#fic: the prayer

[arrthurpendragon]

New (to AO3) Updates

Ch. 12 The Rain in Spain

Ch. 6 I Forgot to Remember to Forget

Ch. 10 The Tournament Begins

Again, these are just "new" to AO3. These chapters have all been on wattpad for a while. I just forget I was cross-posting! Oops! lol.

[ocappreciation]

ocappreciation + 2022 oc gift exchange ☃

↳ to: @arrthurpendragon → from: @oneirataxia-girl

[stervrucht]

“We need to defrost the freezer,” Steve tells Eddie when he walks out carrying a tub of ice cream.

Eddie sighs, head resting on his hands while he overlooks the empty shop. “I wish someone would defrost my will to live.”

Steve finds it funny. In a guilty snort sort of way, because Eddie’s jokes are kinda dark and he isn’t sure if he’s supposed to laugh. But yeah, working at Scoops is a drag at times, and Steve understands it at some level.

It escalates from there. 

Steve will tell Eddie they’re out of hazelnut ice cream, and Eddie will get a look on his face that doesn’t promise anything good.

“I’ll hazel your nuts.” Eddie cocks his head, staring at him in that ridiculous sailor uniform with mischief painted on his face.

“What the hell does that even mean?” 

Steve tries to pretend he’s weirded out, but when Eddie laughs at him like that, Steve can’t help but crack up as well. 

But that’s the normal stuff — because sometimes Eddie’s comments are hard to play off, and Steve doesn’t really know whether he’s joking at all.

“Morrison really fucked us over with the new schedule.” Steve frowns at the paper on the wall because they got like four evening shifts that week, including Friday and Saturday, and it’s messing with his dating life — even though that’s barely hanging on by a thread right now.

“I wish you’d fuck me over,” Eddie says as he cleans the glass display window with lazy motions.

It makes Steve stop in his tracks; makes his mouth run dry and his heart rate pick up. But Eddie just stares at him, same smile as always, waiting for Steve to shoot something back.

“Maybe I should.” The words are out before he knows it and Steve feels a little mortified by how much he meant it. When he looks over at Eddie, his lips are slightly parted, cheeks a little red, and the hand cleaning the window has stopped in its tracks.

Steve thinks that maybe Eddie meant his words as well.

[mead-iocre]

Now just imagine the looks on Leah and Alexia's faces when they realise that their girls are talking to each other and getting along like 'oh no, oh no, oh no'

The Leah noticing that spoiled!reader has moved Hermes for brat!reader and being all 'oh this is gonna be rough for us, she never does that? Do you know how often she does that?! I've had to sit somewhere else so her bag can be on a seat! We're doomed!' with Alexia becoming more scared with each word coming out of Leah's mouth

YES YES YESSSSS

leah would notice first because she's the type to periodically sneak glaces towards the stands to check on her sweet (non-football loving) gf.

she expected to find her busy on her phone or reading the latest issue of vogue, so imagine her surprise when she looks over to see her chatting with a woman wearing a barcelona shirt???

during a water break, she approaches mariona asking her if she recognises who the woman next to her gf is and mariona goes "oh that's alexia's girlfriend. she's cool" and leah's like she better be ffs. leah's a little overprotective about spoiled!reader okay, but she feels better knowing that it's not someone weird who snuck into the friends and family section. at first, leah thinks its a good thing. that maybe having more friends in the stands will make her girlfriend enjoy coming to football matches more.

leah goes over to alexia since the match hasn't resumed yet and points them out to the spaniard. and alexia's like "oh that's--what the fuck?!" and leah's like "crazy, huh. your girl must be really special since mine willingly moved her bag off the seat for her-- she never does that by the way. I've had to give up my own chair sometimes"

and alexia just raises an eyebrow at her, mentally thinking "shit. her girl seems like a handful". before looking back at the two still chatting animatedly, spoiled!reader's hands flying everywhere as she talks and brat!reader listening just as intently.

alexia goes "my girl is usually not one to make friends so easily..."

