#(no one forced us to go to church but i liked looking at the gold so i always went w them)

[selfcarecap]

Girls what do I wear to a christening/baptism? Like can I serve cunt? Or do I have to buy like a plain long dress?

And like, are trainers/sneakers okay? 😭 or platform boots?

[thenightcallsme]

Do I Make you Nervous? | Simon "Ghost" Riley

little re-upload from my AO3 :)

Synopsis: When Task Force 141 is betrayed by Philip Graves, they're forced to separate. Y\N fights her way through the foreign Las Almas with a broken radio and no sense of direction. Yet, somehow, she finds herself in the same church her lieutenant, Simon "Ghost" Riley, seeks sanctuary in. As they attempt to brave the storm sweeping through the streets, the infamously unreadable Ghost challenges their professional relationship.

Pairing: Ghost x F!141reader

Contains: fluff, kissing, use of Y/N, hint of angst but resolved in the end, vague mentions of blood/wounds

Word count: 5,874

• • • • •

It was all a set-up. A lie.

Disappointment and anger triumphs any sadness over Grave's betrayal. At first, he came across as over-confident in that stereotypical male way. Over time I had warmed up to him. But Shepherd? The man who has given me the most freedom I’ve had in a long time? I admit that my use as a weapon to him has put a strain on our companionship, but to station me with my own cousin only to lash out unprovoked? He’s crossed a line that he can never come back from. The small liking I had for the man vanished as soon as shit hit the fan. Everything seems to replay in my mind. Alejandro insulted and detained, Johnny shot at, Ghost cornered...

There were too many of them to fight off. I couldn't trust myself to hold my own with my mind worrying over Johnny, Alejandro and Ghost while also plotting Shepherd's death. So, though it pained me, I ran. Ghost and Johnny did the same. 

My radio was damaged in the incident. A stray bullet flew my way, and with a stroke of luck, grazed the radio instead of my ribs. The close call was enough warning to run, which is what I do now. The lack of communication only worsens the worry.

Shadows crawl in the streets of Las Almas like rats in a sewer. From door to door they go, yelling at innocent civilians in the late hours of dusk. From the conversations I've heard, they're looking for two foreign men and their female friend. They don't quite explain why we're being hunted, but the truth wouldn't change much. Every so often, a shot fires, echoing through the streets like a warning bell. A call of sorrow and fear.

With the Shadows forcing their way into civilian homes and raising their weapons against anyone who could harbour us, houses and shops aren't safe. The towering cathedral spires peeking above tin roofs and stacked houses catch my attention instead. Nobody would be inside at this time of night. For now, it's the best I can do. Also to my luck, the church isn't too far away. I take my time and keep to the shadows on my way. With a quick survey of my surroundings, I know I've bet the Shadows to this part of the city. That won't last long. The revelation has me jumping the gate within seconds of making it.

Inside the church is pitch black. Towering windows that tell biblical tales line the walls, casting light in intervals across the empty foyer. Rows of seats begin to emerge as my eyes adjust. Further back is an intricate, circular skylight tens of feet above the marble floor. Illuminating the altar below is a waterfall of silvery light. The giant cross, gold statues, and wooden altar glow like I'm looking through a blurred lens. The view is both eerie and magical...and not meant to be marvelled at in a time like this. My focus should be maintaining high ground. I begin to turn in search of a staircase when something shifts in the darkness.

A figure materialises, tall and built; easily a male physically capable of snapping my neck. My next best option is the gun strapped to my hip to parry the one in his hand. I go to reach for mine—

“Y/N?”

I freeze in surprise, but my mind eases slightly.

“Lieutenant? How—”

“Doesn’t matter. We’re here now.” He looks down at me with searching eyes. “You in one piece?”

“Yes. You—?” At that moment, my own eyes skim his body, only to halt at a worrying sight. On the left side of his waist, just above the waistband of his pants, is a blooming, dark red stain on his shirt. He’s been shot. “Jesus, Ghost. How bad is it?”

“I’ve had worse—”

He stops himself at the distant shouting. The surrounding streets haven’t been quiet since I’ve been in the church, but this time it grows closer. Angrier. Ghost doesn’t waste time ushering me along in search of a stairwell. The one we find leads to the second floor, then a third. Eventually, we discover the central bell tower. The room is dank and cold and decently big. Suspended in the middle is a gigantic bell. Even in the dark, I can see how weathered the metal is. The worn wooden floors creak as we cross it. On each wall are arched openings that allow entry to the cold night air and terrified screams. A small cluster of discarded furniture draped in white sheets huddles in a corner. From here, we have a perfect view of the sprawling city and winding streets. To those down there, we’re invisible.

Simon leans back against a wall and grunts, his hands brushing over the bullet wound. He pulls back his hands to inspect the fresh blood. However bad it is, it’s still bleeding.

“Show me,” I say. My voice comes out more demanding than I intend.

He gives me a brief exasperated look but doesn’t push back.

Ghost sits against the wall with his shoulders slumped just enough to reach my level. His jacket is unzipped, his black shirt rolled up halfway. Those tired, piercing eyes and muscular arms are the most I've ever seen of him. It feels like a reward when the weather is unforgiving enough to chase away his usual long-sleeve or jacket. His arms are tanned and muscled, with a tattoo sleeve working from the wrist of his left arm up to his elbow. I’ve begun to accept that it’s the closest I’m ever going to get to seeing him. But now I stare down at his bare abdomen.

