#rotten shepherd

[earthjrnl]

Help, my dog has only child syndrome: thinks every time I come home with a bag there's something for him inside, doesn't bring the ball back when we're playing fetch (but keeps it and lays down), barks at other dogs, very territorial and defensive when men approach me on our walks 😬. But otherwise the cutest goofiest big fella. 🐕

[ghostie123]

Link (top row of both slides) with his full older sister and his full littermate brother. I’m so grateful that his sister’s mom saw Link, his dna and where we live and put together that she probably has his sister. We emailed Embark to run a relative test to confirm and confirm they did

Link was found as a stray so for nearly 2 years I’ve known nothing about who or where he came from. But I even have a few pics of their parents now. Unfortunately the people these dogs come from are pretty awful and sell a 5 week wolfdog pups to anyone who shows up with money, no questions asked. They’ve also sold pups with Parvo, who died days after being brought home. I scoured my state for breeders trying to see where my dog was from but as it turns out, they don’t have a website, they only post their puppies on craigslist, nobody knows their names or exactly where they live because they only meet up to sell the pups in public. After his sister was bought, her owner said she saw several people on craigslist trying get rid of the pup they recently bought bc they couldn’t handle them, one sister even ended up at a rescue. So it makes sense why I couldn’t find his family on my own, and why I found a 6 week puppy on the side of the road. I assume he was bought and a week in his buyer realized they werent able to deal with, or werent ready for a wolfdog, since he was found dehydrated and full of worms and ticks. But not starving, luckily

And man am I lucky that the puppy I didn’t know was a wolfdog for the first few months we had him (though we quickly grew suspicious) is generally a great fit for our family of his humans, our other 2 dogs and the kitten. And we’re a good fit for him 💕

[offbrandhand]

I got Oscar a giant bean bag for Christmas and he will not move. Like talk about immovable force this dog will not fucking get up

This 200 lbs beefcake of a dog will not get up no matter what I say or do. I laid on top of him and he just squished down deeper. I bribed with treats and a walk and he melted away further.

He is lost to the bean bag. He will remain there until he rots into the woven fabric of time itself. This dog won’t even lift his head to look at me. Bitch barely moves his fucking eyes. He hasn’t moved once in the past 3 hours he’s been laying in it. Not once.

[hislittlesparklejumpropequeen]

I never blamed you for loving me the way you did.

Lestat De Lioncourt x reader

Summary; Lestat De Lioncourt had a wife once. And a beautiful life. Until he lost everything. Warnings; fail marriage, blood and injuries, vampire sex, character deaths, suicide, self-hatred, penis in vagina sex, creampie, sex as a coping mechanism, child loss, grief and mourning, ANGST, hurt no comfort, BISEXUAL Lestat de Lioncourt

Word count: 11,181

(Pre-canon)

Lestat had spent decades on this planet. He had known thousands of people, been to hundreds of cities, lain with both women and men. He had fallen in love, once upon a time. And he had known loneliness. He knew it even before he was turned into this vile creature. When he had to spend his days in his cold bed as a little human child. As his father and brothers torture toy, his mother’s suffocating burden, when had to spend days in Satan’s dungeon with the dead and the undead, waiting for his final day see his god for the first and last time. The nights he prayed to God to spare his life and how his prayers turned to pleadings for his death. He begged it to be quick and painless. He wanted his mother’s comfort that he never knew. He wanted to go back to church and attend the sunday service with the people of his small town. He wanted to hold cross one more time and feel the love of Christ in his bones.

He thought about God and Jesus and his mother when Magnus nearly ripped his neck open with his sharp fangs one night. He drank so much that Lestat thought he saw a bright light in the corner of his eye. He felt his soul slip away from his body and the lightness wash over him. It was a comfort that he never felt in his entire life before. Not when he used to lay beside that tree on the hill and exchange glances with the pretty looking shepherd boy as the warm breeze danced with his own blonde curls. Not when he fell asleep with that beautiful daughter of the baker by the river, naked, arms wrapped around one another, his head on her chest, listening to her heart beats.

He had tasted blood for the first time when Magnus pressed his bleeding wrist to his lips. Lestat started to drink. He had no idea why he was drinking. It was an instinctual command coming from his body, from his very existence. He felt life come back to him. But not his soul, it was gone. He felt his flesh harden like rocks and the colour drain away from his rosey cheeks of humanity. He felt Magnus’s blood flow trough his veins, fast and burning. He felt the warmth in his chest. His fingertips hurt with the sharp nails that grew in seconds. His eyes were sore and when he opened them again, the bright colours made him dizzy. He could hear everything and everyone. He could feel everything at once. He wanted to die. He wanted to beg Magnus to stop playing with him and let him die peacefully. And he was alone one more time when Magnus died in the flames, in front of his eyes. He smelled his burning rotten flesh. Dying like him disgusted Lestat.

Over time his yearning for God’s love turned into grudge. He wondered why God let him turn into this blood thirsty monster. Yes, that was what he was. A monster trough and trough. And no one would dare to love a monster like him. Even tho the monster would love anyone in the purest way possible if he was given chance.

And he did. Lestat loved Nicolas. As much as he could at least. Nicki was a troubled man since the first moment Lestat laid his eyes on him. He thought that being with him and having countless adventures could change him and plant seeds of happiness into soul. But it didn’t. He hesitated turning him into a vampire when Nicki was begging him to do so. He could sense the consequences of doing it. But spending centuries with the man he loved convinced Lestat. Nicki sinked into his dark thoughts more. His violin played with sadness and sorrow more than ever. Lestat felt his darkness in himself. He could not hear but see Nicki’s feelings in is empty looking eyes. He felt the guilt filling his heart as his first love was turning into someone he didn’t know. Armand’s presence wasn’t helping at all.

Lestat never thought about being loyal to his spouses when the world was full of fruits in different shapes and colours and tastes. There was so much to explore in his infinite life time. Armand was a capturing thing. With his eyes looking into his soul and reading him like an open book. Armand was offering so many things to Lestat that no one ever could. He yearned for the care and affection from Armand. He wanted to drink from him, lay with him and taught by him how to survive, live with the nature of a vampire. But being with Armand in front of the eyes of Nicki pushed the poor boy into madness more and more every passing day. Lestat was hungry but not for the destruction of the ones he loved.

He left Paris with his mother. He had left Nicki and Armand and the theatre. Only to receive the news of Nicki’s death. He fell onto his knees when they sent his violin to him. He touched the places where Nicki’s fingertips traced over. And he played it for the last time to feel his lover again. It didn’t matter if he was feeling Nicki’s love, rage or sadness. He only wanted a piece of him. His lips trembled when he played his favourite melody. The melody Nicki would play for Lestat after the moments they spent in each others arms, tasted one another and explore the corners of pleasure. He remembered that fearless little boy that he met with back in the day, when they were both humans. He remembered the shy glances of Nicki when he was looking at Lestat’s eyes, lips and every detail on his face. He remembered the moments they danced together and his mother would sing for them. He remembered their last happy moments. Tears of blood flowed down his cheeks and stained his white shirt.

He was alone again when his mother left him. He felt unlovable. Even his own mother couldn’t stand his presence. How could anyone in this world would love a man like him? By that time he had forgotten how it felt like being close to god and feel his love. He knew that God left him when he was turned into a seed of devil. He wanted to scream and shout and tell God that he never had a chance to choose. If he could he would choose God over everyone and everything without a second thought. Therefore Lestat knew believing in something higher and more powerful than you was a great comfort and happiness a man could ever have.

He traveled for years after his mother left him. He wondered around the countries, saw humans kill one another, cheat on one another, trick one another and destroy one another. He saw that it was not only him that was hungry for something he couldn’t name. Then his bright greyish blue eyes found the figure of a little human being in the crowd, dancing with a beautiful smile on her face. His eyes watched you for the whole dance. He heard your fast breaths, how they go trough your delicate nose and reach to your lungs that were still fresh and youthful compared to his rotten body. He saw the drops of sweat sliding trough your temple, your hair damp and the braid crown that was about to fall off. He heard your laugh, full of life and joy. He saw your skirts fly off as you tap your feet on the floor with your human strength. Your dance made him smile. His smile widened as you kept dancing and laughing. He felt like he never saw something or someone more alive. He felt a warmth in his chest. So different from the one felt when he first drank Magnus’s blood. It was type of warmth he felt when he was still human, when he had fears of a human and desires of a human.

He took you into his arms as you were still dancing. The dance floor was crowded as you felt his hands on you. You turned around and saw the most beautiful pair of eyes that you ever saw in your entire life. It felt natural to be in his arms, to be close to him and smiling at him. Lestat looked into your eyes as both of you danced trough the song. You didn’t want this song to ever finish. His body was pressed against yours and it felt like you were the only ones in the dance floor, in the world. He felt your gentle hands on his arms, going to his shoulders. It felt tingly and he realised how much he missed this human feeling. He laughed when you accidentally stepped on his feet and his laugh sounded more beautiful than thousand melodies that you ever heard. Which musician could ever write a song that sounded like his joy? Who could ever be the inspiration and make any musician to write it?

You watched his blonde long curls shine under the colourful lights. The thought of running your fingers trough his curls sent shivers down your spine. Lestat shook slightly when he heard your thoughts. You didn’t think about laying with him right away or take advantage of things that he might offer you. You only wanted to caress his hair. Something his mother never did. He closed his eyes and leaned down to your neck. The flavour of your blood filled his nostrils in seconds. He felt dizzy and wrapped his arms tighter around you. You felt his lips ghost over your skin and you had to hold onto him.

“Wait for me, ma cherie.” He whispered and you opened your eyes. Your arms were on the air, hugging no one. You felt coldness wash over your burning cheeks.

“Wait for me.” You heard his voice again. You turned around but he was no where to be seen. Your hands held your long skirts and put the strands of hair behind your ear. People around you kept dancing as you walked out of the dance floor with shaky legs.

Lestat watched you for the rest of the night from far afar. You didn’t dance again or laugh. You sat down, sipped on your drink, answered question when they were referring to you and looked for him with curious eyes. He felt sense of pride in his heart. Not because a mortal girl was mesmerised by him but because it was you that was mesmerised by him. You were not his prey of the night. He could fill that place with someone anytime, anyone could be his meal tonight. No, you were meant to be alive, and you were meant to be by his side.

For eight long weeks he watched your every step. He watched you wake up every morning, have breakfast with your family, attend your daily lessons, sew with your lady friends, read your books by your window and think about him. He could hear your sweet dreams about him, even when he was in his house. You were waking up everyday, hoping to see him somehow. You thought about telling your mother many times. Maybe she would’ve known about that otherworldly lord that attended the party in the gambling club. He watched you blush like a cherry in summer when one of your mother’s friends pointed out that you were zoning out and getting lost in your thoughts pretty often, just like a young lady in love would do. Your mother laughed it off as you kept your eyes on the floor and your thoughts on Lestat.

He watched you go home that day. Slip away from the heavy layers of your dress, undo your beautifully braided hair and lay on your back on the bed. Your room was lightened by the few candles on your desk and nighstand. He could hear your heart beating fast as you pictured his eyes again and again. Oh how beautiful he was. As if carved by God himself carefully within the image of an angel. You could feel that weird, tingly sensation in your stomach when you remembered his lips on your skin. Lestat smiled softly as you drifted into sleep thinking about him. And he was in your room. He walked to your desk first and looked over the poetry books you were reading, and the some poems you tried to write. A little poet i have hear, Lestat thought.

He walked to your bed. His hands traced over your neck to your chest and lastly to your stomach. His touch was so soft and light, he could feel you hardly. But he could feel your warmth so clearly. He could feel it even with just being in your room. He tried to remember the last time he felt the warmth of humanity in him. Nearly two centuries. He sat on your bed and looked at your sleeping figure. You looked so peaceful. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to sleep for night without all those memories haunting him? He listened to your heart beats for a moment and the way your eyes were moving slightly during your sleep. He leaned over you, to your neck. He inhaled deeply as his lips were close to your skin. For a moment he feared that his cold lips would wake you up but you didn’t open your yes. Your blood made his mouth watery. He was so hungry. For blood yes, but he was hungry for something more. Something that could make him feel alive after two centuries of being dead. Something that would make his heart beat faster with excitement again.

He wondered if God was looking down at two of you in that moment. If he was, would he let Lestat to defile one more of his human children? If yes, why? Wasn’t it both torture for Lestat and them? He had the blood of thousands on his hands. And there was no soap or water in this world that could wash it away from him. He was carrying all his victims within himself. They were in his veins, staining his fangs.

He laid his body on top of yours slowly, gently. His broad shoulders blocked your eyes and his legs trapped you between them. Your eyes opened wide with the pressure on your stomach. First you could only see darkness, then you felt a cold hand against your cheek.

“Don’t be afraid, mon cœur.” He whispered. Your fast breathing calmed in seconds. He looked down at your face and your gaze met with his own. You looked divine under the moonlight, under him. The way your eyes were still half open, in the grasp of sleep. And the way your cheeks were flushed with shyness and excitement. But not fear. His eyes found your lips lastly. Your lips that were slightly open, sucking in little breaths, looking all soft and warm. Lestat felt your hardened tetes peaking trough your nightgown, pressed against his tough chest.

You saw his bright blue eyes go darker with lust and his teeth grow into sharp fangs that only a wild animal would have. You felt his sharp nails digging into your skin and make you bleed. You both hissed as his fingertips got covered with your blood. He snarled just like an animal as the smell of fresh blood surrounded his very being. Your body trembled and you held onto his arms tightly

“Are you going to kill me?” You whispered. You did not feel horror, or rage or sorrow. You were only exited as he held you in his arms. Lestat smiled softly at your question. He pressed his nose against your cheek and inhaled your scent one more time. Your humanly, sweet smell made him dizzy. He felt an unfamiliar sensation down below his stomach.

“No, I will give you life. Better than the one you have.” He said and bite down your neck. First thing you felt was a sharp pain that made your neck go numb. You could not move, rather dare to move. It felt like if you moved, the pain would get worse. Lestat let his body go and laid on top of you fully, giving his whole weight. You opened your legs and welcomed his slender figure. And for the first time in decades, Lestat felt like he was home.

The wound that his fangs made on your neck started to burn when he licked and played with it with his tongue. The tears filled your eyes as Lestat laid his head on your neck. He kept drinking from you, slowly, taking little sips with the tip of his tongue, still breathing in your scent. His arms were wrapped around you and you could feel him all over you. He felt himself harden against your hips. He had to do it. He had to put an end to his loneliness.

He slashed his wrist with his nails, deep enough for him to bleed. Then he pressed his wrist against your lips. Your slowly closing eyes opened up at once as the strange taste of blood hit your tongue. Lestat shifted his position to open up the breaches of his trousers. He watched you drink him up hungrily as he lifted your skirt up to your waits. You felt his cold fingertips tracing over your bare stomach and thighs. His blood tasted sweet. Sweeter than the liquors you tasted in the balls, sweeter than the sherbets in the centre of the candies you ate, sweeter than the tropical fruits that your father bought very rarely.

You felt your whole body burn in need, in lust. You felt the buzzing sensation in your brain and your ears ringed. You pushed his hand away and pressed your lips against his own. You had to have him. It was a primal instinct that made you think so. Lestat held your back and positioned himself against your leaking entrance. Your warm walls welcomed him. You were sweet, warm and wet. In that moment it felt like it was all he ever needed. You tasted each other’s blood on your lips as his tongue explored your mouth. The he pushed you back and pressed his wrist back onto your lips. He wanted you to drink, cure your thirst and hunger with him.

He thrusted into you hard and deep as you kept drinking and drinking. He had to tend to you, he had to care for his fledgling. You were his. From head to toe, you belonged to him. Magnus had never claimed him as his own. His mother had no maternal instinct for him. He belonged to no one in this entire world. Nicki was in his own little world despite the love Lestat gave him. And Armand would never belong to anyone. Oh but you, you were perfect for him. Your walls tightened and it drove him over the edge. He ripped his arm away from you and held your face. You whined in need for his blood. His length went deeper and deeper into you as your shaky breaths hit his face.

He heard your heart sync with his own as he looked into your eyes. Your face was covered in blood as you moaned in pleasure. Lestat wanted to get lost in you. He wanted to be buried in you. He spent himself in you with one last thrust and felt your walls tighten more than before as you choked on your breaths and held him tight against you. He looked down at you and saw your thighs and his pubes sticky with blood. I had claimed her in every way possible, he thought.

He let you lay back down as he laid himself on top of you. You tried to catch your breath and he laid his head on your chest, between your breasts. Lestat kissed your skin, his lips left marks of blood on you. Then he felt your hands in his hair. Your fingers played with his lose curls that was ruined when he lost himself in pleasure. He felt your fingertips caressing his forehead and temple, gently, softly. You were still gentle with him even after what he did to you. His shoulders relaxed under your touch and he let out a shaky breath. What was he going to do now? He should’ve ask you before turning you and prisoning you into darkness. How he was different from Magnus when he just grabbed you like a piece of meet and drank your essence of life just to replace it with his rotten, blood of death?

“My family will think I coupled with the devil.” You whispered as you kept caressing his hair. Lestat’s breath hitched in his troath. He looked up to you under his lashes. He looked like a scared little boy in this light. A little boy that feared the monsters under his bed, scared of his father’s rage, scared of life and death. The tears of blood filled his eyes as he looked into your eyes. He saw the bright colour of your irises that matched your new nature. He nodded as he agreed with your statement.

“You have.” He said quietly as he avoided your eyes. He heard your small chuckle, felt his arm move as your chest rised up. You were still so calm. Maybe you were in shock after what he did to you. Poor girl, Lestat thought. I have driven one more innocent into madness.

