#just the organization alone is mind-boggling

[nvuy]

dulcet — sunday

summary. it is within the safest parts of the world that sunday loses himself, and it seems that only you can provide him the salvation he desperately searches for.

notes. i wrote this for mags :)))) hiiiiiiiiiii!!!!!!!!! confiteor part three THATS IT. DONT ASK ME FOR ANOTHER ONE. you can read part one and two here or on tumblr if you want. i'd recommend because this series is mind boggling. i wish you all an open mind, because if this confuses you, that's the point.

warnings. mdni, 18+, gn reader with fem anatomy, you are implied to do street work, crazy freaky shit, long ass 11k post, whatever form of body worship this counts as, sunday needs to be medicated asap and needs therapy, angst if you look at it with your eyes open, religious guilt & themes, and again its literally just a dirty smashing session. nobody is surprised.

Sunday laid and simply waited for sleep to come. It was dark now, and the clock on the other side of his room was ticking and ticking with each minute that passed. Something twitched with every noise; a finger, his eye, his lips. 

Exhaustion crept behind his eyes, and yet they refused to remain shut. Every tick of the clock, every creak of the bed, every single noise he heard put him on edge. He stiffened like a corpse when the sheets moved. 

It’s just him. 

It was just him and nobody else. It had become harder and harder to convince himself that he was alone. This was his bedroom; the same four walls he surrendered himself to every night and prayed to see tomorrow morning. A home such as his didn’t warrant nor promise his safety when he laid his head to rest. 

And that was what had scared him. The window to his bedroom was cracked open just a tad; he had his rhythm. All the windows shut and the door locked tight from the inside. Any draft of wind from outside would stir him awake in an instant, as well as the fact that anyone would contort through the gap and come forth and touch him and– 

Sunday only clutched at the neckline of his shirt to calm himself. Usually, he’d twist his hand into the pendant he wore around his throat, but that was stowed away in its jewellery box — and Robin had highly discouraged the bad habit because he was growing ghastly scars on his palm from repeatedly splitting the skin open on the white gold charm. 

He swallowed hard, and the lump in his throat remained. He gritted his teeth and shut his eyes tight in frustration. He tried to relax, loosening the tension in his shoulders and stiffness in his legs, but he locked up again almost immediately.

Like a corpse. 

He could hear tapping outside of his room again. Clicking of heels, footsteps trailing back and forth down the hall. There was no light bleeding beneath the door, but shadows passed beneath as if someone was standing outside. Waiting. 

Sunday turned over and faced the window. It’s open. He stiffened up even more and swallowed even harder. It shouldn’t be open. He found no courage to stand up and close it himself; the floor would be too cold. His feet are bare. The wind picked up hastily and the silk curtains drifted lazily like the breeze did not freeze him to his bones. 

At the same time, he felt hot in his skin. Burning like the sun, like hot wax and sweat glittering down his skin. Like rain and sand and molten metal mixed into his chest, ready to burst through the flesh and leave him without a heart. The pathetic muscle beat frantically despite having to convince himself there was nobody here. 

He knew there was nobody in the room with him. He knows this. There’s never anyone with him. 

And yet, he felt as if one thousand different eyes were peering down from the shadowed corners and staring and peeling back every layer of his skin and delving into his very being. And it hurt. Like lead weighed down his bones. Like he couldn’t move a single muscle in his body. 

So he laid there and hurt. 

He tried to breathe as the feeling entrenched through his veins and twisted against the walls of his organs until he was swallowed whole by whatever this was. Stabbing and burning and bruising blossomed in his legs. Breathe. Just breathe. 

He tried to think of birds. The old small doves outside of the window that used to visit him when he was very, very small. Small enough that he remembered being accompanied by his mother, and too little that Robin wasn’t even in the picture yet. He would lean over the windowsill and reach out a small hand to one of them. Usually, they’d run away, but he found if he remained still for long enough, they’d curiously come close and use his hand as a branch. 

That was years ago. 

He shook harder and pressed his lips together. He couldn’t tell if he could see something in the corner of the bedroom, but he couldn’t move his head to affirm it. He felt eyes. Eyes and mouths and hands and they reach lower and lower and beneath his clothes and he can’t breathe. 

He felt claws. 

The pointed ends of them sank deep into his stomach, the flesh denting and daring to tear beneath the tips. He swallowed hard, hard enough that the lump in his throat cut into his jugular. 

And that familiar sensation of heat began to return. Again. He finally found the strength to let a finger by his side twitch, and he realised then the hand delving towards his navel was his own. His nails tap at the skin again and again as if waiting, as if his hand had its own mind. He felt it did. 

He felt it was yours. 

He finally turned over to face away from the window and tucked his hands beneath the pillow underneath his head. The clock in his room ticked away. His heart beat in tune. 

Why does it hurt? 

Paranoia set its teeth into his neck, and he had the love bites to show for it. He remembered the feeling of sharp canines digging into his flesh and ruining his throat. And he remembered crying out, not from fear as he did now, but from the pain, the rushing of blood through his veins, and the hot press of skin against skin. And that feeling. 

Alive. 

That’s what it was. His blood boiled, and he was afraid, but he felt alive. Above this plain, and the next, and in your arms instead. 

The paranoia persisted. 

He finally sat up and stared at the back wall of his room. The walls were barren, stripped of character, and his room was something of the same. There isn’t much on display. That’s too much clutter. There’s a jewellery box for his earrings in front of the mirror he refuses to look into. He doesn’t own a lot of things — and what is there to own? Other than a few books he has at his disposal, they tell nothing of his character. 

If he had it his way, the bookshelf would be filled with romance novels. The terrible kind. The ones that were so over the top that he simply had to put them down and stare at nothing for five minutes before turning to the next page. 

And then he’d think of you. 

Idiot. 

He pushed the blankets aside and swung his legs over the bed, careful to readjust his shirt. A light sheen of sweat stuck to his skin like hot glue as he stood up. The floor was freezing, and he promptly made it over to shut his window and lock it tight. He did it quietly, tip-toeing across the floorboards with shaking fingers. 

He ignored the pain in his limbs, tugging on the window until he was sure the lock wouldn’t slip free. He did this hours ago before he tried to sleep. His mind was muddied. 

He closed the curtains swiftly before trudging towards the bathroom. He locked that door, too, and tried to cool his face with water. It seemed to work for only a second before the burning returned. That sweltering heat lingered again and again, and the bruise on his neck was only growing darker. 

The only thing on the bench is his toothbrush and a pair of scissors. There were bits of leftover blue feather tufts on the sharp ends. 

He doesn’t look at his reflection, afraid of the silhouette forming behind him. 

And then there was a creak from outside the door. 

He choked on his breath before he held it silently. The window. He recognised that sound; the dry hard rubbing of the sill against the joints. His teeth gritted hard, and he swore the shells cracked in his mouth. And that is pain. Pain and pain and pain and fear and it swallows him whole and he feels small still. Like he’s little. Like he’s that little boy who cried with a scraped knee for his mother. 

And that hurt. 

His heart ached and his stomach dropped. He held onto the bench, leaning his weight against it, afraid he’d double over and dry heave — when’s the last time he ate anything? 

Breathe. 

It’s nothing. This has happened before. Many times. 

He stood up straighter and pushed off of the bench. He ignored the pain shooting up his legs, and he grew lightheaded as he tried to move towards the door. The blood rushed to his head and his vision dimmed into nothing for a moment. 

His hand rested against the door handle, and his fingers wrapped tight around the cold steel. It bit at his fingers like ice and he fought the urge to retreat and stay locked inside of the bathroom. It was too cold here. He was already shaking just staying in here for three minutes. 

He swallowed hard and tried to control his breathing. 

And then, and only then, did Sunday swing open the door as quick as he could and shut it briskly behind him. He rested his back against the hardwood of the door and held his breath. Hold. Hold. Breathe. 

The window was open. 

He could’ve sworn he closed it. 

He could’ve sworn he–

He could still feel the cold wood of the sill on his fingers. He did. He can’t do this again because he knew he closed it and he remembered closing it and why is it so hard to breathe–

He barreled toward the window sill and shut it again. His stomach twisted and his lips parted to try and suck in more air. He only succeeded in accelerating his heartbeat. 

He stepped away. Closed. It’s closed. It’s closed it’s closed. He closed it. He knew it now. He breathed out again, this time slower, trying to calm himself down. The back of his heels hit the foot of his bed and he sat down on top of the blankets. It’s cold. 

It’s cold but the window was closed. He knew it. He knew it, he knew it. 

He heard a knock from the wardrobe. 

The inside. 

His breathing stuttered and stirred in his chest, and it felt like small animals crawling through his lungs and clogging his throat. Like rats. Creeping rodents clawing into the weak muscle tissue and tearing through his bronchi. Violating. 

It was dark. So dark he couldn’t see the figures in the corners of the bedroom. His feet were cold from the floorboards. The acid in his stomach churned and burned, and feared the worst. He scanned over the room once, twice, before he slowly took a step towards the wardrobe. 

It knocked again, and this time the door jolted on its hinges as if something were trying to break out. 

Another step. 

He hurt. 

Just go back to sleep. 

He opened the closet. 

Two shadowy figures, one hunching over the other, too close for comfort, and ants wedged themselves through every pore and blemish in his skin. It’s him, and you. You’re half undressed, and he looks worse for wear, covered in stains and spit and taking it all in stride. His clothes were a mess; pants ruffled and loose, his hair was wild from being tugged on, and despite your hands roaming dangerously low around his hips, his own hands drew around your face and pulled your lips onto his again and again. 

One blink, and he was there. In the church again, in the back in a storage cupboard, and he was startled. He’s dreaming. He had to be. His clothes were different; his usual attire, though he’s shedded his overcoat and you were busying yourself undoing the buttons of his shirt. 

“I told you not to come back,” he remembered whispering defeatedly. 

Your hands dipped lower down his navel. 

“Getting cold feet, priest?” 

And, yes. His feet were cold, because now the closet was empty, and he was standing in his bedroom again with his hand on the knob. The bruises on his neck ached with the memory. 

He shut the door. 

Then, he turned, almost like less of a person and more of a shell, and stumbled back to bed. The sheets were still warm from the imprint of him, and he held the blankets to his chest defensively as his eyes searched around the bedroom again. 

Nothing to see. All empty and dark and neat. 

His eyes flitted toward the window. 

It’s open again. 

His heart skipped a beat, but he made no move. The draft froze him stiff. He contemplated leaving and searching for Robin’s room; he was sure she’d understand — and she would. She’d make room on her bed instantly for him. 

But he’s not a child anymore. Humiliation stirred in his stomach like acid, and he swallowed the fear rising in his throat. It’s closed, he reminded himself. He has closed it. Twice now. It’s just all tricks of the light, or his own mind, or you. 

There was the familiar rhythmic tapping of heeled shoes from outside his door. They sounded louder than before, but he knew they weren’t really there. He had heard the same footsteps for weeks now, bordering close to months. He had purple rings beneath his eyes to show the constant dreams he’d been forced to endure. 

Ignore it. He laid down again, curling beneath the blankets. Pain withered and whittled his bones like frostbite, and the wind that blew through the gap in the window made him shiver. 

The blankets were still warm, at least. It must have been only just past midnight. He still had hours to hold onto and toss and turn. 

“What have you done?” he asked you one day, the only soul remaining on the podium in the church. “What did you do?” 

You stood quickly. “Nothing, sire,” you answered. “What are you talking about?” 

“You play dumb when the sun is out and crawl on your knees at night.” 

You stood, stiffening like a corpse. “What are you–” You cut yourself off, frantically searching around the room for some sort of answer to your question. 

He stepped forward, finding a somewhat semblance of strength to face you fully. He wanted to scream, or fight, or flee, or do something other than gape like a fish. 

Lying. Bearing false witness. It’s all the same cardinal treachery he knows too well. He saw it now on your face like you were carved permanently in the stone of the statue behind him on the podium. 

“It’s my job, sir,” you responded meekly. “I didn’t willingly–” 

“I don’t care whether this is a job. You don’t understand,” he snapped quickly. “I am not paying you to torment me.” 

“‘Paying me?’” you repeated. “Sire, you have not asked me for my service.” You took a step back, closer to the entrance of the church, but the aisle was long, and you had an even longer way to go until you reached the exit. “I only attend here because I am guilty of where my life has led me.” 

“I did not ask for your service, nor did I ask you to lead me down your path of destruction.” 

“We have not slept together, Reverend.” 

Sunday stirred again. The same thing. His pendant being discarded left him only to clutch the neckline of his shirt and breathe harder. He’d already torn his palm to shreds. The cut through the bandage around his hand still stung, but it was no longer bleeding. 

Maybe he is losing his mind. Maybe he’d be locked away again and forced into confinement until he was finally let out. Maybe he’d be brought to his death; he’d wake up standing on a chair with his hands tied and a rope around his neck. 

And you’d be the one standing by his side with your foot ready to nudge the chair out beneath his feet. 

He swallowed hard, and his hand moved to soothe the ache around his neck. Like rope burn. He’d already been shunned from church today for an inadequate morning service. One of the priests had commented on his behaviour. 

Sunday had thought nothing of it at first. He hadn’t been sleeping properly for weeks, and any sleep he did achieve was plagued with you, your scent, and your legs, and his fingers twisted into the soft and warm flesh of your breasts. And he’d woken up without failure after every single one with his hands clammy, sweat pouring down his neck, and a flaming ache between his legs. 

Liar. It’s just shame and guilt that wracked your rotten guts. He wanted to rip your organs from you and tie your neck with them. And the fear ate at him again, and again, and again until his bones were gnawed to their limits. 

“Y’know, Rev,” he started slowly. “You’ve been… distant.” 

Sunday’s eyes flitted away from you quietly chatting to another attendee on the pew. He said nothing but only gave the priest a strange look. 

“Are you feeling okay?” The priest placed a hand on his shoulder after a moment. “If you need to talk, or… confess…” 

“‘Confess,’” Sunday echoed quietly. “I’ve done nothing wrong.” His eyes searched for you again, and you were still attentively listening to the other person with your hands laced together in your lap. 

Beautiful. 

You glanced up and found his eyes as if you’d impeded through his head and gotten to his mind. 

He sneered. 

Your face twisted with confusion for a moment, maybe even guilt, before you offered a small nod of your head and an awkward smile before you turned back to continue your conversation. 

“I am only looking out for you.” The priest’s eyes followed Sunday’s gaze. He grimaced. “Perhaps you should go home and rest. You look tired.” 

