#priest au our beloved

[deadgirlwalking91]

hi when do you guys plan to post the priest au ??

Hey Anon!

As soon as @a-dose-of-comatose gets her shit together 😂 I kid. We've both got a bit on at the moment, but we're hoping to start writing in the next few weeks.

We have a good portion of the fic already plotted and planned, so once we're ready, we are ready. <3

[aziraphales-library]

Hi there!

I was wondering if you had any recommendations of fics that have Aziraphale as a priest? i’m in search of some but have no idea how to find them.

only ask is that it’s 3k words and up!

Thanks so much for all you do, you are truly the foundation holding the fanfiction side of Good Omens together!

lots of love x

Hello! We have #priest Aziraphale & #priests au tags. And of course there is the priest Aziraphale tag on AO3. Here are more to add to our collection...

All The Lights That Light The Way by FeralTuxedo (E)

On the run from a disastrous work Christmas party, Anthony Crowley encounters an angel singing in the streets of Soho.

& Forgive Us Our Trespasses (Of Which The First Is Love) by ineffable_angle (M)

Fleabag-inspired AU where anthropologist Dr. Anthony J Crowley becomes friends (and then definitely more) with the hot priest Father Aziraphale Moore. They meet at their high school reunion and discover that they just can't quite stay away from one another. Mainly, they debate evolution, go to brunch, and overcome Anthony's religious trauma. Some scenes and dialogue from season 2 of Fleabag do show up, but the plot is not the exact same.

The scent of incense on his fingers by gimmewhiskey (E)

Crowley knew what was twirling on Aziraphale's tongue. “Don't even think about saying you forgive me," he whispered, then turned and strode quickly to the door. Aziraphale stared after him for a few moments longer. He slowly raised his hand and touched his lips. There was a scent of incense on his fingers. ...Or the story of how a successful lawyer Anthony J. Crowley successfully pretends to forget his old love while Father Aziraphale atones for sins for them both.

(Let's) Do it again by gagna_onni (M)

Father Fell has lived his whole life in a small town in Wales. His life is simple, the community is kind and welcoming and he does all he can to help everyone. One day a guest arrives at his clergy house. And right after his arrival, things start to change in an unexpected way.

in your own time by ineffabildaddy (E)

Aziraphale and Crowley grew up together as next-door neighbours on Hogback Lane, classmates at the local Catholic school, and inseparable best friends. By the age of eighteen, both were hopelessly in love with the other, despite the knowledge that they were doomed to live apart, as Crowley aimed to pursue university study in London and Aziraphale committed himself to remaining in Tadfield, dedicating his life to the Church. After almost twenty years spent away from his hometown, renowned botanist Crowley decides to come and visit Tadfield again at a moment's notice; the purpose of his visit is to speak at a Careers Day for the school he and Aziraphale, now a beloved priest and a frequent helper at the school, attended. The twenty-four hours that follow will change both of their lives for ever.

Faith, Hope, and Love (And the Greatest of These Is Love) by khh1961 (E)

A young Father Aziraphale Fell takes up his first post as a junior priest, under the stern supervision of Monsignor Gabriel (who very much likes things to run his way, thank you kindly) and meets fellow parish priest, Father Anthony Crowley. Our young Father Fell is immediately captivated by Father Crowley's handsome face, ginger hair, and dead sexy Scottish accent. This looks to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship. But what else it may become remains to be seen. Love and the will of God are both ineffable.

- Mod D

[blakbonnet]

curious about your favorite underrated artists/fic writers/creatives on here?? and maybe your specific favourite underrated fanwork??

Ooh. I love this question so much, anon ❤️

Underrated gif maker, and I say this with no bias, is definitely Ida @bizarrelittlemew because she just puts in so much effort in all her gifs. Ida looks through tutorials and then also does so much on their own, but mainly: if you look at all the recent gifs, they have such a unique Ida ™️ vibe to them. From rotoscoping (still don't know what that is) to playing with blending, Ida deserves to be right up there with one of the most creative gifmakers this fandom has produced recently.

Unfortunately I just very very rarely hang out reading ofmd fics T-T (I'm mostly in the hobbit and sandman fandom side of ao3) and there are a few writers I love and I tend to stick to them (xoxoemynn, forpiratereasons being the main ones) Most of what I read and like in the fandom is when a mutual ends up writing something that isn't modern au.

Having said that, underrated writer to me 100% is @palavapeite because their writing just never fails to transport me to whatever setting they're talking about. Listen, I just don't read modern AUs, they don't do it for me (def a me issue, I'm sure there are brilliant modern au writers in this fandom but it's something I filter out) but I would absolutely recommend this fic as something that brought me so so much joy, is fast becoming my more reread fic, because it did a perfect job with getting Stede's voice right. I can hear every single thing he says in my mind, it's SO good. Also their fic with priest!stede lives rent free in my head and I would soon find the time to read their non blackbonnet fics.

Another one is adamarks who, again, has such a good grasp on Ed and Stede's character that it doesn't matter which AU Jay has picked, it just always always works somehow. My favourite is this fic tho which is just so them that I might as well weep.

For artists, my recent faves (and I think they're underrated) are Lilo @harrylovesspaezle who's so so talented and I still can't get over that sketchbook tour - the growth and love for this show ough, @ofmderapolag whose pieces are just so so dreamy, and also @spookynadja whose style just floors me every single time.

I'd also like to shout out one underrated category, people who write such amazing text posts like @ourfag who obviously has the s3 scripts and is only sharing them with us in small increments due to the nda and @tulipseason for the currently unpublished book of "1 million ways I will articulate how much I love hit television show our flag means death"

and then there's my favourite most beloved cheerleaders who are always lifting up new writers and artists too like @marbledwings and @insteading ❤️ I especially love that everyone has a beautiful story with these two, you could ask any small or big writer in the fandom if they've been made to cry by wings or insteading and yeah, they're just lovely.

[delopsia]

Dancing Beneath The Moon | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Word Count: 10,000  Cross Posted on AO3 Brief Summary: How is it that your heart only longs for the ghost of a cowboy? And why do you get the feeling that his heart utters the same for you? Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, Ghost!Rhett AU (with a twist! I won't tell you what kind but it's a twist!), friends to lovers, Trevor does not take rejection very well (please be advised that he does yell at the reader and scare them), unprotected sex, mentions of violence, and Rhett's 'murder.' Please refer to the user manual and wash your cowboy before sex.  

"I-I'm sorry, I need to leave."

"Trevor, wait!" Your feet patter across the floor, struggling to keep up as he lets himself out the door, "I can explain."

Only on the front porch does he stop, ostrich-skin boots clicking against the old wood with every step, "You don't need to," holding up one hand, as if to ward you off, "I just...forgot my Dad asked me to interview our new ranch hand today."

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again, gaping like a damn goldfish.

"I'll call you later," and that's all Trevor leaves you with, skittering off the porch and clambering up into that lifted F-150, with its perfect, custom black paint that glimmers a deep blue as he tears down your driveway.

Ugh.

"Rhett!" Your voice echoes throughout the house, punctuated by the slamming of the door behind you. So loud, and yet you can still hear the vicious banging of your beloved cast iron skillet banging on your kitchen tile. A shrill clatter of noise that has you fighting the urge to cover your ears as you storm into the kitchen.

And there he is. The translucent motherfucker, sitting cross-legged beneath your table, peeking out from beneath it. "What?" A big, shit-eating grin lacing his barely there features, so innocent and childlike that you almost don't believe he was the cause of this mayhem.

Almost.

The skillet in his hand provides a pretty damning counterargument.

"I'd kill you if you weren't already dead," fuming, yanking that dented skillet out of his hand; Rhett's grip is strong, but not enough to stop you from taking your cookware back.

"I was playin' with that," he huffs, a cold wind that tickles your ankles.

The skillet lands in the sink with a clatter. "And I was trying to have a date," you hiss, throwing your hands up, "but I'm unfortunate enough to share a house with a ghost who doesn't have any fucking manners!"

"I have manners!" Rhett's up in the air now, a buzzing collection of mist that floats up to the ceiling, no longer human, "I just ain't got 'em for big shots that wanna play cowboy for a day!"

"He is a cowboy," he's not. You know he's not. But god, you are not giving Rhett fucking Abbott the satisfaction of you agreeing with him. "You wouldn't know, being ancient and all that."

The temperature drops. Mist scattering. You can't tell where he is anymore. "I would know 'cause I am a fuckin' cowboy!" His disembodied, roaring voice comes from all directions. "No good-minded cowboy wears a goddamn rolex on a work day, 'cause they know that shits fixin' t'get scuffed!"

"Cowboy or not, you're going to have to get over it," as you reach for the tap, you think you can feel his presence behind you. Some invisible thing that sends your skin prickling, even with the knowledge of how harmless he truly is. "Trevor's coming back, and if you keep scaring him off, I'm phoning a priest."

"Fine!" Booming behind you.

"Fine!"

He's gone for the rest of the night.

The pizza guy scares the hell out of you when he knocks on the door. Not because you had forgotten about your order but because you were waiting on the curtains to peel themselves open. Expecting to hear a deep, half-hearted grumble about how "your date is here" as the fella clambers out of his beat-up sedan.

But it never comes.

Rhett doesn't even bug you about giving him a slice that he knows he can't eat, but you catch yourself putting a plate out for him. You wonder if he's in the room to see you rushing to put it back in the cupboard. Maybe he's out in the field because the television doesn't miraculously change to the Animal Channel like it usually does. You don't catch a glimpse of him lingering in the mirror whilst you brush your teeth.

You're glad.

You didn't want to see his ugly mug anyway.

Strange how such a big presence can vanish so easily, without a trace or hint of where he went, leaving this big farmhouse feeling like a husk of what it usually does. The temperature drops a degree or two when he's around, but without him, it feels like you've set up camp in the Arctic. How can a dead man bring so much life to a place?

But the covers are tucked around you in the morning.

You can't see him, but when you step into the kitchen, sleepy-eyed and yawning, you can feel him wisping around you. That invisible presence seeking for anything to get back on your good side.

The toast lifts itself onto a plate before it can be burnt by that old, barely functioning toaster of yours. On the table, the weekly grocery ad flips open to a discount on new toasters, a lazily written note scrawled beneath it. 'They even have the color you were wanting! :)'

He pulls the chair out for you to sit, and when you defiantly head out onto the porch to eat, he pulls the patio chair out for you too. You hate giving him the satisfaction of helping, but it's hard to avoid him when he's free to roam this entire property.

But the one thing you've forgotten is just how hot Wabang can get, even this early in the morning. Birds tiredly chirp from their nests, unwilling to take flight beneath the sweltering sun; the old wind chime is silent, not even the slightest breeze appearing to help it sing its tune. You've been outside for a mere five minutes, and yet sweat already beads on your forehead.

A cold nothingness wisps past you. Round and round your little patio table, stirring up a breeze that doesn't reach the trees.

"You can come out, Rhett," fighting your laugh is futile because it slips out as you speak, dancing through the air in tune with the wind chime.

The opposite chair scoots out on its own, a pale blue mist collecting in the seat; it'll take him a moment to get settled back into form. "Did ya happen to find my headstone yesterday?"

Your head is shaking before he can get his sentence out. "Are you sure you were buried in Wabang?"

"I don't know where else I'd be," Rhett's face isn't fully there yet, but his scowl is, settled deep into his nonexistent features. "Wabang was the only place my folks ever knew."

Your heavy tongue can't be brought to tell him about the graves you did find. Royal and Cecelia buried together, their son Perry right next to them, and their granddaughter Amy buried in the row in front of them, next to a headstone simply titled 'Autumn.'

Rhett should know. He deserves to know where his family rests, but you can't bring yourself to tell Rhett that his killer was given the privilege of being buried next to his parents. Don't know how to tell him that the Amelia County Sherrif dug up an old newspaper declaring Perry Abbott as not guilty of Rhett's murder.

"C'n I bug you to put a cup of coffee out?" Rhett chirps, and that permanently scruffy face almost looks real. His eyes must have been as blue as the ocean deep when he was alive, for even now, they glow with their color. The only thing off about him is his slight transparency and the rays of sunlight that spear through his body.

"You didn't smell it enough this morning?" You ask, but you're getting up anyway; you'd rather not deny his request and risk him making a mess by trying to do it himself.

His boots click across the old wood, in perfect tune with your step, "wasn't here."

"Where did you go?" You're already grabbing his mug out of the cupboard, other hand reaching for the coffee pot.

He's quiet for a moment, and then, "barn." When you turn around, he's no longer there, a plume of mist once more, but you don't need to see him to know that his eyes are transfixed on the ground. "Didn't think y'wanted me in the house after last night."