“How come devil is so pretty then?” You asked as your fingertips trailed around his eyebrows. He stopped frowning with your touch. Then your touch continued to his eyes. Then to his nose. You caressed his straight bone. Finally your fingertips reached to his lips. Your hand brought grace to his well shaped lips. He planted a small kiss to your fingers.

“I never knew devil would look so perfect.” You whispered. As if even you couldn’t believe what you were saying. But Lestat heard you. He heard you so well that he received your compliment as a sharp pain into his heart. Growing up he had always heard that he was a pretty boy. Many of his lovers had said so even after his humanity was ravaged. But he couldn’t see anything but a monster when he looked at himself in the mirror. He had a attraction for violence. He couldn’t feel fulfilled if he didn’t kill. And he couldn’t satisfy himself if he didn’t hurt.

“You don’t know what I am. How can you say I am perfect after what I’ve done to you?” He asked his his tears started to spill from his eyes. You caught them before they could flow down his cheeks. Your small, soft smile remained on your lips. Lestat thought that he never seen someone so beautiful. He was surrounded by your smell, your beauty and compassion. He was covered in your blood and you were carrying his blood. He felt himself warm next to you. Centuries of coldness in his chest was replaced with your smile. He could feel your body calling for him, desperate for his touch and taste. There was a soreness in his troath. He wanted to scream it out.

“You have bewitched me.” You said, almost like a confession. His sharp gaze found your eyes immediately. Lestat’s tears kept spilling from his eyes as he laid his head on your chest again. He stayed in your arms who knows for how long. How could he let you go know? When you were calling him perfect, even after seeing his blood thirsty animalistic side, touching him with love and passion, carrying a piece of him in you, opening your arms for him without a question and accepting him as he is?

The next time Lestat knew loneliness was the hardest time.

You were a great companion, lover and a wife for him after the night he had you in your room, in your bed of youth and innocence. You were a brave little thing that was ready to face an army for him. He felt like the luckiest man alive when your laughs echoed trough the walls of your home. After decades he was finally living, sleeping in a house that he called home. He tried to taught you french but you were impatient and often ran away from his grasp to play his favourite melodies on the piano. He couldn’t get mad at you and watched you for hours as you played, looking at him for the whole time with a big grin on your face. He bought you the finest dresses in your favourite colours, had beautiful jewellery made for you. He loved making you happy more than everything in the whole world.

You were getting into an excited hurry every time you two decide to host a party in your home. People of your city were adoring both of you as a couple. You were so cheerful that there was no room people didn’t smile and the place didn’t lighten up as you entered. Men and women considered themselves lucky if you danced with them. But Lestat knew your first and last dance always belonged to him. Your heart and soul belonged to him. He didn’t know how many nights he pressed his forehead against yours, smiled like a teenage boy in the bliss of love and lifted you into air as your skirts flied behind you and your laughs filled ears of fortunate mortals. His heart was syncing with someone that loved him deeply. And he was so full of love, that he couldn’t remember the times he had lost himself in darkness.

He would have children with you if he could. If he was still a human. He would love to raise a boy that looked like you and a girl that looked like him. He had imagined the picture many nights as he closed his eyes in his coffin, his arms wrapped tight around you. He could see them running around the house, laughing beautifully like you. He could see them growing up and having their own lives as he grew old with you. I was so close to have a life, he thought after every single time he dreamt. The thought brought him sorrow. But he had you. It was more than enough for him.

Lestat met with your family when you two decided to get married. Your parents loved him. They called him a great gentleman with knowledge and culture. A husband fit for my daughter’s hand, your father said. But as the years went by and you still didnt have children or added wrinkle over there and there, your family sank nto silence. The letters became lesser and lesser. By the last letter, it was a dry piece of paper with few words written on it. No feelings, no longing or great love of your mother. You two attended the funeral of your father as he passed away after 15 years of your marriage to Lestat. Your mother’s eyes filled with tears and hatred as you watched your father getting buried. Lestat held you as you fought so hard to keep your tears back from spilling. You could see everyone’s eyes on you, examining you with fear planted in their heart, convinced that you are no longer the girl they knew. You tried to approach your mother and got blocked by cousins and other relatives.

“Tell that devil to leave my poor girl's body and find someone else to be the servant of satan.” You mother’s harsh voice made you step back. And Lestat could hear your heart shatter into pieces. He knew her words were referring to him. How many times I will hear the same thing, phrased differently? He thought. After the funeral you refused to leave your bed chambers for days. You didn’t eat even if Lestat hunted for you. You refused to sleep either. As the sun rose from the east and Lestat closed his coffin, he could hear your muffled cries in your own coffin. You couldn’t get yourself to sleep with him. You couldn’t get yourself to face to world. Your mind kept drifting back to the times you were with your family and how much they loved you. Lestat never wished something as much he wished to hear your thoughts and take your pain away. If he could, he would take all it of to himself. He was used to be in pain since he knew himself. But seeing his sunshine fade away was like tying his hands and feet and abandon him to starve to death.

After days, you left your coffin for the first time. Lestat’s bright eyes scanned your body head to toe. All he could see was a hungry vampire that was broken. Your under eyes were purple and your skin was paler than usual. The veins under your skin was showing trough. You could barely walk and talk as he held you in his arms and carried to the living room. Your hands fell to your thighs and he fell to his knees in front of you. His eyes were filled with concern and fear.

“Ma cherie, you need to eat something.” He said as he tried to make eye contact with you desperately. But your eyes were avoiding him by all cost. Your lips parted and some whispers left your mouth. Lestat leaned closer to hear you.

“It’s you.” He heard you say. He frowned and his mouth opened but nothing came out.

“I don’t understand.” He said quietly after a moment. You looked like a mess in front of him. And he wanted nothing more than pulling you back into his arms and never let you go.

“You never did.” You said as you finally made eye contact with him. “You are the reason of my current state.”

Lestat felt your words form into a dagger and stab him on his heart. His stomach dropped and he fought the urge to get away from you. He wanted to step away and take one more step away and one more… Your eyes were looking at him differently. There was a feeling he never felt from you before. Hate.

“You made me what I am and you ruined me.” Your voice sharp and your eyes full of bitterness. You collected all your strength to get up but it was not enough to keep you standing. Lestat held you gently before you could fall. Then he felt your sharp nails scratch him and rip his hands away from you.

“Don’t ever touch me.” You hissed and crawled away on the big sofa. Lestat’s eyes could not leave the empty space that you used to sit. He could hear your heart beating fast and he could almost taste the poison in your words you spoke out and you were going to speak out.

“You put me in a prison that I will never be able to leave. No matter what I do.” You said. Lestat looked over you and saw the tears of blood flow down your cheeks. Your fragile figure broke his heart repeatedly. He came in front of you on his knees and tried to hold your hand but you pulled away again. He sighed and did his best to hold his tears back.

“It will get better. In time everything will feel less weird and more normal. You will embrace what you are.” Your eyebrows lifted and a cold smirk appeared on your lips.

“And what is that? A murderer? A sinner? A cursed woman?” Your voice raised with each word and Lestat moved away. He turned around to avoid your eyes and words. His left hand found the corner of the window to lean down and his right hand covered his mouth. Muffled cries left his lungs as he shut his eyes tight.

“You will carry this feeling for the rest of your life.” You said and your presence left the house in seconds. Lestat did not move from his spot as he felt you going away from him. Your heart beats faded away in the night until he couldn’t hear you anymore. Me and you both, he wanted to say.

8 years.

He didn’t see you for 8 years after that night. He knew you were out of the city, far away from him. He called for you every night for a year at first. He screamed your name in darkness, hoping desperately that maybe you would hear and answer him. But you didn’t. Once his voice became hoarse, he wrote letters to your family. But got nothing back. Was it still possible for them to take you back after everything? Your mother couldn’t look at you and your siblings had nothing but fear and disgust in their eyes when they glanced at your direction. You were truly all alone in the entire world. You had no one but the person who trapped you into loneliness.

Lestat wandered around the city for days, searching for your scent, your gentle figure. You were no where to be found. He stopped going out after some time and trapped himself into his house. His coffin was full of pictures he could find of you. For nights he stared at your smiling face, frozen in those moments of happiness and joy. He missed your smile. He craved for you in every way possible. The house felt like a grave and his good old friend, the coldness was back. The memories of his youth started to haunt him one by one as he laid in his coffin during daytime. He could not find sleep when your side of the coffin was all empty.

He thought about his life before and after Magnus. He wondered if he would have a good life still if he wasn’t turned into a vampire. The thought of not meeting with you sent a gut-wrenching pain to his stomach. You’d be centuries apart, in different lives and countries. The picture of you marrying a decent man that your family found for you, wear a wedding dress for him, have his children, raise kids that looked like you and some man, have fights and love making nights with him, grow old with him and hold his hand while you greeted by the merciful arms of death made him tear up. He felt his heart pound painfully fast in his chest. A sob ripped from his throat and this time he didn’t cover his mouth. The guilt ate him from inside out. The honeymoon was over and now, he had the face the fact that he stole your whole life, your one chance of being alive, only for him to take your love for himself, selfishly and hungrily.

As the days turned into weeks and weeks urned into months, Lestat started to lose his hopes of seeing you again. Once again he was assured that no one could love a man like him. He didn’t want to stay in the house that use to be the home to two of you. Every corner was you and he couldn’t finish a day without thinking of the times you had spent together. But the small chance of you coming back made him stay. If you wanted to come back, you would love to see everything same and your husband waiting for you, Lestat told himself in the moments of doubt.

And one day you opened that door and came back. He was in the music room when he heard your heart beats. He felt like the time had frozen and his heart skipped a beat. His fingers on the piano stopped, his lips twitched with longing and tears formed in his eyes. When he saw you again, standing in front of him, beautiful as always, he wanted to get on his knees in front of you and beg you to forgive him for what he did to you. Then his eyes found the little body of the human boy in your arms. The child was maximum 4 and he was shaking uncontrollable. His blonde hair was dump on his forehead and weak breaths mixed with moans were leaving his mouth. Lestat didn’t need to be doctor to know that the boy was in great pain. And perhaps fear.

“He is going to die.” You said and hearing your voice after years made Lestat break down. He had to turn around at the doorway to hide his tears.

“Help me. Please.” Cracked noise from your sore throat was heard in the room. The boy was clinging to your dress, like a little lamb. You walked towards your husband as you held the little child tighter.

“Please save him. For me?” Lestat didn’t know if he was feeling grateful that you were back, guilty for his mistake or angry because you only showed up when you needed something from him. He looked at the boy. He was cute little thing with blue eyes like ocean and long blonde lashes that framed his doe eyes. He saw his clear tears run down his face as he coughed. An innocent, Lestat thought. An innocent dying in the arms of the woman I love.

“You can turn him. I don’t know how to. But you do. Please Lestat.” He saw your tears dripping down to the boy’s hands on your dress. The pain in your voice twisted his stomach. You sounded helpless and he whished nothing more than take this feeling away from you.

He shook his head no.

“I can’t.” He spoke. The dryness in his voice made more tears fall down your eyes. You held the boy closer to your heart. His head rested on your heart as you caressed his blonde curls. The curls that reminded you so much of Lestat.

“Yes, you can. Do it for me, please!” You were ready to beg if you needed to. There was nothing more you wanted than saving his little life. He had to live. He had to survive this filthy world and show everyone that he was strong. And maybe you would have a chance of being a mother.

“Children cannot be turned.” Lestat said as he reached out to hold you but you took a step back. You were shaking your head endlessly as tears kept flowing down your cheeks.

“Great laws forbid it. Otherwise a vampire child would live in misery.” He remembered Marius’s voice as he spoke these words to him before he sent him away. Someone under 17 cannot be given the dark gift.

“Laws? Are you serious? He will die if you don’t save him!” Your scream echoed through the walls and found his ears and heart. Your anger and sorrow shook him slightly. He knew he was walking on thin ice in this very moment. You could turn around and leave him again. And never come back this time. Who knows maybe you would find another vampire out there that could be your companion? Or turn this little boy for you to only make you happy? The thought hardened his blood and tightened his chest.

“My love, he won’t be saved if I turn him. He will live his life in desperation. For something more. Something he will never have.” He said gently as he wiped his tears away. He had to be strong. For both of you. His eyes found the boy again. He was so thin. Lestat wanted to put an end to his suffering. The boy’s eyes opened slightly and he looked at you. His fingers were shut tight over the fabric of your dress. Lestat could feel your love and care for him. You felt like you had to protect him. The boy’s big eyes found him. He looked at him with softness and hope. His eyes are full of life even when his life slips away from his body, just like hers were once upon a time, Lestat thought.

“We can be a family Lestat. He can be our son.” You said quietly. As if you feared that the world would take him away from you if they heard your words. “He looks just like you.”

Lestat didn’t look away from the boy. Yes, he did look like him. His blonde curls were just over his shoulders and his nose was small like Lestat’s nose when he was little. His mother loves him, unlike mine, he told himself.

“You and I and him. We can be happy together. We can try again.” The desperation in your voice broke his heart. You were willing to go back to him. To where you belong. Lestat wanted you back in the house, in his arms, in his coffin. He wanted you on his lips, on his skin. He wanted your fangs back in his neck and your heart on his. He wanted to be the one made you smile again and he wanted to be your dance partner in your extravagant parties. He wanted the boy to watch two of you as you danced and clap for his parents. He wanted to take him into his arms and feel a father’s strength in his bones. He wanted the pure and unconditional love of a son. The one he used to have for his father, way before he became his father’s unexplainable enemy. He wanted to see the boy become a man and be his pride.

“We are killers. A child has no place among the demons.” His words cut sharp as the boy started to cough again. The blood covered his lips as you tried to calm him down. Your own tears were spilling uncontrollably and sobs were coming between your lips. Lestat heard your irregular heartbeats.

“He cannot die.” You said between your sobs and cries as the boy kept coughing his blood out. You fell to your knees and kept his little head on your heart. His small, fragile hands were holding your hand tight. The fear in his eyes were piercing trough Lestat chest. He knelt beside you, held your back to his chest as you rocked back and forth. Both of you stopped breathing as the boy’s heartbeats started to slow down. His breaths calmed down and he closed his eyes. He clinged to your cold skin and did not let your hand go. With his last breath your head dropped back to Lestat’s shoulder. His arms were wrapped tight around both you and the boy. His long fingers intertwined with your and the boy’s hand. His decreasing temperature was slowly matching the coldness of both vampires.

“My son…” he hard your whisper. Your eyes were focused on the ceiling. Lestat buried his face in your neck when your cries filled the room. If only I could take all your pain away, he wanted to say but words did not leave his mouth. He could take your pain away, if only he made you a mother and gave you another family.

Lestat carried you to the coffin when you were exhausted from crying. He took the boy’s lifeless body and burnt it while you slept. He stayed until he was nothing but ash. He looked at the scene as the flames took him away and listened as his bones cracked and his flesh melted down. He didn’t let himself cry. It was his vilest murder. He had no right to feel guilt or shame.

He laid beside you in the coffin. You were whispering and crying still, even in your sleep. His fingers traced over your hands gently. He looked at your sleeping form and took a deep breath. Your scent filled his lungs once again after many years. His insides blossomed and he felt the life come back to his body. You were his home. It didn’t matter to him which form you were in or how you looked like. It didn’t matter if you were laughing or in sorrow. As long as you were beside him, he was happy to have you in any way. And you were back. Lestat knew he could not let you go again. Not after this night. Not when you needed him the most. He was the only one you had left with and he had no intention of leaving you alone. He was going to make you happy again. Just two of you were enough.

“You came into my life when I needed you the most. Now it is my turn to bring you joy.” He whispered to your ear and wrapped his arm around your waist. Your eyes opened as he closed his own. Your gaze traveled trough his beautiful features. He was beautiful as the first day you saw him. Years ago, in that party, where you were still innocent and human. Now I know that devil can be this pretty, you thought.

Lestat was in the corner of your mind for 8 years. You were carrying him in you wherever you traveled to. His face was carved onto your eyelids and you were too afraid to close your eyes. His voice kept echoing in your head when you killed, drank or spared a life. You played his favourite songs on the piano when you needed him by your side. But no matter how much you missed him, you couldn’t forgive him. You knew Lestat De Lioncourt loved you. You felt it in your bones, in your flesh. You carried his love in your veins. But you knew he cursed you forever. And you weren’t naive like you used to be to forgive and forget what he did to you. You were young and in love. How could you know it meant to lose your everything when you gave yourself to him that night?

You could not deny the fact that you were happy at first. Lestat gave you things no one ever did. He respected you, he loved you gently and made you feel like the only woman in the world. And you loved him. There was something in Lestat that pulled you to him. You were like opposite sides of a magnet. It felt right to touch and kiss him. Your heart craved for his heart just like your body craved for him. When he was deep in you, made you scream his name and planted soft kisses to your face, life was good. Until you started to see question marks on people’s faces. You were in peace with your fate and the things came with your new life. But everything seemed meaningless once it cost you your family. Lestat’s arms failed to comfort you when you were invited to your own father’s funeral at the last minute and saw that no one wanted you there. Not even your own mother.

You were motherless and fatherless. You were a demon who could only see the world under the dark sky. You could only stay alive if you killed humans. And seeing Lestat every single moment of your life vexed you. At the time you needed someone to blame other than yourself. You were already aware of your mistakes. And knowing that Lestat still turned you despite the fact that he knew what kind of a curse he was bringing on you, made his existence unbearable. You had to leave. You had to be alone with yourself after decades of marriage. Still, no matter where you went, Lestat was the only thing your heart ever wanted. You would always love him.