"why is that?"

and then they both speak at the same time, "cos she's crazy" "is she crazy?"

and then they have that moment of realisation and just kind of look at each other with wide eyes. they simultaneously look towards the stands at their lovers and then back at each other again as it dawns on them.

then the referee blows the whistle.

match resume.

[reveluvjay]

"He was shooting them buttery nuts all up in my mama" kay let's test if u can do that too but on me!

[marzipanthots]

Pet Laurent 🔥🔥✨✨😌

Adventures of Charles bonus 💕-

FAN FIC WRITERS OF CAPRI IF YOU CANNHEAR MY PRAYERS I BEG CAN I HAVE A AU/switch OF LAURENT BECOMING KING DAMIANOS PET!!! I NEED IT CARNALLY

as rabid and feral and naughty as possible !!!🔥🔥🔥 I find it interesting that this fandom has been around for almost a decade, but there’s less then 10 fics on AO3 about this AU. but understandable as there’s are just so many cool interesting ideas out there to explore with damen and Laurent world and supporting cast 💕🧎🏻‍♀️ BUT PLEASEE I NEED ITTT!! ILL DO ANYTHINGFF!!

I have one version of this AU idea where Laurent is a pet sent as a disguise he is really a spy to get more info of the rival kingdom as his cruel uncle send him to akielos to be torture used base of the rumors the new king damen obsession with blonds and is blood thirsty- in reality that’s Kastor, ) and of course damen is kind king but blind to his brother treachery. Laurent fall in love with damen as kastor want to own Laurent bc he hate his brother. Laurent help damen see the truth of kastor side . And they have endless nights of feral nocturnal activity together 😌😌🔥🔥🔥

I suck at writing but I will dream and hope one day🙏🏻🙏🏻😔😔🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

[fearandhatred]

the very first thing i did in 2024 was go insane aka i slept at 7am and among other things i drew these! they're unrefined and only two panels of a much larger thing i'm doing but since that'll not be done any time soon i thought i might as well post these first

panel 8 of panel 2

[happypeachsludgeflower]

Different first meeting au where Xie Lian became a shrine priest for the ghost king Hua Cheng in hopes that if Wu Ming somehow survived, he doesn’t think he did but he has hope okay??, he would be protected and cared for in ghost city. And Hua Cheng, who doesn’t take care of his own prayers and instead foists them off on Yin Yu because that would cut into his time to search for Xie Lian, doesn’t find out for centuries.

[lasagna-with-teeth]

Thinking about sitting next to a priest at dinner with others and running my hands along the inside of his thighs while he tries to get through saying grace.

[juustozzi]

demonic iruma? yes. very self-conscious demonic iruma? yessss.

[arrthurpendragon]

This is the start of a one-shot for @nixdragon. It contains an OC from The Prayer that will be introduced later. Her name is Jourdynne and she is paired with Gwaine.

With her lady preoccupied, Jourdynne took the time to wander about the forests of Camelot.  A bit of fresh air always seemed just the cure to whatever ailed her.  Not that she truly had much that ailed her.  The biggest thorn in her flesh wasn’t a what, but rather a who. And a rather large who at that.

There were times when Jourdynne missed her life in Gaeafel.  Things there had seemed much . . . simpler.  Her lot in life never in doubt.  Life in Camelot was much more . . . complicated.  She didn’t regret her position in Camelot.  In fact, she rather enjoyed life away from the sea principality.  Well, aside from that dratted thorn in her flesh.

Truth be told, Jourdynne wasn’t sure what to think of him.  Yes, it most certainly was a him.  A tall, handsome, brave, and witty him.  A him who seemed relentless in his desire to court her.  But it just wasn’t done.  A lowly ladies maid and a dashing knight? Unheard of.  But Gwaine just wouldn’t seem to accept her rejections.  Rather, it was as if he saw each rejection as a challenge.

Perhaps it would be best to simply let him believe she relented and then avoid him at all costs.  But Jourdynne had a sneaking suspicion that Princess Nerissa whole-heartedly approved of the match.  And therefore with the princesses approval, thus gained that of the prince.  Drat it all. 

