#i loooove seeing my art grow with me

[ssymphoria]

bmc redraw comparisons !!! yay improvement !!!!

[canyonclan-gen]

fanart for other clan gens (part 1)

:3 go check them out!

@labyrinthclan I absolutely looove the concept of a mystery labyrinth! And the designs are so cute with the little hair clips and bags!

@basinclan Fluffystalk's design is so fluffy and pretty!

@snakeclangen Deerclaw my beloved ❤️ she's so sassy and Moo Deng coded I love it!!

@mourningsbane this kid has like 0% survival instinct lol 💀 I love it and the cryptic horror design is so interesting!

@redwoodcolony Spectralstar and the little lizard side kick! The designs of Redwood's kitties are so pretty!

@boulderclangen I don't know much about Tulipspot and firepaw yet but the art style and designs are so pretty I can't wait to see more of this comic!!

@glitterclan Glitterclan's artstyle and story has literally left me speechless! I have to check for updates every day to feed my growing addiction to this comic!! Biscuit was so cute! Rip one of the bravest Kittypets 😭

@loudclan-clangen Again I loooove the artstyle!! Songpaw is going through it I can't wait to see how he's gonna handle his Mommy's ghost issue!

@bearclangen This blog is so underated!!!! I'm so excited to see more of it and how the story progresses!!

[threepandas]

Bad End: For Us

My sister is the only one who actually knows me. Who looks at me and... and actually SEES me, for who I am. It's because she suffers too, I think. Is beautiful. In that way that drives men too distraction. Poets too the page, artists too a medium. They look at her like she is art, magnificence and beauty given form.

Not a person.

Living, breathing, with thoughts and feelings of her own.

She is... is just BEAUTY to them. Delicate features and graceful limbs. Refined and splendid. A lovely voice reducing all her brilliant thoughts to mere sound. Who cares? How clever and educated, how wise or dignified, she may be? She is decoration. A pretty thing to look at. A prize to be held and won.

And... and I am a cute little pet.

Eternally the toddler, to be pampered and dressed in bows. Girlish things, no matter how old I grow. Handled instead of spoken too. Because somehow I am a child. Fuckable, yet... a child. Cute, innocent, naive. Not because I AM, but because they SAY so. Because it matches their fantasy of me.

I fear what will happen if I dare break that fantasy, with how much they control my life.

My Sister, alone, is the one who SEES me.

And people try to convince me she is... what? Jealous? Bitter? Because I am somehow "stealing" the lecherous eyes of her unfaithful man? I don't want them. I don't want ANY of them. Reborn, somehow, as a Protagonist in some game amongst countless, I can predict the plot points as they come. Read the troupes.

Bah. I am no spunky little bright eyed thing.

As I lay, draped over my sister's splendid skirts, in her private writing room, she quietly sips her tea and writes return missives. Strokes my hair as I hide, curled up like a child against her legs. If the ridiculous outfit I was shoved in would allow it? I would cram myself under her desk. Hide there instead.

As it is? I sit like some sulking maiden, an exhausted pet, seeking comfort in the only refuge I HAVE.

They will not leave me ALONE.

The Knight. Some brash, meat headed, "I'll take care of you" type, crashing into every quiet moment I try to have. Loud and presumptuous. Disdainful of my academic interests.

The Playboy. All too forward "romantic" gestures and ignoring obvious discomfort. More wrapped up in HIS feelings then considering, for even a moment, my own. Selfish and dramatic.

The Duke. Cliché and terrible. "Kind" to no one but me. Endless expensive gifts, pressuring grand displays, and eyes that linger possessively. Violence at the drop of a hat.

But oh, let us not forget the ASSASSIN! Yes, the LEADER of the ASSASSIN'S Guild! That somehow, someway, decided I was a prize worth possessing. A cutesy little "interesting" doll. That? Gods only knows, what will happen when he grows bored.

Lingering and haunting me. Crawling through windows. Standing too close, to touch my hair and drop cryptic bits of information that always hint at terrible things. Having to watch my words so SO carefully. Lest someone end up DEAD.

And let's not forget the WORST offender! The most clingy of them ALL!

My sister's FIANCÉ.

The Crown PRINCE! Yes, not some average noble, but a ROYAL!! And the man can't CONTROL himself! But does anyone else care? Noooooo! It's ROMANTIC. True loooove~! Aren't we CUTE together? Surely my Sister, his FIANCÉE, is just JEALOUS. How VILE. Disgusting, they scoff!

I should start throwing chairs.

This house is a nightmare.

I curl closer to my sister. Releasing her skirts to slip an arm around her waist. Hugging her, pressing my face close. She puts her cup down with a soft clink. A second hand joining the first to stroke my head. Cup my cheeks.

"My Dearest, you can not hide against my skirts indefinitely. As much as I would love to let you." She says, voice soft and cool like swirling mist, tilting my face up so she can look me in the eyes. "You DO need to eat eventually, as do I. Unfortunately, I can not keep you here forever. Come, help me plan the wedding. We can look at cake styles."

I'd rather be planning a funeral.

"Not until I get a son out of him, I'm afraid."

Wut.

I blink, not sure I heard that right. Look up at my softly smile sister. No. No, I probably didn't. Wishful thinking maybe? Or I've just been around Stabby too much. I scramble to my feet. Fighting my own girlish abomination of a skirt. I hate it. It's cutesy to the point of mocking. I'm in my TWENTIES for God's sake! Not EARLY twenties either!

Why do I have a BOW ON MY ASS?!

Because I am the Protagonist. Baby faced and Pwecious~☆. Fucking INFANTALIZED. I could BITE.

I sigh, take the arm my sister offers me, and tuck myself into her side. Rest my head upon her shoulder. It's a little uncomfortable, with all the jewelry she must wear. But damn it! I want my cuddles!

I bask, as we walk, in the comfort it brings.

She's strong and graceful. Smells like a delicate spring morning, all rare flowers and new growth. A hint of expensive spice. I LOVE being the little sibling. When it's HER that's treating me so. Because she makes it precious. Comfortable. Like we could spend our lives, together like this. The best of friends.

Happy.

If only people would... you know... stop trying to FUCK me. I prefer my hobbies. For God's sake, I'm RICH and a second child. I HAVE basicly no responsibilities except "don't embarrass the family". Or that WOULD be the case? If our parents weren't so intent on... "pushy dating advice".

"Would you like some lovely news, Dearest?" Whispers my sister, as she sweeps us past some upset looking maids, towards the tea room. I nod. "I've made some wonderful headway with some... ambitious gentlemen, about your little cockroach problem. They are quite efficient. I'm likely to recommend them."

I stiffle a snort. Oh my god. My sister sent thugs after a few of the suitors? Holy shit! That's amazing! Is THAT why I haven't seen them around lately? They got scared?

We settle in our seats. Tea and snacks. The maid looks... nervous. Weird. My sister smiles kindly, somehow startling the poor thing, making her flinch. Oh dear. I try to smile reassuringly. No harm no foul, right? Yet the poor girl reacts like I've cast myself into a lion pit for her. Flees.

....I'm beginning to suspect someone is abusing our waitstaff.

It's probably that bastard lech of a fiance.

We need to keep him away from the maids. And me. Women in general honesty. If I had my say, he wouldn't be allowed near my SISTER either. But she insists, and- Oooh! This one's CUTE! Sis, Sis! LOOK at the little details on this one!

"Hmm? Oh that IS lovely! Do you like it? If so, we shall sample it at once. I want the day to be perfect for us, Dearest. You're my world after all. There's NOTHING I wouldn't give you. A shame though, that our parent's will likely be too sick to see me wed."