Most people would love it if their ghosts would leave the residence; let them live in peace without being heckled by the souls who can't move on. You'd know; you were one of them, once upon a time.

"You don't have to leave every time we bicker, Rhett," it feels strange to say, but those words are spoken directly from the heart, "this is your house too."

He manifests again. Back to his favorite spot beneath the edge of the kitchen table, cross-legged, where he can peek out to see what you're doing. A little too big to fit, but he makes it work.

Like clockwork, his right-hand toys with the cracked edge of a linoleum tile, the one he's pulled up numerous times in the past.

"Please don't tear up my tile," you try to say it as gently as you can; you know why he's so drawn to it, but you really don't want to spend an afternoon fixing your beloved floor again. Wordless, he leaves his spot, content to settle down in a kitchen chair and smell his coffee. The closest he can get to enjoying its flavor.

You wind up back in bed early in the afternoon. Downed by a migraine that refuses to pass, settling deep into your skull, brought on by an unknown cause. You think it may be from the obnoxiously strong air freshener you plugged in; Rhett blames it on your cellphone.

"Care for some company?"

You're fortunate that Rhett Abbott is easy on the eyes because it's difficult to open them. There he is, standing near the edge of the bed, in the same spot you met him three years ago.

At least this time, the two of you aren't screaming, startled by each other's sudden presence.

"As long as you don't hog the sheets," comes your conclusion, and the bed is dipping as soon as the last word has left your mouth. A weight that isn't there settles across from you, a human-shaped indent that by all means shouldn't exist.

Rhett's hair falls into his face as his pretty head lands on the pillow, snuggling against it, and you know he's trying his best to remain as solid as he can. He says he's not touch-starved, but you're starting to think that he's lying.

Your hand wanders out on its own, carefully settling against that misty cheek, trying not to go through him. "You look a little more solid than usual."

"Only took a couple years of practice," the corner of his lip rises with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

Oh, why does he have to look so sad when your hand inevitably passes through him?

You don't know if ghosts can cry, but his eyes seem to water as he feels your touch falter. They always do, but it never gets any easier to look at. It never gets easier, watching his smile wobble back into a frown, and his form grow a little more opaque.

Opening your arms to him probably isn't the best move to make. You've both discussed this; roommates is as far as this relationship can ever go because anything more asks for nothing but heartache. Heartache, such as the crushing feeling of feeling him squirm closer and not being able to feel him when you wrap your arms around his waist.

The only sign that he's real is the coldness you feel against your chest as his head settles against there. And, maybe, just maybe, you think you can feel wisps of his hair tickling your skin.

"What the hell is that?"

You haven't even taken it out of the box, and Rhett is already puffing up like a feral cat about it. "What does it look like, Rhett?"

The living room light flickers, his blue mist settling into the corner of the couch, as far as he can get from the box sitting on the floor. Refuses to take any more form than he already has, doesn't know how to react to this new thing that now sits in the same room as him.

"I don't have a clue," he says after a moment.

"It's a video game console," you want to take it out of the box and prove that it's not going to hurt him, but you don't want him getting any more surprised than he already is.

Against all odds, it seems you've got his attention because you can see his face now, head cocked to the side like a puppy. "A huh?"

"It connects to the television," nodding your head toward the flat screen next to you, "you can use it to play games on it."

He perks at that. "You can play checkers on the TV?"

Checkers wasn't what you had in mind, but you're sure it's on there.

There's a lot of fumbling involved. All the various cords and manuals only serve to confuse him more than he already is, and though he tries his best to help, he's not much assistance. There are less than five cords for the system, and he thinks they're all HDMI cables. But he's helpful when it comes to squeezing behind the television, at least.

"So that box...puts the game on the screen?" He asks as soon as you've settled onto the couch together, scooted as close as he can possibly get. "And you use that thing to play?"

For a cowboy who grew up in the days of black-and-white television, he catches on quickly. "For the most part, yes."

You'd won this thing in a raffle held down at the Bison Valley Bank of Wyoming, entered just for the hell out of it while you were down there a couple of months ago. How you won a new gaming console and why it came with a second controller, hot pink in color, you'll never know.

Rhett's simply poking at the joystick, unwilling to pick it up just yet, but you know he'll take to it like he did your television. Later, you'll wish you hadn't, but for now, you'll download one of his favorite board games.

"Monopoly?" He's fighting it, but there's still a twinge of excitement in his tone.

Now he's picking it up.

And within the hour, you regret even bringing the damn console into the house because you lose. Horribly. As soon as Rhett figured out the controls and the slight change in rules, you knew you didn't stand a chance. You can't even be upset about your crippling loss because he's kicking his legs back and forth and giggling.

"One more round?" He pleads, those opaque eyes sparkling with their childlike wonder, and you know he's never going to let this controller go.

"Let me get a drink, and then we'll play another," are you only agreeing because you enjoy the melody of laughter coming from your household ghost?

Absolutely not.

...okay, maybeyou are, but still.

At least he can't see your smile as you head for the kitchen, socked feet pattering across the cold hardwood without much of a sound. Already formulating a plan in your head, the next surprise move that might help you beat Rhett at one of his favorite games. If you can buy all four railroads before Rhett does...

The floor bends beneath your foot. Something crackles.

"Rhett, can you come here for a second?" Frozen in place, afraid to make another move. The lights are off; you can't see what's going on, but something feels wrong.

His presence is there before you can think any further, a chill ghosting over your body as he breezes around you. Circling like he's making an attempt at thwarting your fears before he flicks the light switch on.

And now you see it.

The kitchen floor is beginning to cave in, bowing inwards, right where your kitchen table sits. Beneath your foot, the tile has begun to crack, breaking into smaller pieces that cannot withstand any amount of weight on top of it.

"That floor's fixin' to collapse, doll," comes his voice, seemingly from all directions.

You're moving to step off of it and venture back out into the presumably safe hallway. But the floor crackles even louder. Tiles buckling beneath both of your feet. Sinking lower.

"I don't think I can," your body sways, fighting to remain upright.

Rhett's silently wrapping around you, formless blue mist shaping around you like a hug, tugging you away with a surprising amount of force. Practically takes your feet out from under you as he hauls you out of the kitchen.

"You're stronger than you look," you mutter in the hallway. Where the floor is solid and doesn't threaten to come out from under you.

"Only when I'm wantin' to be," he mutters directly into your ear, and you're suddenly glad that you've never asked how strong he is, as a ghost and all, "Now what kind of drink were you after?"

Rhett's your kitchen boy for the next three days until you can get someone to come and take a look at your floor. Balancing drinks and plastic cups that occasionally end in a tragic spill because he's not as good at balancing small objects. The first person never shows up; the second arrives bright and early in the morning, interrupting your morning conversation with Rhett on the porch.

"Now, like I said before, I don't have my equipment on me, so I can't guarantee you that this is the case," the guy begins, and you really, really hope he doesn't look up and see Rhett's dumbass sitting on the counter, "but my biggest guess is that your foundation has been exposed to too much moisture for too long."

"What's the worst-case scenario for this?" Your attention flickers between him and Rhett; what if it's something that you can't afford to fix?

He pauses to press his foot against the floor one more time, carefully surveying the way it shakes beneath the weight, tile crackling once more, "now it's highly unlikely, but worst case scenario, in my opinion, would be a sinkhole."

Your face drops.

"But that's highly unlikely," and he doesn't seem too concerned as he turns to face you, "I wouldn't worry until we get back out here and tear up the floor this coming Monday."

So Monday it is. That will be the day you find out if it's a simple fix or if you'll have no choice but to move out and leave your beloved house ghost all by his lonesome. Rhett seems to catch onto that thought, too. Remarkably quiet for the rest of the afternoon.

You can't blame him. For about forty-five years, this house was occupied by a family of religious folk who used some sort of herb to quite literally render Rhett into a state of unconsciousness. One too many surprise appearances in the mirror doomed him to sleep for all those years, only -reawakening after you moved in and scrubbed this old farmhouse from top to bottom.

He's never known what it's like to be alone. The closest he's come to it is the sporadic vacations you've taken over the past couple of years. None of which have lasted longer than a week, but all of which have ended in him waiting on the porch, tackling you the moment you stepped out of your car.

Unless he can attach himself to you, he'll never be able to wander further than the fields that surround your home.

Rhett doesn't take form again until Sunday night.

You don't know why you've drug these two lawn chairs out into the lawn, past the gravel that eats up the area around the house, but you have. Lounging, gazing up at the moon and stars hanging high above your heads, pointing out all the shapes you find amongst them.

The portable radio drones lowly in between you, stuck on the same old country station, ever since Rhett and his ghostly ways accidentally jammed it last summer.

"Do you wanna dance with me?"

And you don't know if...did you make that up in your head? Or was that just the radio?

"You know I'm not drunk this time, right?" Your head tilts, aiming to get a glimpse of him. He's already looking at you, smiles weakly as you meet his eye. Laying here, cloaked in the silvery light of the moon, he looks...real. If you reached out, you're sure you'd feel the scruff of his cheek scratch at your palm.

He hums, "I know." Pausing, just for a moment, to look up at the stars one more time. Your eyes follow, scanning the speckled sky, delighted to catch the tail end of a shooting star. You should make a wish...but you can't think of anything to wish for. "I just...wanted t' know what kinda dancer you are when you're sober."

"Alright," comes your answer; dry, nothing more to add to it.

And you don't know where it comes from, but Rhett reaches off to the side of his chair and plucks a translucent cowboy hat off the ground. Takes care to dust it off with his scarred palm, even though nothing can possibly dirty it, before carefully placing it atop his head.

He holds his hand out for you to take as if it's something that's become possible all of a sudden, and against better judgment, you do just that. Slipping your palm into the chilly illusion of his, deceiving yourself into believing that you feel his fingers curling around your hand. It's not, but as he leads you out further into the grass, it becomes easy to deceive yourself.

"Whoever taught you to dance, anyway?" You giggle as he spins you around; catches you by the waist when you come to face him once more.

He grins, big and wide, and you think you see his teeth glint in the moonlight. "You give amazin' lessons when you're drunk."

Oh, how easy it is.

Dancing beneath the moon, in nothing but your pajamas, held close by the ghost of a cowboy whose soul fits against your own like a puzzle piece. He doesn't know what he's doing, and if he were human, you're sure he'd be stepping on your feet, but he moves in such wonderous tune with your body that it feels like a daydream. His cold forehead rests against yours, ocean eyes peering deep into the deepest crevices of who you are.

You're drifting away from the grass and into the driveway, feet kicking up loose gravel with each and every step. Sweeping past your car, your shoulder narrowly avoids the passenger side mirror. You should be looking where you're going, you're going to drift too close to the porch and fall, but Rhett's gaze is so captivating that you can't bring yourself to look away.

How is it that your heart only longs for the ghost of a cowboy?

And why do you get the feeling that his heart utters the same for you?

"You're thinkin' awful hard," the hand that curls around your cheek feels so real, the vague callous of a thumb stroking beneath the corner of your eye.

"Just figuring out how I'm going to pack you up and take you with me," your words are a poorly collected lie; you both know it, but he doesn't call you out on it.

Oh, and he's pushing your noses together with all the boldness of a man who knows what he wants. Your fingers are trying to tangle in his hair, and it's of no use, but you do it anyway, uncaring of how your hands sink through that collection of mist.

"Take me with you, hm?" He's slowing to a stop, the arm around your waist drawing you closer to him. "What happens when y' find someone to settle down with? Y'gonna turn me into the ring bearer at the weddin'?"

"Fortunately," your gaze flickers down his face, and you're so, so sure he's real, "I've already found that someone."

Rhett has no need for oxygen, and yet he sucks in a breath of air anyway, a little reflex remaining even after all this time.

One of you should shut this down right here before it goes too far. But your arms are wrapping around those broad shoulders, precariously balanced upon the thick collection of mist that makes up Rhett Abbott's ghost. The hand on your cheek is dropping to cup your jaw, and the world spins even faster as both of you lean in. His cold breath fans out against your lips, your eyes meet one more time, and...

Kissing him is the only thing you have ever needed.

A heart-stopping boom tears through the silence. Glass shattering in hot pursuit. As your eyes flutter open, the kitchen light goes out.

"What was that?" Your feet are already moving, Rhett's form dissolving into a thin mist, following at your side.

"I don't know," his distant voice rings, "please be careful."

You can hardly heed his warning. Sweeping past the front door, not bothering to take your shoes off, as you head for the kitchen. It's too dark to see, forcing you to fumble for the dining room light that you never use. Your hands graze over the switch, flipping it on, and, and—

The kitchen floor is nearly gone.

Replaced by a deep, cavernous hole that seems to reach deep into the earth. Consumes over half of the floor where your table once sat, reaching from your cabinets to your teetering refrigerator, on the verge of falling in.

