#ill answer it soon! i just want to write my own thoughts and i have NOOO TIME

[rekofan101]

Err, i think i was wrong about the details of Midori being killed by Alice in the last ask. I’m sorry.

dw, you got it basically right! she does find out he was framed thru midori, because he meets up with her and that's what prompts her to sign the consent form!

[cherryheairt]

Hi :)

I’ve had this headcanon for a while where thranduil, upon falling in love again, makes it quite obvious he feels strongly about reader but won’t push physical limits of affection quite yet. Due to him having been married before he wants to be sure the Gods approve of him falling in love/marrying again as to not cause ill intend to fall upon reader because of him not being in control of his carnal desires. Reader is oblivious to this and pushes/teases him relentlessly.

Might end in smut upon him knowing reader is safe and he may pursue them fully or just him saying fuck it I see no god but me down here lol

Or just might end in him teasing back big time n leaving reader high and dry (but maybe with an explanation lol we love some open communication ✨)

Thank you! And feel free to mix it up and or change ending I’d just love to see a take on this 🙂‍↕️

hello! I'm so sorry that its been forever since you submitted this. thranduil is a character that we only ever got to see in super serious king mode, and had little screentime at that so I wanted to think through his personality a lot. might be ooc

I personally don't know how to write smut, so I didn't include it. I hope that's okay.

The character will be named Myria (meer-rhea), but have no skin color, body shape, hair color, etc description. She is eleven though, if that matters.

👑

The Gods had long since forsaken Thranduil. After he lost his wife, Legolas' mother, the world seemed to darken along with his own attitude. He changed, and everyone in Middle Earth knew it. Legolas never grew up to know the kind and magnanimous person his father was before his late wife's death.

To him, and the world, Thranduil was a stoic and unforgiving King.

To all, perhaps, except Myria. Myria had been born not too long after Thranduil—in Rivendell. Though the two never met until well into adulthood, Myria liked to say that they hit it off well. Thranduil would never admit the same out loud.

Myria moved from Rivendell to Mirkwood for her studies, thanks to her friend Elrond's advisory, and had since lived there for thousands of years. Youthful as ever, Myria made it her unofficial duty to occupy the King of Murkwood's free time.

She had even befriended his only son, Legolas, despite their age gap. The young elf was approaching 3000 years old soon, and he swore that he was more mature than the she-elf that graced their halls.

Myria didn't mind the head shakes or comments from royal advisors, telling her to mind herself around their King. Thranduil had long grown used to it, anyway.

Myria made her way to his royal chambers, uncaring about her unpropriety with visiting without being called upon. This was their daily routine. Thranduil had his meetings before breakfast, then went back to his chambers to dine alone. Or, he would, if Myria wasn't always waiting right there at his table for him.

"What is for breakfast today, My King?" Myria asked jovially, perched upon one of his carved wooden chairs. Originally, there had only been one for himself, but he ordered a matching one to me made after the woman's incessant visits. Before there was a seat, she simply stood at the table. The thought bothered him, a tinging in the back of his mind telling him that she must be on the same level as him, at all times.

Thranduil's long flowing sleeves and cloaks followed behind him as he entered the room. "You ask this every day, Myr. And what is my answer every day?" He asks, though there is no bite to his words.

"That you 'do not know'. Quite amusing, the all-knowing King not knowing something so simple." She mused, scrunching her nose up at his tall frame.

He fought an amused eye roll, sitting in front of her. He poured himself a chalice of sweet red wine, sipping on it as he replied. "Simple, or trivial? I do not concern myself with such affairs, the food is brought to me and I eat it."

"Careful, Thranduil. That may one day get you poisoned." She mirrored his movements, having waited for him to start drinking.

"By whom? Yourself?" He chuckled darkly, amused at the prospect of such a thing. Mirkwood elves' loyalties ran deep, the chances of him dying suddenly from a cold where higher than dying of poison. "You are the only outsider residing here."

Myria 'hmphed' vehemently, lifting her nose at the accusation. "I hardly can be called an outsider these days. How long have I lived here? Four...five thousand years?"

"Five thousand, two hundred and thirty." He answered for her.

Shocked, she stared at him, mouth agape. "You know the exact year?"

"How could I not? That is the year when my life started to get ten times harder."

She snorted, shaking her head. "I disagree. I think it only got better."

Two servants entered the chambers, one plate in hand each. Platters were lifted to reveal the neatly presented food, a light breakfast of fruit and toasted bread.

Myria and Thranduil dug into it, a pleasent chatter filling the room. "What are your plans for today?" She asked him.

"Same as usual, final preparations for the Feast of Starlight. Though, there is a task I wanted to assign you–" Thranduil was interrupted by a guard rushing into the room. He lifted an unimpressed brow, staring the guard down for his brash action.

"Your majesty, a party of rogue Dwarves have been apprehended in the Mirkwood forest!" To this, Thranduil immediately stood and strided past the guard out of the chambers. Myria, struck by the news, eagerly followed in suite.

"You are not supposed to sit in on prisoners being interrogated, Myria." Thranduil told her sternly, knowing the sound of her light steps trailed behind his own heavy ones.

"When has that stopped me before?" She laughed. It had been a nearly a hundred years since she'd seen a dwarf, and much longer than that since one had been in the depths of the Elvenking's Halls. She was excited to see what brave adventurers had come, and survived the dark forest's curse.

Thranduil seated himself at the head of his lifted throne, elegant giant antlers rooting themselves out from behind the throne like a crown. The one perched on his head mirrored that, thick branches striking in contrast to his pure white hair. Myria took a moment to admire him from her spot at the base of the stairs. The guard next to her didn't even blink at her intrusion, knowing the relationship between the ward and the King was a complex one that even the elders didn't bother to deduce.

Myria stayed silent during the precedings, not moving an inch except to lean her head forward and inspect the Dwarves. The party was quite large, a whole gaggle of Dwarves were bravely setting off to reclaim Erebor's keep and defeat the dragon nested under it. The leader, Thorin, was quite handsome for a Dwarf, not that Myria would say so aloud. For all her teasings, that would surely be the tip of the iceburg for Thranduil's patience.

As the majority of the Dwarves were escorted to the dungeons, only Thorin was left in Thranduil's audience. She listened as Thranduil made his offer, then got rejected harshly by the Dwarven King. Screamed at, being told off by a life form deemed lesser than an Elf, Thranduil had enough. He sent the man away with a flick of his wrist.

As he slowly desended the steps after the dwarf 'king' was escorted away, Thranduil placed a hand on Myrias shoulder.

The cold rings on his hand raised goosebumps on the back of her neck and arms, shivering at the feeling. She cursed herself for wearing an off-shoulder dress, dressing herself for the nice weather that morning. If he noticed, Thranduil didn't say anything. But the tiny lift to the corners of his mouth said plenty. "Do not fraternize with the filth that dirties our halls."

Our halls. The brief words pleasently rung in the back of Myria's mind. She nodded. He knew her well, guessing that she would try to sneak into the dungeons during the feast to try to speak with the curious Dwarves.

He moved his hand down, resting it gently on the small of her back. "Let us go, the feast will not oversee itself."

👑

Myria and Thranduil lounged in his chambers, simply biding time until the Feast of Starlight had begun. Admist muted chuckles and jests, mostly from Myria, Tauriel entered the room. "You called for me, My King?" She bowed shortly. "I have come to report to you." Tauriel glanced briefly towards Myria, nodding when she lifted a goblet towards her silvan friend.

"I thought I ordered that nest to be destroyed." Thranduil said, voice taut with frustration. The spiders had been plaguing their forest for years now, unrelenting.

"We cleared the forest as ordered, my Lord." The woman insisted. "But more spiders keep coming from nests in the South. If we could kill them at their source–"

"That fortress lies beyond our borders. Your orders are to keep our lands clear of those foul creatures. That is your task."

"And when we drive them off, what then? Will they not spread to other lands?" Ever the bleeding heart, Tauriel worried for other people.

"Other lands are not my concern." Thranduil said coldly. "The fortunes of this land will rise and fall. But here in this kingdom, we will endure." As had been the way for thousands of years. Thranduil insisted that Mirkwood keep to themselves, not needing or offering help from any others.

Tauriel nodded stiffly, excusing herself from the King's presence. Before she left, however, he spoke again. "Legolas said you fought well today. He has grown...fond of you."

She paused, thinking his words over carefully. "I assure you my Lord, Legolas thinks of me as no more than captain of the guard.

"Perhaps he did once. Now, I'm not so sure." Thranduil pushed.

"I did not think that you would allow your son to pledge himself toward a lowly silvan elf." She responded, voice slightly hopeful.

Myria leaned forward, too, curious of his answer. Would he allow his heir to love an elf with no royale blood?

"You are right, I would not." Thranduil chuckled humorlessly at the thought of it. Myria bit her tongue, hurt by the comment indirectly. She was no common-born Elf, sure, but had no royal blood to speak of either. She deflated in her seat, drinking down the rest of her wine. "Do not give him hope where there is none."

Is that what Thranduil had been doing for Myria, merely giving her hope? Slivers of special attention, with no intentions of truly loving her. She stood from her seat, leaving the chambers without a word.

Tauriel, too, left quickly after that.

Thranduil stood alone in his chambers, looking at the spot where Myria had once been.

👑

The feast came and passed quickly, Myria in no mood to sing or dance like she usual did at such events. She attended for the sake of politeness, leaving when she had greeted enough people for the night.

She spend the rest of it wallowing in her chambers.

Word got out that the entire party of Dwarves escaped, and Myria silently applauded them for their boldness. She hoped, for their sake, that they were successful in freeing their home.

Days passed, and news of Smaug's death had spread to every corner of Middle Earth. Thranduil was quick to organize his army to march toward Erebor, wasting no time to retrieve his precious gems. Myria had come along on her own white elk mount, following behind Thranduil silently, if only to satiate her curiosity. Last time they had come, Thranduil had rejected the Dwarves' desperate plea for help. This time, he came to declare war if they refused to return his gems.

The damned gems. Always on his mind. True, they were a physical reminder of his late wife and Queen. But it seemed as though he dwelled on them more than he cherished her memory. He did not speak of her, ever. Even to his own son, his wife was but a ghost haunting the halls.

Myria couldn't begin to understand the loss of a spouse, but she did understand that he was too caught up in himself.

Even though she had little intention of fighting the Dwarves, Myria still brought a dagger and bow on the march. Could never be too careful, Thranduil always reminded her. She guided her elk to stand behind his, watching him greet the human leader stiffly. It was almost laughable how mad his manners were, his kingly presence deemed to good for polite small talk.

Myria had been given a temporary quarter near Thranduil's, their tents close as they usually were. He had been too busy to notice her absence lately, both to her joy and displeasure. She missed his daily warmth around her, but knew it was best to distance himself from him. Just this last journey, then she sould go back to Rivendell to live out the rest of her long and lonesome life.

Thranduil plotted with the human leader, Bard, and a wizard by the name of Gandalf. Myria wandered the decrepit town while they did, having no place in war council, nor did she wish to.

By the time she had returned, night had fallen and all the humans of the town were asleep. Myria ducked into her tent, desperate for some solid rest before a potential battle on the morrow. She was surprised to see Thranduil sitting awkwardyl on her cot.

"Thranduil? What are you doing here, you should be resting." Myria insisted, brow furrowed.He stood at her entrance, possibly being left waiting for quite a while.

"I wished to see you before we go to Erebor's gates in the morning. I suspect that the Dwarf will have something up his tiny sleeve. I know you are a capable fighter, but I want you to stay in town tomorrow just in case."

She protested sharply, "I am just as much a fighter as any elf in your army. I will not sit around and wait for you to return–"

"Please, Myria." He rested both of his hands on her shoulders, looking down at her with his deep blue eyes "I could not focus if I knew you were behind me somewhere. If I know you are safe, I can retrieve the jewels easier." Always about the jewels. He should have married them, she thought bitterly.

"Is that an order?"

"It is a request. From a friend." Thranduil said softly.

Myria bit her cheek, crossing her arms. "Fine. I will stay here on the morrow. But, if any fighting breaks out, I will join."

He seemed content with her answer, knowing its as far as he'll get with her stubbornness. "Very well, I'll see you when this is over." He planted a tender kiss to the top of her head before he left to his own tent.

👑

Myria could only watch from afar as negotiations with the Dwarves had clearly gone to shit. More dwarves had shown up, an entire army to match the Elves' golden one. Myria rushed back to grab her bow, bursting out of her tent to the sound of screams in the town. Surely the Dwarves wouldn't target the women and children who had stayed behind?

She was right. It was orcs who had invaded the town, cutting off exits as they slashed through defenseless crowds of people. Myria rushed to help whoever she could, shooting down orcs' fat heads whenever they got too close to a fleeing human. With her dagger, she slashed through whoever she could reach to retrieve each of her arrows.

This arduous process repeated for some time, Myria panting with effort as she continued. The sounds of screams toned done as golden-armored soldiers flooded into the cobble streets and started to push back at the beastly creatins. Myria breathed a sigh of relief, engaging another orc. It was larger than most, with armor protecting its head and chest. She slashed at his with a sword she had taken from dead enemy, yelping when he stabbed into her abdomen with his own weapon. She gasped, trying to keep her composure as he approached above her menacingly. As he lifted his sword above his head again, ready to strike down the Elf, his head was detached from his body in a spray of hot blood.

Myria flinched at the feeling on her skin, feeling disgusted more than she already was with the sweat and dirt covering her. Thranduil came from behind the orc, who was now dead on the floor. He crouched down in front of her, a frantic look in his eye that betrayed his regal appearance. "Myria, look at me!" He shouted, her blurry vision shakily focusing on him. He held her face in his hands, watching her try to keep them open. "It's okay, I'll get you help." Thranduil promised her, gingerly lifting her up princess style. He flinched when she protested in pain, clutching at her stomach to stop the blood from gushing out.

"It's okay, you'll be alright, sweet." He told her, repeating himself multiple times as if to convince himself, too.

He brought her outside of the town, where Elven medics had set up a discreet few tents disguised to the orc's vision by Elven magic. The King layed her gently on a stiff cot, petting her hair comfortingly as she screamed in pain at the medic disinfecting and stitching her wound up. He glared at the Elf assigned to help her, making the poor young fellow sweat in fear of messing uo in front of his King.

Eventually, the sounds outside died out. Thranduil regretted taking his forces to this pit of death. He had lost more Elves today than had ever been lost at one time since the Great War. Elves did not die easily. This was a massacre of great damage to their ranks, to their people. Thranduil mourned the deaths of his kin dearly.

Myria had calmed, pain dulling when given some numbing herbs. She focused her attention on Thranduil, "you came for me." She said, voice barely a whisper.

"Of course, I did. Why wouldn't I?" He asked, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles.

"Your gems...they're still locked away in the keep, aren't they?" She asked.

"The gems are not my priority. They are merely objects, remembrances. You are alive, I need you."

Myria felt tears blurr her vision, clamping her throat shut. "But–I am not from any important bloodline. I am not a Princess, nor—"

"I do not care. You are Myria. The woman who has been by my side for five thousand years. The only lady worthy of being Queen by my side is you."

Thranduil took her into his arms as she cried. He shushed her gently, hands locked into her hair as she clung to him.

"I love you, Thranduil. I have for a long, long time."

"And I, you, my dearest Myr."

[enderblogs-25]

"Everyone's autistic now," "Why's there so much autism," "So many kids faking autism these days."

You know. I had been suspecting I was autistic since I started to understand what that meant, around middle school. I was working with two different autistic kids in a Girl Scout troop I led with my mom, and they did/said things that felt familiar. But I didn't dare bring up those thoughts, because my little cousin was autistic, that was his thing, and I didn't want to seem like I was looking for attention.

I started looking into autism for real when I hit my 20's, because those suspicions never went away... just buried. I had been focusing on other areas of my life anyway - my transition. But that was over, and I could see that things were still "off" about me. I love diving deep into different disabilities, disorders, and mental illnesses, but avoided autism because I was scared of what I'd find. I took maybe one test, masked up and guarded as hell, and because of that it said I wasn't autistic. I didn't answer truthfully, so I went looking elsewhere. ADHD, maybe. I ended up trying to get an ADHD diagnosis, and got misdiagnosed with a personality disorder that can be misdiagnosed in autistic adults. I felt I didn't have an option but to accept the diagnosis, because I was on my way to Chicago; out of time and out of money.

Nearly six months after the misdiagnosis, while I had been looking into the personality disorder and knew for certain I didn't meet the criteria for a diagnosis, (but masked through the appointments, which is how I got it) I had worked extensively on unmasking. I learned many neurodivergencies masked, and thought I'd give unmasking a shot, soon realizing I'd been doing it forever. Once I got better at unmasking, I eventually looked into autism again. What would it hurt to be told no twice? I took a couple quizzes again. Slowed down, answered honestly, and gave every answer my full attention. And I scored high on every one. It was terrifying. But it was also... a relief? While a few of those quizzes weren't too be taken seriously, I did take tests on official sites made by and for autistic people. When I came home from Chicago in summer 2022, I told my mom and showed her all my past scores on official tests like the RAADS, one of which I take annually. Part of me still has doubts that I'm not faking it, I guess.

All of this, at least past 2021, has occurred while people have been posting their own stores about discovering and getting diagnosed as adults. While I initially started looking into things on my own, hearing these people's stories on occasion really, really helped. Random strangers on the internet in a reel telling me they'd been overlooked because they were afab, did well in school, and didn't have many other adults around to see a difference... really helped. I could sneak into the autistic tags on Tumblr and look around at posts, relate to them silently, write down my findings in my little notebook, and go about my day. This "autism boom" as it were really helped, just because everyone suddenly showing off who they are, telling the world "I'm different and that's okay," really, really... helped. I know why I've always felt different and wrong, I know why I struggle with certain things, and I know why certain things will likely never be possible on my own. That's so much better than going thrift my life wondering and beating myself up because I can't function like everyone else.

Everyone isn't suddenly being diagnosed as autistic, now. People are just... starting to listen. Starting to get more comfortable. Obtaining more resources. And it's really nice. ❤️

[paingoes]

Destroyer

Medical Conference

hi guys um. i cant stop writing destroyer. i swear ill figure out a system to organize these “bonus” chapters soon i promise i promise

delta is eighteen in this but the chapter delves into abuse he experienced when he was a child so cw for that

(Content: living weapon whumpee, lab whump, medical whump, put on display, dehumanization, conditioning, noncon drugging, needles, non-consensual/nonsexual nudity, noncon touching, physical abuse, emotional whump, angst, child abuse, child death mention, parental whump?)

~

“I forgot, sir,” Delta tried weakly. He knew as soon as he said it that he should’ve just kept quiet.

“No, you didn’t. You’re going to lie about it as well?” Dr.Martino shut down the attempt, focusing his attention back to the device.

Delta laid down unmoving against the steel table as the scanner searched over him. It gave him mild electric shocks each time it passed. Of course, he hadn’t been looking forward to the diagnostic tests. But he hadn’t been trying to get out of it entirely. That wouldn’t have worked. He only wanted more time to psych himself up for it. Too long, apparently. He’d had to be collected for it. It’d been a bad note to start on.