It really was. I had my differences with them, but... it was their DAUGHTER'S WEDDING you know? Whatever they had caught, during their endless string of parties, was ravaging their health. It seemed agonizing. Slow. Yet even in the midst of planning her WEDDING, all the gossip and backstabbing, my sister dutifully visited them. Brought them tea and kept them company.

I didn't know how she could bear it.

She was a better person then I, I guess.

[salix-triandra]

for the ask - Sam Butler from mismag! (this is ivy btw just on my extremely old technically-main blog 💀)

Thank youuuu I would love to talk about the wondrous and incandescent Sam Butler:

I feel like Sam is getting her flowers in Season 2 and flew under the radar a bit in Season 1, but Season 1 established that Sam's strength lies in seeing the emotional connections between people and that she has a very strong emotional intelligence. She sees how people matter to each other, but her insecurities break my heart as they don't let her internalize how those connections often spread from HER. S2 shows us that she has spent so much time convinced that people don't actually like her but are liking a spell she is casting on them, even though the reality is that people genuinely like her. She is charming, but she isn't just charming; she has a strong desire to know things about others.

I've only ever shipped Sam with Evan, I'll be honest-- in season 1, she was the first person to say hi to him and attempt to include him the moment she met him. Sam literally talked demons out of possessing him. It blindsided me when Evan and K were the pairing in S1 (though by the time S2 began, they'd broken up) because I saw Sam's genuine care and affection for the person Evan was and I saw K's more surface-level fascination with Evan's situation and sad-boy deal over his person-ness. No K hate, it's literally their arc. And in season 2, that care and affection has continued to grow between Sam and Evan from the start, as early as episode 2 when Sam sees Evan giving into a violent urge and stops him bc she's worried about him, when she notices Evan is being really violent with his shadow, and when Evan carries Sam across a sea of lava and they have an emotional talk about wanting to be in each other's lives. And the whole time K and Sam are talking about what Sam wants in a partner it keeps cutting to Evan doing something off to the side... and then epsidoe 3 happens where Evan fucking dies and Sam is the only person who can look at the shadow version of him? And how she's the one to ask all the right questions to determine how to get Evan back to life? And from that point onward, we see them both prioritizing each other first in everything: in combat, in emotional scenes; they gravitate towards each other before others. I could talk about this part forever but won't bc this is about SAM and not the two of them as a couple. She is so attentive, caring, and loving; it shows in the way she sees Evan as a normal person, and he validates that for her by showing that he consistently sees to the core of her.

Non-romantic OTP, K Tanaka and Sam are Pink Pals forever, childhood friends that were super close, grew apart in adolescence, and then re-connected as 17 year-olds. They care for each other a lot and are able to have tough conversations together even if it means getting a little tense because it matters to them.

I know this doesn't count as an unpopular opinion about Sam the character, but seeing as how I don't have any, I would love to see more art of Sam with her natural hair or, at the very least, with some of the protective styles she would wear under her wigs! I'll contribue myself sometime soon, but I'd love to see it from other people, too!

I would have loved to see Sam get to have more time with Fergus Pontz, a character who she dated in S1 and then saw very briefly in episode 3 after Evan got killed-- we find out he followed the Pilot Program's pathing from island to island and then ended up somewhere with bomb in his chest?? and he died??? so she never got to meet back up with him and find out how he survived things; clearly something in their old dynamic was haunting her and it would have been nice for her to get that closure with him.

Thank you again for asking!!!! I loooove this series very much and Sam most of all :)

[enidtendo64]

I just finished Wednesday today and I'm full on the wenclair ship!!!! so I'm glad to have seen your art just as I'm done lmao. if you read wenclair fics do you have any recommendations?

OOOOH Okay nice nice!!!

I'm so sorry this is so late but I hope you still want some recs, bc I def got some for you! I tried to keep these pretty succinct and not too many bc a lot of these are pretty long reads but these are some of my fav Wenclair fics to read and reread! I made sure to put different types/genres of fics in here too so there's a diverse list of flavors on here! Most will be complete but I'll throw in some WIPs i've been keeping an eye on!

If We Make It Through December by overnights: If you love FLUFF and Enid interacting with the Addams Fam! A wenclair STAPLE tbh, fake dating, Enid being invited to the Addams Mansion, and CHRISTMAS fic all in one! The dynamics between the Addams and Enid are always sweet, and Wednesday and Enid just teeter on that close friendship to oh, maybe it's love??? thing and it's so sweet to see. It's just very lovely and wholesome! A great execution of that 'fake dating but oops you were in love all along haha' trope!

Magus et Lupus by wigglewyrms: Ok like I had to rep one of my pals in here but in my defense this is genuinely so good and one of my favorite wenclair fics before we even became friends! It's a fun fantasy Wenclair with dialogue that's just so fun and snappy and witty! You're gonna have fun reading their conversations and then you're gonna get caught up into the world and the story! The plot is very fun and the end is a very fun payoff! I think I might have overused the word fun a lot for this fic but like that's just what this fic is--It's entertaining, it's engaging, and it makes you feel like you're having fun reading wanting to know what's next or what's this person gonna say or etc. It's a fic you read and you feel good! 100% Recommend! I even drew art for it if you're interested (which I should honestly repost on here soon)

I'd recommend their other stuff too-- Stubborn, Single Minded, and Obsessive is great if you like the slasher horror genre with a dash of Addams Family Values Lore, and their most recent one that's a WIP, When The Moon Shines Red is a very fun fic focused on Enid's werewolfisms but dangerous, with a very sweet friendship to relationship evolution between Enid and Wednesday!

i know the end by thriftedstars: If you're an angst lover like I am, you're gonna LOOOOVE this! A sort of groundhog's day type of fic, it focuses on the day of the last episode of the first season--Enid, Wednesday, Tyler, Crackstone, all that entails in that night. It's a really fun read just to know what happens next and how Enid gets out of the situation but also to see the girls' relationship grow in this terrible situation. Lots of emotion! Listen sometimes you just need the hurt for the ending to be sweeter! Recommend wholeheartedly!

curtain call by hanjisgirlfriend: on the complete opposite side of the last fic, Curtain Call is an enemies to friends to lovers Wenclair that does an amazing job of capturing that kind of high school love story kind of vibe but like also a dash of youthful nostalgia. It gives me the same vibe of like, if I was listening to the Kids album by Mac Miller--They're kids and they're friends and they're growing up and they're growing up together. I HIGHLY recommend as well, like it genuinely makes my heart lighter thinking about how sweet this is.

raven in the den, wolf in the nest by Barbara_Lazuli: So you might be familiar with the author's name--Artist, Comic maker, Writer, literally what CAN'T she do!!! This fic is another fake dating fic but a different flavor from the first one! This one really dives into both Enid and Wednesday's relationships with their mothers, as well as the building feelings they already have for each other. Their bond in this fic is nothing short of sweet and heartwarming, and I genuinely think this is one of the best fics in the tag! Just got so much substance! Also all the Addams family media references and the Loona refs-- like Barb if you read this you're a champ for making Wednesday play Sonatine and also listen to Hula Hoop and just for making this in general????? Seriously how are you so talented bro

queen of the night by heyfools: Look, a flower shop AU hits okay? And this? THIS HITS. Wednesday is an owner of a flower shop, Enid needs a job, and we know where this is going. But man the way you get to know both characters a little more--their histories, traumas, likes and dislikes and their personalities beyond "appropriately polite cowoke" (well, polite for Enid, not so much Wednesday at first) it's soooooo good! You have a journey along with the characters and you really get invested in their relationship! A great read, especially if you wanna read something like in the afternoon light with a nice lemonade maybe, or like just a very relaxing fun read!