"I don't suppose you have any ideas on how to get your spirit to attach to a living person, do you?" You hope Rhett can't pick up on the shake in your tone; there's no way insurance will cover a damn sinkhole.

But your question is met with silence.

"Rhett?" You're turning, and...he's not there. The air is unusually warm, not a speck of mist to be found. "Rhett?" Trying again, louder this time, as you head for the door, because maybe he's outside, maybe he's...

He's not there either. Maybe he's upstairs. Yeah, when he panics, he usually hides out in his old bedroom. He's just upstairs.

The door slams shut.

A second crash follows suit; you don't want to know if that was your refrigerator or if the sinkhole expanded even further.

"Rhett, this isn't funny," shaking the door knob. Locked from the inside. "Rhett, open the door!"

He doesn't.

The windows are all locked down tight. Even the one you intentionally leave unlocked. You find your car keys sitting atop the roof of your car, the paint scratched from where they've been thrown from a distance.

Rhett's chilly presence doesn't visit you when you sleep in the car that night.

He's not there to spook the contractor when he and his crew arrive early in the morning. You don't find him sitting on the couch when they kick the door down, and he's not on your bed when you sneak up the stairs, even after you're warned against going to the second floor. He isn't even there when countless faces enter your home to check out just what is going on in your kitchen.

"I've never seen this before," one of them tells you, her brows furrowed as she looks at her clipboard once more, "but it's not a sinkhole at all."

You don't know if you heard her correctly. "It's not?"

"It's a fifteen-foot hole that must have been dug by a past owner," she pauses to flip through her phone, presenting you with a photo of...just a dirt hole. Nothing special about it in the slightest. "They never refilled it, either; it was only a matter of time before the foundation collapsed into it."

Your mind flickers to your seemingly non-existent ghost. Rhett's never told a lot about his murder, but you know for sure that it happened in the kitchen. "Did you find anything down there?"

That seems to give her pause, ink pen tapping idly against her lips as she rechecks her pages and pages of notes. "Aside from your refrigerator and debris from the collapse...," flicking through another page, "it was completely empty! Nothing to worry about."

Well, at least now you know Rhett's not buried beneath the kitchen floor.

Even worse, his spirit no longer lurks within the paper-thin walls of this century-old farmhouse. You call for him in the fields, disturbing the cattle your neighbor keeps, and you beg for him to be there when you crawl out of bed in the morning. But the house remains warm; the only mist you find is in the fog that settles over your home after it rains, and he doesn't come out to mess with the teen boys employed to carry in bags of dirt, to fill the hole with.

Doesn't even appear when Trevor's F-150, with its irritating color-shifting paint, pulls into the driveway one evening.

"And so there was just a hole under your floor this whole time?" He's sitting in Rhett's favorite spot, cheap beer balanced carelessly between his legs. Has already spilled it once, leaving a stain on your cushion, and you'd tell him off if you weren't hoping it would infuriate Rhett into showing his face.

"The going theory is that one of the past owners dug it," glancing toward the mirror as you speak; still no ghost.

"I bet you more than anything that it's related to that Abbott murder," Trevor says, picking his drink up once more.

Your heart lurches in your chest. "Murder?"

"Did the realtor not tell ya?" Why is he scratching his cheek with the edge of his beer can? "That uh...what's his name? Perry, that's right, got into it with his brother and beat 'em to death in the kitchen."

"They told me someone died, but they never really elaborated," you mutter as he scoots a little closer. "Do you know what the argument was about?"

Trevor's heavy arm slings over your shoulder, drawing you near, musky cologne rudely meeting your nose. This is the same man you've been pursuing for months, so why is it that all of a sudden, your stomach churns at his touch? "Think it was...mmm, I think it was over some broad that went missing a couple of months before. Perry's wife, fiance, or something like that."

The alcohol on his breath has your senses reeling, overwhelmed with a sudden onset of nausea. Rhett didn't have much of a scent, but the little he carried was nothing but leather and honeyed sweetness. Your memory of his touch is brief, can count on one hand the amount of times he wrapped an arm around you, but he never dragged you into his chest like Trevor does.

"I'm sorry," speaking gently, you slide out from under his arm, rising to your feet, "I can't do this."

Trevor's face falls; you already regret speaking up, "what do you mean?"

"I'm sorry, I thought I could, but I just..." shaking your head, eyes landing on the hot pink controller that Rhett once played with, "I can't."

"The fuck do you mean you can't?" He's shooting up from his seat, beer can hitting the floor, the golden liquid splashing across the hardwood.

Your mouth is opening, but you don't get a chance to speak.

"You sure could when you were begging me to stay in this freaky ass house of yours last week!" Roaring, face twinging with red as he tries to close the space between you. Your heart is pounding in your ears. Loud bangings that rattle you so hard the house seems to shake with it. "You put me through all this just to tell me no?"

"I didn't put you through a damn thing!" Your voice echoes through the house, tone fierce, yet your feet timidly take one step back for each one Trevor takes forward. The floor seems to tremble beneath you. An earthquake that only you can feel.

Trevor's quiet at that.

You'd rather if he just yelled.

Because now he's got you creeping backward, and there's only so much space you can back up into. Your voice is caught in your throat. Stifled by something invisible. Mouth opening, but nothing comes out. The light in the kitchen goes out. Glitters of gold flitter past your head like tiny sugar plum fairies.

All of a sudden, Trevor lurches toward you.

Your head smacks against the wall. Jumping away from him.

"You think that little of me," he laughs, incredulous, "you think that fucking little of me?"

"Trevor." Your voice bursts past your lips. Shaky. But there. "Stop."

"Or what, huh?" Spit hits your face. His hand slams next to your head. Breaking through the drywall. "You owe me! I didn't spend all this goddamn time just for you to up and change your little fucking mind!"

"They asked you to stop." That's not your voice.

And it's not Trevor's, either.

Heavy boots thump across the floor. Spurs jingling with every step. Next to your head, a dirt-covered hand takes hold of Trevor's wrist. Muscles flex as it tears Trevor's fist out of the wall. Shoves it into his chest.

Trevor's reddened face has gone stark white. Trips over his own boots as a hulking, dirt-coated figure steps in front of you. Broad shoulders, covered by a vaguely patterned flannel; plaid, it looks like. Dark brown curls rest at his nape, unruly hair flowing freely. Suspiciously similar to...

"Who the fuck is this?" Trevor's still backing up, and this vaguely familiar man eats up every inch of space that's put between them.

"The house ghost." And that's...that's...

Trevor runs for the door before you can finish your thought. Slams it shut behind himself, like it'll keep him from being followed. Truck already rumbling to life. Downright roaring as the vehicle tears out of the driveway, sending gravel clanking against your windows.

But that's not what you're paying attention to.

Truly, you should be concerned about your windows being broken. But all you can do is look towards your kitchen because the light flickers back on. Gives you a momentary glance at a bottomless hole that's returned once more. Leaving behind no trace of the dirt that once filled it. Thin wisps of gold dance through it like an aurora, seemingly alive as they move.

You blink, and it's halfway gone. The edges shrinking inward until the hole is no more. Leaving behind that same freshly packed dirt.

Leaving behind...

"Rhett?"

He jolts at the sound of his name. As if he's surprised you're even speaking to him. Has yet to speak; confirm it's really him, but you already know the answer to that. He turns. Slow. And you can't help but wonder if that really is dirt because it seems to be fading away.

Slow, your hand drifts out from your side, and when your fingers curl around his jaw, you don't know if it's you who sucks in a breath of air or him.

Scruffy. Unshaven face scratching at your soft palm, dirt sticking to your skin as your thumb soothes over a remaining patch stuck to his cheek. Warm. He's warm. And he's hesitantly pushing his head into your hand, and, and—

"Rhett." You say it once more. The only thing you know how to say.

Tears well in those eyes. They're as blue as you ever could have hoped they would be. So, so real, not a shred of translucence to their color. One spills over onto his cheek, rolling until it's caught and wiped away by your thumb.

His arms are moving, hesitant to wrap around you, and you know he's worried about getting dirt on you, but the only thing you care about is stepping into him. Wrapping your trembling arms around that big, warm body of his and feeling him squeeze you into his chest. Where his heart beats heavy, thunking against you with the strength of an ox.

"I don't know how..." he whispers, hot breath tickling your neck, where he's buried his face.

"You're still an ass for locking me out of my own house," you're trying to sound irritated, but it's difficult to feign annoyance when he squeezes you a little tighter.

"Didn't want you bein' sucked in like I was," it's so strange to hear his voice like this, no longer a disembodied sound, "I...it just...kept suckin' me in every time I got out."

You're leaning away, and God, you don't want to leave those strong, trembling arms, but you want to see that face of his even more. The wrinkles beneath his eyes, the wobble of thin, chapped lips as they rise into a meager smile.

The callouses of his fingers drag against the soft skin of your cheek as his big hand settles there. Not the misty, barely there touch you're used to, but just as gentle as it's always been. His nose bumps against yours. Don't know who's leaning in. You shouldn't. You shouldn't do this.

This time, you know for sure that it's you who closes the gap between your bodies. It's you who catches this cowboy's lips in your own, reveling in that surprised gasp of his.

If you thought that kissing his ghost was heaven, then this is something else entirely.

Molding together like you were made just for this, his hand on your cheek and yours delving into his messy hair. Feeling the strength of the arm that curls around your waist and breathing in those faint notes of leather and honey and something warm that you can't quite place.

He pauses for a moment, breaks into a big, dumb smile as you meet his eye once more. And then he leans in to kiss you once more, hands cradling your cheeks, like you're a delicate flower whose petals will fall if he doesn't hold you together. His body shudders with something torn between a giggle and a sob, tears rolling down his cheeks, but he's smiling so much that your teeth clack together.

Your name tumbles off of his lips. Then again and again, like he's trying to memorize the feel of it in his mouth. The way it rolls off his tongue and twists through the air, the sound seeming to kiss your ears when it meets them.

"Rhett," mirroring him, and oh, how he perks at that. Has he always reacted so beautifully to you calling his name?

"Say it again," his nose bumps against yours as he speaks, "Please. Wanna hear you say it again." So eager to hear you that he looks two steps away from a puppy, the tears in his eyes shimmering with wonder as you open your mouth once more.

"Rhett," you whisper, like it's a secret shared on the playground, and then, again, "Rhett."

This time, when your back hits the wall, it's because a bright-eyed cowboy is carefully backing you into it, one hand protecting the back of your head as he dresses his body against yours. Smiling too much to kiss you, can't seem to get over the feeling of your skin against his, the overwhelming reality of whatever this is.

"We probably shouldn't be..." Higher thinking rushes back to your head in a whirlwind, thoughts running wild in the darkest crevices of your mind. What if's and why's and wonderings of how this happened, if it's permanent or temporary. "What if we cross that line, and you go back to being a ghost?"

You don't think you'll ever adjust to the sound of Rhett breathing or the way his eyelashes flutter as he thinks for a moment. He's licking his lips, mouth opening, and, "What if we don't cross that line and spend our whole lives regrettin' it?" 

One too many kisses may leave you longing for him for the rest of your life, but one too few may leave you carrying eternal heartache. And that's only if he goes back to being a ghost. But he feels real. When you press your palm to his chest, his warm hand covers it, guiding it to rest over his beating heart. Little thumpings that shouldn't be there, full of life and love and all just for you. 

He could have come back to life for anyone. But he came back for you. 

To hell with it. 

Your bodies collide like galaxies. Blinded by a frantic kiss that promises bruises to your lips. Flecks of gold fall from his body as your hands roam, tugging at a flannel, at his hair, at his hands. Legs tangling because you're moving too quickly, and he's still adjusting to walking rather than floating. 

Only break apart long enough to tumble up the stairs; Rhett almost trips over every one of them. Struggling to keep his confidence but boosted along by the kisses you pepper to his reddened cheeks and the gentle tuggings of your hand in his. 

Your back hits the bed with all the grace of a newborn fawn, Rhett tumbling right along with you, chuckling into the crook of your neck. Under the dim lighting of your bedroom lamp, it's easy to catch onto the deep bruising that scatters beneath his right eye. 

"These are from Perry, aren't they," it's more of an observation than a question, your fingers soothing over the marks as if they can somehow heal them.

Rhett's pressing a kiss to your wrist as it roams past, "Don' wanna think 'bout that son 'f a bitch right now."

You can work with that. 

Especially when your bodies squirm further up the bed, his hips settling between your legs, forearms bracing themselves on either side of your head, heaving chests against one another. His lips solid against your own, hungry, urged on by the nails that dig into his shoulders for leverage. 

"You'll tell me if I'm goin' too far?" He's speaking into your kiss, unwilling to remove himself any further. 

