the nursery. She eventually began to find her path when she was apprenticed to Threadfur (They/Them), an older cat who had once secretly been part of an old insurgent group that the Saints had managed to dismantle.

Wolfpaw grew up in an interesting time for TempestClan, who were experiencing a rare "apprentice boom". She made easy friends with a lot of the apprentices around her, including those her age - Harepaw and Silverpaw - as well as those were older and taking on their Warrior names - Blizzardstrike, Skuadive, and Houndfoot. Managing to form a close clique with them, helping her withstand the isolation she faced from the wider Clan and her own father. Things really changed when she managed to gain her Warrior name and met Sheepfall, the two hitting it off when Sheepfall was not so nicely not given permission to leave. While Sheepfall was bitter and anger, Wolfchase had gained a new passion with the guidance from her mentor and she had managed to give Sheepfall something she thought she had lost forever: hope.

Sheepfall's arrangement to Cariboucall was heart-breaking to Wolfchase, and she pushed to begin conspiring her own revolution with the help of her friends. They made their attack during a meeting...and were subdued after a tense fight, with Wolfchase being captured after being identified as their ring leader.

I like the idea that during this she pretends to "turn" on her friends, trying to make it seem like she'd manipulated them. she singles out sheepfall especially to try and protect her, making herself look like the bad guy to pull some sympathy for sheepy.

Stripped of her name and her rank, she is referred to as just Wolf, marking her as a rogue, as lesser. Imprisoned and awaiting execution, the cats who had followed her got together and made a plan. Big ol' public execution in the abandoned Church, she's roughed up a bit before the Saint clamps down on her throat. Messy on the details here, but Blizzardstrike is the one who managed to knock the Saint off with Wolf's group of rebels managing to race out of the camp and escape with her...except for Sheepfall.

All of Wolf's followers take on similar names. If she's a rogue, then they're rogues with her. It's a sign of rejecting TempestClan altogether, a way to bond them. They travel a long ways away, struggling with the weather until they find a cave they settle down in. Wolf and Sheepfall eventually meet up again, with Sheepfall staying in the Clan as a spy, something Wolf initially protests before eventually having to agree.

While initially small, her rebellion grows in size as more and more cats begin to defect and she's able to provide more stable security and guidance to them...before eventually, they make their attack.

Other fun Wolf trivia:

Wolf is infectiously dramatic and compelling in her ability to inspire, she is someone who can keep her audience locked on her during her speeches.

She has a soft spot for kittens, absolutely loves playing kit sitter for the cats who come to her rebellion with their litters.

Mentioned before but she's polyam! She's in a relationship with Silver, Hare, Blizzard, and Sheepfall.

Her relationship with each of them vary, Silver and Hare are together while Blizzard and Sheepfall are only in a relationship with her.

Blizzard and Sheepfall kill her dad during the first attack, out of view. Sheepfall isolates him and Blizzard takes the fucker out for good. She doesn't find out they did that until further along.

Wants to get to know all of Sheepfall's kits but by the end of it...one's dead, one's run off, and one is banished from the Clan. She and Stormrunner do hit it off, though it's more of a mentor/apprentice thing (which Wolf is cool with).

I think it's hard for her to reconcile that same warmness for Blightspirit when he approaches them. He was responsible for quite a bit of damage and even though he's Sheepfall's son, the damage is done.

She doesn't take on a -star suffix when TempestClan is destroyed. Not sure what I want to rename them to, but definitely something that isn't a Clan. She wants to scrub that entirely.

I figure her first appearance as a leader of a new Clan immediately sends the other Clans into Hostile Panic Mode, which has to carefully navigate. Hits it off with Dawnstar and Sandstar and manages to impress Swiftstar with how she navigates gathering politics.

[her-satanic-wiles]

Dawn Chorus - I

Dracopia x Fallen Angel!Reader

When you question the Almighty for a third time, you find yourself on the run and escaping a horde of wrathful angels ready to punish you for your insolence. Whose garden should you fall into than Cardinal Copia’s? And he has more nefarious plans for you.

Masterlist ⛧ Commissioned by anonymous ⛧ Series Masterlist

Words: 6.5k.

Reading Time: 26 min.

Warnings: attempted execution, blood, detailed aftermath of war, detailed deaths of children, detailed grief, detailed pain, mentions of sexual abuse within the church, mentions of rape, torture, violence

Taglist: @da-rulah @teenage-birt-dag @akayuki56 @dopey-fandom-girl @ravensbars @copiaspet622 @onlyhereforghost @ultrahalloweengirl @ad-astra-per-aspera-1976

Author’s note: This part of the story contains the origins of the Zionist argument, claiming that the land of Palestine belongs to Jewish people by will of God. I have written this section of the chapter as close to the Christian Bible as possible in an attempt to avoid Zionist ideology or propaganda - and I want to make one thing abundantly clear: this is a pro-Palestine blog. I will always and forever stand with the people of Palestine, and do my utmost to use my platform to promote the liberation of the Palestinians under Israeli apartheid. Zionism and Zionists have no place at my table. Please continue to boycott companies, platforms and people who send aid and support to the colonial state of Israel. Thank you.

🔞 MDNI 🔞

As this fic is quite dark, I'm choosing to rate it 21+. Please respect my decision. Thank you.

Your heart was pounding in your chest, from the physical exertion or the panic rising in the pit of your stomach, you couldn’t quite tell. Your mind was a contradicting war zone, unsure of which team would win. On the one hand, your brain was buzzing with adrenaline, playing back every event which lead you to this moment: running for your life away from God’s chosen soldiers, avoiding your inevitable demise like a human billionaire and his taxes. You had shown yourself alternate scenarios in which this didn’t happen, in which you’d still be safe in the Humanities Department of Heaven, distributing angels to help God’s children and guide them to the Light. Or enjoying the presence of a fellow guardian angel at the proverbial water cooler. The other side of the battle was autopilot-mode, no thoughts, no feelings, just running to save yourself.

You had a fierce belief in your Leader - almost entirely unwavering and unquestioning. You were His daughter, mirrored in His image and devoted only to Him. You did His bidding as requested, journeyed to realms under His name, played the messenger when He had something important to say to His children. You were there when Gabriel delivered God’s message to the Virgin Mary, hovering in the background and keeping Mary safe from harm in order to protect the coming of Christ. You aided in escaping Peter from prison, making him invisible to the guards as you and some others guided him to freedom by the will of the Almighty.You believed in Him so strongly, that you didn’t need to question Him - because He was always right, and His plan was always just.

You saw how the people of Egypt suffered at the hands of your Lord, and personally watched as the souls of the firstborn children who were slaughtered by Him as an act of protest against Pharaoh and his tyrannic reign. You kept your mouth shut at the livestock, knowing that food could be replenished easily enough. You thought about saying something when you saw the innocence of Egypt battling against the boils that God had given them. By His grace, you could even turn a blind eye to the adult firstborns who were killed as collateral damage. But the children? Some as young as newborns, all the way up to twelve years old. Pure babies without an ounce of hate or sins in their hearts, who didn’t understand the difference between their heathenish beliefs and their Hebrew friends. Who had never whipped a slave, or ordered the execution of God’s children. Who never had the cognitive capacity to think of such a thing, because their brains hadn’t had the chance to learn, to change, to join in God’s favour.