So, lost in thought, Jourdynne nearly missed the sound of twigs snapping and leaves crunching in the distance.  From the pocket slit in her skirt, Jourdynne reached for the sgian-dubh strapped to her thigh.  It wasn’t usual for a woman to know how to handle weapons, but that was one way life in Gaeafel had differed from everywhere else.  Girls were trained to know how to defend themselves.  Jourdynne had many weapons hidden upon her person.

Jourdynne stopped for a moment and listened.  The snapping and crunching noises seemed to have stopped.  She narrowed her eyes and glanced around at her surroundings.  Twirling the sgian-dubh in one hand she shouted, “I’ll have you know I’m not afraid to defend myself.”

Silence. 

She rolled her eyes in annoyance. “You should also know that I’m Princess Nerissa’s ladies maid and should something happen to me, you’ll likely face Camelot’s wrath.”

Still more silence.  Jourdynne turned to look behind her only to find a rather tall figure draped in a red cloak standing directly behind her.  How hadn’t she heard their approach?  She glanced up to see who it was that had followed her.

Jourdynne rolled her eyes and gave the knight a shove with her weapon-free hand. “I could have killed you!” she hissed.

“You look rather pretty all riled up like that,” Gwaine teased her, hardly budging from her shove.

She glanced at him rather incredulously.

He continued. “I mean it.  You’re beautiful enough in your own right.  But seeing you like that . . .”

Jourdynne shoved him once more for good measure and to keep him from finishing his statement. “What do you think you’re doing sneaking up on me like that?”

Gwaine shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, but the grin on his face told her otherwise.

“You’re the most insufferable man of my acquaintance,” Jourdynne retorted, shaking her sgian-dubh at him, for it wouldn’t be proper to return the blade to its rightful place with him able to witness the event.

“An honor I shall wear proudly,” Gwaine responded with a slight bow.

Her eyes widened in horror. “It’s certainly not an honor, I assure you.”

“Is there another man more insufferable than myself?” Gwaine paused and then grinned at her when she didn’t respond.  “Seems not, so it is certainly a badge of honor.  For you have never bestowed such a grace upon me before.”  

He bowed once more and Jourdynne rolled her eyes at him before drew his sword from its scabbard while he was distracted.  Gwaine seemed to stiffen slightly before he stood upright to find Jourdynne directing his sword and her sgian-dubh in his direction.  He grinned once more.

“Do you truly have a death wish?” Jourdynne scoffed at him.

His wicked grin widened as he stepped toward her with his arms stretched wide. “I’d gladly allow you to be the death of me.  Although, there are much more pleasurable ways you could see to my demise.”

“There is something seriously wrong with you.”

“Aye,” he laughed, stopping just short of his blade that she wielded. “You.”

[imagineitdearies]

~ A Flawed Eternity ~

(AKA drabbles set in the Perfect Slaughter universe.) Thanks to my new author discord community for voting on this one! 🩵

In which Tyrus walks in on Astarion's 'alone time.'

~

Even though they’d cleared the tunnel under the river, secured the fishing hut and passage to sneak into the House of Healing, and had a half-reliable map of the Gauntlet of Shar, the war council had delayed an infiltration for almost a tenday merely arguing over who would go.

With the colder weather creeping in and battles stagnating into standoffs, Tyrus supposed they foolishly thought they had time.

Morfred wanted a larger group to ensure they had enough support. Jaheira said no more than three highly-skilled individuals, to give them better chances at stealth. Ganyl simply wanted to go, even though his entire enclave was against risking their leader, and it took two meetings just to talk him down. Halfred didn’t think the quiet assassination plan of Ketheric Thorm was a good idea in the first place. They all worried that Ketheric’s brother, Malus Thorm, could be too tight-lipped or ignorant of the Gauntlet’s secret entrance to be worth the risk of fighting first.