Forged in Blood by RiseAboveTheAshes_203: Okay so this one is a HEAVY HITTER! We're getting into the big bois! It's a 100k fic about Wednesday and Enid basically dealing with the consequences of Enid becoming a blood wolf-- and bro you are seated, belted, strapped into the ride every step because PHEWWWW what a RIDE! It has really interesting lore building upon werewolf society in the show and also witchery and magic from the Addams family. And all of that is great and amazing but the real star of this is just Wednesday and Enid being Wednesday and Enid--they are DEVOTED to each other! Even if they don't quite understand the full means of it yet, and if it gets them in trouble sometimes. It's amazing to see their relationship grow and them understand what they truly mean to one another and it's a captivating love story that also happens to have fun world building for the show and amazing moments that just leave you so tense to know what happens next! I was so tuned in when this was still a WIP I remember refreshing the tag every lunch time for a while for a chapter I was HOOKED, and I'm sure you will be too!

A Kidnapping By Any Other Name by Ravenmoon33: So bear with me this is gonna be a long one; Ok! So this is the other WIP I've put in here (aside from When The Moon Shines Red) and let me tell you--this fic changed my life fr. Some TLDR lore about it tho--the version I linked above there is a revised version! They have an old version they still have up on their account and honestly I also HIGHLY recommend that version too bc it had me in bed giggling kicking my feet like ROMANCE. ROMANCE WAS MADE in these ao3 walls!!! (The flower scene???? No spoilers if you know you know but OOOOOOOOGGHHHH I would not shut up about it for WEEKS Im so sorry to my friends and my poor gf) but I also highly recommend the new version as well! If you've read the first version and are keeping up with the new version, the new things are also so good and you can tell the author is so locked in and excited with what they've added and what they've changed, I honestly recommend both;

So onto what it's actually about-- Enid is "kidnapped" by Wednesday and is "forced" to stay at her best friend's mansion for the summer. And you know what happens? LORE. So much worldbuilding on Addams family lore like it's AMAZING!!! You read about new characters the family past and what it means for Wednesday and Enid, and if that's not enough, there's also the MYSTERY aspect too because Weds and Enid will have to deep dive into that lore to figure out a problem in the present and it's so much FUN to like try to figure out how things go together! I love that aspect of both the versions so much that it's only rivaled by my immense love of how everyone's relationships are written! Enid's relationships with the other members of the Addams fam, especially Morticia, is so healing and heartwarming, and we see Wednesday's different dynamics with her family and how Enid affects her and helps her grow and you see those relationships with her family members grow because of it! And of course, the obvious, Wednesday and Enid basically having a love story for the ages cause JESUS, this is ROMANCE. Wednesday BIG FUCKING ROMANTIC Addams!!! It's amazing omg I wanna say more but I also don't bc I don't wanna spoil but I absolutely cannot rec it enough, even if it stays unfinished it will still be genuinely one of the best wenclair fics for me.

Tumultuous Waters: Wednesday Season Two by KrackenoftheDeep: So we're here at the last one. I didn't really list these fics out in specific order but I did save this specific one for last bc I genuinely think this is my favorite Wednesday fic. This is like a full ass season 2! It's a telling of how season 2 could happen, continuing from season 1 and picking up the ball the first season threw with stuff about the Morning Song cult, a deeper dive of Crackstone and Goody, more worldbuilding about the outcasts and the school, and best of all-- THE Wednesday and Enid dynamic that to me would be so fucking ideal for season 2 if Timothy Burton wasn't a COWARRD!!! /j /maybe

The growth Enid and Wednesday have in this fic, along with the exploration of the other characters, more investigations not just by Wednesday but also the other nightshade members helping and getting involved as well! You really get to feel so many things for these characters, and all of that pays off in one of the most satisfying endings for me in a fic like the author really fucking knocked this out of the park I felt like giving a standing ovation!

I genuinely don't think the Wednesday writers could like, live up to this. At least for me, it's that good. This is everything I've ever wanted for a Wednesday s2 honestly and I honestly, HONESTLY could not recommend this enough.

And after you read this, you can follow along the author's sequel to this fic, The Infinite Black Sea: Wednesday Season 3. Again, also highly recommend! A new mystery afoot!!!

I'm so sorry I didn't expect this to get super long but sometimes you just gotta give tens where tens are deserved!!! There are so many more great wenclair fics out there that deserve a reading and loving, like I know the tag can look a little scary sometimes but seriously there's some great gems there underneath all the scary stuff lol

These are just some of my personal favs, and honestly thank you to all the authors here yall are doing God's work fr!!!

[stellewriites]

Stelle, I just had to crawl into your inbox with thots™️ about butch!Simon. Hope you enjoy✨️ and please feel free to add on!

•Has a carabiner with a Lego skeleton keychain on it. Got it as a gag gift from Soap one year and has cherished it ever since (will never admit this).

•Has a small crush on Laswell and Farah (I don't blame him one bit. He will also never admit this.).

•Whenever the team goes out, they find themselves gobsmacked by how many women immediately beeline to him.

•Takes a low dose of T, mainly for the muscle growth and deeper voice. The extra body hair and bottom growth is simply a bonus✨️

•Decided on using he/him pronouns on a whim. People initially saw his hulking figure and immediately gendered him as male. Simon simply didn't care enough to say otherwise.

•Still feels a connection and appreciation towards womanhood and femininity, mainly in other people. Likes it when Soap paints his nails jet black. Likes the rare times Gaz will wear makeup. Likes to occasionally wear dresses and skirts (usually billowing, black frocks that conceal his figure rather than anything form-fitting).

birdy…. i loved every damn one of these. you opened a can of worms here lmaooo i love butch!si, not all of this will be canon for my fic but it might help me shape how he acts in it

• i’ve literally seen some art of carabiners and your lego skeleton idea really reminds me of it, lemme find it to post after this bc OMG !!!

• he can’t help but go a little weak kneed for a headstrong, no-bullshit woman,, having farah or laswell barking orders in his ear has had him swallowing roughly on the field one too many times before getting his head in the game. he’s glad his emotions can’t be read like a book like his sgt or he’d never hear the end of it from either women

• the jangle of his carabiner is like a mating call in the pub and it gets heads turning. interested faces peeking up from their tables like meerkats, eager at the pure bulk and size of simon as he makes his way to the booth the others are already occupying. price sucks his teeth when the pretty bird he had his eye on smiles and flutters her lashes at si flirtatiously not five minutes after he sat down

• i loooove the idea of simon being tall and beefy but having a surprisingly soft voice still, deceptively sweet if not for the rough accent and barking laugh. maybe it’s gotten a little gravel to it after years of smoking and maybe it started to change when he went on t - but he doesn’t actively deepen it, doesn’t feel the need to.

he loves seeing his progress in the gym since starting it, likes petting at his extra body hair as it grows in, hates the fact that his skin has gotten oilier though and reluctantly asks gaz for some skincare advice, and yeah… the bottom growth has him hissing on his sensitive days but he’s never had a gentle hand, never been patient with himself so he bites his cheek through it as he rubs one out.