Maybe there's a second ghost in this house because something possesses you to roll your hips up into his. Such a faint pressure, the rough bulge in his jeans rubbing against your soft pajama shorts, but it's so much compared to what used to be. "I will," you're interrupted by his mouth once more, "but I'm sure you'll be the one asking me to stop before the end of the night." 

Your hand has a mind of its own, wandering down his chest, flattening out to feel the muscles that ripple along his stomach, hidden from view by his shirt. They flex under your touch, a simple thing that makes your head spin. By some method of madness, that shirt is still tightly tucked into his jeans, the material hard to get ahold of. 

Rhett shifts above you, unintentionally moving when you feel for some slack in his shirt, something to get ahold of, and your hand wildly overshoots. Palm splaying out against the front of his jeans instead. 

"'m not so sure 'bout that, sweetheart," he groans, a deep, guttural noise escaping him as he reaches down, catches your fleeting hand, and guides you to press against him once more.  "I ain't had a dick for the better half of a fuckin' century." 

These old jeans are thick, but even so, you can still feel him twitch against your touch. This wasn't what you were aiming for in the slightest, but watching him shiver as you massage over the outline of his bulge is a hell of a sight. 

"Sensitive," you're only lightly teasing; any more words and you'll be fumbling with his belt buckle.

"You're one to talk," he mutters, head dropping to press his lips to the meet of your jaw, teeth tugging the skin there. 

You think your eyes may pop out of your head. "I thought you promised to stay out of my bedroom when I didn't invite you in." 

"Wasn't in the bedroom, baby," he's chuckling, breath tickling your ear as he works his way towards it, "When you're a ghost, you hear everythin'." 

Then he's leaning back, leaves you feeling cold as he fumbles with his jeans, boots hitting the floor with two solid thunks. An involuntary whine works its way out of you, reaching aimlessly for him. 

"Don't wanna get y'all dirty, sweetheart," he soothes, catching your hand and pressing kisses to your knuckles. Pops open his belt buckle with a pinch of his fingers, and soon those dirty jeans are sliding off, revealing milky white thighs, mottled with bright spots of red and deep purples,  a badly bruised knee to match.

...as well as a pair of boxers patterned with bright red hearts. 

"Y'ain't gonna believe me," Rhett's staring down at them too, teeth worrying his bottom lip, "but I have no fuckin' memory of wearin' these." The tips of his ears have gone bright red. Another quirk hidden until now. 

"We'll get them off soon enough, I'm sure," you say, leaning up to let him peel your shirt over your head. 

As soon as it's out of sight, Rhett's lips return to your neck, one wandering hand soothing up your side, not stopping until it reaches your breast. Does nothing more than feel you in his hand, sucking at a soft spot beneath your ear that has you fighting the urge to close your eyes. 

Your hands wander, one wrapping around a surprisingly muscled bicep while the other delves between your bodies once more. Feeling down his sturdy chest, past his stomach, and not stopping until you can take hold of him through his boxers. 

"Fuck," his body jolts, "'re you sure 'm not dreamin'?"

"I thought ghosts didn't sleep?" You're parroting something you so clearly recall him mentioning in the past, can't place the memory yet. Don't really care to, either. The only thing on your mind is the way your fingers wander past his waistband, wrapping around his cock that jumps at your touch. 

He's thicker than you imagined he'd be. 

Moans prettier, too, for that matter. A little bit breathy and so Rhett. 

"Hands of yours are so fuckin' small," he's muttering in between kisses as he works his way back to your lips. Can't kiss you because a jolted grunt interrupts him, a symphony of sounds as you slowly stroke him. Oversensitive, the first touch he's felt in decades.

His hair drops into his face, acts as a curtain when you look down to where your hand is working him. Can hardly see what you're doing, but you do catch a glimpse of precum beading at his flushed tip, hearing his gasp when your thumb swipes over it. 

"Y'need to stop that," he huffs, voice nothing but air, "gonna...fuck, 'm gonna cum if you keep..." And despite asking you to stop, he grumbles when you let go of him. 

Hands now free, you reach for your shorts, not sure why you feel so shy when he helps you tug them down your legs; it's not like he hasn't seen you naked before. From you forgetting he's there to him accidentally floating into the shower while you were using it. 

But these eyes are not the translucent ones you're used to, with their expression hidden by deviations in his mist. No, these eyes darken as they drink up the sight of you, every little thought in his head spoken through his gaze. But even as he kicks his boxers off, shirt going right along with it, you can't help but feel like hiding under the sheets. 

"'ve I ever told you that you're beautiful?" His voice breaks the silence, stroking the inside of your knee as he speaks. 

You don't have words for that. 

He doesn't need them. 

You really don't have words for when he takes hold of your wrist, guiding it up and taking two of your fingers into his mouth. Tongue carefully swirling around each of them, soaking them with a content hum. Your eyebrows furrow, to which he raises his other hand. Dirt beneath his nails and caught in the wrinkles of his hand. 

Ah.

Reluctantly, you pull your fingers from his warm mouth, and you're pleasantly surprised to find that there's hardly any resistance when you press them inside. Open and already wet, helped along by a moment of fun you'd had in the morning, hoping a familiar ghost may come to help you along. 

"How did you know I kept my lube in the bottom drawer?" You can't help but ask, watching as he fishes around for it. 

The tips of his ears are red again. "I learned the hard way not to float through bedside tables."

He's the one who uncaps the container, but it's you who reaches out for him to pour it into your palm. Not because you're concerned with dirt but because you want to feel him in your hand again. Twitching when you take hold of him, a thick vein running along the side of his length. He has to stifle a noise with each stroke, squeezing your knee all the while. 

"You're sure you're ready for me?" He asks when you urge him closer. 

"I'm sure I'll be fine, cowboy," fighting back a noise as you guide him down, letting him push between your folds, some lazy, teasing thing that has his plush head dragging past your clit. Sensitive, almost has you considering making him fuck you like this instead. 

But he's catching against your entrance, and you've daydreamed about this man too many times to pass up the opportunity. 

That tentative, forward tilt of his hips is enough to make your head spin. Pressure blooming as he pushes into you, careful, like you'll shatter into a million pieces if he's too quick. 

"Rhett," you whisper, don't quite know why. 

"'m here," he's coming back down, nose pressing against yours in his own little way of reassurance, "I've got you."

Your earlier rendezvous didn't end well for you, but you're so thankful for it in hindsight because his cock stretches you wide. Blunt head dragging against your walls, massaging past the bundle of nerves you couldn't seem to find with a toy, your thighs squeezing his pale hips. 

"So tight for me," he pauses about midway, or what you think is midway, at least, "you're sure 'm not hurtin' you?"

Your head spins, loose on your shoulders, "I'm okay." 

With a noise of his own, Rhett starts to move again, draws back a little before pushing further, and you can't help but wonder if he's holding his breath. Your nails bite into his shoulders, hanging on as he finally bottoms out, now flush against you. His mouth moves, but he can't speak. Only capable of releasing a shaky breath, lazily catching your lips in his.

He doesn't need to be asked to move, catching on the moment you grind yourself against him. Withdrawing slow, shallow, before pushing back in, and you're so, so full. Clinging to his shoulders to stay in place, feeling like you'll float away when he brushes against those nerves again.

Fuck, he's just begun to move, and you're already biting your lip. Don't know how you're going to keep yourself quiet because he massages past that little spot every time he moves, never lets it alone. 

His thumb pulls your lip out from between your teeth, "Let me hear you, darlin'."

His words alone have your cunt fluttering around him, and you're leaning into the palm that cups your cheek, mouth falling open. "Rhett, fuck."

You don't think you need to reach down between your bodies, but you do anyway, fingers pressing to your long-neglected clit. Working in tandem with Rhett's quickening hips, jolting as his angle shifts.

"There?" He says as if he hasn't already found that damned spot. All you can manage is a nod, a whimpered 'uhuh' escaping you. 

And he's doubling down, cock head kissing that oversensitive spot again and again. Grins wickedly when you shudder beneath him, nails dragging down his pale shoulders, panting into his mouth.

"Fuck, this sweet lil' pussy of yours feels so good 'round me," he groans, thrusts becoming harder now that he's remembered the ropes. Heavy balls smacking against you, and you really hope there aren't any more house ghosts who can hear the sinful sounds whistling through the air. "'s this what you've been needin', hm? 

"Rhett," you don't know how to speak, his name tumbling off your tongue.

"Bringin' home all those dates that could never make you cum," his voice dropping an octave deeper, damn near growling, but the softness in his eyes suggest he wouldn't hurt a fly. "Wouldn't have terrorized 'em if they woulda treated you better." 

That's why he chased them all off? God, how many times did you bring someone home, thinking he was gone? And how many times has he daydreamed about having you beneath him, whimpering his name as he fucks you nice and proper. 

You should be mad, but you can't. Not when you're falling apart at the seams, hand sliding from his shoulders, barely clinging to his bicep. Bounced by every heavy thrust, can't keep your fingers on your pulsing clit, tightening around him as something warm blossoms between your legs.

And he must be able to feel it because his eyes flicker into the back of his head, if only for a moment. "You gonna cum on my cock for me, sweetheart?" 

This is new. Fuck, this is so, so new and so much. No longer able to keep your eyes open, tongue lazy in your mouth, words long forgotten as you try to nod your head. Mind clouded with thoughts of Rhett, Rhett, Rhett. 

"Shit, y'got me so damn close, baby," he rasps, hair tickling your cheek as he presses kisses there, "You want me to cum on those cute thighs of yours? Or your sweet little tummy?" 

You don't have the answer to that question. Distracted by the crumbling of his rhythm, thrusts growing shaky, in perfect tune with the tightening coil in your lower belly. Almost there. Almost there. 

He's still talking. "Or would you rather I cum nice 'n deep in this pretty pussy of yours," you regret opening your eyes. All you see is the sweat beading at his forehead and strong hips working you over. Fat cock disappearing into your wet pussy, elicits a dizzying squelch every time. "Pump you nice 'n full of me, just so you'll need me to fuck it out of ya in the mornin'." 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Where's your voice? Where's your voice? "I-inside."

Rhett's breathy "yeah?" is all you fucking need. Your back rises up off the mattress, head tilting back with a silent cry as you cum around his cock.

"There you go," Each pump of his length into you only sends your head higher up into the stratosphere. Whimpering, clamping down around him as a shudder washes over you. "Feel so good when you're clampin' 'round me like that." 

And he's still fucking going. Fucking you through it, beating against that bundle of nerves even when you begin to tremble, after-shocks still tearing through you. 

"Hang on for me, baby," his eyes are bolted shut, chasing his high, biceps shaking, so, so close. 

"Please, Rhett," you whisper, your hand soothing over his hardened face. Those deep blues flutter open, softening at the sight of you, like he's just seen an angel "Cum for me." 

A whimper tumbles past his lips,  a second one follows suit, and then those eyes are closing once more, hips stuttering to a halt as his orgasm hits him. Tiny noises escaping his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, the familiar tune of your name tumbling off his sweet tongue. Filling you with his cum, making good on his promise, jolting as you involuntarily pulse around him.

For a while, the air is silent. 

Until Rhett lifts his head and kisses up your sensitive neck, sending you into a fit of giggles. "C'n we take a bath t'gether?" He murmurs, seemingly shy, unable to meet your eye.

"So long as you agree to bubbles, baby." Baby. You don't think you've ever called him that. 

You can't wait to do it again.

For decades, the folks of Wabang, Wyoming, have whispered the tale of two brothers. Gossiping about a murder they presumed to have taken place, for they knew that Perry Abbott was a violent man, and it was only a matter of time before his little brother became the next punching bag. 

Never have they whispered about the hole that opened beneath the kitchen floor, swallowing Rhett's near-lifeless body up, escorting him to an unknown safety while leaving his lonely spirit behind. They don't know of the decades he spent forced into an unnatural slumber, only to be awoken by another lonely soul with a heart made of the same glass as his own. 

Nobody giggles about how a human scared a ghost or chatters about the adventures they've shared in that century-old farmhouse. They do not know of the arguments, and the boyfriends lost because a ghost wanted the best for his friend, appearing in mirrors and whispering their deepest insecurities into their ears. Worse, they don't roll their eyes over the many tales of him banging a cast iron skillet on the tile just to see them run.

But you do. 

Only you know of how Rhett smiles, big and dopey, as you take him into town for the first time in decades. You are the only person who gets to explain what self-driving cars are and roll your eyes as some new thing scares him into jumping behind you. Nobody else gets to take him on a road trip, watch him fight with a GPS for the first time, and introduce him to the ocean and the concept of crabs.

"Why are they shaped like that?" Rhett's stumbling after you; not sure if he likes or hates this little creature, only knows that he wants to follow you. "Why is he following me?" 