Then you found him. Leonardo. That was his name, you tried to remember. He was the son of a homeless woman that lived on the street of your small home. It was nighttime when you heard his cries. You saw his dead mother and him crying his eyes out over her body. You felt your heart shatter into pieces with the sight in front of you. He was so small and so scared. When his blue eyes found you and you could see his face clearly, you knew that you could not leave him to die. His arms reached out to you when you knelt beside him. He didn’t know why his mother wasn’t waking up and taking him into her arms. He was shaking and coughing between his sobs full of fear.

“Mummy.” He cried as you caressed his blonde curls to calm him down. He was cold and hungry and sick. I want to help you. I need to hold you, you thought as he snuggled to your chest. There was only one person who could help you. But could you go back to him? After everything that happened between you? Could you find that strength in yourself or would he take you back?

“Mummy!” Leonardo screeched in your lap in pain as his coughs got harder. His little hands were trying to hold your arms. You had to do it. Both for yourself and him. So that was now you found yourself in front of the door of your home.

You reached to hold his cheek. His breath quickened with your touch but his eyes kept shut. You were pressed against him. Your lips were nearly touching and you could feel his breaths all over your face. Your fingertips traced over his face to his neck and to his chest. His body shook. The soft touch made you both shiver when your hand slipped under his expensive shirt. It has been years since you last touched one another and you realised how much you missed him. You needed to touch him. When you pressed your lips against his, Lestat’s arms wrapped tighter around you. His kisses and biting continued to your neck and to your chest. The soft lips of your lover were sending you into oblivion. You had to be closer to him. Closer than being skin to skin, something more, something more painful, something full of love and the suffering that comes with it. Something that would destroy that pit in your stomach and be worth of all your sorrow.

“I love you. I live you. I-“ Lestat’s raggedy voice stopped as he kept kissing you hungrily. His words weren’t able to keep up with his desire. Your mind was foggy as he undressed himself first, then you. Tears were flowing down your cheeks and you were feeling his cold fingers spread the wetness between your legs. His fingertip caressed your leaking opening and moans left your mouth. You could barely see because of tears when you held his face and made him look at you. He was crying too. You kissed him. His tears and yours mixed up and found your pressed lips. The taste of blood was exquisite, vibrating, destructive.

The next thing you knew was you were on top of him, the lid of the coffin was wide opened, he was inside you, fully. You rode him to the bottom of the coffin, hard and deep as his impressive size stretched you out immensely. Your eyes rolled back when his hands groped your breasts. He was talking but you couldn’t hear him. Your ears were ringing and the pain was too great. Your moves became faster and harsher. Your sharp nails digged into his chest and scratched him all over.

“You’re crying.” Finally you heard him and opened your eyes again. It was a mess in his coffin. His chest, between your legs, his face, your body, you were both covered in blood. Yet Lestat managed to smile when he saw the unsettled look on your face. He held your waits tight and moved you back on forth gently on him. He kept caressing your body and say sweet nothings as he controlled your movements.

All the memories of your shared life passed before your eyes as you went closer to the edge. Your legs shook when Lestat’s thumb found your pearl and circled it skilfully. There was a soreness in your throat and your climax was building in your lower belly. The image of two of you filled your mind over and over again. The image of you happy. Would you be able to be like that again? You didn’t know. And learning the answer of this question scared you to death.

“I can’t.” You cried out when your orgasm hit you hard. Your body froze as Lestat kept his hands on you and reached to his climax. His dead seed spilled into you. Deep into your dead womb that was never going to be a home to a babe. Was Lestat enough for you to be fulfilled? Were you going to be enough for him when he got bored of searching for things that made him feel human, made him feel young again?

When you made eye contact again, you could see fear and doubt in his eyes. He was scared that you were going to leave him, just like everyone he ever loved. And he was not sure if it was still you in your body. He was looking for you in the eyes he saw for thousands of times and more. Yet nothing about your eyes felt familiar. Your body felt like you, your kisses felt like you, your heart felt like you. But it was almost like a death itself looking down at him in this moment. He left out a deep breath when you leaned down and laid on his chest.

His heartbeats were fast under your cheek. You turned a little and pressed a tender kiss to his chest. And another. And another. You kissed him until new tears stained your face. You hoped that you could find him again one day. You hoped that you were both humans when you meet again. You hoped that you had a life in another world, with the love of your life. You knew Lestat would find you no matter what. He would love you the same if not more. He would be yours in every lifetime until you had no more love to give.

“I’ll love you forever. Now and always. Until my last day and after.” You whispered but your quiet words reached to Lestat’s ears. He smiled sadly, his tears spilled down to his paper white pillow. He tried to speak but his voice shattered.

“And I you.” He could only say without sobbing. He shut his eyes tight when he heard you fall asleep on him. Tomorrow was going to be better. Everything was going to alright. He had you in his arms. And he needed nothing more.

—

When Lestat opened his eyes again, the first thing he felt was pain. His eyes were watering and he couldn’t even press his lips together to cover up his moans. He licked his dry, chapped lips with the last strength before he was breathless again. In the darkness of his coffin, his shiny eyes looked around desperately. He could feel the air hitting his burned body and make his wounds boil. He cried out your name. You were not in his arms. Where could you possibly be? Were you harmed too? What if you were harmed worse than him? You were younger and weaker than your maker. Lestat had to put himself together and find you, his dear fledgling. When he pushed opened his coffin lid, he saw the the wide open curtains that were usually closed. It was dark outside. The moon light was the only thing that was bright in the pitch black room.

It was only then he saw his burned body. Front of his arms, his whole chest, his thighs and his face were all covered in ashy wounds that were slowly healing. His blood red flesh was showing trough the burned skin pieces. They sizzled as the new skin was forming over them. But before he could think about his wounds, he had to find you. Why the curtains were open? They were always supposed to be shut. Just in case if any of you had to wake up when sun was still up during the day. He dragged his feet to the short, wide corridor of the second floor. All the doors and the windows were open, he frowned in confusion. His head was banging quiet like a bomb explosion. His body was aching and he was afraid. He was afraid just like the night Magnus took him from his room.

He walked fast as he could and entered the music room. You were no where to be seen. Lestat’s nose scrunched when he breathed in the strange smell in the room. He felt the smell stick onto his lungs and enter every bit of him. It was haunting and indescribable. It almost felt like he could taste it on his tongue. That strange, unpleasant, obnoxious flavour was so familiar on Lestat’s throat, yet he could find no name for it. He took few steps to his piano. His favourite tunes ringed in his ears. He could see your ghost of a fingers on the keyboard, playing all gracefully.

When he looked down, a pile of grey, powdery substance caught his attention. How could he possibly not see this when he entered the room? He got on his knees and the source of smell was undeniably found. As he touched the powder, he felt his whole body shake in horror. His eyes closed tight when the faded memory of you getting up from the coffin came back.

“I love you. I love you. I love…” the words were repeated over and over again. Not thousands but maybe hundreds and thousands of times. He could hear you. You were not in the coffin. He could hear your steps in the room. Then he could hear your steps in the corridor. You were going in and out of rooms. Lestat could hear you mumbling things under your breath. He could hear your heartbeats and your rushed moves.

He wanted to open the lid of his coffin and get out. It was probably near sunrise and you had to go back to sleeping. When he pushed the lid, something blocked his exit. He tried to kick it and punch it when he heard you play the piano and keep talking.

“I want to see the sun rise in the sky again.” You said. “I want to see the clouds on the blue ocean of time.”

He called for you but you were not listening to him. As you played the melody from start to end, the fear in Lestat’s heart grew stronger. And when your fingers stopped, he felt a sharp pain all over his body. It was something he had never felt before. The greatest pain he felt was when he was transformed. He could never forget what it felt like for the next thousand years. But this, this was different. It was coming from somewhere deep. He wanted to rip his stomach open and find the core of the pain. His coffin got filled with his dreadful scream and he heard you shout in agony. He felt the pain in every inch of his body. With one last hard kick, he opened the lid successfully. Only to be greeted by bright, warm sunlight that was glowing beautifully in your shared chambers.

His skin started to burn immediately, and it was then Lestat knew what was happening. His jaw clenched and his tears burned his wounds when he heard your screams from the other side of the house.

“What have you done?!” He shouted but you didn’t respond. The sunlight was nothing compared the pain he was in as you kept burning. He could feel his blood boil in veins as yours dried up under the daylight. You were leaving him.

‘I have loved you, with everything I had in me.’ Lestat didn’t know if you spoke aloud or he just imagined, rather wished you have said it. Maybe it wasn’t too late, Lestat tried to get up but his body was damaged enormously. He could feel the sunlight penetrate into his bones with every second he was spending in front of the open curtains. But he had to save you! He cried and tried to get up again. And again and again. Until he couldn’t hear your screams anymore.

The house fell into a dead silence in seconds. Only thing that could be heard was the silent sizzling of Lestat’s burns. He stoped breathing and he stoped trying to get up. His lifeless eyes fell onto his hands. He laid back in his coffin and pulled the lid back on with a stinging move.

It was a nightmare. An unbelievably bad nightmare. Maybe the worst one he had have been for decades. You were sleeping in your own coffin peacefully. Lestat was going to see you when sun came down and he was going to kiss your lips with a smile on his face. He was going to carry you around the house like a princess and read your favourite poems just for you. You were going to forgive. And maybe in time, you were going to forget. He was going to change and try to be someone better than who he was now. Both of you were going to be happy again, together. He smiled with excitement with the thoughts on his mind. The smell of burned flesh tickled his nose.

—

“You do not know this girl!” Lestat said aggressively as he watched Louis lay the little girl on the bed carefully. Louis’s bright green eyes were full of fear and guilt when he faced Lestat again.

“Make her like us!” He said with a bitter hope in his voice. Lestat pressed his lips together when he heard him utter those words. This cannot be happening, he assured himself hopelessly.

“Non c’est impossible. Elle est trop jeune!” Lestat said in frustration as Louis walked closer to him with hurry. Lestat's heart was pounding fast in his chest. The images of a distant memory was blurring his vision. The same eyes from decades ago were looking at him again. The same eyes that were full of guilt, sorrow and hope with an innocent child at the edge of death in the arms of the person he loved. His chest tightened when Louis kept talking, pleading to save the little girl’s life. What could Lestat do? Was he curse to live same life over and over again for the rest of the eternity?

He could never forget you. He didn’t know how long he mourned you. Days, months, years? Maybe he was still mourning you with the little box in his closet that was filled with your ashes. It took him years to find the courage to try again. And when he kissed Louis for the first time, he felt like finding light in his murky world. But guilt ate him inside out. He wondered if you would be wounded when you learned that he was capable of loving again. He tried to reassure himself that the thing he had with Louis was different than what he had with you. You would always be his wife. Your wedding ring on a necklace that was around his neck was the proof of it.

“Please I can’t have her die!” The pain in Louis’s voice broke his heart. He remembered this feeling so well that it almost hit him on the face. He remembered how it felt like to be helpless when his lover was begging him to change things, set things right and how he couldn’t do it.

“The gift cannot be given to children.” He said when his anger and fear filled him to his limit. The look on Louis’s face twisted something in his stomach.

“What do you mean? Yes it can.” Louis said breathlessly as he tried to find his strength back. All he needed was to save this girl’s precious life. She laid on the bed, unconscious, coughing out the flames silently and she was all he needed in that moment.

“The great laws forbid it!” Lestat spited out as if he had poison on his tongue. Anger appeared on Louis’s face and Lestat regretted what he just said.

“The great laws?” Louis said mockingly. He sounded bitter and every octave of his voice cut both men deeply. “She gonna die in front of us!”

The next thing Lestat knew was that Louis dragged the little girl on the flour, cried, begged, cried, fell on his knees in front of his companion and cried. Louis’s usually gentle hands found Lestat’s body, he held onto him like he was the last thing on the world.

“Please, please.” It was all Lestat could hear. And the little girl’s raggedy breaths that were becoming slower and slower.

“My beautiful little daughter.” Lestat could not swallow, could not hold his tears back or his heartbeats stable when he heard Louis’s voice shatter as he said the words. He hated how his story repeated itself. He hated how he was always the one who had to make this decision.

“Please I’ll be anything.” Louis begged and cried. Lestat wanted to curl into a ball and never wake up again. He looked down at this companion, his lover, the man who saved him, begging him to make him a father.

“Please, please, please…” It was all Louis was saying when Lestat remembered your screams after your little boy died. He remembered how yours eyes looked dead inside and even your smiles were full of grief. He remembered how you begged him and he didn’t listen to you. And then how he lost you. He was a fool to think that you were going to be alright after your son died. He was a fool to think you were going to forgive him and be happy again. And he was a fool to think that you were going to stay with him after what he did to you.

There was a no day passed after your death that he didn’t regret not turning that boy. Great laws forbid it! At what cost he had followed the laws when he was on the other side of the world, oceans away from the last vampire he had seen? He regretted his choice everyday of his last few years and he didn’t know if he would be able to mourn one more person.

He looked down at Louis and saw your crying eyes stare back at him. He looked up instantly.

“You will regret this for the rest of your life.” He said. Yet he didn’t know if he was talking to himself or Louis. Maybe both. He walked to the little girl on the floor and picked her body with ease. Poor thing was covered in burns and couldn’t open her eyes. His blue eyes found Louis’s relieved shoulders and his fangs found the girl’s small neck.

[searchingforserendipity25]

like.

lawrence's thing about being clocked by the old pope as a manager and not a shepherd, about being taken as inoffensive and unambitious and politically-unmotivated by most anyone at the beginning of the conclave. is that.

okay, he's a manager, he's the backstage admin making sure the curia goes on, he's a paper pusher. but you can't convince me this guy didn't paper push a whole lot of insane papers.

you don't end up with a reputation for dogged integrity, easily forgotten influence and selfless reliability as the second most influential person in the vatican like that by being boring or normal. or at least boring in a normal way.

innocent xiv in his second first day of office being given the super secret cardinal cvs and nodding along to everything, with a few surprises. until he gets to t. lawrence, dean of the college. and it's just. this gigantic fold out of stapled documents that goes over his knees and keeps unrolling on the floor.

he's merely a manager, alright. it's just that he's been managing literally everything, step by step, all the way up the ladder.

this man could bring down the church in half an hour w a few phone calls. this man could bring down several establishments, and it is not entirely clear, reading between the lines, that he hasn't, indirectly, unveiled a number of scandals in his time.

and it's not that lawrence thinks of himself as a bona fide politician, as anyone influential. it's not that he seeks out power, exactly, that he hunts down corruption on purpose. he's not a detective; he's not a cynic.

it's just that he is competent. that's his calling, in a sense; it has been his calling, to be competent for god, in god's service.

he is very, very, very good at his job, which has, from what the paperwork relies, been that of middle-upper management everywhere he has ever been, from his catholic youth scouting group days, to his seminary years, to canon law teaching, to bishorship, and beyond.

his loss of faith is threatening enough, at the start of the movie, that he has come to a point where he wants to leave his work. he cannot do, without faith, because it is his faith. without prayer to guide him, how can he possible do it?

everything that happens during the conclave is like a nightmare build custom made for him. the culmination of a career built on the foundations of pretending to himself he is keeping well out any undue influence to correct procedure, while in fact determining what correct procedure should look like.

there is a difference, a fine difference, between making sure events and places and concepts as vague and complex as the bride of christ run smoothly; and then there is infighting, which is petty, and political, and not any of his business.

any accountability review process will simply have to wait, and ideally be someone else's responsibility. there's a time and there's a place, and lawrence has lived his life very much keeping to his own time and place.

this determination, as it happens, does not last very long. lawrence has live his life keeping to his time, and place, and that is, unfortunately for his peace of mind, wherever and whenever there is something wrong with the machinal workings of the responsibility in his charge.

the cognitive dissonance + all revealed secrets + the continued choice to take part in the world of politics is at last strong enough to unbalance his belief in his own mediocrity. which had, while being a decisive part of his sense of self, also been chocking him w resentment a bit.

turns out, he is as able of holding a desire as anyone else, just because he refuses to hold to an agenda beyond his obligations.

he is neither beneath nor above; being discreet about the power he holds does not make it any less real, or any less his responsibility to wield it openly to break tradition and make sure there is a structure. checks and balances. that what is rotten is not hidden beneath gilt, that the bride of christ is not cheated or lied to.

that the living principles they swear to are upheld in truth and not just in ideal, that the weaknesses of men in power are admitted. and that includes his own ambitions, his own hypocrisies and human frailties.

he is, after all, a manager. this work is what he is for.

it is possible he is dealing with this growing self-awareness received via exploding sistine chapel to the face with some grace. possible! perhaps not likely.

what is clear, to innocent, is that the church as it stands has been quietly, diligently, unassumingly managed over the decades into the shape of what thomas lawrence's church ought to be. in the image of his integrity, the mark his service leaves behind. no one has noticed; it is possible his predecessor made sure no one noticed.

the late holy father, it has to be said, was quite fond of his secret weapons hidden in plain sight.

a more suspicious man would think that the fact that he went underestimated for so long was part of a deliberate farce.

but no. he's not a great tactical genius, he's just like that. t. lawrence, there it is on paper. through the years, a whole bursting folder of different grains and colours of cheap office paper, a long scroll of good works, of work as faith, all the way to cardinal-dean of the college of cardinals. and now?

and now he's innocent's extremely competent manager to manage, and it is not entirely clear how well the curia might hold on, without him. possibly it might not.

no pressure tho. it's not like he's asked to retire before or anything.

his scouts group is recorded as having organized a fully-functioning food kitchen during his administration, btw. it's still open, and funded by the dean of the college of cardinals. if you even care. innocent cares so much.

[theonlyqualitytrash]

Ultima Sacrificium - Fyodor x Reader

Synopsys: The wolf and the lamb, it all comes full circle. Living in a cult was a beautiful lie, woven by those that claimed to love you.