• very much that scene from aliens between vasquez and hudson; “hey ghost, have you ever been mistaken for a man looking like that?” “no, have you?”

the pronouns are his as a fuck you but also yeah… they feel right

• omg that’s so cuuute!!

i’d say my vers of butch!si doesn’t wear dresses etc,, but he’d let reader paint his nails whatever colour they liked, could practice make up looks on him, if reader has wigs then he’d be happy to try them on so reader could see the length and style off of a mannequin. but it’s not necessarily for him, he knows he’s a woman, he knows he has femininity - he just doesn’t express it the same way as others might

[whoblewboobear]

speaking of cute clothes have we discussed putting jace in a wedding dress yet

We haven’t but god to we need to 🤧 I’m gonna skip the proposal because I’ll spiral if I think about who proposed to who and how it happened and what sappy shit they said. Like it’ll destroy me.

So just imagine Jace laying in bed with Porter and going “I think I’m gonna wear a dress for our wedding.” And Porter is practically drooling at the thought. He’s so superstitious about things so he’ll try his best to avoid asking to go dress shopping with him but he wants to SO BAD. So instead, Jace gathers his bestie squad of Zara, Corsica, maybe Yolanda too for her insight. They do it up big, they’ve got champagne to sip on, hors d'oeuvres to eat and they’re giving Jace the yes’s and no’s of what works and what doesn’t when he finally steps out of the dressing room in THEE dress. He’s used to wearing flowy robes when he goes back to fallinel so I’d imagine he wears something in that camp. But also something sleek and elegant with gold details to match his eyes. He’s already pale, so he goes for a cream instead of a white so he doesn’t look completely washed out in photos. He would look incredible in anything that accentuates his waist. He also loves a v neck so I’m taking that into consideration too 🤧 A slip dress or a mermaid gown would suit him really well! Also something with a slit so he can show off his long legs (and easy access for Porter later if he chooses not to have a separate dress for the reception)

Pictures & thoughts under a read more bc long post:

1. Simple, elegant a little boring though. But I have to take you on a journey. We’ll get there I promise.

I think this is a dress that everyone (including Jace) would agree doesn’t have enough flare. He could over accessorize to compensate but that’s more hassle and more money when he could just find THEE dress. I also don’t think it would entirely flatter his shape and baby boy deserves to have a dress that fits so right in all the right places while emphasizing his best features (waist, chest, legs)

2. This gown is so gorgeous, so flowy! I love the lace on it and I think the deep v is elegant and tasteful while showing off his chest. The back- oh my god does he deserve a train. It’s perfect for a spring or fall wedding it’s dramatic but sweet. It reminds him of a lighter weight version of something he’d wear in Fallinel. He’d pair it with some really beautiful gold jewelry and to match the wedding bands he and Porter picked out for the ceremony.

3. This one just might be one of my favorites actually! Loooove the deep v that stops above the navel. LOVE. I also can’t get enough of the mesh with the beading the looks like it’s just floating on the skin. The train isn’t overly dramatic. It’s sweet, it’s tasteful. There’s no slit here but he doesn’t mind it. The back is what really sells it for me bc 1. I know Jace’s ass would look in-CREDIBLE in it and 2. Porter would tease Jace so much by running his fingers along his exposed back. They’d have to fight so hard not to sneak off somewhere to fuck. They’re so insufferable!

4. Now THIS is my drama pick. I- Jace would look incredible in this. He can move in it, he can dance in it. It’s BACKLESS. All of the detailing and the silks. The drapery at the top is also really really beautiful. I love the slit and the neckline like- it really looks made for him. It makes me wonder if he’d grow his hair out a little longer for the look so he can have beading and different things pinned to match. I also love that from the back it almost looks like a jumpsuit. It also feels very true to his character art for Junior Year with how he draped his scarf. It’s just.. I think it’s THEE dress. When he looks at himself in the mirror he tears up a bit. The thought of getting married didn’t quite feel real until he sees himself in this and just knows this is the one he wants to marry the love of his life in.

[sillygoofyqueer]

Ohhhh, you know how to make infinitely more motivated to write more. I mean, look at THIS, it feels like you're quite literally in my brain 🥺🥺

Dream. I don't think that anyone'll be surprised that I'm linking him to Apollo...the sun god. BUT HE IS MORE THAN THAT. I mean, god of plague and healing, music and arts, oracles and so much more!! For some reason, Apollo radiates Dream for me (I mean, Apollo is literally referred to as Alexicacus -> the "averter of evil" and depending on your perspective, that's what Dream does with negativity. He was Zeus' favourite (like the villagers favouring Dream before....teehee), and he was born from a mother who was in hiding from Hera (like how Dream's mother created Dream and Nightmare before she died after being hunted). And he was like, very prosperous for the island he was born on (the myths differ on what its name is), turning everything there to gold (like how Dream brought a shit ton of positivity to the villagers). Lets talk about Apollo's tragic love life and why I think that links to Dream. Basically, the most tragic tale (in my opinion) is Hyacinthus and Apollo. See, everyone looooved Hyacinthus and was pissy when he chose Apollo. One day, they were having a game of discus, and whether out of jealousy or pure bad luck, when Hyacinthus tried to catch the discus Apollo threw it smashed into his head and he died in Apollo's arms because he couldn't do anything to heal him. And this genuinely is so heartbreaking, because Apollo, despite being god of healing, couldn't manage to save what mattered most in the end. LIKE DREAM AND THE APPLE INCIDENT. IT WAS JUST A NORMAL DAY FOR THAT POOR BASTARD AND THEN BOOM, HE COULDN'T MANAGE TO SAVE NIGHTMARE IN THE END. WRAGGGHH - I think I went overboard with this one, but I love Apollo and I love linking him to Dream.

Nightmare. Well, for ever sun god, we need a mooon god!! Artemis, obviously, but why do I think this? Well, obviously I can link Artemis' birth to Nightmare's, as I did with Apollo's and Dream's - but I can take it one step further, folks! Artemis, according to some tellings of the legend, was born first and then became a midwife of sorts to Leto as she gave birth to Apollo. This can be linked to depictions of Nightmare as an older twin, keeping Dream innocent from the bullying he received and growing up much faster than he should have (considering he was like, five, at the time of the apple incident). There is also a lot of Artemis seeking retribution for man's hubris and acts, similar to how Nightmare killed all of the villagers as retribution for their years of bullying a child just because he was...well, the personification of negativity, in a sense. Also, Artemis is portrayed as a virgin goddess (iconic), and she keeps company with the Hunters of Artemis (mainly women who swore a pledge to her), much like Nightmare with his silly little children henchmen, who value him above all. ALSO, we can link it to the fact that in Istrus' version of Orion and Artemis, he was the only person she ever truly loved and he was a hunter of her, so, y'know, the idea that Artemis and Nightmare both could only get into relationships with people they've known extremely well for a long long time. But keep in mind that Artemis feels nooo love for anyone, this is just an idea.

Reaper. I don't know how big this bullet point'll be, because there's only so much I can explain before it becomes obvious. But, obviously a Hades like figure. Ruler of the underworld, god of death, y'know, it matches. Also, also, also, I'd like to point out that Hades got the short end of the stick and got stuck with the underworld, like how Reaper got forced into being a god of death because...well, he was born. Poor bastard. Hades, despite being the eldest son, was regurgitated last, which led to him being absolutely dunked on in receiving the Underworld when they drew lots. Reaper and Hades (in my opinion) share this lack of care about mortals and the world above. ALSO, Reaper has the death touch, which means he probably craves what he cannot have, like how Hades only ever fell in love (true love) with Persephone, goddess of spring. Literally the opposite of him. They both kind of long for things they cannot have. Well, without killing people or kidnapping them. Also, then portraying Geno as Persephone is a delicious idea for shipping material. MORE TO COME SOON IF WANTED\ (you can find what is basically a masterpost of this headcanon series here)

[the-sky-queen]

Hiiiii 👋 So I was wondering....