The waistband of his black cargo pants sits low on his hips, offering a distracting view of a pronounced V-line and abs. In the moonlight, I can make out the reminders of war that mark his skin; a few silvery scars, some clean-cut, some gnarled and twisted; an old bullet wound healed closer to his ribs. The fresh one with the most of my attention is buried in a more acceptable spot. It nestles into the far right side of his waist, thankfully nowhere near any vital organs. However, it’s still a bullet wound and it still bleeds. That’s enough to worry me.

“Do you reckon it’s bad?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t say I’m dying.”

“But we aren’t in the position to get proper help. Maybe sit down for a bit.” Surprisingly, he does so without question. I get to my feet, draw a small knife from my thigh holster, and rip a strip of fabric from the white sheets. When I drop back down beside him, I take a deep breath. “Here"

He takes it with a mumbled thank you and wraps the fabric around his waist.

“You heard from John?” I ask.

Simon winces as he adjusts the torn sheet. “I radioed him multiple times. Never got an answer.”

“Are you surprised by all this?”

Simon leans back against the wall. “I tend to be less surprised by betrayal. But I had some respect for Shepherd.”

I sigh, shuffling around him so that I can do the same. “What are we supposed to do now?”

“Survive,” he says. “Shepherd wants you alive. Graves will see to that. He can’t kill Alejandro, either. But Johnny and I…” He shakes his head. “Graves won’t sleep until there’s a bullet in our heads and Shepherd won’t care enough to stop it.”

There’s a moment of silence as I fold my arms and look away thoughtfully. How are we supposed to do this? The blanket of night and the ensuing storm may offer some cover, but getting out of the city will be a mission. I can’t bring myself to leave without John, either. My heart hurts when I think about him. He could be anywhere, alone and outnumbered while I sit uselessly in a bell tower.

“What do we do about Johnny?” My voice is quiet. Fearful. “My radio was damaged so I couldn’t reach out to him. Maybe his is the same. But not knowing… He’s the only family I have left. My only real friend.”

“Don’t worry about Johnny. He’s one of the most resourceful and strong-willed Sergeants I’ve dealt with in a while. Have faith in him.” He looks at me then, tilting his head to the side. “I wouldn’t say he’s your only friend.”

“I do quite like his girlfriend…” I murmur.

“And Alejandro? Ronaldo?”

I purse my lips as his question draws thought. I’ve been considering Alejandro and Ronaldo as allies. Companions. But I’ve grown quite fond of them. Considering them as friends would set me up for heartache if anything were to happen. So I haven’t… At least openly. Despite my attempts to create some distance in our relationships, my subconscious has decided for me. Those two are my friends. It explains the immense distress I’m battling over Alejandro’s capture.

“I guess so.”

“Me?”

Silence ensues from both of us.

His question stuns me; I was prepared for him to stop at Alejandro and Ronaldo. There’s nobody else in Las Almas or back at home that I pay attention to. Besides Ghost, at least. I could answer him in a second. I almost do.

Ghost is infamous for his detachment. He’s quiet, short-tempered, dangerous and mysterious. I’ve heard the comments that he suits his code name. Spiritual beings do not communicate through speech but through action. Ghost is the physical embodiment of the epiphany. Anybody able to coax a few sentences from him outside missions is admirable. Outside of that, his physical emotions require deep analysis and theory to understand. The mask only makes things more difficult. I’ve never seen him show palpable kindness through his aura or words to anyone, never heard him allow the use of his name, never heard him offer others insight into the raging whirlwind of his mind.

And yet he lets those things slide around me.

He lets me speak his name when no one is listening. He offers me comfort when I need it most — if not through limited words, through soft gazes and a hand on my shoulder. I’m usually able to get him talking. Sometimes I receive short answers, sometimes I receive enough to help me understand more of that whirlwind mind. He even occasionally shows pieces of himself that take away from the guessing game I usually play.

I shut people out because the last people I let in betrayed me.

I never consider answering personal questions, but you tend to have a lot of them. And every time you ask…I almost answer

I guess you and I are more alike than I thought.

All of it has me wanting more. More of his mind, his words, the soft gazes I’ve noticed are reserved for me. What I already have is nothing compared to every naked truth he could be telling me. However, what I’ve managed to coax from him seems to be more than he’s told anyone in a long time. At first, I marked it down as me being the only female on the team or Ghost considered me fragile. But I've proved myself, and nothing about being a 'fragile female' (which I very well am not) does not automatically give me all these passes. I now realise it is much more than that.

Never once has he called me his friend. I already have. Now it’s his turn.

“I don’t mind you, Simon, but friendship can’t be one-sided,” I say. While it’s a simple statement, a silent question hides between each word. Are you my friend?

“If it was as one-sided as you think, you wouldn’t be calling me Simon.”

My heart skips a beat. There. It’s an answer to my unspoken words, but it’s not plain as day. As usual, Simon tells me something that is anything but straightforward. There’s room for interpretation in his answer—something that is beginning to tire me. It’s almost as if the honest answer is criminal and he’s trying to cover up his tracks. Almost as if not speaking that honest answer can allow him to deny it.

I don't bother concealing my annoyance. “That’s not what I want to hear and you know it.”

“Fuck sakes, Y\N, I said it,” he says. His voice comes out both argumentative and exasperated.

“No, you didn't. All I ever get out of you is stuff that works around the truth. Stuff I have to think about to understand.” I'm crossing a line, I know. I just can't help it. “What’s so hard about admitting it?”

“Don’t.”

His tone is final. I don’t care.

“Does the truth scare you?”