You’d never forget the small boy you watched over in the seconds before he took his last breath, sleeping soundly in his bed after a long day of studying and games. He couldn’t have been older than six. The oldest child to a woman whose husband had passed on mere months before. To a woman who was hanging on by a fragile thread as it was. You watched the boy’s breath rise and fall steadily in his peaceful slumber, until his chest fell for the final time. You watched his soul rise from his body, confused for a moment - painfully unaware that his mortal life had ended. You saw the fear in his eyes when he looked at his lifeless body in his bed, and felt his frustration when his mother ignored his pleas for help, not understanding that she couldn’t see his soul. You observed as Horus came for the child, wrapping His arm around him and offering some comfort to his distress. Horus looked at you as you stood in the doorway of the bedroom, His avian eyes full of the darkest of emotions as He guided yet another soul to the underworld, to have their heart weighed and judged by the guardian at the gates. His loathing poured off of Him as He shot you that look, before disappearing into the night with the child. You didn’t kill the boy, but under the gaze of Horus, you felt as though you had.

Leaving the boy’s home, the streets were full of lost and confused souls, ranging in age and wealth but all sharing the same sorrow and fear. Among the devastation stood your doubts of the Almighty’s plan, and the question of why lingered on your lips even as you were summoned back to Heaven to give a report on the situation - on its success. You felt uncomfortable as you summarised what you saw to the archangel Michael, who looked triumphant in God’s success, knowing he had carried it out perfectly for Him. He thanked you for your hard work - and in that moment, you had never felt so disgusted with yourself.

Of course, your thoughts were never your own, and you were called in to meet with your superiors about your doubts. They seemed to be reasonable, and understanding, especially given that this was your first offense. They promised to set your mind at ease, and reminded you that you were merely a foot-soldier in the Great Plan. You didn’t need to worry, you just needed to do as you were asked. Then they kicked you out of the office with a bad taste in your mouth, and a sense of foreboding of the things to come. Surely His plan couldn’t get any worse?

Then Canaan happened.

After the Israelites escaped slavery in Egypt, they wandered in the wilderness for forty years, led by their leader, Moses. During this time, God promised them a land of their own, a fertile land called Canaan, where they could settle and prosper. When Moses died, a new leader named Joshua arose to lead the Israelites into Canaan. Before entering the land, Joshua received a command from God to conquer it. God promised to be with Joshua and the Israelites, assuring them of victory if they remained faithful. Under the pretext of divine sanction, and God’s name on their lips, the Israelites engaged in systematic warfare, besieging cities, slaughtering men, women, and children, and plundering their possessions. The conquest was marked by bloodshed, devastation, and the utter annihilation of indigenous populations. Then they burned the whole city and everything in it, but they put the silver and gold and the articles of bronze and iron into the treasury of the Lord’s house. Jericho fell to ruin, crumbling in ashes on the ground as fire engulfed the buildings and eating everything it could. You watched as they celebrated over the dead, drank themselves into a stupor in the ruined homes, covered in the blood of the innocent. They didn’t bother themselves to move the corpses until the celebrations were over, days after they declared victory.

Despite the humans being unable to see you, you were still a real being wandering the streets of Canaan, sobering at the sights before you. Your beautiful, white wings dragged on the floor as you walked, gathering the dirt and the blood at the tips of your feathers. God’s children had got the land that they were promised, but what was the cost? From the freeing of the Hebrews to the conquering of Canaan, all you could see were the bodies that had been left behind of the civilians caught up in the fight. Though the blood pooled in puddles no more than 3cm deep, it felt as though you were in it up to your neck. You looked at the conquerors in disgust, and with a rage you’d never felt before - especially when you realised that, for Joshua, peace was never an option worthy of consideration. You were suffocated by the sinners that surrounded you, the murderers and looters, the fornicators who lurked in dark alleyways to celebrate with any passerby willing or otherwise. You watched as indigenous stragglers were dealt with, some more humanely than others and you wondered: was this truly God’s will all along? Did He plan for such brutality? Did He allow Joshua to go as far as he did - and did He give Joshua the strength and the power to do so? Or did He look at His children in disgust and disappointment, ashamed of them for turning to sin and Satan so easily in a moment of pure happiness? Despite claiming to worship a God of love and justice, the Israelites demonstrated cruelty and brutality in their pursuit of land and power - and your faith wavered a second time when you realised that your worst fears were true: God really did give Joshua the power to do as he did, and He felt no remorse for it.

You were pulled into your superior’s office again, this time scolded with much less understanding than before. Gabriel and Michael looked at you with disdain, nothing but anger in their eyes and on their faces as you sat before them in the celestial white room, eyes aching from the brightness.

Gabriel, with his luminous wings unfurled, regarded you with a solemn gaze. “Again, ___? Hast thou not learned from thy previous lapse in faith? Our duty as angels is to serve unquestioningly, to uphold the divine order without falter.”

Michael, his expression stern and unwavering, spoke with commanding authority. “Indeed, ___, the Almighty’s will is not for us to question. It is our sacred duty to carry out His commands with unwavering devotion.”

You bowed your head, feeling the weight of their reproach heavy upon you. “I understand, my lords. But I cannot help but struggle with the suffering and turmoil wrought by our actions. Is it not within our power to seek mercy and compassion, even amidst the fulfilment of divine justice?”

Gabriel’s gaze softened, though his tone remained firm. “Our understanding is limited, ___. We cannot comprehend the intricacies of God’s divine plan. It is not for us to question His wisdom or to challenge His authority.”

Michael nodded in agreement. “Our loyalty to the Creator must remain steadfast, even in the face of uncertainty or doubt. We are His instruments, His messengers, and His will shall be done.”

You sighed, “But His will brings the destruction of cities and the deaths of children. His own children. It is difficult for me to truly follow Him when there is so much devastation.”

Gabriel’s brow furrowed slightly at your words, his expression a mix of compassion and admonition. “___,” he said gently, “we are but conduits of His divine will. Our mortal understanding pales in comparison to the grand tapestry of His design. Though we may not comprehend the reasons behind the trials and tribulations, we must trust in His wisdom and benevolence.”

Michael’s gaze remained steely, but a hint of empathy flickered in his eyes. “Indeed, ___,” he spoke firmly, “the path of righteousness is not always easy to tread. But it is our duty to carry out His commands, no matter the cost. Our faith must endure even in the face of adversity.”

You felt a pang of uncertainty gnaw at your celestial essence, torn between the call of duty and the ache of compassion. “But what of mercy?” you questioned, your voice tinged with desperation. “What of compassion for His creations, even in their moments of waywardness?”

Gabriel’s voice held a note of solemnity as he responded, “Mercy and justice are intertwined in the divine order, ___. Though His judgments may seem harsh, they are tempered by His boundless love. We must trust that His actions serve a higher purpose, even when they are beyond our comprehension.”

Michael’s voice continued in his firmness, his tone sharp and parental. “Let this be the last time we speak of this, ___. There will be consequences to thy actions the next time thou decidest to question the Almighty.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his words pressing down upon you like a leaden mantle. The gravity of his warning was unmistakable, a stark reminder of the consequences of defiance in the face of divine authority.