What hobbies and things do the Shadouge kids have? What are their favorite things to do with their parents, both all together and individually?

I wuv dees babies so much ❤️❤️❤️❤️

SHADOUGE BABIES RAMBLE TIME LET'S GOOOO :D (Forgive me if I contradict things I've said before. There are things I've only said on tumblr that I haven't transferred into my notes yet XD)

Ember looooves photography along with collecting vintage things. He and Shadow like going to pawn shops together to see what they can find! Ember also loves taking hikes to appreciate the scenery. Oh, and Ember's also on the city's youth track team with Lux. He and Lux are good friends and Ember enjoys hanging out with him. Ember also really likes cooking/baking. (He's the only one in the family that's any good XD) He occasionally tries to teach Rouge, but it's a disaster each time.

Spark has had a love for mischief and pranks ever since he met Chip. Those two are practically inseparable! They really enjoy playing video games together too! Spark loves it when Shadow reads to him (Shadow's got a really good reading voice) so he's always looking for good books. And with Rouge, Spark loves hiding things from her and seeing how long it takes her to find them. (You're a master treasure hunter? Prove it!) Spark has gotten really good at this, much to Rouge's annoyance. XD

Dawn as a little baby kid has an obsession with arts and crafts. Every pair of shoes she's ever owned has gotten drawn on, sticker-fied, and customized. She's even drawn on the walls (and ceiling) a fair few times. She's a very active kid and as she grows up, Dawn is going to get really into sports! Her favorites are surfing and soccer. Dawn loves to hang out with Rouge almost 24/7 right now. She's just a tiny 4 year old currently, so she's always close by. She loves playing dress up with whoever will indulge her, along with practicing her makeup skills both on herself and anyone else in her family. Dawn loves racing with her dad (Ember and Spark too). She hasn't won yet, but she still has an absolute blast.

And as a family all together, the Robotniks have movie nights all the time, along with family game nights, be that board games or video games! They have a lot of fun. :D

[blasphemousclaw]

someone brought up the idea that it might be marika there Post Placidusax (placidusax is called First Elden Lord whos god abandoned him) and not miquella and honestly. god. they fucking would

itd tie a lot together. a previous leak/comment about the dlc mentioning wed see hourah loux's badlands (marika meeting him pre godfrey), torrent (marika having torrent then leaving the spirit steed calling whistle for ranni or melina, linking to rannis dialogue where she hands over the bell and then wonders if wed grow tired of listening to the two fingers), cementing an appearance theme among her golden scions (the long golden hair and circle of braids that we see on miquella and the Possibly Godwyn statue in the haligtree), why shes seemingly in some version of limgrave (the tall grasses usually used to visually demonstrate the wind, which limgraves known for. the placement of the erdtree and the ruins which litter limgrave. limgrave being used as the poster child for ER adverts) as shed be ascending towards the soon to be erdtree

itd be easier to show the world Pre Golden Order than Post Your Playthru Ending, and its the exact bait and switch from loves to pull, knowing that people are pushing HARD for a miquella dlc. so to drop someone who looks almost identical to miquella in a dlc trailer, only to reveal its someone different is exactly their style. plus from looooves their time travel dlcs

hmmmm all of this sounds very compelling too… and I have also heard from elsewhere that it is very typical of From to pull a bait-and-switch with their DLC announcements…

My one thought is that the character in the art has the exact same hairstyle with the exact same braid pattern as Miquella does, a style which no other character wears. So either they’re very deliberately trying to trick us (still possible) or it’s supposed to be Miquella.

Looking at the trees, what I’m seeing is what looks to be the Erdtree in combat with another tree acting as a parasite.

It looks to be gnarled with small spindly growths, growing around the Erdtree and masking its golden light, and consuming its life essence. There’s also some kind of dark particle cloud hovering around it. If the figure is Marika, it’s possible we’re seeing whatever happened to the tree that existed before Marika’s Erdtree? My other thought is that if the figure is Miquella, this growth could be related to Godwyn’s spreading influence… the spindly growths on the parasite tree and the particle cloud remind me visually of deathroot. And we also know that before he was stolen, Miquella was trying to grant Godwyn a true death.

Great point though that the dlc taking place present-day creates some complications for the endings. I’m honestly not sure how that would play out!

[dynmghts]

💌 (shamelessly)

🐝  *  ― send 💌 or ( `LOVE LETTER` ) for me to write one thing i like about your blog, one thing i like about your character or your portrayal, and one thing i like about you in general. doesn't have to be anything long, just a little something to make someone's day a little brighter. if you want, include the url of someone else if you want me to write them some compliments.

i've been hoarding this buried under all of my other asks but guess what reina. i'm getting to it now. tonight i boost ur confidence (at least, hopefully, a little bit) in how AMAZING your writing is!

what i like about your blog: honestly, i have absolutely adored your pastel aesthetic for shoto since you moved him onto his own blog. i don't know what it is about it specifically, to be honest, but when i see any art of shoto in the more pastel tones, the first shoto that comes to mind is yours - it's such a strong association for me tbh, but i absolutely adore it! and let's be real, shoto looks really really good in pastel colours.

on top of that, i adore your simpler formatting when it comes to your writing; you emphasise a lot of words, but you don't add a lot of flair to it (e.g. extra spacing, excessive changes in font size, unique characters beyond quotation marks), which i think is a wonderful way to be. i've been constantly evolving my formatting to be a loooooot more readable and minimally formatted as a result of writers like you, because! well, i sit there and adore your writing all the same, and i'm captured by every sentence you write even without the tumblr dot com flair. i think it's a perfect way to be in a place where formatting + graphics mean everything!

what i like about your character(s): PLEASE. I ADORE YOUR SHOTO SO MUCH. you capture his very blunt and straightforward persona amazingly, in which his manifests differently to katsuki's where shoto is infinitely calmer in his approach. i also love how literal he can be sometimes! and just!! even his stubbornness!!! it can be really difficult to balance so many characteristics - which is a certain sign that the original author has a talent for three-dimensional characters, thanks horikoshi - but i always thought that you managed it perfectly. when i see your shoto and the way you transcribe him, i think, yeah, this is shoto. this is the same boy i read in the manga.

not only that, but i recognise him as YOUR shoto - you've developed him in a way that makes him unique to your interpretation, and i love that soooo so much.

what i like about you in general: reina. reina you have to understand that i think you are such a wonderful and cheerful person to talk to! and i MEAN that. i know that we don't talk often in dms, but i loooove to talk with you about our boys and how their dynamic has the potential to grow beyond what they already have in canon. i love that you have such an enthusiasm for your characters, even beyond shoto, and even with life pretty much blindsiding you at every turn (me too bestie), you still manage to maintain such a passion for your characters!

i know that you struggle a LOT with your confidence, and especially in writing, but just know i will always be in your corner telling you that every piece you write is an absolute godsend and a blessing to witness. i treasure EVERY interaction you give me. i am so so glad you have enough confidence to give me what you have, and believe me, i consume your media without fail with the same adoration as i had from the very beginning. thank you for being such an amazing person and a wonderful presence on my dash, no matter how frequent or scarce <3

POSITIVITY TRAIN.

[fishedeyelenz]

*girl with horns about 13 years old comes up to Billy and shows a big piece of album paper*

Oi! Old man, check it...

*points finger at drawing*

I found some crayons in your S-S-sss-STUPID attic and I... I drew you a present!