His eyes squint, becoming barely visible against the black paint, the mask, and the low light. I can clearly picture a scowl jumping across the many faces I’ve imagined. While I want to flinch away, I don’t. Not for a second do my eyes lower, and not for a second do I grow offensive. I remain calm and collected, which I think annoys him more.

“You want the truth?” he growls. The accent of Manchester seems to thicken. “Fine. I’ll tell you the truth. I don’t want to admit I think of you as a friend ‘cause I bloody well want to ignore it. For years, it’s only been me and I planned it to be for the rest of my life. Then all of a sudden you and your annoying cousin appear and jeopardise everything. The only person with an inkling of anything was Shepherd and I was fine with that. But now you’re catching up to him. You’ve so effortlessly undone everything I’ve worked hard to maintain.” The growl in his voice dies down the longer he speaks. In the last sentence, his voice is quiet, defeated, but a little begrudging. “And I knowingly let you.”

“If it was bothering you that much, you should have told me,” I say with a voice equally as quiet. “If I knew you didn’t want me to know so badly, I would have respected that.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t understand. I think about telling you everything. I may get pissy at you over your questions, but…” A sigh. The truth is shameful to him. “I look forward to them.”

“If it makes you feel any better…” I laugh a little. “It’s really annoying how intriguing you are. Not just your past and your face… When I’m not trying to guess what you look like, I’m refraining from asking you stupid questions. Shit like if you’re a cat or dog person.”

“Dog person,” he replies. Any hint of anger or annoyance has disappeared. “Cats have too much attitude.”

I squint. “You just don’t appreciate them.”

“You strike me as a cat person.” He pauses in thought. “You just remind me of a cat, really.”

I raise my brows, giving him an exasperated look. “Are you going to tell me I have an attitude?”

“Maybe. But there’s more to it.”

I cock my head in question.

“Cats are friendly. Independent.” His eyes shift and I wonder if there's a smirk beneath the mask. “Curious.”

“Was that another dig at my questions?”

“Yes. Now shut up and listen.”

Before he continues, I find myself turning my body so I can fully look at him, my shoulder against the concrete walls and my legs folded beneath me.

“There’s that look in their eyes that they know your worst thoughts. Your secrets. They’re also graceful. Got that high-class elegance about them. But they can be unpredictable, striking out when you least expect. Once they sink their claws into you…” His eyes search my face. “You can’t get rid of them.”

I look up at him in wonder, my mouth slightly agape as I try to find a suitable response. Nothing I could say would express the way his words sink in. I’ve always coined Simon to be the observant type, keeping to himself and remaining silent. But I never expected him to relay his finds. His usual short, sharp answers contrast the compliment greatly.

“I think…” A small smile curves my lips upwards. “…That was the most meaningful compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Never. Now I have a question.”

“The floor is yours.”

“Do you have, like, Queen Elizabeth tattooed on your face? The British flag?” I grin. “Something mask-worthy, you know?”

“Why does it have to be something British?”

“Because there’s no way you’re the only Brit I know that isn’t somewhat stereotypical.”

Simon huffs a laugh. “No stereotypical tattoos. Sorry to disappoint.”

“A big scar, then?”

He tilts his head. “No scars that make me want to wear it.”

I raise my brows. “So you do have a scar?”

“Only one big one.”

“Good to know.” I nod my head with thoughtful eyes. “I’ll add that to a mental note.”

His eyes widen a fraction. The skull sown to his balaclava only offers the view of his painted eyes and nothing. Not even his eyebrows. I guess he’s raising them in question.

“How often do you think about this?”

I let out a long breath. “You have no idea. I change what I think you look like every day.”

“What do you think I look like.”

I go quiet in thought for a moment. As I said, the image changes… Only more frequently than I want to admit. Sometimes the change is small. Sometimes the change is big. I know I’m not the only one stumped by this, either. John and I joked over it once. He said things eluding to him being unattractive. A crooked nose, a huge scar, broken teeth. Every time he made a guess I would laugh, but never did the ideas seep into my mind. Nothing in an unattractive sense, anyway. Despite the possibility, I can never picture him as ugly.

“It varies, but…” I take one last second to collect my thoughts. “Without that skull piece, you have dark eyebrows. I imagine your hair is brown. And you’re eyes…it’s hard to tell with the paint, but they’re more deep-set and heavy-lidded. The balaclava is tight enough to make me think you have a straight nose, high cheekbones, strong jaw…” I shake my head. “Beyond that, I’m stumped.”

I can tell he thinks deeply about each characteristic. I sit patiently and almost wait for confirmation, but I know better than that. If he’s not going to show his face, he’s not going to—

“My hair is brown.”

I’m about to backtrack on my previous thought when he reaches towards the space between my neck and shoulder. In the frenzy that has been the last hour, my hair has come undone. The braid was unsavable, making me pull out the band and attempt a ponytail…only for it to snap in two. My hair now falls in dishevelled waves. A small part of my hair falls over my shoulder. Simon gingerly reaches for it, curling it between his finger and examining it in the low light. …Can he hear how fast my heart is beating?

“Not like yours. A few shades lighter, maybe. And that scar…”

Even more gingerly, Simon pulls one of my hands from its folded position, and I pray my expression doesn’t betray me. Rough, calloused hands press against the back of mine. The size difference is almost comical. He guides it to his masked face, working his fingers working around mine to spread them out. He drags my hand over his right cheekbone, across the hollow of his cheek, and towards his jaw. My mind is hyper-fixated on the shape of his face.

“Right along there.”