Robin thought the same, that poor girl. She’d sit by him before service and try to coax him with some encouraging words, maybe even singing if he allowed it. She couldn’t get through. She couldn’t understand what was going on. She tried with all her might, and all the care in her small frail little heart to find the strength to make his beat again, but nothing would work. 

Because nothing was going on. 

It’s just him. 

There was another creak from the window. He stiffened up harder to the point where his limbs threatened to snap from their tendons. 

He doesn’t understand what it is. Attraction, fear, interest, connection, loneliness. If this is love, he doesn’t want it. It hurt, like a rope around his neck, like being pelted with stones until his skin and bone caved, like being tied and burned, like being nailed through the hands and feet and left for dead. 

Just him. Just him. 

“Are you lonely?” 

He lost his breath. 

There were arms wrapped around his middle from behind, and there was hot breath running down his neck. And it’s so familiar, and it’s so warm, and he startled a gasp from his throat. 

Sunday tried not to throw his head back as he’d done so many times before. Instead, his hands almost immediately found yours, as they had so many times before. 

His tongue failed him. 

There were lips on his neck. Gentle, warm, and so so familiar he grew breathless within an instant. The bed was soft, and he melted into the mattress, and the warmth. He swallowed hard, and he was so exhausted he must have been dreaming. He mumbled under his breath, and his hands instinctively moved to yours. 

They’re yours, right? 

“‘Lonely?’” he murmured. 

You hummed in acknowledgement. “You look lonely.” 

He’s just tired. 

His hands wrapped securely around yours, holding tight. Let this be okay. He dreamed it for so long. This is what he wants. He wants your warmth, and you, and your devotion. To use whatever faith he has in the church, in THEM, and everything you’ve ever worshipped, and spin all these twisted lies into him. Him and only him. 

Just love him. 

That’s all. 

He couldn’t admit it then. “Your concerns are appreciated,” he mumbled. “I’m just tired.” 

“I can help you sleep,” you promised. Your hands grazed over his hips. 

“I beg your pardon?” His teeth dug into his lips hard enough to draw blood. But he knew what you meant because it is what he meant. It’s just him. He refused to turn around and face you, and thus found content with the disillusion of your warmth draped over his back. It was comfortable, as two lovers should be, but it was all the more wicked when, through your body, he felt the breeze from the window. 

His breathing shook when your lips returned to his neck. 

Vile, this is. He had admitted it so many times before. All of this was vile and disgusting, and wretched and wrong. 

And he loved it. He loved the traitorous words that spilled from your lips, and the trembling of your fingers, unsure — just as his were — as they delved beneath his clothes as they had done so many times before. He remembered every other second he’d spent with you. 

Where he’d met you, where you’d returned again and again before you’d pulled open the confessional door and had taken him in the booth, and where you’d pried and delved deep into his head, up when you sat innocently during service and refused to look at him. 

Where you’d forced his head down between your legs and ordered his tongue, or he’d stood frozen stiff as your hands delved over his thighs, or when you’d touched him in all the places he never used to dare venture. 

Because it is real. 

He found himself unable to ask if it was, much too afraid of the answer. 

“Tire you out,” you explained softly. “Make you dizzy.” 

He already was. He was grateful he was already lying down, for he was sure he’d have fallen to the floor by now. 

He hummed lightly and your teeth set softly below his jaw. He hoped in some twisted part of him that you’d leave scars upon his flesh. 

Then, he mewled when your teeth grazed over the joint where his wing protruded below his ear. Sensitive things, the feathers. The bones were brittle too, and thin enough to snap with one wrong move. 

This wasn’t right. 

It wasn’t right to convince himself he’d be fine if you cracked every bone in his body and left if you’d touched him all over and kept him yours to do as you pleased, or if you did nothing but bite and tear into his skin until he was nothing but shredded flesh and bone. And still yours. That’s what mattered. 

He had been raised to climb above personal desires, much less his own carnal ones. This shouldn’t be what he wants — he should want nothing. It’s selfish of him to think of you like this, and to feel your hands on him every night, and to indulge in your touch. It was sin like hot wax dripping down his stomach, and it tasted like warm sugar. 

He hummed lightly, heart fluttering as you kissed another bruise onto his throat. His thighs ached to part and to grab your hand and move your fingers between his legs. He was already throbbing with need and it made his stomach churn. 

Your lips were warm, and they served well to block off the wind blowing in from the cracked window. 

Your lips grazed down over his shoulder before your hands slowly slid over his throat and reached from behind to begin unbuttoning his shirt. He let it happen. Because he wanted it to. Anxiety jittered in his limbs and his throat, but he helped you in undoing his buttons. He was much too afraid to shed the item off entirely, terrified of judgment and his willing vulnerability. 

Terrified of his own skin, he shut his eyes tight and turned his head to kiss you properly. 

His stomach exploded, he felt. Warm lips and an even hotter tongue that slid past his mouth. He wanted to choke and swallow your spit, and as disgusting as it felt to realise all of these thoughts, it only made him dizzier. 

And he fell in love. 

He felt warmth burst in his chest. His hands trembled before they wandered. They settled hesitantly on your hips, and he was pushed roughly onto his back. His chest pressed against yours, and he felt your heart race against his skin. The familiar pulse put his mind at ease and his head pounded with the scent of your flesh. 

He grew dizzier as the time passed. His lips refused to part from yours, spit stuck like glue. His face grew hot, and his cheeks flushed a gorgeous pink. Sweat pooled down his throat and his hands and he gripped harder at your hips and felt the world spin. Vertigo grabbed at the chains clasped around his wrists and ankles and pulled, and he spun around again and again with you until he pressed you into his mattress, and one of your knees lifted to rub between his legs. 

His breathing stuttered and he gasped out your name, as ridiculous as it was. 

This was pathetic. He knew it so. His stomach twisted with pleasure and panic and the dizziness surged so hard in his head he had to stop for a moment and bury his lips into your shoulder. 

Your hands were busy pushing past the waistband of his pants and venturing low between his legs. Your hands were hot, palms tracing the smooth skin of his hips before your thumbs brushed over the side of his cock. He shuddered, already hard and growing worse with every second. 

He moaned. Moaned. Him. The Head of the Oak Family. That simple touch made his knees buckle, and he almost toppled on top of you. 

Instead, you shoved him over, and you weighed him down onto the mattress. He let out a startled noise when your hand abandoned his cock. Instead, your nails trailed upwards. Up and up and up until your fingers grasped at his neckline and pulled him up from the bed. 

“You seek reverence,” he murmured against your lips. “At a time like this.” 

“Surely you can fight it this time?” you asked. 

He tried to kiss you again, but your grip held strong and your other hand twisted into his face, holding him still. 

He swallowed hard. Anxiety bubbled in his veins like boiling water. “This happens every night.” 

“And you’re still pining?” 

He’s sick. That’s what this is. Sick and in love. 

His father had told him that to love is to give in. Giving in was not a part of him; he wasn’t supposed to cut open his chest and offer you his beating heart on a silver platter. That was the consequence of obsession. 

“This is your fault,” he tried. 

“Is that what you tell yourself while you fuck your own hand every night?” 

The humiliation stirred deep within his chest. He hadn’t even realised his hand had snuck beneath his pants to tease the head of his cock, flushed a furious red and weeping. He wanted you to ruin him and scar him and make him yours and– 

“I’m in love,” he admitted to nobody. His words were muffled as you grabbed his face harder. He looked to the left. The window was closed. “And I’m a heretic.” 

His heart leapt through his throat. 

He understood it now. He knew then a nightingale was watching from the window. He knew it. This would taint him if whatever was left of his purity was not already stained the shade of your skin. 

His wings fluttered. Fear. It crawled back up his spine. 

He fought through your grip and kissed you again, this time with that newfound anger that had been boiling in his blood. His nerves and fury mixed to create some sort of poison that fueled him forward, grabbing your face and ignoring his twitching cock with a frustrated sound. He ended up sprawled on top of you, desperately trying to smother you with his lips, and pressing his hips to yours slowly. So slowly. 

His kisses were frantic, uncertain. He wasn’t sure where to touch, what to do, how to respond when you nipped at his lip or your tongue crawled to press against his teeth teasingly. He found you tasted of nothing, but that was to be expected. Because it’s not–

His hands found the buttons of your shirt. That same shirt you wore when he first laid his eyes on you. All buttons and silk, and that awful embroidered stocking pattern ran up your legs. 

Sunday slotted himself between your thighs, and his bedroom spun in a circle. The mattress dipped as he leaned against you, his hand sprawling across your chest to feel the rhythmic muscle beat frantically. He was sure he was in a worse condition; he felt as though the pathetic heart beneath his ribs would give out any second. 

His cock twitched in his pants. 

But he was a patient, patient man. He’d been drilled with this mindset, this front since he was little. So little he couldn’t think for himself. Now, he could, and he was distracted and losing sleep every night touching himself to the curve of your legs. Gopher Wood would be laughing in his grave, he’s sure. Laughing and jeering and shaming. 

“What do you want, Reverend?” 

He didn’t know. 

He couldn’t answer. 

Instead, he chose to kiss downwards from your throat, following the intricate lines of the bones and trying to remember what the scent of your skin was like. And it hurt to try because it was a reminder. 

He decided to ignore it. Ignore everything entirely and focus on you, and solely you, and nothing else. It helped, if only a little. 

Reverend Sunday worshipped like no other. It was instilled in him for so long that it was second nature, but never in his life had he been at the mercy of something much more important than a God. He’d never believed it to be true, but the way your breath hitched and you squirmed when his thumbs brushed over your nipples riled him further than he would have thought. He sighed, overwhelmed, and his teeth ran over the expanse of your breast, desperately coaxing that same noise from you again and again. 

His heart spiked once, twice, and when he was convinced the muscle was truly about to stop, his lips continued downwards, centring lower to your navel. You squirmed, but his heart fluttered at the feeling. 

“I want this to be–” He stopped himself, lips and nose squashed against the soft skin between your hips. “I’m–” 

His father would be laughing at him. 

Misery plagued his bones, and his halo flickered quickly the lower his lips dragged. Devotion. In and out. Pure, unbridled devotion. Taste and touch and blood and sweat. He breathed out finally, and his teeth came forth to pull at the waistband of your skirt. His canines caught on your stockings, and the fabric was dry on his tongue. He tugged downwards, snagging the wiring between his teeth. 

He wanted to tear through the rose pattern, but he decided otherwise. 

Instead, he pulled them down past your thighs, to your knees, and then your ankles, careful with the thin and delicate material. You kicked what remained off. 

He grinned, but it was shaky and uncertain. It was suddenly cold. Another draft he felt from the window. He couldn’t undo the button of your skirt with his mouth, so his trembling fingers pulled their weight and decided to just shuck it upwards to your hips. Your bones splayed so nicely all for him, and his mind ventured elsewhere for a moment. 

How many others have seen you like this? All pliant and pretty, covered in sweat and his spit and the marks from his teeth. His thumb pressed to the sensitive skin of your stomach.

Maybe it was twisted, the image of you both. A poor pining priest and the object of his desires. A scared little boy looming over the image of an Aeon. The scent of your skin and the touch of your hands. He pulled back for a moment, simply leaning over to admire you.

You reached up towards him and grabbed the bottom of his shirt. You tugged once, twice, before you said, “come, Reverend. Make this one real.” 

“You cannot tempt me like this,” he argued weakly. Still, his hands splayed over your thighs, soothing over them. He couldn’t bear to look down past your hips. 

“Scared?” you asked him. 

And he was. Very, very scared. 

When he glanced down at his hands, he noticed his fingers warped. 

He ignored it. 

He followed his hands then to your hips again, careful with his movements, slow and unsure. He moved between your thighs, watching closely for any twitches. His cock throbbed when he brushed his hips against the mattress. 

He wasn’t sure what to do. He wasn’t sure about anything, really. But your thighs parted wide to accommodate his shoulders, then his head and his heart almost burst when you swung a leg over his shoulder. It pinned him further into the mattress, and a soft pull at his left wing closer to your hips made his cock twitch. 

Devotion. 

His unsteady hands held on tight to your hips, and one of yours found solace in interlacing your fingers with his. 

Hesitantly, he brought himself forward to taste. 

The mind plays funny tricks on its victims. Sunday knows he’s no stranger to disillusions, illusions, and the like. To the decayed mind, all things seem real. His tongue tasted, his hands felt, and he heard your breathing and your quiet mewls, and yet his eyes couldn’t seem to stay open for more than seconds at a time. 

Funny. 

Sunday lost his breath at the noise you made. It was a stir in his stomach like fine wine, and your hips encouragingly ground back on his lips when he reeled back for a moment. His mind grew foggy, and his eyes fluttered shut again. 

Oh, is he a man in love. 

His tongue moved slowly over your cunt, languidly stroking up and down with wet passes to test the waters. The tip of the muscle inched upwards slightly, curling over the small bump of nerves. That managed a sharp inhale, to which he curiously tried again. Any noise that escaped your lips, he chased it, over and over again like an addict. 

The taste was, again, nothing. 

Because it’s–

He shut his eyes tight. 

Your hand found the back of his head, fingers curling in soft locks before you pulled him forward, closer, until his nose bumped against your clit and his lips were smushed against you. 

His wings fluttered again, and the feathers tickled your thighs. His hands wanted to wander and touch himself, and he could have sobbed out at the relief he sought when his hips ground up against the mattress, but he couldn’t. Selfishness wasn’t a part of him. It never truly had been. He’d have much rathered to feel your legs wind tight around his face before anything else. 

His tongue tried again, the flat of the muscle grazing along your clit until you twitched at the sensitivity and pulled his head back for a moment. 

Sunday’s hand splayed on your hip moved to your cunt, and his thumb pulled back the wet plush skin until your hole stretched wide. He swallowed and his lips pulled taut and he kissed at the entrance once, twice, until you were giggling like an idiot, and a newfound delirium grew haze in his brain. 

Your free hand pushed the hair from his face when he delved in again, tonguing at your clit before he decided to kiss there as well. Devotion. It is worship. It is the sight of you writhing—it’s everything. 

His mouth followed you as your hips twisted and squirmed, teeth lightly sinking in around your clit in warning. He was still in control, for the most part. Maybe not of himself, but for how he kept you on his bed. He sucked lightly, feeling you jolt and squirm, and a smile grew on his lips at the sight. 

He wanted to burn the imprint of his lips on your thighs, and he tried. He abandoned your cunt, now slick with his saliva, to try and mark your legs as his. He hummed to try and release the pressure of his nerves gathering inside of him, but it didn’t do much to help. Your thighs bruised easily. He could bite and tear if he wanted to. 