Astarion had given up on attendance for the last two meetings. But as designated ‘Leader of the Vampires,’ however underqualified Tyrus felt he was for such a role, he felt obligated to attend. Just so he’d have updates to give Astarion and the spawn army below, really. He and Astarion had come up with the idea of a quiet assassination to avoid further bloodshed, so they were already guaranteed a spot in the party if and when it was approved. Halsin was a tentative third in Ganyl’s place, though Jaheira wanted it to be herself who struck Ketheric’s killing blow.

Now Tyrus felt close to giving up himself. He left the meeting before its scheduled end when Jaheira and Halfred started a shouting match about the risks of trying Ketheric's son at the Waning Moon Tavern instead, and Messaged Ganyl to send word if a decision had finally been made. Then he crossed the road past the armory, over the short bridge and around the small, cheery fountain in front of their temporary abode of late, the Last Light Inn.

Tyrus let out a plaintive sigh of relief the moment he was through the doors and could shrug off the sapping weight of the Cloak of Dragomir, avoiding the occasional beam of sunlight until he reached the stairs and could head down to the basement floor. Most of the rooms were used for storage—but at the end, built around the low docks the inn now used to receive war supplies from the east, were a couple of suites that looked directly out over the Chionthar.

He hadn’t expected to find Astarion in their suite, really. His partner liked to socialize a lot more than Tyrus ever did. In their short time here, he’d already been chatting with some soldiers at the inn’s bar, meeting more often with Halsin, and playing enough lanceboard he now could beat Tyrus if he focused hard enough. Astarion was used to crowds, to strangers, while Tyrus still found himself seeking the safety of four walls and a single locked door.

As he reached the door, however, Tyrus thought that safety must have been an illusion as his ears picked up Astarion’s voice, loud and seemingly in distress.

“Ah!—ah, gods—Tyrus!”

Tyrus wrenched the door open in a panic, hurrying inside—

—and was confronted with the sight of Astarion in a bath, pale face flushed, eyes squeezed shut, steamy water sloshing around the fast pace of his wrist under the water as he tugged at his pink, erect cock.

Tyrus stared. Even as Astarion’s eyes wrenched open bleary and wide, his hand freezing in the water, Tyrus couldn’t stop looking. He’d seen Astarion’s cock before so many times—but in his defense, it’d been months. Only feeling the shape of it in Astarion’s trousers when their kissing progressed further, only seeing Astarion’s bare body offhandedly as they dressed. Now Tyrus could also admire how much more lively Astarion’s skin looked despite still being pale, how his half-submerged, muscled middle had softened into looking less malnourished and dehydrated thanks to a healthy diet.

After another second, Astarion relaxed a bit. He waved toward Tyrus with the hand that had a moment before held a death-grip on the wooden tub’s edge, smirking as he huffed, “Could you close that, love?”

Tyrus’s momentary shock at the man’s beauty faded, then, in time for his rational brain to kick in. “I can come back later—?” he started to offer.

“No—no, I . . .” Astarion interjected, only to hesitate. His eyes trailed away for a moment, uncertainty lining his face. 

Tyrus retreated back to the door. “I don’t want to interrupt,” he spoke in earnest, and smiled at Astarion when the other vampire tentatively met his gaze again. “Truly—I’d much rather you enjoy yourself, like you’ve been wanting to.”

“Not quite like how I’ve wanted to,” Astarion scoffed, though a moment later the lines on his face faded. “No, stay here, darling. If you’d like to. I’m only imagining you here anyhow.”

“That’s quite different,” Tyrus pointed out, though he went ahead and shut the door, locking it for good measure before turning back to Astarion.

“Is it? I was just thinking of you interrupting me like this,” Astarion smirked, gesturing at himself. The hand in the water wandered back between his legs and began to lightly stroke as he sighed, “Though in my head I skipped the part where a whole conversation would be necessary for you to join. Bring a stool?” he nodded at the floor just next to the tub.

Tyrus didn’t hesitate to obey. He grabbed a small cushioned one in front of the sheet-covered mirror and placed it so he could sit just next to the tub’s head. His stomach swooped at being this close to Astarion—at watching him stroke himself again, bare and exposed save for the flimsy distortion of the sudsy water.