Warnings: Fyodor, no ability au, graphic violence, mental and emotional manipulation, possessive behavior, cult themes and brainwashing, religion, moral ambiguity and ethical dilemmas, death (just lots of it)

A/N: This took two white nights to write I was high for most of it. I took a lot of inspiration from Midsommar and Kindred's lore (league) — thought it fit the relationship dynamic between Fyodor (a wolf in sheep's clothing) and the protagonist (a lamb). Enjoy :)

Word count: 8,800

"Once, long ago, there was a pale man with dark hair who lived in a world much like ours. But the pale man was terribly lonely. Why was he lonely? Well, you see, all things must meet this man one day, and so they feared him. They shunned him. They whispered his name with trembling voices and hid behind locked doors, hoping he might forget them. The pale man was patient, for he knew that time would bring all things to him eventually. Still, he wished for company, for understanding, for love. But how could he ever find such things when everyone turned away from him?" 

"The pale man grew tired of his solitude, so one day, he took up his axe and made a choice. With one swift swing, he split himself in two, right down the middle. From his pale form, two figures emerged. One half became a lamb, soft and gentle, with warm eyes and a voice like a lullaby. The lamb would comfort those who came to the pale man, wrapping them in its embrace, whispering sweet assurances: 'Do not fear, for I will make your passing gentle.' The lamb brought peace and stillness, a quiet that felt like a soft bed on a cold night." 

"The other half became a wolf, fierce and watchful, with sharp teeth and piercing eyes. The wolf would guard those who came to the pale man, protecting them from fear, doubt, and anything that might harm them in their final moments. 'Do not fear,' the wolf growled, 'for I will keep you safe as you walk into the unknown.' The wolf brought strength and courage, a shield to carry into the great beyond. Together, the lamb and the wolf made the pale man less frightening. No longer did the people shun him, for they saw in him not an end, but a promise. A promise that their journey would be gentle and strong, warm and brave, all at once." 

"Now, the pale man is never lonely. All things come to him in time, and when they do, they do not turn away. They open their arms to the lamb and the wolf, knowing that both will guide them to their destiny." 

Children are the fruit of society, and children were taught to see the world through stories like these. Some grew to be rotten, while others became little lambs—gentle, obedient, perfect for the herd. It was what society hoped for, and as a child, you were no different. Your parents told you bedtime tales of faith and sacrifice, and you learned that life in your community was a blessing. You had food and shelter. You were loved. You were taught to be kind and giving. These were virtues, they said, and to give back was the greatest blessing of all.

But as you grew older, the ways of giving back began to unsettle you. Were they truly necessary? Must they be so cruel? So violent? The gods demanded it—or so you were told. Your parents would never lie to you. The Shepherd would never lead you astray. He was chosen by the gods, blessed with their wisdom and charged with guiding you all. Surely, he only wanted what was best for you, for the community.

Yet, the thoughts prevailed, whispering doubts that you dared not voice. It must be your fault, you decided. Everyone else was content, even joyful. If you could not share in their faith, then something was wrong with you. These thoughts were dangerous, blasphemous, and you tried to bury them. But they had already taken root.

Your reflection was broken by the splash of something warm against your skin and applause that rippled through the crowd. Your senses snapped into focus, and you saw where you stood: the red square. Such a lovely place most days of the year, yet on days like today, bearing grim weights of tradition.

Before you lay a woman’s body, her head severed and resting at the base of a stone table. The table was stained with layers of sacrifice: black, brown, and the fresh crimson of her blood. Her hair, once long and red, was cut in two—strands still clinging to her head, framing her lifeless eyes, and another resting softly against her back, swaying in the breeze.

It was Gift Giving Day.

On paper, the celebration was a joyful offering of thanks to the gods for protection, for fertile harvests, for mercy from disasters. In truth, it demanded a human life, and  however you looked at it, you could not find peace in it.

The Shepherd’s voice boomed across the square, smooth and commanding. "My dear children, my fleecelings… another good harvest is upon us! We thank the gods for welcoming Karolina into their kingdom and for keeping us safe…”

You forced yourself to listen, masking your unease with a polite smile. He was a good man, wasn’t he? He stayed among the people, with the guidance of selflessness your mother so often spoke of. He loved your mother when they were all younger, but he took on the mantle of leadership because his people needed him, allowing your mother to be given to another. Yet was that ever truly a thought of your own? Or had it been drummed into you since you had gained a sense to understand it?

When you’re branded as part of the flock from childhood, perhaps it’s easier to believe the brand is part of you as an adult.

"... As for next year's gift," the Shepherd went on to say, "I plead with the ewes and wetherlings to come forth for the choosing!"

You stepped forward alongside others your age, the motion automatic, your breaths shallow. A part of you yearned to be chosen, to end the cycle of watching others die year after year. But fate was neither kind nor cruel—merely indifferent.

"Fyodor! My dear boy, come forth!"

The same fate fell, by a flick of an eye, on a dark haired and paled skinned boy. Fyodor had always seemed distant, as though he existed in a world apart, he rarely spoke, his expression unreadable, his eyes unfocused. His frail body could barely wield an axe, unlike the other boys. Yet now, a faint smile graced his lips as he stepped forward to accept the flower crown from the Shepherd.

You clapped along with the crowd, your forced smile hiding the churn of emotions in your chest. You hadn’t spoken much with Fyodor, but you didn’t want him—or anyone—to meet this fate. Yet the community’s expectations weighed heavy, and you were one person, too insignificant, to defy them.

Bath time—a sacred ritual in your home. It was a communal act where you sat shoulder to shoulder in the steaming water, exchanging quiet words with your neighbors and washing one another. It was meant to cultivate unity and cohesion, a sense of belonging. No one felt shame; the sight of everyone bare before each other was considered a blessing, a return to innocence as God had intended. It symbolized the absolution of the first sin—disobedience—and the renunciation of shame and knowledge of good and evil.

The bathhouse was vast, its walls lined with mosaics of the pale man, the lamb, and the wolf. Light poured through the domed glass ceiling, fracturing into kaleidoscopic patterns on the marble floors and casting the room in a serene glow. It was a cocoon of peace, but you found no solace in it. You sat in the water, apart from the muted hum of conversation around you, their words blurred together, echoing faintly, as your thoughts churned. Someone else would soon be sacrificed. Fyodor. How much weaker would his fasting leave him? How frail would his already frail body turn? The questions weighed heavy on your mind.

You cupped your hands, splashing the salted water onto your face in an effort to shake yourself loose from your thoughts. The warmth of the bath should have soothed you, but instead, it only managed to heighten the restless ache in your chest.

“(Y/N)…” A voice, quiet and almost gentle, pulled you out of your reverie. The gentle ripples in the water announced his approach before his words did. You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Slowly, you glanced over your shoulder to meet sharp, dark eyes—Fyodor’s eyes. There was something magnetic about him, an allure that transcended his frail appearance. Perhaps it was his intellect, the spark of something greater that placed him at the forefront of the Gift Giving list. He could have been a leader, you thought, had he not been chosen to die so young.

“May I help with your back?” he asked, his voice soft but steady.

You nodded, a quiet hum of approval escaping your lips. It wasn’t unheard of for people to help one another wash, but it should have been the other way around. Fyodor, as the sacred fleece, was the one meant to be tended to, venerated. People would clamor for the chance to serve him, yet here he was, offering to serve you. The gesture struck you as strange, even kind. Perhaps you had misjudged him. Maybe he didn’t dislike you, as you’d once thought. Maybe you were simply two people who had never truly known one another.

His hand settled lightly on your shoulder, steadying you as he began brushing your back. His touch was soft, almost hesitant, yet firm enough to create a sharp contrast with the roughness of the bristles. The juxtaposition brought you back to your thoughts, unbidden questions rising to the surface. Why was he doing this? Why you? You were just another lamb in the flock, no more significant than the others waiting their turn for slaughter. Did anyone matter in the grand scheme of things?

“You flinched today,” Fyodor murmured, his voice cutting through the quiet. “During the prayer.”

He was right. When the axe fell, you’d instinctively closed your eyes, to shut yourself from the scene. You hadn’t realized anyone had noticed it. The memory brought a flush of heat to your cheeks, and the oppressive warmth of the bath made it hard to breathe.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered, shame creeping into your voice. “It’s just… it felt wrong. Celebrating this.” The words were out before you could stop them. Panic flared—what if he took this to the Shepherd or the Judge?

“Then you’re not as blind as the rest of them,” he said, his tone gentle, almost coaxing. His focus seemed more on his task than on your confession, but his words seemed to be more substantial, as if he held you in place. Your throat tightened, you could not vomit nor gulp down your words. “Do you really believe this is what the gods want?” Fyodor continued, his voice barely more than a whisper. “That spilling blood will make the crops grow, or keep the storms at bay?”

“It’s what we’ve been taught,” you replied, your voice trembling. “It’s what… everyone believes.” You wanted to defend your words, but they rang hollow even to your own ears.

“That may be what they believe,” he murmured, leaning closer, his hair brushed against your shoulder, his breath ghosting against the skin of your neck. “But not you. You see the sickness in this system, don’t you? You’ve felt it all your life but were too afraid to name it. Did you notice the storm last year, after the sacrifice? The gods didn’t seem pleased, did they?” He pulled back slightly, resuming his gentle strokes with the brush. His words were heresy, yet in his tone lay no fidgets, no show of discomfiture; quiet, almost serene.

You stared at the rippling water, your fingers now wrinkled and pruned. “I’ve noticed… things,” you admitted, the words soft, hesitant.

Fyodor hummed low in his throat, the sound more content than accusatory. “Good,” he said simply. His words wrapped around you like the steam rising from the bath, invasive yet oddly comforting. To the others in the room, it was nothing more than a simple act of communal care. But for Fyodor, it was something far more deliberate.

His gaze flickered briefly toward the Shepherd, visible through the mosaic-glass walls, speaking with a small cluster of elders. Fyodor leaned closer, his breath ghosting over your shoulder once more. “He watches you sometimes,” Fyodor murmured, his tone thoughtful, the words slipping into your mind like a dagger “I wonder why. It’s as if he’s searching for something.” You blinked, startled by the observation. Had you noticed? Maybe. There had been moments, fleeting and strange, when his gaze seemed heavier than it should have been. But no—no, it couldn’t mean anything. You didn't reply and tried to dismiss it—tried to bury the unease rising in your chest. His words, like everything else he said, felt both dangerous and true. 

The last sentences words lingered, like a noose in the air, as Fyodor quietly tended to your back.

It is tradition for the sacred fleece to be adored for the year. The chosen family is granted elevated status, moved to a new living space overseen by the Sheppard and Judge. Being selected as an offering is considered the highest honor, and the community celebrates it with fervor, but Fyodor saw it differently. He recognized long ago the sacrifice’s true purpose:  It kept the population docile and loyal because of fear and conditioning.

My taciturn had tipped them off, he thought bitterly. Perhaps if I seemed more brain-washed, then they wouldn’t have chosen me.

The selection, he knew, was rarely random. It was political, targeting those who dared to think too freely or challenge the system in subtle, unsettling ways. He despised their hypocrisy—the cunning way they cloaked control in the guise of divine will, using fear of the gods to tighten their grip over the community. But perhaps it was the only way to keep people from turning away. 

As for you, the thought of the sacrifice made your skin crawl. Your hair stood on end every time it was discussed, and your chest settled in a place of deep discomfort. But you never voiced your doubts. The community seemed so content, so pios. Surely, it was you who was wrong. Surely, you needed to be reformed.

Days turned into weeks as you found yourself looking at Fyodor differently. Something lingered in your mind—an ache, almost a longing. You remembered the way he spoke that day in the bathhouse, his words sounding like echoes that refused to fade. He understood something about you, about the restlessness you couldn’t name. Soon, though, he would be gone, sacrificed in a few months’ time. He was the only one who had ever made you feel less lonely, and now he would be lost, like so many others before him. The loneliness this thought stirred in you was deep and unshakeable.

You couldn’t help but cast lingering glances in his direction, hoping—foolishly, perhaps—that he would catch your eye and say something to you again. But he never did. At the next community feast, the monthly celebration following days of fasting, you stole another sidelong look at him. He was seated with his family at the center table, each of them adorned in flower crowns crafted by you and the others in the village.

Fyodor wore the one you had made, the only one woven with cornflowers. The blue-purple hue complemented his eyes, a detail you had noticed while weaving it. You didn’t realize you were staring until his gaze met yours. His gentle smile, soft and welcoming, sent your heart stuttering. You returned a small, hesitant smile before quickly looking back at your plate.

You didn’t want to think about his death. A year could pass so quickly, slipping through your fingers before you even realized it.

The soft clatter of plates echoed in the grand dining hall was a far cry from the cheerful celebration that had filled it hours ago. The other young women and men hummed and chattered as they worked, their hands moving in a practiced rhythm. You, however, labored in relative silence, a heaven in the monotony of it. Each swipe of the cloth, each stack of plates, served to dull the noise in your head—if only for a moment.

But the reprieve was short-lived.

“You made this one, didn’t you?”

The voice, low and unmistakably familiar, startled you. You whipped around to find Fyodor standing right behind you, holding the wreath of flowers between his slender fingers. The cornflowers stood out against the pale hue of his hands, the same way they had against his dark hair and fair skin earlier.

Your heart quickened. “I—I did,” you stuttered, not quite knowing what to say.

His smile deepened, soft but deliberate. “It’s beautiful. The craftsmanship is… meticulous.” He turned the crown gently in his hands, as if admiring its every petal and weave. “You’ve a gift for creation, I see.”

You felt yet again a suffocating heat rise to your cheeks at his praise, and you quickly looked down at the plates you were drying. “It’s nothing, really. Just something small. Anyone could have done it.”

“But they didn’t,” he countered, his tone smooth and confident. “You did. And it shows.” You bit the inside of your cheek, unsure how to respond. Compliments were not uncommon in the village, but something about the way Fyodor spoke to you felt different—personal, intentional. “May I help?” he asked, gesturing to the plates.

You blinked at him, confused. “You shouldn’t… You’re the sacred fleece. It wouldn’t be proper.”

“Proper,” he repeated, his smile faltering for a moment as his eyes darkened. “I tire of what’s ‘proper.’ Surely it wouldn’t offend the gods for me to lend a hand, would it?”

You hesitated, unsure whether to agree. But he didn’t wait for your answer, stepping closer and picking up a damp cloth. His movements were slow and deliberate, as though testing the boundaries of this small rebellion. The two of you worked in silence for a moment, the air between you charged with an unspoken tension. Finally, he broke it.

“Do you ever wonder,” he began, his voice low enough that only you could hear, “why we fast before we feast? Why we deprive ourselves, only to indulge?”

You glanced at him, taken aback by the question. “It’s… to show devotion. To the gods.”

He hummed thoughtfully, as though weighing his decision by your words. “Devotion,” he repeated. “It’s a curious thing, isn’t it? How easily it can be mistaken for fear.” His words sent a shiver down your spine. You glanced around, suddenly aware of how close he was standing, of how his voice seemed to put you in a trance.

“I don’t understand what you mean,” you said, though the slight tremor in your voice betrayed you, you knew exactly what he was talking about.

He paused, setting down the cloth and turning to face you fully. “Perhaps you do,” he murmured, his gaze piercing. “Or perhaps you will, in time.” For a moment, neither of you said a word. The sounds of the other people cleaning seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the heavy weight of his words hanging in the air between you, pulling you under and drowning you.

“You have a gift,” he said finally, his voice soft but firm. “Not just for making flower crowns or weaving cloth. You see things others don’t. You feel things we’ve been taught to ignore.” You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came. Instead, you found yourself looking into his eyes, searching for some hint of what he meant, of what he saw in you. “I only hope,” he continued, his tone barely less wistful, “that when the time does come, you’ll trust what you see—and trust me.”

Before you could respond, one of the older women called you for help with the larger platters, breaking the moment. Fyodor stepped back, the faintest smile playing on his lips as he bowed his head slightly.

“Good night, (Y/N),” he said, his voice carrying a warmth that lingered even after he turned and walked away.

You stood there for a moment, clutching the cloth in your hands, your mind aflame. His words echoed in your ears, stirring a very strange mix of fear and hope. Trust what you see. Trust me.

For the next few nights, sleep eluded you. Fyodor’s words replayed in your mind over and over again, each phrase eating away all other thoughts. His certainty disturbed you—not because you doubted his sincerity, but because it awoke something within you. The realization was almost too heavy to bear: if you wanted change, you would have to reach for it yourself. But how could you, alone?

When the message came—a whispered request to meet him in the forest clearing—a thrill stirred uneasily in your chest. It wasn’t proper to meet him like this, not when he was supposed to be praying and meditating in solitude as part of his sacred duties. But propriety seemed increasingly irrelevant at this point.

The moonlight bathed the clearing, lending a ghostly glow to the figure who awaited you, it seemed almost surreal. Fyodor stood at the center, his white garments clinging to his frail frame, his flesh paler than usual—proof of the toll fasting had taken. You did not know where his kosovorotka ended and where his skin started. He turned as you approached, a weary soft smile oozed onto his lips.

“You came,” he murmured, his voice carrying a quiet warmth that made the hair on your arms quiver.

You stopped a few feet away, uncertain of how close was too close. “You asked,” you replied softly. “I… couldn’t refuse.”

His smile widened slightly, though his amethyst eyes glinted with something deeper, sharper. “You’ve been restless,” he said, more a statement than a question. “Our last conversation... it’s been weighing on you.”

You hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. “I’ve been… thinking,” you admitted. “About what you said. About… everything.”

“Good,” he said simply, taking a step closer. “That’s the first step—thinking. But thinking alone won’t change anything.”

Your breath hitched. “And what would? What can I do? I’m just one person.”

“So am I,” he countered, his tone firm yet kind. “But together, we’re more.”