He pressed his lips to the new bruise before his nose pressed against your clit again and he mouthed at your entrance. He held you firmly, enough to scar with his nails, and tasted again and again and found nothing and everything in all of the wrong places. Perhaps he was too enamoured, for when you grew too sensitive and attempted to push him away, he held stronger and tilted his head to push harder with his tongue. 

Your clit swelled, and he felt it all the way. His hips stuttered against the mattress. His eyes remained screwed tight, even when your fingers petted his head gently. 

He was being good. He knew it, and his heart thrummed at the idea. That was his job, his entire life. To be good, and to understand, and to please. He fell in love with every mumble and moan that left your lips. Every babble of praise, or every time you pushed his hair behind his ears. His cock grew harder somehow, despite his resistance. 

His skin was growing cold again. 

You were growing wetter with every pass of his tongue, and every flit of his lashes against your thighs when he tilted his head downwards to taste. His longing had grown into overdrive. He never should have been tempted like this. He was beyond temptations and desires and wants. He did not want anything. He had no need for things and love and music and art. 

And yet, what’s it to a man of the church who falls in love with something as wretchedly beautiful as you? 

All ruined and sweaty and mangled and all his to enjoy. That’s what you were — all his. 

His mouth was slow, lips wrapping delicately around your clit to suck hard. It made you shiver without fail, and your hips bucked upwards at the feeling over and over again. The entire premise that it was him, and nobody else, that had you as you were now, almost made him cry out at that very moment. 

It hurt to breathe and think and feel, but his fingers pulled at your skin to ground himself and press his tongue into your entrance. You clenched instinctively around him, and he tried again and again, forcing his tongue as deep as it would go. Your legs squeezed around his head and the warmth of your pulse and your blood beneath your skin only aided further in making his head spin. 

He was sure his face was red to match. 

Your legs wrapped tighter around him, enough to keep him still and his tongue on you as he returned his attention to your clit. You mumbled a spiel of praise he barely picked up on, and it went straight to his cock. 

It would stay and remain devotion the more he ruined your cunt with his lips, but he couldn’t think straight. The world spun on its irregular axes, his hips winded quicker into the mattress, and your breathing was slowly growing into something heavier and harder. 

He couldn’t hear your thoughts — he needn’t try. He was sure he’d be able to see pink and white and stars and nothing but the vile image of his head between your legs and your slick coating his face. Some priest. Lowly and unserving. He did not deserve any praise, nor nothing he received. If anything, he was born to remain here, by your side, and grabbed at the throat and the hips until he could think of nothing but your hand twisting around his cock again and again. 

Complete pain and humiliation climbed up his spine when he pressed his cock hard into the mattress. It was instinctive at this point. His mind wasn’t working, and his hips moved of their own accord again and again until he came and still tortured himself with it. The fabric of his pants only made everything seem hotter and tighter, and as his hips twitched with every brush against the mattress, he moaned or whimpered, or made whatever other pathetic noise he didn’t realise he could. 

You said nothing comprehensible, murmuring whispers of pleasure that only served to make him hard again. And so quickly, too, that he throbbed and outwardly cried out at the feeling, though it was muffled.

Curse his stupid tongue that was so smart and silver for tiring when he needed it working more than ever. Never could he exhaust himself of words, but he pushed and pushed now with whatever fleeting strength he had, and the blood rushed to his face when you stirred and pulled on his hair to lessen the distance. Grateful for some sort of grounding, Sunday nosed at your clit while his lips kept busy teasing more slick from your hole. 

In love. 

Funny how it works. It torments and shames and lusts and ruins. 

He lost his mind. 

The want to taste your cum grew stronger, as did the press of his tongue against your clit until you were mewling and squirming at the pressure. A finger brushed up against your thigh before it sank deep into your cunt. You clenched instinctively, and he rubbed at that sweet little spot that made you writhe around him. 

He ached and ached and felt you twitch and tremble and he could have cum again if he wasn’t so distracted by the feeling of your legs squeezing around his head. 

This isn’t how this was supposed to happen. He should be resting and trying to get better. He’s sick. He hasn’t taken his medication in so long. He shouldn’t be trapped in a confessional booth with a whore, or locked away in the wine cellar and brought to his knees, or– 

You came, then, and his heart fluttered and stammered and stopped and started anew. You coated his tongue with slick, and his heart raced so quickly he was worried it would burst from his chest and run. 

He was so enamoured and frazzled with how his mind could do this to him. How he’d been trapped in his own head for so long and curled in his blankets with all the doors in his room shut and the window closed and blinds pulled over. 

A terrible blush painted his face when you weakly reached down to pet his hair again. His halo shimmered. He’s so well behaved. So, so good to you, and good for you, and he can be your everything if you’d let him. 

Your thigh rubbed against his cheek, warm and trembling. 

He reeled back after overstaying, and your clit throbbed when his lips kissed the poor bud one last time. Your hole clenched desperately for more of him, and his heart jolted. 

His hands remained between your legs as you found the strength to grab his shirt and pull him upwards and over you. His heart pressed to yours and he kissed you again, this time intent on making his lips bruise. Eyes wound shut, he ground his hips up against yours. 

You kissed at his jaw. 

“Wretch,” he mumbled. His halo flickered again. His blood burned beneath his skin. He hummed, pleased at the warmth of your flesh. His hands wandered to yours and gripped your fingers tight. Another shove and his legs were entangled with yours in his side. 

“You’re in love,” you whispered. 

And he kissed you, again and again and again until he was breathless. Until his heart warmed and burst, until he was sure he could taste and smell nothing but you, and feel only you. 

His lips were still unsure. His teeth clicked against yours, and perhaps his heart was thrumming so loudly in his chest it deafened him, but he pulled you harder against him. His hips were rough against yours, dragging his cock through his pants against your cunt in languid strokes. It hurt. The friction was too much for him, and yet he couldn’t stop himself. 

And he was moaning and moaning and it was disgusting what terrible sounds ripped from his throat. He mewled and flustered and breathed so heavily that his lungs were about to combust. 

That feeling was slowly returning. That guilt and fury and humiliation burned horribly in his stomach. You did this. All of you. He was not at fault for this. For the way you sat pretty in the church and kept your gaze locked onto the floor. How your hands would hesitantly touch the donation baskets as if you were unsure if it was worth the precious pennies you had left. 

And he would watch silently. As he always did. 

He’d watch silently, and then he’d go home that night and cum on his own hands with his eyes shut tight, trying to imagine they’re your fingers instead. 

His hand rested in its rightful place between your legs, and his fingers returned wet. Soaked, even. And he realised then he’s brought upon much more than a twisted version of romance; this is desolate, and this is Hell. He is home in all of the Nine Circles, blown about in an endless storm with no hope of rest, a heretic victim to the clutches of flames, and he burns and burns and burns and burns but the pain never dulls, nor ends. 

His pants were ruined with his cum and your own, and as vile as it was, he desperately clawed until he found leverage to finally be selfish and free the stupid awful thing and grind his cock up against you. The skin was already wet, and yet grew wetter and warmer with the friction. Slippery and grotesque, and yet he felt you clench every time the tip slipped around your hole, enticing him. 

A fog grew heavy in his mind, and he went blind for a moment. He witnessed pure white and burning. And it was Hell. 

Despite the incessant grinding, his fingers slid and slipped over your clit, desperate to hear your voice again. His free hand searched for the pendant that was usually strung around his neck. He found nothing. 

Still, his eyes were shut. 

He felt as though he was somewhere else. In the church again, where you’d ridiculed him as if this was his fault, and then you’d fucked him over the altar. Or maybe back in the confessional booth where you both had barely fit inside, and you bounced on his lap until he grew dizzy. Or maybe when you’d mouthed at his cock in the bathroom at a dinner to celebrate his sister’s success. Or maybe when you’d thrown him in the backseat of his own car and made him see stars. 

Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

But this was different. This was his bed, his four walls, his private quarters, his everything, and you were his, and this was the intimacy he’d been craving since he was a child. He’d been denied the closeness of another person, anyone, for so long he had forgotten the feeling of skin. Even his own skin, which he’d hidden away each day beneath layers of clothing. 

Because he wasn’t a person, really. He did not think his own thoughts. He did not have the passion and desires others had; he had no interest in the mundane—not anymore, at least—like art and music and literature. He had no end goal that was his and his alone. The money he used to purchase things was not his. Nothing he had in his bedroom was really his. 

But you. 

He held tight onto your thighs and stopped.

His heart melted into mush when he realised you were still lazily grinding upon his cock, and the veins throbbed desperately. 

You. Imperfect and terrible and everything he shouldn’t have loved in another person. And so disastrously awful for him, and all of the subtle changes of this face, and your real one. He can’t truly remember everything—there’s a small glint in your eyes when you’re perplexed, and there are few patches of colour across your features, and perhaps your eyes are a tad too light, but this is what he remembered. 

And as imperfect as it was, and as unsatisfying as it was, and ignoring the fact that it gnawed at his insides, he was okay with this. He was okay, somewhat, with what he felt. 

His palms were embarrassingly wet when he held you open, and guided the tip of his cock towards your hole. He swallowed hard before he softly canted his hips forward and drowned. He held tight, anxiety shooting up his veins and bursting at the seams. 

He felt you tighten instinctively, trying to swallow him whole while he panted like a hellhound and pushed his hips deeper until the bones were pressed to yours. He stuttered, heat encircling his cock like a vice, and then swallowed as hard as he could to mask his voice. 

He should be used to this feeling now. He’s done this before — has he really? Everything felt so familiar, yet so so strange, and so so foreign he held his breath and wished it all to be real. He held on so tightly he grew breathless. 

His forehead pressed to yours.

You hummed. 

He felt his lips twitch. “This is wrong.” 

“But you keep doing it.” 

He had no excuse then, and he still had no excuse now. 

He’s just like his father. 

He gritted his teeth. “I’m in love.” 

You laughed, and it was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard. “There it is.” His hips twitched forward and he buried himself deep inside of you. “You’re doing so well.” 

Oh. The wings below his ears fluttered. His face burned hot like the sun, and a hand dropped low to grasp yours tight. You squeezed his fingers in affirmation, maybe even encouragement to move. He was stuck, frozen, twitching, and he swallowed the lump in his throat. 

He simply nodded along like an idiot.  

Warm. So disgusting and warm and his breath grew staggered and uneven with every twitch of his hips. His stomach felt odd, but maybe that was the sickness that warped in his guts. Something so extremely nauseating that he felt alive. He swallowed hard and his fingers moved to your arms to steady himself. He buried his face in your neck. Pear and jasmine and vanilla. He recognised that scent every time he was given that sacramental wine. It was almost the same, yet so so different. 

He laughed, then, right into your shoulder. It was much more of a huff of hot air against your skin. Because this was insanity. His knees sank further into the mattress, and his pillows were tossed askew. Hurt and pain and heat. It was all the same, for he knew no better. 

It was so good. Cardinal sin and blood and skin. Good. Great, even. Greater than anything he'd ever tried before. You tasted amazing, better than the flesh of an Aeon. So soft and warm and all his. 

Something to call his. 

His stomach turned. 

He couldn’t get enough. His hips bucked slow, so excruciatingly slow, as if to savour. He wasn’t sure when he’d ever feel like this again, if he ever would. If his body would ever want him to do this again. 

His arms shook with his own weight, and he tried not to double over. Good. So, so good. His hips twitched impossibly closer to you and he breathed upon your lips. He melted when you kissed him, as chaste as it was. He hadn’t felt this way ever in his measly, putrid existence. 

All for you. 

He pulled away slowly, attempting to forget the feeling of you, only to stuff himself back inside, rocking his hips hard until his own met your bone. 

His heart warmed. How twisted. Your tongue prodded out to poke at the corner of his lip and he buried his nose into your shoulder afterwards, trying to muffle the disgusting noises that snuck from his mouth. He wanted to cry; that familiar prickling behind his eyes teased him. 

His stomach jolted when he rocked his hips softly. He was sure a tear slipped down his cheek, and it dropped silently on the marred sheets of his bed. He’d have to clean it later. 

Slowly taking what he needed. He continued, slowly, slowly, slowly, because he was a thief,

and he did not deserve to force his pleasure upon you. Not like this. Not with you pressed down onto his bed and waiting. 

He understood the addiction of scent, and blood, and skin, and why he would hear the same telltale stories through the mesh of the confessional booth. He used to scrunch his nose up at the topic—how could someone be so insistent that carnal cravings were a cure to anger, and hate, and treachery, and violence, and everything? 

Your lip pressed to his ear gently. 

It can’t be a cure. It’s not. He certainly didn’t feel fixed, or any better. For the moment, maybe, he felt as though he was in Heaven, but it was much more warped than that. Heaven was not a feeling; Heaven is not a place, or a person, or cardinal sin. 

Truly, he’s not sure what it is. It can’t be you. You’re different, maybe even the opposite. You didn’t make him feel beyond the clouds. You made him feel… terrible. 

Infatuated, but terrible. 

You were whispering something in his ear, and he laughed softly, but he wasn’t quite sure what he heard. If anything, he’s relieved for the attention. You could have blatantly insulted him, and his skin would’ve melted like hot wax. 

“You’re overthinking again,” you reminded him. Your voice was strangely steady. 

His hand tightened around his sleeves. “You come for…” 

“Salvation, I suppose.” That was you. You came here. To see him. Or hear him. And seek his guidance and better judgement. He wasn’t sure if he could offer you much of himself, seeing that his brain had short circuited the moment he’d heard your voice through the booth. 

He had imagined this all before. If anything, he remained silent to see if he could listen to anything vulgar. 

Seconds passed and Sunday swallowed hard. 

“Reverend?” 

“Of course,” he forced out. You’re not going to do anything—it’s all in his head. You’re not going to plead for him to open the booth and let you have his way with him. You don’t even know him, and he doesn’t even know you. 

It’s all in his head. 

“Just try to enjoy it,” you told him. 

His hips thrusted harder and he could hear the awful noises that escaped from your throat, and he wanted to tear the vocal cords free so you would never sing again, and also kiss you until you were breathless and bruised. Just try to enjoy it. Just stay in your head. It’s better that way. 

He could feel himself snapping at the seams. 

You were probably in your own home, wherever you lived, sleeping soundly. Maybe you were doing the same as him, or maybe you were fucking another man and enjoying him rather than—

He had a headache. A blazing pounding behind his eyes. 

Yet, he persisted. He held you tight against his chest, hoisting you upwards from his bed so your heart could press against his. He fell in love with how he felt around you, even if it made him ill and horrible. Even if it disfigured his mind; even if you killed him. 