“Yes, my lord,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “I understand.”

As Gabriel contemplated the situation, a solemn expression settled upon his countenance. After a moment of contemplation, he spoke, his voice measured and grave. “___,” he began, his tone tinged with a sense of sorrow, “in light of thy transgression and the gravity of thy doubts, it is clear that a lesson must be learned.” He paused, as if searching for the right words to convey his thoughts. Then, with a decisive nod, he continued, “I propose thou be assigned a period of reflection and penance. During this time, thou wilt be tasked with assisting souls in need—those who have lost their way, who suffer in anguish, or who cry out for guidance.”

Gabriel’s suggestion carried the weight of solemn judgment, yet also held the promise of redemption. It was a punishment tempered with compassion, an opportunity for growth and renewal amidst the shadows of doubt.

“Thou wilt walk among mortals,” Gabriel concluded, his gaze unwavering, “bearing witness to their struggles and offering solace in the name of the Almighty. May this experience serve to strengthen thy faith and reaffirm thy devotion to His divine will.”

“Let her spend time in Canaan until her penance is served, as she holds so much sympathy for the dead sinners.” Michael suggested, a smug tone oozing from his voice. He almost lit up at the look of protest you shot him, wanting to argue but Gabriel raising a hand and stopping you from speaking.

“It is decided. Thou may only return to us here when thou no longer holdeth contempt for our Lord. Dost thou have anything thou wishest to say?”

You stood and spread your wings, stretching them out and flapping them sharply in frustration. “There are several things I should like to say.” You retorted fiercely. “I shall restrain the urge, however. The Almighty gave me a tongue to use and a brain to think, after all.”

“And thou would doest well to remember that.” Michael commented, the smirk fading from his face. “Go. Leave us, petulant child. Perform thy duties and know thy place.”

Your time in Canaan was dreary - especially given that you didn’t want to be there in the first place, surrounded by those who used His name to spread evil. But still, you guided His creations as you were told to do, their guardian spirit keeping them from harm and returning them to the Light when their own beliefs had wavered. You felt somewhat like a hypocrite, guiding the wayward souls back to their own beliefs when you, yourself, were questioning yours. And, if you were to be truthful, your faith never completely restored to how it was before Canaan was conquered. You still held even the smallest amount of contempt for the Almighty, and silently questioned everything He did, wondering if His plans would succeed in peace or be laced with blood. But eventually, Heaven forgave you and told you that you were welcome to return, and you did so as though it was the easiest choice you had ever made… because, well, it was.

But all of that lead you to your third strike.

It had been some time since you entered the Mortal Realm, choosing to spend your time in Heaven and directing other angels to their tasks. You hadn’t really paid much attention to God’s creations as a result, almost entirely out of the loop. Since your time in Canaan, according to your fellow angels, much had changed. Great churches were built and devoted to God, while wars waged in His name and His word spread to those who needed it the most. Yet, in those churches, you discovered corruption everywhere you looked. The righteous taking their power and using it to abuse others, in God’s very own home, watched by the Saints and Apostles as they committed the most disgusting of acts to the vulnerable and the needy, as though they condoned such behaviour. You saw people, of all ages, routinely touched against their will, forced into submission and shunned if they dared to say anything - blamed by God’s other children for a crime they didn’t commit, but were the victims of instead. You watched the cycle repeat, families torn apart, and all the while the situation was monitored and allowed. Perhaps, even, ordered by the Lord Himself. You couldn’t bear it - you couldn’t fathom that the Almighty who you’d followed blindly your entire life could hurt another being like that, when He often portrayed Himself to be a kind and benevolent soul, a loving father to those who loved him. You needed to know why. Why must he enact such cruelty on his own creations?

You stormed into Michael’s office, where he, Gabriel, and Raphael met, staring at you in disbelief that you’d have the audacity to do such a thing. “I wish to speak with the Lord.” You demanded, anger coursing through your veins like never before.

Raphael’s brows furrowed. “Directly?”

“Yes.”

He laughed in disbelief. “Child, not even we get a direct audience with the Almighty. Whatever could thou say to Him?”

Gabriel sighed, disappointment oozing from his celestial being. “Thy faith hath wavered yet again, hath it not?”

“Aye, I stand before thee once more, yet again with a heart heavy with doubt.”

Michael’s own anger was bubbling under the surface. “Speak, and let us hear thy grievance.”

“My lords, I cannot remain silent any longer. I have witnessed the depths of depravity within the Church, the desecration of innocence by those who claim to be servants of God.”

“Thy words are bold, ___,” Gabriel said, his tone remaining level. “What troubles thee so?”

Your anger surfaced and manifested as a raised voice and shaking limbs. “‘Tis the scourge of sexual abuse that plagues the holy sanctuaries. Innocent children, robbed of their purity by those who should protect them. How can a just and loving God allow such atrocities to persist within His own house?”

Raphael nodded, unfazed by the spectacle in front of him. “Thy anguish is understandable.” He found this more entertaining than impertinent, clearly unaware of your two strikes before. “Yet thou must remember that God’s ways are beyond our understanding.”

“How can we stand idly by while the innocent suffer? Are we not tasked with defending the weak and the vulnerable?”

Gabriel rested his forehead on his hand. “Thou dost speak with passion,” he was exasperated by you, “but thou must not forget thy place. God’s will is inscrutable, and we are but instruments of His divine plan. How many times must we remind thee?”

“I refuse to be silent any longer! I will not turn a blind eye to the suffering of the innocent, even if it means defying the will of my superiors.”

Michael slammed his fist on the white desk, standing from his seat behind it. “Thou dost tread dangerous ground. Thy defiance borders on heresy!”

You echoed his tone. “So be it! I would rather be branded a heretic than remain complicit in the face of such evil. This smells of the Devil, not of our Lord. I do not understand why He sits by and allows it to happen.”

Gabriel tried to keep the peace between all of you, but he was losing control of the situation quickly. “Thy faith hath faltered, and thy words ring with rebellion. Thou must reconsider thy stance before it is too late.”

“I cannot, in good conscience, remain silent any longer. If God truly exists, then He shall judge me for my actions. But I cannot stand by while His name is used to justify such abominations.”

“Then so be it, ___,” Michael resolved through gritted teeth. “If thou wilt not bend to the will of God, then thou must bear the consequences of thy defiance.”

“So be it.”

“Thou hast been found guilty of heresy and defiance against the will of God for the third time. As Archangel of Judgment, it falls upon me to administer thy punishment.”

“Thou may judge me, but know that my heart is true, and my intentions pure.”

“Thy intentions matter not. Thy actions have brought dishonour upon the celestial host, and thy defiance cannot go unpunished.”

Gabriel stood and walked over to his brother, placing a hand on his shoulder and speaking urgently into his ear. “Michael, perhaps we should consider a less severe punishment. Her heart may yet be turned back to the path of righteousness.”

Michael shook his head. “Nay, Gabriel. The time for leniency hath passed. Ariel’s repeated offences demand a swift and decisive response.” All the while, his wrathful gaze never left your face. “Thy fate is sealed. As Archangel of Judgment, I hereby decree that thou shalt be cast out from the celestial realm and condemned to the Abyss.”

Raphael’s eyes widened with shock, but he said nothing.