He wanted to touch him. He wanted to help, or at least kiss Astarion. But he wouldn’t dare do a thing without checking, given how impossible it’d been for Astarion to be sexually intimate since Cazador’s death.

And Astarion was such a pretty sight just to watch, with his eyes shutting again and dark lashes on display, pink lips slightly parted. Meanwhile, his small breaths and huffs of pleasure as he built back into a rhythm sounded sweeter to Tyrus’s ears than any melody. Even the smell of him was delightful. That smoky, musky perfume he always had a slight hint of at the palace was now much more refined and strong thanks to their shopping in the city. It was already a feast for the senses, if not all of them.

But when Astarion’s other hand extended just a bit past the tub, palm up, Tyrus was quick to take it and enjoy a sense of touch as well. Astarion hummed and pulled their clasped hands down into the water, flattening Tyrus’s palm to rub against his inner thigh. Tyrus gratefully mimicked the movement, and next let Astarion’s hand overtop his guide him to gently handle Astarion’s ball sack, eventually taking over to stroke his erection in tight, quick motions Tyrus still remembered the rhythm of well. 

Astarion’s hand stayed cupped around his throughout it all, continually guiding and keeping control even as he sighed, “Tyrus . . . uh, I’ve missed these hands . . .”

“Would you like it if I did anything else?” Tyrus murmured, after another minute of nothing but stroking and listening to Astarion’s heavy breathing.

Astarion’s eyes shot open, head lifting to regard Tyrus with a furrowed brow. His hand slowed Tyrus’s to a stop. “Such as?”

Tyrus bit back the assertion of Anything, anything at all. Giving actual ideas would probably be more helpful, if Astarion didn’t have his own. “Kiss you. Your lips, your neck,” Tyrus started with. “Or . . . here,” smiling as his thumb idly swiped over the head of Astarion’s cock and his partner visibly shuddered in response. Letting his voice go a bit lower, as he pointed out, “I don’t need to breathe, after all.”

“Fuck,” Astarion swore, then gave a short, barking laugh. “This is what four months of celibacy has done to my sweet, virtuous partner? I didn’t think you even liked that sort of activity, darling.”

“I haven’t ever tried it, technically. At least not of my own accord, so,” Tyrus shrugged. 

The air went somber ever-so-slightly at his words. 

"Shall I?" Tyrus asked in hopes of dispelling it.

“Not this time, my love,” Astarion sighed, starting to move Tyrus’s hand again around him. “But . . . yes—kiss me, please. I think I just need a little bit more of something—”

Tyrus wasted no further time. They’d kissed goodbye only hours ago when he left for the council meeting, but it’d been more than a tenday since Astarion had kissed him like this. One of their first nights in this inn, in fact, before he’d grabbed one of Tyrus’s wandering hands by the wrist and ended things rather abruptly. But whatever else Tyrus did or did not feel in the mood for otherwise, he never got tired of kisses—Astarion’s free hand cupping his jaw close, lips so passionately pressing and sliding against Tyrus’s, tongue darting out to taste and in return welcoming him in.

His instinct was to bury his free hand in Astarion’s curls, but Tyrus gripped the tub’s edge instead. He didn’t want to risk the wrong touch ending this lovely, easy moment. Not when Astarion was so clearly enjoying his other hand’s touch at the moment, hips bucking up and splashing the water a bit more.

Sometime later, a small moan escaped Tyrus when Astarion slid his hand back to tightly cup the nape of his neck, angling Tyrus’s head for an even deeper, all-consuming kiss. Astarion’s hand tightened a bit further around Tyrus’s in the water, so he sped up his movements even more—and groaned with Astarion as the other elf wrenched free of their kiss and threw his head back, shouting “Tyrus!” shakily, his cock pulsing in Tyrus's grip, his spend streaking in the water as the press of his bent legs made the wooden tub slightly creak in protest.

Tyrus kissed down Astarion’s neck and bobbing adam’s apple, slowing his strokes with the guidance of Astarion’s hand as Astarion breathed harshly through the aftershocks. When at last Astarion released his grip on Tyrus in the water, head resting against the tub again, Tyrus went back to gently stroking his smooth inner thigh. He rested his forehead against the other man’s clavicle, listening to them both breathe for a moment before whispering, “Alright?”