He kissed you again, this time harder. He tried to ground himself firmer to remain on this terrible planet with you, but his mind continued to wander. Overworking, overthinking. 

Sunday couldn’t find himself to care about it anymore. He strangely welcomed the feeling of you attempting to suck on his tongue. He held onto your throat now, only gently, and his finger pressed to your jaw to keep you still. 

He panted once, twice, and then his breath hitched when he managed to move into you with an increased pace. He tried to keep his rocking even, but he was quickly losing his strength again. 

How vile. One of your legs was slotted nicely around his own, calf rubbing against his hip as he slammed his own against you. Hard enough to burn and bleed, and his cock twitched and twitched and twitched and twitched. 

“What…” He leaned against the side of the booth. “What troubles you?” 

He heard you laugh, though it wasn’t at all mirthful. Still, it may have been the most beautiful sound he’d ever been blessed to hear. “Everything.” You paused to take a breath. “My job… my life… my everything.” 

He said nothing. He didn’t have to. He knew exactly how you felt. 

“I don’t think I was made to live in a world like this.” 

You’re the same. Maybe that’s why he had developed this estranged one-sided affection; this sickening obsession that’s torn through every working cell in his brain. That’s left him a horrible, shaken mess of a person. 

The sounds are abhorrent. The way you wriggled in his grasp to force him deeper inside of you, and the sighs and whispers that left your lips are somehow worse. 

Sunday lost his strength in one of his wrists, and he almost toppled over you. That only stirred him harder, and his hips winded and jolted when you squeezed tight around him. He could certainly get used to this. One day. With you. 

“Enjoying yourself?” you asked. 

He was enjoying you, but he refused to voice it. He understood. He understood the need to escape, to run to somebody else’s bedroom, to fix everything this way. 

He kissed you impossibly harder, his lips purpling at the pressure, and that mere feeling brought him so close to the edge he stammered on his own breath. His thrusts grew sloppier by the second, and he cared less about how you felt, and more of that edge he was chasing and trying to grab by the reins. 

So good. He could feel his cock bubbling at the tip, squishing up against your walls and the skin stretched and ached and warmth burst through his stomach. He wanted to fill you up again, and eventually, one day. He’d imagined this so many times before; the way you’d sound, or beg, or do whatever you really did. Whatever you did, he’d embrace it, and he’d thank you for a thousand years. 

He’d cum again and again and he’d let you use him as your own personal toy to play with if it satisfied you. Even if you tossed him aside when you grew bored—he was used to that. 

He’d feel this terrible feeling forever if you would just love him. 

He hoped. 

His stomach burned, and his cock was throbbing. 

His bones grew tired, but he persisted, in and out and in and out until nothing left his lips but babbles of worship as he swung his arms around your neck and traced his lips along your ear. You’re so good to him. So good. 

You would sit there all pliant and pretty and he’d take and take and take until the only thing left of you was the part that only cared for him, and nothing else. And then you’d watch as he was dragged down below the ground, while you would rise above the clouds. Because that’s what he deserved, and you and him did not share the same fate. 

The clutches of a Sinner’s hands rest on his face, and they’re yours, just for a moment. 

His hips stuttered. 

“C’mon,” you whispered. His nose was cold against yours. 

“I–” 

“–Close?” you finished. 

He frantically nodded his head like an idiot. 

His lips twitched in some sort of pathetic smile. 

You reciprocated. “I know.” 

He couldn’t handle the teasing. If anything, it only made the headache worse. He wanted to cum. That was the only thing that mattered at this point. He wanted to ruin you, as you did to him. 

He couldn’t afford to choke in the air as his cock twitched. He was right there, and his hip bones were aching as they smacked against your skin. 

“I’ll be all yours, Priest,” you told him. “One day.” 

Sunday’s eyes shot open in horror as he came, and he clutched desperately onto some semblance of skin—whatever his brain could attempt to conjure in a last-ditch effort to make this nightmare real. 

His hand was twisted tight around his cock, covered in spit and sweat and his own filth, and he wretched the treacherous limb away as if it had developed a mind of his own.

He was trembling, layered in cold sweat as he shivered, his stomach convulsing as his cock slid against the mattress, an angry red flush enveloping the tip. 

He couldn’t develop a coherent thought, nor movement, for when he felt around blindly for you, you were nowhere, and he was alive and awake again. 

He choked on his own saliva as he tried to sit up. His pillows were soaked with drool, and his clothes were askew. He rested his back against his head and tried to breathe. 

He glanced at the window. Closed. 

Because he had closed it. He’d locked the bedroom door, too, and the bathroom. How would he have forgotten? That had been his routine for almost sixteen years. He wouldn’t have forgotten. Not ever. If anything, he’d have grown well aware of the old habit being missed that he’d scratch at his skin until he’d forced himself to get up and fix the window. 

He heaved at what he had done. 

He swallowed hard as if there were rocks stuck in his throat. His lungs refused to take in air. He kicked off the tangled blankets and they fell in a pathetic heap onto the floor. Dizziness surged in his mind, and the back of his eyes pounded and pounded the longer he sat there staring blankly at the wall.

His heart swelled horribly. 

Oh. 

His eyes slowly dragged over to the bedroom door.

Closed. No light bleeding beneath the door. No footsteps in the hall. Not Robin’s, certainly not yours. He faintly heard the echo of your heels, but that was drowned out by the aching in his head. 

“Your services…” the priest started quietly. The booth creaked. “What do they entail?” 

You didn’t answer for the moment. Perhaps you were nervous, or apprehensive, or a strange string of both. Maybe, even, your hands were busying themselves around the waistband of your pants, slowly unbuckling the belt and then–

“Men, sire,” you responded quickly, honestly. You tapped the mesh wiring of the confessional window in a strange rhythm. “I’ve never been proud. It’s dirty work.” 

Sunday blinked awake. His hands were pulled tight at his sleeves. 

“But you don’t have a choice?” 

You made a noise. “Did you have a choice to be in the position you are now?” 

“My position is very different from yours,” Sunday reminded lightly. 

“Is it? We both serve to please the worst of people.” 

And, in some sort of twisted way, you were right. 

Just as if he was made to please you. That is his sole purpose; to be yours. It is why he felt this way. It’s why he was put in this terrible position; to meet you, and be yours, and nobody else’s, and escape off this treacherous planet and kiss you until he couldn’t bear to breathe the air that wasn’t yours. 

That’s love, right? 

Devotion. 

He found it in himself to peel away from his bed and trudge to the bathroom. 

He couldn’t bear to see his reflection.

He was afraid he’d see you standing behind him. 

*ೃ༄

The next evening was like every other. He leaned against the confessional booth, eyelids slowly drooping shut as he listened and listened until his feathers shrivelled and his ears picked up on nothing but static. 

Please the public. 

He nodded along mindlessly to whoever was speaking to him through the wiring. He was grateful the booth was dark, and cold, for he was forming a sweat. His mind was running in circles, and though he responded to the lone soul through the window, he felt as though what he said was automated, and not at all a production from his heart. 

That being said, he was thanked anyway, and they left.

That must have been the final one, for when he called for the next churchgoer, he was met with silence. There were no hushed shuffles of feet against the floor, nor the rustle of clothing, or breathing. 

Nothing. 

Alone again. 

Sunday unlocked the door to the booth and stepped out, grateful he could stretch his limbs properly. He’d been cramped inside for what felt like days, but was only a few hours. Still, he felt his bones pop and crack as he exited. 

He took the keys from his pocket and locked the small door. 

Another day. 

He could endure. It was what he was made for. He knew no better. 

To breathe and feel for others. 

That was all.

Now what? 

Now, he’d go home. He’d go home, do the same mundane routine in order as he had always done for every day of his life—get changed, maybe have dinner, fill out forms until he was almost asleep at his desk, and then he’d try and sleep. And the same as always, he’d toss and turn and whine that it was too hot and then it was too cold, and all the while you’d mouth at his neck and strip him of his clothes. 

He inwardly shuddered at the thought. 

He grew sick with worry as he stared helplessly at the confessional. 

“Room for one more?” 

His heart leapt out of his throat, and he froze. His fingers tightened around the window of the booth and the material of his gloves stretched and squeaked. 

He swallowed, unable to turn around. He pulled out the keys again. “Of course.” His hands were shaking. 

He heard you let out a troubled hum. “You don’t have to–” 

Sunday stopped you short, perhaps too quickly. “Nonsense. This is my job.” 

“–We can talk face to face,” you finished. “If… if that’s easier.” 

Right. He certainly could. It wasn’t so much easier for him, but if it pleased you. If that’s what you wanted. 

Truly, you didn’t care too much about his final decision. But he was pretty in the face, and it was nice to speak to him properly for a change. 

Sunday stepped away from the booth finally and turned to look at you. 

He lost his breath almost instantly. 

You grinned. “Hi.” 

His lips managed to twitch into a smile. “Hi.” 

Your feet shuffled against the tiled floor. He recognised the sound of your heels clicking quietly. The same noise he heard in his hallway, and he still heard it every night. 

He held the keys tight in his clenched fist. The jagged ends punctured a hole through the palm of his glove. The scar that remained from his incessant habit would be opened soon. 

Your eyes were slightly lighter than he’d imagined, and you wore your clothes neater, and you didn’t run your tongue rampant with terrible sullied words. That wasn’t you. That was his idea of you. 

And now, reality sets itself upon him, and he still cannot grasp what is untrue. 

“You haven’t visited the confessional in a while,” he started softly. 

You shook your head. “No.” You glanced back towards the door, perhaps wondering whether it was locked, or maybe even contemplating running for it. “But I do sometimes attend service.” 

He knows this because he’s searched and waited for you every morning. 

Sunday was simply staring at you. “And what has prompted your change of heart?” 

A laugh bubbled from your throat, and the sun bled through the stained-glass windows of the church, and flashes of green and yellow and pink and blue dotted along your face. 

“You do generous and kind work, Reverend,” you whispered to him. “I hope it makes you happy.” 

The offer of praise made him sit up slightly in the seat in the booth. Nothing made him quite as happy as your voice, and he’d hear you sing again and again until he grew deaf. Even then, he was sure he could remember the way your lips formed every syllable that spilled from your throat. 

If anything, he remembered your sound, because your words were what mattered.  

If anything, he hopes he can make you happy. 

“I fell in love with a man.” 

And he’d never let go of that hope for as long as he lived. 

[hypermania]

transcript of the full thread:

"A very long thread: To the League fans, We found out this news along with you on Friday. I see the pain and anger and worry out there, which for the LGBTQIA+ fans of the show is of course compounded by what’s happening across the country right now. #ALeagueOfTheirOwn

So the first and most important thing to say is: Before anything, before you fight for the show or each other, please take care of yourselves. Reach out to your community and ask for help if you need it. You aren’t alone. Please be kind to yourselves.

As I’ve been thinking about what’s happened, I come back to a quote from Penny Marshall’s film: “The hard is what makes it great.” Making this show is so hard and so great. There’s quite a bit to say about what’s been hard, but at this point that’s in the past.

Of course, if we have an avenue to do it well, we will continue the show, and I love seeing the noise you’re making in support of that. The noise matters!

And it’s hard for me to imagine there wouldn’t be a home for a show that thanks to you was in the Nielsen Top 10 for three weeks, was the top show on Amazon for a month and in the top five for six, that was recognized by critics as something special, that’s been recognized…

…with awards from GLAAD, HRC and a million other organizations, that was on a million year-end top ten lists, and that has a built in and deeply passionate audience.

Amazon is pursuing different kinds of programming, but to the rest of the world this show is a hit and has huge value and even greater potential. But first things first, we have to win this strike and get a fair deal before we can explore what comes next.

But for a moment, I want to talk about what happens if the world didn’t quite change quickly enough for you to have all the seasons of this show that we want to give you.

If we don’t find a good path forward, I will still know that League did what it came here to do and, in its own small way, changed the world.

And that’s because of all of you, and the light you continue to shine on the show — How you let it matter to you, how you let it become a mirror, how you let it change you.

I’ve never experienced a response to a show that’s as deep, personal, creative and meaningful as what the fans have done with League. When we were making the season 1, we all wondered and worried about whether people would accept it on its own terms next to the film.

They have, and you did that, and so much more. You lit up the internet on your first watch throughs of the show, when you realized where it was going (and made all of us laugh in the process).

You wrote enough fan fiction for 100 novels and created an outpouring of art and creativity that could fill its own museum — I’ve truly never seen anything like it.

You lifted up a 95 year old who had just come out of the closet and made her into a celebrity who gets recognized wherever she goes. Every time any member of the cast appears at anything, you turn it into a convention.

You stop Abbi wherever she goes, and though I’m a happily inconspicuous person, and you constantly find me and stop me and give me gifts that now have a shelf in my house.

When thousands of you appeared to see D’Arcy at the stage door of The Thanksgiving Play over its run, you turned it into the hottest queer bar in New York. You made Max’s suit and Chante’s beautiful performance into a movement.

A mob of you went to Pittsburgh and saw all of our locations. You dressed as the characters and made our characters into one of the biggest halloween costumes of last year.

You came out, you changed pronouns, you started living more openly, you gave sermons in church about the show, you opened bars, and you got a truly mind boggling number of tattoos that say “to the five” and “rob the bank.” What else am I forgetting? I'm sure you'll remind me.

But most importantly, you made a community, you found each other and found joy, which of course is what the show is about. In many more ways than I would ever have let myself imagine while we were making it, you literally bring the show to life every day.

Thank you for making our work mean something bigger. We’ve heard from so many different kinds of people around the world who are watching League.

But, in a time when all queer people are personally and politically under attack across the country and HRC has declared a “state of emergency,” my biggest fear is that the many queer fans of League will take this reversal as one more invalidation, one more blow, one more…

…effect of the general politicization of our identities. Most of us grew up feeling invisible, and as we gain strength, the predictable backlash forces are trying their hardest to get us to go back underground.

In case anyone needs to hear it: You are not small, niche, modest, off-putting or marginal, and neither are your stories. You are multitudes, you are building, and your stories are universal. You are the most rapidly growing audience and consumer group in this country.

You are powerful. You are the future, and the people who don’t recognize your importance now will feel be clamoring to catch up in a few years. As Chante said so beautifully when we received the Human Right Campaign Visionary award, you are the main characters. Be proud.

Be angry if you that’s how you feel, but know that we are going to win, and don’t ever let this moment or any other make you small. The biggest lesson of the characters in this show is that, in a world that had no space for them at all, they LIVED. (Continued)

They found love, they did the things they loved, they won. You’re doing the same thing, and just like them, you are heroes. We are still fighting for League. But whether we win or lose this one, I’m so proud.