His eyes continue to search my face. There’s nothing but curiosity in the blue-grey of his irises. Curious at what, I can’t tell. Everything about this has my mind raging. The way he looks at me, the way he holds my hand against the black balaclava, the way he towers over me even when sitting down... The thoughts that surface are shameful. He’s your lieutenant, for Christ’s sake. Have some respect. The remembrance of his position has little help.

If anything, it strengthens the fantasies.

His hold shifts on top of my hand, the pad of his thumb swiping across my skin to stop on the inner side of my wrist and press down. He may not have been able to hear my heartbeat…but now he can feel it at the worst possible moment.

“You’re heart is beating fast.” He inclines his head. “Do I make you nervous, Y\N?”

God, is my breathing even? I can’t tell.

“You just caught me off guard, is all.”

Simon hums thoughtfully as his hand breaks away from mine and reaches forward. His fingers connect with my collarbone before finding my neck, exploring upwards in search of a pulse point. A shiver of excitement and nervousness runs beneath my skin like a ripple. His other hand slides over my knee and up my thigh. If my heart was racing before, this is a life-or-death sprint.

Slow are his movements. Calculated. He knows exactly where my heartbeat reverberates in my neck. Instead, he drags the moment out, coaxing out his desired reaction. But there’s something else in the slowness: a window for me to flinch away and draw the physical line neither of us has ever drawn. We’ve brushed shoulders and hands. We’ve sat with our bodies aligned in cramped cars. He’s held my hair back in a bathroom as I threw up after a panicked episode (something I would like to forget if he wasn't so surprisingly understanding). He's placed a hand on my shoulder for many different reasons. All are excusable moments. The ones that surpass professional boundaries can be marked as friendly. However, the intimacy of this moment is new. Scary. Exciting.

“Did you know your bottom lip twitches before you lie?” Simon asks. I find myself at eye level with him. When did he get so close? “I don’t like lies. Try again.”

“Sometimes…” I breathe.

“Sometimes, what?”

Bastard. “Sometimes you make me nervous.”

“Why?”

“Because…” I frown. “I don’t know.”

He’s definitely leaning closer now. Not just with his head, but with his whole upper body. Out of the nerves Simon is so adamant on understanding, I retreat, only making it a few inches before my back hits the other wall. Simon half hovers over me, the hand that was on my thigh now bracing himself on the floor. There are only a few inches between our chests. Even less between our faces. Not once does he lose his connection with my pulse.

“Another lie.”

“I don’t know how to word it. That's not a lie.”

Simon drops his head so that his covered mouth hovers beside my ear.

“Good girl.”

Never has praise sounded so seductive. It takes every inch of concentration to reign in my self-control. I might have ripped off his mask then and there…

Only, I think he’s beating me to it.

From where his head hovers, I can’t see his masked face. The wide, strong shape of his shoulder obscures most of my vision. He retracts his hand from my neck to reach somewhere I can’t see. The sound of moving cloth widens my eyes and upsets the rhythm of my breathing, the uneven rise and fall of my chest barely brushing his.

Maybe he’s adjusting it, I convince myself. He has only ever offered you little pieces at a time. What he’s offering me now is more than he ever has at once. While my body screams for more, my mind knows I can’t expect too much from him. Whatever he’s doing now is more than enough.

“You’re breathing funny.”

The feeling of breath skims the shell of my ear and down my neck like a warm, ghostly waterfall. It takes me a second to notice a difference in his voice. It’s low, it’s rough, it’s teasing. All are easily noticeable and nothing new. What is new is the enhanced clarity. An added sharpness lingers in his accented words. The slight muffle is nowhere to be found.

I was wrong. He’s lifted his mask.

“Because you’re taking off your mask." My answer comes out in a weak whisper.

He doesn’t speak about the mask, instead repositioning his hand to my neck to find my pulse.

“If you can’t tell me,” he murmurs, returning to the previous topic, “your heartbeat can.”

A warm feeling presses into my neck. A gasp slips past my lips as my heartbeat continues to quicken and stumble beneath his thumb. Against my skin…I think Simon is smiling.

Nothing about this seems real. Simon plants slow kisses on my neck with his bare lips. They’re a little rough, yet soothing. Whether they’re full or thin, I can’t tell, but the lack of obvious signs paints an image of something in between. His nose brushes the base of my jaw. Just above the pointed tip is where the balaclava begins. I can feel the hard edges of the sewn-on skull pressing into my left temple. Light stubble covers his jaw.

As his mouth works slowly against my neck, my jaw, and my collarbone, my hand slides up and over his chest. I slowly feel his bare neck. Beneath my fingers, his Adam's apple bobs. Further I explore, feeling the planes of his skin. The stubble scratches against my curious hand. Raised skin runs in a line over the right side of his face; the scar. It’s thin and generally clean-cut. He pulls back slightly as I feel his face. A deep chuckle rumbles in his chest as my thumb traces over his lips. I was right, they are something between full and thin. His lower lip feels slightly fuller with a deep hollow beneath that curves into his chin.

When I find it in me to speak, my voice is breathy.

“Kiss me.” He seems to still at that. When his reply isn’t instant, I continue. “You don’t have to… But I won’t look. I swear it.”

Silently, he reaches for my hand. He holds his over mine for a moment as he did with the mask moments earlier. Then he gently pries it away. Cloth shifts in my air as he fixes the mask and pulls back. I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but I respect the decision. Simon looks down at me with lust-blown pupils. Mine must be the same.

He takes a second to examine me. My heavy-lidded eyes, my slightly parted lips, the way I slump beneath him, the glistening wet spots left on my neck. He whips it away before he speaks.

