#resurrection au | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

heavensmockery · 7 months ago

Text

"Father, bless me for that I will sin"

Summary: Father Jim deFroque gets possesed by a familiar face AN: Happy Jesus he knows me anniversairy y´all have a bit of Jim suffering in honor of that. Let me know if you want part 2. Also the art is a nod to a very beloved horror game. Guess which one in the comments!! TW: Possesion , cussing , discussion of religion , mild gore , pain Words: 1,3k

Father Jim deFroque. Some call him the good willing father of the Jesus talks, some know him from his masses, some know him from his not so holy night life. Somewhat he had the trace of a glorious Popstar-Life, but behind this naïve look and the preaching of comfortable lies with the subtle manipulation of giving some man all your money to be greeted into heaven with open arms. Not to speak that Jum had a lot of interesting callers , especially around easter. Some days he wondered if it wasn’t the infamous ministry who chased these kinds of calls upon his neck to annoy him. But , as a priest must, he kept his patience all the way, And it wasn’t only his good willing patience that helped him stay calm during the arguments on the Jesus talks, but also the leftovers from his wild nights . Some wonder if he had a cold that he never gets rid off as they get to hear the sniffing from time to time on calls

Yet , one call was interesting. It came , late at night while he was in the bathroom , taking care of his hair. He forgot to leave the light on in his bedroom , which made the call coming from it seem like the scene right before a jumpscare in a horror movie. The only source of light was the moon from outside, shimmering lightly through the stained glass. Jim picked up, who would he be if not a priest always available for his devoted followers?He was just surprised the call did go to his mobile phone rather than the one he was given by the church for the jesus talks. He picked up.

“Good evening ,May god bless your soul. you are speaking to Father Jim deFroque. How may I help you?” he answered in his usual demeanor. There was no answer. Except some weird, breathing noises. Jim thought it was one of these interesting calls again and was about to hang up when suddenly , a rather familiar voice spoke . “Another day of serving the lord?” . What a weird.. teasy sounding question. Jim firstly had to think for a moment. “Sir, is this a serious question or do you just want to …” Jim started with a confused tone as the voice interrupted him “..No..no.. genuine question.” . “Well , yes, obviously. How shall I not fulfill my duty of serving our shepherd” Jim responded in his usual demeanor. “How are you so sure that he is actually real? Has he done something to prove his existence to you?” Yes, it was done of those callers again. Jim took a deep sigh, deciding if he should just shit on the rules and tell the caller to fuck off, or if he should grab into his basket of “evidence” he keeps repeating like a broken record.

He decided for option two, he does not need any troubles right now , as he did not wish to ruin his image just because it was 2 am and he was about to go to bed since he didn’t feel like clubbing today. “Well you see, I consider my duty and life to be a blessing of our lord and saviour. He has led me to my mission to bring the message of the holy spirit to the masses and redirect the people back to the right path” . There was silence , then a chuckling.. “redirect them to the right path..sure” the voice replies snarky “do you ask them if they wish to? Do they come to you even?” Jim felt himself getting tired of this pointless conversation, but also weirdly anxious. “Sir, I only do what I must, not what I decide is the solution” . The voice snickered at that. “Im sure they’ll appreciate you” . That was when the call ended. Leaving Jim with the phone in his hand, starring at the screen of the suppressed number. Jim found this weird, but nothing shocking. And decided to go to bed, but he still couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was out to get him.

Jim didn’t have the most pleasant dream either, a rather short figure appearing in his dream only to laugh at him. As he stepped closer to the figure he got to see their face, it was familiar face paint what burned itself into his memory. The unmatched eyes, it was like he has seen them before. Why was this haunting him? But that wasn’t the worst of it all. As the figure stepped closer, He was revealing his horns, and the ground beneath Jim was burning. They just watched him on fire, waving even a little with a smile he didn’t know was meant to be a greeting or a farewell. The eyes and the face paint stayed in his memory even as he awoke. It was still dark. He checked his watch , spotting it was only five am

The light in the bathroom was still on. Jim couldn’t recall if he switched it off before bed or not so he forced himself up to turn it off. Yet his eyes were greeted with a different scenery as he wished to. There was red paint on his mirror, spelling the word Sinner. Now that was the final straw to get the faithful man out of his calm demeanor. He inspected the paint, but the paint turned it out to be blood.