From the time when we began working on the season, Abbi, Deta and I said to each other — Let’s not hold anything back, for as long as we get to be here, let’s do this the right way.

We got so many notes wondering if the exploration of the queer world of the 1940s or Max’s world would be better saved for season 2, if people needed to start somewhere a little more familiar. I’m so glad we didn’t listen, cause now I’m sitting here without any regrets.

And no matter what happens, the people behind League aren’t going anywhere. Give us a minute, we will be back with more for you to watch and read and feel. We’re going to win.

And you’re not going anywhere either, because what you’ve built and what you are is bigger than this show. It’s the story of our community, that comes to us through the hidden history that League shows just one small part of: The bars got raided and shut down.

But the people didn’t go anywhere, and they opened a new bar, and out of those spaces came music, cinema, dance, culture — What we now see as mainstream was birthed from the spaces our predecessors were forced to hide in. They made joy there."

[zoeykallus]

Hello you incredible creator and congrats on the 2k followers!! That's kinda mind boggling, but you totally deserve it🥰

I wonder if I might ask a bit of a needy request: I pulled something pretty bad in my back on Friday, and, despite doing everything from cold and hot packs to getting a massage gun, I'm still pretty near cripplesmd from it. But life goes on - still have to work and cook and do all the normal life things.

Could I request the batch and maybe Fives and Wolffe helping a fem reader go through something like that?

All the love ❤️ ❤

Aloha!

So sorry I'm so late with this one, hun! I hope you are doing much better by now! Let me see what the guys can do for you....

The Bad Batch/Wolffe/Fives x Reader HCs - Love And Care

Fluff/Taking Care Of Hurt Reader

__________

Hunter

He is very considerate and empathetic, so until you get better, you won't have to do anything on your own. Hunter will take over all of your duties that he can, and possibly divide the rest among his brothers, depending on how busy he is in general at that time.

"You will see a doctor, and I will take you there. After that, you will rest until you are better. If you don't take it easy, I'm sure it will only get worse," he says gently but firmly.

Don't worry, Hunter is organizing everything and has it all under control, so you can sit back and relax and take care of yourself for now. He's calm and collected, and even if your current condition complicates things, that won't discourage him in any way. There is always a way to keep things working, and he'll find one.

Hunter doesn't complain, all he wants is for you to recover, it doesn't matter how long it takes you.

Massages and meals in bed are not uncommon, he spoils you whenever he can.

Echo

Oh, dear… Echo scurries around you like a headless chicken at times. If it were up to him, you wouldn't do anything alone anymore. He takes over your duties for the time being. Woe betide you if he catches you doing something in the household!

"Cyare! You should rest!", his voice rumbles sternly through the room.

You flinch, startled. Echo takes the duster from your hand and gives you one of his famous, lovingly stern looks.

"You're quite a handful," he grumbles, rolling his eyes with a gentle shake of his head, "Can't leave you out of my sight for five minutes!"

"But-"

He shoots you a reproving, stony look, and you fall silent, before you really start your protest.

Echo is stern, very much so when he needs to, especially when he wants you to take time to recover. But he's also thoroughly loving and caring. He doesn't just push you onto the couch or bed. Echo makes sure you have enough entertainment media, books, holo movies and the like at hand. And of course, very important, food and beverage. Echo is a damn good cook, and he'll do it twice as much for you.

He smiles and says, "You will see, if you listen to me, you will be back on track sooner than you think".

Wrecker

Wrecker looks at you scrutinizing, concern in his gaze.

"Are you in pain?"

You think about downplaying it, you don't really want him to worry, but the piercing look he gives you stops you. That look feels like it could instantly debunk any lies.

As if reading your mind, he says, "The truth, please."

"Well…" you begin uncertainly.

His brows go up questioningly.

"Well?" he asks.

When you finally nod and your hand automatically moves to your aching back, his critical gaze collapses and his expression softens, even if you were a stone, that look would cause you to melt.

You smile lopsidedly, and he finally returns the smile.

Softly he says in his deep, heavy voice, "Okay, Mesh'la, you make yourself comfortable, I'll take over the rest of your duties for today and tomorrow I'll accompany you to see a doctor."

"But-"

He gently but firmly raises a finger and playfully taps your lips.

"No buts. I'll take care of everything today, and tomorrow and the day after if I have to"

Tech

"You need to rest"

He won't take no for an answer, not in this case. He examined you himself because he wants to play it safe, as always, and he is determined to force you to recover if he has to.

Tech has everything under control, already included your tasks in his daily routine. It doesn't matter how long you have to take it easy, Tech takes care of everything, including you.

You are always provided with all you need, and of course he likes to keep you informed about what's going on. When he sits down with you, he tells you everything important and, Tech being Tech, a lot more.

"I have everything under control, there is no need to feel uneasy, and a guilty conscience is just as inappropriate, Cyare".

He brought food from the road, cooking is not really his forte, and he just has too many other things to do at the moment. But he sits down and eats with you in the evening, among other things, to make sure you eat something.

Crosshair

He's not the caretaker type. Crosshair is still worried, of course, and tries to relieve you, among other things, by taking over your duties as much as he can and bringing food home, so you don't have to cook.

Other than that, though, he won't coddle you or openly pity you.

"How are you today?"

"Unchanged, so far."

He nods, throws in a holo movie, and orders you some food. His care is rather without comment and far less tender than, say, Echo would do. But you can still rely on him, he won't leave you alone with your pain.

In his own way, he takes the pressure off you and always checks to see how you're doing. With him, you don't have the feeling of being a burden to anyone, Crosshair somehow has a talent for taking away exactly that feeling.

Maybe because he's rather quiet and doesn't express his concern so loudly. Or maybe it's just his quiet closeness and casual way of tossing you a pillow for your back, throwing himself next to you on the sofa, and just pretending you're just having a relaxing movie night. It's probably a little of both.

As cocky as he is sometimes, he doesn't complain.

Wolffe

"The doctor said you need to take it easy. I'm not going to argue with you, just listen to what me and the doctor say".

His piercing gaze is stern on you, his arms crossed in front of his strong chest.

"And don't even start trying to tell me what else you need to take care of, it can either wait or I'll take care of it."

You have no choice but to surrender, no one is more stubborn than Wolffe…. Well, Rex maybe, sometimes.

With a surrendered sigh, you finally give in.

"Okay"

He's built you a camp in your living room, one with a support pillow and blanket, so you can sit back and listen to music or watch holos.

He covers you up and says, "I'm going out again to get some stuff for you, when I come back we'll order some food, you'll stay in your sick bed until then"

Wolffe looks at you, expecting you to confirm his order.

You look up at him and say dryly, "Yes, sir!"

He raises his eyebrows briefly, but then nods and goes on his way. Wolffe may be a little rougher around the edges, but he cares, in his unyielding way.

Fives

He is trying to take over your duties, but it is quite possible that this will create more chaos than anything else. Fives provides you with entertainment media, watches movies with you and discusses with you again and again that you should take it easy.

However, when you see the mess he leaves behind, sometimes you can't help but sneak up and do a few things he's only done halfway or not properly.

Fives often catches you doing this and scolds you, gently, but he makes very theatrical gestures, which sometimes just looks hilarious and makes you laugh.

Some days he'll come storming into your apartment with your spare key, exclaiming, "Gotcha!"

Then, as you lie or sit dutifully on your bed, he pauses and his eyes narrow critically.

You say, "Nope"

"You've already done everything, right?"

You smile wryly at him, whereupon he sighs in surrender, throwing his hands in the air theatrically.

"You'll never get better that way!"

Fives is messy but loving, he cares for you, he does his best. He likes to do it with a lot of love and a lot of chaotic energy.

Ko-Fi (If you feel like giving me some coffee)

@rintheemolion

@andyoufollowyourheart @clone-whore-99

@brynhildrmimi @kaliel2310

@misogirl828 @tech-deck

@meshla-madalene

@chxpsi

@thebahdbitch

@nahoney22 @ladykatakuri

@darkangel4121

@ttzamara

@arctrooper69

@padawancat97

@agenteliix

@allsystemsblue

@palliateclaws

@either-madness-or-brilliance

@ortizshinkaroff

@andy-solo1

@hunterssecretrecipe

@heyitsaloy

@greaser-wolf

@extrahotpixels

@hated-by-me

@hunterxcrosshair

@malicemercy

@bebopsworld

@echos-girlfriend

@cpnt616

@dangraccoon

@starwarsnerd111

[katie-the-bug]

Another book without a plot.

The Remnant, Left Behind #10, was a deeply frustrating book.

Characters:

The Tribulation Force: Rayford Steele, pilot; Buck Williams, journalist; Chloe Williams, organizer, wife, and mother; Kenny Williams, infant; Tsion Ben-Judah, the greatest evangelist evah; Chaim Rosenzweig, Israeli convert; Mac McCullum, backup pilot; Abdullah Smith, backup to the backup pilot; Albie, former black-marketer; Chang Wong, IT guy on the inside; Steve Plank, Christian in disguise.

The Global Community: Nicolae Carpathia, Antichrist, risen lord and deity of the GC; Leon Fortunato, Satan's little helper; Viv Ivins, role unclear.

The book's subtitle is "On the Brink of Armageddon." Now, the last book ended slightly more than halfway into the seven-year Tribulation and this book picks up immediately after. That means this book will try to take us through roughly three years' worth of catastrophes, persecution, and general drama. Surely we won't suffer from a loss of detail as we hear about rather than see these events.

On the first page the narration refers to "the robe and sandals of an Egyptian" as though that's what all Egyptians wear all the time. (Lest we forget, this describes Rayford's attempt to disguise himself as an Egyptian. Well, that an a generous dose of brownface.)

The bombing of Petra in the last book unsurprisingly has zero effect, and Nicolae decides to take out his frustration on Jewish people in general. Is it not enough that he's the Antichrist, that they have to make him Hitler too?

There's still a handful of refugees in Petra who haven't converted to Christianity, which Tsion finds confusing despite having himself preached that God would mind-control people into refusing to convert.

Mac goes to Greece to try and rescue a Christian who was captured there, and, after he's sprung the guy, they're stopped at a roadblock by a soldier who asks to see their Marks of the Beast. Mac was disguised as a GC officer by a guy whose appearance-altering talents are praised to the high heavens, but he didn't even bother to get a fake Mark. It's pointed out again and again how getting a real Mark would damn him irrevocably to Hell, but no consequences are mentioned for faking one, other than the GC killing you if they find out - and they'll kill you if you don't have one anyway. While the Mark includes a biochip, we never see any Marks getting scanned, leading me to believe the GC is going off visuals alone. The Mark is both a tattoo and a chip, so I figure if you only got the tattoo, you don't really have the Mark. So why not get one and make your disguise foolproof?

The adventure in Greece ends in a Christian safehouse compromised and slaughtered, but Mac and his team make it out because Archangel Michael intervenes on their behalf. I bet everyone involved would have preferred he help the larger number of people who got killed, but whatever.

At the beginning of a lengthy speech in Chapter 13, Tsion refers to the Bible as "the only truly accurate history ever written." You gotta love the little bits of comedy they slip into these books.

He says the Biblical Flood "still boggles the minds of scientists who find fish bones at altitudes as high as fifteen thousand feet." I could give the authors the benefit of the doubt and assume they've never heard of plate tectonics, but these are grown, educated men I'm talking about. They know about plate tectonics, they just don't like it and thus decide to pretend it doesn't exist.

In a description of the coming paradise promised to believers, Tsion states that "the population will grow to greater than the number of all the people who have already lived and died up until now." That's over a hundred billion humans, and, while I've never gotten on overpopulation catastrophe train, I really don't think Earth can support that many people at a standard of living that could be described as "paradise." Tsion further claims that this number of people will be possible because there will be no war. Yes, war kills vast numbers of people, but you know what kills even more? Disease and starvation, especially on the scale that would occur if there were a hundred billion people on the planet.

"How could you not love the God the prophets describe?" God has been killing people with wild abandon since the beginning of this series and intends to condemn most people to eternal suffering for not saying some magic words. Next question please.

Tsion says God is "working in people to get them to make a decision." He never says God will work in people to make the right one, which is accurate given how many times he's said God will "harden people's hearts" and force them to condemn themselves.

"Whoever calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved." Unless you've taken the Mark of the Beast. Then you're outta luck.

Steve learns that he is expected to take the Mark, and Chang offers to change his file so that it looks like he's already taken it. Steve says that "would be like my choosing the Mark" and thus immoral. I will never understand these characters' aversion to faking the Mark.

Steve's friend Vasily, a GC guy who's taken the Mark but regrets it, offers to help Steve escape. Steve's refusal is irrelevant to the fact that Vasily is still willing to do good despite knowing God has rejected him. Perhaps we're supposed to see the Christians as paragons of selflessness for *checks notes* dying, but they know they've got a reward coming. Vasily doesn't, but he's willing to risk his position and his life. That's real selflessness.

Throughout the second half of the book we get randomly placed time skips of a few months each, some of which are in the middle of chapters. The "Great Tribulation" happening in this book is allegedly the worst period in human history - would it kill the authors to focus on it a little?

The GC is starting to fracture, but nobody tries to assassinate Nicolae because they think he'll resurrect. The people vying for power are supposed to be evil geniuses - wouldn't they try something like burying Nicolae under tons of concrete so that when he resurrects he can't get out of his coffin? Maybe stick his body in acid so that when he comes back he immediately starts dying again? You've got options, dammit!

We get a couple more plagues - freshwater turning to blood and a deadly heatwave. The heat is so intense that the ocean is literally boiling and buildings spontaneously combust. That combined with the fact that no living thing has anything to drink, and you have yet another scenario where realistically, everyone and everything should be dead. Of course, the authors could never be convicted of realism.

I'm glad the authors have dropped the angle that the judgements are God's way of getting people's attention. Now they're saying that the plagues are God's way of thinning out the evil population to make the final battle more even. Lemme run that by you again: God, allegedly omnipotent, needs to kill off his enemies before he fights them to make things more even. Can the authors just admit that God is killing people for fun?

During the deadly heatwave, Nicolae goes sunbathing. This has nothing to do with anything, but it is funny.

If you thought the ideas in this book were frustrating, wait until you see Armageddon.

[mysticallion]

Semi-suicidal self-Reflection

It’s remarkably difficult to come to grips with the fact that you don’t really exist—at least not in the way you usually, unquestionably believe. You—me, everyone—are a passing composite phenomenon, a hodgepodge of organic parts and processes, basically a patterning of energy that has temporarily arisen and will soon enough cease. This is complex but easy enough to grasp intellectually. The point is, upon a careful, thoughtful and thorough examination, it turns out there is nothing you can point to or single out that is the “me” referenced by the usual self-reflective thoughts.