You wish you could see the little bugger, but it's so dark that you can hardly tell where you're going. The only light you have is a dull light in the parking lot and the silver moon hanging high above your head.

"Probably because you've pissed him off," you laugh, holding your hand out when he reaches for it, "are you going to survive two more nights this close to the beach, or do I need to take you back to the pasture?"

He hums, loud and dramatic as he can manage, scratches his freshly shaved chin for added effect, "I suppose I'll survive, but if that crab kills me, I'm comin' back as a ghost and suin'."

From the moment your feet are on the cool concrete of the parking lot, Rhett's spinning you around. It's still the only thing he knows how to do, and his feet tangle with yours a little more than they should, but oh, is it as magical as that night in your driveway.

"'ve I ever told you that I love you?" He smiles as he speaks; knows he says this every time you wind up dancing beneath the moon.

"Never," feigning surprise, as he pulls you in close, noses bumping together, "but I love you more."

And then you're running. Squealing as Rhett sets hot on your trail. He'll catch you before you so much as reach the hotel doors, trap you in his arms, and insist that no, he loves you more, punctuating every word with a wet, sloppy kiss. And you're so excited for it that you think you may let him catch you early. 

Perry took away a lifetime from Rhett. 

You're more than happy to give him a life worth waiting centuries for. 

Even if he does still refer to himself as the house ghost.

[burntblueberrywaffles]

hey girl hope you’re doing well! just dropping by to ask if you had any more snowbaird fic recommendations that you’ve enjoyed as of late? you’re last list was fab and i trust ur judgement!💐

Helloooo - I’ve had a rough couple of weeks I’ll be so honest but the Snowbaird besties (and non-snowbaird beloved as well ofc 🥺) are getting me through it 🫡

Glad to hear you enjoy my list!! They take me some time to make so it’s always nice to hear if people appreciate them 🥺👉👈

I DO have new recs, so many good stuff has been written recently 😍😍

I’ve actually been planning to make a second list (have just been waiting to have enough fics in store for that haha) but since you asked, here are some of my recent favourites!!

she looks like the real thing, she tastes like the real thing by lysanderwarrior

modern AU and it is SO GOOD this one made me lose my FUCKING MIND when I read it;; it actually just got completed today and I can't wait to read the last chapter!!

the air you breathe by TheNewRomantic

SO GOOD RUN TO READ IT IM SERIOUS

goodtime girl by framboise

this one is older (had been in my to read for a while) but framboise does not disapoint 😌

Blind Faith by thpsyche

another banger by thpsyche;;; PRIEST AU PRIEST AU need I say more 🔥

The Summer of Chaos by Anonymous

a sequel to Chaos and control and it is EVEN BETTER;;; the last chapter is absolute perfection

Don't Keep the Devil Waiting by FrostedGemstones22

another fantastic modern AU, this one by the author of This is not a love song!!

I will put all of these (as well as many more) in a more well put together rec list later but for now enjoy!! 🥰🥰

I also strongly recommend checking out the Smut Week ao3 collection, the besties ate fr, so many bangers 😌😌

[fixfoxnox]

If you're still into 'The Kind Hand Of Death' au, could you write for it?

I took one look at Death!Ghost, Life!Soap, and Priest Roach, and the brainrot won't go away! I understand if you don't want to write for that Au anymore.

I LOVE YOUR WRITING KEEP UP THE AMAZING WORK! <3

This actually came at a great time because I've been working on this first part of this and now I had an excuse to focus on finishing it!

The Kind Hand of Death (1)

Warnings: Suicide attempt

Pairings: Ghost/Soap and Ghost/Roach

Word Count: 4k

Ghost stepped carefully, making sure that he never veered off of the stone pathway. The inky blackness that trailed around his feet seemed to swallow the plants around him and, as he stepped away, he could see that they'd wilted and browned. It was an unappealing sight, but one that didn't last long. 

Trailing behind his essence was one of misty ivory that quickly surrounded the plants his own energy had eaten away. Unlike his, when this essence moved away, what was left in its path was a healthy and lively plant. The flowers that saw its touch had never looked so lovely. It fixed the damage that Ghost could not help but to cause. It reversed the rot he brought with him with every step. 

At least if he stayed on the path, it was only his essence that would hurt the garden. He remembered the last time he'd dared to venture off of the path and the resulting horrified shriek he'd earned from the nymphs who tended to the garden. It had only been with the touch of the man next to him, with his own steps to repair the damage done, that Ghost's mistake had been forgotten. Not forgiven. Forgotten. 

"Darling, you aren't listening to me." Ghost brought his attention away from his feet as he was pulled to a stop. They'd come to rest at one of the marble pavilions and here Ghost could relax. Here Ghost could lean against the railings and forget about the damage he would cause if he misstepped. 

"I apologize," he turned his gaze to the man next to him, relaxing under the warmth of the smile that was given to him. "I promise I am listening now, my love." 

Soap gave a small amused huff at his words, "I was thinking," he turned his attention out to the garden, giving waves to the nymphs who passed by them, "That perhaps we could wear something matching for the next gathering?"

"Matching," Ghost watched the nymphs pass by, trying to ignore the looks of disgust that were sent his way by several of them. He much preferred the ones who did not acknowledge his existence over the ones who glared. "Do you think that would be best?"

He knew the answer. It wouldn't be best. To taint his husband with his presence more than he already did? To dare to appear with the symbols of something so pure on him, like a costume, to stain his husband's form with his own symbols, the anger he would face would ruin his husband's night. 

"The other married gods wear a mix of themselves," Soap explained carefully, "Why should we not?" He reached out to slowly tangle their fingers together, as though he was afraid he might scare Ghost away.

"The others would not like it," Ghost kept his eyes on the scene in front of him, avoiding the gaze of his husband. 

"The others would not mind," Soap answered with a huff, "You believe they are all judgmental creatures. They do not care that we would dress to show our allegiance." 

That wasn't true. Ghost knew that wasn't true. Perhaps for Soap it was, perhaps for the man so beloved by gods and mortals alike, for a man who could do no wrong, perhaps it was true. But for someone like Ghost. For a god so universally hated...it was not the truth. Still, he would do anything to make his husband happy. He, just like the rest of the universe, was deeply in love with the man next to him. "Is it something you truly want?" 

"Yes," Soap moved closer to him, tucking himself against his side to lean his head against Ghost's shoulder. His warmth penetrated the ever-present coldness that seemed to surround him and, though Ghost basked in it, he could not help the guilt he felt when he saw his husband shiver. "Please, my love?"

"I would deny you nothing," Ghost answered immediately. He turned to place a short kiss at the top of his husband's head, the shroud of darkness surrounding him fell for only a second. Only long enough to allow the interaction to happen. They stayed like that for a moment, pressed against one another. Ghost basked in his husband’s warmth, in his attention, in his affection. 

There, of course, could be no lasting peace though. The world was moving and, with it, Ghost and Soap’s attention was demanded. Perhaps they could make more time for one another, Ghost would always be willing to make more time for Soap. His work ran so easily in the background, but he knew that his husband was not the same. Ghost could never hold all of Soap’s attention. Soap did not understand him. Soap liked to be directly involved with the mortals, it was easy for him when the mortals loved him so much.

“Soap,” The voice that cut through their temporary peace grated on Ghost’s nerves. Immediately a low kindling of rage and jealousy burned in his chest. His eyes cut over to fix on the man that was making his way toward them. 

“Graves!” Soap pulled away from Ghost and took several steps to lean over the railing of the pavilion, a bright grin on his face. Ghost felt unbelievably cold in that moment, his husband’s heat leaving him in a flash. He watched quietly as Graves neared them, several men following behind him. His eyes narrowed at the shadowy figures that filled Soap’s garden. Soulless creatures, creatures that instilled him with a low bubbling rage any time that he saw them. 

“Sorry for just showing up unannounced,” Graves gave Soap a bright grin before his attention turned to Ghost, his mouth quirked down just a bit, “Ghost.”

“Graves,” Ghost’s voice was filled with contempt that he didn’t even try to hide. Even when Soap sent him a warning look, he didn’t stop himself from glaring.

“You know you’re welcome anytime,” Soap gave Graves a friendly smile and held out one of his hands, allowing the other god to softly grasp it in his own. Ghost felt that burning jealousy build in him once again and, looking down, he could see that it was beginning to affect his powers. The inky blackness that always surrounded him was bubbling and spreading, slowly seeping out from around the pavilion and down onto the grass and plants, wilting everything that they touched. He winced at the sight. “What do I owe this visit to?”

Graves gave another bright grin, his eyes glancing toward Ghost for a moment before he spoke, “I’d like for us to design a child together again. A king and queen have been trying for months and I believe that they are worthy of your gift.” 

Soap gave an excited yelp, “Oh, yes! I believe I know exactly who you are speaking of!” He tugged Graves’ hand closer to his chest, “We shall have to set to work immediately!”

Ghost turned away from the sight and he could see his essence beginning to spread further. He needed to leave before he destroyed more of Soap’s garden, goodness knows that the nymphs would hate him more if he continued to let his jealousy ruin their work. 

He stepped away from Soap, starting toward the stairs of the pavilion. He only made it so far before there was a warm hand on his arm, tugging him to stop. He turned his head to meet the gaze of his husband. Soap was looking at him with wide confused eyes, “Where are you going?” He tugged Ghost closer to him. 

Ghost glanced over his shoulder, glaring at Graves’ smug face before looking back to his husband, “It is time that I leave, my love. I should let you get to work. I have things of my own I must handle as well.” 

Soap gave him a pout, but did not try to convince him to stay. “I will speak to someone about our matching robes.” He pressed upward, connecting their lips through the shroud of black that obscured Ghost’s face. Ghost gave a satisfied sigh into the kiss, pressing closer to his husband, desperate to have just another moment of him. As usual, it was Soap who pulled away first. “Come to visit?” He asked quietly.

“Of course,” Ghost spoke carefully, his hands just skating across Soap’s waist, “I will see you soon, my love.” He waited until Soap stepped away, watching with careful eyes as his husband rejoined Graves to begin talking animatedly about their next project. He forced himself to turn away and leave. As he disappeared into the shadows, he could feel a pair of eyes watching him. He knew from the venom he felt that they didn’t belong to Soap. 

His temple was cold and lonely. Cracks were slowly forming in the foundations, cobwebs covered every corner of the dirty marble structure. His altar was covered in a thick layer of dust and any statues that had once stood tall were now long fallen to ruin. Rats that had made their home in the broken down structure ran by his feet. His temple was a depressing place to be, but it was where he spent most of his time. 

Several temples had been built in his name so long ago, this was the only one that remained. They’d been built in an effort to placate him, to keep him pleased so that he would no longer wreak havoc on them. Mortals did not understand that death could not be stopped. He had no control over it. He did not offer destruction or hatred, he just tried to control his power. To take care of the creatures that were taken from life and moved into his care. They could not last, but they did not understand. 

They blamed him, as did many of the gods. It was not his fault that he was born. He was not a cruel god, but the humans did not understand that. So his temples fell to ruin. The gods and mortals alike scorned him and praised his husband. He understood why, if he were one of them he would do the same. 

His last temple was one that he stayed in because it was quiet. None ever dared to enter the walls of the temples thanks to rumors that said that he would kill them on the spot for trespassing. So the care of the temple fell to him and him alone. He tried to do what he could, but to care for the temple in the way that he desired would no doubt make him the laughingstock of the other gods. There was no doubt in him that the humans would begin to question as well. He did not want nosy humans who would only take and destroy to invade the last place that he had left for himself. 

So he let his temple fall into ruin. Slowly he watched the cracks form and the dust gather. He could not bring himself to leave. So he stayed. He stayed with the dust and the cracks and the bugs and the rats, avoiding the other gods as much as he could in favor of the solitude of his temple. Nothing ever happened in his temple. It was a place of peace for him. 

He assumed that night would be no different. He’d silently returned from Soap’s garden early in the day. After releasing some of the rage that had built up in him from his visit, he’d started in with work for the day. He didn’t have any important work that day, so he’d taken the place of some of his helpers. Guiding souls to the underworld was always a task. One had to be patient, especially in the case of younger humans whose time had come too early. 

Ghost, despite what the humans thought of him, was good at his job. He was careful with the recently departed, careful and kind. He understood how fragile they could be, how much support they needed. Guiding souls was exhausting for Ghost and that day had been no different. When he’d finally returned to his temple, he felt a sense of satisfaction in the heaviness of his bones. He’d expected that to be the end of his excitement for the day.

Of course, he could not predict everything, and he never could have expected the sound of footsteps and the feeling of someone entering his temple to rush through him in the middle of the night. He kept himself hidden in the shadows, concealing his form as he rushed to the open room in the center of his temple, where his altar stood. 