You frowned, searching his face for some hint of what he meant. He met your gaze unflinchingly, his eyes piercing through your uncertainty. “I know the way,” he said, his voice low and steady, each word a promise. “Let me show you. And we can cleanse them together.”

His last word echoed in your mind: together. He wanted you to help him. To stand by his side in this unthinkable mission. He wanted to make the community a better place—to rid it of the Gift Giving Day and its sacrifices. It was what you had secretly longed for, what you had thought impossible. Yet hearing it spoken aloud felt like standing on the edge of a precipice.

“Fyodor…” you murmured, your voice barely audible. His gaze held yours, firm, almost devouring. “How… how do you plan to do this? With only the two of us?”

He smiled weakly, as though he’d expected the question. “Trust is a luxury few can afford,” he said. “Especially in this place, under these circumstances. But you—” he paused, studying your face intently, “—you don’t realize it yet, do you? You’re different from the rest of them. You see the cracks in their perfect little world. That’s why I chose you.”

Your heart was racing from his words. "Why me?" you whispered.

His expression softened, and he reached for your hand. Slowly, deliberately, he turned it over, tracing the lines of your palm with a fingertip. The touch was featherlight, yet it sent an electric jolt through you. “This,” he murmured, his voice low and contemplative, “is the hand of someone who wants to save the people.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. He lifted his own hand, pressing his palm to yours, as though comparing them. “We are the same,” he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of conviction. “We want to make a change—for the betterment of our community.”

His fingers laced through yours, and he gave your hand a gentle squeeze. The intimacy of the gesture, the way his eyes searched yours for an answer, left you breathless. “You’re right,” you whispered, barely able to meet his gaze. “We are alike.”

His smile returned, softer this time, but no less determined. “Do you trust me?”

You hesitated, the weight of the moment pushing down on you. But as his words, his presence, filled the silence between you, something inside you shifted. “I trust you, Fyodor,” you finally said, your voice steady though a tempest swirled in your chest.

His smile deepened, and he squeezed your hand again, as though sealing an unspoken pact. “Good,” he said, so plainly.

Winter

Every great plan has steps, though Fyodor felt the need to gradually explain everything, taking one baby step at a time—his words, not yours. The first step was simple, really. He wanted to show the people that the doctrines and preaches of the Sheppard and Judge were nothing but empty words. They were fundamental to this community, to the ‘salvation’ of the people, yet they didn’t walk the path they preached, and certainly, they didn’t know every word by heart—again, Fyodor’s words.

A part of you was still unsure, still clinging to the belief that the larger community was right, and maybe, just maybe, you and Fyodor were the just outsiders. Maybe we are wrong. But every time Fyodor spoke, that doubt felt more and more remote, buried under the weight of his unwavering certainty. “Those are the words they use to control us,” he had said, quietly but with sharpness in his voice. “They preach salvation, but they never walk the path they claim to, do they?” There was something unmistakable in the way he said it, a quiet accusation that seemed to grow louder with each passing day.

You didn’t speak at first, but a part of you—one that had always questioned, always wondered—began to listen. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps the things you’d been taught, the things you’d always believed, weren’t what they seemed. 

Fyodor’s plan was simple, almost too simple. He would subtly distract the Sheppard during the church service, while you sneaked away before the sermon to rip a few pages from the tome the leader was meant to preach from. Disarm him of his words, Fyodor had said. It wouldn’t hurt anyone—not directly. And if Fyodor was wrong, if the Sheppard did indeed know the words in the book by heart, then perhaps you could walk this path of reform together. You could still fix everything. You could undo what had been broken.

The weight of the plan pressed down on your chest as you quietly took the pages from the tome, the paper crinkling beneath your fingers. You slipped them into the pocket your heart racing. The deed was done, and you weren’t quite sure if it was a victory or a betrayal. You felt that familiar pull of doubt claw at your insides, but Fyodor’s steady presence beside was enough to slightly anchor you to the present. We’re doing the right thing, his eyes seemed to say every time they met yours.

When you sat down beside him on the pew, you didn’t even realize how tightly you were pressed against his side. You were still tense, the guilt from what you’d just done gnawing at you, your chest burned — oh how you wish you could burn everything down and not have to bear the weight of your actions. Fyodor didn’t say a word. He merely let you lean into him, his silence an unsaid reassurance. He knew you were ill at ease, but he didn’t push you, never urged you towards speech. The sermon started, and your mind wandered right back to the missing pages, your stomach tight with the knowledge that the Sheppard would notice soon.

As the Sheppard reached the point where the pages should have been, you saw the flicker of panic in his eyes. He faltered for only a second, but it was enough. His smooth composure cracked down like a Prince Rupert's drop, and he tried to cover it up, but you could see it—could see him struggling to maintain control in front of his congregation. Your stomach dropped, the tension in the room thickening.

Fyodor sat beside you, still and calm. You caught in his eye the faintest glint of satisfaction, something darker behind the quiet pride. The faintest hint of triumph danced in his expression, as if this was only the beginning. “See how fragile the illusion was?” His voice was low, barely a whisper “How quickly it falls when you expose their lies.”

You couldn’t help but glance at him, his words ringing in your head. Was it really an illusion? The Sheppard had looked so untouchable—so sure of himself. You had never dared to question his authority, never thought to doubt the very bedrock of your faith. But now, as Fyodor’s gaze met yours, you wondered if maybe—just maybe—the world had been built on nothing more than lies.

Your heart beat loudly in your chest, the weight of what you’d done sinking in. This wasn’t just a small step anymore. You had helped tear down something sacred, something people had built their lives upon. And yet, Fyodor's presence beside you steadied your resolve, as if his belief in this mission was enough to carry you through the uncertainty.

Spring

Vernal came as a season of ephemeral promise of renewal, the fields suddenly bursting with color and air alive with the pulse of warmth. The community prepared for the flower dance, a sacred tradition meant to honor the gods for favors received during in the harsh winter and reaffirm their devotion. The villager folk adorned themselves with garlands of freshly plucked flowers, their laughter echoing in the air as they wove intricate crowns and looped floral chains around their wrists.

You, too, wore a crown—a delicate circle of violets and daisies that your friends had insisted you wear. It felt heavier than it should, its vibrant beauty clashing with the weight of your thoughts. For tonight, Fyodor had chosen the next step in your shared quest. The supply house, a monument to what the leaders took from and doled back out to the people, was to burn under the cover of darkness. But for now, you stood amidst the celebration, caught between the life you knew and the path you had begun to walk with him.

The dancing of flowers began at twilight, when the village square glowed with the light of torches and the Shepherd and Judge took their seats on an raised wooden platform. They watched the revelry unfold with expressions of practiced benevolence, their presence a subtle reminder of the community's rigid structure. The dancers, linked hand in hand, moved in concentric circles, their feet beating a steady rhythm against the ground. The steps were simple yet hypnotic, a weaving of bodies and flowers that seemed to pull the onlookers into its spell.

You joined the outermost circle, your hand clasped tightly in a neighbor’s, but your eyes strayed to Fyodor. He lingered on the edges of the crowd, a wraith in white. Even if he wanted to join he couldn't, the physical strain the dance had on the body was too much for his condition, leaving him lightheaded and prone to fainting. He watched the leaders with barely concealed contempt. But when his gaze met yours, something softened in his expression. He inclined his head slightly, a wordless reminder of the task ahead.

Your feet flared for one short second, breaking the rhythm of the dance for the briefest moment. The woman beside you glanced at you in concern, but you got your footing back, forcing a smile as your heart pounded in your chest. Fyodor’s eyes stayed on you for a second longer before he slipped away into the shadows.

When the dance ended and the villagers started to scatter, Fyodor found you near the edge of the square. He didn’t speak at first, his presence a quiet anchor amidst the revelry. It wasn’t until the distant sound of the Judge’s laughter reached your ears that he finally said, “Do you see how they watch us? How they bask in their power, even as they pretend to celebrate with us?”

You looked toward the platform where the Shepherd and Judge still sat, their eyes sweeping over the dispersing crowd like hawks watching their prey. The unease you had felt all evening finally bubbled to the top, but you nodded. “Yes,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

Fyodor stepped closer, his voice low and deliberate. “They control everything—what we eat, what we believe, even how we dance. Tonight, we take that control away from them. It’s a small step, but it’s necessary.”

His words wrapped around you like a shroud, silencing the part of you that still hesitated. “But the people…” you began, your voice faltering. “The supplies… won’t they suffer?”

Fyodor’s expression softened, and for a moment, you thought you saw genuine compassion in his eyes. “Yes,” he admitted. “But sometimes, suffering is the only way to wake people from their complacency. They need to see that their leaders cannot protect them, that the gods they worship are powerless to stop what’s coming.”

He reached out, his fingers brushing against yours in a fleeting touch. “Trust me. It is essential...”

As the echoes of laughter and music faded into the night, you slipped away with Fyodor, hearts pounding in tandem with the thrill of what was to come—and the weight of what it meant. The storage cabin loomed ahead, limned by the moonlight on its wooden frame. It seemed almost alive, a sentinel of the community’s lifeblood, and your hesitation felt like a betrayal of its quiet presence. But you pressed on, following Fyodor’s unwavering lead.

Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of dried grass and stored grain. You worked in tense silence, stuffing chaff into corners, cramming the cracks of the small room with anything that would catch quickly. Your hands moved on autopilot, though every movement screamed at you to stop. This would hurt people. Families. Yet each time doubt clawed its way to the surface, you’d glance at Fyodor—his calm, his resolve, his quiet conviction—and something in you would steady, if only for a moment.

When the cabin was filled with enough tinder to guarantee its destruction, Fyodor stepped back, surveying the space with a critical eye. His gaze landed on you, and he lingered, a strange warmth flickering in his expression despite the coldness of the act. He struck a match, the hiss of ignition startling in the silent room.

His eyes met yours, the flame dancing shadows over his keen features. “This is necessary,” he murmured, as much to himself as to you.

He held the match a moment too long, its light trembling between his fingers before he let it drop. The fire caught immediately, spreading with an unnatural greed, and you flinched as the heat licked at your skin. Fyodor didn’t flinch. He grabbed your hand and led you out swiftly, his grip firm but not unkind.

You emerged into the cool night, the smell of smoke chasing after you. By the time the fire fully took, you were standing among your families and neighbors, blending into the crowd as if you had nothing to hide. The cabin was an inferno, flames twisting and writhing against the dark sky. The air was filled with the acrid scent of burning supplies and the muted gasps of your fellow villagers.

You watched the fire burn, your heart heavy and your stomach twisting with guilt. What had you done? How many would go hungry now? Would they blame you—if only they knew—or the gods?

The Shepherd and Judge stood before the crowd, their faces masks of authority as they did their best to placate the people. The Shepherd’s voice rang out, promising reassurance, spinning stories of divine testing and unshaken faith. But his words fell flat. You could see it in the eyes of the villagers—fear, not of the leaders, but of their helplessness. If the Shepherd and Judge couldn’t protect them, if the gods they worshipped demanded so much yet gave so little… what was left for them?

Beside you, Fyodor’s expression remained composed, his features illuminated by the flickering glow of the flames. Yet, as the fire crackled and the crowd’s uneasy murmurs grew, he turned slightly toward you, his voice low, intimate. "This... it couldn’t have happened without you.” His gaze met yours, steady and intent, as if he could see the storm of emotions roiling within you. The faintest trace of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips—not smug, but almost tender. His hand brushed against yours briefly, the touch grounding in its subtlety.

“You were brave,” he murmured, his voice carrying an almost dangerous sincerity. “More than anyone else here. They’re still trapped, still blind. But...—"

"...—We will show them the light" You softly cut him off. He smiled gently, his hand brushed lightly against yours once more—so fleeting it could almost be imagined—yet it stayed you in ways words couldn't.

The crowd began to murmur, uncertainty rolling through them like a restless tide. The Shepherd barked orders to his Judge, but there was a crack in his commanding tone, a tremor that betrayed his fear. He was losing control, and everyone could feel it.

You looked back at the fire, the embers glowing like distant stars, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to believe that this was more than destruction. Perhaps it was the start of something new.

Summer

You had come so far, yet progress felt agonizingly elusive. Each act you and Fyodor committed against the cult chipped away at the illusion of its sanctity, but the larger structure stood resolute. Fyodor’s sacrifice loomed just two weeks away, a date you couldn’t ignore no matter how hard you tried. Every mention of Gift Giving Day wrapped a tight coil of dread around you.

It couldn’t end this way. Not after everything.

Desperation drove you to find Fyodor one sultry summer night. You found him beneath the canopy of an old willow, his slender form outlined by the moonlight. He turned at your approach, his amethyst gaze softening when it met yours. “We’ve done so much,” you murmured, your voice trembling as your fingers twisted the fabric of your garments. “And it’s still not enough. I... I don’t want to see you go.”

Fyodor studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before stepping closer. His hands, delicate yet firm, reached for your chin, tilting your face toward him. “It will be okay,” he said, his voice steady but laced with something softer, almost tender. “I’ve prepared something for us. One last step to free everyone. I will not abandon you, dearest.” His thumb stroked your cheek, sending a shiver through you. “You have no idea how precious you are—not just to me, but to this cause. I won’t let anyone, or anything, take that from us.”

His words wrapped around you, both a balm and a tether, as he revealed the final phase of his plan: the elimination of the cult’s leaders. For the betterment of the community: They must fall

You choked on your own saliva, pulling away from him, every inch of your body tense. The suggestion felt like a violation of the very ideals you were fighting for. “Are we not doing the same as them?” you argued, your voice cracking under the weight of your conviction. “Taking a life to suit our own needs?”

Fyodor remained composed and patient, though urgency flickered in his tone. “This is not the same,” he said, his voice measured. “They’ve built their power on the lives of others—on fear, manipulation, and blood. This is a small sacrifice to honor those who’ve suffered and to free those who remain shackled.”

His stayed with you, finding cracks in your resolve over the following days. Memories of last season when the shed burnt down, the suffering of the people, their hunger while the Shepherd and Judge indulged in excess, gnawed at you. The weight of time pressed down, and you couldn’t ignore the urgency. With Fyodor’s sacrifice approaching, you found yourself reluctantly agreeing to the plan.

The Shepherd would be the first.

Fyodor, weakened by fasting, lacked the physical strength to carry out the act himself. He guided your trembling hands to the axe’s handle, his voice low and encouraging. “Do it for them. For their salvation. You’ll see—it’s the only way.”

It was a chilly quiet night. 

The Shepherd’s chambers were dark, thick air with the scent of wine and old parchments. Fyodor stood outside, his figure barely visible through the crack in the door as you stepped inside with the axe concealed behind you. The Shepherd sat slumped in a wooden chair, a half-empty goblet of wine swaying in his hand.

“Ah, child,” he slurred, his gaze fighting to focus on you. “What brings you here at this hour? Troubles of the soul?”

You nodded, your throat dry. “I... I needed to confess something. To speak with you alone.”

He waved his hand lazily, gesturing for you to approach. “Then speak, my child. The Shepherd is always here to guide his flock.”

As you inched closer, the axe hidden behind your back, he rambled on, his words becoming less and less coherent. Then, suddenly, his tone changed. “Do you know,” he began, his voice slurred with wine, “that I’m your true father?”

Your heart went cold, and you nearly let the axe fall from your grasp.

He let out a bitter chuckle and reached for another drink. “Left you with that fool, your mother’s husband. Had no time to raise a child when the gods demanded my service. But I suppose it’s all... come full circle.” Shock seized you where you stood, the metal felt impossibly heavy in your hands as his words echoed in your ears. He was your father? The man whose sermons had shaped your entire life? The very leader whose tyranny you sought to destroy?

He rambled on, his words grew softer until he nodded his head forward, asleep in his chair. The room fell silent except for your ragged breaths. When Fyodor entered, sensing your hesitation, his sharp gaze darted between you and the sleeping Shepherd, and you explained the situation in a whisper. And for the first time ever, you saw something like surprise in his expression, but it hardened quickly into resolve.

“The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb,” Fyodor whispered, his voice sharp, sharper than what you are used to hearing from him. His words pierced through the haze of your confusion, his presence a cold, steady force grounding you in the suffocating weight of the moment. “He may have fathered you, but he abandoned that role long ago. He is as valuable to this world as a walking corpse.”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry and aching. “But he—he’s my blood. What if he—”

Fyodor stepped closer to you, his hands hovering just above yours as you clutched the axe. “He has taken everything from you, from us, from them,” he murmured, his voice softening just enough to feel personal. “Do you want to go back to being their lamb, waiting to be slaughtered? Is that the life you choose after everything we’ve done?” He gestured to the sleeping man before you, his voice turned urgent, almost desperate. “This is your moment. Take it.”

Your vision blurred with tears, but his words echoed in your mind, warring with the voice that screamed against this violence. The axe trembled in your hands, its weight unbearable. The man before you, your supposed father, lay slumped in his chair, wholly unaware of the maelstrom raging in your heart. You tightened your grip, breathing shallow and rapid. The room seemed to tilt around you, the seconds crawling into eons while the world narrowed to the rise and fall of his chest and the chilling presence of Fyodor at your side. Slowly, you raised the axe, tears streaking your face.

When you brought it down, the impact reverberated through your entire body, a sickening crack filling the room. You gasped, stumbling back as the Shepherd slumped forward, lifeless. The silence that followed was deafening, your breaths ragged and uneven as you stared at your blood-stained hands. The axe slipped from your grasp, clattering to the floor. You turned to Fyodor, your legs trembling beneath you. “I... I...” Words failed you as sobs overtook your body.

Fyodor stepped forward, his arms encircling you in an embrace that was unexpectedly warm and steady. You buried your face against his chest, shaking uncontrollably. “Shh,” he murmured, his voice softer than you’d ever heard. His hands rubbed soothing circles against your back. “You’ve done so well. It’s over now. It’s over.”