Thing is, even grasping this intellectually, you don’t actually believe it. Not really. The habit of being an ego—not just a “me” but this specific (insert name) person—is incredibly pervasive and persistent, not just psychologically but also throughout the somatic domain. So even if you can come to understand, intellectually, what is meant by the concept “no-self,” it just becomes another competing idea within the dynamic mental weave of thoughts that contribute to the gestalt of identity. Now you are somebody who thinks it’s quite possible that they’re not somebody while still “intuitively” sure that they are, indeed, somebody. Regardless of how mind boggling these thoughts are, the concept alone is insufficient for a true understanding. It simply doesn’t penetrate beyond the conceptual framework and limits thereof. That’s why, even though this sort of conceptual, intellectual understanding is necessary for further personal development, it’s not enough.

This conceptual model must then be explored, deeply and directly and non-conceptually. It must be “looked at” (with awareness) and felt into (also awareness) as an energetic phenomenon, an immediate event, not as an idea or some sort of self-commentary, but phenomenologically, again, with awareness; it must be sensed and felt and perceived without interference and without prejudice.

This is difficult enough on a meditative level, involving the development of certain specific introspective skills. What’s far more difficult, however, is overcoming the deep and persistent psychological belief in an actual, individual self—that is, some “thing” (soul?) within that acts as a fixed locus of experience. To simply call this patterning “ego” (or soul) is to fail to understand its depths and to fail in appreciating its multifaceted (mental, sensual, energetic) and psychosomatic (think: DNA-encoded survival mechanisms) complexity. Regardless of its actual veracity, or lack thereof, in investigating this activity, fear of death inevitably and reflexively arises as, indeed, the ego, the old sense of self, and even of the presumed nature of reality, is indeed dying. Fortunately, other skills developed through this process help mitigate the impact of these “deaths.”

[gendervapor14]

DoflaminBROS Week 2023 - Day 3: cigarettes

here is my next submission for the DoflaminBROS Week 2023 event! this one is less overarching than the past two. a proper snapshot, playing with my headcanon that doflamingo, contrary to that one canon doodle of him when he's like 10, doesn't like smoking. well, have at it!

characters: rosinante, doflamingo additional tags & cw: canon compliant, fluff...? less angsty than the others at least, mentions of injury, smoking, implied alcoholism and drug use

special thanks to @gali-la for beta reading!! <3

The mission did not go well. The infirmary was packed. The seas were stable at least, so the Numancia Flamingo drifted along easily. A glimmer of light pooling down from a hole atop this tunnel to hell.

Corazón feared his arm was broken at first, since his fingers were so reluctant to cooperate, but after some time and ice, he was sure it’d heal on its own. Foolish of him to try and engage in physical combat unarmed, but one of the damn rugrats must’ve bummed his explosives, Baby 5, undoubtedly, and left him in quite the lurch. The good thing was, despite the pain, there were no open wounds. Last thing he needed were those nasty strings in his flesh.

It was an old habit. Decades old, at this point. The best way to distract pain was a hearty meal. Even if that meant that hearty meal was being consumed well past midnight, alone. Even if that hearty meal was cold, because he wasn’t allowed near the ovens. He’d accept that small nugget of defeat if it meant these cretins would cook for him. Only, those cretins were all laid-up. 

Oh well. At least cigarettes went well with cold fish.

The cabin door opened. Corazón would be lying to say he didn’t jolt. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed that it was none other than his beloved brother, limping across the room with a bandaged gash on his thigh. How they managed to get through to Doffy was more than a bit troubling, but he supposed it was dealt with now. And it’d likely be a while before Doflamingo decided to tangle with anyone on a similar playing field.

His eyes drifted from his fork to his brother when the taller of the two crashed there in a dining chair with limited coordination. Corazón’s chewing rate slowed. He waited for the next stir of movement, the rumble of an order, the mind-boggling questions.

Fingers grazed across the surface of the table. The captain sat up. “Do you have an extra?”

Mind-boggling. If only the bastard wasn’t so predictably unpredictable. Corazón just stared, until his brother pointed at his left hand, where his cigarette rested on standby until his meal was finished.

He wanted a smoke? Doffy never smoked. Did he? Rosinante had been here for almost two years now and never saw him smoke. Señor Pink was a furnace and occasionally, Diamante or Giolla would pester him for a light, but never Doffy. Strange time to pick up the habit, but he knew he had no room for judgment, and just handed over the entire box. Lighter, too.

Doflamingo fumbled to open the container with lazy, delayed movements. Likely treated himself to a nice cocktail of liquor and painkillers. Finally, the flap unfurled and he wrangled one of the cigarettes free. Lit it up with enough precision to reveal he had done it before, at some point in his probably-too-long life. Took it into his lungs without a trace of a cough. 

“It’s not going to happen again.”

Behind his cigarette, Rosinante’s bloodshot eyes stilled.

“I���ll never let anyone hurt you again.”

thanks again for hosting this @opdoffyzine and @corazine !!

previous entry here!

[darthkvznblogs]

You mentioned a while back that you had some problems with the mind-boggling scale of the Galra Empire and the like for the VLD aspect of the Kryptonverse, right? Well, I have an idea for that, and at most it would involve changing a few lines of story. Basically, just emphasize that the Galra empire is most of the KNOWN universe, or at least most of the universe that the Alteans manage to explore/map out in any detail before the Galra attacked them. It would certainly jive with how the first chapter of Close Encounters said that Allura remembers that they only encountered the Gems shortly before the war when they’ve clearly been a major presence in their dwarf galaxy for some time, given that they’re fairly methodical in their expansion due to being immune to aging, let alone how they’ve been throwing feelers into the Milky Way and other local cluster galaxies. After all, there’s clearly galaxies in all directions from Earth, assuming that the sky in the Kryptonverse is anything like on IRL Earth and/or the MCU, so the Milky Way certainly isn’t at the very edge of creation by any means, yet the Galra are only just reaching it after thousands of years of constant expansion. What do you think?

Yeah, I'd agree with you overall. I think I've made some strides in that direction already - as you say, you can kinda read between the lines that, judging by the Galra's rate of expansion and average control of conquered systems, that the Galra rule the universe only on a technicality - they control more galaxies than anyone else, and they're the most numerous organic species (except perhaps some insectoid races out there with bonkers reproduction rates). As far as most of the known universe is concerned, they might as well dominate everything, even if the reality is a little less overwhelming.

Frankly, I don't think any one species could ever be big or powerful enough to fully rule the universe - except the Gems, which are geared exactly towards that purpose, but even then, I don't know if it'd even be possible to accomplish their goal and outrun entropy, so to speak.

[marketingprofitmedia]

Traffic Alchemist Review – Unlimited Free Buyer Traffic Just In 3 Clicks

Welcome to my Traffic Alchemist Review, This is a genuine user-based Traffic Alchemist review, in which I will discuss the features, upgrades, price, demo, and bonuses, how Traffic Alchemist can benefit you, and my own personal opinion. This Is The “Secret Sauce” AI Technology That Generates 100,000s Of Free Visitors To Any Page By Legally Stealing Other People’s Videos and Turning Them Into 100’s Of Social Micro Videos Working Just 15 Minutes/Day

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What Is Traffic Alchemist?

Traffic Alchemist positions itself as a cloud-based software designed to streamline the process of generating traffic through “Social Micro-Videos.” These bite-sized videos, typically ranging from a few seconds to a minute, are becoming increasingly popular on social media platforms like TikTok, Instagram Reels, and YouTube Shorts.

The core functionality of Traffic Alchemist revolves around repurposing existing viral content within your chosen niche. Instead of requiring you to film and edit videos from scratch, the software leverages legally obtainable video snippets and combines them with customizable templates. This approach aims to produce a high volume of unique micro-videos that can capture attention and drive viewers towards your website, landing pages, or social media profiles.

Traffic Alchemist Review: Overview

Creator: Ram Rawat

Product: Traffic Alchemist

Date Launch: 2024-Jul-16

Time Of Launch: 10:00 EDT

Front-End Price: $23 (One-time payment)

Official Website: Click Here Product’s Salespage

Niche: Tools And Software

Support: Effective Response

Discount: Get The Best Discount Right Here!

Recommended: Highly Recommended

Bonuses: YES, Huge Bonuses

Skill Level Required: All Levels

Discount Code: “ALCHEMIST” To Get $ Off!

Refund: YES, 30 Days Money-Back Guarantee

<<>> Click Here & Join Traffic Alchemist Get Access Now <<>>

Traffic Alchemist Review: About Authors

Ram Rawat, an amazing creator, is the idea force behind Traffic Alchemist. He has launched the world’s first AI-powered platform for producing virtual influencers just for marketers. Ram’s outstanding abilities and imaginative approach have revolutionized digital marketing, enabling organization’s to easily build realistic virtual identities.

Ram Rawat continues to set new standards in influencer marketing innovation with his numerous launches, including AI Fame Catalyst, TubeTrivia AI, VidSupremacy, ReelRampage AI, VoiceGenesis AI, AI SmartReach, AI BulkShorts, Autopreneur AI, Review Revolution, KleverSend AI, TurboLists, and many others.

Traffic Alchemist Review: Key Features

Done For You Templates

Mass Edit All Videos In Just 1-Click

Edit/Modify Videos Individually

Add Amazing & Never Seen Before Effects With Ease

Add Video Progress Bar

Add Captivating Subtitles

Effortless Branding To All In 1-Click

Edit Canvas & Video Dimension

Easy Multi-Layer Editing

Download Your Videos To Use Anywhere You Want

Add Description, Tags To All In 1-Click

Publish Instantly OR Schedule ALL For Months To Come

Go Viral Instantly Without Guessing

Traffic Alchemist Review: How Does It Work?

Traffic Alchemist Is Really Easy To Use All It Takes Is Just 3 Simple Steps

Step #1: LEVERAGE

Find/Upload a viral video in your niche. Or add a link to your old video, webinar, demo video, explainer video or any video you want.

Step #2: MULTIPLY100x

Turn it video into 20 little ATTENTIONS GRABBING, HIGHLY ENGAGING micro videos, customize them all in 1 click

Step #3: PROFIT

Add your link and publish right way to Facebook and Instagram, or schedule for weeks and months. Keep generating hands-free traffic and profits for months. Just rinse and repeat for Unlimited traffic in any niche or any offer.

<<>> Click Here & Join Traffic Alchemist Get Access Now <<>>

Traffic Alchemist Review: Can Do For You

Get An Unfair Advantage Over Your Competition

Be Up & Running In 5 Minutes

Truly Set & Forget System

Get Results In As Little As Hours From Now.

Save TONS of Time, Effort & Headache

It’s Suitable For Complete Newbies & Experienced Marketers Alike.

Done-For-You Traffic Solution

Impossible To Saturate

Rinse & Repeat For FAST & EASY Results

FREE UPDATES IN FOREVER

24X7 Support and 100% Uptime Guaranteed

30 Days Money-Back Guarantee

Users Say About Traffic Alchemist

Traffic Alchemist Review: Who Should Use It?

Newbies & Affiliate Marketers

Bloggers & website owners

E-Com Store Owners

Local Businesses

Coaches, Consultants & Service Providers

Authors & Info-Product Creators

Social Media Marketers

Traffic Alchemist Review: Why You Buy Traffic Alchemist?

Investing in Traffic Alchemist can significantly boost your website’s traffic and online visibility. Its automated traffic generation saves time, while targeted marketing ensures visitors are genuinely interested in your content or products. The built-in SEO tools enhance your search engine ranking, and comprehensive analytics help you optimize strategies for better conversions. It’s a cost-effective solution for growing your online presence and achieving your business goals.

Traffic Alchemist Review: Is Traffic Alchemist Right for You?

Determining if Traffic Alchemist is right for you depends on your specific needs and goals. If you aim to increase targeted traffic, improve SEO, and streamline your digital marketing efforts, this tool could be highly beneficial. Its user-friendly interface and comprehensive features make it suitable for both beginners and experienced marketers. However, consider the initial investment and learning curve. If you’re committed to growing your online presence and maximizing conversions, Traffic Alchemist may be a valuable addition to your marketing strategy.

Traffic Alchemist Review: OTO’s And Pricing

Front End Price: Traffic Alchemist (Price: $23)

OTO 1: Pro (Price: $37)

OTO 2: DFY Edition (Price: $47)

OTO 3: VoiceGenesis Edition (Price: $47)

OTO 4: MultiMarketer Edition (Price: $47)

OTO 5: ChatGPT Edition (Price: $47)

OTO 6: Reseller Edition (Price: $147)

<<>> Click Here & Join Traffic Alchemist Get Access Now <<>>

My Own Customized Incredible Bonus Bundle

***How To Claim These Bonuses***

Step #1:

Complete your purchase of the Traffic Alchemist: My Special Unique Bonus Bundle will be visible on your access page as an Affiliate Bonus Button on WarriorPlus immediately after purchase. And before ending my honest Traffic Alchemist Review, I told you that I would give you my very own unique PFTSES formula for Free.

Step #2:

Send the proof of purchase to my e-mail “maketingprofitmedia@gmail.com” (Then I’ll manually Deliver it for you in 24 HOURS).

Traffic Alchemist Free Bonuses

Bonus #1: Commercial License (Value $297)

The commercial license allows you to use our videos in any way you want. This means you can use them for your personal or commercial projects without any restrictions. You can sell videos created with Traffic Alchemist to clients for any price you want. You can sell them on Fiverr, Upwork, Warriorforum, and anywhere you want.

Bonus #2: 100 Hand-Picked Campaigns to Spy On (Value $197)

We have created a collection of 100+ Social Mirco videos that have got 100,000s and MILLIONS of views. You can just look at these campaigns, take inspiration from and create your own quickly.

Bonus #3: How To Scale with Paid Ads (Value $197)

Not just free traffic, it works for paid traffic as well. Learn how to get 10x results from any video ad with TrafficAl chemist. We’ll show you how to start slow and scale your ads to 6-Figures step by step.

Bonus #4: Accelerator METHOD Training (Value $297)

You’ll also get our step-by-step video training to make sure you get the best results with Traffic Al chemist as quickly as possible. How To Craft A Tailored, Social Media Strategy To Build Brand Awareness & Generate Massive Sales Long Term!

Bonus #5: The UNSHAKEABLE Super Affiliate (Value $297)

As you start getting traffic with Vidshortz, use our SECRET affiliate strategies to quickly achieve your 1st $100, $500, and $1000. How to stand out and build a long-term, sustainable, profitable & unshakeable online business with affiliate marketing!