There were several moments where nothing happened and he began to wonder if perhaps he’d made a mistake. Perhaps it was something different that he’d felt. That was dashed when he began to hear the footsteps approaching. 

He tucked himself into the shadows further, huddling in one of the corners as, with only a candle illuminating him, a young man rushed into the room. He looked desperate and frantic, his eyes wide, his hair wild, and his breathing heavy as his bare feet padded across the floor. Ghost could see him even without the light and his keen eyes could make out bruises of varying colors that dotted the parts of his exposed skin. 

He was looking behind him as he moved, glancing nervously as though he expected someone to be following behind him. There was a small bag strapped to his waist and next to it, Ghost spotted the glint of a knife. 

He watched the young man carefully, suspicion and concern floating through him. Why was this young man here? Was he being chased? Why had he chosen his temple of all places for refuge? More questions continued to cloud his mind, but he stayed where he was. He stayed hidden and watched the man with careful eyes. 

The man slowed himself as he moved further into the room. His movement grew slower, but he never hesitated in his determination. He never showed fear or worry about the darkness around him, he just continued forward. Dust and dirt collected at the bottoms of his bare feet and disturbed cobwebs settled on his shoulders. He did not seem to pay it any mind and, when he finally stepped up to Ghost’s altar, he stopped. 

He stared at the dust for a long moment before gently setting his candle on the dirty marble. His hands worked quickly to untie a piece of fabric from around his waist. The only thing that kept his loose outfit from exposing him to Ghost’s watching eyes was the rope that held his small bag and knife. 

Ghost watched with nothing short of surprise as the young man wrapped the clean white fabric around his hand and used it to begin clearing away the dust from the top of his altar. He worked quickly, pushing clumps of dirt and dust to the floor. Some of it fell over his feet and stuck to his clothes, but he didn’t seem to mind, he just kept working. Within five minutes the white marble looked cleaner than it had in years. Of course, there were certain things that only water and a good scrubbing would be able to fix, but the young man had managed to reveal the white that had been hidden under all of the dirt. 

Ghost watched with growing curiosity as the man opened the small bag at his waist and began pulling out several items. There were only a few things. A pomegranate, a small silver pendant, several golden coins, and a small clay pot filled with golden honey. The young man arranged them carefully on the altar, trying to make an appealing display. He finished the display off with the candle he’d brought. Once he was finished he stared at his work, just watching the flames for several moments. 

Ghost stared at the display for several moments, warmth blossoming in his chest. Had the mortal brought him an offering? Ghost had not had an offering in years and he felt desperate to rush forward and take the items laid before him. He showed restraint, focusing himself on the young man again and the way that the light from the candle flickered in his eyes. He moved in the shadows, slowly growing closer to where the mortal was. The man didn’t notice. 

Another moment passed before the young man began speaking. His words were quiet, but they echoed around the empty table, allowing Ghost to hear him clearly. “I,” he paused, “I apologize that I could not offer you more.” He glanced behind him again to the entrance of the temple. “I, um, I hope that it is enough and…well I apologize.” 

He stepped away from the altar far enough that he could drop to his knees. Ghost moved closer to him, still moving slowly enough so that he wouldn’t be seen. He couldn’t understand what was happening, why this young man had brought him an offering and apologized to him. “It, um, my mother,” he hesitated for a moment, his hands rubbing over his clothing carefully, “she and I used to come by your temple when I was younger. When I was…trying to decide where to go, I thought of here first. But, um, I must confess, that isn’t the reason I decided to come here.” 

He slowly untied the rope surrounding his waist, allowing his clothing to fall loose. He removed the bag from his waist and the knife next to it. He set the knife out in front of him carefully, his eyes locked on to it as he slowly pulled the top of his toga down, exposing his chest and allowing the fabric to pool around his waist. 

“It isn’t fair to you, I know,” he reached out slowly, taking the knife in his hands. Ghost felt a growing sense of dread pooling in his gut as he watched the young man look over the blade. “I apologize. You were the only god who I did not think would be angry with me.” He turned the blade slowly to himself, holding the handle of the blade carefully in his hands. “I know it is wrong to desecrate your temple in such a way. I…I hope that you might be willing to forgive me.” He looked over his shoulder one last time before closing his eyes tight, “I suppose I will learn soon enough.” 

Ghost was not meant to meddle in the affairs of mortals and he certainly was not meant to save the lives of mortals. If it was their time to die, by their own hand or not, he could do nothing. And yet, he found himself rushing forward, moving across the room in silent quick movements of shadows. His chest felt heavy as he dropped to his knees next to the young man, grabbing the knife and his hands to stop him just as he began to move. 

The young man opened his eyes with a frightened gasp. They were wild and widened quickly when he caught sight of Ghost. Despite the shroud of his essence that he knew blocked his face, it was as though the young man in front of him knew exactly where his eyes were. They stared at one another for a moment and Ghost hesitated, trying to figure out what to say. He’d moved on instinct and now he found himself face to face with the wide eyes of a young man. 

He took in a shaky breath, “You have come here to die,” he hesitated for another moment before asking, “Why?”

The young man took a moment to respond, but when he did his voice was shaky, “Life has been cruel to me. If I continue to live…if I go back, I will live as a dead man anyways.” 

“You are trying to escape,” Ghost made a humming noise and slowly began to extract the knife from the young man’s hands. Once it was freed he allowed his essence to surround the metal and, when it moved away, the knife was rusted, bent, broken, and dull. Unusable. “If it is escape you are looking for,” he turned back to the young man, “There are other ways.”

“I don’t,” the man’s eyes darted to the destroyed knife before returning to Ghost’s, “I don’t understand.” 

“You know who I am?” Ghost asked carefully. The man nodded hesitantly, his face twisted up into confusion. “You have brought me an offering. You have shown my temple care.”

“I have,” the man glanced over at the altar and the burning candle, “I have done the minimum, my lord. I was going to desecrate the ground of your temple with my blood.” 

Ghost hummed, “You cleaned my altar, you brought me offerings, you apologized for a wrong you perceived you would make.” He dropped the knife to the ground with a clatter, “You see the state of my temple. I have no priests. I have no followers.”

The man looked carefully around him, observing the temple through the dark, “Does no one care for your temple?”

“No,” Ghost moved closer and his essence danced across the other man’s skin. He was surprised to see that there was no reaction to the cold that he knew radiated from his body. Despite wearing very little, the man did not even shiver, he just brought his eyes back to Ghost’s and tilted his head at him curiously. “You wish to escape. Escape here.”

“...become a priest of your temple?” The man whispered the words, as though he didn’t dare believe that what he said was being offered. 

“What you are running from,” Ghost let his hands wrap around the man’s arm, stroking lowly over the skin on the inside of his wrist, perhaps it was much, but he felt it was right and the man did not react, “if you were to dedicate yourself to me. If you were to become my priest. I could protect you from whatever you are trying to escape from.”

There was a long moment of quiet between the two before the young man was moving closer to him. “What do I have to do?” His words were no louder than a whisper, but they brought a deep sense of relief and excitement to Ghost’s bones. He stroked his fingers over the man's wrist again.

“What is your name?”

“Roach.”

“Roach,” Ghost couldn’t help but smile, though he knew the human couldn’t see it under his shroud of darkness. Hard to kill. How interesting. “I will have to leave my mark on you, to show that you are dedicated to me. To show that you are mine.” His hand continued running over Roach’s arms.

“Will it hurt?” Roach asked, his eyes trailing down to watch the movement of Ghost’s fingers along his arm. 

Ghost hesitated for a moment before replying, “I do not know. I…have not taken a priest before.” He met Roach’s eyes through the shroud again, “I apologize.”

“It’s alright,” Roach gave him a soft smile. He took in a shaky breath before, “Do it. I am yours.”

Ghost didn’t move his eyes away from Roach’s face as excitement bubbled up inside of him. His essence responded easily, quickly beginning to creep around Roach’s lower body before trailing up his body. It moved over his arms and chest in long tendrils. Roach’s eyes moved along his body, following the tendrils with wide curious eyes. Ghost continued to watch him as well, mesmerized by the sight of his essence so gently trailing over the pale skin of the man in front of him.

Just as quickly as the inky darkness started to move, it retreated. Some of it dissipated into a puff, but the rest of it slunk back to its usual place surrounding Ghost. In its place were long black markings along Roach’s body. They resembled decorative tattoos, with symbols of Ghost inked onto his skin. 

There was something new as well. A sense of connection that Ghost had never felt before. He understood that it was his connection to the man in front of him. Roach had given him his life. He’d dedicated himself to him and now he belonged to Ghost. His mind, his body, his soul, it was Ghosts. The feeling of it was almost overwhelming.

Roach had given himself to Ghost with no hesitation and, looking at the other man, Ghost felt for the first time in his existence that he was accepted, that he was not a creature incapable of being loved, that he had found someone who would understand and care for him in a way he was not sure he would ever feel again. Roach belonged to Ghost. Ghost felt as though he might belong to Roach in turn. 

[spectre-writes]

Fic rec for trigunfanficappreciation week because I don't think I've seen anyone else raving about it?

No Name on the Bullet by @yellowocaballero is probably one of my fave trigun fics, top quality role swap au with fantastic characterization. It manages to somehow be exciting, funny, and full of depth, more people need to check it out.

Summary:

Miracle on Gunsmoke! When the beloved angel Vash the Stampede visits the poor and downtrodden, hope follows in his wake. His mission may save humanity or destroy it, but only one thing is certain: that he's the most obnoxious brother of all time.

Meanwhile, travelling physician Millions Knives just wants to atone for his past by saving lives and taking care of his brother once and for all. Life would be a lot easier if he could just kill off the female reporters and bratty priest dragging him around, but apparently murder was bad or something. It's going to be a long road to July.

[yellowocaballero]

Miracle on Gunsmoke! When the beloved angel Vash the Stampede visits the poor and downtrodden, hope follows in his wake. His mission may save humanity or destroy it, but only one thing is certain: that he's the most obnoxious brother of all time.

Meanwhile, travelling physician Millions Knives just wants to atone for his past by saving lives and taking care of his brother once and for all. Life would be a lot easier if he could just kill off the female reporters and bratty priest dragging him around, but apparently murder was bad or something. It's going to be a long road to July.

Roleswap AU.

I wrote another 100k roleswap AU and you can make fun of me for it after donating $5 to my ko-fi, thanks.

[yzeltia]

Weird West AU -U'rahn-

Title: The Original Adventurre of Rrhan the Ridin' Lion Featuring: Desert Walkers AU by @scrollsfromarebornrealm , @saesama 's Klynt Gohtawyn Characters: Rhan Chai (U'rahn Nuhn), Dulia-Chai, Brother Themis, Fordola Lupus, Arenvald Lentinus Notes: Thanks for letting me play with everyone!

Rrhan’s eyes narrowed as a suspicious man wiped a cowpie off his boot on the front of the Saltlick Saloon. His fingers twitched, dancing over the airspace over his pistol, ready to draw should the man continue to disrespect the beloved town landmark. He hesitated though, thinking the man could possibly just have not had the privilege of good parentage and townfolk to raise him better. Still, he followed the man into the good establishment unable to shake the bad feeling crawling in the pit of his stomach. His gut feeling was right. He hated that.

         “Whiskey, two fingers. And the nimblest lass you got,” the man ordered as he took a seat at the bar.

         “This ain’t that kind of establishment,” the madam said, leaning over the counter with her brow furrowed.

         “I beg to differ,” the man said, leaning back and brushing his jacket back to show off his heat.

         The proprietress’s eyes widened as she stepped back in fear. The music stopped. Her staff gasped, some of the women folk even fainting at the sight of the man’s weapon. The men just tilted their hats down, not wanting to draw attention to themselves in case the villain got trigger happy and wanted to make an example.

         Gritting his teeth, Rrahn stepped forward, hand resting over his pistol as he starred daggers into the man’s back. “The madam said this ain’t that kind of establishment,” he growled.

         The man turned on his stool, then cracked his neck before standing up. “What’s a little kitty cat going to do about it,” he taunted before thrusting his hand down into his holster, quick drawing his gun.

         “This,” Rrahn answered in turn, outdrawing the other and firing into his shoulder.

         Silence fell over the room as the shot rang out. The villain dropped to his knees, cursing loudly as he started to spurt out a little blood. Soon the room was filled with applause and hootin’ and hollerin’ in praise of their hero who simply gave a slight bow and a tilt of his hat.

         “Thata’ boy Rrhan,” Kemakka praised, wandering in from outside and clasping his hand tightly on the young man’s shoulder before striding in to handcuff the bleeding man.