The rest of the exam went on in silence, without anymore mention of his avoidance. As Delta redressed, he thought he might’ve been off the hook for it. Dr.Martino was fumbling though his desk drawers like he’d already left. 

He produced two unopened packs of pencils from inside the desk. Delta deflated a little bit. 

Delta took the pencils and arranged them in two rows along the floor, lined up flush against one another. Gingerly, he kneeled down on top of them.

“Hands behind your back,” the doctor said, leaning back in his chair.

Already there. He knew the drill. He lowered his head, silently counting. No longer than twenty minutes, usually. No fewer than ten.

When he looked up again, Martino was leaning back against the table, flipping through a folder.

“The ISCEM conference is coming up in a month,” he said offhandedly, as if this would mean something to him.

“Okay?” Delta answered, more in confusion than anything else. He hadn’t meant for it to be disrespectful. 

Nevertheless, Dr.Martino’s shoe pressed down against his calf, driving the pencils further into his skin. 

“Yes, sir,” he quickly corrected himself. The pressure disappeared. The pain stayed where it was.

“You were probably too young to remember the last one, weren’t you?” Dr.Martino sighed.

“Yes, sir.” He didn’t really think about it. He was pretty distracted by the numbness traveling down his legs.

“Well, put it on your calendar. Don’t want you forgetting again.”

“Yes, sir.” 

He didn’t have a calendar.

~

“Mention the steady-state thing we discussed. I have files on it, I - is it too late to make a copy? I will. And if you could just please pass along a message for me, I would be ever so grateful,” Simon went on, fumbling through his own briefcase, trying to give what he could. Dr.Martino took the reports from him, flipping them around to see the equations he’d scribbled onto the back.

“You’re not coming? Sir?” Delta added the “sir” on as an afterthought, conscious of the doctor’s presence. Simon himself rarely demanded such formalities.

“Don’t interrupt,” Dr.Martino snapped, more tense than usual. But Simon obliged him, stepping a little closer.

“Not my scene.” Simon patted his head. It was soft, but Delta reflexively flinched away from any hands that drew too near to his face. 

Something on the desk beeped. The transit had rafted up. 

Delta held his wrists up easily as Martino presented the cuffs. They were psychic tech, meant to restrict his powers more than the collar already did. Presumably some kind of safety measure. He felt his world going flat as they clicked into place, all his spatial awareness reduced to a single field of view. The effect was extremely disorienting. He nearly fell over getting off of the table.

~

He’d mostly evened out by the time they’d gotten to the hotel. He sat idly against the chair he’d been placed in, watching the doctor unpack. Everything in the room was the same shade of beige. 

It seemed like they should’ve been able to go. Martino abruptly produce a vial from the bag. Delta recognized it as a sedative. He inserted the syringe into it, drawing it back up.

“I’ll behave, sir,” Delta offered. He eyed the needle warily; he’d usually have been given something in the way of warning.

Martino shook his head. He took a firm grip of Delta’s arm.

“Believe me, this is for your own good.”

Delta tensed his arm up, holding still as the needle entered him. Something cold shot into his veins. It took a long time for the chamber to empty. 

~

It hit him before they even reached the elevator. He clung to Martino’s arm, needing something to brace himself against, however briefly. Martino assured him he wouldn’t have to stand for long. They moved backstage at the panel. Delta nearly collapsed into the fold-up chair.

The cuffs were briefly removed as he was given the medical gown to wear. His hands moved slower than he would’ve liked, but he was able to put it on. It tied along the front, leaving much of his chest exposed.

Dr.Martino took a minute to make sure it was fitted correctly. He cursed, noticing for the first time the visible boot print against the side of Delta’s ribs. 

“Great. They’re going to think I beat you.”

You do beat me, Delta thought. Not as much as he used to. Not as much as Paris. But Martino still hit him. 

The doctor felt over the bruise with his hand, reigniting the pain. Delta winced. It was recent — still tender. The sedative helped a bit. All his thoughts were coming to him in a haze.

There was nothing that could be done to cover it, so apparently they were just going to ignore it. The cuffs came back on around his wrists. He led Delta out onto the platform regardless, sitting him up against the stool. It was had a back to it, luckily. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to stay upright without it. He’d been trained enough not to slouch or to look so outwardly high, but it was definitely a struggle to maintain neutrality. He kept his head down. It was the safest, the easiest to maintain for a long period. People gradually filed in. Though he was used to being put on display, the sterility and lack of decorum in this new space made the whole thing feel all the more jarring. It all felt far away, though.

His eyes closed without meaning to. When he tuned back in, Dr.Martino was droning on. He recognized some of the words. He would’ve recognized more if he wasn’t drugged. It was a talk about internal power generation. Conduits. There was a hand on his shoulder. Delta stood up from the chair. The gown was pulled down a bit from his shoulders.

Martino pressed the multimeter to his collarbones, watching the number climb until it broke. He pulled it away before it could burn up completely. He pressed a thin disk up against Delta’s chest, where it held there. It was some kind of controller. A thin arc of electricity emerged from it without any conscious intention on his part. More appeared, each of them branching away from his body like a plasma ball. The effect was immediate; that familiar fear crept into the eyes of the audience. 

It cut all at once. The disk was removed. Delta sat back down on the chair, pulling the gown back up over himself. 

The lights darkened. Behind him, a clip show began to play. He didn’t need to look back. He’d seen it plenty of times. Different explosions, annihilations, destructions. All his own work. He could recount each of them to the second. It played for a long time.

For some reason, they clapped when it was over.

~

“Sorry — do you mind if I look at it?” 

Delta opened his eyes again, sensing the it in question. He tensed up. 

He hated being touched. The moderator stripped the gown back again. He felt the electric pulse still going about Delta’s clavicle. His hands traveled around the collar. 

“I’m biomedical by trade,” the man explained, tapping at the gold, “This is custom, yes? When was it made?”

“The model’s about five years old. It gets updated about once a year.”

“Incredible. I see some scarring, though.”

Delta shivered as the fingers traced the burn scars by his neck, a bit on his trapezius. They were in the shape of a Lichtenberg figure.

“That seems non-optimal?”

“Those actually predate the collar. They’re a natural result of it overextending itself during an exercise. The restrictor works as a stopgap to prevent that kind of burnout.”

Though he’d expected it, it still jarred Delta just how easily Martino slipped back into calling him it.

Another scientist approached. She slid up to Martino, shaking his hand eagerly.

“Oh, darling.” He embraced her. She grinned, readjusting her jacket as they pulled away.

“Danny, it’s been ages. How are the girls?” Her nails clicked together.

Danny. The girls. Martino actually had a family. Not that he ever saw them. He had daughters. They’d been kids, the one and only time Delta had ever met them. They had to be in their twenties by now. 

“Brats, the lot of them. They’re smart, though. Smarter than I was at their age.”

“Well, that’s not saying much.”

Delta was not surprised when her hands traveled onto him. He barely flinched this time. But he hadn’t expected her to speak to him.

“Oh, and look at you. You’re all grown up now, huh?” 

She gripped his chin in between her fingers, studying his face. The touch wasn’t harsh, nor was it gentle.

“You probably don’t remember me.”

That was correct. Her face was vaguely familiar, but he could find no memories to attach to it.

“He’s a bit distant at the moment. You’ll have to forgive him,” Martino answered for him.

She released her grip, turning her attention back to the doctor. Even in his current state, it didn’t take him long to put it together. She’d been one of the teachers at the Institute. He wondered how many of them were wandering around out there now. Most of them. Dr.Martino had been the only one to retain some semblance of his position. All the other administrators had been cast away just the same as the students.

He had forgotten nearly every one of their names.

~

Martino packed up the last of the day’s display materials, arranging all of it back into the suitcase. It’d been a success, as far as these things go. He’d revealed all he could without breaching the terms of his contract. All the real science was under a strict NDA. It was nice to catch up with some colleagues, though. It was healthy to be off of a spaceship every once in a while.

He tugged Delta’s sleeve, pulling him up from the plastic chair. He took a minute to undo the cuffs; he’d thought they were an excessive measure to begin with and they had prevented any real show of power. Delta rubbed idly at the marks they had left there.

They made their way back up to the hotel room. The drug had not yet worn off; Delta still stumbled a bit when he walked. He’d redressed himself in a thick hoodie, trying to keep out the chill from the overactive AC or perhaps just trying to hide. 

The door opened. Martino dropped his suitcase onto the bed. Presumably out of habit, Delta lowered himself to the floor, kneeling there. Waiting for instructions, as if he could have followed them. Martino scoffed. 

“You can sit on the bed. I booked a double room for a reason.”

He watched the whole minute it took for his words to sink in. The way it took even longer for Delta to actually rise, blearily climbing up onto the mattress. His hands gripped searchingly across the blanket, pulling up the edges like he needed something to hold onto.

Martino ignored him. He moved to the far side of the room and opened the door to the balcony. The city skyline was clearly visible just down the road. The lights from it shone brighter than the stars from space. Martino produced one of the foreign cigarettes from its packet. The ember burned in the dark night. It was all quiet.

“What was I like when I was little?”

He turned to look at Delta. The kid was drugged out of his mind. He might’ve given him too much.

Dr.Martino took a long drag. He rarely smoked, so used to the endless sterility that he would not so much as dirty the air. But tonight was a rare night.

“What were you like?” He ashed the cigarette, turning back to look at the night skyline. “I don’t remember.”

Delta looked down, disappointed. He pulled the blanket tighter around himself. Martino sighed, losing the battle.

“…You were quiet. Same as you are now. You mostly kept to yourself.”

He gave no visible reaction.

“You didn’t get along so well with the other kids,” Martino admitted, some disdain entering his voice. 

Delta looked up. His expression was totally blank.

“Why do you hate me?” he asked.

It was manipulative, and self-pitying in a way that did not flatter him. Martino put the cigarette out. He stepped back into the room.

Delta shrank back a bit. The doctor looked him over. His eyes had dimmed some, no doubt due to the sedative. His hands were unbloodied. Just looking at him, no one would have know what he’d done. Martino remembered the sound of bones snapping and the bodies out in the yard. He remembered the expression Delta had worn the first time he’d killed — as blank and unfeeling as the one he wore now. He did hate him, he supposed. He’d never been his favorite. All his favorites had been buried a long time ago.

He didn’t say that. He remembered his lines — and he cursed himself for ever diverging from them, even for a second. He would correct it now.

“There is no you.”

Delta opened his mouth as if to object, then thought better of it. Good.

“No more talking tonight,” Martino said.

Delta nodded, laying down onto the mattress. He fell asleep with all the lights on.

…………

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @vivulapom @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety @pigeonwhumps

[selfship-confession-box]

Hey everyone!

so its been.. *checks watch* a little over a month since my last post. i am not yet posting confessions again yet, but expect the queue to start up again within maybe a week :-) i have a break from school soon, so i decided to start this account back up again.

but, as i said, confessions will not yet be posted. This is because i want to take the time to get other mods on this account, because it is admittedly tiring to run this account by myself =_= though, the form i have previously mentioned, has not been made. i think it would be simpler if those interested simply dmed me and stated what they'd help the account with. (aka im lazy and dont really want to make a form lollll)

the max amount of mods ill take is mmmm. 5, perhaps. ill post whenever the spots are all taken. feel free to dm me anytime about wanting to be a mod ^w^ (when dming me, please state a signoff youd like to use :-] just for simple things... like if u write smthng on the tags u can sign that off idk. also to put ur pronouns in the intro post :3)

also, unimportant! but, i would like to recommend a song album i enjoy quite a lot :-] its called BURN PYGMALION!!! by The Scary Jokes, and I thought some of you guys would enjoy the music as i do! (also check out their others songs too if ur interested..... sorry i really like this band lololol)

anyway, back on topic. ill list the tasks that mods do below the cut :-) have a good day/night, fellow selfshippers! and stay safe.

TASKS

Queue confessions, of course

Update the anon list

Reblog selfship content that we are tagged in (or your own art :3)

Answer dms (if there are any- its a rare occasion honestly)

(If i forgot anything to add on the tasks, please let me know- i feel like im forgetting something XD)

and also! for mods!

[aetherdoesthings]

I heard you wanted requests and I came running Aether. I fucking bolted. I cannot tell you how fast I pressed the 'ask' button. Also, if you're still sick make sure to take care of yourself first before doing requests!!!!

Anyways. Robin x gn!reader requested as always :3333 so there's this specific scene in my head thats been playing in my head lately and I crave hurt/comfort.

Either Robin or Reader being insecure about having scars and thinking their body, and the other reassures them that they love them regardless by kissing them/tracing them. And it's a bit suggestive? Like it's not meant to be sexual but one of the two is at least half-naked. I'm not sure if this is okay to request as an anon. If not, totally reject this, but I oust thought it's a cute idea.

And need I remind you that regardless you do it or not ill always love your work and will patiently wait if you do? No, I don't? Great. Anyways, love ya aether my beloved, stop manifesting hanahaki

-Enies Lobby anon (patiently waiting for pt.4 of hanahaki [I'm gnawing at the bars of my enclosure])

you can tell by that last statement how long this ask was asked 😭

forethoughts: apologies this took a while; this one hit a little too close to home for me :_). there's been a lot happening in my life, including but not limited to a stalking man whom tried to manipulate me :D. regardless, i hope you enjoy this one!! went back to my roots of a nico robin lover for this.

notes: made this one fem!reader because i wanted to write this to my younger self. robin is naked in this. they don't fuck, but robin and reader is like 1 1/2 naked. really soft and fluffy. word count: 2k

“Do you have anything else you have to do tonight, Y/N?” You looked up from the book Robin had gifted you, to find the gifter herself standing in your doorframe, her arms resting on top of one another as she gave you a warm smile. You slipped a piece of paper in the pages of the book, before standing up and facing your girlfriend. 

“Uhm, no, not really. Why’d you ask?” You replied. It wasn’t uncommon for Robin to suddenly pop up in your room ever since you had confessed your feelings to her. Although you slept in her room now, you still used your room as your study to do your work and to hide from everyone else when your social battery went down. 

“I was just wondering if you would like to join me for a bath. We’ve been together for quite a while now, and if you’re alright with it, I’d like it if we could bathe together.” Robin proposed.

Your heart did a backflip, dropping all the way to your stomach. You knew this day would come; you just didn’t know it would come this soon. Ever since you had confessed your feelings to Robin, the day that the two of you would be comfortable enough to bathe together was like a doomsday countdown in your mind. It wasn’t that you did not want to see what Robin looked like underneath two layers of clothing, but something else that had been gnawing at you for years of your life.

“Uhm…” That was the only sound that escaped out of your mouth; the rest were lost in the abyss of your mind. 

“It’s alright if you’re not comfortable; I do not wish to do something that makes you feel uncomfortable for my sake. Still, you should still take a bath soon. It’s getting late.”

“Well…” You sighed, shaking your head. Your fingers twiddled around the hem of your shirt, scrunching it up and releasing it. You could feel Robin’s eyes casted onto the top of your head, encouraging the neurons in your brain to speed up and think of an answer. 

“I… I guess… I should take a bath… we could do it together…” You regurgitated each word, looking at the wooden floorboards. Robin’s eyes analyzed your entire body, nitpicking each detail and examining your facial expressions. She did that everytime you were upset or doing something uncharacteristic. Still, it made you feel like you were under scrutiny by your own girlfriend who had also confessed her love to you. 

“Are you sure?” Robin simply asked.

“Y-Yeah. Totally.” You nodded your head, despite your eyes still downcast. Robin let out a sigh, accepting that you weren’t going to give her any other answer.

“Alright then. Let’s go.”

Everyone had unpredictable showering schedules: Luffy and Zoro could go on for a week, Usopp and Chopper every three days, and everyone else would shower every day. Franky had built bathhouses for each gender, so that you, Nami and Robin wouldn’t have to share the same bathhouse with Sanji. Compared to the boy’s, the bathhouse you shared with Nami and Robin always smelled like tangerines or lavender, depending on who used it last. The water was warm (thankfully), and every amenity you could ever need for person hygiene was available. 

Since Nami had just used the shower, the room was filled with the smell of tangerines. You didn’t mind it; you were used to the smell after being part of the Straw Hats for a while. You walked into the bathhouse behind Robin, your eyes gazing at the woman face a wall, removing her clothes without any problem at all. One second, that navy blue jacket and salmon sarong skirt was on her body. The next, she was fully naked and already heading towards the tub. Your feet were glued to the wooden planks below, eyes glued to the sight in front of you. 

Your contact with her was severed as Robin turned her head to look at you, a quizzical look on her face as she observed your fully clothed body standing feets away from the tub. A phantom flick on your forehead brought you back to reality, your mind racing with thoughts that triumphed over Robin's voice.

“Y/N, is something wrong?” The four words drove into that tiny bottle you kept near your heart, cracks starting to appear. Robin had moved closer to the edge of the tub, a hand resting on the wooden frame. Her brows were furrowed, her lips pursed as her eyes analyzed your body again, reading you like a poneglyph.

In the midst of the bathhouse, you could hear your heartbeat thud over the sound of the water moving around. If you could hear it, Robin could definitely hear it too. There was no point in hiding anything from her; she was Nico Robin. 

In your silence, Robin spoke again. “Is something on your mind that’s bothering you? Would you like to talk about it?”

Robin was always aware of how you felt at any given moment, and she was always willing to give you space and let you decide how you wanted to proceed with anything. Robin was the buoy you desperately clinged onto in the middle of a raging storm in the seas. The rope was never weathered down by the heavy downpour. Everytime Robin did something, said something, you could feel your body moving along with the rope, dragging you ever so close to the place you knew you were safe in.

Safe. Safe. That was what Robin was. Safe. With her around, you always felt safe. She always listened and paid attention to all your needs and made sure you were alright. She always went out of the way to make sure you were healthy and well. She was the one that was there to remind you you were loved when you yourself forgot to. Safe.

“Uhm…” Your voice cracked; even with just one word you could feel the corners of your eyes beginning to burn and body shaking alongside the ship. “T-There’s something that is on my mind, and i-is bothering me.”

You were actually doing this. Every part of your body was screaming at you, protesting and shutting down. Despite what you thought and believed, your body rebelled. You couldn’t blame your body; of course they would try and protect you from harm or stepping into unknown territories.

Robin stayed quiet, the corners of her mouth lifting ever so slightly. It was her way of telling you that you were welcome to say whatever you wanted, and she would be there to listen.

“I…” You bit your dry and cracked lips, looking down at your feet. “Remember that fight we had with the marines a few weeks ago?”

“Yes. I recall you were injured.” Robin’s stoic expression broke as she remembered your injury that left you immobile. However, she does not interject, letting you continue.

“It’s better; Chopper says I’m okay now, but…” You sighed. “Ever since then… I’ve become scared. I’ve become terrified to look in the mirror without my clothes on, let alone have anything that exposes… you know.”

A steady stream of air exits out of Robin’s mouth. When no words could roll off your tongue, Robin stood up from the tub, drying herself with the help of her multitude of hands. She walked over to you, causing your heartbeat to feign a heart attack. “May I?”