But it wasn’t over. The next morning, they found the Shepherd’s body. You hadn’t even tried to hide it. You didn’t care. All you could think about was the blood on your hands and the look on his face before you swung the axe. The Shepherd’s death sent shockwaves through the community. Whispers spread like wildfire, murmurs of unease weaving through the congregation. The Judge, desperate to maintain his grip, moved Gift Giving Day closer, hoping to reassert control. But the cracks were already visible. The people’s faith in their leaders, once unshakable, had begun to unravel.

As the day of the ritual arrived, the air was thick with tension. Fyodor knelt in the red square, his frame frail from fasting but his presence unyielding. The Judge stood behind him, addressing the crowd with fervor that bordered on hysteria. His voice thundered over the square, but there was a desperation in his tone, a fragility beneath the surface.

You stood hidden among the throng, the weight of the axe once again heavy in your hands. Every step forward felt like wading through quicksand. Your mind raced, the memory of the Shepherd’s death haunting you with every heartbeat. The crowd swayed, their heads bowed in solemn reverence as the Judge raised his arms, calling for unity and sacrifice.

This was it.

Your breath hitched as you stepped out of the shadows, weaving through the congregation. Nobody noticed you at first, your movements swallowed by the sheer number of bodies. The closer you came, the louder the Judge’s voice grew, his words grating against your ears. Finally, you stood behind him, so close you could hear the strain in his breathing. Your fingers tightened around the axe, your pulse roaring in your ears. The world seemed to hold its breath as you raised the weapon, the weight of the moment bearing down on you.

With a swift motion, you brought the axe down, lodging it into the back of his neck. The sound of steel meeting flesh was sickening, a visceral, wet crunch that silenced the square. Blood sprayed in a gruesome arc as the Judge lurched forward, collapsing onto the stone table. His body twitched once, then stilled, his voice silenced forever. The crowd erupted in chaos, gasps and cries rippling through the congregation. For a moment, you stood frozen, the bloodied axe still clutched in your hands, your heart pounding so hard you thought it might break free through your ribcage.

Then, Fyodor rose.

Despite his weakened frame, he exuded an aura of quiet authority, his voice cutting through the panic like a blade. “The gods have spoken,” he declared, his tone calm yet commanding. “The leaders were corrupt. Their reign is over.” The crowd fell silent, their fear and confusion turning to awe as Fyodor stepped forward. His gaze swept over the congregation, landing briefly on you before returning to the people. He extended a hand, beckoning for you to stand beside him. “We have seen the truth” he continued, his voice rich with conviction. “And together, we shall guide you to the promised salvation.”

The people’s eyes pierced into your very soul, their expressions a mix of hope and uncertainty. Fyodor took your hand in his, the gesture both possessive and protective, grounding you yet again in the storm of emotions swirling inside you.

The air was heavy with the scent of incense and the faint metallic tang of blood, the detritus of the chaos that had led to this moment. The congregation outside still whispered Fyodor’s name with a mix of awe and fear, their voices carried by the wind into the quiet chamber. The room was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of a solitary candle, its light casting a long shadow across the newly ordained leaders of the flock.

You sat on the edge of a plain wooden bench, the ceremonial white garment draped over your frame feeling heavier than any armor. Its pristine folds were a cruel irony against the weight of your sins. Fyodor stood before you, his dark attire stark against the pale hues of your robes. The intricate wolf motif embroidered into his cloak seemed to ripple with life in the wavering candlelight, a predator looming over its prey.

He stepped closer, the movement slow and deliberate. His pale hand reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face with a gentleness that felt both comforting and unnerving. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, softened for a moment as he looked down at you. “You’ve been my strength through this,” he murmured, his voice as smooth as silk yet edged with something darker. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

You leaned into his touch, seeking peace in the familiarity of his presence despite the emotions roiling inside you. His lips brushed your forehead, the gesture lingering—an offering of comfort, yet unmistakably possessive. It was as if he claimed you in that kiss, silently binding you to him in a way that words never could.

As his arms encircled you, a shard of the Pale Man’s tale drifted to the surface of his mind. The wolf protects the lamb not out of kindness, but because he cannot bear to let anyone else devour her. Fyodor’s thoughts mirrored that very sentiment as he held you close, his expression almost content. To him, you were no mere lamb to be devoured by others; you were his lamb, precious and irreplaceable. The world could burn, the gods themselves could fall silent, but he would not let you go.

You closed your eyes, resting your head against his chest. The beat of his heart was steady, grounding, but it did little to soothe the ache within your own. You had survived, yes. Together, you had dismantled the foundations of this twisted faith. Yet, as Fyodor stood poised to guide the cult into a new era, the sin staining your hands felt like it would never wash away.

When the murmurs of the crowd grew louder, Fyodor pulled away, his hand lingering on your shoulder. “It’s time,” he said, his voice commanding yet calm. He turned to his right, with that inky mantle billowing out behind him as he moved to address your people. You followed, your white garments out of place on the dark path before you. The symbolism was unmistakable: the wolf and the lamb, stepping out as one. As Fyodor ascended the steps of the altar, his gaze swept over the gathered flock. “The gods have chosen us,” he declared, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Together, we will lead you to salvation.”

The people bowed their heads, their faith in their new leaders palpable despite the lingering unease in the air. You stood beside him, the vision of purity and sacrifice, your presence cementing the narrative he wove so expertly. As Fyodor raised his hands to the sky, the crowd chanted his and your name. You couldn’t help but glance at him, his sharp features illuminated by the flickering torchlight. Despite everything, a small, bitter smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

Finally, the wolf and the lamb had found their place at last. But at what cost?

Credit for difivers: saradika-graphics

[kiame-sama]

Part 3 of headcanons for the Monster Men I have drawn.

Pt 1:

Pt 2:

More below cut:

- Ortho was attacked by a Feral Overblotted Shinigami as a very young child and as a result lost his right leg, right arm, both wings, and damaged his lungs. Idia was quick to begin making cybernetic limbs for his brother and has been the primary mechanic for Ortho's limbs. Idia couldn't attend NRC without company and Ortho could not survive without Idia living nearby to help fix and adjust Ortho's limbs.

- Ortho has grown up hearing about Humans from his ancestor Hades and is very close with the elder Shinigami as a result. Many of the remaining Shrouds still live on the Isle of Woe but Ortho is the baby of the family and all the Shinigami adore the young boy. Hades tells Ortho stories of Humans and a lot of the technology Idia used to create Ortho's limbs were inspired by Human designs. Ortho's dream is to meet and befriend a Human.

- Ortho is thrilled to meet this new Human that lives on campus, having grown up with his family cooking Human meals most his life, he would love to have a real Human cook a meal for him. He can be without his Oxygen mask while eating so long as he takes breaks, and he thinks trying food made by the kind Human is worth it. he wants to know everything and will curiously ask questions any time they occur to him.

- Ruggie is a spotted Hyena Gnoll and though he stands fairly tall at 5'7" (171cm) he is considered small for a Gnoll and is the runt of his family. As a Gnoll, he is almost always seeking out food and will never turn down food excepting for when it is rotten. So long as it is not rotting and Ruggie can eat it, he will.

- Ruggie's fur is more coarse around his ridge and along his spine to his tail, but is much softer and finer around his neck and stomach. Ruggie has a heart-shaped spot on his tummy and when it is scratched he will start kicking his feet. He isn't keen to fight with others if he can escape a situation but his teeth and claws are not just for show and he can be dangerous when backed into a corner.

- Ruggie is loyal to his stomach first, so feeding him is one of the quickest ways to earn his favor and he will be willing to do errands and tasks for those who feed him. Leona has been one of the few to consistently feed Ruggie and look after him despite the more gruff way he treats the Gnoll. Ruggie considers Leona a friend. Once the Human starts feeding Ruggie, he is going to be willing to do anything the Human asks of him provided a meal is the payment.

- Lilia is one of the older beings on campus but it is very easy to forget this fact given the way he behaves and jokes around with others. Despite his playful behavior and youthful appearance he is dangerous and is not above reminding others of this fact.

- Lilia is part of Malleus' Hoard and acts as both the shepherd and guide of the Hoard, often the one to give information or facts in a situation provided he has knowledge on the subject. Malleus values Lilia's opinions and insight immensely, making Lilia effectively the second in command of the Hoard. Lilia is often the one to ensure the Hoard sleeps and will gather the Hoard up when Malleus becomes restless as only his complete Hoard around him can soothe him. He will be gathering up the Human as well for these moments Malleus requires them all in his nest.

- Humans are a soft spot of his and he has been fascinated with every Human he has had the pleasure of meeting. Human food is very important to him but he is not a good cook and cannot make a decent meal to save his life. When the Human first cooked for him, he was almost giddy as he invited the rest of the Hoard to enjoy the cooking as well.

[inkykeiji]

Sugar daddy Sunday with a brat, sugar daddy Sunday with a brat, sugar daddy Sunday with a brat!!!!

anon you literally took me out with this because he is SUCH a perfect character for that role uGH!!! not only is sunday disgustingly wealthy, but he also desperately desires complete and total dominance and control—which is what makes him ripe for a bratty lil baby (especially if he gets to withhold certain privileges as a result of being Daddy). 

sunday’s word is ultimate, decorous and divine, and what he says goes, irregardless of how many fits you throw or feet you stomp or fists you ball up in anger, defiance, or fury. he tells you he doesn’t enjoy inflicting punishment on you—and while his voice is cold, stern, and full of veracity, that sharp glimmer in his eye suggests otherwise—but that he must dole out such discipline, as it is his duty as your Daddy; to guide, to teach, to mold, to correct.

his retributions vary depending on the severity of the act you’ve committed, ranging from merely revoking privileges (technology, later bed time, sweets, his credit card) to full on physical punishments (spanking your bare ass while wearing his gloves seeming to be the one he favours most often, but he is not above using canes and the like on you if he believes it to be ‘necessary’ to sear whatever lesson he’s trying to teach into that pretty little brain of yours), and you can bet your ass he’s got a meticulously worked out system in place that decides what the punishment will be, proportional to the transgression. 

he acts as if it’s exasperating, as if your disobedience is exhausting, yet he can’t seem to smother those tiny twitches tugging at the corners of his lips any time you push back, any time you challenge him, that glint in his eye flaring to something bright and blazing, despite his features being etched in stone. because although he’d never admit it, he does love enforcing (his specific brand of) justice; he does love exerting that power over you as he shepherds you back onto the path of the righteous, just as a blessed man should; he does love the utter and complete iron-fisted dominance it affords him.

but sunday doesn’t love being your Daddy just because of the absolute control it instils in him; he also loves being your Daddy when you’re good, well-behaved and obedient. oh, then he’s sweeter than sugar and just as corrosive; he spoils you fucking rotten. it’s one of his favourite things to do, showering you with expensive gifts and extravagant outings—lace-trimmed silk and red bottom shoes and multi-day spa getaways and lavish restaurants…all until that indulgence erodes your obedience, turns you into something naughty and saucy again, something greedy and entitled, something he has to fix.

and then, he repeats the whole process over.

[jarate-pissman]

Silly Doodle of TF2 if they were dogs. I wanted their accessories to resemble their human counterparts, but it can be difficult because putting a dog into human clothes is hard to draw.

Scout: A Boston Terrier. A breed known for being lively and happy, it's friendly and open to strangers. Scout as a guard dog would show you where his owners keep the valuables if you give him even a crumb of attention. Also, they can be bug eyed and derpy at times.

Pyro: A Dalmatian. Duh. With a bag on their head that resembles pyro.

Soldier: Solly is an American Pitbull Terrier. The fact that it's a controversial breed makes it an even better fit! ABPTs were used in combat missions in WWI and II. In WWII they appeared often on war propaganda posters. One of the most well known ABPT was named Sgt Stubby in WWI, and he earned himself numerous medals. Stubby is probably the deciding factor. Soldier has an American flag bandana and his food bowl over his eyes. He smells faintly of rotten bbq ribs.

Heavy: An Ovcharka (Caucasian Shepherd) while originally the breed hailed from Georgia, the USSR pushed to have the breed standardized. The huge dog breed was originally bred for guarding purposes, and has a serious and protective nature. Perfect for guarding his medic. He greatly treasures his Sandvich, a stuffed squeaky toy from the bargain bin at the pet store.

Demoman: A one-eyed Scottish terrier with a sturdy body and a manly beard. My personal experience with Scotties as a dog groomer is that they are absolute assholes who are wary of strangers squeezing their ass glands. I'm pretty sure Demo would bite me too if I touched his asshole. Demo has a squeaky bouncy ball that resembles a sticky bomb, one eye, and a hat that looks like a beanie.

Engineer: An American Bulldog. Mainly this was influenced by their stocky body and their friendly personality. Bulldogs are also a very intelligent dog breed that possess high endurance, agility, and strength. American Bulldogs were bred with the intention that they would be a farm dog. I would have gone with the Blue Lacy, but it didn't feel very Engie, despite being the only breed outta Texas. Engineer dog has doggles.

Spy: A french bulldog. Both the French Bull Dog and the Boston Terrier both descended from the Bulldog, so in a way they are related. While a poodle would have fit Spy as well, Frenchies are pretty expensive in their own right, and the cost of their medical bills might as well cost 5 poodles. They're like the luxury bulldog, and I feel like the fact that Spy and Scout's breeds resemble each other makes it better. Since dogs don't usually wear balaclavas, Spy-dog got his face stuck in a pair of red/blu underwear and started wearing them ever since.

Medic: What dog is more demanding, bratty, and sadistic than a Pomeranian? Pomeranians are extroverted, lively, alert, and highly intelligent dogs of German origin. They can be aggressive to humans and dogs to try and prove themselves. They don't seem to realize how small they are, and somehow wind up ruling the house anyways, even if there are other dogs. I can just imagine Medic-dog commanding Heavy-dog, and Heavy-dog going along with whatever he says. Medic has tiny glasses and a stray hair curl.

Sniper: A dingo. Aloof, mysterious, and a bit scrawny for his size, he's an excellent hunter who can brave the scorching bush and all Australia has to offer.

[rocks-in-my-vodka]

lestat is the most glorious morally grey character in modern media rn and here’s why :

he is literally the vampire ever.like ever. every mythical creature, when stripped of its feathers and stage makeup (as in exaggerated monstrous behaviour to incite fear in humans as a form of enjoyment or just to create lore) at its heart reveals a mirror to humanity’s worst qualities. it’s rotten humanity’s most bent out of shape behaviours given a fantastic name, put in the body of folklore passed down centuries, ideas that we as people still cannot escape, we are just as fascinated by vampires and zombies and werewolves now as we were 500 years ago and it’s truly because ( and i’ll talk abt vampires here specifically) vampires are everything a normal human would like to be but as all things it can only be achieved by a complete perversion of our “moral ideals”, a rejection of morality and humanity. and lestat is a diva at playing this part

like think abt it. you’re a vampire. you will never die, you will be young and youthful, you will have strength beyond belief, you will have the ability to create (fire) from nothing, super speed, flying, all fantastic things humans themselves work tirelessly to achieve. but at the cost of what? you must sustain yourself on the blood of others, thus, you must consider your own self more deserving to live than the mortals, you must decide daily that you are more important, you matter infinitely more, that the people who were once your brethren are now simple prey, there for you to literally drain the life out of, who else can make this choice of whose life matters more than others’, other than some kind of a god? everything around you will change, you will remain, the eternal witness, the immortal hunter, a living juxtaposition of a savage creature who hunts like an animal for blood and at the same time a narcissist who thinks itself above mortals. and lestat is exactly this. he is a walking contradiction and yet you will believe everything he claims because it is all true, because he has a thousand lifetimes stored in him, because these creatures have worn a hundred skins and a million faces, at what point do you forget where your skin begins and your mask ends? where lestat the young actor began and lestat the devastated, angry, jealous lover ended?

and yet everything he says is true. when he tells you he would murder you in cold blood while you sleep, it’s true, when he tells you he loves you more than anything in the world, it’s true. he contains multitudes, contradictions get neutralised inside him like nebulas colliding. as a vampire, you get to do the one thing that, as a mortal, eats you alive from the moment you are born, and that is : meet your maker. when you’re born as a human, you can only imagine your maker, hear stories, believe lies, but never see for yourself, as a vampire, in your second life, in your living death, you can know your maker, your master, your maitre. so when you look lestat in the eyes, in his cold glassy undead vicious eyes, you realise he is your god. and if this god said to you he would burn you in pain and misery forever for not believing in his love, you believe him, when he says he will lead you into glorious heaven like the lord shepherd you believe him, because you know he will. he knows only killing, only savagery, only the kind of love that is realised in complete bodily physicality, viciously, unforgivingly, through pain and death, not a love that is simply felt but never materialised. when he says he will kill you if you disobey him, you know he will, when he says he stitched your initials into his chest pocket so your name cradles his heart, you know he did. he is a boy, a monster, a puppy, a wolf, a savage manipulative liar and a killer, and the eternal lover, betrayed and frozen in time and memory, his memory too a monster

[blankfairy]

HOUSE VESGAR at the start of the DANCE OF DRAGONS.

House Vesgar is one of the few remaining Valyrian houses in Westeros. While the Targaryens rule the sunset skies and Velaryons the salt sea, the power of the Vesgars has always been rooted in blood.