“Can I trust you?”

We both know the answer to that, so instead of saying the obvious, I one-up him.

“Do you want to trust me?”

Silence passes for a heartbeat.

“Of course I do,” he says softly. “I want to trust you. I want to touch you. I want to kiss you. …Undress you. I’ve wanted to for so long.”

Then he moves.

My thoughts go quiet as Simon’s hands reach upward. When his fingers brush the base of his mask, I reach out and still his hands. The action takes both of us by surprise. For months I’ve been thinking about this moment. Just now I’ve admitted how much what he looks like takes up my mind. Now I find myself stopping him, but not because I’ve changed my mind. I worry that this will be something he’ll regret.

“Simon,” I say. “You don’t owe it to me to show your face.”

“But I do.” He inclines his head. “Now keep your pretty eyes up.”

My breath catches in my throat as he pulls it off in one swift motion. I take in everything I’m seeing in amazement, wonder, and bewilderment.

He’s handsome. He’s really handsome.

The ruggedness and confidence he carries seem to be etched into the planes of his face. A light stubble shadows his angular, defined jaw. Just as I had imagined, the bridge of his nose is straight and strong. His high cheekbones, deep-set eyes and smudged black paint create deep shadows. His mouth is wide. The shape of them is a physical manifestation of what I had imagined. With an average fullness, his upper lip is slightly smaller with a soft cupid’s bow. Tracing the angles of his right cheekbone is that straight, silver scar. His hair isn’t as short as most other military men’s. It’s a little messy from the mask and, true to his words, a few shades lighter than mine. I can tell that, the longer it gets, the more it curls.

I stay silent as I take him in, eyes wide. Somehow I find the courage to slowly reach out. His blue-grey eyes dart to my hesitant fingers. When he doesn’t deny me, I close the space, this time feeling him without needing to imagine his image. I apply a little pressure as I brush his skin, feeling the warmth of his cheeks, the scar tissue on his cheekbone, and the stubble on his jaw. His eyes train on me. This is one of the few times I cannot understand what I see in them.

Whatever he’s thinking, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I stare back at Simon. Not Ghost, Simon.

“I was starting to think you weren’t real,” I say jokingly.

He laughs softly. One side of his mouth quirks up into a skewed smirk. My heart flutters at the sight of it. When he speaks, it’s with that teasing tone that always had me imagining a smirk. Matching his expressions to his tones is a strange thing to see, but I love it.

“Is this real enough for you?” he asks.

I hum in agreement. “You’re a lot better looking than I imagined.”

He raises a brow in mock offence. “Do I radiate unattractiveness? I’m offended.”

“I never said I imagined you ugly.”

I draw my hands back, taking another good look at him. My amazed smile remains. So does the awe in my eyes. Now that I know how good-looking he is, it’s going to be hard to get him out of my head. At least I can’t scold myself over falling for a faceless man anymore.

“I guess if I die tonight… I can go a little happier.”

The way he tilts his head and looks up through lowered brows sends my mind into a frenzy. I’m used to the action with his mask on, usually with the sewn-on skull. Now, with every part of his face laid bare for me, the feeling it stirs comes tenfold. He gives me a fake accusing look. Beneath the teasing air he gives off, that desire remains.

“A little?” he murmurs. His face grows closer, giving me a better view of the hollows and curves and marks of war.

“A little not enough?”

His eyes dip to my lips. “Not by a longshot.”

Then Simon kisses me.

Eyes fluttering closed, I sink into the feeling of his lips against mine. Gently. Hesitantly. Does he expect me to pull away? How could he think such a thing when I almost seemed desperate when I asked him? My hands slide over his chest, slowly linking behind his neck as the kiss deepens.

For a moment, everything fades away. The gunfire, the screams, the impending death we may face any moment... All of it reduces to a meaningless blur. Suddenly all that exists is me, Simon, and the secret embrace we share. In our kiss is a million unspoken words; a tidal wave of passion laced with a bittersweet sadness. The talk of ‘dying happy’ is no exaggeration. We very well may die, and seeing his face and feeling his touch eases the painful thought. Maybe this way I can find him in the afterlife - seek out his mysterious eyes and lopsided smirk and spend an eternity together. Or perhaps there is no afterlife, and this is my last stroke of luck.

Satisfied with the knowledge of what he does to me, Simon lowers his hand from my neck. The pressure reapplies near my belt. His fingers timidly skim the bottom of my tanktop, pulling the tucked part from my waistband. My own fingers weave through his brown hair as his hand slides further beneath. My kiss falters when he finds one of my breasts. His hand comfortably rests over it, his palm slowly kneading at the flesh. A low groan builds at the back of my throat.

After a moment, we pull away, chests rising and falling as we take deep breaths. His forehead rests against mine and suddenly I'm wishing we could do this over again. Except I picture less sadness to tinge every word and action. I picture the safety of home, the warmth of a bed, a carefree air that allows us to just enjoy the other's company. Reality comes back in a painful rush.

“I don’t want to die,” I whisper.

His hand retreats from my breast at my words. Instead, he takes a hold of my waist, giving me a comforting squeeze.

“You are not going to die. Not today. Not when there’s so much more I want from you.” He adds the last part with a teasing, suggestive smirk.

He looks down at my lips again—

“Ghost, how do you copy?”

We both freeze at the sound of a voice, so caught up in the moment that the radio is forgotten. Both the unspeakable things and sorrowful thoughts flooding my mind suddenly vanish at the sound of a familiar voice. There’s an equally received look on Simon’s face as he reaches for the small radio.