“S-Sure.” You didn’t know what Robin was going for, but you weren’t too disappointed with the results. Robin set the back of her fingers alongside your cheek, before cupping your face with both of her hands, tilting your head to face her.

“My darling…” Robin whispered, her hands moving down to your shoulders. “Can I see? Please.”

“Why do you want to see something… horrendous?”

Robin frowned at your choice of words, shaking her head. “Y/N, nothing about you is horrendous. Your mind, your body, your heart, none of that. You are perfect. You are who you are, no matter what. Please don’t call yourself horrendous when all I can see is goodness and kindness. I don’t want you to be terrified of the shell that protects that loving and caring heart of yours. I don’t want to see you be ashamed and afraid of your own skin.”

The corners of your eyes begin to burn. With just one blink, the floodgates burst open. You stood there in front of Robin, your shoulders rising and falling, choked and garbled sobs exiting your mouth as tears rolled down your face. Your heart churned, fighting off that foreign feeling that felt so wrong, but so right at the same time. A paradox of emotions. You felt so wrong for breaking down in front of the person you called home, but so… good for breaking down in front of the person you called home.

“Shh… Sh… it’s alright. You’re safe. You’re safe, Y/N. You’re alright.” Robin’s arms wrapped around your head, pulling you closer to her chest. Her still nude chest. In any other circumstances you’d be thrilled at the situation you were in. But vulnerability overpowered lust, and you let out a choked sob, burying your head in between Robin’s supple breasts, allowing yourself to melt into your touch and allowing yourself to be comforted. Drunk on overwhelming comfort and love, you didn’t even notice Robin’s duplicate hands lift your shirt up. You reluctantly removed your hands around Robin’s neck, moving away from your lifeline as your armor was stripped away. A choked protest exited your mouth as Robin placed her hands on your bare shoulders, not allowing you to run to her like a child to her mother. The only sound in the room was your heavy breathing, running faster than your heart was. When that familiar feeling of her hand removed, you stopped breathing, the deafening silence filling the room. 

Shit. Shit. Shit. She’s mad. She’s disgusted. She’s repulsed. She’s-

Soft lips were planted on one of the many scars littered on your body, then again, trailing downwards. Robin’s tongue flicked against your bruises, kissing it and swirling around the area. Her hands were around your waist, head making its way towards every scar you bore. Every kiss, every little touch or lick sent spiders up your spine, a shocked gasp involuntarily leaving your mouth. 

“My beautiful. My beautiful Y/N.” Robin murmured, her breath against the most vulnerable and hidden spots of your body. You stifled a gasp, your hand shooting up to your mouth as Robin continued to kiss every single abnormality from your skin. “My beautiful. My strong Y/N. I am so proud of you. I am so proud of you for being so brave. I love you so much. My love, in this vast world, you alone are the epitome of grace, the prettiest in the world. How could I ever be repulsed by the sight I see?”

Robin stood up, her hands slithering from your waist to your cheeks, as she wiped your tears away. She looked at you with a smile, kissing your forehead, your nose, and finally your lips. When you couldn’t breathe and choked on your breath, she was there, giving you the oxygen in her lungs to breathe, to stabilize yourself. When your legs couldn’t hold your body, she was there, holding you up with her arms. 

When you couldn’t speak, when all you could make was choked sobs and unintelligible rambles like a baby, Robin was there. She was always there. “My love, never be ashamed of the scars on you. They are a testimony to the challenges you face. They tell the story of a battle you fought, and won. Do not deny them, for your scars do not make you weak. They make you strong. My strong beautiful Y/N. My love.”

[divaofmads]

Forever In My Heart | King Baldwin

Part I | Part II

Gif by @princess-of-thebes-1995 Dividers by @saradika-graphics pictures by Pinterest

Summary: Baldwin knew that his illness would not allow him to live long. Unfortunately, he did not have an heir to leave the throne to, and since he was of French origin, he demanded an heir from the French kingdom to take over the throne after he died. So King Louis VII sent his younger son and his wife to go to Jerusalem and make a deal with the King.

Warnings! : Toxic Relationship, (King Baldwin is 20, Prince Hugh is 25, Y/N is 19), No Y/N using (Princess Maria), Inspired by history. It is not real historical events exactly, There are chronological mistakes, I apologize for the mistakes I made in English that is not my native language and I am trying to improve my writing skills

A/N: No one's religious beliefs were disrespected. The story was written by researching the ideas of that period.

A/N 2 : You can imagine whoever you want to play the bad guy(Please comment who do you imagine).

" 5th June 1173

My lover who is more beautiful than anything. My lady with lips sweeter than honey, a complexion that would make the moon jealous, and eyes brighter than the sun. The angel who inspires me. You're in my dreams when I sleep, you're the first thing that comes to my mind when I wake up. I miss you so much that every day we are apart I pray to Jesus that my father will return from crusade as soon as possible and start making preparations for our wedding.

After that incident, after the doctors had a dilemma about whether I might be sick, I thought that your father the emperor wanted our engagement not to be official, using his relations with the Seljuk State as an excuse. Forgive me for such impertinent ideas, my love. I would never betray you and your family. However, the crusades that my father Amalric started against the Fatimids by joining forces with the French and Germans showed me that what prevents our marriage is fate. But I know. No matter how late it is, our lives will be united, you will be the most respected queen the Latin kingdom has ever seen. Christian and Muslim healers will soon produce a cure for my illness together. Don't think about me. I will be fine, knowing that you love me gives me strength, my queen. Always be happy, be healthy. Always remember me. Dream about our future during the days we are apart, because I do. May the God who reigns in the heavens and watches over the whole world protect you.

I think the reason you didn't reply to my previous two letters is because you were busy, but this time I'm eagerly waiting for you to reply to my letter, my love. My heart is with you forever."

Who could love a man whom even God has cursed?

1180 4th June

When the night covered the lands of Jerusalem like a blanket, Baldwin stood by the window and watched his kingdom. God had given this holy city to the Crusaders and had stood by them. The Latin kingdom acted as a protector against the increasingly powerful Muslim invaders. Although the failure of the 2nd Crusade had caused a lack of trust among the Crusader countries, he was the only great king who was able to unite the Holy Land after his father Amalric died. His people were pleased with him. Despite being a Crusader commander, he did not want anyone to be treated unfairly, regardless of religion or race. But why did the king not feel proud when his people loved him so much?

When he looked at his reflection in the golden goblet he held in his hand, the answer to the question was actually very clear. Despite everything, he was the cursed king. He was weak and incapable for Muslims. How could a king who was struggling for his own health deal with state issues? He was also a servant lower than a pig. He was created so ugly because they did not believe in the same god. Just as ugly and useless as a pig. Saladin should have been ashamed of himself for being defeated by a king who was a child and a leper in the battle of Montgisard. But no one had thought about it. His smart moves in the army and state administration, his choice of advisors and the poor-looking king proved his power. He was the only king who came into being on the bed to manage the war. His courage had inspired the painter.

It was normal for Muslims to spread such prejudiced and hostile gossip, of course. But it was the Christians whose ideas he had to fight against. They thought that God had cursed Baldwin when he was born. He was the one God did not like. He knew how dark his soul was when he created him. When he grew up, the devil would be his guide. He was a cruel, barbaric ruler whose mind worked for nothing but evil. Leprosy was his mark and badge for his past and future sins. He was branded so that the people would notice and stay away from this devil.

He had long forgotten his identity. The man he saw in the reflection in the goblet, with a rotting skin, was either a pig or a devil.

But he was not human in either world. When he could no longer hide this curse and his fiancée did not even deign to write him a farewell letter, he lost the last feeling that would remind him of his humanity. Love. No one loved a pig, they would detest it. No one would stray from God's path and fall in love with the devil. He would rather die. And what were the feelings? What were the longing and love he felt in his heart? Moreover, what was the sadness that was hidden behind these two feelings and spread throughout his body? These feelings grew stronger after he received the news that the crown prince of France and his wife, the Byzantine Princess Maria, would arrive in Jerusalem tomorrow. Could a pig long for? Could a barbarian be sad, or could the devil love?

Baldwin could no longer bear to see the truth reflected in the globe and threw it to the ground. So many years passed. Baldwin stood strong against the gossip about him. He only loved his kingdom and swore to protect it. He rewarded the oppressed and punished the oppressors so that people could live in peace and not have hostile feelings. However, the seeds of love that had been waiting to sprout in his heart for years blossomed with the news that he would see the woman he loved again, and the king felt hopeless.

As the medicinal drink spilled from the glass that fell to the ground spread on the stone floor, the bare parts of his maskless, bandaged face reappeared before him like a nightmare. As his breathing rhythm quickened, he heard a voice.

"When the Physicians were preparing the drink, I could tell from the smell that it tasted bad."

When Baldwin looked in the direction of the voice, he saw William coming from the darkness. The only source of light in the room was the moonlight.

"William," he said, trying to hide his emotions, "I didn't hear you come in."

William smiled warmly. "You wouldn't have heard of it if there was a rebellion, your majesty, and forgive my impudence, but the reason for this has to do with your guests tomorrow."

Baldwin turned toward the city. "I was sure I would never see her again. But now, in the castle of Kerak, Raybald of Châtillon is hosting them."

William looked at the king. "Indeed, you should have known this day would come. Your relations with the Kingdom of France are strong."

"Maybe I was just afraid that day would come."

"You're still in love with her."

"Every minute I thought I had forgotten her, my longing for her grew my love."

"Princess Maria was a good match for you. She was very intelligent, kind, and combative. A fine queen for the Latin kingdom," he said, and the melancholy gaze of Baldwin, which he did not want to show, gave him away, caused William to apologize. "I apologize if I went too far, your majesty. I just wanted to recall a pleasant memory."

A beautiful memory. It was true. Every moment Baldwin spent with the princess was special. He could talk and laugh for hours about any memory he recalled. Baldwin was not born into a loving family. When he ascended to the throne, his kingdom was on the verge of division. His illness pretended him weak against his enemies. But in all his misfortunes, Maria was his white rose, and no matter how pessimistic he felt a moment ago, he now smiled because of her.

A bitter smile, ""Do you think she can still wield a sword skillfully?"

He had the same bitter smile on his face. ""There is no doubt about that, your majesty. Perhaps once they are settled in the palace you can challenge her to a duel and see for yourself."

Although this idea sounded nice at first, the facts were obvious. He replied in a reproachful tone, as if rebelling against fate. "How can I do this when I can't use my limbs and can't see in one eye, William, tell me!" He looked harshly.

"These words do not seem to belong to you, my king. Weren't you the king who learned to use a sword with his left arm because his right arm betrayed him at every opportunity? You designed special stirrups for your numb legs. You led fights with that blind eye of yours. Now don't tell me you avoided a duel with a 19-year-old young woman."

"I don't want her to see me like this, Will. My body is decaying day by day. God's curse is growing stronger and my resistance to pain is diminishing." He looked at the view again. "I don't want her to remember me like this. She confessed that she was amazed by my beauty the night we fell in love. He turned back to William and pointed his finger at his face. Look at my current state, the boy she fell in love with is dead. The Leper King was the end of that beautiful boy."

Baldwin suddenly felt unwell and William held him as he collapsed to the ground, his legs shaking.

"Your Majesty, you need to rest now."

William called to the servants to take Baldwin to bed. The servants came to them in a hurry and, taking kings arm, carried him to the bed. One left to get water. Another was adjusting his pillows. Finally William warned them to leave the room and approached Baldwin.

"You have always been a good boy, Baldwin. You are the best king the Latin Kingdom has ever seen. No ruler after you will be able to hold these lands together."

"I would not want this. I hope that people will recognize my efforts and protect the lands from hostile armies."

Before leaving William Baldwin's room, he spoke one last time. "Prince Hugh will take more care of you both, your majesty. Be careful."

Maria had been nervous since they arrived at the castle of Kerak. Representing the Komnenos dynasty had been a heavy burden on her shoulders. About six years before she was born, dark times had passed over Manuel I and the Byzantine lands. Constantinople had been sacked, the city almost destroyed. Châtillon had been the emperor's worst nightmare until Manuel took revenge on her. He disturbed the people as if he owned the Byzantine Empire. Maria's nanny would tell her these dark memories before she went to sleep at night. Maria was a naughty child and would tell the story that Châtillon would come back one night and kidnap the naughty children. But Maria always trusted her father. Although he seemed like an emperor who was afraid of the Turks and had a weak political mind, Maria was smart enough to understand her father's strategic steps. That's why she never feared Châtillon. Her father may have suffered great losses during those times, but later he took his revenge on Châtillon in a satisfactory way.

Baldwin did not attend her and Prince Hugh wedding. He was too tired to go to France. Otherwise, his death would have come sooner, and Saladin's army would have occupied Jerusalem long ago. Therefore, Reynald of Châtillon attended the wedding as regent. Emperor Manuel saw this as an insult, and the ties between him and the Latin kingdom were almost broken. But Baldwin, the Latin king, knew his former father-in-law well. He had observed the emperor very well during his engagement to his daughter, and had skillfully kept the bond between them together.

Despite everything, Châtillon must have been unable to stomach the emperor's revenge, for he was taking a jab at the princess who had joined them at the dinner table. He was talking badly about her father. He was making fun of the Byzantine Emperor, implying that if the emperor did not come under Crusader countries protection, the Muslims would give up Jerusalem and occupy Constantinople, and they would be successful. Therefore, it was very lucky for the princess to marry the son of the King of France. Maria would of course say something in response to these words, but the crown prince of France thought that women were stupid and should not meddle in state affairs. What did women know except intrigue, sex, and having children? Whenever Maria spoke, her husband humiliated her in front of the lords of the other kingdoms. She did not want to experience the same thing again. She felt sad enough when she thought of Baldwin anyway. But both Maria's and the prince's minds were changed by Châtillon's audacity. He had brought up the subject of Baldwin and the princess's broken engagement. Maria felt uneasy. She knew that her husband had always kept his eyes on her, for it was a sensitive subject.

When Châtillon noticed the tension between the two, he explained how strong the bond between her and Baldwin was. He had read Maria’s letters impudently several times before the curse of leprosy had set in. He disclosed some of the love poems in these letters. Of course, he could not remember the exact words, but he sang similar sentences with a mocking grin. Hearing these things made the Prince angry. The gold goblet in his hand almost bent, but he tried not to show it. He looked at his beloved wife with a meaningful smile. Not wanting to appear weak, he intervened. “I thought your engagement was a political agreement, my lady. Would you care to give me more details? I would like to hear it.” He brought the glass to his lips, finished the wine in one gulp, and slammed it down on the table.

However, Maria knew that the prince intended to ask her this question. If she was not satisfied with the answer he would give, his revenge would be severe. Hugh had threatened her with his dynasty. The prince was madly in love with her and knew that his love was unrequited. He was jealous of her in front of everyone and everything.

She was trying not to give away her lie as she pushed the toasted almonds on the Blancmange that had just been served into the rice fish paste mixture with the tip of her fork. "We were both kids at the time. Our alliance against his half-brothers brought us closer. These are childish feelings." These words were lies. Every emotion she experienced was too mature.

Raynald lifted his globe to his mouth and drank the spiced wine, smearing it through his filthy beard before scraping the remains of the wine away with the palm of his hand. "Your mind was capable of writing love poems as a child."

Prince Hugh gritted his teeth. He should have cut off the head of the daring man in front of him with his sword, but he was too arrogant to show his jealousy to anyone. Instead, he chose to show his anger to his wife by stroking Maria's hair harshly. She had to be careful.

She looked bravely at Reynald. Looking into his eyes, she put the Blancmange in her mouth and began to speak, ignoring the rules as she chewed. "I am flattered that you find the love poems written by a little girl mature. Yes, Baldwin and I were mature, and I was smart enough to see that you were a pain in the neck when you were still a mercenary."

Raynald looked to the prince to put the princess in her place, but Hugh agreed with his wife, and for once, though he didn't show it, he was pleased with her headstrong nature.

Then he looked at the princess with greed. "It was obvious that the daughter of the Byzantine emperor would not suit the future king of France."

Maria stood up, her chair leg scraping the floor. "Then you should know to watch your step when talking to me."

Then she turned respectfully, in a way that glorified her husband. "Master of my heart, if you allow me, I would like to go to the chapel and pray."

The prince was unsure of what to say. He did not want to be angry with his wife, for she had put Raynald in his place, who had insidiously planted the sin of jealousy in his heart. He was also flattered by his wife in front of the other lords and barons at the table. He only gave his wife permission to go to the chapel.

She grabbed the hem of her dress so as not to fall. So she left the room and walked quickly down the corridor. Talking about her memories with Baldwin broke her heart. His look, his smile, his conversation, his intelligence... She had never known a man like him in the Empire or the Kingdom of France. Her mind was always on her old love. She had stolen her own life. She spent her youth in the bed of a man she did not love, thinking of Baldwin. Now she was in pain and wanted to be alone, alone with the Virgin Mary.

One of her maids would come to her. She called to her lady, said that her son were crying uncontrollably. Little Philip needed his mother. She ignored the maids calling her as she ran down the hall. But the baby wanted her mother and was crying non-stop. But a child from a man she did not love would not be good for her right now.

She just wanted to go to the chapel and pray before the Virgin Mary. She was on her knees, placed her elbows on the altar. "Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Forgive me, I cannot guard my ideas from sin as I guard my chastity. Holy Mary, Mother of God. I am weak, the love that the devil has cultivated in my heart becomes sweeter to me every day that I do not see him. Please hear me, tear down the walls between us and inspire me to forget him. O Virgin, holy and merciful, obtain for all who offend thee the grace of repentance, and graciously accept this poor act of homage from me thy servant, obtaining likewise for me from thy Divine Son the pardon and remission of all my sins. Amen." She placed her palms crosswise on her chest. She was crying, convulsing with tears.

The prince and princess of France entered the holy lands with four horse guards in front and six behind to protect the gift chests. The royal coat of arms, the 'fleur-de-lys', was carved on wood on the body of the carriage, and the windows were covered with curtains in the color of the coat of arms's base color, the blue, thus completely cutting off communication between the people and the nobles.

But it was impossible not to notice such a long convoy. The children playing followed the horses and did not leave its vicinity, hoping to see who was behind the curtain. But the princess saw them. She had slightly parted the fabric and was enjoying the excited running of the children speaking in a language she did not know. Meanwhile, her husband, who was sitting next to her, distracted her by holding her hand. When the young princess turned her head to the prince, the smile on her face disappeared.

"Don't let children know you're looking at them, my lady. Then they'll have the brass face."

She looked at him smugly. "They are children. At least don't act arrogant towards children!"

Hugh gritted his teeth. He should have put her in her place, but their baby Philip’s nurse intervened to calm the anger between them. She smiled and called out to the princess as she sat across from her, put the baby to sleep in her arms.

"Your Majesty, in a few years your son will be running around the palace corridors just like them."

Maria smiled at the woman. "I hope he becomes a guardian of peace and justice." The word that crossed her mind was 'like Baldwin'. But she could not say it.

The nurse looked at the baby. "There is no doubt about it, my lady."