Astarion huffed—and then he began laughing. A soft, lighthearted, warm sound Tyrus couldn’t help but smile at, and hoped never to forget as Astarion’s chest lightly shook underneath him. Then Astarion’s wet arm emerged from the water and wrapped around Tyrus, pulling him in just a bit closer despite the awkwardness of the tub between them.

“Oh, besides a sore wrist of late,” he chortled, laying his cheek against Tyrus’s head when his giggling finally stopped. “I did start to find some enjoyment, even managed an orgasm the last two times, though. And this? Hmm . . . this is nice.”

Tyrus smiled wider against his chest. Of course, after another minute his back twinged and he regretfully had to pull from Astarion’s embrace—but was grateful his partner quickly dried off and joined him on the bed, despite the fact only Tyrus still needed a trance.

Once they'd both changed and his lover was spooning him snugly from behind, Tyrus thought to ask, “Have there been other things you like to imagine? Any specifics that I should take into account?”

The entire line of Astarion’s body froze up behind him. “I . . . I wouldn’t say there’s much I’m sure about acting on, darling,” he said in a slow, careful voice. “It’s been hard enough just to imagine sex without the thought of a customer, or him, intruding. Once that’s less an issue, I—I should be back to normal.”

“Normal,” Tyrus huffed, shaking his head and hugging Astarion’s arm a little closer to his chest. Being around relatively ‘normal’ people of late had taught Tyrus just how far off he and anyone else from the spawn colony were likely ever to be from such an ideal. “But hand jobs with you guiding me, would you say that goes on the safe list?” he stipulated.

Astarion was quiet for a moment. Then he kissed the tip of Tyrus’s ear, repeating, “The safe list, what a sad state of affairs—but yes, I’d call that a success. We’ll have to see about your mouth. And perhaps, if you’re up for it, I think I'd enjoy some unconventional stimulation, just skin-to-skin.” A beat of silence, then Astarion’s voice came out so soft and uncertain, almost afraid, as he admitted, “I . . . I’d still like a break from anything so performative as full intercourse, if that’s alright . . . and, if you can forgive it, I may still just need time, before I can offer attentive service to you, love . . .”

Tyrus twisted under Astarion’s arm so he could face him—but only to wrap his arms tightly around him, tucking his chin into the crook of Astarion’s neck. Declaring, gently but firmly, “There’s nothing to forgive, and no service to worry about. You have always been so giving, love." Even more softly, he coaxed, "Now, let’s take care of you for a while?”

Tyrus felt his partner’s body shudder in his arms. Then, increment by increment, Astarion melted into the embrace.

“Gods, I do love you,” he whispered in answer.

[bruisedboys]

jj maybank being the clingiest most touchiest boyfriend known to man. he has to be touching you at all times or he’ll die. you’ll be talking to your friends and he’ll just stride over and stick his chin over your shoulder, his hand squeezing at the bump of your hip. you’re sitting in the back of the twinkie while he’s in the passenger seat, and he’ll reach over the back of the seat to hold your hand (cue pope & kie gagging). his all time favourite is sliding his hand into your back pocket while you’re walking — it’s slightly inconvenient and he has to be careful he doesn’t step on your feet with his massive boots, but it’s worth it to see you get flustered like that.

[arrthurpendragon]

That quote though . . . it’s perfect! haha. Thank yoU!

Merry Christmas, @arrthurpendragon 🎄🎁☃️🎅

{I only have my phone and whatever wifi my husband's phone has got to spare in the spotty Black Forest, but I know that the past year hasn't been the easiest for you and I wanted you to have a little something ❤️}

[footprintsinthesxnd]

On A Wing and a Prayer

Summary: It's July 1943, and the Second World War is raging across Europe and the Pacific. Ruth Morgan and Hope Armstrong are flight nurses with the 806th MAETS, stationed at Berkshire in England. When an unexpected reunion introduces some new faces into their lives, things will never be the same for the "Skytrain Girls."

