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Mandalorian Arthur Morgan lives rent free in my head

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sometimes I forget the actual ending of rdr2 because in my imagination arthur is alive and well and we roam all over the west together and we have to go on the run and leave our temporarily settled-down lives behind but at least we always have each other. and we take turns washing each other’s hair at night when we stay in hotels under false names and share a bed at night and he presses a soft kiss to my temple before i drift off to sleep and he whispers an apology that he can’t give me the peaceful life I deserve but I tell him I wouldn’t trade what we have for anything else in the world

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”I asked grok” “I asked chatgpt” well I asked Arthur Morgan and he said “okay, I’ll catch you later then”

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listening to ethel cain and thinking of him (arthur morgan)

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for a lesbian I sure do like big burly male characters an awful lot

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arthur makes me so fucking SAD with his self-loathing,,, “no one would have me” “no wonder they all leave you” babygirl i am right here and i will love you forever

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two bad bitches (joel miller and arthur morgan) at the same damn time

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liking older male characters is actually a curse because the dbf/daddy kink/pregnancy fics abound but i have trauma from my dad and tokophobia

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early 2020 was the peak time to be into the mandalorian 😭 everyone was hyped bc of the season 2 announcement, pedro pascal was interactive with fans online, some of the best fics were ongoing…the best and only good part of that year

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mand’alor: sole ruler

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@rapidhighway

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i finished my rewatch of the mandalorian season one last night and immediately got sad it was over 😭 sure I have two other seasons to rewatch but nothing will compare to season one for me. it’s such a lovely season of television—the characterization is so satisfying for how succinct the season is, and even the “filler” episodes are so charming and add something to the overall experience. i don’t always feel that way with the second and third seasons.

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communion

author’s note: this is, admittedly, not an accurate representation of catholicism, orthodoxy, or any other religion. i wrote this for the vibes and also to cope with my own religious angst <3 find this fic (and more!) on my ao3, 3mpyr3anr3fl3ction :)

Despite resolving not to try to find Fyodor, Nikolai ends up at the church.

It’s the same as it ever is, all disapproving stained glass and stubborn, sturdy walls that, unfortunately, will outlast Nikolai and his miserable life. For a moment, he imagines taking a sledgehammer to the stained glass and marble and candles and turning every bit of iconography into dust.

He doesn’t dwell on that, though. Even if he tore the building down brick by brick, Fyodor would find another reason to reject him.

But the church is an objectively a peaceful place, at least for the moment. He hasn’t come across another person yet. Something about the rhythmic flickering of the candles glinting off multicolored mosaics—it’s hypnotic, almost. He could almost convince himself that he understands why this is what Fyodor is choosing over him.

But that thought stings. Once again he doesn’t dwell on it, and he makes his way to the sanctuary. For as much as he resents the place, he has to admit that it’s beautiful, in the same distant way an ancient exhibit at a museum is. But he finds the gaunt figure kneeling at the altar much more beautiful.

Nikolai takes a seat about halfway down the length of the sanctuary. As much as he would prefer to gaze at Fyodor, he doesn’t want to intrude on what Nikolai assumes is a private conversation with God and so he stares at the back of the pew in front of him. There are several thick, red books spaced evenly apart on the rack. He picks one up.

He lets it fall open to a random page, expecting it to be a Bible or some collection of prayers. Instead, he’s met with sheet music and lyrics to hymns he’s never heard. He wonders what Fyodor’s voice would sound like singing them.

Be Thou my vision, O Lord of my heart Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art.

Naught be all else to me. That sounds like something Fyodor would say.

He stares hard at the words. He can almost hear a congregation singing the hymn in earnest, Fyodor’s soft voice ringing out over them.

“Come to confess your sins?”

Nikolai startles, snapping the hymnal shut.

“Should I?” he asks, already sounding guilty.

Fyodor looks serene as he drops into a seat in the pew in front of Nikolai, turning to face him and draping himself over the back. “The priest just left, if you wanted to try a formal confession. But if you would like a witness, I can stand in.”

Nikolai stares at him.

“It might make you feel better,” Fyodor prompts.

Nikolai doesn’t reply, instead leaning forward and crossing his arms on the pew back, his face mere inches away from Fyodor’s. He watches as Fyodor’s gaze flickers down to his lips.

But nothing comes of it. Fyodor simply stands and smiles wryly.

“Follow me.”

And in that moment, Nikolai begins to understand the disciples. It’s easy to be a blind believer of the man you love.