“I read you loud and clear, Sergeant,” he says. “What’s your location?”

“I…don’t know,” John replies solemnly. “Streets are crawling with Shadows. Where are you?”

“You see church spires above the houses?”

There’s a second of silence. Then…

“I see them.”

“Good. Head straight there and come inside. No Shadows here yet. They’ll be busy going door to door.”

“Affirmative. I’m on my way. Have you got any word from Y/N?”

Simon looks at me, silently giving me the floor to speak. “I’m right here, Johnny.”

There’s a sigh of relief on the other end. “Oh, thank fuck. You in one piece?”

“I’m all here. You?”

“Got a shot to the shoulder. Nothing I can’t handle.”

For the next while, Simon and I sit huddled side by side, guiding Johnny through the radio. I generally leave the talking to Simon. Listening to him speak and sinking into his warmth is good enough. Every so often, he'll say something that takes me by surprise. Sometimes it's a dad joke, either really good or incredibly bad. Sometimes it's something that alludes to Simon not minding Johnny. He never outright admits it, but saying 'I like you alive' to Johnny's 'so you do like me' speaks for itself. I smile at that. I have sunk my claws into him, and he's not going to be able to get rid of me till the day I die.

[stareiiez]

𝑭𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓 𝑷𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒔 & 𝑩𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅

-- seven

Leonard Church ( Epsilon) x Reader

Lavernius Tucker x Reader

note: GETUP RVB FANS I'm here to serve something that's been sitting here for two years. Who's ready for restoration??

content: angst. slow burn relationships. love triangle. potential character death. smut in later chapters. pining. hanahaki disease. blood. bodily fluids. female reader. dark topics are used here a lot. 2.1k words.

The once steady thump- thump- thump- of your heart shattered at the image of Church standing in front of you. His presence, short but broad nearly blended into the lilac-altering shades that were painted on Doc's walls. You blink, once, twice, thrice, four or five times until the burning of your lungs quells your brain to force oxygen to filter into your nose and down your esophagus.

Your lungs fill, expanding in your brittle ribcage that tickles against the lung sacs. The carbon monoxide you exhale sounds shaky as it flows out of parted, chapped lips. You can't help it, not one sense of you, for the most part, is stable in this situation. You can nearly see the small, rusty wheel cogs turning in his brain as his helmeted head flows from your ashen face to the flower sitting calmly in Doc's hand. The smell doesn't hit him, it can't hit him because he's an A.I.; well .... 'ghost' for the most part. Your stomach turns as his head tilts back to you once his vision is glued to the wilting flower. Its petals were curling inwards like the oxygen surrounding it was lethal and would only kill it the more exposure it got to it. 

"Well?" after a beat of silence, he speaks up again. His voice nearly makes you flinch, but with Doc by your side, you can't do much but slowly press your weight into his forearm armor. "What's with the flower? Actually, fuck that, what are you two talking about?"

His feet, soundless against the hard steel floor, take three steps to the two of you. His head tilts back and forth between the plant to yours, slowly turning, ashen face. You can only blink, sometimes you don't even dare to break the shocked eye contact you have with the pale gold visor of Church's helmet. "I'm waiting." His voice drips in sarcasm, and the heady impatience in the underlying tone of his words are only magnified when his hands are planted on his hips. 

Doc clears his throat, his hand instantly curling around the flower in his bare palm. His nose wrinkles at the feel of the velvety soft petals crumbling and growing damp and squishy in his fist. "She was just showing me the first real flower that she managed to grow out here. Who knew stale old cave water could grow marvelous things! "

Church turns his scrutinizing gaze away from you just long enough to have his pale eyes look Doc up and down slowly. So slow in a way like he's trying to read out every single cell in the medic's body. "I didn't know you were into flowers, Doc."

The latter throws Church a smile, one that looks so nervous and not genuine, but he's trying his damn best to get all eyes off you and your borderline panic attack. "Sure! Botonology was going to be my new major if I didn't get immediately accepted into med school and shipped out here. Donut even offered to help me run my little flower shop when we get back home after this cruddy war." Doc stutters nervously, his cheeks flushing at the vain attempt to lie his way smoothly towards Church.   

If you were in any right mind, you would have had a mark of your palm in the middle of your forehead from how hard you would have facepalmed. Instead, you can only breathe, count to ten in your whirring head, and try to come back to reality as fast as humanly possible. Your head tilts and catches the glint of light that bounces off Church's visor. He hadn't even been listening to whatever bullshit Doc spewed out of his mouth. He was busy watching you, studying, trying to figure out why you looked so tense and why your chest hadn't moved since the first moment he had even appeared in the room. 

"Can I talk to you for a moment--" Church reaches for you, his fingers don't even have the chance to grasp at you because you're moving your arm away from his transparent touch. "Alone."

"Are you kicking me out of my room? You can't do that! I'll tell Sarge and he will . . . he'll come to yell at you and ---"

"It's fine, Doc." Your voice breaks the nearly growing ramble that leaves Doc's mouth, his cheeks are red and his glasses are growing just a tad hazy from how much he speaks. "It'll be fine."

Doc blinks, mouth snapping shut with the loudest clack of his molars striking against each other in abrupt shock. He blinks twice or three more times until he scurries out of the room. Your eyes faintly trail after the back of Doc's head. He doesn't have time to even turn back to you and offer some silent look of support before the sliding doors have closed and locked behind him. Church's part, how he hasn't grown aware he can hack into the ' mainframe ' of Red Base and manipulate objects by his will is a shock. The idiot has grown smarter. Your head tilts. The corner of your mouth lits in a soft curve upwards, shoulders shrug and you silently have one moment of smug to yourself. Shocker.