Prince Hugh was very angry with his wife. He could have given her a severe punishment, but his love was holding him back. Instead, he used his ambition for his son. He smiled arrogantly. "He will be a king in the Latin lands, a nightmare for Muslims! He will send the unbelievers to hell in this world. He will slaughter the unbelievers mercilessly. Otherwise, how can he be the commander of the Crusader armies?"

Maria hated herself for marrying such a cruel man. She could assure herself that the children's voices he heard outside had become screams of pain in his imagination. And look at the nobles who considered Baldwin a barbarian! What a disgrace! The princess was about to continue looking out the window in anger when she turned her head and caught the nurse's eye. The woman gave her no words. Her expression begged his majesty to be silent. For his well-being and peace. Maria smiled with tears in her eyes and did as he said, smiling slightly.

Meanwhile, William, who had received news that the royal carriage was approaching the palace, was giving orders for the final preparations. Sybilla had to make sure that the food and organization were perfect. The servants were arranging the prince and princess's favorite fruits and wines on the table in their rooms, and the gifts to be presented to the royal family were being counted in the great hall.

Baldwin lay on his back in his bed, surrounded by four physicians who were helping their assistants apply ointment to his wounds.

"Ah," sighed the king, "at last, my love. At last, I will be able to witness your beautiful smile again."

"Be a little faster!" But even that was tiring him. He was excited to greet them and wanted to stand up in defiance of God.

The physician warned the king, "Your Majesty, you must lie down for a day and wait for your skin to absorb the medicine. It will be more beneficial."

Baldwin gritted his teeth and spoke threateningly. “Are you disobeying my orders?”

The physicianstammered. He emphasized that he had been misunderstood. He apologized and ordered his assistants to hurry. After applying the herbal mixture to the king's wounds, they wrapped clean, white bandages crosswise, using two layers of cloth so that the skin would not be visible. Cotton fabrics in particular were imported from the Mediterranean. Otherwise, his completely covered skin would not be able to breathe and would become damp, and the amount of salt in his sweat would cause Baldwin to suffer in pain. In fact, the ointment was already hurting him enough.

One of his servants came to him with a silver cup in his hand and supported his back, allowing him to straighten up. Thus, he drank the healing water easily. As he was sliding the last sip from his lips to his mouth, William entered. He too might not have been in favor for king to welcome the royal family, but he knew that his life was short. Seeing the woman he loved should have been more important than the pain he would suffer. Who knows? Perhaps the last time they would meet would be Baldwin's funeral. Maria stood in front of her childhood love's coffin, crying heartily, and they would say goodbye to each other for the last time, and the only memory she had of him would be the metal mask.

"Your Majesty," he said with a wry smile on his face, "I have come to take you. News has come that they have almost arrived. Everything is ready in the outer courtyard. After the welcoming ceremony, you may proceed to the great hall."

Baldwin confirmed William and after the bandaging process was completed, he stood up. My God! For a moment, the King seemed to forget about the curse. He thought they were just like those two beautiful children from ten years ago. Two noble children who will live their love that has not been granted to anyone else. He hadn't even gotten help from anyone when he was sitting up in bed. Love must have been such a miraculous feeling. None of the physicians' ointments could give him the strength to stand up in minutes. The verses from the Bible that were read to cure his illness were of no use. Only his passionate longing for Maria gave him strength. It healed his melted bones and allowed his joints to bend freely. It allowed his joints to bend freely. Perhaps he would soon have the power to expand the borders of the Latin kingdom. But no! The truth had a bad habit of coming out at the wrong time. He was standing from William. He was only five steps away.

"Let's go." King said. At this moment, a servant called out to him, came to him with quick steps and held out the mask in his hand.

"Your majesty, mask!"

There's that Silver mask! The evil Witch who took him away from life. The King looked at the mask's artificial lips, hollow eyes, and metal eyebrows. He was the only person in the room who saw the mask's devilish grin. It was as if the mask was mocking him. He knew how much the woman he loved would pity him when she saw his sick body. And Baldwin's embarrassment must surely be the amusement of the mask. Once again the King was defeated. Although he had the arrogance of a king when he took the mask from the servant's hand, William knew the dramatic mood of the man he had known since childhood. So he supported the king with his words while his face was completely covered with a metal mask. When the servants grabbed his arm and tried to help him walk, he gestured with his hand for them not to come.

"The king looks quite healthy. No need."

William stepped back from the door and cleared the way for the king to exit.He clasped his hands in front of him and waited for Baldwin to come out. However, after their King left the room, William followed him to accompany, followed by the servants. It was noon. Light seeping through the corridor windows illuminated the gray stone walls. The designs and art of Arab architects were on display.

"My legs are shaking William. "This is not because of my illness," he said. He could keep Saladin and his armies away from his lands. He could win the battle. But for love, he was still young.

"I know, your majesty. Although not as excited as you, I'm excited to see the princess too."

Beautiful, attractive, innocent, seductive. Which word was more appropriate to say to the holy beloved? Which one would he choose to describe the relentless love inside him? Or were the other adjectives hidden behind these words what made his fall in love? Was it her stubborn and strong stance that made her seductive, was it her helpfulness and fairness that gave her the name of innocence, was it her white skin and wavy hair that reached down to her waist that made her attractive or was her beauty and grace necessary? There was no definite answer to these questions and even the answers that suddenly came to his mind were not enough to learn the reason for his feelings for her. The way he looked at her or the way she shyly looked away from him, he would now forbid each other. If their eyes met, it would be a sin. Then how would Maria have the courage to go to church again and ask for forgiveness?

All this was going on in the king's mind. When the horse carriage carrying the royal family entered the courtyard. The prince and princess were presented. The King was sitting on his throne waiting for them. But what he was most worried about was how he would react when he saw Maria. And that moment has come. As she descended the wooden steps of the carriage, Baldwin’s eyes went there. The years had made her a mature woman and made her beautiful. The dark brown tone of her hair had lightened, and blondes were mixed in between. Her skin was smooth as in her childhood. The cherry cheeks that adorned her snow-white face had not left her. A storm had formed in his heart, his love had turned into a natural disaster. When she descended the creaking steps and her feet touched the ground, Maria looked up at the king. Her honey-colored eyes sparkled. She had seen the child behind the metal mask in Baldwin’s eyes.

But the maid who got out of the carriage was carrying something in her arms that revealed the sin of their love. One of the heirs to the crown. Prince Philip. Maria's son by Prince Hugh. This child would have been theirs if this disease had not taken him prisoner. William expected the king to make a welcoming speech. But Baldwin seemed rather absent-minded. “Your Majesty,” he warned his king, “you must pull yourself together. The princess is now a married woman with a heir."

William was right. He had to come to his senses quickly and fulfill his duties as a king. The Latin King stood up, holding on to the arms of the prepared throne, and greeted the Prince and the Princess. He said it was a great honor for them to be here. Because he was on very good terms with King Louis VII of France. That's why it was such a pleasure for him to welcome the future heir, the Prince, and his wife, Princess Maria. Of course, when he saw Princess Maria next to the Prince, these words he said were completely fake. Even though he knew that Maria and the king were old childhood friends, the Prince did not allow Maria to speak and spoke to the king himself. Because he knew she still love this king with the ugly rotting skin. The king could not look at Maria. Because if he did, everything would be understood. So he averted his eyes, but Maria looked at her old friend William and smiled. Old memories had gathered in her eyes and came out.

William spoke up. "Your Majesty, if you wish, we can place the gifts of the Kingdom of France in the great hall. This will provide a much more intimate setting for the gifts presented during the banquet."

"Good thinking, William," Baldwin said. "Let's do what's necessary."

After the prince and the king finished speaking, they went inside. The servants showed the nobles to their rooms so they could get ready for the feast while their belongings were being put away.

Baby Philip had a separate room. They went to their rooms with the nurse.

When they came to the room, the bathtub was ready. The bathtub was made of white marble, shaped by marbles extracted from the Anatolian Seljuk lands. It was filled with water containing jasmine essence and leaves. Arab servants surrounded the bathtub, one had a silver tray, a loofah and soap on it. The other had a loincloth in his hand.

Princess Maria knew that Muslims were very clean. This was the most important thing for Islam and they were very contemptuous of people who were not clean.

The servants took off Maria's clothes, covered her private parts with a loincloth, and holding her hand, they sat her in the tub.

A woman took a copper bowl and dipped it into the jasmine water in the bathtub and poured it on the princess's hair. The cold drops of water cooled the roots of her warm hair. The weather was so hot here that the coolness of the water was a relief to her. She leaned her head on the edge of the tub and positioned herself so the other woman could massage her shoulder.

Her muscles, which had been tense due to sadness and her husband's irritable character, began to relax. The woman's delicate fingers were moving around the girl's shoulders and neck. The drops of water that had begun to dry on her skin were keeping it cool in the hot air. She was half asleep, half awake, dreaming but barely aware of what was happening. She didn't even realize when the woman's delicate, thin fingers were replaced by thick, calloused ones. Baldwin was in her dreams. She was sitting in the arbor of the palace in Constantinople, in the gardens with their many varieties of flowers, with Baldwin's head on Maria's lap. His eyes were looking up, into the honey-colored eyes of his beloved wife. The sun was streaming through the wooden planks of the arbor and making the heavens in Baldwin's blue eyes shine. She stroked his light golden brown hair. His skin was soft and shiny, just like when he was a child, and his lips were thin and small.

"My beautiful lover." He said. But voice was not like him. "Are you thinking about me?" The girl's eyebrows furrowed. As if this was a rebellion against passing into the real world. She opened her eyes and sat up. When she looked up, she saw Hugh sitting on the edge of the tub, looking at his wife with longing. But the same was not true for the princess.

She was serious. "What are you doing?"

Hugh replied as she stood up, using the sides of the tub for support. "I thought my wife missed me." He stood up too and caressed her cheek with the back of his hand.

Maria lowered her eyes, raised one hand, and asked the maids to help her get out of the tub. But the prince was on edge against his wife's cold attitude. He watched with anger as he was left alone.

The servants were massaging Maria's body with various oils and combing her hair. Meanwhile, her assistant was choosing a beautiful outfit for the banquet. But Maria was nervous. She and Hugh had not touched each other for a long time. They had never brought each other to the perfect peak of orgasm. That letter from the Latin palace had changed something and the prince was aware of it. She knew that Hugh would use the maids to do this. Even though he knew that adultery was one of the greatest sins, the prince felt entitled to it. Perhaps he wanted to make the woman he loved jealous and take revenge. But he never achieved his goal. Because Maria could never love her husband enough to be protective or jealous of him.

As if it were a ritual, a rite, he would ask for sexual intercourse in the palace of the man she loved. He wanted to trouble her conscience.

While her dress and jewelry were being prepared for the feast, the servants dressed Maria in a white silk nightgown, the sleeves of which were wide and connected to the skirt like bat wings.

When the princess returned to bedroom, she did not see her husband. This was a relief to her.

"Where would you like me to put these clothes, my lady?" Maria was startled by the old woman's question. She answered with a faint smile on her face. "Put them where the emerald green surcoat is."

Then she went to her jewelry. They were in a carved wooden chest on the table. She put her fingers inside and began to rummage through the earrings, necklaces, and rings. The necklace she would wear to the banquet was very special. Among the betrothal gifts that Emperor Manuel had burned or distributed to the poor, the only gift Maria had saved was the beautiful necklace designed by Baldwin. The pearls hanging from the edges of the gold collar surrounding the red beryl, emerald, and alexandrite stones...

She called her maid over and told her that she would be wearing this necklace as an accessory to the dress they had chosen. The woman was fascinated as soon as she saw the necklace. "This is very beautiful, your majesty."

About ten minutes later, the prince called out to his wife, who was giving instructions to her maids to put away the clothes. "You must be happy to see your childhood sweetheart, my love." Maria was startled by her husband's voice as she smoothed down the pearl-embroidered dress in her hand. She ran her fingers over the soft texture of the shiny fabric and handed it to the maid. "The same topic again?" Then she looked at her husband. "That's in the past, you know. Ten years is a long time to forget."

Hugh grabbed his wife's arm tightly and turned her towards him. He clenched his teeth and swallowed. "For the mind, yes, but for your heart? Was ten years enough?"

Maria did not say a word, and that was an answer for Hugh. He squeezed his wife's arm tighter. The young woman groaned, feeling the pain in her arm deeply. She frowned under the pain and tried to pull away. "Leave me alone!"

The maids were disturbed by the tension between husband and wife and did not know what to do.

Hugh brought his face closer to hers. "If that's true, I swear..." he was cut off by a knock on the door.

Maria looked into her husband's eyes without the slightest trace of love.

She ordered. "Come in!"

The young servant girl ran to Princess Maria and bowed before her.

"Your Majesty, forgive me. Your son Philip, I believe, needs your help."

Prince Hugh was also angry. Were all those nannies interested in his heir? Just as he was about to attack the young girl, Maria grabbed his arm. "My prince, please! Have some patience!" She was worried. "Is everything okay? What's wrong?"

The girl was not very good at lying, she stammered. "He wouldn't stop crying. We thought he needed his mother. The mother's scent calms babies."

Hugh glanced at his wife contemptuously. "Your motherhood is as bad as your wifehood!”

Without saying anything, Maria left her husband and ordered the young girl to take her son.

The maid was escorting the princess to the room where Philip was staying. Maria noticed that she was quite excited. She had thought of scenarios such as her son being sick. She started asking the girl questions. Was her son sick? Maybe something bad happened to him and they were afraid of the prince and didn't tell her. The girl's nervous attitude made the princess even more nervous. "Stop, I order you!"

The girl stopped suddenly and looked like a child being scolded by her mother. Maria could see how frightened her face was in the candlelight. "What's the matter? You look very nervous."

The girl stuttered and pointed to the hallway behind Maria. “This way, my lady.” Maria swallowed and looked at the hallway the girl was pointing to. It looked much more ornate than the others. The work on its door was magnificent and decorated with gold leaf.

Maria frowned. "Philip isn't there, is he?"

The girl shook her head. “No, your majesty. Just come in. He’s waiting for you there.”

When the soldiers waiting at the door saw Maria, they immediately moved and opened the door. Maria knew very well who was waiting for her inside. She walked through the door with excited steps and went out to the balcony with the most beautiful view of Jerusalem. The two soldiers standing here welcomed their princess and escorted her to the door leading to their king's chamber.

The soldiers brought the princess to the door and left. Maria took a deep breath, knocked on the door and entered that was nervous. It was the first time she had done something in secret from her husband. She was sure he would punish her if he knew where she was. She could not leave the bedrooms. He would put guards at the bedroom doors.

She looked around. The objects were as if they were showing off in the light of evening with sun. This was not the room he had stayed in as a child. It was his father's room and its size was dazzling. It was a room worthy of a young king of the Holy Land. Maria looked at the bed across from her in admiration. Her childhood love was resting in this bed, leaving his scent on these sheets. She slowly approached the bed and picked up the burgundy-colored pillow. She wrapped her arms around it tightly, as if she were hugging Baldwin. She buried her head in the soft texture of the pillow and breathed in the scent. It smelled just as she remembered. It was so clean, smelled of soap and incense.

The princess remembered the dream she had the night of their engagement. It was a terrifying nightmare, to be exact. She had longed to speak to the bishop of Hagia Sophia. Even though the priest had interpreted her nightmare positively, Maria was always anxious. She was afraid of the end of their epic love. And one day, those things she feared separated them until death. When all these memories came to life before her eyes, a small smile appeared on her face. However, her eyes denied this smile and tears were streaming down her cheeks.

"Is that you William? I've been waiting for you." It was Baldwin's voice, and it came from afar. Maria, with the remorse of her sin, did not want to be caught by Baldwin, and her whole body trembled. When she turned her head to the silk tulle curtain that separated the room, she saw his silhouette and dropped the pillow in her lap to the floor.

Take the pillow or leave the room… While she was trying to choose the right way in this dilemma, Baldwin pulled the veil aside and entered.

“Maria, you…” Baldwin stood there in shock and could not finish his sentence.

There he was, Baldwin. The man whose happiness she had forgotten for years with his longing was standing right in front of her. Baldwin was no different. He felt much stronger now. He never expected to meet those meaningful eyes again. Alone. It was as if their cursed love had flared up again.

Baldwin did not want Maria to get into a difficult situation. As soon as he saw Maria approaching him, he spoke up. "It is not right for you to be here, my lady. Please do not do this to us."

Maria, on the other hand, was determined. She had been imprisoned by a man she did not love for years, and when she could no longer stand this torture, the man who was her ray of hope stood before her.

They were standing face to face when she replied, "I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."

Her hands were on groin, her nails tearing at the flesh on the sides of her fingers.

Baldwin replied, his voice filled with reproach. "You gave up on me, Maria. I learned of our separation from the letter your father sent to the palace. You didn't care to send a farewell letter."

Maria was crying. She looked into the king's eyes. "This is not true. I swear."

"Tell me what is right," he said. "Of course you couldn't go against your family, I understand that. But what about your love? Your fear got in the way of your love, and I couldn't read your last letter that smelled of roses, is that right?"

"No. You don't know how strict my father is. I wrote you letters many times. I wanted to send them secretly, but my nanny betrayed me. That's why I always got caught. I gave up because a young girl died in pain because of the letters I wrote you. I wasn't afraid of my father, Baldwin. I didn't want innocent people to suffer because of me." The words barely escaped her lips as she sobbed.

The girl took Baldwin's right hand, wrapped in a white bandage, and caressed it. But the effects of leprosy were beginning to set in again, and his arm was numb. What a disappointment it was not to be able to feel the woman he loved while she held his hand! "Oh God, please," he whispered. He did not care how great a sin adultery was. He wanted to feel the touch of the woman he loved. He wanted to experience the sexual urges he felt for the only woman in his life, past and future, who would love him. Not now, his inner voice said. He did not want to die without being drunk with Maria's love.

Baldwin took his right arm and pulled it from Maria's hands. He held out his left hand. "Come on Maria, come with me. We have a lot to talk about," he said. Although the princess realized that Baldwin could not use his right arm, she did not show anything so as not to upset him. So they went behind the silk veil.

The evening view of Jerusalem was almost under their feet. They sat on the couch. Their eyes met suddenly. It was the first time Maria saw her friend, her love, with a mask on his face, and it was painful for her soul.

"God has given you the most beautiful design of all his creations, Maria. You took me back to my childhood."

Maria smiled. "You too, my dear. The innocent, well-intentioned child standing before me has not changed at all."

Baldwin took offense. "You needn't pity me. I have been the god-cursed king for too long."

Maria put her hand on Baldwin's silver mask. Since she couldn't touch his skin, she had to be content with this. "You're still that boy I fell in love with." She caressed the cold, hard, emotionless mask. "The eyes looking with courage and hope. That boy whose character and heart I admired, has now grown up and become the greatest king the Latin Kingdom will ever witness."

There was surprise in Baldwin's voice. "Do you really think so?" He knew what was being said about him outside the borders of the kingdom. Even Saladin did not take him seriously at first. Until he saw that the king was a formidable enemy, he didn't respected him. Still, his illness had become a symbol of bad luck in many kingdoms, especially Byzantium, and had caused political relations to be damaged. If an agreement was made with the Latin kingdom, the curse of God would be poured upon them.