MOTA collab: This is a collab between the very wonderful, talented, amazing Mads @major-mads and myself. We would love to introduce you to Hope and Ruth and the adventures they will share together along with the men from the 100th Bomb Group. Read more of Ruth’s story in ‘A Pair of Solver Wings’.

Flight Nurse Facts

Playlist

Moodboards + Gale and Hope

I have always had a fascination with the nurses of ww2 and flight nurses have so few media’s about them. I’ve always wanted to write for an oc flight nurse so Hope has been in my head for a long time and MOTA gave me a chance to, along with Mads @major-mads. Here you can follow Hope and Ruth’s story, along with the men of the 100th Bomb Group. This story is based on the fictional portrayal of these men from the MOTA to series.

Part 1: Welcome to Thorpe Abbott

Part 2: The Dance

Part 3: Listen to your heart

Part 4: Picnics, Phartzac and Painful goodbyes

Part 5: The Dangerous Skies

Part 6: One Helluva Party

Part 7: Lucky 25

Part 8: Airman Down

Part 9: Anatomy of Courage

Part 10: The Soliloquy

Part 11: The Wire

Part 12: New Normal

Interlude: I Promise

Part 13: Forgive Me

Interlude Two: Memories

Part 14: Never Let Me Go

[zarnzarn]

The temple is musty when Lamb steps in, dust mites suspended in the air. The door closes with a gentle thud and Lamb thanks their past self for having the idea to put a lock on it as they drive the bolt home. 

Everyone is asleep, but caution never hurts anyone.

Still, Lamb’s heart beats with something like fear as they approach the altar, with the cracked stained glass beyond colouring the whole place a welcoming red. 

Lamb hesitates a final time, before giving in and getting to their knees. 

“Thae One who Waits, praise be thy name.”

They haven't done this since Shamura’s ominous warning in Silk Cradle about leading themself to slaughter, betrayal making them numb. They suppose now, after the anger has faded, that it was silly to think power didn't come at a price, that dead things would be allowed to walk the earth forever. 

“Binsaar don in mora paelish death.”

Still, the movements and words come easy, having done this for a hundred and fifty years. 

“Hear my call, jein abkaar ji keish.”

They know it's stupid. Stupid to get on their knees and worship someone they destroyed themselves. They can feel the prayer hanging in the air, with no deity to travel to. Useless. 

“Hein skolaama boera jokha nayin.”

Narinder is still alive, anyways. He's in Lamb's tent right now, bandages on his arms and legs and neck, asleep. 

He caught Lamb across the muzzle with his claws today, after they foolishly thought he'd be receptive to having one more devotee help sponge him down after hearing him laugh at something the others said. The scratches sting, and Lamb knows they won't be closing for a long time.

“Dei bristan hilem koi pashun.” 

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that all these cowardly idiots got to touch their god, after hiding away for years like rats, only coming out now that Lamb had made it safe so they could. Acolytes of the Old One, they called themselves, coming to the cult to pay their respects to the god walking the same ground as them for the first time in a thousand years.

Lamb would have turned them away on day one if they'd known; but he'd glanced at Narinder when the group had first thrown themselves to his feet with joyful sobs and seen the surprise and the longing in his eyes. Had nearly cried themself at the bittersweet softness in his voice when he gently rebuked the group for coming after a god that had fallen and failed them after a thousand years of their undying loyalty. 

“Borig haiel, borig jeilla.” 

Lamb was Narinder's highest priest, his most loyal devotee, his strongest acolyte, his vessel. They should be the one replacing his veil and his robes, following him around and helping him recover with prayer and herbs and bandages alike, they should be the one travelling off to distant lands to collect the rare objects he covets in exchange for sacred knowledge, they should be the ones to bathe him at night and massage his scarred, furless limbs and sing him to sleep. 

“Borig twena tael omoro pe shaen haiel.”