Claiming ancestry from one of the first shepherds of Old Valyria, House Vesgar once stood at the peak of power. Known as one of the finest families of bloodmages in the Freehold, they served as archons of the Ānogrion, and were the lords of the penal colony of Gogossos. As the dragonlords tore and fought in streaks of flame across the ashen skies, the Vesgars stood grounded, twisting flesh and blood to their will. Their very own bodies came to be corrupted by their rotten magic. As Valyria sat on the cusp of total destruction, House Vesgar was governed by a set of triplets, dubbed the Painted Ladies for the wine stain birthmarks marring their faces: Arra, Jaera, and Aunna. Their younger half-brother, Aenar Targaryen, warned them of his daughter’s vision of the Doom of Valyria. Naught but three years before the Doom, the siblings gathered their wealth, families, and abundance of knowledge and tomes, and settled on Crackclaw Point, just north of Dragonstone. They deemed their keep, Arlior Ānogrion, ‘the new temple,’ and the town that grew to surround it came to be known as Chimera’s Nest for the three-headed sigil they took upon arriving on Westeros’ shores. The bloodmages found few friends in Westeros, despite their tedious effort to balance assimilation with protecting their heritage and legacy. Secretive, House Vesgar may be, but outwardly cruel is not one of them; they are courtly and respectful, far removed from the bold viciousness of their dragonriding cousins. Those of Vesgar blood often bear common Valyrian features: silver hair, purple eyes. Some are born with crimson irises, others as black as dragonglass or as white as smoke. A certain sharpness of face, body, and mind is typical; some have been animalistic in nature, with an insatiable hunger for knowledge… or whatever vice they can get their claws into. Rumors spread of the Vesgars’ tainted blood and bodies; curses for their meddling with the human form. Bestial minds, sharp teeth, pointed ears, slitted eyes, tails. Outsiders point at the gaps in their lineage and scorn them as twisted stock. House Vesgar's sigil is a black-and-gold chimera on a crimson field, and their words are "All Things Devour."

this one's been sitting in my drafts for a while, figured it was time to set it free :3

template [x]

[glittergoblinzz]

When the Fire Devours Everything We Are....I'll Hold You Close

09!Simon 'Ghost' Riley x GN!Reader

CW: Character Death, Angst, light intimate moment mentions, Canon Divergence, bittersweet ending....

Word Count: 3.6k

Summary: You, Captain MacTavish and Ghost go to rescue Prisoner 6-2-7 from the gulag so you can draw Makarov out of hiding. Everything goes smoothly until it doesn't....

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"See 'em over there? At 2 'o clock? Take 'em out."

You nod, aiming your silenced sniper towards the two tangos that were patrolling the West side of the gate. With two swift hits of your trigger, the enemy soldiers went down. Ghost moved out from position, behind a snowy bush, as he went to go bury the bodies in snow so they wouldn't be discovered anytime soon.

Then he went over to your position, not too far away just slightly to the South. You get up from the ground, brushing the snow off your uniform and slinging your sniper around your shoulder before taking your assault rifle out.

"Good work, luv. Quick and clean like usual. Proud of ya..."

Ghost pats your shoulder as he gently presses his forehead to yours, his usual gesture of affection towards you, before he pulls away and starts heading for the gate of the gulag. You're quick to follow.

You, Ghost and Captain MacTavish were out in the middle of Russia, at a gulag to retrieve a prisoner only known a "6-2-7", someone who Vladimir Makarov hated more than the Western World itself. Your team, Task Force 141, figured if you could get the person out, it would draw Makarov out from what dirty, rotten hole he was hiding in.

So, General Shepherd gave the okay and sent the whole Task Force in, along with some air support from the American Air Force. The job was simple, not much different from what your team usually does. You've cleared bases, rescued hostages, took down dangerous terrorists....so this mission should be a piece of cake. Or it should've been....

The team made it in without a hitch, taking out the numerous guards and soldiers that were stationed out in the prison's field and towers. Once inside the prison, Ghost stays behind in the control center to help guide you and the rest of the team through the prison to where Prisoner 6-2-7 was being held.

"Good luck in there, lovie. Come back to me safe ya hear?"

Those were the last words Ghost had said to you before you and the rest of the team went down further into the prison. At a few points, you and the boys were pinned down by enemy forces. Though Captain MacTavish and yourself along with Roach, Ogre and Worm made quick work of them all. With Ghost's help from inside the control room, he remotely opened doors and sealed the ones behind you so the enemies couldn't follow.

Your mission ended up taking you to the very depth of the prison, through its sewer systems and whatnot. Eventually Ghost guides you all to a wall, and together with MacTavish, Roach breaches it. Behind the wall was an unsuspecting guard, but before any one of you could take him out, a shadowy figure came up to the guard and wrapped a chain around their neck, pulling them in for a brutal headlock.

The person used the guard as a human shield, coming up to Roach and punching him to the ground. He takes the gun off the guard, breaking their neck before taking aim at Roach. Captain MacTavish comes up behind the man and aims his own gun at him before a look of realization hits him. His thick, Scottish accent slightly quivering as he speaks up.

"Price....?"

The man looks away from Roach briefly, lowering his gun just a little.

"Soap?"

Price's voice was gruff, and he looked extremely rugged from being locked up in the gulag for so long. He looks at Roach once more before putting his gun away and offering the mute soldier his hand to help him up.

Worm looks between the two of them, a confused look on his face.

"Soap? Who the hell is Soap?"

Before Price or Captain MacTavish could respond to that, the whole building shakes violently. You grab onto a nearby table for support as the walls begin to crack and chunks of the ceiling begin crashing down. Your heart skips a beat as you realize Ghost was still up near ground level, closest to the points of impact. Captain MacTavish gives an annoyed grunt before speaking into his comms.

"Shepherd? What the hell's going on? The Americans weren't supposed to bomb this place until we had left!"

"Sorry, MacTavish. The Americans got tired of waiting. There was nothing I could do."

That was bullshit. You knew it and the look on Captain MacTavish's face shown that he knew it too.

"Bloody Yanks. I thought they were supposed to be the good guys."

Upon hearing Ghost speak up, the worries you felt just moments ago faded....but only slightly. He may have been closer to the surface than the rest of you but that doesn't mean he was safe just yet. The prison could come toppling down on top of him as well as the rest of you.

"Easy, Ghost. We can complain about it later. First we need to get out of here."

MacTavish said as he started to lead the team out. You all went down a corridor before another shockwave hit, causing the corridor to collapse at the end and forcing you all to go back and find a different route.

After a few close calls and a couple encounters with what was left of the guards, you and the team eventually make it back to the prison yard where Nikolai was waiting for his helicopter. Roach, Price, Captain MacTavish and yourself load up into the helicopter while the others go and do a round to make sure there were no other guards around.

"Wait, where's Ghost? Paps, go back in and check for him."

You nod at Captain MacTavish's orders and hop out of the helicopter. The thought of finding your teammate and boyfriend dead in the gulag gnawed at the back of your head but you manage to suppress it as you make your way back into the prison.

In the middle of the hall towards the control room, you see a couple of guards kneeling down beside something. You quickly realize it was Ghost. You yell out, getting their attention. Before they could realize what was happening, you had already put multiple bullets in them.

Sprinting over, you kneel down beside Ghost and immediately check for a pulse. A sigh of relief escapes your lips when you feel his pulse still steady and strong beneath your fingers. Though, worry quickly moves in when you see that his balaclava had a good sized blood stain at the top of his head. Carefully, you remove his sunglasses and then the balaclava from him, revealing the familiar face you had fallen in love with years ago. His dark hair slightly frizzled due to the balaclava coming off and his hazel eyes shut.

Your eyes immediately take notice of the trail of blood flowing down the side of his face. It seems like Ghost has gotten hit in the head with some of the fallen debris earlier while you and the rest of the  team were making your escapes.

Other than that, you don't see any other injuries on him which was a relief....though, his vest was taken off and his jacket slightly open. You don't pay much attention to this as you're more focused on getting him help. Carefully getting him up, you drag him along back outside of the prison. On the way, you could hear a slight groan coming from Ghost.

"Aaagh....what happened?"

Ghost looks over to you, his brows furrowing in confusion.

"Who the bloody hell are you? Why are you dragging me?"

Your heart sinks as you hear these words. Your boyfriend of five years didn't know who you were. Not once did you expect for this to happen. Finding him dead? Yeah...but not finding him with amnesia. You let Ghost go when he pulls away from you, a look of distrust in his eyes.

"Simon, listen...I know you're confused right now and might not know who I am, but please trust me. I'm trying to get you out of here so I can get you some medical treatment. You've been injured...."

You slowly reach out and gently touch the tender wound on the side of Ghost's head, causing him to wince slightly. The look of distrust doesn't leave his eyes.

"How can I know ya ain't just lying to me?"

Sighing, you reach into your pocket and take out a photo you always carry. It's from your first anniversary together. Simon had surprised you with a pet rat, one that looked exactly like the one you had used to own when you were a little kid. He knew you adored animals, especially rats, and that the one you had as a child meant a lot to you before it "ran away" (that was what your parents told you).

The photo showed Simon holding you from behind, his head resting on your shoulder as you held the rat, Copia, in your hands. All three of you looked happy and content in that moment.

Ghost takes the picture from you and looks at it for a moment before shaking his head.

"I'm sorry. I don't remember this....but I can't deny that that ain't me there. So, I guess perhaps you are telling tha truth? Fine. Get me out of here, I suppose."

Nodding, you guide Ghost back out of the prison and towards the helicopter where the others were waiting.

"Bloody hell, lass/lad. What the hell 'appened to him?"

You shake your head and look at Captain MacTavish with a sorrowful expression.

"He got hit in the head with some debris when the Americans hit the prison with those missiles. He....can't remember anything."

Captain MacTavish eyes go wide for a brief second in surprise before a sympathetic look replaces it.

"I see. We'll get him help. Don't you worry. He'll be the Ghost you once knew again...."

You get into the helicopter and Ghost follows after you, sitting right by you and near the open door. Soon enough, you all are up in the air and flying across the ocean to head back to base once more.

You sit in silence for a good while, anxiety starting to build up in you as you think about what will happen now. Will Ghost get his memories back? What if he doesn't? What if he doesn't and starts a new life without you? The thoughts quickly eat away at you and you could feel your stomach begin to churn more and more.

Yet, you're suddenly pulled out of those thoughts when you feel a slight nudge. You look over towards Ghost, who was looking at you with a worried expression.

"You alright there?"

You nod before looking away again. Ghost is silent for a moment before speaking to you again.

"I may not remember you, but that doesn't I don't want to try in remembering you. I want to remember everything....and even if I can't remember, I'd like to get to know you again. Would...that be alright?"

You look back at Ghost, a little more hopeful now. You nod, a small smile on your face.

"Yeah....that would-"

You're stopped when a faint beep could be heard. It was faint and barely audible over the sound of the helicopter, but you could still just barely hear it. You wait, and another beep. Then another. They were in succession, every second.

"Do....you hear that?"

Ghost nods. You both look around before you realize the beeping was coming from Ghost himself. You look over him and take note of his jacket.

"Ghost....pull your jacket zipper down."

When he goes to pull his zipper down, it becomes evident that its stuck. You reach over and give it a tug, but it wouldn't budge. The beeps continue and you start to get worried. The others have noticed the two of you now and Captain Price speaks up.

"Oi, no getting frisky on a mission you two."

You roll your eyes and give the zipper another tug. Still stuck. You frown and decide to just put your finger through the collar of his jacket, pulling it away from his neck so you can peer down into the jacket. All color drains from your face once you see the flashing red light that goes off with every beep.

"Bomb....he's got a damn bomb strapped to him!"

Everyone in the helicopter was now on edge. Captain MacTavish gets up and goes over.

"What the bloody hell do you mean he has a bomb on him?"

You move away slightly to give Captain MacTavish room to peep down Ghost's jacket as well. Sure enough, the Scottish Captain sees the red flashing of the bomb with each tick.

"Christ...get that fookin' jacket off of him!"

"You think we haven't tried?! It's stuck!"

You give the jacket zipper another tug. And another....then the zipper breaks. Panic washes over not just you but Ghost as well. His eyes were wide and looking at you, silently pleading for you to help him.

Just barely visible, you could see the faint outline of the timer.

14....13....12...

"Fuck, 10 seconds....!"

Panicking, you try and lift the jacket off of him but it's no use. It was too form fitting, not allowing it to be pulled off overhead.

You look at the rest of the team before looking at Ghost.

"I'm sorry....I love you, Si...."

Taking a deep breath, you grab Ghost and press your forehead to his in the same gentle manner he always did with you....before throwing him out of the helicopter door. The look on his face, the pained expression of knowing he was going to die, it broke your heart. Much more than it would have if you had just found him dead back at the prison.

Not more than three seconds after you tossed him, the bomb goes off. You see the flames engulf his body, and the shockwave of the explosion shakes the helicopter violently. It's tough, and the helicopter almost goes down into the ocean below, but Nikolai just barely manages to steady it out and it's a smooth ride once again.

All the others in the helicopter are giving you sympathetic looks. Captain MacTavish sits next to you and gently places his hand on your shoulder.

"I...I'm sorry, lass/lad. I'm sure he understood that there wasn't any other choice. You did what was right. There wasn't any saving him..."

You don't say or do anything in response. All you could do was just sit there and stare at the spot where Ghost had just been sitting with you.

.

.

.

.

.

The weeks flew by. Everything was a blur. You acted more like a robot than a person; always keeping to yourself, doing exactly what you were told without question. The funny, snarky soldier the team once knew was gone. You had blamed yourself for what happened to Ghost, despite Captain MacTavish and Price telling you it wasn't your fault. If you had just checked that damn jacket when you first noticed it slightly opened after those guards had kneeled down beside him, you keep telling yourself....They weren't making sure he was dead....they were planting a damn bomb on him as a last ditch effort to take the rest of the Task Force out.

Captain MacTavish and Price wanted you off the team, to put you on mandatory leave so you could go get help; go to therapy. General Shepherd, however, wouldn't allow it. Instead, he assigned you and Roach to go to Makarov's safehouse in the Caucasus mountains of the Georgian-Russian border to try and hunt that bastard down.

So off the two of you went along with other members of the Task Force. Price and MacTavish were elsewhere, off at some other location Makarov was known to hide away at.

You, Roach and the team easily take Makarov's men down before heading into the safehouse. You don't find Vladimir Makarov anywhere but you do find his computer. Upon informing Shepherd, Roach takes out the DSM to download the Intel on the terrorist's computer. More of Makarov's men arrive so you and the other team members get to protecting Roach and the DSM. After about thirty grueling minutes of gunfight, the DSM finishes downloading the information and Roach grabs it.

The two of you then head towards the rendezvous point where General Shepherd had told you to meet at, while the others kept Makarov's men at bay. Eventually you two make it, just in time to see Shepherd's helicopter land and him stepping out from the back of it.

"Did you two secure the DSM?"

"Yes, sir we did."

You say as Roach hands the DSM off to Shepherd. The General takes a drag from his lit cigar before grabbing the DSM module.

"Good. That's one loose end tied up...."

Before either of you can react, General Shepherd pulls his .44 magnum out and shoots Roach in the chest, killing the mute soldier instantly.

Your eyes widen as you quickly reach for your rifle....but Shepherd nonchalantly turns his magnum to you and shoots you in the chest as well, barely missing your heart by a few inches. You collapse, gasping for breath as blood begins to flood your lungs.

Shepherd's private PMC, Shadow Company, swiftly came up. They began dragging Roach's body over to a hole not far off in the field, then picked you up and tossed you right by Roach. The mercs began to pour gasoline over the two of you, the liquid burning the wound in your chest. Despite the gut wrenching pain, you didn't scream. You couldn't.

You glance up at Shepherd, your body beginning to grow tired and your eye lids feeling heavier due to the lack of oxygen. The General glances down right back at you, an indifferent look on his face.

"Don't worry. It wasn't anything personal, kid...."

He takes one last drag of his cigar before tossing it onto Roach's body. Flames quickly began to spread across the corpse, the smell of burning flesh overwhelming your senses. Though, it slowly begins to fade as you feel yourself begin to slip....you close your eyes and wait.

You lay there, waiting for the flames to reach your body; waiting for the excruciating pain to spread throughout your body. But it never comes. You open your eyes and sit up. No pain shoots through your body. Hell, you could even breathe. Confused, you sit up and look around. You were sitting in a field, a different field than the one that you were killed in.

Killed...

You were dead. And General Shepherd had been the one who killed you.

You balled your hands up into fists, gripping at the grass beneath you. You were dead, that was for sure. There wasn't a bloody gunshot wound on your chest, and Roach's burning corpse was nowhere to be seen. A rush of emotions filled you. Anger, sadness, sorrow, confusion.....

You were pissed at General Shepherd for betraying you and Roach. You were sad that someone you thought you could trust had turned out to be a lying snake. You couldn't understand why he would even do that in the first place. The two of you did everything that he had told you to do, no questions asked. So why did General Shepherd betray you and Roach?

Roach....

Your close and valued teammate. He was your and Ghost's best friend. All three of you would goof around on base, go out for drinks during leave....Roach, of all people, did not deserve to go out like that. You couldn't help but feel absolutely horrible for him.

As you say there in the tall grass, drowning in your thoughts, a figure slowly walked up behind you.

"Lovie, you're not supposed to be here. Not yet...."

Your head perks up, and if your heart could still beat, you knew it would be beating it's way out of your chest. You get up and slowly turn around, your eyes going wide with the sight of Ghost standing there. Another wave of emotions hit you and you're not sure if you could handle it all...

Ghost recognizes the pain in your eyes and takes a few more steps towards you before wrapping his arms around you in a gentle, protective manner.

"Simon, I'm sorry....I'm so sorry....The bomb, the helicopter....I-I didn't have any other choice, I-"

"Shhhh, it's okay. It's alright. You saved the lives of the others. You did what was right; you didn't put our relationship above the mission, above our team. I don't blame you, luv. I'm proud of you."