However, that feeling goes away when Church swims into your vision and his visor is locked onto your eyes. You knew his own were trained on you. The light color of his irises would be trying to drink your expression in. Figuring out emotions and trying his fucking best to start up a conversation. If he wasn't dead he would have approached you like some fucking feral animal that was backed into a corner, fear in its eyes and ready to pounce on whoever was there to help it. 

You probably look like that feral animal. You haven't bathed in a couple of days ever since your coughing fits have turned into full-on vomit moments of colorful flowers. You couldn't sleep. Nightmares of drowning on dry land while blood and flower vines would seep from your nose and open mouth, your eyes would roll back and be poked out by sharp rose thorns that would rapidly creep from your body. 

It was like hell on earth, and for some reason, Church was your Lucifer. 

"Are you starting some kind of garden with Doc in the caves? You know they're used for Tucker to masturbate in right?" Church quips, his voice breaking the short moment of silence between you two.

"Do you think I care what Tucker does on his own?" More importantly, do you care about what he sexually does on his own? No. No, you don't. 

"More importantly did you just decide to pop up because of my little 'garden adventures' with Doc, or is there something else you needed." Your voice sounds snappy. The longer he is here, standing around like he's the second dumbest person on the fucking planet. The more you start to ache. 

Nausea smacks you around nearly as fast as the rate Church's hand tries to reach for your own. To hold and caress in that soft little way he used to do. For someone that was such a bitch boy. Who whined, complained, and threw temper tantrums if things didn't go his way or his team brought him to temperamental suicidal thoughts. He could always melt some of you into his open palm like putty.  

Some part of you yearns for that feel of warm skin on your skin. Nerves fizzle, your skin twitches and you swear you nearly close your eyes just when you're about to picture a smooth palm grace your fingers. Hell, you would even take his hand to your cheek. A soft hand, fingers brushing against your cheekbone. Those same fingers tangling into your hair or brushing a strand away from your features. Your nose twitches briefly and you nearly hallucinate the smell of gunpowder, metal, and faint cologne. It smells like Tucker. 

Your eyes blink the unfocused look you have in your colored orbs. The temporary daydream you have about the one fucking man who touched you, and not managed to have flowers sprout in your lungs, has ended. What you could have pictured as smooth and soft pale-colored skin was replaced and shifted back to the see-through baby blue of Church. 

It's disappointing. Not only disappointing but it's weird how desperate the human body is when they crave physical contact or warmth. Your own body has you craving Tucker rather than the man who's trying to figure out what in the hell is wrong with you. It seemed like if you could close your eyes once again, really squeeze them shut, and pretend like Church didn't even exist in front of you, you could imagine the rich and earthy tones of Lavernius Tucker. 

What the fuck. 

Instead, Church is standing in front of you, concern etched in his eyes behind the visor of his helmet, and it's only growing more in the zeros and ones that make up his pupils. A sharp inhale leaves your lungs. You wish you could crumble the same way as the way the flower folded so easily against Doc's palm. You wanted to be ended rather than deal with the sharp questioning eyes of your situation. 

"I'm concerned about you, and I never get concerned about anyone. You should be lucky." You couldn't help the scoff that leaves your bleeding lungs. Well, soon to be bleeding lungs.

"Except for Texas, glad I share the same area of concern with an old flame." Church flinches, his digital frame laps in the way those fuzzy vertical lines ran over an old TV screen. Nostalgia.

"It's different with you. You don't infest my brain. You also don't beat the shit out of me whenever I breathe too loud next to you." A smile would crack behind his visor if he could muster it. It's forced at best, just to try and ease the scowl you have on your face. " Just---- . . are you, healing? Feeling better? We can call someone if Doc isn't help-" 

"NO." You bark. The thought of involving more people in your disease is the nightmare you wish not to experience. The UNSC would take you under the knife and scalpel. They'd treat you like some freakish science experiment and run tests before they ever attempt to find some cure for you. They'd make you worse before they decided to be humane enough to make you feel better.

"No, I'm okay. Besides it's only been a couple of days at least, I'll heal. Besides you get worse before you get better, right?" Your voice softens around the edges. It's a sign that has Church exhaling heavily like he, himself, was in your shoes and stressed behind compare. His frame wanders closer, golden visor tilting to look closer at you. 

"Right. Well enough of asking about you, aren't you going to give a fuck about me and my travels as being a full-on ghost?" The tension between you two drastically shifts, it's a lot lighter now that the subject changed. It's accepted quickly, you don't have it in you to be mad he's back to his old selfish self once again. Your mouth tilts up into a small smile. 

Lungs wetly rattle with a chuckle you grant him. If 'ghosts' could experience warmth from somewhere in their cores; Church would feel it. He'd give anything to feel the small flutter in his heart again whenever he witnessed the soft crinkles in your eyes and nose when you laughed because of him. Tex never laughed around him like you did. It was always rough and demeaning when she laughed at him. Your laugh was a drink of water for a man who didn't know he was dying of thirst. Something something, poetic bullshit. He just liked it when you lit up in amusement around his presence. That's all. 

"Let me hear it. Tell me all about where you've been and if you've scared the shit out of anyone that deserves it." Your eyes soften in the corners as you focus your gaze on his armor. The walls that were surrounding you have lowered enough to let your shoulders lower from around your ears. The knots that have formed in your neck and back ache less now when you two settle into your banter back and forth like you used to when Church prattles on about his adventures in his 'haunts' around Blood Gulch. 