*she's got a look of genuine amusement on her face*

It's y-you... In y-your STUPID s-s-STINKY sweater and f-f-FFFkng big ass glases and-... A-and that's me... An-...And...

*she wipes her nose with her free hand and goes on*

AND IT'S CHRISTMAS! B-because I know you LOOOOVE Christmas so I-... I brought you as a gift a... A GIANT RAT t-that I killed in-... Uh... In case we had nothing to eat but cat food again... Heh... By the way i-... I heard rats have vitamins

*excitedly pokes her finger in the white furry creature's area*

Oh, and that's Claude... An-... And the garland... See?

*pure childlike joy*

Do you like it, eh?

YOU FAH-FUCKING FREAK I TOLD YOU TO STOP GOING INTO MY ATTIC!!!

*the old man takes his broomstick which he already expertly uses to chase this darn brat off (never hitting her... at least not too painfully), but stops when he sees the sheet of paper shes holding out to him*

...Whats... that?

*Somehow, the old man keeps quiet while she explains to him her strange, but ultimately heartfelt gift. He even lets out an amused "hmmmm" when the girl shows him the rat that even he has to admit she expertly caught. He listens intently to her till she finishes her rant, while Claude rubs against his legs, purring*

*When she finally gives him the paper and ask his opinion, he just... stares at the drawing. Then after a moment that goes on for way too long, he quietly starts chuckling. The the laughter grows and grows and soon enough devolves into manic pig snorts and squealing, still mixed together with a couple of giggles. But there is no malice to his laughter*

G-god you really are... are something. *He chuckles, taking his glasses off for a moment to wipe away a stray tear* You... mmm.. really did this for me? For Billy? *there is a small dose of sentimentality to his words. He stares at the drawing for a bit, and in his eyes one can almost see... pride?*

Mmmah Piglet... it's good that you explained for me what's... what's happening here, CAUSE I NEVER WOULD HAVE GUESSED! *he laughs at his own teasing* God,uh remind mah-me to never let you go to art school *He snorts at his own mean joke, but then it almost seems like he catches himself and regrets what he says*

*He scratches the back of his neck as he stares at the word papa that was crudely scribbled over and holds back tears*

Y...you flattered me truly, I almost didn't recognize myself with how skinny you drew me heh... I'm no way like that anymore... *He mutters something unintelligible under his breath....* Mah-maybe you're worth s-something in the end, alright... At least you m... make me laugh. *He snorts while he ruffles her hair a bit too roughly, though not on purpose*

As for the uh... Rat. Good catch by the way... *he asides* T-throw it in the fridge, I might make something with it later. *he mumbles, and it is unclear if he means it as a joke or if he's serious*

[cielsosinfel]

here are my thoughts on all BG3 companions up through the end of Act 1 and very beginning of Act 2:

Astarion: light of my life, I am actually spoiled for probably 95% of his story, he is such a disgusting and rancid poor little meow meow and I want to see him grievously mutilated and tortured and then gently put back together again (repeat). As a faggy bi man he is the best #representation I have seen yet from mainstream media lmao. If i speak too much about him this whole post will be about him, sorry. Guro noncon yandere kink fanfic material out the wazoo, tho (Also of course I have many many thoughts on his character's narrative around trauma and healing or the lack thereof, but, too many words)

Shadowheart: I LOOOOVE HER I love her. I kind of wish they'd kept her as initially hostile and cruel as in EA after viewing video of it, but I also enjoy how she seems low-key and almost normal, though an asshole, and then BAM suddenly she's waxing poetic about committing terrifying emotional and physical torture in the name of her beloved mommy goddess. She is such an asshole and I feel like she gets soft on the PC weirdly fast, but I also do enjoy how playing Dark Urge informs the relationship dynamic as her backstory and personality unfolds, how the fact she becomes Best Friends with them despite the whole blackout-frenzied-murder and urges to eat corpses plays into her own issues and desire for understanding and connection (the memory loss and disconnect from her previous life and sense of self, the god devotion, wanting to make herself an even worse person in the name of her god, how completely committed she is in the art of torture and causing suffering, how she's simultaneously disgusted by and intrigued by Dark Urge's whole murder cannibalism urges.) Anyway yes she's great, I love her turmoil about not living up to her potential as a Shar-loving religious zealot and expert torturer.

Wyll: Wylllllllllll I feel like he was done so dirty by the writers between Early Release and Release. They should have continued to let him be an asshole warring with living up to heroic ideals, who just made a deal with a demon out of desperation for respect and appreciation. But he's fun in release too, just too low-key for me? With Dark Urge it's interesting because he is truly the most morally Good-Aligned party-member, probably, and I think about how he must grapple his morals with aiding and growing close to a murderous gore-loving freak. He's constantly having to compromise his own deeply-held ideals in the name of getting the tadpole out of his head, and I wonder about that constantly. At the same time, he's so focused on doing good and the cause of justice but is REALLY REALLY DOWN FOR GOBLIN MASS-MURDER... Like OK Wyll!! They kept that from Early Access at least lmao. His relationship with Mizora and the angst and regret he feels at signing a contract with her, for making this one major ill-thought decision while in a high-stress "do or die" situation, gets me, the way he's like, so resigned to it... How he's so resigned to being transformed into the very thing he'd dedicated his life to culling existence of (demons.) (The constant metaphors to being a pampered pet on a leash get to me.) Though you know, it still gets me he's lamenting how ugly he looks with horns, claws and fangs, in the middle of a party full of Tiefling who just faced a lot of life-threatening discrimination for looking like demons... lmao... especially when he's venting these things to a Tiefling Durge lmao... oh wyll...... Anyway I think he's sweet, and I have even more thoughts on him and Astarion being foils who need to fuck. I want to learn more about his daddy issues so I can give him a proper daddy kink. Wow, how is this the longest part of this post.

OK THIS GOT TOO LONG AND ITS ONLY THREE CHARACTERS!!!! I am going to an indie comics and arts festival today, I will come back to do the rest of the characters later.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Ummm hi I just want to tear open and pick apart and drool over my fav parts here because babe your writing is just 🥺🤌🌟

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

FUCK I got shivers when reading this. This is pure pristine character study, just Könibear if you put him in a nutshell. He’s sooo ❤️❤️‍🩹❤️ I want to hold him! Pet him and give him a cup of hot cocoa 🥺 please!!

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

I loooove the way König just spirals down the path of cardinal sins in this fic. Such a beautiful way to do a character arc and describe how the story unfolds, also describe his love and devotion (which does not imply pacifism... or even sanity 🙃🫠)

"If the church caught fire now and the rafters came to sink into the earth not a part of him would or could even care as long as she were just here."

Seriouslyyy even for a guy who hasn’t known love he can be such a drama queen and I LOVE HIM FOR IT. I love it that there’s just this impending doom coupled with mad innocent-eye adoration throughout this whole fic... And boi just happened to see her in the garden. 😇 (baby I would lock this guy up in a no-woman zone as well if he's born this way)

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

 “Does that hurt you?”

 “Nein… I’m happier like this.”

Wtf are you trying to make me cry ;.; (I know you are! Shame on you! 💖) This exchange is one of the most beautiful I’ve ever read tbh... “Does that hurt you?” is so. Blunt? yet caring way to ask if this kind of mad love is ok for him? Reader can be seen losing herself in this fic as well and I’m so here for it ❤️‍🔥

"Her tongue moves with grace, his is only a thing of greed. Each chaste peck is met with a hunger from somewhere so foggy and forgotten it never had a home at all, not before now."