Gabriel shook his brother and with sadness, he said, “Michael, art thou certain this is the right course of action? Once the sentence is passed, there can be no turning back.”

Michael replied firmly, “It is done, Gabriel. Justice must be served, even if it breaks thy heart. Let the punishment be carried out.”

Knowing your fate was worse than death, your body reacted for you - even before your brain had decided the best course of action. You turned swiftly on your heels and made your escape, wings flapping and trying to gain enough speed to remove yourself from the Heavens. Your heart was pounding in your chest, from the physical exertion or the panic rising from the pit of your stomach, you couldn’t quite tell. Your mind was a contradicting war zone, unsure of which team would win. On the one hand, your brain was buzzing with adrenaline, playing back every event which lead you to this moment: running for your life away from God’s chosen soldiers, avoiding your inevitable demise.

The portal to the Mortal Realm was just in your grasp, so by only the adrenaline that you were running on, you forced yourself to speed up - making a mad dash for the open world in front of you. You could hear Michael’s calls to, “Close that gate! Do not let her through!”

Someone had listened and had begun closing the portal. The closer you got to it, the smaller the hole became, shrinking and shrinking until all you could see was the tiniest speck of blue peeking out. But you couldn’t let that deter you - if you were caught, your future would hold horrors beyond celestial comprehension. You made a dive, perhaps it was your madness that drove you to do it, the adrenaline, or even your desperation, but you dove nonetheless. Your whole body ripped through the closing portal, feeling the walls shut in on you and grip onto your body with a searing, hot pain you’d never experienced before. Escaping from the Heavens was never a kind task, otherwise more angels would have done it, but now you were caught in Earth’s atmosphere, the planet’s gravity pulling you down to its very core with all the force it could muster.

The warmth was the first thing you noticed, the friction caused by the air resistance generated intense heat, turning your body into a blazing inferno akin to a comet streaking across the sky. Your skin prickled and your hair stood on end as the flames licked at your body, consuming everything in their path. The feathers on the outside of your wings were flying off and burning up in the flames, turning to ash in the atmosphere and disappearing entirely. The rush of wind roared in your ears, drowning out all other sounds as you plummeted towards the ground. The air around you shimmered with heat, distorting your vision and adding to the surreal sensation of falling through space. Tears appeared in your eyes but you couldn’t tell if that was because of the pain you could feel or the wind biting against you.

Despite the intense heat and the overwhelming sense of impending doom, there was also a strange beauty to the experience. The fiery trail you left behind painted a mesmerizing picture against the night sky, a fleeting spectacle that few that resided on this planet would ever witness. The sight of the planet from so far above reminded you just how the Almighty had made it: some land, but mostly water. As you fell, you recalled the horrors of the deep, the mammals with sharp teeth and stomachs bigger than your entire body. In that moment, for the first time in a while, you prayed to Him. You begged Him over and over to guide your body to land. You were an angel, you were likely to survive the fall despite the pain you were about to endure, and your weakened state couldn’t handle a battle with a sea creature that only wanted you for lunch.

Hurtling towards the ground, the last thing you remembered thinking was, this is how hellfire must feel. And that was when the world went dark.

*

“Clearly … happened … Sister.”

As you slowly regained consciousness, you became painfully aware of the searing agony coursing through every inch of your body. With your eyes tightly shut, you focused on the sensation of pressure and discomfort, trying to piece together what had happened. Your limbs felt heavy and unresponsive, and sharp pains shot through you with every movement. It was as if your body had been battered and broken, the impact of the fall leaving you bruised and battered beyond recognition. All the bones inside were broken, the bridge of your wings included, and your head throbbed beyond belief, as though you had a thousand hammers raging war against your skull.

Despite the overwhelming pain, a sense of relief washed over you as you realized that you were still alive. The thought of having survived such a catastrophic event filled you with a mixture of gratitude and disbelief. Despite everything, He had heard your prayers and allowed you to touch ground - or perhaps this was the worst outcome… perhaps He wished for your pain as penance for your disobedience. Regardless, you would heal and be well, and then you could begin to live with the mortals and hide from Michael and his wrath. You were safe here… you were sure of it.

“… working … heard … looking … angel …”

The voice was registering with you now that you were regaining your cognitive abilities after the crash. Your brain was working over time to translate his words, though, leaving you slightly confused as this was phrasing you’d not heard before. You muttered something, your words coming out in Hebrew and silencing the man.

“What … ?” He asked, speaking some more but the rest of his words sounding fuzzy.

You tried again in Hebrew, but when that proved unyielding, you switched to Arabic.

“… know …?”

With great effort, you forced your eyes open, blinking away tears. Taking in your surroundings, you saw that you were lying amidst a pile of rubble, surrounded by the charred remnants of your fiery descent. You sat up a little, beholding the scene around you that was surreal and unsettling. The ground beneath you was scorched and blackened, a stark contrast to the surrounding, luscious, green landscape. The crater itself was a testament to the sheer force of your impact, a deep indentation in the Earth’s surface that stretched out before you in an almost perfect circle. The air was thick with the acrid smell of smoke and charred debris, making it difficult to breathe. The heat radiating from the ground beneath you was intense, searing your skin and making you sweat profusely despite the chill of the night air.

Looking around, you could see the devastation wrought by your fall. Trees lay shattered and splintered, their branches twisted and blackened by the flames. Rocks and debris littered the ground, scattered in all directions by the force of the impact. On the edge of the crater, the man you heard stood, staring at you in disbelief.

He wore robes; a symphony of rich, deep crimson, a colour that seemed to capture the essence of devotion and authority. Crafted from the finest silk, the fabric cascaded in graceful folds, accentuating the dignified stature of the wearer. Each stitch, meticulously placed, whispered of skilled hands that had laboured to create a garment befitting its esteemed purpose.

The robe’s skirt, adorned with intricate gold and black embroidery, depicted sacred symbols and religious motifs that told tales of faith and tradition - resembling the cross that Yeshua died upon, but placed upside-down. The golden threads shimmered in the ambient light, casting a subtle glow that highlighted the reverence with which the garment had been crafted.

A matching red sash, elegantly tied across the man’s chubby waist hid the many buttons that ran the length of the garment. Its edges, crisply pressed and perfectly straight to show his precision and need to look as clean as possible.

The man’s sleeves, were straight, yet too long for him, as was the rest of his attire. As tidy as these lines were, as much care went into keeping it pristine, it was far too big for him like it had been handed to him from someone else that used to wear it perfectly. The cuffs ended midway down his palms, which, themselves, were hidden beneath leather, black gloves.

One hand was up to his ear, holding something to it and speaking in a tongue you couldn’t understand. Your eyes travelled over his face, his white skin dimmed by the light of the moon, but mismatched eyes shining brightly beneath black paint around his eyes. One was the colour of ice, the other was the colour of the trees. You’d never seen such a thing before in all of God’s creations. A moustache of mouse-brown sat above his top lip, which also had been painted black. As he spoke, you looked at his teeth, perfectly white but canines sharper than most mortal’s dental structures. You had heard of such a thing - rumours spreading amongst the Israelites as they told each other stories in the dark of the night - abominations so foul they ate people, consuming the blood from their bodies and ending their lives in a moment’s notice, hiding in the shadows of the night as the sun would kill them. You’d reported back to Gabriel, who’d confirmed these abominations were the work of Lucifer, an archangel who had fallen many eons ago and had renamed himself to Satan. Your eyes had fallen upon a vampyre, and as your eyes roamed over the rest of his body, you saw your halo clutched in his left hand, pressed between his fingers firmly as though you may make a grab for it at any moment.