"Even if you gave me all the jewels in the world, it wouldn't satisfy me as much as your love." Her lips trembled, the area around her eyes turned red.

She was trying to control herself not to cry. She brought her face closer to Baldwin and buried her head in his neck, witnessing his scent and warmth. "You are not only the king of the holy land, but also the king of my heart," she said.

Baldwin was ashamed. He had never been so loved and pampered by a woman. He could even see his mother at political meetings. It had been a long time since he felt like a man. He had forgotten that he was a man because in other kingdoms he was nothing. Muslims called him a pig because they did not believe in the same God. Andalusian Arab historians spoke of him as a disgusting creature. According to Christians, he was the child of the devil and God punished him with ugliness and pain as a price for the cruelty and misery he would bring to the world. Jews living in his kingdom cursed their kings because they were not under the rule of a glorious king and prayed for his death. However, even though all that was left of that beautiful child was a piece of rotten flesh, he was reminded that he was human by the woman he loved, without knowing what he had become.

"You are here with me now, Maria. We may never meet again, but it is a great chance that you are here with me now."

Maria tried to smile, but tears were flowing relentlessly down her cheeks and down her chin, dampening Baldwin's white bandage. "I beg you, don't talk like that! Make me forget about reality for one night. Let's be in a fairy tale. Kiss me and let us to live happily ever after."

"I promise, Maria. I'll only make you live your fairy tale tonight."

Maria wrapped her arms around Baldwin's still feeling hand and lifted it into the air. She brought her lips close and kissed it longingly, many times.

Baldwin kept his word and wanted to talk about the good times.

"After reading the letter from the French court, William and I discussed whether she could still use a sword."

Maria wiped her tears and smiled. "I haven't used a sword since I got married. Hugh says it's not for women."

"It is unfair, the land of France has lost its best knight."

Maria shrugged. "If you're not my opponent, I don't care."

Baldwin's voice was full of affection. "We can reminisce whenever you want."

Maria snuggled up to Baldwin. She leaned her head on his chest. "It's okay, I don't want you to get tired."

Baldwin's numb arm was finally beginning to get feel, and he lifted his arm with difficulty and effort, and as he gently stroked Maria's hair, she looked happily at him without lifting her head from his chest.

"Maria, my beautiful queen. While my illness cannot prevent me from fighting the Ayyubids and leading my army, shall I miss the chance to duel with you? I will definitely be ready for it tomorrow."

"I would be honored, my king," said Maria. If she had married Baldwin, she would have been queen, and in their correspondence Baldwin always referred to Maria as "my queen." The fact that he addressed her with the same title, just like in the old days, showed the greatness of the love in his heart.

At the end of this entertaining conversation, Baldwin grew quiet. There was an inexplicable sadness in his voice. "You said your father was strict. You said a girl died because of us, Maria. What have you been through?"

Maria lowered her eyes as she remembered. Her eyes were red and a few tears slid down her cheeks to her chin.

"Several times one of the young maids helped me to smuggle letters into my room. The niche in the wall where i had once kept my doll was filled with letters from you. But the day the nanny discovered our secret, father showed no mercy. "she sobbed . "The young girl was punished by the priest reading verses from the Bible, supposedly purifying herself from her sins. Hot irons, daggers and hot oil. The girl fainted many times due to this unbearable pain and her weak body could not stand it anymore. The girl died."

"I never thought the emperor would be so afraid of our love that he would slander God. No God would allow such a punishment to be given to a virgin girl."

"I couldn't write you back. Because I never got to your last letter. The last time I saw it was among the gifts from you were being burned, in the middle of courtyard." She was sobbing and repeated over and over, "Forgive me, forgive me, my love."

Baldwin's heart ached as if it had been thrown into fire, and it was because of sadness and despair that Maria has.

"If I had a chance, if this curse would leave me alone, I would make you the happiest woman in the world," he said, stroking her hair.

But Maria, angered by this statement, rose harshly from her king's lap, her hands resting on Baldwin's groin, gripping the fabric of his robe tightly. "Please stop cursing your illness! You shouldn't care what people think. And I don't believe the thing what they think God says in bible. God holds you up as an instance to all; the kingdom of heaven is strengthened in your hands."

Baldwin put his bandaged hand around the girl's neck and pulled back the hair that covered her beautiful neck. "How can you be so sure about God, Maria? Are the priests wrong?"

"Did you not show your power, despite the limitations of your illness, and become a king loved by your people and respected by your enemies? You keep a part of God within you. You are not that man hated by God, Baldwin. If you were, I cannot imagine the illness that Hugh would have suffered," she said, laughing wryly at the last sentence.

When Baldwin returned her smile, Maria could tell by the sound he made as he laughed. and Maria thought.

"I would like to see your smile, enslaved by the mask, one last time, my dear," she said. There was sadness on her face.

Baldwin was embarrassed. "You know it's impossible, Maria."

Maria frowned. There was a half-mocking look on her face. "Why is that impossible? Has the evil witch completely transformed your face into a silver mask?"

"No, of course not. But the man under the mask has already killed the beautiful boy you remember."

"Then how come I'm looking into that boy's eyes?"

Maria slid off the couch and sat on her knees on the floor, looking pleadingly at the man she loved. For Baldwin, this was the moment he had feared.

"I beg you, let me touch your skin one last time, my dear."

The healers did not yet know about leprosy. There was only suspicion in their conversations. Despite this, they made definite statements and the worst thing was that it was contagious. Moreover, the woman he loved wanted to touch him. If anything happened to her, she would never forgive herself. Even this idea was enough to terrify him and he quickly stood up. He was going towards the window to get away from her.

"No, Maria. Don't ask me to do this!" But his muscles had become one with his illness and betrayed him once again. Baldwin lost control of his body for a moment and stumbled. Maria cried out as he lost his balance. "My love!"

Baldwin was down on one knee, his left hand on the ground, supporting his arm.

He felt that the woman he loved had hold his arm to save her king. When he looked up, Maria looked at him with a feeling that was companions of love and fear.

"Oh Maria." He didn't want her to see him like this, but fate betrayed him once again.

Baldwin got up with Maria's help. There was almost no distance between them. They were looking into each other's eyes with love. Despite the illness, the fake marriage, the years that passed, their love had not diminished even for a day. They could see the storms in the sea of love in their eyes.

"Come on, let me touch you one last time, Baldwin."

"If it infected to you, then I'll die."

"Nothing will happen, I promise."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I have what those incompetent healers lack."

"What was that?"

"Wouldn't some stupid servant have been infected by now?" Maria put her hand on the mask. "If they understood enough about the disease to be sure it was contagious, why couldn't they find a cure?"

Baldwin took Maria's hand and caressed it. "Okay then, I'll take off my mask. But if you care about me at all, don't ask to see my face."

Maria objected. “But…” But Baldwin was determined.

"I want you to always remember me as beautiful, Maria. Like that child whose beauty you admired and confessed to. Otherwise, I will spend the rest of my short life as an unhappy man."

Although Maria wanted to prove that she would love him in any way possible, Baldwin's request prevented her. Maybe not with words, but nodded, avoiding her eyes.

She closed her eyes and waited. But the king had another plan. When he left the dream queen and did not return for a while, Maria opened her eyes. Baldwin approached her with a piece of black cloth in his hand. He knew that Maria was a stubborn girl, so he had to make sure her eyes were closed. His hair, made of golden threads, had fallen out, leaving a purulent, bloody scalp in its place. His facial anatomy, which resembled a Greek statue, was now in a state of great destruction. His lips were falling apart, the bones in his nose were melting. He was not ready for Maria to see him like this, and he would never be ready. His concreteness should live as a memory, in Maria's dreams.

He lifted the cloth up and folded it into a strip to fit his eyes. It was much better this way. He could now let her touch him freely. He placed the piece of cloth over Maria's eyes, wrapped it around her head, and tied it at the back as ribbon. When her eyes closed, the pinkness of her sweet lips could be seen in all its glory. What wouldn't he give to kiss those lips? Her kiss reminded him of God's forgiving side. But all he had to do was get rid of the mask. He took it off, praying that everything would go well.

While Maria was waiting for Baldwin, the world was pitch black for her. It was like a blind man trying to witness life. Her ears were much more sensitive now. She could hear the friction of the silver mask sliding across his skin. She waited. She waited for the best moment for Baldwin.

"Are you ready?" he asked. Maria had been ready for him years ago.

Baldwin gently held the girl's wrists, as cautiously as if he were holding a glass rose branch. He could not control his breathing rhythm in excitement as he brought her delicate fingers close to his deformed face. And when her fingertips finally touched his rough skin, Maria sighed with joy. He needed to feel this warmth so much that he had finally managed to overcome the despair that had been following him for years.

“Baldwin,” she said, her voice catching in her breath. The happy expression on her face gave way to a sad plea. She took his face between her hands and caressed his cheeks with the thumbs. "I missed you so much. I had a hard time not rebelling against the fate that separated us. But God rewarded me with you for my wait."

"You are the only sin I do not regret, the only sin I will not beg God to forgive me, Maria," Baldwin said. Nontheless Maria's fingers seemed to be trying to explore the face of the man she loved. She saw nothing. If someone else had been standing in front of her instead of Baldwin, it would not have mattered. Still, she saw the anatomy of his face not with her eyes but with her touch. Baldwin's words fueled the impossible love she felt for him.

"You too, my love," she said, rising on her toes and pressing her lips against the calloused, chapped lips of the man she loved. A passionate act that proves that she doesn't care about his illness. Maria's lips were the heaven Baldwin had not experienced in this life. Baldwin's lips must have been dark sin for a married woman. But this sin was only the price of their desperate separation.

They said goodbye to each other for the last time, feeling their skin, before their love was lost in the sands of Jerusalem. Baldwin's virgin lips were alive with a woman's lust, and he didn't want this moment to end. God, I wish time would stop right now. If only the fairy tale these two poor lovers were living would never end.

Maria put one arm around the king's neck. With her other hand she felt around his body and found his hand and held it. She put his hand on her breasts. She squeezed his hand together to show him that she wanted him to caress it. Baldwin's hand was on the princess's breast while her hand was on his hand. Their kisses were much more passionate now. Their tongues were dancing on the wet skin. Their lips were in awe, as if they were reading a verse from the Bible. Baldwin slid his hand from his princess's breast and down to the curve of her waist. Her body shape had such an aesthetic. Her rounded lines were satisfactory. He almost lost himself in the complicated paths of love. But he suddenly remembered that he had to protect the honor and dignity of the woman he loved. He didn't want her to see her as an unchaste woman who was cheating on husband with another man. Baldwin turned away from her. “We must stop now, my lady,” he said. “This is not right for you.” He took his mask from the table where it had been placed and began to place it on his face.

"But we both want this. Or have you given up on loving me?"

He was so close to her as he untied her blindfold, he could feel her body heat. "Maybe my body will not live thirty years, but my soul will be exalted with love for you, my queen." He said. When she removed the tape completely, Maria was once again face to face with the mask that had ruined the life of the man she loved. But despite everything, she was grateful that she could look into his eyes. "Forever," he said and she looked into his beautiful eyes as he finished the sentence.

Maria's eyes got wet again. "My love is yours forever, my king," she replied.

Unfortunately, the end of this miraculous moment came early. William called out before entering. She was startled.

"Your Majesty, I have to take the princess away now."

Baldwin caressed the girl's cheek one last time. "My moon-skinned love, with eyes brighter than the sun. You gave me the most beautiful gift in the world. Thank you, I am grateful to you."

He had so much more to say, but whatever he didn't talk about turned into tears in his eyes after she left. He had to calm down before going to the banquet and pretend that this moment had never happened.

[tempting-andromeda]

Could you write reader is sicking of Sebastian always saying they don't care about curing Anne so they slap him to shut up. Reader feels bad later and apologize to him please.

I have been picturing this for AGES in my mind so yes :)

Some angst

TW: argument and violence

The words that left Sebastian’s lips felt repetitive. “For Anne.” You didn’t even know who Anne was. If you were doing anything for anybody, it was for him.

Sebastian had dragged you to the undercroft four times that day. He was antsy about finding the cure.

“Please tell me you’ve found something?” He seemed frantic. Anne wasn’t getting worse, but she also wasn’t getting better, and to Sebastian, that meant she was getting worse. You didn’t know how to answer him after all you had given him the same answer the three other times he asked. You just simply shook your head no. That response didn’t sit right with Sebastian. He sighed and ran his hands through his hair; something that became a familiar action within your time with him. He was frustrated you couldn’t just fix Anne, even though you had no idea how to use ancient magic.

“Well? What have you been doing?” He asked accusingly. He was scared, and you both knew it, but he had been acting as if it was your fault recently. Something you and Ominis didn’t find ideal.

“Sebastian, please, I have other things to do.” You signed. You wanted to help Anne as much as you could. You thought you had grown a strong bond with him, but every moment Anne wasn’t recovering, he seemed to forget that. There was a fear in the back of your mind that he would trade your life for hers in an instant.

“Other things?!” Spat Sebastian. He threw his hands up and pointedly looked at you.

“Anne is ill and all you can think about is other things?!” His voice rose as he mocked your own. It didn’t hurt the way it was intended to, but you knew he would try harder. If he was hurt, you would hurt worst. It’s something you learned while being around him. Instead of an apology, he would just say he’s a Slytherin after all. As if it changed the meaning. This wasn’t your first moment like this with him. It had happened the day before.

“Sebastian-” he cut you off before you could even say anything.

“Sebastian,” he mocked, “no (y/n) you have this-this magic that can help and you’re just playing with it.” He got even louder as he spoke and now was shouting in your face. You wanted to panic. He hadn’t gotten this angry at you yet. Of course, he spat at you for not wanting to cure Anne, which wasn’t true. You were just as confused as he was, but just not as desperate. As you were about to speak, he lunged at you and grabbed your shoulders.

“Do you just not care about curing her? My sister?!” He violently shook your arms as he yelled. Panic finally set in and you realized he was scaring you. Spit landed on your face from his yelling and as he opened his mouth to yell once again, you slapped him. You didn’t realize what you had done until you looked at him. He was bent over, holding his cheek.

“You’re being mean and you’re scaring me.” You said in between gasps. Sebastian stared at you with a shocked expression and watched you slowly run away from him, occasionally looking over your shoulder at him.

As soon as you left the undercroft, you couldn’t stop gasping for air. You needed to find Ominis. He always knew what to do for some reason. He brought a sense of comfort in these moments and you didn’t know who needed it more, you or Sebastian? You took off in a sprint as you looked for him. Nearly running into a few students and an irritated Professor. Tears ran down your face as the guilt finally hit you.

Sebastian was just desperate. He was scared to lose his sister. You probably would’ve acted the same in his place. His sister was unwell, and you both placed too much trust in your magic. He didn’t deserve to be slapped, just as you didn’t deserve to be treated like that.

Once Ominis was in your line of sight, you felt overwhelmed with everything that had happened and just started to cry. He seemed to hear your cries and turned his in every which way in a panic. Once you finally reached him, everything seemed to burst.

“Ominis! IslappedSebastianbecausehewasscaringmebutnowIfeelhorrible!” You fell into his arms dramatically.

“Oh, dear… (y/n) I have no idea what you’re trying to say.” Ominis said as he let you collapse. He wasn’t the best at consoling, but he knew how to listen. Once you calmed down, you told him everything that happened, from Sebastian yelling at you to you slapping him. After he heard everything, he winced slightly.

“I’m jealous you’ve committed my dream, but circumstances don’t seem fair. I understand you were scared, but so is he. Apologize for slapping him and I’m sure he will apologize for how he’s been acting. We have to be patient with him. He’s been through a lot.” Ominis gave his “words of wisdom,” as he rubbed your back to calm you down. You knew you had to apologize for slapping him, so matter what. A part of you wanted Ominis to join you to find Sebastian again, but knew it was something you had to do alone. It wasn’t like Sebastian would hurt you.

The first place you looked for Sebastian was the undercroft which you succeeded in finding him. He stared at his hands with a frown in the middle of the room.

“I’m sorry.” You said softly. You didn’t want to scare him since he seemed so lost in his mind. He slowly looked up at you.

“Am I truly that horrible?” Sebastian asked, defeatedly. While you were away, he seemed to have torn himself apart. His eyes were puffy and dull, most likely from crying.

“No, Sebastian! I was scared. Everything is so new and I do care about Anne. I just can’t handle the way you treat me.”

“I’m just… I’m so scared.” His voice started to crack, and you hadn’t seen Sebastian cry before, but knew he was about to start. He slowly started to hug himself as tears rushed down his face. Without thinking, you rushed towards him and wrapped your arms around him.

“You’re okay. I got you.” You mumbled into his hair. Without any hesitation, he wrapped his arms around your stomach and started to cry harder. It’s hard to remember but you both are still 15.

[reotacchii]

HIII i told u i’d req soon so here it is ‼️

can i have gepard (hsr) x fem!reader whos really reckless and wont stop getting hurt all the time

- your mentally ill requester, 🎧anon. gepard has taken over my mind <3

・─ pairings !! gepard landau x fem!reader (tho- I never specified feminine pronouns in here 😭)

・─ prompt !! headcanon / tiny-ish scenarios of gepard and reckless reader ; fluff writings ; tw!! none

・─ a/n !! the "🎧 anon" come back with a CUTEST idea and hopefully I wont go too ooc in this one. Truthfully, I havent yet see his story but an idea of reckless reader can be relatable at a times. Anyway, hope you enjoy this writing and have a good dayyy 💗 !!

「Thoughts of my troubles crumble to pieces and scatter」

★ sometimes, you have your own dumber moment.

★ not like academically stupid, but the fact your own decisions could lead you into troubles. How so?

★ you cannot walk an inch without yourself getting tripped and fell as a result. You thought sliding on a stairway wearing a thick fluffy coat would decrease the falling damage — spoiler alert, it doesnt. And once, you also covered yourself in snow and call it a snow bath, then ended up fell sick (sampo behaviour/j).

★ and ofcourse someone would be so worried about you, none other than gepard himself.

★ he thought you were only clumsy, but then he realizing you are so careless and act to an extreme degree.

★ it means, you just cant stay out of trouble.

★ knowing that fact, gepard would be so cautious and protective of your act.

★ "y/n, I will bring the stuff. That looks so heavy," gepard insisted.

★ " why? I'm strong enough to bring it myself!" you asked curiously. He never answered back after.

★ though he remains quiet, deep inside he's caring for you and dont want you to get hurt! Only if he's able to express those words instead leaving you clueless with his protective and aware act.

★ he doesn't want his love to be hurt, it's like his duty to taking care of you. Dark and menacing alleyway at night? Let's take another path! Suspicious looking food in shop? Gepard will cook you his food instead! You fell off the stair? He'll pick you up as if you're a princess!

★ "y/n, y/n? Are you hurted? Do you need me to take you to the doctor? If there's anything sprained, please tell me!" his worriness that soon dominates him.