But they couldn't. They couldn't because The One Who Waits refuses to do so much as meet their eyes, wouldn't touch anything the Lamb had cooked, would lash out with a snarl when he came too close, like today. And all Lamb could do in the face of the crowd looking at them expectantly was laugh it off, dance around the claws and coo nonsense until everyone laughed, pretending like they weren't dying inside at the unbridled hatred in the glare being sent their way. 

“Heeshal borek, heeshal nishaan.”

Their voice rises to the rafters, shaking. How shameful it was, for all those former vessels and loyal acolytes to look at them with disbelief and horror and pity, like Lamb was fucking stupid for not breaking their last promise to their sister, for not letting the god they loved kill them. 

And yet- 

“Hoore baikal shenagu-” 

When they looked at Narinder smiling or snarking at everyone except them- 

“Laenih westila shamfua-”

When all they got anymore from their god was curses and hatred, despite everything they had done in his name- 

“Poen poena haish kam-”

When they once had the full force of their god's attention, cradled in his palm and purred at and loved, and craved it like poppy and menticide now that it was gone; but it was gone because of them and all they'd ever have were memories and echoes of his love-

“Leora beeth, leora ha’iash-”

When all the riches and offerings and power in the world couldn't hold a candle to the dreams of Narinder smiling at them, laughing at their jokes, nuzzling them fondly, standing by their side, leaning in to reward all their years of hard work with his warm breath and soft lips- 

“Tvle non-”

Silence. 

They stop breathing, prostrated on the floor as they are, hands clasped in front of them. Their head is empty, no matter how much they wrack their mind for the next sentence. 

“What the fuck,” Lamb’s voice breaks on the whisper, feeling their hands start to tremble, vision blurring at the sides. “Tvle non- tvle non rere- fuck, how can I forget-” 

The crown slips from his skull in his panic and he turns to meet its eye, creased in grief like his own. 

“Crown,” They plead desperately. “Crown, what was the prayer?” 

The Red Crown remains silent. Lamb grabs it and shakes it, feeling hysteria burn in their veins the longer the words don't come to their tongue, the prayer they had just been saying slipping away like water. 

“What was the prayer?” They shriek, pulling at their wool as they screw their eyes shut, trying to remember. Now that they try, every ritual, every hymn and psalm, every last piece the cult had ever dedicated to their god- all of it has disappeared from memory, is disappearing like ribbons of sand through their hooves. 

The god you sing to is gone. The Crown whispers, tears of blood falling from its eye. Death is you now. 

“No, no, no, no,” Lamb chants, arms wrapped around themselves as they lean forward, tears slipping past his cheeks. “No, no, come back, come back!”

Lamb-

“My god,” Lamb moans, swaying back and forth. This is worse than any elimination, any injuries, any loss. Their chest is going to rip in half with the mourning, the horror. “My god, forgive me, please, please, my god, my lord, please, come back, come back.” 

There's no reply. The altar is cold, the glass still, the shadows unmoving. There's no deep voice curling around his ears seductively, no warmth to look forward to after the gore and bloodshed, no sulphur-drenched skeletal hand to curl up in on the worst nights, no bass purrs to soothe him to dreamless sleep. No offerings he can give for gold, no curses he can have whispered in his ears, no one to place his faith in to have his back and make sure everything will be alright. 

“COME BACK!” They scream to the temple rafters, wailing and bleating like they never have. In a moment of grief, of anger and fear, they manifest a knife and slice across their chest, spraying heartblood on the foot of the pew, on top of all the sacrificial blood dried in Narinder's name. “COME BACK, MY GOD, PLEASE!”

The Crown flies around them, saying something, distressed, but Lamb can't hear it over the sobs, over the healing of the cut, the sizzling of evaporating blood, the rejected offering, given too late. 

“My One,” The Lamb sobs into the temple floor. But their god lies in a hut on the other side of the grounds, weak and dying, because of them. Their god will never forgive them. Their god hates them. 

Lamb feels themself sink down, letting the mask drop, the facade they'd worn for eighty years come crashing down. The One who Waits hates them. 

“Tvle non rere desennte troma,” They whisper, closing their eyes, tears dripping to the ground. It's all they have left.