You made an attempt to back away from the monster, but the bones in your body were still healing - taking longer now that your halo was in the hands of another and not atop your head as it ought to have been. You took in your surroundings a little more, brain power restoring to maximum as you realised he must be of the ancient Romans, the very same people who had killed Yeshua.

“I pray thee, do not harm me,” you said, your tongue switching to Latin. This got the man to stop again and look at you.

“You’ve hurt yourself enough without me getting involved, haven’t you, Angel?” he asked, responding in Latin back to you. His tone was unsettling, confident and dark. The glint in his eyes mimicked this. “… Latin.” The switch in language made you realise he wasn’t talking to you, but an invisible person in your midst.

“What tongue dost thou speak?”

“You’re a servant of the Betrayer and you don’t know my language?” he laughed, then spoke again to the invisible one. His hand moved from his ear and you saw light coming from his hand - expecting pain from Hell, you flinched. When the pain didn’t come, you heard him again. “It’s just a phone,” he explained, making a mockery of you. “I thought everyone up there knew what was going on down here.”

You sighed, “I have not visited in a while.”

“Oh really? When was the last time you were down here, then?”

“I am not compelled to divulge aught to thee, foul creature!” your voice was laced with disdain as you looked at him, fangs exposed as he grinned at you. He took a step towards the crater, and you tried to move back, howling in pain as you did so and earning another laugh from him.

“Then I’m not compelled to help you get your bearings.”

You stopped for a moment and thought - more knowledge would be useful at this stage. And keeping him talking would buy you some healing time and strengthen to get your halo then run again. “I beheld the passing of Yeshua - and that was mine ultimate moment in this earthly realm.”

The vampyre hissed at Yeshua’s name, almost as if he was in pain just hearing the name of the Holy Son. He straightened himself up and then took a seat on the edge of the crater. “That was two-thousand years ago, Angel. A lot’s changed since then.”

“What other tongue didst thou employ just now?”

“It’s called English. A mixture of Latin, Greek and German.”

A Germanic influence - you wondered why you were only picking up the Latin words at first. You were only prepared with the languages spoke around the time of Yeshua, meaning anything new that had been developed since was completely lost to your ears. Now that you knew the main languages, you commanded, “Speaketh once more in the English tongue.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” He replied, but he did so in English.

“I comprehend thy words now. I give thee thanks.”

He scoffed. “That was fast.”

“‘Tis a… gift… from the Almighty.”

He looked at you in disgust.

You felt your body had healed enough for the pain to mostly subside, allowing you to fight your way to your feet. Your wings were still shattered, however, making you feel like a broken bird, vulnerable and weak in the eyes of her prey. The vampyre was preying on you, after all. “I express gratitude for the knowledge shared, yet I must make haste on my journey. I shall reclaim my halo and depart henceforth.” You held out your hand, silently praying that he’d be courteous and return your halo to you.

He looked at your hand and then at you. “Yeah, I don’t think so.” He stood from his seat and took a step towards you, watching you flinch as you stepped back. “The son of the Dark One has an angel in his grasp - what makes you think you’re going anywhere, hm?” He was moving towards you at an alarming rate, rendering your body useless against his speed. He gripped hold of your arm, tightly trapping you beneath his gloved fingers. You struggled against him, pulling back as hard as you could but failing, your body still not strong enough. “The way you fell makes me think you came here without permission, right? Which means, we have a lot to talk about.”

“Release me.”

“Or what?”

“I shall slay thee.”

He simply laughed, before turning to a person who was walking towards you, emerging from the darkness. She was a woman, visibly older than the vampyre and a little chunkier, too. She had long, blonde hair and looked more human than monster, though, you came to quickly realise she was a monster like him, and when she spoke, she did so in English. “The Unholy Father blessed us with a gift tonight,” she commented through a smile.

“What do we do with her now, Sister?” the vampyre asked, English rolling off his tongue easier than the Latin he spoke to you in.

The woman entered the crater and grabbed hold of your chin, looking at your body in one, fell swoop before making her decision. “Take her to the basements and strap her up - we have a lot of questions to ask about her home, don’t we, little angel?”

“Unhand me!” you yelled, struggling against both of their grasps.

The woman gripped onto your wrists and tied a metal chain around them - the metal burned against your skin as you fought against her, the pain getting worse and worse until you were forced to still. “Forged with hellfire,” she explained, “you’re not getting out of that easily.”

The vampyre dragged you across the grass and into a building, smelling old and of incense. You could tell that the building techniques were similar to the Babylonian buildings, but with Roman Corinthian architecture thrown in. There were also elements to this structure that you hadn’t seen before, and was only paying attention to because you needed to escape.

The vampyre pulled you down some steps, travelling further and further below ground as though he were walking you to Hell, until you finally stopped at a door. The room he threw you into was cold and dark, and it smelled almost exclusively of damp. In the centre of the room was a table, propped up on wood and resembling a crucifix. You were strapped onto it, similarly to the Messiah, except your device was made exclusively of hellfire-forged metal, making your entire body tingle with pain. You fought against him all the while, trying your best to escape, but all your efforts proved to be in vain. Once the woman entered the room, the torture truly began.

They both asked you things, questions about Heaven and the Almighty’s plan that you couldn’t answer even if you wanted to. When they were met with answers they didn’t like, they would reopen wounds that had healed and damage your body in ways that were unimaginable once upon a time. Feathers were plucked from your wings to start with, following cuts to your skin, slaps, and then short bursts of hellfire that rose from the ground. But you remained silent throughout, save for your screams of agony.

Eventually, they grew tired, and as the vampyre left, he looked at you and smirked. “We all have eternity, Angel. You’ll be here for the rest of it if you don’t cooperate.” He winked at you. “See you tomorrow.”

The door to the room closed behind them, slamming shut with an echo that reverberated throughout your entire being. Your halo sat on the other side of the room, resting on a table and taunting you. You could hear it crying out for you and your body begging for it. If you wore it, you’d heal in no time and regain all of your strength. But just being in its presence meant it would take longer. You were never without your halo and your holy light, but you’d seen what had happened to angels who were. Fearing that this was to be your fate, you wondered if it would have served you better to be caught by Michael and thrown to the void. Or perhaps you should have just continued on in blind faith of the Almighty, doing His bidding despite your heart breaking each time.

Strapped to Hell’s crucifix, all you could do was think of all the regrets you had, and beg into the darkness that He would show you mercy and allow you to come home. Or die quickly.

Prev. ⛧ Next

[chaotic-creator]

Oooh boy, brace yourselves, folks. My take on what I would've done with Doctor Who. I'm gonna start from the origins of The Flux and go to The Reality War. This is a brief overview, imo on what I would've done and what may spiral into a full-fledged fanfiction. Here we go:

Flux isn't a lab created science experiment of Tecteun. Tecteun caused so much chaos and moments random chance with her Division work that it allowed one of The Gods of Chaos from The Underverse to slip through

The first to come through is Flux, a living wave of destructive, cosmic energy, and the God of Destruction. Flux rages and twists, laughs, and demolishes, ripping apart The Universe proper until it is stopped. Like how Toymaker is beaten through games and Maestro through music, Flux is defeated by destruction, given too much put in its path.