You wrap your arms around him, returning the soft embrace. You could only nod, knowing that if you said another word then you'd probably break down. You and Ghost stay like that for a moment, relishing in being able to hold each other once more before he pulls away.

All the memories you two created over the years come flooding back. You remember your first kiss; how his lips felt against yours. You remember the first time you two laid in bed together; how good it felt when he rolled his hips into you, stretching you out with his length. The small little moments of the two of you watching TV, or having dinner together.

All of that was gone. It had been for a while now....but now the two of you had each other again, and you were fine with that. Fine with being dead and gone knowing that you'd at least get to have him with you once again.

Ghost reaches for your cheek, cupping it as he gently strokes it with his thumb. His hazel eyes stared into your own, the love and affection in them evident.

"Now. Why don't you tell me what I've missed? We've got all the time in the world...."

___________________________________

Gaaahh this was a long one! I spent all day writing it out. Last night I dreamt that Ghost had gotten hit with a piece of debris during the end part of 'The Gulag' mission from OG MW2, which gave him some amnesia. Then on the helicopter ride, discovered the enemies had found him knocked out and decided to place explosives on him to try and wipe out the rest of TF141 since they knew they wouldn't be able to.

I thought that would have been a good idea for a mini fic, so....here we are.

The last bit with reader dying was something I came up with on a whim.

Also, remember that my requests ARE OPEN so if you want me thoughts on certain characters, my headcanons, or a mini fic request, just shoot me an ask! ☺️ (Also there's a couple references in this fic. Whoever gets 'em gets a cookie 🍪. The title is one of them!)

[eastbubble]

plsss i need a continuation of that quickie with !09 ghost fic 😭 like i need angst, ghost immediately ignoring reader after getting caught out of sheer embarrassment and a need to “protect” reader from himself I NEED IT

jk its up to u if u want to write it, its okay if not 👨‍🦲

oh my god yes ! i see this ! thanks for the idea love ! press the button for the angsty (no comfort ……..) sequel to this fic ! ><

roach stood there in the doorstep, the usb stick almost falling out of his hand because of how much his fingers were starting to shake. his brain refused to take in the fact that he had caught his lieutenant and a fellow sergeant basically doing the deed when they were supposed to be working. his head went dizzy and he looked down in shame, cheeks lighting up with a bright shade of pink — though nobody could see that because he pulled his mask up.

simon looked at you in the eyes, shaking his head in disappointment. you two stayed like that for a few seconds, his pants pulled down to the middle of his thighs and you just pressed against the wall. you could feel him grip your hips a little tighter, his touch becoming a little shaky as he eventually set you down to the floor, your back sliding along the rough wooden wall.

you didn’t know what to think of the situation. why was simon shaking his head like you were the only one guilty in performing this little stunt? why was the look in his eyes so full of disappointment and not guilt or embarrassment? it was like this whole thing didn’t even faze him at all — it had the same effect as a knife being stabbed right into your heart, and just for some more dramatic outcome, even twisted two or three times.

the shaking sergeant’s boots made a small little sound as he turned around and quickly walked down the stairs in silence. great. ghost quickly pulled up his pants, buckling his belt as fast as he could and zipping his gray wool pullover as quick as possible. he seemed mad and angry but you couldn’t really get why it was all directed towards you. yeah, sure, you’re neck deep in this pile of shit as well but it takes two people to kiss! and it takes two to have sex! and it takes three to get caught!

“we’re fucked..” you muttered under your breath, not exactly knowing what to do right now. you wanted to ease the tension somehow but the air was thick and warm and it was suffocating because of the weight it put on your shoulders.

“only you are.” he said lowly.

“great pun. what now-“

“it was not a pun.” he hissed. then why would you be the only one who’s in the mud right now? you looked at him with a confused expression on your face, the traces of your previously apparent dark red blush slowly fading away as your body temperature was finally cooling. it was a quick switch.. “you’re gonna be the one stuck with the title lieutenant-fucker.”

“oh come on. sanderson’s probably not going to talk for like a week now anyways. and it’s not like he’s going to tell on you, he’s practically your little brother, no-“

silence struck the rotten room once simon’s radio went off, a few slurred words and some incredibly deafening static echoing from the walkie talkie. it sounded like roach was on the other end of the line (who else would it be?) and just like you predicted, he was struggling to form his sentences, brain fuzzy as he was desperately asking for help through half-words. you managed to catch a word about general shepherd, your brain immediately ‘sobering’ up — the mission was still very much going. it did not end. you were the only one that was stuck on this point of getting caught in the middle of some quickie.

and without saying a word, ghost was already running down the stairs with his rifle in his hand, leaving you behind like you weren’t just as important (according to ranks..) as sanderson was.

it seems like that day became thin air to your lieutenant.

[stoutguts]

My own personal Hybrid AU??? (Also, Omegaverse). Chock full of my own personal headcanons and ideas. Unorganized/kind of rambling, really just trying to put all my thoughts to paper.

PART 1 CUZ ITS LONGER THAN I THOUGHT IT WAS GONNA BE 💀

German Shepherd and Border Collie mix/Shollie hybrid/alpha Soap, and gray wolf and Great Pyrenees mix/wolfdog hybrid/trans omega Ghost. Great Dane and Bloodhound mix hybrid/beta Yuri. (Weredogs, puppy Ghost, puppy Soap, and puppy Yuri teeheehee).

(Simon has their ears cropped and tail docked (and not by choice). It’s ears and tail were severely mutilated, when tortured and held captive by Roba. They had no choice but to crop and dock their ears and tail, as they were disfigured beyond repair. He has metal/silver canine teeth, black and white alternating/“domino” nails/claws, and a pink nose and paws pads. Scarred all over,—but more distinctive features include; a scar across it’s lips (that it got while being tortured and being held hostage by Roba). A large crooked and broken nose, (having never healed quite right and has been broken countless times). A nick/scar across the bridge of their already mangled nose, (if their punched or smacked from just the right angle when wearing their hardshell mask, it cuts into them, (the wound/scar often being reopened and never being allowed to heal). Johnny carries around a few extra masks or balaclavas and extra gauze in his med pack just for when this happens, as he knows they hate the smell of blood and the feeling of it soaking their mask, (it’s a sensory thing that drives them nuts). It has a scar that cuts across the side of it’s cheek, cutting down through the jawline, and stopping at the side of it’s neck, (it got it while being held at knifepoint, the jackass went as far as to flay a good patch of it’s skin off). As well as, a large, jagged scar that wraps around their neck, (they got this after they nearly had been choked to death with some barbed wire). (Which permanently fucked up it’s mating gland and it’s most important scent gland. Since then, their hormones have been out of wack, and their heats are almost always irregular. It’s scent has been forever tainted. Instead of their previously sweet smell,—a combination of vanilla, lavender, and chocolate.—It’s scent is now similar to a mixture of rotten flesh, blood, and gasoline. (Though it hasn’t deterred their boyfriend one bit 💖). Not to mention, the barb wire had dug so deeply into their throat at one point, that it severed a few of their vocal cords. They have a characteristically hoarse and raspy tone to their voice because of that). He wears a heavy steel chain collar, with a silver tag that states its name, callsign, task force, rank, and blood type. They’ve got an identical chain leash to match too. It's eyes are positively striking, one is a honeyed brown, while the other is an icy blue. It’s fur is long, and is fluffy and/or downy, but equally coarse and wiry. They have a pure snow white coat that requires a shit ton of regular grooming, as it easily gets matted or dirty. Ghost uses purple shampoo to maintain the color of his coat).

(Johnny has nicked ears, one ear is pointy, while the other never really perked up, and is half-floppy/flopped down. Although he’s littered with scars,—new pink ones and white old ones,—he’s got some particularly distinctive ones; a scar from a bullet wound on his shoulder (from when he’d been shot by Graves), his scarred temples (from when he had nearly been killed by Makarov). The scar on his chin (which he got when he was a teen, at his lowest, self-harming). He's got a ring-like scar that wraps around one section of his tail, with tufts of fur missing. The scar cutting through his eye, (which he got when his abusive mother threatened him with a kitchen knife, in the midst of a particularly heated and escalating verbal fight. An altercation ensued, and as he attempted to disarm her/snatch the knife away from her, she slashed him with it, and it just so happened catch his eye. The witch was hardly remorseful, even after he’d gone blind in that eye, (though it definitely could’ve gone way worse). As well as, past s/h scars all over his thighs, arms, and shoulders. His scent is a concoction of pine, tobacco, and whiskey, and weirdly more pleasant than the average alpha’s scent. He wears a rope collar with a gold tag that says his name, callsign, task force, rank, and blood type, with an identical rope leash to go along with it. He’s got long, soft, and silky fur, that requires a bit of upkeep. Regular brushing and bathing usually does the trick just fine. His coat is sabled and tricolor, dark brown, charcoal black, and off-white. One of his eyes is a beautiful ocean blue, deep, vibrant and full of life. The other is discolored, a baby blue, shallow, lifeless,—but will somehow stare into your soul. He’s also got one metal/gold tooth/canine, white claws/nails, and a marbled pink and black nose and paw pads).

(Yuri's ears are cropped (by choice,—when his large ears were floppy, they’d get in the way all the time). His tail remains natural. His ears are pierced, one ear has one gold earring, while the other has two that are silver. He's smooth-coated, with a black, white, and ash-brown harlequin coloration. He has black claws, and a black nose. His paws/paw pads are heavily scarred, (acid burns), with fur missing. He also has quite a few scars from bullet wounds. His scent is a faint smell, and is a blend of eucalyptus, old books, and blueberries. His eyes are a grayish-blue, a bit dull, but pretty. All of his teeth and fangs are made of metal/steel. He wears a white leather studded collar, with a studded white leather leash to match. His collar has a patch on it that states his name, task force, rank, and blood type).

Gaz and Roach are Werecats, (kitty Gaz and kitty Roach hehehe). Kyle is a Panther hybrid, and a omega. While Gary is a Lynx hybrid, and a beta.

(Gaz has two particularly nasty claw marks over the center of his back and chest, and a single knick in the tip of one of his ears. They got the claw marks on their back and chest when a sparring match between them and Roach went terribly wrong. While, he got the knick in his ear from a bullet just barely missing their target, and grazing him. They have gold and silver canine teeth, white nails and claws, as well as a black nose and beans. Kyle’s eyes change color between forms and when shifting. Hazel normally, but full-on amber when in feline form. He has a beautiful sleek and silky, waterproof, jet-black coat, (though their spots are more pronounced than that of the average Panther). He also has very tough claws that can shred through just about anything. Their scent is an amalgamation of citrus, peppermint, and freshly brewed coffee).

(Roach’s got a pretty unique scar that covers their nose and the tip of their muzzle, as well as, a diamond-shaped scar over their Adam’s apple. They got the scar on their muzzle from a grenade exploding dangerously close to their face and badly singeing them. While, the diamond shaped scar is something they got when they had been captured by enemy forces, and were tortured for information. Because they wouldn’t talk, the torturer removed their vocal cords. “If you won’t speak, you might as well never speak again”. They had always been a person of few words,—and were promptly stripped of the very few words they did have. One of Gary’s ears is tipped/cut (and not of their own volition). Before they joined the 1-4-1 and prior to climbing the ranks, they were bullied harshly by their superior officers and taken advantage of. They were beaten up, called names, etc. Their callsign "Roach" was even originally a way to mock them and degrade them further. Eventually, they had enough and decided to stand up for themselves, and that was when they held them down and tipped their ear. Not only physically harming them, but humilating them by marking them as a feral cat, as one last hoo-rah. Thankfully, they're much better off nowadays with their current squad. They feel at home in the 1-4-1. They've also begun to see that their name isn't something to be ashamed of, but rather proud of. As it shows that they're one tough sucker to kill,—a tricky bastard. They’re a bit snaggletoothed,—some of their teeth are chipped. One of their canines has the tip broken off of it, while another one of their canines is metal/silver. They have white nails/claws, and a marbled pink and black nose and paw pads. They have massive paws and strong legs. Their eyes are a gorgeous emerald green, and really stand out. Their coat is a mix of grey, brown, black, and off-white, spotted, soft and fluffy.—But long, and requires regular care and grooming. (Fortunately, Gaz and them groom each other 💖). Their scent is a faint smell, but a fusion between butterscotch, vinegar, and freshly done laundry).

TBC SOON—

[thatsthewrongwallcraig]

(Grocery) Shopping With Gladiator I Characters:

Inspired by @reinawrites 🖤

Maximus:

This man would have the time of his LIFE in the garden section at a hardware store.

I put my trust in him to cultivate orchids to perfection

Would take pity in succulents on a 50% sale and buy them all 🙏🏻🖤

Could and WOULD build you a garden hut in a day

You could take him to the pet supply store on the way back home and convince him to get fish for the garden pond 🐟

Wouldn't be opposed to fruity and flowery shower gels

Would appreciate a solid bar of lavender soap

Commodus:

Shopping with him would be a hit or miss every time depending on his mood

Buys insane amounts of salty liquorice candies just to piss everybody else off and have all of it to himself (I'd steal some.of his stash)

He'd get overstimulated at the shops on a Saturday ✊🏻😔

Late night shopper to avoid the aforementioned and then acting like he owns the place

He's always one hand touching a rotten tomato away from losing it

Like strongly scented toiletries

Patchouli and eyeshadow, my liege?

This man is a cheese CONNOISSEUR 🧀 He would not be scared of a sharp gorgonzola ☝🏻

Young Lucius:

I'd buy him a mixed bag of candies and then take him to the library to get some books in history

I feel like he'd be a calm kiddo whilst shipping

Curious but well-behaved, not begging or whining for anything

Would be down massively with grapes even over candy

“Can we maybe buy the PawPatrol soap?” Sure can do!

Proximo:

Would DoorDash everything and anything and if I was the driver I'd set it on fire in front of door and ring the bell

Orders Viagra off of shady Internet adds

No, just no. You couldn’t pay me money to go shopping with him.

Would try and barter EVERYTHING 😩

“Can't we get the bananas 50% off? I think we should. Look, that one is already browning.” No, peepaw, just pick another bundle…

Ominous old people smell 😖

Cicero:

The only one on that list besides Maximus who'd take the whole ordeal serious

Would budget, would have a neat shopping list and a pen to cross things off

Cicero is a pro-shopper, he knows where to get the best produce and takes you around the farmers market

Would buy snacks and/or stop at food trucks because looking at all that food makes hungry ☝🏻…and nothing is worse than hangry shopping

Efficiency-oriented man when necessary. A twenty minute mission would be a twenty minute mission.

Doesn't only shop mindful, he also makes a mean shepherd's pie after

[ptn-imagines]

Can you do Suspect R x pre amnesia! chief? ik there's not a lot of content for her but they give such domestic married wives energy like

LOOK AT THIS. its fine if u dont accept, ther are PLENTY other ptn womens i thirst after so....

Oh, I will absolutely write for Suspect R despite her lack of content. In fact, I was hoping someone would ask!

Due to the lack of content on both her and Chief pre-amnesia, I ended up focusing more on the feelings they may have shared more than anything else, using the glimpses of Shepherd-12 we see in Shalom's interrogation as a guide. If this isn't to your satisfaction, feel free to send in another request! Praying that chapter 14 marks the return of the OG wife...

Suspect R x Pre-Amnesia!Chief

Once upon a time, her name was the one they loved the most. In a world where everyone wanted to use or betray them, she was the only one they trusted whole-heartedly. Shepherd-12 adored her.

As truths were unveiled and lies became unmasked and Shepherd-12 became more and more jaded to the world, she was the only one spared of hissing and biting. Only she could melt the icy protective layer upon the Shepherd’s heart, for only she could be trusted with it. Only she had pure intentions.

Secret trysts and rendezvous, the Shepherd was always so tense until the face of the nameless official melted away to reveal their lover, who perched on the edge of their desk like she belonged there. She did belong there. And the Shepherd abhorred the idea of belonging to anyone, anyone except for her. They would give themself over to her in a heartbeat, and they would drown in her, and it would be a sweet way to die.

They are a creature of Mania, but this Sinner is their salvation. She makes them feel human in a way that nobody and nothing else does, and they know that fate will never be kind to them so they relish these precious moments, and they love her eternally and devotedly and without regret nor restraint.

She loves them in kind for she knows this is what they need. They will never speak their thank yous aloud but she knows; how could she not? Even if the world should revile them, see them as monsters (and it did), the two of them would have each other. They need nothing else.

She holds them so close as though she attempts to meld their flesh as one. They greedily kiss her deeper, hotter, as though trying to exchange pieces of their souls with each entwined breath. She is both the untamed tempest that will inevitably drown them and the singular piece of driftwood that keeps them afloat in the storm.

Nothing else matters. Nobody else matters. Let the world burn to ash. The Shepherd would welcome it. The world is rotten to the core. So are they. Only she remains pure in an endless sea of filth. Only she is the truth among the lies.

“My dearest, your heart is becoming so black,” she whispered one night, and they didn’t know it then but this would be the final time they saw her like this. Her fingers caressed their face and they purred, leaning into the touch.

“They don’t deserve any more,” they breathed, nails digging into her back as though they were afraid they might slip through their fingers. “They can go to Hell for all I care. You’re the only thing that matters.”

She smiled at this and pulled them into another deep kiss. This one felt different, like a goodbye, but it was still filled with every ounce of passion and fire and desire and need and belonging they had come to expect. “You know it won’t end like this.”

“I know.” They detest the fact. She makes it bearable. She’s the only reason they haven’t torn the world asunder yet, because she is part of that world. “But you’ll be there, won’t you?”

She smiled. “Always. Don’t sleep for too long, or I might have to come and get you myself…”

…

Shepherd-13 always wakes from the dreams of these memories too soon, these ghosts banished with the rise of the sun over this corrupt city.

What was her name?

If they could choose anything to remember, it would be this.