Firstly Jim went to check his locks and windows, in case someone wanted to pull a prank on him. But all locked and closed. Which was weird. To say the least. “Holy Father have mercy on my soul…” Jim whispered under his breath. And the plead was replies with a chuckling. The same as on the call. Jim shook his head, refusing to let his mind trick him. He started to consider that these were the after effects of his last trip. As he stood in front of the mirror with disbelief the light switched off.

Jim unintentionally screamed. Not sure if it was the shock or the fact that everything what was going on seemed out of a horror movie. He prayed quietl under his breath, pinched himself even to wake himself up from this nightmare. Pleading to whoever was listening to stop his madness. “No, No” it sounded behind him. Jim gulped and turned around to the noise, (He felt incredibly stupid for acting like a horror movie protagonist in this situation) and spotted the man from his dreams sit there. Didn’t they say he was dead? Decaptivated even? And of course he had horns. He smirked at Jim. “So ..Are you still on the right path?, Father?" He asked while looking absent minded towards the wall . “What a stupid question, of course I am. What do you want, my soul? “ Jim yelled hysterically , losing his demeanor. Why was he tormenting him like that?

The man stood up. He didnt answer his question but was smirking even brighter. “Lets see how he can save you now from that” he replied, with that he revealed his horns and wings. He snapped his finger and a burning pain claimed Jim´s chest. The father screamed for mercy. To anyone that would listen to help him. “Burn in hell you--…” Jim went quiet. He felt something shift, enter his mind and spread inside him like poison , no prayers would save him now. And he was simply not qualified for an exorcism on himself and way too panicked to continue. Jim felt his faith fade, along with his mind. No matter how hard he tried to stay and not let the evil take him over, it was too late for salvation. The begs of mercy faded slowly. His tortured expression turned into one of satisfaction

Father Jim was no more, his smile was not his own, his eyes always overshadowed with the omnipresent glow of his red eyes. Jim slowly got up, groaning from his floor. Facing his new form in the mirror. A bright smile painted his face and he chuckled. A weird dark red substance trickled from his mouth and eyes , and his iris were black along.

And with that the beloved father was gone , buried deep beneath the shadows of the possesion , locked in the dark of his mind.

22 notes · View notes

ghcstcd · 2 years ago

Photo

I think it’d be fun if, when truly enraged, Terzo’s ichor boiled and bubbled from his throat scar.

#the band ghost #ghost bc #terzo emeritus #papa emeritus lll #papa iii #ghart #ghost fanart #ghost resurrection au #resurrection au #Terzo is the current blorbo and I adore him and everyone else in this satanic family #ghcstcd

294 notes · View notes

prismatica-the-strange · 2 years ago

Text

Once Upon a Time Resurrection AU

Felix wakes up in a field with a group of other people from the Enchanted Forest.

The last thing he remembers is Pan, his best friend, the person he trusted and respected most, ripping out his heart and crushing it in front of him.

The people around him are giving him weird looks and glares, they know who he was allied with, they don't trust him, it's been so long since he's felt this alone in a crowd of people.

He looks terrified, unable to move, reliving his death over and over in his head. Until someone steps forward, a girl, Ruby, she looks worried.

She comes closer, asking if he's okay. He panics, quickly backing away only to trip over his own feet and fall to the ground.

He doesn't trust her, he can't. If he can't trust Pan, his oldest and closest friend, how could he possibly be expected to trust anyone else?

She stops a few feet away, giving him space, space he uses to scramble to his feet and take off into the woods. He can survive on his own, it wouldn't be his first time he's had to.

It seems Ruby had told Snow and David about him and the annoying heroes refuse to leave him be.

Even after taking back their castle they make a point to venture out to where he's set up camp to check in on him. He tells them to leave him alone but they don't. They bring him food, warm clothes, medical supplies, even if he won't take them they leave it there.

Jiminy stops by in case he wants to talk and usually has to dodge some swatting hand, but refuses to give up on him.

It takes time, most of the year they spend in the Enchanted forest, but he starts to come around, starts to let people care about him, a weary trust beginning to blossom between himself and the group of heroes.

Then he wakes up, warm and comfortable in a soft bed. He doesn't know where he is and the last thing he remembers is Pan, his best friend, the person he trusted and respected most, ripping out his heart and crushing it in front of him.