In a last act of defiance before, It is banished back to the outskirts of The Universe, Flux rips a small hole in the fabric of reality. And given a bit of time and power, this tear becomes a new doorway. Allowing Chronicle, The God of Stories to enter the prime Universe.

Chronicle immediately gets to work, warping reality around The Doctor to create her "perfect story" of chaos and questioning, repeating and mirroring previous "stories" of The Doctor. She starts this by forcing 13 to regenerate into "14" giving back an old face and then sends "14" on his way, changing probability with her writing to put "14" right by Donna Noble.

Everything from then on is the work of Chronicle. "14" casting salt at the edge of the Universe is Chronicle mixing chance, chaos, and superstition to unleash her son, The Toymaker on reality. She rewrites The Time Lords to make bigeneration a thing, forcing "14" to still exist and creating "15" at the same time, knowing 2 Doctors is twice the chaos and twice the opportunity to release the rest of her family

Chronicle knows "15" will need a new companion, so she sets herself up next to a "regular human" named Ruby Sunday. Chronicle writes herself into her own story as Mrs Flood, knowing Ruby is much more than she seems. Knowing the truth of her biological mother. Ruby is the daughter of The Trickster, a living trap that The Doctor can not resist.

"15" goes through a slightly different Season 14/1. His adventures with Ruby are like reality is looping on him. He has lived this before. The chaos of these stories. When he wore the leather jacket, he had those big ears and travelled with Rose Tyler. Chronicle makes the stories similar. Criminal families, an adventure during a war, a look at the far future. Though "15" recognises that the Cybermen replace the Daleks, he met with Rose. Though he acknowledges that he is having some differences, as more Gods of Chaos make their way through, including Maestro and Perjury, the God of Lies

Along these adventures, "15" and Ruby notice Susan Triad scattered throughout their adventures, and they keep having snow appear around Ruby. The Doctor reluctantly goes to UNIT to see if they can help. It's here that Sutekh is revealed, bragging how he is one of The Gods of Chaos thanks to The Doctor. He boasts that he is the leader of The Pantheon, and he reveals the truth he was told. Ruby is a demigod, a living trap used to lure The Doctor here to be defeated and allow The Pantheon to all escape The Outerverse

"15" defeats Sutekh and undoes his dust of death, Ruby decides to stay with The Doctor after the reveal that the woman who dropped her off at the church was nothing but a slave of The Trickster. She hugs Carla goodbye, acknowledging Carla as her real mum this whole time. And we roll into Season 15/2. Where "15" is worried again, because he hasn't got an answer for why his adventures with Ruby echoed 9's adventures with Rose.

Season 15/2 now parallels Series 2 with 10 and Rose. We still get Belinda, but it allows for the season to be similar but different. Bel's visual similarity to Mundy Flynn is simply Chronicle using the same face because she's a God and mortals are beneath her. She just uses whatever is easiest for her. Chronicle figures out how to cause the last burst of chaos she needs to bring the entire Pantheon through. Unleash Omega, who with his time trapped in the Underverse, has become The God of Time.

Chronicle knows that Omega wishes to undo time itself and reestablish his people, the Time Lords as Gods of The Universe. If he was free, he would do it. Chronicle warps the story again into a situation similar to Wish World (but through her power and not Conrad Clark using a baby cos fuck Conrad). She uses doubt to fuel her search for wherever Omega was scattered. Unfortunately, she never finds Omega. She instead drags up The Beast, aka Koruptora or Krop Tor. The God of Fears

Krop Tor wants to be the only God, as his fellow God, Lux Imperator, had his disciples chain Krop Tor up (throwing back to The Beast saying he was imprisoned by The Disciples of The Light as Lux is God of Light). Krop Tor is ravaging reality and causing total terror. "15", "14" and Chronicle have to work together to save both the regular reality and the rest of The Pantheon. Chronicle realises what must be done. She has to undo her story that led them all there. But she's woven herself too deep into the story to escape it. She would have to sacrifice her godhood, her memories, and her power. In a moment of redemption for one of The Gods, Chronicle does just that.

She becomes harmless, old Mrs Flood, and reality heaves and warps and resets. Krop Tor is banished. But things change. "15" has in repeating stories because of Chronicle, and now he is free of the stories. We reset back to before Chronicle started her story. 13 regenerates into Ncuti Gatwa's 14th Doctor. We get a fast-paced montage of the new reality. 14 and Ruby through Season 14, then 14, Ruby and Belinda in Season 15. No Chronicle. Just Sutekh and The Beast. Team TARDIS still remembers everything, though

Belinda leaves the TARDIS as she never wanted to be there anyway, much less just because of some crazy God. Ruby also leaves, deciding to keep an eye on Mrs Flood as they're related through Ruby's connection to The Trickster. 14 flies off in his TARDIS with two missions in mind. Find his granddaughter Susan and discover who this mysterious Boss is

And that, ladies, gentlemen, and enbies. That is how I would've handled from Flux's introduction to The Reality War. Apologies for how long this got. I just kinda kept writing

Tagging folks I've talked to about this potential fic/showed interest in other asks.

@crypt--creature @darksideofparis @emilythezeldafan @jaycecoded @obsessedanddepressed

[charmwasjess]

It’s curious to me to see fans (and more importantly creators) talk about Jedi critical views as partly sourced from their own damaging experiences with religious institutions. I’ve been thinking a lot about this since The Acolyte, and asking myself why, as a person with a dump truck load of reeking religious trauma in my history, I have such good associations with the idea of the Jedi - specifically with them as a faith-based institution. 

Note: These are my reflections based on my experiences with my specific religious community in a time and a place. This is not an attack on faith groups more broadly, nor an argument people are wrong for not liking or liking the Jedi based on their own religious experiences. I’m just sharing about my life. 

My trauma, specifically, so be nice to me.

Until the age of 17, I was raised in a corrupt, fundamentalist evangelical institution which controlled every aspect of my development: church, my social life, and my education. When I say corrupt, I’m not throwing words around lightly. I mean leaders in my community ended up being prosecuted and my “school” got ultimately shut down. 

I’ve found it often easier to be funny about this period of my life, to tell sarcastic stories about the ridiculousness of my schooling: the weekly literal 9 hours of Bible classes, or later, my college friends needing to teach me basics so I wouldn’t fail rudimentary science courses because “the Bible was our science textbook” for my entire education. Easier to laugh than to acknowledge the fact that for most of my life, I was stuck in an abusive, evil cult that attempted to ingrain misogyny, xenophobia, and homophobia, and taught me lies about basic history and science.

During that time, the prequel films came out. I got into Star Wars, particularly the Jedi stories. Okay, I was obsessed, with a kind of frenzied desperation. I saw the Jedi Order as the antithesis of my own toxic community rather than a reflection of it. While I was living in a repressive, rule-based culture that sought to control every smallest detail of my life and my choices didn’t matter, I saw the Jedi Order as a route of imaginary escapism, partially because of the strong contrast between the depiction of Jedi faith and my own community.