Another jackpot where "Beautiful ethereal sentences that hurt you" goes. König finding love (=home) through physical intimacy because he’s such a sensual being despite being clumsy and awkward is so precious to me… You don’t even know! I know we’re all here for the emotional connection as well but when it gets amplified through kisses and lust and smut? It just gets 1000 x better and more tragic. so sue me

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

Living for these metaphors

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

Visceral. Best thing I’ve ever read. Period.

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

SYL FOR PRESIDENT 

No but actually if you’re not a published author by now I will go upstairs and punch God myself. Sorry not sorry!!

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

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

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

In the Arms of Flowers

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

wc: 11k.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ja. Verstanden.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Poor little thing.

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

“Morning, Father.”

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

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

That doesn’t stop his approach.

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

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

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

“How are the carnations?”

“Hm?”

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

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

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

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

“I see…”

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

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

God gives and takes away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And finally, regret comes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t know.”

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

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

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

“Danke… and you?”

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

But she came for him.

She must have hoped to see him.

He thanks his god for that.

— — —

“I bought a phone.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.”

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

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

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

“I don’t want to ruin you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How about a walk?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Nein! That’s not—“

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

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

“You’re misunderstanding.”

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

All hesitation had to be swallowed back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— — —

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God loves him and so do the sainted men.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, she smiles and his heart only feels full.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she returns when he abstains from her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re actually considering it…?”

“I might.”

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

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

“At night is probably not the best time.”

“Well, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

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

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

“… Tomorrow morning would be better.”

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

Stay.

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

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

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

None of it is fair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does that hurt you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scheisse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— — —

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

It’s not avoidance, but a necessity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like her.

“You’re crying…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No… just give me a second.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[d1zzybees]

WHAS YOUR FAVORITE KINDA ART STYLES (i loooove super cartoony expressive shaped ones. Especially if the eyes are together

ME TOOO GRAAAAH!! I love styles that are full of crazy shapes and curves and angles THEY'RE SO GOOD!!! You can def see my prefrences in the #insp tag i use lmao

I love super exaggerated poses and expressions cuz i grew up watching warrior cats stuff or animation memes and it was pretty much the only things i was even allowed to watch (that loosened over time ofc but still) so it's no wonder my style is so bright and bouncy after growing up with that! I still enjoy animation memes now hehe

styles are really cool to think about and i love messign with different styles and my notebooks are FULL of expression/pose practice (perhaps i can share them sometime 👀)

[sonyadance]

Travels and Dancing 21

To start the New Year, I had the chance to spend a weekend with a group of beautiful women doing energy work in a chalet in the Laurentians.   I needed that reset and what a reset!  Wow!  I am forever grateful to everybody I’ve met on my energy work journey in the last 12 years, for all the help, the community, and the work towards an upward spiral, fighting entropy and darkness.  Then I had the honor of going to teach in a beautiful small community not too far from Montreal called Sherbrooke.  I love weekend workshops.  The fact that it is one straight line, no running around between judging, workshops, privates, shows, is one of the advantages; but what I really like is that you follow one or two group for an entire weekend.  You can see them develop together, there are generally more questions being asked because people get to connect and feel safer, there is a theme for the weekend that is always fun for me to create.  I had a beautiful welcome, great workshops and an amazing teacher’s training (which I also loooove to teach) with great teacher’s brains: everybody was asking the right questions, working hard on the art of diagnosing and enjoying themselves.  Future Westies of Sherbrooke, you are in good hands!

I was then invited to come teach for the first time in the community of Waterloo, Ontario.  A baby community of only 2 years old, which the leader, Mikaela Lewis, managed to grow in a way I haven’t seen before.  I have traveled around the world witnessing how wcs develops and, yes, there might be a part we can attribute to timing (wcs being really popular right now, thanks to all our colleagues that are pushing the social media market with IG and TT), but there is just an approach that she has to building that I think she could sell for a lot of money!  It was a beautiful weekend, filled with workshops of various levels, privates and dancing… I think 160 people showed up at the Saturday night dance.  Have you ever seen that after only two years of wcs existing in a town?

It is now the beginning of February of a really mild winter (secret and guilty thank you to global warming) and I am heading towards Philadelphia to practice with one of my partner.  I get there a bit late on Friday, plane delays as usual, and we have a great practice into the night.  The next morning, we wake, head towards the studio, start practicing, and… I mess up my neck.  Fuck.  Let’s say that I haven’t had the best run with health in the last year.  Is it the trauma of what happened last March?  An addition of all the health things I didn’t take care of until now because I felt young and invincible?  Yeah, that sounds about right.  We try to find someone to see me asap so my neck doesn’t freeze for longer than it needs to, I end up going to the massage therapist and babying it all weekend, but we couldn’t get much done.  I am not really good at dealing with health stuff that doesn’t go my way.  It makes me feel powerless and everything I do relies on my body… so I was really disappointed about investing in a plane ticket, time and energy in going to Philadelphia to get as much rehearsal as possible, for my body to say: No.  Thank god my partner is one of the chillest person I know, it helps calm me down and not add catastrophizing thoughts on top of the reality and be able to observe the facts a bit clearly.  Still shitty.

I got some osteopathic treatment when I got home so I’d be able to teach the next weekend.  Québec city it is with the amazing Nelson!  I have mentioned it before in one of the Travels and Dancing, but I love Nelson so much.  There is just an underlying level of trust that I’ve never had with anybody in dancing before (except Stephen for routines, I would have trusted him with my life), that helps us create... anything and everything!  Every time we finish dancing we are like:

- Oh my god!  That was so nice what you did! 

- I didn’t do anything.  What you did was amazing!

- I didn’t do anything either!

Lolll.  We know it now and we understand it is thanks to the immense trust we have between us as human beings first and then as dancers.  So when people ask me, I always try to have Nelson hired along side me.  We taught some workshops together, some individually, did a demo and danced with the beautiful westies there.  Thank you Québec for the amazing weekend!

Next weekend was Sacramento for Capitol Swing.  My first time at this event.  I have heard about the NorCal vs SoCal friendly feud before and I must say, I am definitely NorCal!  I found the people to be so nice and welcoming, just a bit more of a relaxed and true atmosphere than events I’ve been at in SoCal.  Nothing bad, just a difference in vibes.  It’s like if you ask: is Madjam or a chalet type of event better?  Neither.  What do you like?  Do you like big lights, want to be inspired by the best shows in the world and de surrounded by hundreds of people during the social dance or does this overwhelms you and you prefer to have an intimate atmosphere where you can create connections, have the time to dance with most of the attendees and have smaller group workshops?  I don’t think there is a better one, just what you prefer, want and need at this moment in time.  So I would suggest, before booking an event, you inquire about the general vibes and set up of it, and you take a minute to look inside of yourself and check what is best going to suit your path right now.  So Capitol was one of the best ran event I’ve attended, beautiful attention to detail.  I really like Ben and Cameo McHenry’s minds, they are always trying to push the envelop with ideas that follows what they value in dance.  I particularly liked the Champion’s choice Strictly.  The idea was that a Champion asks an All-Star of their choice whom they’d like to dance with, to do Strictly with them.  It was fun to see different pairings than the usual Champions Strictly.  I had a blast dancing with Keerigan. 