         “Drinks are on me,” the madam praised, “For our hero Rrhan Chai! The Ridin’ Lion!”

         “Rrhan! Rrhan! Rrhan!” the patrons started to chant.

         Rrhan beamed as he was praised, nodding his head to each of the patrons as his named echoed about in his ears.

         “Rrhan! Rrhan!” they continued.

         He’d never felt soon seen. So appreciated. Coming into the saloon, his good priest friend smiled and in a fit of passion, Rrhan dipped him and stole a kiss before beaming at him as he lightly touched his face.

         “RRHANALD CHAI! YOU GET AWAY FROM THAT SIN DEN RIGHT THIS INSTANT!”

         Rhan jumped as he found his face drawn in toward an old mop, his mother’s voice calling at him from the road. He turned, finding her glaring at him as he stood near the window of the Saltlick, having been outside looking in. As he went to protest, the madam stomped out, rag dolling the man he’d followed up the steps by the scruff of his shirt before giving him an effortless chuck into the horse trough. “Come back when you learn yerself some manners,” the proprietress said before turning to head to see Rrhan standing there with a mop.

         “You ain’t supposed to be up here,” she said before looking at Dulia-Chai as she strode forward to the porch to grab her son by the ear.         “Oi Oi! Mom! That hurts,” he hissed as he was pulled away.

         “Madam Gohtawyn. I am terribly sorry my darling boy is interfering with your establishment. He seems to think him so much more grown than he is,” Dulai apologized before starting to tug Rrhan down as he whined in embarrassment, catching a group of his peers watching from across the way.

         “Ain’t no thing Mrs. Chai. If he’s itchin’ for work though seems he found himself a mop and is ready to go. I could put him to use,” Klynt mused.

         “Oh, there’s no need for that. I’ll see that he keeps himself busier with schoolwork and helping Brother Themis at the chapel,” Dulia answered, shaking her head as she pulled Rrhan back toward their carriage.

         Klynt beamed at Rrhan with a knowing grin. “I think he’ll find his time much better spent on his knees with the good priest then. I do hope you’ll come with the good Mayor soon though. A round will be on me!”

         Rhahn’s face erupted into crimson as Klynt chuckled at him while his mother paused. “My husband you say. I should just go see how he’s doing. Well Rrhanald, you heard Miss Gothawyn. Off to the church with you. I’m sure Brother Themis can put your idle hands to work. I need to go find your father.

         Rrhan stumbled away, rubbing his ear as he turned to head toward the old chapel on the far side of the town. “Y-yes ma’am!”

         “While you’re there be sure to tell ‘im all your impure thoughts and ask forgiveness. Mine too for that matter,” Klynt called out with another laugh before returning to her business.

         Rhahn hurried away, running straight for the church less his mother or Klynt found another way to embarrass him further. Arriving at the old chapel, he let himself in then found a pew to collapse back into, arms behind his head.

         “Rrahn? Are you hiding from your mother again,” Themis’s voice asked in its unusually deep timber.

         Rrhan opened his eyes, finding the other’s intense blue eyes gazing down at him. He swallowed, the priest’s hand extending to brush over his cheek then brush his hair from his face. “Are you alright? Your face is red, and you feel a bit damp. Wait here and I’ll bring you some water.”

         Rrhan had opened his mout to correct the other, but as usual Themis was quick to act. Before he knew it, the priest had returned and moved to sit beside him to help him up and force the water into his hand. “Thank you,” Rrhan said smiling before downing the glass then wiping his chin. “Nothing happened though. Just got caught up in my daydream is all.”

         “I see. Pretending yourself to be the town’s hero again?” Themis mused in more of a statement rather than question. “I am sure if you would just ask Kemakka he would take you on as a deputy.”

         Rrhan lowered his ears. “Yeah, but…My folks would never let me do that. My mom would worry about me getting hurt or worse and then bother my dad about it until he did something about it.”

         Themis sighed then reached over lightly to take U’rahn’s hand into his own, lacing their fingers together. “Well, you should trust that the Zodiark will guide you to the right path. There are more ways to be a hero.”

         They sat in silence a moment, Rrhan nodding a little as he gently stroked his thumb over Themis’s knuckle. “Well, yeah. That Ridin’ Lion is doing some good work with the Night Pride,” he said, turning to look at Themis.

         Themis shifted, frowning a bit as he looked back at his friend. “And there are worse ways too. As grateful as the church is…Ill-gotten money might draw it unfavorable interest. Not to mention if anything happened to…to the Ridin’ Lion. I would feel personally responsible.”

         “No no. You shouldn’t. Don’t ever worry about him ‘cause nothin’ will stop him from coming back to you, er…to help the church,” Rrahn assured him.

         The two stared into one another’s eyes for a moment before letting them start to close as they drew in close. As their lips met, the doors to the chapel flung open, causing them to part immediately and look away. Behind them, Fordola pushed Arenvald inside, the latter clearing his throat. “There you are Rrahn.”

         “If you’re done harassing the priest, we’ve got a job to get ready for,” Fordola huffed, already starting to turn Arenvald about in preparation to leave.

         Rrhan’s ears and tail flit upward at the proposition. “Really Really? Another already? Let’s GOOOOOO!”

         Themis laughed then stood before getting up to give the trio a little bow. “Please be careful with Rrahn. He came to me looking a bit flushed. May Zodiark watch over you.”

         Fordola and Arenvald looked to one another then gave Themis a nervous smile, neither one for the religious sort, especially that of the forgotten god. “I’ll make sure to keep an eye on him. I’m sure if I can’t, ‘Dola will.”

         “I’ll return him to you more or less in the way you’ve left him with us,” Fordola shrugged before starting to push Arenvald out of the chapel. “C’mon Rrhan.”

         “Right right! Just uh- Gimme a sec and I’ll catch up,” he called out as his friends wheeled off ahead of him.

         Themis recoiled a little as Rhan turned, stepping forward to take his hand again. “You shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

         Rrhan nodded lightly then drew in close again. “Well…you see. We did it again. Y’know…smoo-“

         “Rrhan. You really shouldn’t keep them waiting. If your mother catches you before you get out of town I doubt you will be able to join your friends in whatever business you’ll be getting up to this evening,” Themis interrupted, squeezing Rrhan’s hand before letting go.

         Rrhan frowned lightly before feeling the priest’s lips on his cheek before he pulled away. Swallowing, Rrhan backed away, tilting his hat toward Themis before hurrying out the door after his friends, excited for the evening’s adventure to come.

[anartweirdosworld]

More Pony Zelda AU

So I’ve actually been loving this au so ima bug y’all with more!! These messy as hell drawings display how Zelly turned into a pony so here’s the backstory!! Remember that Zelda doesn’t get her wings until much later when she unlocks her powers!

While visiting the two available springs in hopes to gain her powers, Zelda decided to visit Lurelin Village to check up on it and to get away from the castle for longer. She is accompanied by at least two guards at all times as this was before Link was assigned to her. On her way back to Kakariko Village for a pit stop, Zelda and her guards were ambushed by the Yiga Clan, and she was separated from her attendants. Zelda tried to run as far away from the Yiga as she could, and accidentally ended up setting foot on Mount Lanayru in attempt to loose them in the ice and snow. Zelda was eventually cornered by the clan, and just as they aimed to strike her, a low, power growl shook the mountain. Naydra, the Guardian of the Spring of Wisdom flew down from above them, roaring loudly. Everyone was frozen with fear as the dragon came to a stop, floating above them. Naydra made one final roar, directed at the Yiga clan, her magic freezing the foot soldiers in ice, and shattered only a second layer from the mighty roar. Naydra then came down straight towards Zelda, and she could only watch in fear as she was engulfed by the dragons mouth. The next thing Zelda could remember, was the slight breeze flowing around her, and a wonder ours amount of pain flowing through her body. She was found by Sheikah soldiers who heard the commotion, only to find dead Yiga and royal guards, and a light blue unicorn sitting on top of the Princesses clothes. To the shock of the kingdom, they’re beloved princess had somehow been turned into a unicorn, and there was no way to turn her back. The priests called it a curse, a punishment or setting foot on the sacred mountain before her 17th birthday. Her father forbade her from leaving the castle until further notice, and Zelda isolated herself from everyone. It wasn’t until 8 months later, when her father decided it was time for her leave the castle yet again, out of need for his daughter to still seek the sacred springs, and out of the hurt of how his daughter has been handling her new form. In order to keep her safe from attack, he decided to assign a new guard to her, the young solider, and hero of the land, Link.

This au was heavily inspired by a fic I’ve read, I believe it’s called Dragon Knight, that’s probably wrong but I will update it if I find it again lol; where Link is turned into dragon, and Zelda is stuck with a little Sky Noodle as her companion. It’s awesome and completed and I highly recommend it! But instead this is if Zelda was turned into a pastel horse and Link is the only one he doesn’t think it’s a curse. Please enjoy my fast and bad art and my rambling on what I think the backstory is lol

[deadgirlwalking91]

In “thou shalt not” au how do you think Adam will react if he got lute pregnant?

Hey Anon,

@a-dose-of-comatose and I have discussed this and, well, considering he's a priest, there would be a lot that would need to be considered if we were to go down this path...

[aziraphales-library]

hi hello !! v much appreciate the work you've done and i've enjoyed going through my fave tropes through your tags 🤍

just wanted to ask if you have know of fics that show Crowley and Aziraphale as childhood best friends or basically them as kids? i've checked the kid fic tag but that's mostly about them adopting or taking care of kids. I know there are a bunch of human aus that reference a time they were best friends or knew each other when they were younger and then got reunited, which are great !, but I want to read more of cute Crowley and Aziraphale being friends when they were still kiddos 🙏🏽

Would appreciate any recs! Thank you so muchh !!

Hey. You'll have more luck with our #childhood friends and #high school au tags, so check those out! Here are more to add...

Angelic Lullabies by nemingo (NR)

There was once two kids as different as the sun and the moon. One was kind hearted their head turned to the clouds. The other was... angry. But they did share a common ground. A loveless home. But elements could rage around them, they'd always have a shelter.

You're the One That I Want by emmagrant01 (M)

The Grease AU absolutely no one asked for.

And you've got your demons by liber_solis (T)

In which Aziraphale is the new kid at school and Crowley has a reputation Or They say it has to get worse in order to get better, but no one had warned Crowley about the dangers of making a bet and regretting all his life decisions afterwards. Of course, he should have seen it coming, because it was very difficult to not fall in love with Aziraphale

in your own time by ineffabildaddy (E)

Aziraphale and Crowley grew up together as next-door neighbours on Hogback Lane, classmates at the local Catholic school, and inseparable best friends. By the age of eighteen, both were hopelessly in love with the other, despite the knowledge that they were doomed to live apart, as Crowley aimed to pursue university study in London and Aziraphale committed himself to remaining in Tadfield, dedicating his life to the Church. After almost twenty years spent away from his hometown, renowned botanist Crowley decides to come and visit Tadfield again at a moment's notice; the purpose of his visit is to speak at a Careers Day for the school he and Aziraphale, now a beloved priest and a frequent helper at the school, attended. The twenty-four hours that follow will change both of their lives for ever.

By My Side by Demonicputto (T)

When Crowley is given the chance at a human life (birth to death, family, Free Will, the whole shebang) he takes it. He does this, in part, to protect Aziraphale from being forced to take the same opportunity against his will. However, once Crowley is off on this metaphysical adventure, Aziraphale learns that his friend’s new life is not all that was advertised. To protect a small, amnesic Crowley from a childhood of cruelty, Aziraphale must go after him. If he’s going to do so, he must become human himself. Now in the form of a nine-year-old boy (though with his memories mercifully intact) Aziraphale must navigate adoptive parents, child therapists, and nativity plays to try and provide what protection he can to his dearest companion.

A Careful Kind of Something by hope_in_the_dark (T)

Ezra Seraff and Anthony Crowley aren't exactly what you'd call friends. Yet.

- Mod D

[the-ayakashi-in-me]

If Spring is here, can Winter be far behind?

Summary:

"I may not be chosen by God. But I have been chosen by fate."

The disappearance of Crown Prince Satoru Gojo, all but leaves the Empire in disarray. With no one else fit to inherit the throne, Princess Shiyori Gojo must now take on the challenge of finding her brother and being the Emperor chosen by fate.

Starring: SatoSugu, Nanami x OC, Naoya x OC and practically everyone from JJK.

Genre: ANGST, isekai au, drama, fluff (eventually), and whatever genre you use to feed your delusions.

Warnings: JJK is a warning on its own, toxic relationships, violence, a little gore, probable eventual smut, MANGA SPOILERS, established relationship, ANGST, mental illness, characters might be a little OOC. (Lemme know if I've missed anything)

A/N: Some world-building before getting to the main plot. Hope this makes sense.