★ you'll reply with a chuckle instead. Your own recklesness somehow gave you immunity to pain at this point, but watching how gepard looks so worried of your state, you wanted to lighten up the mood. "How silly.. You don't need to exaggerates it so much! I will just sleep it off and everything will be fineeee,"

★ ofcourse your solution to your own trouble is sleeping, sleeping is your cure by this point.

★ however, gepard find your answer not pleasant to him. He would be your personal doctor and will feed you many healthy food to speed up the recovery of your possible injuries.

★ you can't help but to fall in love with him again. His caringness and the way he treat you, it's full of countless love within.

★ he'll wrap both of his arm around you securely, he find himself relaxed whenever he doing it with you.

★ "I never want to see you get hurt ever again, my love.." he whispered. As if the sadness will soon revolves in him, you proceed to assure him with a kiss on his cheek.

★ "thank you, I appreciate that you always looking out for me," you said as you caressing his cheek. Soon, it left him feel embarrassed; yet a burst of happiness filling him, he always feel like his heart beats faster whenever you do it. You can even see he blushed so hard, you always love this reaction <3

★ before both of you fell asleep, you both will cuddling as gepard would humming you a lullaby.

★ if you are around, he feels comfortable with his singing, but mostly he feel more happy if he's able to do it around the one he loved.

★ his voice is so endearing, its a bliss for your ears. There's something in his voice that manipulate you to feel sleepy, starting your journey into the dreamland.

★ noticing you fall asleep, gepard would brush your hair to the back and kiss your forehead.

★ "goodnight, love".

[averysmolbear]

“I’ll stay right here, okay?”

CW: mentions of anxiety and depression (and some centering on those sorts of experiences and feelings so definitely don't read if that's triggering for you!). absolutely not proofread since I wrote it a few minutes ago (so it's very self indulgent). female reader with she/her pronouns used and a brief mention of menstruation. very hurt/comfort centric. pro hero Shoto (in his 20s). established relationship with the reader.

A/N: I was having what I refer to as a "bad brain day" because I allowed all my little anxieties recently catch up with me so I wanted to write a little something with Shoto (one of my faves) comforting the reader who was going through something similar.

Pairing: Pro Hero Shoto Todoroki x fem!reader

The moment that you didn’t respond to his text, Shoto Todoroki was on his way to see you. It wasn’t like you to ignore him when he sent you an afternoon text to remind you that he loved you and that he couldn’t wait to get home to see you. Like clockwork, Shoto had sent the text and slipped his phone into a pocket in his hero costume. He knew that there would be a familiar little buzz soon enough with the phone vibrating to let him know you had texted back.

For a moment, the young hero thought that he hadn’t felt the phone go off. Sometimes it was 45 minutes later before you could send him a text after all but it had been almost 2 hours and by now, Shoto knew he should have heard something. Sometimes you would just text back that you loved and missed him too, complete with some cute heart emoji or another. Sometimes you would send him a picture of yourself, even if it was just you sitting on the couch at home. Today, the lack of response from you made Shoto feel sick to his stomach.

He had pulled out his phone a few times to make sure he hadn’t missed the message but eventually he was done waiting. Something had to have happened between the time he left this morning for his shift at the agency and this very moment. He still had a couple of hours left to keep patrolling but he didn’t care. It was Shoto’s own agency after all which meant that he was the boss and if the boss needed to go home early, he was going to do it. You meant more to him than anything else after all.

He didn’t bother to change into his street clothes, hopping into his car after returning to the agency so he could head straight home. He tried calling once he was in the car but you didn’t answer, causing panic to rise within the young hero. What if something had happened to you? It wasn’t as if the two of you kept your relationship a secret. Shoto doubted that a villain would leave you alone in an effort to get to him. You were a target and in Shoto’s racing mind, he ran through every person he had recently caught who might have a vendetta against him.

By the time he got home, Shoto felt like he was a wreck. He burst into the front door, calling out your name in a panic. He didn’t even bother taking off his shoes, rushing straight for the living room first. When he saw you laying on the couch, cocooned in a plush blanket from your shared bed, he let out a soft breath. You looked like you were safe but that didn’t explain why you hadn’t answered his text.

He began to run through the things that it could be. Was it because you were menstruating? No, he actually knew your cycle probably better than you did and it would be another week at least before you might be dealing with cramps and the like. Was it because you were sick? He hadn’t noticed you sniffling recently and you hadn’t complained about feeling ill so Shoto didn’t think it was that either.

“Y/N?” Shoto softly spoke your name before sitting on the couch at your feet. He noticed that you didn’t even look at him when he said your name but your eyes were puffy and your cheeks were a little red. “Is it … one of your bad days, love?”

You slowly opened your eyes only to have tears start to stream down your already tear-stained cheeks. You didn’t have the will to sit up but you let Shoto help you anyway, trying to bite back the little sobs that were building up in your throat. You let him carefully put an arm around your shoulders and your head immediately fell to the side to rest against Shoto’s shoulder. He had his cool side to you and something about it felt soothing right now.

Soft, hiccuping breaths gave way to your shaky voice. “I’m sorry,” you said, closing your eyes tightly. “I … I don’t … I don’t mean to …”

“Shh,” Shoto soothed, shaking his head as he pulled you closer. “You don’t have to explain. I already know.”

You had tried to hide some of your lower moments from Shoto when you first started dating. The first time that you had wound up letting yourself get overwhelmed to the point that you broke, Shoto had nearly had a panic attack himself. He hadn’t been sure what to do but eventually had settled on sitting with you quietly, holding you in his arms while you tried to explain that it wasn’t his fault, that you had gotten overwhelmed and it would be fine. Now he was well versed in these moments although they happened less and less because Shoto also had gotten very good at being able to tell when you were nearing that point of being overwhelmed.

Somehow he had missed it this time but he didn’t say that. Blaming himself wouldn’t help you feel better because Shoto knew you would just end up trying to comfort him instead when you were the one who needed to be comforted.

“I’ll stay right here, okay?” he finally said as he pulled you on to his lap.

You let the blanket fall off of you as you curled up on your boyfriend’s lap, nuzzling your nose in his neck. Breathing in his familiar scent was calming and it helped you center yourself. Even without saying anything out loud, you had started going through the things you could see, hear, smell, taste, and touch as you worked on slowing your racing mind. You knew that you were clinging to Shoto but he didn’t seem to mind.

Your breathing started to even out, matching his own breathing pattern. Being this close to Shoto caused your body to naturally fall into sync with his. He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head but didn’t speak until he felt your body completely relax in his arms. He didn’t care how long that would take and he waited quietly as he held you and let your mind and body settle back down again.

“We’re ordering dinner and you can pick a movie for us to watch, okay?” your boyfriend said as he brushed some of your hair out of your eyes. Shoto smiled down at you as you looked up at him with bloodshot and puffy eyes. “While we wait for the food, I’m drawing you a bath.”

“Shoto,” you said, ready to argue that he was doing too much but you could see that he was serious about this so with a sigh, you nodded. “Fine.”

With you still in his arms, Shoto stood up, cradling you to his chest as he walked to the bathroom. Again you wanted to protest but you knew he was going to do all of this anyway. You were also too exhausted to fight the pampering that you knew you were about to receive so you just placed a couple of soft kisses on Shoto’s jaw and gave in. There were worse ways for you to end your night on a day like today. And at least you weren’t going through it alone.

[death-in-a-handbasket]

Edgar anon is back (＾ω＾) I'm still learning details about Edgar's backstory, it's definitely good to read into his stuff so I can't add much to my thoughts from there and won't elaborate too too much. He was extremely talented from a young age and receive the attention and praises from his family and people around him, but he had grown up to find he does not share the same views on art with anyone around him, including his mentor in his childhood who he refers to as a fraud and that nobody around him is worthy of discussing art with him ^^

He is portrayed as very stubborn, snobby and rude ,, which i *despise* how people either erase that from his personality, or make him change as soon as it comes to sexual exchanges. He feels as though everyone is below him so I see no reason why that wouldn't carry over to his intimate life yknow? Nothing wrong with being a pillow princess but every time someone erases big aspects of personality for their 'soft femboy edgar' I want to jump out a window

I don't know if I think he'd be a top by traditional standards, but definitely the dominant one. Power bottom or something, i don't know, just in charge. He has an ego and I feel hed love to feed it by having someone who'd listen to whatever he said even if it was mean/humiliating, so yeah definitely mean if anything. I think he'd like the power dynamic of having someone of higher status/taller height/stronger submit to him.

I also think he'd be into bloodplay, it's pretty much almost explicitly stated he started making paintings with his own blood and went to the manor to find and use other people's.

Aghh I have to go back to work but I will be back to talk about more if you'd like! Sorry I couldn't elaborate on much rn

no worries anon! sorry it took me a bit to answer this, I was finishing up the last of my finals when this came in and I had to lock in and study x.x but a 95 on on both of my last 2 finals was well worth it 🙌‼️ so slayyy also I wanted to sit down and read Edgar's wiki page proper so I could get a sex reading on him before viewing your take 👍

now that i have done that, I must say I do agree, he has a rude streak, not that it's entirely unwarranted, his family did die around him out of illness and negligence so I can't blame him for being distrusting in those around him. Whether his mentor was actually a fraud and whether the people around him were genuinely buttering him up because they wanted money and not because they liked his art....well jury is still out on that, unreliable narrators are a dime a dozen in this media so I'm hesitant to put full faith in his view of people and not just the ramblings of someone both paranoid and arrogant.

I digress though he does read as having quite the superiority complex with a for sure aura of judgement about him, so when people make him a bottom in canon x canon fics that just makes me feel that they want to humble that man professionally, in that case just write an x reader fic because I doubt his trust issues and personal arrogance would have him submitting to ANYONE in canon. soft femboy Edgar my ass. that guy's verbal jabs could kill a man, they just saw a guy who was vaguely twinkish and decided he was a whimpery sub. [LOUD INCORRECT BUZZER] hey fandom at large. did you know feminine/twink looking men can dom. or are we just going to act massively stupid and hit them with the fem = bottom stereotype. I feel like this is also a large indicator that people are NOT reading the lore. bullshit. they do this to Luca too who is also rude and stubborn himself. sighs head in hands

anyways !!!!! I fully salute your Edgar truth and think he would be into all sorts of powerplay, and his degradation would cut like a knife for sure for sure. I think with his whole thing of hating flattery because he thinks people are lying I think he would find it strangely enthralling to be insulted, like an argument could serve as foreplay honestly, or perhaps he would like to tame a brat. I could even see him enjoying degrading someone who would worship him as a form of ugly retribution for all the lies.

ALSO AMEN BLOODPLAY LETSGOOOOOO I just know that he makes the finest of cuts and is very precise with it, I mean his og weapon of choice was A LETTER OPENER. he means business.

thank you for sharing anon !! after reading his wiki your takes def make sense and this was so fun to answer :D

[slptkns]

Consequences

[Prolouge]

[This is going to be a multi chapter fic! With several endings, one for each Papa!]

Summary: Copia asks you for a favor... One that would be best to refuse, but you can't quite tell him no. Leaving you in a not so ideal situation.

Warnings: Blood, reader uses a knife to cut their own hand, Reader is Witchy

A/N: I was listening to music, as per usual, when an Idea struck me, not as usual, and just had to write it. This is the prologue of that idea! I plan on fleshing this bad by out some (not too much my tiny brain can only handle so much)! This started out as an idea for solely Terzo but then I went Buck Wild and thought "what if all Papas??" @jossambird

Copia stared at you with a longing and hopefulness that you hadn’t seen anyone in your line of work feel in a very long time. Your stomach was in knots and you truly felt ill. You stared back at Copia with concern.

“So…” He trailed off. “You’d be able to bring them back?”

You sighed and ran a hand through your hair, “I- I can’t make any promises.”

That was all he needed to hear from you. “But! There is a chance?”

“There will be consequences if this works!”

“But, it could work!” Copia looked as if he was ready to sprint around you and yell and scream ‘hooray’. You hadn’t even done a single thing yet, and he was already ready to sing your praises.

“Can we just-” You pinched the bridge of your nose, “-get on with this?”

“Of course, cara!”

You gulped and you swore the sound echoed through the room. Copia grabbed your hand and began to pull you down the empty hallway. Normally you would be taking in every little thing surrounding you, but you were making a conscious effort to not do that this time. You wanted to know as little as possible if you happened to get in trouble.

Copia brought you into a large room and you had to immediately stop yourself from being sick. Primo, Secondo, and Terzo lay there. Lifeless. Haphazardly put together and placed in a sort of circle.

“You didn’t do this yourself.”

“No, I had Aether and Mountain help!” He sounded proud of himself.

“What are they going to think-” You stopped yourself and asked what was most pressing to you, “Am I going to die for doing this?”

Copia, instead of answering, moved deeper into the room and motioned for you to follow him. “C’mon cara, this way! We set up a place just for you!” He pointed towards the center of the men.

“Ah, thanks.”

You mumbled a couple 'I'm sorry's as you moved past their lifeless bodies and sat in the middle of the circle. You crossed your legs and placed your hands on your thighs. You looked up at Copia and he gasped, a light going off in his head.

“Here, take this!”

“Holy shit,” You looked at the large knife, “Did you have to get one this big? I mean, a kitchen knife would have worked just fi-” Copia’s stare caught you off guard and you stopped yourself, “This will do, thank you!” You forced a smile and grabbed the large what might as well have been a machete of a knife.

You motioned for Copia to step back. And he gladly obliged, watching you with a smile from across the room. You inhaled and shakily took the knife to your opposite palm. You mumbled a quick prayer to literally whoever was listening to you, in hopes of not dying on the spot when starting the ritual.

You began to speak softly, chanting a spell that you had learned was probably the worst one to purposely use. You dragged the knife down your palm and let out a whine, wincing from the pain. You did not slow your spell though.

In fact, you slowly grew louder.

As soon as a bit of your blood hit the circle lying beneath you, it began to spread. It was quickly replacing the chalk they had used to outline everything for you. You felt something grab a hold of you. Your back arched and your eyes began to roll in the back of your head, and suddenly you weren’t in control anymore.

Your spell grew louder, voices that were not yours taking over, and the room was shifting. Everything was shifting. Copia stood in shock as your hands hit the ground and your nails scraped the concrete floor. You were fighting futilely to gain control back of the situation. To gain control of your own body.

You needed it to all stop.

Your face began to grow warm. Blood dripping from your nose. Your head snapped back and you gasped for air, the chanting suddenly stopping. A scream ripped from your throat. A blood curdling scream. One that made Copia’s hair stand on end.

You fell back onto the concrete and let out another, quieter scream and your entire body tensed. Your eyes returned to normal, you regained control, but the damage was done. A cool, metallic taste hit your tongue and you cried out for help.

Your vision blurred, but you could still see Copia. Or his silhouette. You lied on your side and lifted your head slightly. He began to run towards you, but as soon as he was near you, he froze. You reached up for him and let out another whimper of pain.

“Please… Help…”

Your head fell back against the concrete and as your consciousness faded, you saw movement. You saw a silhouette in front of you. Your heavy breathing slowed and your eyes shut.

“Oh, my-”

A voice you were not familiar with was the one you heard last. A hand touched your side and then a cold you had never felt before enveloped you.

Unknown to you, the ritual had worked, and you had brought back the three Papas just as Copia had asked. And with that, you, and everyone else, would have to face the consequences of your actions and everything that was about to unfold because of you.

[aestherians]

Defining Paratypes - Once and For All

Word count: ~1450 Estimated reading time: 10-12 minutes

1. Introduction

Language is a funny thing, huh?

In June 2018 I erroneously coined the word “cameotype” — English is my 2nd language and I’ve picked up a lot of words by just noting in which contexts they’re used and then never looking them up in the dictionary. Usually this works, sometimes it doesn’t. I thought a cameo meant an addition, something secondary, or something along those lines. When people discussed cameo-shifts, I knew they were discussing brief, temporary shifts, but it was only after coming up with this word that I realized what “cameo” actually means: A minor role.

That’s absolutely not the meaning I was going for when I made up the word “cameotype,” and I backtracked as soon as I realized my mistake. But I still needed a word to cover that concept I’d originally intended for “cameotype” to cover — to quote my original post: “You know those characters, animals, and so on that make you feel all shifty but aren’t technically kintypes or [hearttypes], yet are still important enough to your therian/’kin experience that you feel like mentioning them somehow?”

In March 2019 I finally shared a follow-up post where I suggested a few alternatives: Paratype (from para-/beside), fratertype/fratype (from frater-/sibling), and sintype (from sin-/together), all of which better describe the concept I was going for. My Anglophonic readers helpfully pointed out that the latter two words sound weird in English, and “paratype” ended up being the most popular word.

And then I never made another follow-up post.

2. An Ill-Defined Definition

I’m not sure why I never wrote a concise definition but in hindsight I’m glad I didn’t. It allowed for 4 years of input and discussion of the term and its scope. Originally, I wanted it to be very broad, covering “anything that doesn’t fit neatly into the established [alterhuman] categories but is still important to your nonhuman identity,” and I thank the gods that that didn’t become the go-to definition. It’s too poorly defined to be useful, and the broadness I was going for is already covered by synpath and vaguetype.

It did, however, end up with a not-much-better definition in Kiera’s Alterhuman Dictionary: “A character, animal, or mythical creature that is not a kin/therio/fictotype or a hearttype, but somehow feels important to your established identity. Some examples of how it may manifest include: inducing shifts of one or more of your established ‘types, showing up as a cameo shift that somehow feels related to your established ‘type, or feeling similar to a hearttype because they remind you of your kintype in some significant way.”

I never got around to asking Kiera to change that definition.

3. Covering all bases

Like I said, I’m glad I ended up waiting so long to write this essay, even if it wasn’t intentional. It allowed me to see a lot of perspectives that I wouldn’t even have considered on my own.

First of all, how do you know if something’s a paratype or something else? After all, it’s possible to have two kintypes that are extremely similar, like two species from the same genus, or two characters who fit the same archetype. If they feel obviously connected, how do you determine if one of them is a paratype or something else? The annoying answer is that you don’t — not really. Alterhumanity isn’t a hard science, we can’t run calculations to determine which identity facets fit into which categories. All our jargon should be opt-in, not something you feel forced to use because you fit a dictionary definition. If your kintype is a labradoodle and you later learn that goldendoodles exist, and you feel like you’re a goldendoodle concurrently with your labradoodle kintype, you can choose to call the goldendoodle a paratype, a kintype, both, or neither. “Paratype” is an opt-in category (no one is forced to use it) and it’s not an exclusive category (if something’s a paratype that doesn’t mean it can’t simultaneously be another kind of ‘type too).

The only requirement for something to be a paratype is that it has an associated identity. It doesn’t exist in a vacuum, it’s always an offshoot of something else. I was a bit wishy-washy about this at first since I was more attached to the “it feels like a hearttype/kintype/something else, but it’s not” part of the concept than the “it feels that way because it’s connected to your preestablished identity” part. But no, no matter how a paratype presents itself, or what the experience of it is, it’s defined by its origin: If your paratype-like feelings don’t exist because of another identity facet, it’s not a paratype.

Paratypes are not defined by their origins in the same way that some folks try to define kintypes - whether a paratype is psychological, spiritual, or something else is irrelevant. A paratype can be a quirk of the brain just as well as it can be a past life. As long as the paratype/your connection to the paratype is an offshoot/extension of a preestablished identity, it counts.