He follows Fyodor to what looks to be a large, ornate cabinet along the side of the sanctuary.

“Traditionally, the priest and the confessor sit in separate compartments of the confessional,” he explains as he slides open one of the red velvet curtains. Nikolai steps into the compartment and hesitantly sits on the small wooden seat. “But,” continues Fyodor, “I am not a priest.”

Before Nikolai quite realizes what is happening Fyodor is in the confessional with him and has closed the curtain, and then he’s straddling Nikolai’s lap and holding Nikolai’s face in his hands. His hands are cold. Nikolai aches to hold them in his own.

“I missed you,” murmurs Fyodor.

Nikolai’s last coherent thought of the day is about how sacrilegious this whole interaction is—and then he allows himself to stop thinking and just melt into Fyodor, wrapping his arms around Fyodor’s slender waist and leaning in to kiss him.

Fyodor turns his face before their lips touch and instead bares the soft skin of his neck to Nikolai, who eagerly presses a kiss to the side of his throat and derives a truly sick sense of joy from the sound Fyodor makes in response. But he doesn’t get the chance to do it again, because Fyodor kisses him abruptly, his fingers intertwining in Nikolai’s hair as he peppers little kisses on his jaw, the corner of his mouth, his lips.

And in moments like these, Nikolai no longer feels envious of God.

God can have Fyodor’s soul. Nikolai has his heart.

Fyodor finally parts his lips just enough for Nikolai to taste him, and then everything falls apart, ending just as suddenly as it began. Fyodor is standing, still pressed too close to Nikolai in the crowded space. He looks disheveled, flushed cheeks a stark contrast to his pale face. He refuses to meet Nikolai’s eyes.

“There.” He opens the curtain. “Now we have something to confess.”

Nikolai stares after him.

Fyodor hurries out of the confessional but returns a moment later, holding two golden objects.

“Have you confessed?” asks Fyodor. Nikolai doesn’t reply. All he can do is watch as Fyodor kneels in front of him, placing the golden objects on the floor beside him and removing the lid of one. It contains part of a loaf of bread.

Fyodor is murmuring something—reciting a prayer, maybe, as he breaks off a small piece of bread.

Take, eat: this is my body, which is broken for you: this do in remembrance of me.

Fyodor holds the piece of bread to Nikolai’s lips, and he’s too confused to do anything other than accept it. He chews it, slowly, and Fyodor looks rapturous at Nikolai participating in this rite. Nikolai suddenly feels guilty—not for ostensibly desecrating the confessional, not for whatever sins Fyodor evidently believes he has committed, but for not going along with it sooner. If this was all it takes to make Fyodor happy, maybe his greatest sin was simply not doing it.

Fyodor reaches for the other object, a chalice that has already filled the cramped space with the scent of wine.

Fyodor rests one arm on Nikolai’s lap, laying his head in the crook of his elbow, and holds the chalice to Nikolai’s lips.

This cup is the new testament in my blood: this do ye, as oft as ye drink it, in remembrance of me.

And something within Nikolai snaps. Maybe it’s the look in Fyodor’s eyes, intense with an adoration that is usually reserved for icons of the Christ or a saint, maybe it’s the overpowering fragrance of wine and the heady incense Fyodor would always come home smelling like. Maybe it’s the overwhelming closeness of Fyodor, the weight of his head in Nikolai’s lap more intoxicating than any communion wine could be. But Nikolai cannot spend another second in this church.

“Nikolai,” Fyodor calls after him.

He does not turn around.

He does not stop walking until he’s outside and the cold winter air makes him stop feeling like he’s being suffocated. He stands staring at the ground for a long moment.

“Kolya, I don’t understand. I thought you felt something—I thought you finally understood.”

He turns around to face Fyodor. And he doesn’t know how to tell him that the closest thing he’s ever felt to a religious experience is when Fyodor touches him. He doesn’t know how to tell him that he did feel something in that confessional, but it wasn’t reverence for God. He doesn’t know how to tell him that Fyodor is his personal Jesus, the only thing he’s ever cared to put his faith in, even when he knows he could pray and plead and beg and still be let down.

And in the midst of it all, there’s only one thing left he does know how to say, a phrase he repeats in his mind almost like what Fyodor would call a prayer.

“Goodbye, Fyodor.”

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"never kill yourself" is perhaps my favourite meme these days. there will always be joy in your future and you just need to stick it out to find it

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if kaveh isn’t on a banner this patch you will see me on the news