Bonus #6: Become A Successful Social Media Influencer (Value $197)

Learn how to become a successful Influencer and charge huge amounts of money per post. Follow the exact steps, and system other successful Influencers have followed and copy it.

Bonus #7: TikTok Marketing Checklist (Value $97)

Increase your following on both YouTube and TikTok and post your review videos on TikTok as well. Learn 18 TikTok best practices, 25 strategies, and the best organic best practices to get FASTER results on TikTok.

Bonus #8: Free Instagram Traffic (Value $97)

Learn how to use videos to grow your audience on Instagram. This guide will help you to define your audience, retain them, attract more followers, create an online store, drive traffic to your website, and avoid common mistakes.

Bonus #9: Easy Video Strategies (Value $97)

Leverage the power of video marketing to become an online sensation! Connect to your potential customers and become a powerful brand name! Enjoy unrivaled brand exposure and Get a competitive edge over others.

Bonus #10: 100X Youtube Advertising (Value $197)

Want to 100x your results with YouTube ads? Launch a successful YouTube video campaign quickly. Learn how to reach new audiences, and maximize traffic and profits with YouTube advertising!

Traffic Alchemist Review: Money Back Guarantee

There Is No Risk. You Are Covered By Our100% Product Guarantee!

If you buy TrafficAlchemist AI and aren’t happy with it within 30 days, we will give you your money back in full, no questions asked. You can keep our goods and still get all the advantages.We won’t even take away your access. We’re sure you’ll love TrafficAlchemist AI and see how useful it is, though, so you won’t ask for your money back. This is our “STEAL OUR PRODUCT” promise to you. (Only while the launch is going on) That’s the only thing that could be fair.

<<>> Click Here & Join Traffic Alchemist Get Access Now <<>>

Traffic Alchemist Review: Pros and Cons

Pros:

Automated Traffic Generation: Saves time and effort.

Targeted Traffic: Attracts relevant visitors.

SEO Optimization: Improves search engine rankings.

Comprehensive Analytics: Provides detailed insights.

User-Friendly Interface: Easy to navigate.

Cons:

You need internet for using this product.

No issues reported, it works perfectly!.

Frequently Asked Questions (FAQ’s)

Q. Do I need to download anything to use Traffic Alchemist AI?

No. Traffic Alchemist AI is completely cloud-based. Login from anywhere in the world with an internet connection and use it.

Q. Is there a monthly fee?

No, once you buy Traffic Alchemist AI, you don’t have to pay a monthly fee. Traffic Alchemist AI is a one-time purchase product.

Q. What happens after the launch period?

The price will turn into a MONTHLY SUBSCRIPTION and the low one-time price will never be available again! We encourage you to take action before the launch period ends.

Q. Can I have a refund?

We guarantee that you will get more value from your purchase of Traffic Alchemist AI than what you pay us. However, if for some reason the product is not living up to your expectations at any time within 30 days of buying it, we will give you a full refund, no questions asked.

Q. What if I have no followers on social media? Can I still get traffic?

Yes. Off course, once you start posting these social micro videos, people will instantly start noticing you and your brand, go to your links, follow you and even contact you. And with time it grows exponentially and its extremely easy and fast to automate it with Traffic Alchemist AI.

Q. Can I post these videos to other social media networks?

Yes, currently we provide scheduling options for Facebook & Instagram. But you can customize your video size, edit, manually download these videos and use it for any purpose you want. Post it to any social media you like. No restrictions.

Q. What about the future updates?

You won’t pay a penny extra for future updates. And, you’ll get free lifetime updates to keep your product up-to-date.

Q. What if I have other questions?

You can ask us your product related question as well as anything about our company or services by emailing us at support@ ramrawat.net

Traffic Alchemist Review: My Recommendation

Traffic Alchemist offers an intriguing solution for automating social media video creation and driving traffic. However, it’s essential to weigh the potential benefits against the limitations and consider alternative strategies like content marketing, social media marketing, and SEO before making a purchase. By carefully evaluating your needs and goals, you can determine if Traffic Alchemist is the right tool to supplement your overall marketing strategy. Remember, building a strong brand and offering valuable content is crucial for long-term traffic growth, regardless of the specific tactics employed. It’s recommended to conduct thorough research and due diligence before making any software purchases.

<<>> Click Here & Join Traffic Alchemist Get Access Now <<>>

Check Out My Previous Reviews: DomainLab AI Review, Tube Targeter Review, ChatZone AI Review, SoftSites Review, Super Simple Sales System Review, Voixr Review, SiteRobot AI Review, AI Profit Siphon Review, & Quillaio Review.

Thank for reading my Traffic Alchemist Review till the end. Hope it will help you to make purchase decision perfectly.

Disclaimer: This Traffic Alchemist review is based on publicly available information and may not reflect the latest updates. It’s recommended to visit the official Traffic Alchemist website for the most current information on features and pricing.

Note: Yes, this is a paid software, however the one-time fee is $23 for lifetime

[pixelfilmstudios-blog1]

Things To Consider When Choosing An SEO Company 

SEO is the buzzword of the digital world, and there’s no doubt in the fact that right now, every business and every organization is trying hard to improve its SEO strategies. The reason why everyone is struggling so hard is that there’s quite a tough competition out there in the market, and the only way to boost your visibility is to work on your SEO strategy. The better the strategy, the more visible you will be, and that’s where you’ll get all the traffic from. 

When it comes to projecting a good impression of your business, SEO is a must! It’s an integral part of every website that’s operating online, especially if it's selling something. Speaking of which, SEO is quite a vast term, and it keeps changing which is why if you want to make an effective strategy for your business, you’ll have to hire an expert for it. 

You see, most people when they try devising an SEO strategy on their own, they end up with several mind-boggling questions like “Why SEO audits are important” or “What factors can add value to the SEO plan?”. These questions will just confuse you more and more, so hiring a team of experts for this task is the wiser thing to do. 

Here are some factors you should consider when choosing an SEO company; 

1- Experience 

Experience is the very first thing that you are supposed to consider. As said earlier, Seo can make or break your business, and you clearly can’t take any risks with that. This is the reason why you need to invest in a company that has SEO experts who have been working in this field for a while now. They’ll at least know all that can make an SEO strategy effective. Not just this, but with experience, they’ll know about the mistakes that are to be avoided so that things don’t go south. 

2- Keeping up with the new changes in the industry

Every year, Google changes its algorithm at least 500 to 600 times. In other words, keeping up with the changes can be quite tough, and this isn’t something you alone can do when you’ve got a whole business to take care of. You need an SEO company that knows how to cope with the changing trends and not just this, but the experts should be able to predict the upcoming changes in order to take timely measures. 

3- Repute 

The internet has made things easier for us. We can now just check about a particular company or a brand with just a single click. For example, all you have to do is to type the name of the SEO company you are looking forward to hiring and then check out what people have to say about them. Check if the reviews are positive or negative and then make a final decision. If there are any red flags that you are worried about, don’t hire that company and look for another one. It’s that simple if you are just willing to put in a little research. 

4- Pricing 

The next very important thing for every single business is the affordability of the services they are looking for. No matter how big or small your online business is, you’d still want to save some money and hire a service provider who is at least offering reasonable services at affordable prices. If any SEO company is offering quality services within your budget, then yes, you should hire them right away. 

Conclusion

These are some important considerations for every single person who has to hire an SEO company or some SEO expert. One thing that you can be rest assured is that no matter what it is, this investment will soon show you the results, and it won’t be a waste of time and money for you. 

[capoteera]

You know the story pics or it didn’t happen unless it’s coming from them then pics are not needed🤡//

Even when there is pics they say they’re old or photoshopped. It’s mind boggling when they say that and then go on about how Chris and Alba have never been spotted organically 🤯

My favorite is the “missing marriage license” that they so desperately want to see even though when or if it ever gets published they will scream that Alba has been reading their blogs and photoshopped a marriage license to try to fool them.

They really need psychiatric help.

They will say it’s fake no matter what! every blog that thinks it’s pr just want him single and alone with his dog. They will have a problem with any romantic partner

[roamnook]

"New Study Reveals 78% Increase in AI Implementation Across Industries - Data-driven insights at your fingertips. Stay informed with Datamation."

Informative Blog Post

Unveiling the Power of Data: A Deep Dive into the Digital World

Welcome to an exciting journey through the fascinating world of data. In this blog post, we aim to provide you with key facts, hard information, numbers, and concrete data that will leave you amazed and informed. Today, we will delve into various technological trends, explore the significance of big data, take a closer look at data centers, AI, cloud computing, applications, mobile technology, open source solutions, security measures, storage options, network infrastructure, ERP systems, and even touch upon potential career opportunities in this rapidly evolving field. So, sit back, relax, and get ready to immerse yourself in a treasure trove of information!

1. Technological Trends

Before we explore specific areas of technology, it's essential to understand the broader context. Technological trends are shaping our digital landscape, affecting how we interact, learn, work, and live. Let's look at some fascinating statistics that highlight the ever-changing technological landscape:

In 2023, global tech spending is projected to reach $4.5 trillion, a testament to the immense growth and demand in the industry.

By 2025, it is estimated that there will be over 75 billion connected devices worldwide, a clear indication of the pervasive influence of technology in our lives.

Artificial intelligence (AI) is expected to contribute around $15.7 trillion to the global economy by 2030, revolutionizing industries such as healthcare, finance, transportation, and manufacturing.

These numbers signify the immense power and potential that technology holds in transforming our world. As we delve deeper into various technological domains, you'll witness how these trends manifest in tangible forms.

2. The Significance of Big Data

Big data has become a buzzword in recent years, and for a good reason. With the proliferation of smartphones, connected devices, and digital platforms, enormous amounts of data are being generated every second. Here are some mind-boggling figures that illustrate the significance of big data:

Approximately 90% of the world's data has been generated in the past two years alone, highlighting the exponential growth in data creation.

According to IBM, we create 2.5 quintillion bytes of data every day, and this velocity is only expected to increase as our reliance on digital technology intensifies.

The global big data market is forecasted to reach $103 billion by 2027, emphasizing the substantial investments being made in data collection, storage, and analysis.

Big data is more than just a buzzword; it is transforming industries, driving innovation, and enabling data-driven decision-making. As we move forward, we'll explore how companies leverage big data to gain a competitive edge and deliver better products and services to their customers.

16. Careers in the Data-driven World

The rise of digital technology and the increasing reliance on data have given birth to a wide range of exciting and lucrative career opportunities. Here's a closer look at some of the most sought-after careers in the data-driven world:

Data Scientist: With skills in programming, statistics, and machine learning, data scientists extract valuable insights from complex datasets, helping companies make informed decisions.

Data Analyst: Data analysts collect, organize, and analyze data to identify patterns, trends, and correlations, facilitating data-driven decision-making.

Data Engineer: Data engineers design and build the infrastructure necessary for data storage, processing, and analysis, ensuring the smooth flow of data within an organization.

These are just a few examples of the numerous career paths available in the data-driven world. Whether you have a background in computer science, mathematics, or business, there is a role for you in this dynamic and ever-evolving industry.

Conclusion: Unleash Your Digital Transformation with RoamNook

After this exhilarating journey through the world of data, it's clear that technology is rapidly shaping every aspect of our lives. From the power of big data to the potential of AI and the vast opportunities in various technological domains, one thing is certain - the future belongs to those who embrace digital transformation.

And that's where RoamNook comes in.

RoamNook is an innovative technology company specializing in IT consultation, custom software development, and digital marketing. With our expertise, we help businesses leverage the power of data and technology to fuel their digital growth.

Whether you need assistance with data management, cloud migration, AI implementation, or any other aspect of your digital journey, RoamNook is here to guide you. Our experienced team of professionals is committed to delivering tailor-made solutions that drive measurable results.

So, embrace the digital revolution and unlock new possibilities for your business with RoamNook. Visit our website at https://www.roamnook.com to learn more about our services and how we can help you achieve your goals.

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Source: https://www.datamation.com/applications/iot-protocols-and-standards/&sa=U&ved=2ahUKEwjN14ad6PWFAxXIEFkFHWuAD3oQxfQBegQICBAC&usg=AOvVaw0Oce20bhkLElHbzm8AnIVB

[indiancuisinebythelake]

Debunking the Myths: The Most Trusted Guide to Online Authentic Indian Recipes in Lorne Park

Are you curious about online authentic Indian recipes in Lorne Park but held back by misconceptions? Now, that’s what we call spiced-up misconceptions! Don't worry, you're not alone. Indian cuisine, with its vibrant flavours and vast regional variations, often gets shrouded in myths and stereotypes. But fear not, adventurous food connoisseur! Today, we at Indian Cuisine by the Lake are here to debunk the most common myths and pave your way to a delicious and authentic gastronomic experience.

Myth #1: All Indian Food is Spicy and Hot

While spices are indeed the soul of Indian food, heat levels vary greatly across the diverse regions. While Andhra Pradesh boasts fiery curries, Kashmir celebrates milder, aromatic flavours. At Indian Cuisine by the Lake, we offer a spectrum of spice levels to cater to every palate. From gentle simmer to fiery Vindaloo, you're in control!

Myth #2: Indian Food is Just Naan and Curry

Oh, the injustice! Imagine judging an entire culinary landscape based on two delicious elements. Indian cuisine is a canvas bursting with flavour. From melt-in-your-mouth tandoori dishes to fragrant biryanis, from crispy dosas to creamy korma, the variety is undoubtedly breathtaking. Explore our extensive menu at Indian cuisine by the Lake and discover a universe of culinary delights, all waiting to be devoured.

Myth #3: It's All Vegetarian

While India boasts a rich vegetarian tradition, meat lovers rejoice! Smokey Chicken Tandoori, succulent Lamb Rogan Josh and juicy Fish Kebabs are just a few examples of the meaty masterpieces waiting for you. For the initiated, even within vegetarian fare, the diversity is truly mind-boggling when seeking online authentic Indian recipes in Lorne Park. From lentils to cottage cheese delights and from vegetable curries to fragrant biryanis, you'll never miss meat at Indian Cuisine by the Lake.

Myth #4: Indian Food is Unhealthy

Contrary to popular belief, Indian cuisine can be incredibly healthy. Fresh, seasonal ingredients, slow cooking techniques, and the abundance of organic spices like turmeric and ginger contribute to a well-balanced, nutritious diet.

Myth #5: You Need to Eat with Your Hands

While eating with your hands is a traditional and enjoyable way to experience Indian cuisine, it's certainly not mandatory! Forks and spoons are readily available, and at Indian Cuisine by the Lake, we strive to ensure your comfort and enjoyment every step of the way.