The example I’ve used most often to get the idea across is that I am a bison, and because I’m a bison it’s only natural that I feel a connection to domestic bulls. This connection does feel like a hearttype. Unrelated, I am also unicornhearted. The difference comes down to whether I can separate my otherhearted feelings from other parts of my identity. If I can (like with unicorns), I call it a hearttype. If I can’t (like with bulls) it’s a paratype. It’s definitely splitting hairs, but the distinction is valuable to me.

I did get a question once, asking if a paratype had to be an offshoot of an alterhuman identity, or if it could be connected to a gender identity or a disability. I had not considered that possibility, but I gave it a tentative yes. Especially in light of Mord’s “Alterhumanity is Queer” essay, queerness and alterhumanity is not something I want to split hairs about. If you feel connected to dogs because of your gender, or cats because of your disability, and you want to refer to those connections as paratypes, I’m not gonna stop you. More power to you!

It's also worth noting that throughout this essay I have been using animals as examples, but “paratype” is by no means limited to therianthropic/animalhearted identities. Plantfolk, fictionfolk, objectkin, conceptkin, and factualkin can all use it if they want, and the term can be used for any identity category, from kintypes and hearttypes to headmates and past lives to constels and linktypes. It can even be used for paratypes - in theory, a paratype can have a paratype can have a paratype, ad infinitum. Personally, I’m spiderhearted and as a result I feel strongly connected to other arachnids, including ticks, and as I feel connected to ticks, I feel connected to other ectoparasites, like mosquitoes and lice.

A paratype can have any kind of connection to your preestablished ‘type. I use the bison <-> bull example often because it’s an easy way to explain the concept, but other examples may include a lion therian whose paratype is gazelles, a reptile with a sun paratype, a rabbit with a hawk paratype, a robot with a glitch paratype, a mushroom with a tree paratype, a werewolf with a silver paratype, and I could go on. Even something like a lost love from another life or an entire universe could be categorized as a paratype if you wish to do so.

You can also get noemata from a paratype, or only have one specific version of a species/object/character be your paratype. A paratype can be as vague as it can be specific - it can be every single type of dragon ever, or it can be a specific interpretation of a specific dragon species from a specific book. Essentially, you can have any kind of alterhuman experience be classified as a “paratype” as long as it meets the “offshoot/extension of a preestablished identity” criterion - which led to the excellent essay “How a hearttype gave birth to a parallel life of a paratype - a view on the connection between spiritual and psychological roots for otherkinity” which I implore you to read - but not before you’ve finished the final section:

4. A definition - finally!

paratype, plural paratypes (noun) From para- (prefix): beside, alongside, related to; and type (noun): a particular kind, class, or group

1. (biology) a specimen of a type series other than the holotype 2. (biology) the environmental component of a phenotype 3. (alterhuman community slang) an identity facet that only exists in relation to a preestablished identity

[laufreyjarson]

some thoughts as i ease back into deity worship;

having to step away from my practice for awhile, i was worried that i wouldn't be able to communicate with my fulltrúi as clearly as before.

granted, communication between me and loki/freyja has always been pretty straightforward, and is only interrupted by my own lack of perception (in this case, i wasn't very open to receiving communication since i was mentally preoccupied). i was nervous, though, that my absence had caused them to lose interest in me. however, as soon as i opened back up to it, things were back to normal, and i didn't lose my ability to tap into their energy and interpret signs!!

i'm neurodivergent and i don't do well with abstract concepts or vague answers, so divination tends to be my best friend when i want to spend some time with deities and confirm any thoughts, feelings, or intuitions i get. that being said, i'm trying to expand my practice, and i think loki and freyja have been reaching out to me in discreet ways to re-incorporate their presences into my daily life.

recent experiences;

- i have pulled the tower in every single tarot reading i've done in the past two years. this card represents what loki tends to represent for me, and i didn't make this connection until recently. i did a deity reading this past sunday, and when pulling the first card to represent the deity i was working with (just to confirm), i pulled the tower! i asked on the pendulum if the tower in my readings has been loki showing up for me, and he said yes. i was really touched by this...!

- so many spiders. as always. and they don't go away until i give loki an offering. please help

- i have a few diagnosed mental illnesses, most of which are manageable but a lot more debilitating than i like to acknowledge. a major symptom is that i have a hard time finding the motivation to take care of myself, but ever since may, i've had the energy to take the extra step and do the best i can! i prayed to freyja regarding this and after acknowledging her role in my self care, my acne started to clear up, which i've had for twelve years, and is cystic + sooo stubborn

- around a month ago, i had the sudden idea to create a journal where i write down nice/positive things people have said about me. this came after a mental rut where i was experiencing extremely low confidence. i asked freyja if it was her idea and if she wanted it dedicated to her as an offering, and she said yes!

- i'm very mild mannered and a huge people pleaser, but recently i've had this fire inside of me that's allowed me to stand up for myself and set better boundaries. i asked loki if this is him, and he confirmed it is!

- i got a very intense impulse to weave bracelets for both of them. i put them around my wrists as a kind of protection, because i do love offerings i can wear! of course loki's snapped after an hour and i had to make a new one, but that was mostly my fault ><

there's so much more, and all i can feel is this huge sense of gratitude as i realize they have been showing up for me in every facet of my life, even though i was too distracted to fully realize or acknowledge it. the silent support that they have shown me is so so meaningful, and only proves to me that my love, care, and respect for them is reciprocated! all i can say is i'm so so happy. i will never take this relationship i have built with loki and freyja for granted.

[oogaboogasphincter]

Deceits of the Devil (priest!marcus pike x f!reader) | chapter one: the high priestess

series summary: when you find love in a priest, a litany of spooky events begin to follow you that can only be described as a haunting. is it your own guilty conscience that disturbs you... or could it be something else?

chapter summary: you're visiting your best friend in her new town for the first time when you are begrudgingly thrust into her devout way of life. however, something - or someone - makes you rethink your plans of avoiding the church at all costs.

word count/series~chapter-specific warnings: 6.4k+ words // MATURE (18+ ONLY) MDNI!: reader uses she/her pronouns and is incredibly non-religious, SLOW BURN TABOO RELATIONSHIP BABYYY, lots of religious/spiritual talk, horror elements and general spookiness ~ lots of character introductions so pls bear with me, mention of the death of a loved one and some light grief, food and eating mentions, sudden illness, potentially cringe banter, take a shot for every time i wrote 'father pike' in this (trust me we learn his first name soon enough but for now it's all formalities between him and reader), is this whole thing blasphemous? probably

a/n: sooo this is something very different from what i normally write, but i'm so excited to be trying something new! :) i'm not too sure where i want to take this story yet, so i don't have a total number of chapters or an ending planned (i really don't even have much of the plot figured out LMAO) but i'd really really appreciate any and all feedback from my readers! ♥️ let me know what you liked and what you want to see more of in future chapters!

“So I won’t burst into flames when I walk through the doors?” 

You ask your best friend, Lucy, sending her into a fit of laughter. She clutches your hand tighter in hers, squeezing it with pompous affection. Despite your best efforts to maintain your feelings of impartialness towards the church, your palm slips against hers with a sheen of clamminess as you travel closer to the hulking cathedral. 

“No!” She laughs, that breathless laugh you’ve always found comfort in. “You’re holier than most of the people who go every Sunday.” 

You scoff and give her some side-eye, something that just makes her shake her head even more. Whether or not this is how you wanted to spend your first day in Carmeltree visiting her, you are going to this harvest dinner. 

She sighs contentiously, contrasting the playful smirk on her face, “Trust me, you’ll be fine. Now come on, we’re gonna be late!” 

——

Lucy has been your best friend since kindergarten. The maple leaves that swirl around you both in the crisp autumn air as you run through the streets now invoke a fierce sense of nostalgia, one that’s almost painful. One of your first memories together is making leaf rubbings in class with the fallen leaves that blanketed the frosted school grounds. She liked warm colors and you liked cool colors; she liked maple leaves and you liked birch leaves. Two complete halves made an even brighter whole when you came together, and the rest is history. 

Despite the big city you grew up in, somehow you always managed to be in the same classes, share the same hobbies. But your luck had to run out sometime; when you both graduated, you got accepted into universities on opposite sides of the country. You kept up your communication, talking to each other every day and spilling your guts about everything, from the monumental to the regrettable, the joyous to the devastating. 

You thought something was amiss when she called you in the middle of the night a few months back. At first you brushed it off, thinking maybe she fell asleep with her phone in her hand and dialed you by accident, something you’ve both done plenty of times over the course of your friendship. When she called you back as soon as you didn’t answer, you knew there was something wrong. That’s when you learned her mom had passed away. 

It wasn’t sudden, but that didn’t spare her any devastation. You were there for her all day, every day. Consoling her when she wept, relishing in the happy memories that brought a rare but vital smile to her voice, sympathizing with her grief. But without a physical shoulder to lean on, Lucy went looking for more support to help her. 

Her mom was a devout Christian and, by proxy, so was Lucy. She isn’t as rigid in her faith as her mom was, but she always viewed it as a guiding light to betterment, a sturdy foundation to catch her when she crumbled. Luckily, the whirlwind of life events in the past six months that displaced her from her college friends to the small town of Carmeltree was gracious enough to gift her a tight-knit, painfully orthodox population. 

On the contrary, you grew up in a household without any influence of organized religion. Your family celebrated Christmas and Easter, but it was mostly for all of the gifts and chocolate. 

Religious differences never caused any turmoil between you and your best friend, because you love each other for who you are, regardless if you share spiritual beliefs. If praying and attending sermons helps Lucy to process her grief and gives her something that uplifts her soul, what kind of a friend would you be to forbid her from that? 

—— 

That doesn’t make you any more enthused about being dragged to the dinner held at the church to celebrate the autumn harvest. Lucy dropped the plan on you the second she picked you up from the major airport, whose segregating miles seem to swell with every second that passes. Knowing you would come up with an alternative plan you’d both like better, she didn’t give you a chance to back out, and you didn’t fight. Committed to being a good friend, and with a curiosity pricking your heart, you run alongside her through residual puddles as the street clocks chime eight times. 

And let’s get one thing straight - “church” was a dishonorable term for the structure you’re going to. For hundreds of years, since the first round of colonizing settlers that invaded this square patch of disparate land, the citizens have been addicted to worship. They would lend their last cent to their religion, egregiously ignoring their growling stomachs and dilapidated houses for the sake of a prosperous God. The result of this frenzied generosity is the biggest cathedral you’ve ever seen. 

You’re still a few blocks away, but the spires reach over the trees and spear up at the moon; whose craters can be seen with miraculous clarity on this autumn night. As you move closer and closer, the details in this spectacular of gothic architecture reveal themselves. There are a litany of pinnacles that stand like soldiers guarding their fortress and clerestory windows that dance and swish with light coming from inside the maw of the beast. When your eyes drift to angular beams that aid the structure - flying buttresses, if you remember correctly - your marvel is suddenly absent.

“No gargoyles?” you ask. 

Lucy matches your disappointment with a shake of her head, “They come too close to the pagan border.” It’s unmistakable the way she lowers her voice, though there’s only a handful of patrons a hundred feet away from you. 

Against the cloudless, darkening sky and a comically-eerie full moon, anyone would be dosed with at least a few drops of intimidation by the staggering black outlines. You fail to find any ease once you come to one of three entrances. The carvings of ancient tales you don’t know loom over your head in the angular tympanum and greet you with uncertainty. Are they supposed to make you feel welcomed or warned? 

The gigantic doors are swung and held open by their own weight, giving way to the narthex. There’s a singing choir hidden deeper within and their melodies echo all around you. A large chandelier emits a soft orange glow, which is peculiarly swallowed up instead of reflected by the intricate, gilded etchings that coat the walls. Maroon velvet beneath your feet turns into a dark abyss of shadows from the unprecedented amount of people in here. You cling to Lucy’s coat with both your hands, somewhat subconsciously, and she laughs before taking your hand in hers and parting though the sea. 

You’ll admit it, you can be very shy when you’re overwhelmed. Though for some inexplicable reason, crowds usually didn’t give you a fuss. You actually found a sense of comfort in being lost in the blur, blending in as just another body amongst hundreds, sometimes thousands of others. But you didn’t like this crowd, didn’t know these people, and not in a stranger-danger kind of way; you’ve unknowingly crossed the line of some Christians in the past and have dealt with their fiery ravings. From knowing Lucy all these years, you seem to have an understanding of their way of life, but then you slip up - use His name in vain, talk about a crush you have no plans to marry a little too fondly. You’ll be chewing on your third forkful and look up at the table, meeting ghastly stares and wanting to smack yourself in the face for completely forgetting grace. 

Lucy never scorned you about forgetting or misunderstanding the rules. She knew that you didn’t mean any malice, you just simply… thought it was all a little silly sometimes. Between lighthearted Lucys and tyrannical Karens, it felt like walking on a minefield. So, you guess, you do know these people; it’s their unpredictability that worries you. 

The claustrophobia wanes as you enter the nave. The ceiling spreads out, breathes, and is lined with stained glass windows that bend the moonlight into faint rainbows. Some of the outermost pews have been moved to accommodate long tables, adorned in chestnut velour, copper filigree and serve as the throne for only the most impressive squashes of the harvest. A buffet joins the autumnal decor, sitting in sterling silver that you can imagine was forged at the beginning of the century and is used only for occasions such as these. 

Ever atune to your mind and body, Lucy pulls you into the line of hungry patrons just as your stomach grumbles. You’re transfixed by the magnificent altar at the back of this illustrious cave, your eyes climbing up the grand steps of the sanctuary to the stone table where you know the priest stands when mass is held. You try to picture one giving a sermon and reciting from scriptures. Doesn’t he have a cup or something too?…

A plate is stuck in front of you, waving a little, and the priest laughs at you when he finally gets your attention. You take the plate with a little embarrassment, your smile a sheepish one. “Sorry,” you mumble with pity. 

The tall, wispy-haired man smiles with his teeth and places his arthritic hands around one of yours as you hold the plate. “Oh, it’s alright, my child. I myself have gotten lost in the wonders of the cathedral many times.”

Lucy chimes in, reading your awkward gaze. “It’s her first time,” she whispers with a little too much excitement for your liking. The priest puts on a goofy surprised expression, his eyebrows going up and his mouth forming a small 'o'. He looks back to you with a softer smile, “What a beautiful thing to witness, then. I’m Father Gala, pleased to meet you.” 

“There’s no one better to come here with for the first time than Miss Finkle. You’re in very good hands.” As you nod in agreement, you can’t help but wonder… what would this elder man, in his starched and pressed vestments, think if he knew you and Lucy had “practiced” kissing so you’d know what you were doing when the “real thing” happened? 

You wave the thought away like a gnat, not wanting to feel like you’re keeping another clean secret that’s considered dirty by some. You’re already under the guise of being a practicing Christian; Lucy had said they were more readily accepted than anyone else, despite the church’s proclamation of aiming for cultural diversity. 

The choir has ended their singing, replaced by applause then the soft, overlapping chatter of the religious folk, and their red robes merge seamlessly into the surrounding crowd. Three other priests emerge from doors on either side of the sanctuary, two from the door closer to you and one from the other. You don’t get a good look at the singular man, since the door is on the opposite side of the grand hall from you. The two others are deep in talk, gesturing with their hands and keeping their faces close to one another while they walk as to not let anyone eavesdrop. You move ahead in line and depart from the eldest priest, whom the two new faces greet and guide a few feet away from everyone. 

You don’t mean to pry, but you can’t help your curiosity and look back at the men. You can’t hear them, only watching their mouths move, but Father Gala’s sweet smile grows somber, then bitter. With scowling brows to match, the other two priests keep up their gestures laden with well-maintained passion as they tell Father Gala a story. 

In the first lull of this conversation, the eldest priest, with his arms crossed over his chest, flickers his eyes to yours without moving his head. Your heart springs from your chest to your throat. His glower lessens when he bites the inside of his cheek, but you feel a doubling, tripling of stress when the other two priests turn to look at you too. The taller one, with a jet black, scraggly bowl cut, mirrors Father Gala and crosses his arms. He looks down his long nose at you in dignified annoyance. The third, with stocky limbs and strawberry blonde hair, glares at you from his periphery. Your eyes widen, in an attempt to show them you’re not a threat, expose your remorseful guilt, or provide a silent apology, you don’t know.

Lucy snaps you back forward with a gentle push against your back to get you to move in the line. You’ve finally reached the buffet, but suddenly the smells that wandered up your nose in wispy, tempting little tendrils earlier instead worm their way down your esophagus and instill a powerful nausea. She can sense your discomfort, your disorientation from what just happened, and supplies your plate for you. With a protective gaze over your head at the men, and a loving hand on your bicep, she guides you to sit in the pew farthest away from them. 

She has to stick a fork in your petrified fist for you to speak. “What the hell was that about?” You question, chancing a glance over your shoulder at the offending party and see that they’ve gone off to greet guests with friendly smiles again. “I wasn’t trying to listen in, they just looked worried and-“

Lucy pats your knee once, “Don’t worry. There must be some sort of drama happening behind the scenes, something that the town would inquire about. Since they’re priests, they think they have immunity from gossip.” She scoffs lightly and you think you catch your devout friend rolling her eyes at those most holy. “They’ve been acting weird for a while now, off and on. One week, Father Gala is like Mr. Rogers, and the next, he’s Dracula.” 

That earns a snort from you, hiding your smile behind the back of your hand. She gives you a reassuring smile, filled with her signature warmth that’s comforted you all these years, “You’re doing great. Now eat.” 

Thankfully, your nausea has quelled enough that you taste the delicious food as it’s meant to be tasted. Maybe you don’t have to worry about foraging during your stay in this town void of all fast food, only relying on two quaint grocery stores to feed itself. You’ll just have to become friends with whoever made this delectably gooey mac and cheese. 

Lucy interrupts you, “Oh, by the way,” she covers her full mouth and then swallows, pointing daintily, “that’s Father Thorn,” at the tall one, “and that’s Father Angus,” at the blonde one. You nod once in understanding, taking a look at their faces to match their names with, before Lucy turns away with a laugh. She teases under her breath, “Maybe they’re all pissed they could never be as handsome as Father Pike.” 

“Priests can be handsome?” you ask of the mysterious fourth priest, bemused. Priests, deacons, popes and the like all conjure up images of men with wrinkles as delicate and numerous as the pages in the ancient books they abide by. If they’re not a million years old, they’re unsightly at best and possess a visceral lack of sensuality, like Father Thorn and Father Angus. Lucy has got to be pulling your leg. 

“Yes,” she breathes, a soft pink blooming in her cheeks, “and young, and warm, and have a voice that makes every sermon a lullaby, and big, tender hands…” she trails off in a dream.

You let out a laugh, amused by her dramatics. “Oh, so he’s really ugly, then,” you sneer, trying to expose her hyperbole. 

She giggles at your tone, shaking her head. You reign down on her, spurring her giggles on with a barrage of sarcasm until they’re uncontrollable.