Everything around him is unfamiliar, even the clothes he's wearing. Not his normal worn tunic and cloak, but soft pants and a grey broken in tee shirt.

He cautiously climbs out of the deceivingly safe feeling bed, hardwood floor cold beneath his feet. The room is sparsely decorated, a few crooked posters and a corkboard littered with paper hang on the blue walls, and a strange device sits on a cluttered desk in the corner by the window.

He takes a moment to glance over the corkboard, they're drawings, his drawings, from the notebook he kept in Neverland. Pencil sketches of lost boys and coves and... Pan. He tears that one down, ripping it into the smallest pieces he can manage, letting the litter the floor.

He dares a peak through the door, opening it just slightly to see what's lying beyond.

Fairies. Various women he knows to be Fairies rush around, confused and buzzing around like a beehive. Until one catches him, Blue notices him watching and he quickly snaps the door shut, hurriedly locking it.

She knocks asking if he's okay and if he needs help. He doesn't answer, throwing open the window. They're on the third floor, no easy way down, too far to jump. He's stuck for now.

He sits below the window, knees pulled to his chest, eyes fixated on the crack beneath the door where Blue's shadow waits.

She has to have the key, he doesn't understand why she doesn't use it. She's waiting for him, letting him choose to come out. When she saw him he looked so scared. She knows the price Pan had to pay to enact his curse.

She asks again, if he's alright, if he needs anything and gets no answer.

The convent is constantly abuzz with energy and movement. He hears the voices of fairies and other parentless children that take refuge there.

He sits there for four days. There are periodic knocks at his door and someone sets a plate of food beside it, taking the ones left before, but he never opens it, never touches it. Even though he can feel his hunger gnawing at him.

Then one day there's a different voice, it's soft and warm. The voice of Snow White. She reassures him, comforts him through the wood, the earnestness in her voice touches him in a way he didn't know he could still feel. Urging him to open the door, to let them help him.

He does. He's gaunt, ghost-like, hands shaking and he hugs himself, staring at the floor. He'd rather face whatever is coming that waste away in a prison cell.

Snow moves to wrap a blanket around his shoulder, freezing when he flinches. Those grey eyes wide, full of fear and a lifetime of unshead tears. It breaks her heart.

"It's okay, you're safe now."

#felix ouat #Resurrection au #once upon a time #prisma writes #ugly Duckling #felix once Upon a time #ouat

50 notes · View notes

fat-butch-dyke · 2 years ago

Text

First page in the sketchbook dedicated to stoner Atem and Bakura-

(For @chloelouygo 💜)

#atem #yugioh #bakura #thief king bakura #resurrection au #ressurection and redemption au #yugioh fanart #ryou bakura #gemshipping #casteshipping #if you squint-#i am in love them #so much hhhhhh #i have so many thoughts about them

75 notes · View notes

boizdocry · 1 year ago

Text

Nnoitra scribbles - Afterlife AU

Basically, Nnoitra ejected into real world, kinda Sengoku period.

Will scribble down both by commenting this post and reposting with the addition of new snippets here and there - some SFW, some other not.

Unfortunately, I'll release the most part in Italian, since I don't feel confident enough to write them directely in English.

Hope that IA Bing and Google Translate might help, I know there is lot of Nnoitra fans out there.

Also, YT good stuff to hear while you read - namely, Secret Stairways' "What Lies Beyond the Door". Even if you want to jump over my scraps of fanfic, give the song a try, you'll thank me later.

youtube

Lei, Mori, non aveva paura: non perché fosse coraggiosa in modo particolare e più di altre giovani donne della sua età ma, più semplicemente, perché viveva con tanto poco ed in tale isolamento, che tutto quel che la preoccupava erano il freddo, le intemperie e le bestie selvagge. Gli uomini la impensierivano assai meno: li vedeva di rado e, per lo più, quando si recava al mercato del più vicino villaggio per vendere oggetti intrecciati: ceste, sporte, stuoie, gioiellini fatti con corteccia e sassolini pescati dai torrenti che traversavano la foresta, oppure con le canne ed i vinchi che coglieva in riva al fiume.

La ragazza si era incamminata presto, quella mattina, chiudendo la porta della casupola con una sorta di lucchetto di corda e canniccio intrecciati.