 Series Masterlist:

Gloom

Doom

“Today we gather to celebrate the rise of our Empire’s next sentinel.”

High Priest Gagkuganji addressed the conglomeration of nobles who either scoffed or sighed. Every noble Lord and Lady gathered jumped at the opportunity to pass their judgment on this outrageous situation.

“The Empire is as good as dead.”

“I’ve begun to look for asylum outside.”

“His Majesty has gone senile.”

However, the issue that resounded the most was, “How could the founding clans let this happen?”

Many monarchs ago, the land that is now celebrated as the Akutami Empire, was fraught with war and disease. Sorcerers reigned supreme. With each sorcerer stronger than the next, the common people suffered lifetimes of misery. Back then sorcery was all about conquer or be conquered. One such sorcerer whose name has been wiped out from the annals of history, conquered not only the land of Akutami but also a small region adjacent to it. Today that small region goes by the name of the Gege Kingdom. 

Amidst all the chaos arose, one particular entity, who was none other than Goddess Utahime herself. Though, at that time she was merely mortal. However, her actions were nothing short of divine. Through her kindness, she paved the way for peace. Through her sacrifice, she paved the way for hope. And through her acts of service, she showed the world what sorcery was really about. She protected the weak and supported the promising.

 “Sorcery is not a blade, but the backbone for humanity.” With her conviction unfaltering, she singlehandedly vanquished, the devil-incarnate and sealed him away for eons to come. Finally, dawn broke on that unending night. But the people could not even cheer. How could they? For their beloved divinity stood their fading. Utahime had used every last ounce of her strength that her mortal body could offer. 

“Why do you weep so?” her voice held a hint of mischief, even in her final moments. Often, the conduct of divinity is beyond that of mortal reasoning. “What you consider as sacrifice, is but an old habit of mine. And old habits die hard, I’m afraid.” by now she was just a mirage of what she used to be.

“My Lady, please use the life left in us and sustain yourself. It is far too early for you to leave this realm.” 

“Yes, My Lady! We beg of you!”

“Do with our lives as you see fit.”

For a moment her smile faltered, then she heaved a heavy sigh. “Prostating yourselves to hide your tears. I must say, that is quite clever. As expected of you three.” The ones in question only seemed to fist the dirt harder and hole their heads further into the ground, while yes, silently mourning the loss of their illustrious mentor.

“My beloved Gojo, I trust you to pass on my discipline.”

“I-it shall be d-done My Lady.”

“My cherished Zen’in, I entrust you with my wisdom.”

“Y-yes My L-lady!”

“And my treasured Kamo, I have faith you will do justice with my grace.”

“A-as you w-wish My Lady!”

The distraught trio dared not look up still. Who could bear to watch the object of their devotion fade out of existence itself? Not them. But they could tell that she was not for long, with the distant calling of her voice. 

“Fret not. How far could I possibly go from those close to my heart?” and with a final, mischievous chuckle the revered Utahime departed for the next realm. 

Later, it was unanimously decided that Gojo would rise as the Emperor, for he was the one to serve the hallowed Utahime, the longest, while Zen’in and Kamo would serve as his Dukes. With Gojo at the head, and Zen’in and Kamo as the wings, the Akutami Empire soared from the ashes.

It was customary for a monarch to pay their respects to Utahime at their Coronation. Hence, it always ensued at the Temple, in the presence of all the Empire’s nobles. Utahime was a deity of conviction, she preached the power held within words. The words spoken out loud are said to strengthen their resolve and reinforce their faith. With time, this was called The Emperor’s Vow. 

Today, Princess Shiyori, was to become the new Emperor. She stood in front of a displeased crowd, wearing a refitted dress and jewels that once belonged to her mother. It was customary for the new Emperor to be dressed in gold, along with all the medals of valour they had achieved in life. 

However, Shiyori was the first woman to become Emperor, and through sheer ill-fate, at that. She had no medals or laurels to speak of. All she had was her mother’s gowns and jewels. “People will be dissatisfied no matter the circumstances. I’d rather put these to some good use,” she explained to the royal tailor when she refused to have a new dress made.

And she was right, they whispered behind her back. They whispered in front of her. They whispered as she walked down the aisle, towards the altar. They all eagerly whispered, yet none seemed to have the backbone to say it out loud. As she walked her somber expression turned into something far more dangerous. Once she reached the altar, she faced the crowd one final time. “I may not be chosen by God. But, I have been chosen by fate.” indifference dripped from her voice.

High Priest Gakuganji quickly concealed the smug smile that had crept up on him. He took a breath, “Let us commence the Coronation. Princess you may take the vow.” Princess Shiyori turned around and knelt before the altar. She lowered her head before Utahime and silently asked her to watch over her brother, wherever he was. She vowed to step up and become the Emperor her people needed, just as long as Satoru would come back home. 

“In times of joy, in times of war,

The vile and wicked, beware my roar.

To protect our empire, as before,

By my hand, justice shall be restored.”

She was met with deafening silence. She expected it, but it still hurt more than she thought it would. A vow unacknowledged is as good as an empty promise. A vow can only exist between two or more people. If no one in this chapel spoke up to acknowledge the vow, Shiyori would be unable to ascend the throne. And that would only cause more problems. She clutched her mother’s golden silk gown, her knuckles turning white. Was there truly no one who had even a little faith in her”

“Such is as our Saviour Utahime foretold!”

Three very distinct voices resounded within the chapel. Shiyori let out a shaky breath. “With the vow acknowledged in Our Lady Utahime’s presence, this marks the inception of Emperor Shiyori Gojo. Long live the King!” with that High Priest Gakuganji placed the ornate crown on Shiyori’s head.   

© to the-ayakashi-in-me. Please do not repost, copy, steal or translate without permission. Reblogs are appreciated.

[kagedbird]

TESSDE AU (+ Lucia :]) (??? part 2)

Everyone walks out to the front doors where the priests have been waiting. There are three total, one Imperial, one Breton, and one in the front, an Argonian.

Allora: *clears her throat and nods, looking them all over* …Hi. You wanted to see me?

Argonian: *bows with the other two, smiling wide* Honoured to be in your presence, Great One. I am Athrodite, thirteenth generation of Jeelius, priestess of Arkay. I now run the Temple with my fellow priests, Hilio, and Elona.

Hilio + Elona: *dip their heads reverently* Honoured to be in your presence, Great One.

Allora: *strained, uncomfortable, giving a very awkward smile* …Nice to meet you too. What can I do for you? I apologize for the, ah… sudden destructive stuff that happened yesterday, if that's what this is about.

Athrodite: Your actions yesterday were only a fragment of why we are here. It has been a long time since a chosen of Akatosh has been on our doorsteps. We would be most honoured to have you pray at our Temple, in your draconic scaled form.

Lucien: *blinks, frowning* I… with all due respect, I don't think she should do that.

Allora: *looks to him curiously* Yeah?

Lucien: It's not as if there's a fantastic history of those going in there with monumental status such as Pelagius Septim the First and Calaxes Septim being assassinated in there, as well as Martin Septim's sacrifice, turning him into stone.

Allora: *wrinkles her nose* Yeah. No, I don't feel like having another attempt on my life again so soon. Sorry.

Hilio: Please, Great One, we promise you nothing will come of it! We merely wish to have Arkay's light shine upon our once beloved Temple again.

Allora: I don't really worship Arkay though. I helped Auriel out with vampires and stuff, and got his bow. I guess I'm his champion as well… but Akatosh has my soul. *pauses* …And two others, but it's not that important right now.

Elona: Arkay's blessings have reached you, and He is of Akatosh's closest kin! Please, Great One, we implore you!

Davidicus: *furrows his brow* Are you referring to her as the great ‘One'? As in what the Temple is named after?

Athrodite: Never have we felt this magnitude of power radiate from one so clearly. It is She who must be given such a title.

Allora: *waves a hand, shaking her head* I'm really not… all that…

Athrodite: So humble, Great One. Rarely do we meet anyone such as you with your sense of ease in self.

Lucia: *frowning, looking up at Kaidan, who was carrying her* Papa? Can we go with her if she goes?

Kaidan: *frowns, shifting from foot to foot* …I don't know if we should bring you there, or if it'd be worse to leave you behind…

Allora: *frowns* Yeah, no. I'm not leaving Lucia anywhere. If you want me to go pray, we all go.

Athrodite: *perks up, tail swishing* Yes, yes, of course! The Temple has not seen so many people in ages, it will be most pleased!

Lyra: *crosses her arms, frowning* I should report this to the head of the Imperial Guard before we go. Some added protection couldn't hurt.

Inigo: Should we really bring armed forces to a prayer? Mr. Dragonfly thinks that is like mixing Sweetrolls with vinegar. It just does not work. I agree.

Taliesin: Yes, I have to agree with the dragonfly on this one as well. If we just go in and get out, then the process will be much smoother, and far less contrived.

Allora: *turns and takes Lucia in her arms, feeling anxious* Let's just go all ready. I want this over with, so I can focus on relaxing. As is what we were here to do, but never seem to be able to anywhere we go.

Athrodite: *bows with the other two again* Thank you, Great One, thank you. This way, if you please…

[stargazingfromeden]

second chapter of my beloved lawyer!crowley x priest!aziraphale au is out !! <3

[sumire-bride]

DARK NIGHT PRIEST (NUN) [SUMIRE EDTION]

𖧷ɤ———ɤ𖧷

"..Oh deer... This is no good... Seems your on your last breath, do not worry sweet child... Sister Sumire.. Shall hush those sweet breaths of yours..."

HEADCANNONS BELOW.

{BEFORE READING AHEAD DISCLAIMER!! No I do not think churches are like this and I do not mean to offend anyone. This is my AU of Sumire being in a 'catholic' AU as a nun. She's more in a cult that poses itself as a 'church'. AGAIN I DO NOT MEAN TO OFFEND ANYONE, }

{ VOTE FOR WHICH BOY U WANT SUMIRE IN A HEADCANNON AND FANFIC IN THIS AU AT BOTTOM. }

𖧷ɤ— "..I have.. Given everything... I have given it my all to believe there is a god.. Now I know there is one... That god that took fathers identity, is gone... Now that father finally can be in his true place... Fufu.."

As a young girl, Kyuufu still had placed in her head that he was her god in the living world. 'You have two gods, me and our holy one.' he said as he drown her more into "cleansing water". She happily let him shove her head in there still she couldn't breath in hopes she'll believe in her spirit god and become clean as she is still sinned and dirty.

But someone's sanity can only be so sane for so long, two gods just two gods. However.. Father is plenty more worthy of being up there ruling it all right? It only took a few stabs in the gut and heart for her to know she now has a god she knows truly exists. This lifeless body in front of her.. Her father was finally in the correct place.

However, the church would come to find out their priest was murdered by the nun, his daughter no less. In panic they send her away to a separate church to 'cleanse' her. Little did she know the people there have done far worse sins then her.

𖧷ɤ— "..It's sad... That all of these people refuse to look into the right picture... And see that sins are not redeemable, and they deserve to parish... However, it is only their choice to walk the right path when they are in front of deaths door..."

People would soon come to question her in the new church. Just what was there to fix about this girl? She seemed to be so in love with her god, even had every word, page, person memorized that they turned a blind eye. Not the 'non human' boys however, the priests would find her intriguing by her beliefs and morals. She, as a loyal nun she become to her newly church would be on her hands and knees to them. She was still a foolish human Afterall.

Following their wants, and requests. It quickly became her job to keep a watchful eye for any sinners, or mistreatment within the 'church'. And report back, and pray behind the door while she heard her beloved priests murder the unfortunate soul. Father have mercy on them when they arrive she think.

𖧷ɤ—"I am more then willing to give up my everything... Please my father... Please take my mortality away from me so I can be yours... For our love is more powerful then our god itself..."

She kneels before him. The one she has chosen 'till death to us part'. But she wishes not to be with him unless she is him, she can not be with him forever until her mortality is gone.

Perhaps she's willing to give herself another physical god, one whom she'll cherish, and do his every biding of getting rid of pesky sinners. But just who is this man? You the reader decide, how nun Sumire's path will go.

--CHOICE--

SHUU SAKAMAKI -- REIJI SAKAMAKI --AYATO SAKAMAKI -- KANATO SAKAMAKI -- LAITO SAKAMAKI -- SUBARU SAKAMAKI

RUKI MUKAMI -- KOU MUKAMI -- YUMA MUKAMI -- AZUSA MUKAMI

CARLA TSUKISHIMA -- SHIN TSUKISHIME

{ You can vote between these boys, and the winner will be the one I write headcannons with as a nun and priest lovers running a almost faithless church. }

𖧷ɤ———ɤ𖧷