“Is that why this place doesn’t have gargoyles, because he can take its place? Does he have leathery skin,” you drag your hands down your face, pulling your cheeks down to expose your eyes, “rotted fangs,” hold your hands by your mouth and snarl your fingers, “hairy feet with long, twisting toenails that tear through his shoes?” You get up and drag your feet along the floor, growling and licking your lips rabidly. 

Lucy doubles over, tears threatening to spill over her eyes every time her lungs have to suck in a breath, “Stop!” She’s wheezing and you drop the act, putting your hands on your hips. 

“Well, you gotta tell me if I’m wrong or not!” Tapping your foot, you await her retaliation, until a voice warm with a smile cuts through the air.

“You forgot the giant rat’s tail that drags behind me.” 

Your heart stops for a second, thumping wildly when it starts up again to catch the missed beats. Turning tentatively on your heel, you’re met with… exactly what Lucy described. 

Before you is one of the most handsome men you’ve ever seen, if not the most handsome ever. Chocolate waves that crest over top one another in a cute, slightly overgrown style glisten like ganache on top of his head in the candlelight. He’s got a scruffy beard that’s cut close to his cheeks and jaw, avoiding looking unkempt, threaded with two or three streaks of gray. His aquiline nose is gorgeous, there’s a little dimple in his cheek that deepens as he’s smiling, and his eyes… oh, his eyes…

“I’m Father Pike,” he extends his hand in greeting, keeping his other tucked behind his back. He has to bend forward slightly to reach your height better, aiding your descent into enchanted madness as he gets closer. You take his hand and introduce yourself- GOD Lucy was right. His grasp is light, comforting. Where Father Gala made you feel stuck in his eternal cage, Father Pike sets you free. You fall into a stupor fantasizing about what his hugs must feel like.

He smells like cinnamon. It could be from the pie you suspect he ate, from the apple undertones you detect, but you wouldn’t be surprised if that’s just how he naturally smelled. A warm, cozy, inviting dream; he sure looked like one, at least. 

His gaze lingers on your expression frozen with intrigue before he turns and welcomes Lucy. They begin a polite banter that allows you to stand back and try to quell your blood that throbs with nerve. If you had known someone like Father Pike was going to be here, you would’ve dressed in something nicer, possibly sexy - the modesty expected in a place of worship be damned. You curse yourself for choosing these well-worn jeans and roomy sweater over the opaque tights and a dress of an acceptable length you were going back and forth on in your mirror earlier. But, in an odd sort of way, you still felt exposed in front of Father Pike from underneath all your thick layers. You couldn’t hide yourself from him, no matter how many clothes you armored yourself with. 

He turns back to you, and he doesn’t ogle your nervous body, or try desperately not to; he looks into your eyes with a soft smile that crinkles the skin around those big brown puddles. It makes your chest feel like it has a big, gaping cavity that you could look inside of and see your heart thumping hard, vulnerable blood spilling from all your edges and trickling down your legs. The flustered emotions of a blooming crush rapidly morph into something malicious and parasitic, causing you to put the back of your hand to your forehead that has broken out in clamminess. It’s hard to hear Father Pike over the rushing buzz in your head when he speaks to you.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before, are you new?” 

And just like that, your knees start trembling beneath you. Your heart misses a beat, causing your lungs to seize in anger and you suck in a harsh breath. In a flash, Father Pike’s friendliness snaps into genuine concern and he steps forward, taking your elbows and catching you on your way to the floor. You make a startled sound and his timbre slashes through your panic, “Let’s get you sat down somewhere, okay?” 

You can barely muster a nod, tears threatening to spill over your eyes and join the rivulets of sweat on your cheeks. Father Pike more or less carries you by your middle as you pathetically cling to his arms, dragging your debilitated form a short distance to a secluded, abandoned pew by the door he entered from earlier in the evening. Father Pike sits you down and takes the place right beside you, putting his left arm around your shoulders and his right hand in yours. As soon as you’re grounded on the unforgiving wood, your vision stops spinning, even though you didn’t realize it had started. Breathing suddenly feels easy again, returning to its involuntary glory instead of being laborious. It’s like your body resumed its regularly scheduled programming with an invisible snap. 

Away from the hub of the crowd, his voice seems louder, its velveteen quality more clear, “You alright?” 

You take a precautionary, steadying breath before meeting his eyes, fearful that something in him will set off all your alarms again. But when you meet his eyes, everything is serene. “Y-yeah, I’m okay.”

A pause to verify your sincerity, and then he chuckles, trying to uplift the atmosphere with a lighthearted tone, “I didn’t mean to frighten you, I just…”

You laugh, as much as you can muster in your breathless state, “No, no, you didn’t!” He retracts his hand from yours slowly and you instinctively grasp his forearm with a reassuring touch. Once you notice what you’re doing, you let go of him with an embarrassment like he’s burning you. “I- I don’t really know what happened, all of the sudden I just felt… sick.” With your confession, a wave of nausea infiltrates your stomach and makes you feel a little queasy again. It’s climbing to its previous intensity quickly. The fossilized church feels like it could cave in on you at any moment. 

Father Pike touches your shoulder softly, “I’m going to go get you some water, okay?” You nod and the waning gleam in your eye sends him swiftly disappearing into the crowd. 

A decent number of paces away, an older woman looks at you with fear as Lucy speaks to her, no doubt explaining your abrupt qualm. Drawing any more attention than you already have will just worsen your panic, so you thwart the drama. You raise your hand at her with a thin-lipped smile to deter her worry and she places her hand over her heart with a happy sigh before walking away.

Father Pike reappears behind Lucy and drifts by her with your drink clutched tight in his hand. Lucy’s eyes flit from the priest’s chivalry to your shy, measly form and she raises her eyebrows and opens her mouth with a scoffing smile. You could read your best friend’s face better than written word: she thinks that you’re doing this on purpose to get the Father’s attention. 

You wish you could say you were reeling him in with salacious spite, however, you were anything but. Your illness was true and unforgiving. You shake your head at her in defiance, but you can tell she doesn’t buy it. She turns away to busy herself with the rest of the party, but really she’s intending to give the two of you some privacy from the wink thrown over her shoulder. With a roll of your eyes, you think about how you’ll have to defend yourself with a foolproof case under her gavel later tonight. 

Father Pike retakes his seat next to you, handing you the bottle of water, unopened, that your puny fingers struggle with. Kindly, he offers his hand and you pass over the bottle for him to open. He hands it back to you and sits hunched over his lap, hands clasped between his open legs, staring at you intently as you take a few slow sips. You feel a little awkward, looking down at the bottle in your hands and fidgeting with the wrapper on the outside, so you take a note from his book and try to lighten the mood, “I knew I wasn’t a big fan of parties, but I didn’t know I was this bad.” You chuckle dryly, risking a glance at him. It works: he’s laughing with you. 

“I’m not a big party person, either,” he smiles, his dimple creasing within his beard. You raise an eyebrow at him, a little befuddled by his statement, given he inserts himself into the lives of others for a living. He takes your hint, “I enjoy talking to people, giving sermons and all of that… but even this feels a little overwhelming for me.” You nod, finding comfort in the fact that you’re on the same page. He keeps that endearing smile with a measuring eye as he continues watching you, looking from the crease of your brow to how your legs squirm uncomfortably. 

There’s something about this man that makes you feel… transparent. Like how you felt exposed to him earlier, even underneath all your coarsely knitted layers. You feel like a fraud, sitting next to one of the holiest figures in the entire congregation. And for some reason, out of all of the people here, you feel that he deserves the truth. There’s nothing about him that has given you any indication that he won’t turn on you like the rest would if you confess to your disguise, but at the same time… he makes you feel safe. Of course, he just recovered you from some undisclosed blight, but you can write that off as convenience. You were sick, he was right there, certainly he would’ve tended to you. There must be some moral code within the priesthood to never let a sick person lie. But even before that, putting aside his obvious handsomeness, there was something in his eyes that held you. Let you know that it was all okay. You decide to ply him with honesty. 

“Um… so, I’m not very religious. Like, at all.” Your voice is a little shaky, worried if his nice-guy facade will finally melt away to reveal a sneering orthodox. He doesn’t seem to have a reaction, so you keep going. 

“So, if I’m not religious, and I’m drinking this, does that mean…” You trail off in question, and he doesn’t understand what you’re getting at. 

“It’s holy, right?” You raise the water. 

Father Pike looks like he can’t believe what you just asked. He shakes his head in amusement, void of condescension, leaning the slightest bit closer towards you. He lowers his voice slightly, protecting you from any invasive ears. He softly explains, “Just because it’s water in a church doesn’t mean it’s holy. A priest or some other figure has to bless it.” His smirk deepens at your visible relief, “You’re not sinning, or anything near it. You’re perfect.” 

He said you’re… what? Your heart skips again but this time it’s not from sickness. Well... is it sick to be attracted to someone who is virtually untouchable? You get to thinking; you know enough about the church and its inner workings to know that priests usually take a vow of celibacy. Consequently, most never date or get married. Does that mean… are they barred from all things sensual? Are they allowed to tenderly brush their fingers against someone else’s, and not for the purpose of prayer? Can they share a glance that lingers a little too long for it to be considered chaste? Can they… can they even think about anything remotely sexual? 

There’s no way that can be true. You can understand physical celibacy, sure, but it’s impossible for one not to have a thought that makes them quiver at least once in their life. In your own experience, sensuality sometimes has nothing to do with sex. You’ve felt the warmth of eroticism lying under the sun’s rays in the middle of spring, savoring a delicious meal, when you finish a book with a satisfying conclusion. If Father Pike starves himself of such pleasures, you can’t fight the pity that chokes you. 

“What if they have priests at the packaging plant?” You joke, hoping to simultaneously break the silence that has swelled between you two and put a wedge in your brain’s cogs so they’ll stop churning. 

Father Pike laughs, genuinely from his belly, and oh you could get used to that sound. His eyes crinkle at their corners with a grin, “Then the church would be thrilled at our outreach.” 

You go to take another sip of your water, but his hand comes out to touch yours. The impossible delicacy almost makes you flinch. He puts gentle pressure on your skin, making you stop in your tracks. He shifts closer to you, his voice dropping an octave, warning you, “I’d be careful though; there is a possibility that you could grow rotted fangs and hairy feet, if I’m remembering correctly.”

Your fluttering nerves make your laugh squeak out of your tightened throat, louder than you intended, in a bark. Slightly mortified, you hide your smile behind the hand that isn’t suspended in the air by Father Pike. With mercy, he releases you. 

“What about a rat’s tail?” You ask with a teasing glint in your eye. 

He ponders for a moment, comically deep in thought. “That only affects the most sinful of us,” he reveals. 

...What? That was flirty, right? It had to be flirty. There’s no way he didn’t mean it to be flirty. Your imagination can be very active at times, but there was no mistaking the twitch of his mustache to repress a smirk. 

Trying to ignore the furious heat that has instantaneously kindled between your thighs based on that singular tone change, you latch the bottle to your mouth and avert your eyes elsewhere. Out of your periphery, you think you see Father Pike’s shoulders droop and his gaze lower to the ground with a silent huff. Shit, did he take your silence as a blow to his humor? 

You can’t think too much now because the clocks outside in the streets resound ten chimes. Lucy appears and her beaming at the two of you seems to rejuvenate Father Pike a little. He straightens his back before he stands and they begin talking, shaking hands. Their mouths spew unintelligible babble to you as your entire nervous system is locked on one thing: Father Pike’s back. His gorgeous personality had swept you up and away into a cloud of bubbly giggles and blushing cheeks that you hadn’t noticed what he was wearing. Maybe if the robes had made a greater impression on you, they would’ve served as a reminder to restrain yourself from dreaming about the forbidden, but alas. 

Father Pike is dressed identically to the other priests: black clerical shirt, cassock, pants, and shoes, and a white tab collar. But he wears everything so much better. The garments are majorly obscured by the enveloping cassock, but even the thick, flowing fabric can’t hide the broad width of his shoulders. When he gestures with his hands, you can see the muscles move dreamily in reaction by the flickering candlelight. He’s tall, and this fact is only emphasized as you continue to sit motionless on the pew watching him and Lucy. 

When he turns with a hand outstretched to help you to your feet, you bite your lip with ravenous desire. Somehow you didn’t notice - probably because you were too enthralled with everything else about him - how his Adam’s apple sits on glorious display with the white tab collar as its pedestal. The tempting image makes you swallow hard. God, that shouldn’t be as hot as it is. 

“Time to get going,” Lucy says, motioning from behind the Father’s back for you to take his hand. You do and stand, drifting to the front of the church on autopilot. It feels like the calm quiet of your time with Father Pike and the chummy, sociable atmosphere of the dinner has dissipated and a sense of urgency has taken root. The friendliness remains in the goodbyes and promises of meeting again you hear all around you, but you’re definitely being ushered out with the rest of the herd. You guess, remembering a tidbit about religious folk, that they have a curfew. 

It feels like you’re being ripped away from Father Pike and you don’t like that. Although you’ve only known him for all but two hours - which sounds ridiculous when you put it like that - you’re desperate to know more. You’d find genuine, complete contentedness in simply watching him go about his daily activities. Recording what details he decides to give you privy to and admiring his boundaries when he reserves himself. He’s the first possibility of a new friend in this conservative township and you don’t want to let him go. 

You’re grateful that he ghosts your back as Lucy leads you to the entrance, it gives you comfort and makes this dream last as long as it can. You don’t sense just how close he’s following behind you until you get to the heavy front doors and the toe of his shoe snags on the heel of yours. It makes you trip and fumble forward, but Father Pike reaches to catch you. His hands grip your waist, molding your oversized sweater to your body. Then, he gently steadies and pulls you back upright. The foreign sensation of your flattened heel tickles your foot and sends you stumbling back into his chest. He looks down at you, his hands still on you, “I-I apologize.”

Through the darkness you see the tips of his ears glow red. Before you can say anything in return, he renders you speechless by getting on his knees. Without a word spoken, moving in tandem with implicit choreography, you lift your foot up so he can fix the heel back into place. He doesn’t give you the choice of wobbling on your lonesome, placing one of your hands on his right shoulder to keep you balanced. And god, you wish he hadn’t done that. 

Your lips part as your breaths gain some weight, but you snap your oblong mouth shut when you hear an ancient, warbly voice. “Oh, no, what have we here?” Father Gala teeters over just as Father Pike finishes retying your shoe. Imperceptibly, you squeeze his shoulder in reverence as he stands up and then you let your hand fall innocently to your side. 

You shrug, giggling a little uncomfortably, “Father Pike stepped on the back of my shoe, it was an accident.” 

“Young and clumsy,” Father Gala jokes, you think, with a grumbly tone. He claps a hand on Father Pike’s left shoulder with more effort than you thought the old man could muster. As Father Pike steadies the elder priest’s cane, you reason he more so fell into Father Pike than anything else. Your favored Father chuckles with accountability. 

Father Gala passes off his cane for a moment to take your hand in his two, like he did when he gave you the dinner plate earlier this evening. Clearly the party has tired him out; his hands are quivering and his back is permanently bent at an angle. “Peace be with you,” he croaks with cheerfulness, despite his withered voice. 

You freeze. You know you’re supposed to say something back to complete this exchange and from the innermost depths of your brain you think it should be a simple phrase, something that any ardent Christian would remember. Between your disinterest in the church and the Father Pike fog that has eclipsed your mind, you’re dumbfounded.

An angel appears in your midst and comes to your rescue: Father Pike, peering into your eyes over the shoulder of the crouched figure before you, mouths the words silently, “And also with you.” 

“And also with you,” you recite amicably. Father Gala smiles, pats your hand twice in delight and turns to give Lucy the same departing sentiment. You release the air of worry you held inside and take a few steps to meet Father Pike, whispering close by his side so only he will hear, “Thank you.” 

The handsome Father closes your height difference by leaning down and pretends to brush some invisible dust off of your shoulder, an excuse to be this close to you. 

“Don’t mention it. Your secret’s safe with me,” he murmurs. 

And you trust him to keep his promise. Sure, he could go behind your back and spill your lies to the other priests, the entire community, let them know that there’s a rat infiltrating their congregation. 

The mischievous sparkle in his gaze as he looks at down you, biting your lip to suppress your giggle and keep your little inside secret just that, tells you he won’t let one word slip. 

Father Gala has returned for his cane, so Father Pike clears his throat and stiffens himself. Clasping his hands together, he builds an appropriate distance between the two of you before anyone sees it was anything otherwise. 

The night winds have picked up, biting at bits of exposed skin with a malevolent appetite. To shield the older priest, Father Pike guides him back into the cathedral. “I hope to see you two back soon,” the handsome Father interjects as you’re turning to leave. 

“We’ll be here Sunday!” Lucy shouts over an unnatural gust that howls and warbles her voice. With one arm over each other’s shoulders, holding tight together, you begin the trek back to her house to take refuge for the night. Behind you, you hear the cathedral doors shut, sealing you off from a final parting glance to Father Pike. You aren’t too disheartened by that and the cold can’t gnaw at your heart, either; Sunday is only two days away and you can’t contain your excitement. 

—— 

The whole night has felt like a whirlwind. To your complete and utter surprise, visiting the church is no longer seems like it’ll be a chore, but rather an opportunity. For what, you’re not exactly sure just yet. But you can feel the heat rising to your cheeks and skirting down your spine at the infinite possibilities. Maybe you should start praying for your salvation now.

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[garden-of-carnations]

storytime!!!!

for context, when I was about 12 - 13 I had like an online relationship with a friend of a friend (my friend was a scout girl with me), let's call this guy John, because that's the most basic and generic name I can think of it was more like a situation-ship because he once asked me to be his gf, but I was like "we haven't seen each other in person, no." and then idk what happened I think we stopped talking and then talked again, but he told me he didn't like me anymore or sum like that, end of context.

So... the other day i went to a café with 3 of my friends, that place is owned by one of my friend's parents, meaning that the people that work there know my friend, so the waiter that served us was called John and I thought like "oh, I texted with a gut named John like 5 years ago, funny" After a while we asked for the bill and the waiter John asks me "you ere a scout girl, no?" and I didn't recognize his face, obviously, and I was like "yeah..." and he was like "you were friends with xxxxx" and at that moment I realized that john was THE John and ill leave a graphic description of how my friends were looking at me (not knowing why tf John knew me) and a graphic representation of what my face probably looked like.

So I was like "oh yeah..... hi" because he and I knew BUT OFC MY FRIENDS DIDNT so as soon as John leaves the table my friends started asking me why I knew him and shit, and I was just trying to sush them telling them that I would tell them later, and when John brings the bill he says "to answer your questions, she and I talked back when we were like 13" HE HEARD US, HE HEARD US I WANTED TO HIDE UNDER THE TABLE.

After that we were walking back to my friend's house and I told them "no like we talked, and we liked each other that's why I didn't want to explain it before" and I couple hours later I'm just like "did you know he also asked me to be his gf, but I rejected him" needless to say my friends were gagged.

Never underestimate two things: how fucking small where you live can be and my ability to write long stupid shit, I don't like to keep details out.

(if you have questions about this, just asks, you'll make my day more fun)