I remember needing to read a few forbidden secular books (aka classic literature) for my senior year literature college prep course. (The AP test was used by colleges, not controlled by my school, so it had things on it I wasn't allowed to read.) I was only allowed access to Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment because a school board member had gone through every copy the school had and used a sharpie to mark out any word, or in fact, any idea that she found personally problematic to the faith. I read that book like a blackout poem. 

The difference between that kind of suppression and control, and Palpatine’s sneering implication of the Jedi Order keeping secrets, “It’s not a story the Jedi would tell you,” felt like night and day. 

Even the Jedi concept of chosen celibacy felt quite different from the enforced abstinence which would end only when my sexual autonomy would be turned over to a future husband for his use. Such depictions of chosen celibacy (and later, asexuality, though thankfully I was out of the community by the time they got ahold of that one) were condemned as a perversion of God’s intended purpose for the body, no different from the dreaded homosexuality or masturbation.

And let me tell you, contrary to sympathizing with a fictional depiction of a like-mindedly-restrictive faith group, the leaders in my church really hated the concept of the Jedi. Partially, this was part of a larger rejection of fantasy media - the decade of hyperpopular Harry Potter saturation and a growing perception among my religious authorities that normalizing magic and witchcraft and other gods, and engaging with such genre of fiction would offend the jealous real-life higher power we served. Those of you who knew me back then can go back to my old teen account and see me lowercasing the word to “force” lest I offend the one true God.

But I mean the theology of it, too. It’s hard to overstate how popular and culturally present the prequel trilogies were when I was growing up. I absolutely sat through sermons that critically referenced Star Wars as anti-Christian and documented the differences. I was preteen and teenager in this era - youth messages were targeted around media that my age group consumed. Star Wars was everywhere: on cereal covers, on pizza boxes, on the back of Pepsi cans. 

I think another thing that’s sometimes forgotten is how political the prequel trilogies were at the time. Attack of the Clones came out on the onset of the Iraq War and the Patriot act - Palpatine’s assumption of emergency powers in a time of orchestrated “crisis” felt deeply relevant and deliberate. My community was right-wing conservative, the evangelical base that would evolve into the Christofacist Trump alt-right. For that reason, it was also anathema.

I think most importantly, when my access to secular peers was entirely restricted, I was able to make friends online who also loved the Jedi Order. That was such a strong antidote for both the ignorance about the world that I was deliberately taught, and the teenage loneliness that my church-school institution weaponized. None of that has anything to do with the depictions of Jedi faith as restrictive or not, but it feels significant. It was the love of a story that brought me community, when the other story that might’ve brought me community came with a barbed wire fence around my personal autonomy and very identity.* 

I hope I don’t sound like I’m attacking people who DO have a gut reaction against the Jedi because of religious trauma. (Or indeed people who are Christian - obviously my community was an incredibly fucked up outlier.) Really, we’re the same people, dealing with the same issues in different ways. I’ve healed a lot since I was a miserable thirteen year old taking solace in my Star Wars books and fanfics, but there are still some religious-affiliated things I just need to avoid - I don’t enjoy documentaries about church cults ala Under the Banner of Heaven, or stories like The Handmaids Tale. I don’t judge anyone for taking a look at a series centering around a religious order and needing to nope out of that part. 

But I do wish Star Wars creators weren’t working through their own issues by using the Jedi Order as their avatar for all religious institutional evil, because to some of us, it was, and remains, a very healing space for exactly that kind of damage.

*Ironically, my cluelessness about what being queer actually meant really shielded me from a lot of the homophobia. I wasn’t one of those "evil gays"; I just, unrelatedly, wanted to fuck girls as well as guys.

[lisablack000]

"The Gospel of Mary Magdalene is like a hidden cipher, a fragment of truth buried beneath centuries of silence. It paints a picture of a woman who wasn’t just a follower but a leader, entrusted with secrets Jesus shared with no one else. Reading it, you feel the tension—Peter’s jealousy, Andrew’s doubt, and Mary standing firm, recounting visions of the soul’s escape from the chains of this world. It’s a story that upends everything we’ve been told about the early church, hinting at a sacred feminine that was erased to consolidate power. This isn’t just a text; it’s a rebellion against the forces that tried to bury Mary’s legacy. You can almost hear her voice across the ages, demanding we uncover the divine spark she knew was within us all."

.

.

.

— Dan Brown - _Inspired Reflection, in the style of his novelistic approach in The Da Vinci Code.

[dishwashersafearm]

Take Me To Church REDUX: Biker! Bucky x Reader Fic Teaser

Before you read:

Yes, a few of you may remember this fic from a while back! I originally wrote this as a one shot request, which i ended up turning into a full fic.. or at least trying to, before i stupidly deleted my account.

This is a redux of that old fanfic. New characters, better writing. I'm posting a teaser mostly so I can put out some feelers for it and clear some potential discourse (if any lol)

And reminder, RECS ARE OPEN <3

A big thank you to @moongoddessmox for requesting this one shot all them years ago <3

-Peach

Pairing: Biker! Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Summary: Reader escapes from their abusive, criminal underworld boyfriend, and falls into the hands of one Bucky Barnes. Notable Biker Gang Leader who'd do anything to keep his club at the top. He swears he's seen her before.

Word count: N/A, this is a teaser

Warnings: Graphic violence, depictions of abuse, murder, strong language. Light smut to come. MinorsDNI

Genesis

''James Barnes is a force to be reckoned with.''

That's what followed him everywhere he went. Even as he did the most mundane things, like pump gas, or slip the out-of-town mortician a few crisp Franklins, the cupped whispers and cleared streets trailed behind him like the black smoke that now billowed out of his Harley Davidson.

''Fuck..'' Barnes muttered through clenched teeth, clawing his fingers over his sharp stubble. He turned and kicked the air in sheer annoyance, a hand rummaging around in his cut to find his phone.

It was an ancient thing; albeit had nothing wrong with it. This was just yet another phone that was bought to be thrown away after the job. A few dollars dropped that would pay for itself tenfold later down the line.

''Fuckin' thing.. c'mon..'' grunted the male, inconvenienced. Squinting at the phone, (he was never that adept with technology), and jamming his fingers onto the jelly like keypad, he lifted the phone to his ear with a deep sigh. A few rings.. A few more.. there.

''Bucky, where the hell are you man?'' A disembodied voice complained on the other side. ''You were supposed to be here an hour ago!''

''Yeah well it's not gonna work like that this time…'' Barnes grumbled, crunching down onto the raised tarmac. Hovering over from different angles with his tongue stuck between his teeth for a moment, he sucked in a sharp intake of air and conceded, one handedly slipping a straight in between his lips. After a few scraping turns of his trusty Zippo lighter and that all noticeable hiss, Bucky exhaled a cloud of smoke before finally speaking. ''…Alpine's engines gone bust. Started sputtering halfway down the street.''

''Well that's great. Y'know I told you to-''

''Yeah I know, Sam. But I didn't.''