So, shed the misconceptions and check out online authentic Indian recipes in Lorne Park at Indian Cuisine by the Lake! Our diverse menu, customizable spice levels, and commitment to fresh, high-quality ingredients guarantee a culinary journey that will tantalize your taste buds and open your heart to the wonders of Indian food. Order online today, and let us transport you to a world of vibrant flavours and unforgettable experiences right at your doorstep.

Admittedly, food is more than mere sustenance; it's a window into culture, heritage, and passion. Unlock the door to authentic Indian cuisine with Indian cuisine by the Lake, one delicious bite at a time! We cannot wait to welcome you!

[super-cosmic-library]

Ch. 7 is finally posted! Lesbian Interlude time!!!

_ _ _ _ _

The thing between Steve and Eddie was getting out of hand. It had been three weeks since the last time Robin had gotten to spend more than five minutes alone with her platonic soulmate.

She was happy for him, don’t get her wrong. But by god was Eddie’s constant presence annoying.

However, if that constant presence meant spending time with Chrissy Cunningham, then Robin could deal.

Chrissy was by far the cutest girl in Hawkins. Probably in all of Roane County. Hell, maybe even all of Indiana. Robin wouldn’t say in all of America, though. After all, Reneé Rapp existed.

What was even more mind-boggling than the fact that the beautiful cheerleader and the metalhead vampire were best friends was that Chrissy was also a lesbian. A lesbian! Maybe there was a god.

Too often, Robin’s crushes were on the unattainable straight girls. Even when she and Vickie, a loud and proud bisexual, were in the talking stage, it never pandered out. Vickie, for all of her good qualities, was too hung up on her on-and-off-again boyfriend. Steve had to talk sense into her, because, no, Robin really could not deal with being in an open relationship with someone. Especially when she never knew where she stood with Vickie.

So Chrissy being a lesbian and completely single was kind of a miracle. Robin had to keep reminding herself not to get her hopes up.

“This is me,” Chrissy said as they reached her house. “Would you like to come inside for a bit?”

Steve would worry if she took too long to get back to his house.

Wait, what was she thinking? Judging by the eyes he had been making at his boyfriend when they left, Steve wasn’t going to notice she'd been gone for longer than a few minutes. Besides, Chrissy Cunningham was asking her to spend more time with her. How could she ever turn that opportunity down?

Even though they lived in the same neighborhood, Chrissy’s house was nowhere as large as Steve’s. It still classified as a McMansion, at least in Robin’s book, what with the grand balcony overlooking the street and the ornate French windows on either side of the dark oak doors. The well-manicured rose bushes led her to believe the Cunninghams employed a landscaping service as well. After all, those shits were a bitch to maintain. So, yeah, they were rich.

After calling out a hello to her parents, Chrissy led her up to her bedroom.

It was . . . pink. It reminded her a lot of Nancy’s room, the one time she’d been invited in. However, Chrissy’s room had more frills and less ammo.

Chrissy flopped onto the quilted bed, pulling a lavendar narwhal Squishmallow to her chest, and qued up one of those YouTube lo-fi study playlists on the TV mounted to her wall.

“Sorry, I’ve got to have music playing at all times or I’ll go crazy.”

“You sound like Eddie.”

“Dear god, please don’t say that,” Chrissy laughed. Robin’s heart swooped at the sound. “Especially in front of my parents.”

“Not a fan of him?” Although, she understood why. Most parents wouldn’t be too pleased with their child befriending the local drug dealer.

She shook her head. “They say I spend too much time with him, especially since Jason and I broke up. I swear, no matter how many times I tell them Eddie is just a friend, they still think we’re dating.”

“My parents used to think the same thing!” Robin smiled as a sense of kinship with the other girl formed. “They wouldn’t shut up about how nice of a boy Steve was, and how beautiful our babies would look. Which, ew. Incest!”

Chrissy giggled again, sending heat to the pit of Robin’s gut. “Agreed.”

Robin felt Chrissy's eyes on her as she inspected the tchotchkes and fruity Bath and Body Works perfumes scattered about Chrissy's dresser top. She picked up a Precious Moments cheerleader girl, smiled at it, then set it back down. “It wasn’t until I finally came out to them that they finally realized our relationship was and only ever would be Platonic with a capital ‘P.’” She fiddled with the necklaces dangling from a jewelry hanger.

The other girl sighed. “I wish I could do that with my parents. Not sure if you saw the bajillion crosses on the walls downstairs, but they wouldn’t take the news well.”

Dropping the necklace chains, Robin crossed the room and perched herself on the edge of the bed, just to be near Chrissy. “That sucks.”

“What can you do?” Chrissy shrugged and picked at her nails. “My older sister is getting married in the spring. My family–my mom especially–is, of course, all excited for her. I am too. Her fiancé is a nice guy, and he seems to treat my sister right. It’s just annoying because the wedding is all my family will talk about. It made me realize that my family will never have the same reaction and give me the same amount of support whenever I get married.”

Robin exhaled. That sucked. Sure, she’d been nervous about coming out to her parents, but her parents were communist-leaning hippies. She’d had a feeling that they would be accepting of her sexuality, even if they didn’t fully understand it.

She took her hand. Chrissy, glossy lips parted slightly, looked up at her. Her hand was smaller and softer than Robin’s own. It made her want to bite something.

She took a steadying breath, trying not to let her words ramble. “Fuck them. When you get married, Eddie, Steve, and I will throw you the biggest, most elegant and Chrissy-approved wedding of your dreams. And we’ll post the photos all over Instagram and they’ll be so jealous they weren’t invited that it’ll eat them alive.”

“Yeah?” Chrissy blinked up at her. Although a smile had made its way onto her face, the tip of her nose was red and her eyes were filled with unshed tears. Robin refrained from calling attention to it, though. If their places were traded, she’d rather die than admit her parents’ bigotry affected her that much.

“Yeah,” Robin smiled back at her. “And don’t even get me started on the bachelorette party. We’re going to get kicked out of so many clubs.”

Chrissy’s petite nose scrunched as she giggled again. Was this woman trying to kill her?

“I didn’t take you for the clubbing type.”

“I’m not. Loud music makes me anxious. And all those sweaty bodies gyrating on the dancefloor, packed together like sardines? Ew.” She stuck her tongue out. “But, the party would be for you, and that seems like your scene.”

“Aw, you’d sacrifice your own comfort for me?”

“Of course.” As if that were ever a question. “You deserve to be celebrated.”

Chrissy’s face went pink. Her eyes fluttered down to where her fingers played with Robin’s rings. Robin did not know how she was still alive after all of this.

Chrissy sniffed and swiped at her eyes. “Sorry for trauma dumping on you.”

Robin waved her off. “That’s what friends are for.”

“So, we’re friends?”

“Well, yeah,” A fear struck her. “Unless you don’t want to be?”

Chrissy’s hand tightened around her own. “No, I do. I do. I just didn’t think you thought that.”

Robin squirmed. Cool your jets, Buckley. She wanted more than that, but she didn’t know if Chrissy felt the same way. Besides, better to take what she could get than scare her off.

“Yeah, I do.”

They were still holding hands. Chrissy seemed to notice it at the same time as she did and pulled her hand away to adjust her skirt. Robin missed the feeling instantly.

“Would you like to stick around for a bit? Maybe watch another movie?”

Robin’s heartbeat raced. Chrissy wanted to spend more time with her. Although it was probably for purely platonic reasons–after all, they'd just established their friendship–Robin had a difficult time maintaining her hopes.

“Please. I do not want to walk in on whatever Steve and Eddie are doing right now.”

“Blech, don’t make me think of that. I’ve heard Eddie wax on about Steve’s dick enough that I have permanent mental scars.”

“He and Steve really must be made for each other. I’ve never seen the man naked, but I could probably draw an accurate portrait of Eddie by just going off of what Steve’s told me.”

Chrissy let out a long-suffering sigh. “Boys.”

“Tell me about it.”

The two girls settled against the headboard. Chrissy’s arm brushed against hers as she scrolled through Hulu, and Robin was being so normal about it. Definitely not having a total meltdown inside. Nuh, uh.

She should get an award for what a brave soldier she had been tonight.

Whenever the movie was over, she decided, she would call Steve to let him know she was heading back to his house. That way, the boys would have enough time to collect themselves and save her from any more mental scaring.

But as the movie wore on, the two girls continued to talk about life and school and how hot Aubrey Plaza was, and Robin really, really did not want to leave. So, even as she was nodding off, pressed against Chrissy’s shoulder, she stayed. Because maybe she deserved a little hope.

[ceogroups]

Master Your Business Strategies with Insightful Guidance: The Power of a CEO Advisory Group

In the dynamic landscape of modern business, CEOs are faced with an ever-evolving set of challenges and opportunities. Navigating these waters requires not only a clear vision but also the wisdom to make informed decisions. This is where the significance of a CEO advisory group comes to the forefront.

The Collective Wisdom of a CEO Advisory Group

At its essential part, a CEO advisory group is a collection of experienced experts who offer their bits of knowledge, information, and skills to guide a CEO through essential choices. The job of a CEO is a mind-boggling one, requiring a fragile harmony between leadership, vision, and successful decision-making. With the support of a committed advisory group CEO can take advantage of an abundance of different points of view. Envision finding a spot at a table with people who have endured different industry storms and arisen successfully. This amalgamation of experience is the cornerstone of a CEO advisory group. These seasoned professionals, often with backgrounds spanning different sectors, bring to the table a wellspring of knowledge that can be instrumental in shaping effective business strategies.

The Synergy of Collaboration

In the realm of business, isolation is often a CEO's greatest advisory. The weight of critical decisions can be overpowering, prompting, exclusive focus, or even rushed decisions. A CEO advisory group, in any case, goes about as an emotionally supportive network that counters this isolation. The exchange of thoughts and meetings to generate new ideas that unfurl inside such a group can act as a guide of light in snapshots of vulnerability.

Consider the scenario: a CEO is contemplating a major expansion into new markets. Within a CEO advisory group, the collective intellect can dissect the proposal from various angles, identifying potential pitfalls, and devising strategies to mitigate them.

Empowering Through CEO Training Programs

A CEO advisory group not only offers guidance on immediate decisions but also contributes to the long-term growth of a CEO. Numerous advisory groups incorporate structured CEO training programs into their offerings. In a quick-moving business environment, continuous learning isn't simply a choice - it's a need. CEO training programs presented by advisory groups empower CEOs to keep up to date with the most recent turns of events and furnish them with the devices expected to lead their organizations in ever-evolving scenes. By investing in their development CEO organizations can lead to ongoing success.

Coalition for CEO excellence

A CEO advisor is more than just a bunch of people; it's like a symbol of friendship, teamwork, and sharing information. It often turns the CEO's journey from a solo one into a group effort to achieve something great.

When CEOs are aware that their decisions will be examined by a circle of peers, they are inclined to exercise greater caution and approach their role with increased seriousness.

The Transformational Impact

Taking everything into account, the power of the CEO Advisory Group couldn't be more significant.

Uniting CEOs, each with one-of-a-kind insight and experience, can reshape business models. It is beneficial not only for the guidance provided, but also for the contacts made, the exchange of ideas, and the encouragement of progress. A CEO advisory group – encompassing a CEO advisor, CEO advisory group, and CEO training programs – stands as a beacon of empowerment, a source of inspiration, and a catalyst for transformative growth. So, as CEOs continue to navigate the complex tides of business, let them do so knowing that they are not alone – they have an advisory group standing shoulder to shoulder, ready to elevate their strategies and guide them toward unparalleled success.

[thetoxicgamer]

A map for the ages: 5 overtimes needed to separate IEM Dallas CS:GO semifinalists

After a decisive victory over FaZe Clan on June 3, ENCE has qualified for the IEM Dallas grand final after playing more than 100 rounds over three maps—and nearly 60 on decider Ancient alone. The Counter-Strike fans who witnessed today’s IEM Dallas semifinal could do nothing but stand and applaud both ENCE and FaZe, who simply would not let go of the grand final spot on Ancient. After both teams comfortably took their map picks, ENCE found themselves on the back foot at 1-7 in the decider. But a six-round streak courtesy of impressive calling from captain Marco “Snappi” Pfeiffer marshalled their way back into the map by halftime. The Finnish organization would capitalize early in the second half, ultimately leading 13-9 and threatening a boilover. But FaZe, like clockwork, rose to the occasion on the biggest stage. Off the back of sheer brilliance from Helvijs “broky” Saukants and some key calls from veteran Finn “karrigan” Andersen, FaZe fought back into the map and forced overtime. Normally, as teams descend deeper into overtime, the match turns to chaos, and strategy is abandoned as competitors become desperate to end affairs. Not so in today’s final: both squads were impeccable in their approach on offense and stalwart in defense. ENCE would ride the wave, however, ultimately sealing the series 31-29 in stunning fashion. ENCE’s top three fraggers—SunPayus, Maden, and Snappi—would combine for a mind-boggling 135 kills on Ancient. https://twitter.com/ENCE/status/1665166279873904646 It was a particularly bright moment for Israeli star Guy “NertZ” Iluz, with the win over FaZe just his second on a stage in front of thousands of screaming fans. “I cannot even believe it. It was an amazing game,” he said immediately following the series. “We said in the TeamSpeak, we don’t care if we lose win, we just enjoy the game.” FaZe chief karrigan was heartbroken following the match. While his decisions during the latter stages of regulation undoubtedly kept his squad alive, his performance was poor across the series, scoring just a 0.66 HLTV rating and 38 kills over the behemoth 105-round semifinal. “I felt like I let my team down today. It’s kind of rough,” said karrigan. “I mean, when you play that many rounds, you have to think outside of the box. I feel like we had so many rounds down to the wire.” The loss marks FaZe’s third straight defeat to ENCE. The Finnish organization downed FaZe already during the group stage at IEM Dallas whilst also defeating FaZe at the BLAST Paris Major Challenger Stage. “It’s hard when you have expectations when you’re getting that close,” karrigan said, noting the squad was fighting hard to rebound after a mostly disappointing season of CS:GO. “ENCE was the better team today, and we just have to work on our mistakes, and hopefully, we can show a better FaZe next time.” ENCE will take on surprise packet MOUZ in the Dallas grand final, who upset Heroic 2-1 in the other semifinal. Most had dismissed dexter and co. after a poor showing at the BLAST Paris Major, with many believing the French tournament would be the last for the existing lineup and that future success would require a roster change. The IEM Dallas grand final is set to begin at 12:30pm CT on June 4. Read the full article

[bitkoin878]

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