Non si trattava di una serratura efficace: chiunque avrebbe potuto entrare facilmente, tagliando il laccio e sfondando il sottile pannello di legno che costituiva l'uscio della sua umile abitazione. Tuttavia, la ragazza - Mori, non aveva altro nome - non temeva intrusi: era l'unico essere umano che vivesse in quella foresta ed i suoi simili badavano a tenersene alla larga per non incorrere nello sdegno degli spiriti.

Dopo aver fatto un buon tratto di strada, quando si trovava ormai in una radura dove era solita sostare un poco prima di riprendere il cammino verso il torrente, dovette trattenere un grido di stupore alla vista di qualcosa che la colse del tutto alla sprovvista.

Quel giorno, un fresco e dorato giorno di settembre, era diretta per l'appunto al fiume e portava con sé, in una sporta di sua fabbricazione, un po' di panni da lavare e una coperta da rinfrescare prima che giungessero i primi freddi. Inoltre, era intenzionata a pescare qualche tinca da mettere in salamoia per l'inverno.

Poi, come sempre, si sarebbe data da fare a cogliere giunchi da disseccare e che le sarebbero tornati utili per i mesi più rigidi: con quelli meno solidi e flessuosi avrebbe foderato gli spifferi della sua casetta, mentre i migliori erano destinati alla creazione di oggetti che Mori barattava in cambio di sale, tessuti e olio per lampade.

A dire il vero la radura, che definire tale era eccessivamente generoso, non era più che un cerchio dal diametro di quasi cinque piedi, circondato da tre alberi dal tronco così ampio che Mori non sarebbe riuscita a circondarne uno con entrambe le braccia.

Si trattava, tuttavia, di splendide querce, più antiche della foresta stessa, tra le cui robuste radici l'erba cresceva più rada ma di un verde tenero e splendente. La luce filtrava a stento tra le meravigliose e folte chiome di quei vecchi giganti, disegnando mobili macchie di azzurro e di oro che il giuoco del vento dissolveva e ricomponeva senza sosta.

Tra quelle radici giaceva a terra un uomo - il che, già di per sé, costituiva un accadimento straordinario; ma la sua eccezionale presenza non era l'unica cosa che meravigliasse Mori.

La ragazza, addossatasi al tronco d'una quercia, si protese ad osservarlo meglio: anche il suo aspetto era fuori del comune... Fuori del comune, s'intende, per quel che la ragazza era abituata a conoscere degli altri umani nella regione.

Infatti, Mori sapeva di non appartenere allo stesso popolo con il quale, negli anni, si era abituata a commerciare: era più alta e forte di loro, aveva capelli chiari e mossi ed occhi verdi mentre loro erano minuti, eleganti, i capelli corvini perfettamente lisci.

Chiamavano il loro paese Ni-hon-gou e nutrivano, per chi appariva così diverso da loro, un misto di timore, sospetto e fascinazione.

Mori aveva imparato a proprie spese come misurarsi con il turbamento che suscitava negli altri; a loro volta, quelli che abitavano i villaggi circonvicini avevano appreso a fidarsi di lei e perfino ad ignorare la sua carnagione rosea e i suoi tratti esotici.

Tuttavia, quando alle fiere capitava qualche straniero, Mori cercava di starsene in disparte e non suscitare scandalo.

L'uomo che adesso giaceva a terra davanti a lei era simile agli abitanti del Ni-hon-gou per i tratti fini ed appuntiti e per la capigliatura d'un color nero lucido e freddo; le sue spalle, però, erano larghe quasi il doppio di quelle di Mori, che era già piuttosto robusta rispetto alla gente comune.

Mori si avvicinò ancora, troppo sorpresa ed incuriosita per tenere in considerazione le più basilari regole di prudenza: era una fortuna, in effetti, che l'uomo sembrasse profondamente assopito.

Lo guardò meglio: poteva avere trent'anni, un'età che, per quel che Mori sapeva di sé, era di almeno dieci anni più avanzata della sua. Anche riverso sul rado prato che, in contrasto con il terreo pallore della sua pelle, sembrava d'un verde violento, si capiva bene che doveva essere altissimo: con il suo grande corpo riempiva quasi interamente la lunghezza della radura.

Era magrissimo, al punto che Mori si sentì stringere il cuore all'idea della fame che doveva aver patito per essere tanto ossuto.