A stretched groan was heard through the phone as Sam seemed to walk a few steps. ''Walker. With me. Bucky can't make it.'' Followed by an echoed collection of muttered complaints and grievances from what sounded not at all shockingly like Sergeant At Arms John Walker, Sam returned to the phone. ''You know Mr Zemo ain't gonna like this, right?''

The crackling of burning cigarette paper followed for a few seconds before the familiar crunching of the littered sidewalk under Bucky's boots.

''Yeah. I know.''

The bar stood decrepit, hazily lit under the flickering light of a broken streetlamp which wheezed out its last dying, fizzing breaths. Weeds of all shapes and sizes sprouted out of the cracks along the pavement, colouring them dotted shades of sickly green and dark basil. Glass and dirt crunched under your feet as you unsteadily scuffed along the pathway.

You definitely weren't going to stay there. It wasn't something you'd do in a million years, even with a gun to your head. Your past ache for sanctuary had immediately been forgotten when you had turned onto this glorified back alley, but your legs.. nay- your entire body, how it ached and throbbed with every step. You just wanted to sleep. Your head hurt, and a horrible mix of dirt and sweat, once slick, now stuck to your body uncomfortably as it saturated your skin.

But you had to go somewhere. You'd been saving up enough to leave a living nightmare for months, scrounging up every last penny of what was given to you as your 'allowance' every two weeks. Anything your boyfriend gave, you sold for as much as you could get. It's not as if he'd notice anyway. He was too busy screwing any woman he could get his hands on. That was his 'thing' now. He'd come home from whatever he was doing, whenever he saw fit, and with whoever he wanted, and you were just on the sideline. That was, of course, until he remembered you existed. It would either come to him like some 16th century religious premonition, or something would tick him off.. and when he was ticked off- he was something to fear.

It started off verbal. Name calling, insults, shouting sessions. When you had the confidence to argue back it would turn physical, and he wasn't one to hold back. At it's worst you'd be debilitated, left on the floor to sob whilst he'd go to drink and fuck his new girl. A few times you'd suffered broken bones, which you'd be left to deal with yourself, or until he felt you were worthy enough to be helped. At its best, it was a couple of bruises. For that, you were grateful.

The only upside to this nightmare was that you had never needed to work a day in your life when you were with him, the man having carved himself a life of luxury through crime and unspeakable violence. As bad as it sounded, you were shielded from that side of his life- your boyfriend wasn't one to mix business and pleasure like that. He never came home bloody, his shirts always ironed smooth and freshly starched. Weapons were deposited before entering the front door, and he'd never come home drunk. Most of the girls he bought home were peace offerings from whoever the other sickos he dealt with were.

So you left. Enough was enough. The sound of a chiming clock was all you had heard as you fisted a roll of notes into your pocket. That was all you took, all you needed. It had just turned midnight- hardly the safest time to escape an abusive relationship, but you knew that you had to get out now. Every instinct was fighting, clawing at the pit in your stomach to leave before it was too late, before he would return home and drag you back into this hellhole.

Taking mouse-like breaths in an attempt to save your lungs from more pain, you continued down the street. You weren't sure whether the smell was coming from you or the bar as you edged closer. It stank, like caked on mold or the way that a bar toilet smells in the early hours of a Sunday. An acrid, bleach under toned shit and piss stench attacked your nostrils; your nose wrinkling.

The swing of a staunch wooden set of doors alerted you to action. As the doors slammed open you could hear a raucous cacophony of voices, accompanied by what sounded like a brawl. Glass clinked and shattered simultaneously, chairs emulating that of nails on chalkboards; screeching across the floor. Without hesitation, you backed into an alley, shrouding yourself in darkness, watching with baited breath. At least you had a reason to stop and rest, no matter what caused it.

''I'll get it to you, man..'' You heard a guy slur, flicking his hand dismissively as he stumbled back. Following after him was two undescriptive figures. Seemingly unbothered by the blonds demands, the drunkard began to walk away, to which you caught a glimpse of the other two. One was rather scruffy looking, blonde hair tousled and unkept, his beard scraggly and uneven. The other was young.. too young. He looked just 17, his frame thin and lanky. He was wringing his hands together, a few steps behind the stockier man. ''Relax. You guys ask too much..''

''We ask too much?'' The other responded incredulously. He too was swaying, but seemed to be powered by something other than alcohol. The anger was taking over. Under the dim lighting, you could just make out his hand curling around something under his jacket, and your breath hitched in your throat, unable to avert your gaze. ''You're the one that owes us money, you junkie.' He spat, teeth bared. ''You've taken the fucking piss with it.''

''Can't we just let him go?'' The smaller figure interjected, voice wavering. You could tell, even from so far away, that he didn't want to be here. You knew the feeling. He seemed nervous, squirming and switching pressure between feet, antsy. ''We could always get him tomorrow, y'know?' This is looking a bit too Godfather for me..''

''Shut up, Parker.'' Hissed the man, voice poison. ''You've never seen that movie.'' You watched as he shot this 'Parker' a sour look, then grabbed the drunk man's shirt collar, whispered something to him, and then threw him to the floor. The man, looking as if he had the fear of God struck into him, scrambled to get up from all fours.

''F-Fuck you man.. you're sick..'' He stuttered, stumbling a little as he retreated. His features were contorted, you thought, whether that be by the swathe of bone chilling fear that had washed over his body, or by the harsh light that illuminated his picasso-esque features.

''Oh I'm sick?'' The scruffy blonde spoke. 'You sold everything you had to fund your disgusting drug habit.' He stepped forward with every sentence. 'Your car.' Step. 'Your house.' Another Step. 'Your family.'

Stung by his words, the unnamed addict turned, a wizened finger stretching out. A chewed stump of a nail pointing out at him. ''Aren't you the one who lost yours? Got left by your own wife?''

You watched as the other unearthed his hand from beneath his jacket without another word, and you saw the distinct shape of a Glock. His thumb grazed the back of it, flicking down and cocking the gun. ''Keep my families' name out of your fucking mouth.'' Gasping softly, you hid yourself behind the wall a little more, biting your tongue to ensure silence.

What the fuck had you just gotten yourself into?

Bang.

You heard a strangled cry, and the sound of a body hitting the floor with a grotesque, dry crunch. You squeezed your eyes shut, swallowing back the acidic vomit that rose in your throat.

Immediately, the man was gone. A Life snuffed out in seconds. You couldn't stop thinking about it.

''Get inside, kid.'' The blonde man spoke numbly a few seconds after, throwing his thumb behind him and toward the door. He shoved his choice of murder weapon back into his coat, eyes scanning the now quiet street with furrowed brows. You weren't sure what had happened, but you heard a quieting footfall and breathed a sigh of relief. You turned on your heel, looking into the darkness of the alley. It was either that you walked past a dead body on your way out- something you had seen before but would rather not see again- or walked unknowingly into the alley, not knowing where, or if, it would lead. Thank God, at least, there was some kind of cover in this place, no matter how it reeked. Heart pounding in your chest, you breathed shallowly, sinking down into a squat as the last echoes of the gunshot rang out loud and true.

Your racing thoughts were stopped abruptly by a rough hand grabbing onto your arm, spinning you around.

It was him. The blonde man from before. He reeked of alcohol, and a light smattering of blood coated his face and hair.

''Well.. Hey there sweetheart. I think you and I need to have a little chat.''