Stephen and I did our routine again for the first time since the Open.  We trained, social danced, met new people, it was awesome… until my flight back.  Worse epic I’ve been on. Loll  It started with an 11pm overnight flight and it ended up with, delay, sitting on the tarmac until 3am, returning to the hotel, sleeping for 3 hours, going back to the airport for a pushed back 2pm flight on which they couldn’t find my seat, trying to fix that at check-in for an hour, getting on the plane, getting deplaned again for a 4p, departure, getting so late at my layover that there was no other flight to Montreal for that day, sleeping at the hotel, a total of 48 hours in airport with a 45$ voucher for food (imagine the feast you get for 6 meals at an airport with ALL of that money), missing a day of work, loosing a bunch of money, getting home to sleep a bit and start working the next day.  Loll  Not my best run.  I am still waiting for compensation for that flight, my case number is currently 64 308 in line.

I was finally home for a weekend, which was my birthday weekend!  First birthday in Montreal in 13 years.  Yes!!!!  I was so happy to be able to spend that time with my friends and family.  One of my best friend lend me his apartment so I could invite my friends from school, dance, family members and have a joyous melting pot.  I also had my handsome boyfriend with me all weekend and everything felt perfect!  Thank you so much again to everybody that took the time to come and spend time with me: it means a lot.

Can you believe I had two weekends at home without working (well, still taught some privates and did online work, cause work never ends…) in March?  It felt really good to rest, see my people and finally spend time with my partner.  Time is a bit restricted when one of you works a 9 to 5 and the other one, 4 to 10 and is gone on weekends.  One of the reason I came back to Montreal is also because it is where there is the highest concentration of people I love, but I am never available at the same time as everybody to hang out, so this is something I am trying to change and establish: make enough money at home that I don’t have to go away 4 weekends a month to eat, 2 would be perfect cause I still love and want to do it!!!

I taught an intermediate competition intensive in Montreal and it went amazingly well!  Better than what I could have envisioned.  The concept is to have one for each level of WSDC competition, four hours with a really small group of people (maximum 6 leads and 6 follows) who are currently competing at that level and want a better understanding of what the judges are looking at at that level, the difference between a prelim and a final (until now pretty standard), but then receive individual attention to understand what they need to work on in order to get yeses or place.  I put my judges hat on to help them see what pieces are missing that could give a judge a reason to give them a no, then I give them drills to practice so when they get to their next competition the judges don’t have a quick justification for a no.  Again, it always depends on who’s competing around you, but your job is to make me work so I have trouble leaving you out of the finals.  The students were happy, the teacher was happy, it was a great weekend!

Then I was waiting for Aaron to get to Montreal to practice, but… he wrote me to say that they got delayed.  My first reaction after the Sacramento debacle was: oh no… hopefully it’s not as bad.  It wasn’t.  For the traveler, but they got delayed so bad and had to get rebooked.  The soonest flight he could get rebooked on was for the Sunday night and he had to leave Monday morning.  So that fell through, but!  He managed to rebook for the following week so we had a day to practice before heading to BTO Open!  It was Aaron’s first Canadian event.  I think he enjoyed it. ;-)

BTO was really great this year.  A bit smaller than the previous year if I’m not mistaking, maybe due to the fact that Boston Tea Party resuscitated!  Ayo!  So between Madjam, BTP and BTO, it was a lot in a month for the eastern Canadian westie community.  We did have a crew from Calgary come over, cheer and be absolutely awesome for the weekend, alongside the Toronto, Québec, Ottawa, Montréal, London, Waterloo westies, and more!  My boyfriend came Friday night and saw me dance live for the first time in the Invitational.  I was so excited, but then I couldn’t see him in the crowd when we got on the dancefloor and I thought for some reason he had left!  I looked like a kid looking for their parents in the crowd. Loll  I did put on a show, and obviously, he was still in the room and loved it!  Hihi!!  The Inivational with Philippe Berne was fun, the strictly with Nelson was smooth, and the Pro Show with Nelson was probably my favorite performance of my lifetime.  I taught an advanced workshop with a new concept about shaping and shifting that was really well received, a novice workshop that had a big impact on their dancing, and a strictly tune-up that was really fun.  It was a really filled and fulfilling weekend!

My family was kind enough to postpone Easter dinner for a week so I could join in my “weekend in town” of the month.  It felt so good to see everybody and way too short.  I also had the chance to meet a side of my boyfriend’s family I hadn’t met before and enjoy a long and delicious day/meal.

Then came the Calgary Dance Stampede.  I was supposed to compete in my first country ProPro division, but… life had other plans.  In my entire adult life, of teaching and performing dance, I had never cancelled anything related to work.  Well, one time in Germany, I was in pain for what I didn’t know is what I am awaiting surgery for, and I had to forgo the social dance.  I need gallbladder removal surgery, I am on the wait list, but that can be a really long wait in the Quebec health system, I have been mostly doing fine with just a few crisis here and there.  Until the end of March, I started being in pain 100% of the time.  Not the worse, but about a 5/10, just enough to slowly sap away your energy.  But when I was on the plane to Calgary, I had a horrendous crisis (I was wondering if I should ask them to land the plane) and by the time I landed, I was livid.  I had to find a doctor, get pain medication and managed to teach and judge, but I didn’t have the energy to compete or perform.  I really hope this can get resolved quickly.  Actually, as I am writing this, I have had my first day without pain for a month and I just now realize how much of a difference it makes on my life force.  Besides that, the event was purely magical.  There is something about the country side that is so relax, just a culture I love, that, mixed with wcs, creates a delicious cocktail.  So I had a great time even through all that.

Coming back to Montreal, I cancelled everything non work related so I could conserve energy for that: I can’t stop working now, cause I’ll have to stop working for a month after surgery, so as a self-employed worker, you have to come up with a way to make up for that loss.  So I’m working pain or no pain (mostly pain).  In 2020, I had booked a holotropic breath work retreat with an ex.  As you can imagine, it got cancelled, and I got credited for it.  Years went by and I couldn’t find a retreat on a weekend I wasn’t working and that was close enough for me to drive to… until!  I saw this Chester, Connecticut retreat.  So I booked it.  Four years in the making et voilà!  One of the agreement of the retreat is one of confidentiality about what happens during the weekend, because it is really intimate and vulnerable for most attendees, so I will keep it brief.  It was intense.  I don’t think someone could understand it by just having it described to them: you really have to live it to know it.  And even then, I feel like I don’t know anything about it, that I just dipped my toe in the world of holotropic breath work.  I drove six hours on Thursday to get there in time to check-in and register, we then had an opening circle which was really beautiful and set the tone for a safe, open and vulnerable weekend.  A delicious dinner was served, followed by a preparation workshop so we could be ready for what was going to happen during the weekend (we weren’t… or at least, I wasn’t even with all the talk), and we went to bed early.  My roommate was a blast, we talked and giggled every night before bed.  Friday came with the first three hour session where I was one of the breathers.  My god.  Yep.  That’s it.  30m integration, 1h lunch break, and we were at it again interchanging roles; I was then a sitter for one of the breathers.  My god.  Yep.  1h integration, 1h dinner, and sharing circle.  Everybody went to bed early because we were all absolutely trashed.  Saturday came with the same schedule, except that my partner and I exchanged breathing times.  The guesthouse lit up a ceremonial fire for earth day and some of us went out with a guitar, a harmonica, our voices and a lot of enthusiasm.  It was a great night.  We had a closing circle Sunday and a talk about integration.  I hugged everybody before hitting the road for an exquisite 6h of silence and personal debriefing.  I will have to make another article about this weekend at some point so the readers can understand something of it, but I need more time to integrate and make sure I express things in a way that is respectful to everybody and doesn’t disclose anything that shouldn’t be.

Anyways, thank you for reading until here if you did.  I don’t know who you are, but I’m sending you little particles of love and patience towards yourself.  See you next time!