Il viso, già lungo, ed ancor più per la magrezza che lo rendeva scavato aveva tratti duri, sdegnosi, una bocca lunga dalle labbra sottili ed esangui. Non sembrava una bocca gentile, Mori sapeva di non sbagliarsi facilmente in questo genere di giudizi, ma di certo pareva la bocca di una persona disabituata a sorridere per qualcosa he lo rendesse sinceramente felice.

Gli occhi, a mandorla, erano strettamente serrati e ombreggiati da lunghe ciglia nere che ricadevano sulle profonde incavature delle occhiaie, illividite per il pallore. I capelli, lunghi e sottili, gli ricadevano scompostamente sulle spalle e attorno al capo reclinato: erano l'unica cosa autenticamente bella di quella fisionomia, per il resto acuminata fino ad avere qualcosa di esasperato, selvaggio.

Forse perché così cereo e smagrito, sembrava preda di una terribile spossatezza; lungo il torace, nudo, si vedeva chiaramente una lunga cicatrice simile alla traccia che avrebbero potuto lasciarvi un fendente, una frustata o un fulmine.

Quella cicatrice era paonazza, ma solo al centro: doveva essersi rimarginata molto velocemente e, sebbene fosse chiaro che la ferita doveva essere stata grave, nei suoi anni di vita solitaria nel cuore d'una foresta Mori aveva dovuto imparare abbastanza di medicina da giudicarla ben ristabilita.

Mentre meditava con rammarico sull'irreversibilità di quella deturpazione, notò che le mani dello sconosciuto - grandi, nodose e dalle dita molto lunghe, al punto da somigliare alle zampe d'uno strano predatore - tremavano.

A ben vedere, l'uomo tremava tutto.

Si affrettò a gettare la coperta addosso al giovane, poi, ritrattasi dietro l'albero, sollevata che lo sconosciuto dormisse tanto saporitamente da non accorgersi della sua presenza ma anche molto inquieta all'idea che potesse svegliarsi di lì a poco, scivolò via.

Mori credette di comprendere che lo straniero doveva avere freddo e pensò a quanto freddo lei stessa aveva patito negli anni.

Erano soli, in quella foresta: nessun altro viandante sarebbe passato di là e prestato soccorso allo sconosciuto.

Dubbiosa, cacciò la mano nella cesta e tastò la coperta.

Le dispiaceva separarsene con così poco anticipo rispetto ai primi freddi, ma non le rincresceva di meno vedere un suo simile debole e infreddolito: quante volte aveva rischiato di morire di polmonite, e quanto le sarebbe stato di conforto, oltre che di utilità, poter contare sulla compassione di qualche brava persona che potesse soccorrerla?

Sfortunatamente, Mori era sola da moltissimi anni e aveva dovuto sempre cercare di cavarsela da sola ma ricordava con emozione il tempo in cui suo padre era stato con lei e l'aveva protetta.

Era bello ricevere calore e tenerezza senza dover nulla in cambio e, per quanto le riuscisse duro pensare a uno sconosciuto prima che a sé stessa, sentiva che le sarebbe pesato passare oltre ed abbandonarlo al suo destino.

In fondo, ragionò con lo spirito pratico che l'aveva sempre sostenuta, c'era ancora un mercato da fare, di lì a pochi giorni: avrebbe preso un po' meno sale e una pezza di tessuto in più per rimpiazzare quella coperta.

E doveva mettersi di buona lena a raccattare più giunchi: se avesse potuto vendere qualche cesta in più, chissà!...

C'era solo da augurarsi che non si trattasse di qualcuno dal quale aspettarsi del male, pensò mentre, in salvo dietro a una fitta macchia di felci, affrettava il passo e prendeva poi a correre per mettere distanza tra sé e la radura. Del resto, era fiduciosa: la sua casa era ben nascosta. Al ritorno, poi, avrebbe percorso una strada diversa e più ampia, in modo che le digressioni la allontanassero ulteriormente da ogni possibile pericolo.

Resistette all'impulso di voltarsi a guardare verso la radura o tendere l'orecchio ai suoni della foresta ed ignorò anche il vago turbamento che l'immagine dell'uomo nudo e inerme tra i ciuffi di trifoglio risvegliava in lei.

Perciò, non si accorse che lo straniero si era mosso e aveva mormorato qualcosa in una lingua sconosciuta, ma in un tono che anche Mori avrebbe ben compreso.

Un tono di collera, sofferenza e disprezzo.

7 notes · View notes