It feels perfectly normal for the first time in what feels like forever. 

[salllzy]

Sal's snippets #4 (hidden in the shadows #3)

For a demon, she would be considered an anomaly, but given that she was half angel it wasn't all that shocking that sometimes she was more virtuous than the average human and demon. That didn't mean that demons didn't have virtues a lot of them did, but they were buried so far down that they were impossible to find.

But she was her father's daughter. Her dad hadn't raised her to allow anyone to walk all over her and with the angels now forcing them to reveal themselves and just what they are? Well, she wasn't going to play nice, regardless of who they were. Sarah knew bits and pieces about angels and how they behaved, her dad, tried to get books on them. Which had been a painstaking task to do. So she knew that angels formed flocks and bonds with those who resided in their flocks. Her flock was her and her dad, that was it. The same was true about her dad.

For as long as she could remember it had always been her and her dad, no one else. Sure he was a serial killer with bodies in the hundreds and he was a cannibal, but no one was perfect. He had never laid a hand on her and he had done everything in his power to keep her safe, even going as far as to learn voodoo from his mother. While the woman herself had never used it, she had proven to be a fountain of knowledge. She pressed a golden-covered hand to his back and focused on his wounds, his self-inflicted wounds. She would call him dramatic but in this situation, she felt as if dramatics were warranted. Neither of them wanted to join Heaven and be part of their flock, not when they had proven how easy it was for them to toss a member of their flock out. She and her dad were different, they would never fit in. They would be tossed out well before they even reached the gates. "Oh, papa." She pressed her hand into his back, she knew that he didn't like touch from those that he didn't trust and men. And for good reason. Her aversion to touch stemmed from a different place, the only person who had ever touched her without the intent of harming her was her dad.

She had stopped trusting her dad's mother when she kept trying to force her to go to church and that all she needed to do was pray and all would be forgiven.

The thought of praying and begging for mercy for something that she had never done, had never sat right with her. She had been a child when the older woman had begun dragging her to church, her small wrist in an iron grip. She would sit in church and try to mimic what was being said, as her tongue blistered and bled. She had never mentioned it to her dad.

Her dad had been so happy that she was spending time with his mother that she had kept her mouth shut. Now she wondered if she had done the right thing, perhaps she should have told him. But what was done was done and she couldn't change it. All she could do was keep going forward and hope that they would be able to deal with whatever was thrown their way, as they had always done. "Don't worry papa, no one will hurt you while I am here." Her eyes flickered into dials before they returned back to normal, she wasn't going to let her anger rule her. She was better than that. Once she was sure that he wasn't in any danger she left his room, she knew that she looked a fright covered in gold-tinted blood. In all honesty, she didn't care, her red eyes took in every detail as she made her way through the hotel. She knew that she would have to be on her guard, she didn't know them and her dad hadn't said whether or not she could trust them, to an extent. But she knew that she had to stay away from Vox and the rest of the Vees, which wouldn't be too much of a problem, she had heard the shouting match that the Vees had gotten into when she was healing her dad. She doubted that any of them were still at the hotel. The Vees were all style and no substance. But if they were in the hotel? Well, she didn't have to play fair.

[rotworld]

15: Feast

(previous)

you've returned to nelton just in time for a very special day.

->sexually suggestive. contains mild gore, body horror, force feeding, parasites, mind control, dubcon/noncon due to mind control, religious content.

.

.

.

Nelton is what you need most right now. The sleepy, small town aura, empty crosswalks, the gentle lapping of the river at its meandering banks—it’s the calm you’re looking for, the comfort you want more than anything. You’re still tearful, still hurt when you think of home or where it should’ve been, but a comfortable numbness has taken root in your mind. This place will take care of you.

“Pull over up there,” Jamie says, pointing to the open spaces in front of a furniture store. There’s a room display in the front window, a hypothetical dining room with cushioned chairs and a floral tablecloth beneath a spotlight. Home is the feeling it evokes, intimacy, family, fullness of the heart. You take a shuddering breath. Jamie is trying to talk to you but all you can hear is blood rushing in your ears, your own racing pulse.

You have no home. Nowhere you can go back to. If there were ever children of the road in Anchor, they’re gone now, scattered to the wind. A place like that would never have let them stay.

“Hey,” Jamie says softly, cupping your face in their hands, urging you to look at them. “I think we should go back to the University, okay? We can take the long way around, make a detour so we don’t go through Anchor again. But you need a break, some time to figure this out.”

You shake your head. You don’t want to stop moving. Too long in one place and you’ll get restless, think too much about things you don’t have and never will. Places you can never go.

“Just for tonight. Just one night, okay? I’m worried about you.” 

There’s a knock at your window. You and Jamie both flinch. If you’d been looking, paying attention, you might’ve realized just how empty the town was when you arrived, the shops all closed, the lights off. You might’ve seen the slow procession coming over the hill, smiling faces, arms open in welcome, as they drew closer and began to surround your car. 

Malachi stands just outside, peering down at you with warmth and love emanating from his eyes. He’s dressed differently today. Rather than his plain black cassock, he wears vestments of white and gold, gruesome symbols embroidered in fine, scarlet stitching; blood, bones and viscera, human hearts skewered upon the cross. You smell it now, stronger than before—food. Meat. Flesh. Your mouth waters. The void inside of you is desperate to be filled.

“Miracle after miracle,” Malachi says in breathless reverence. “I prayed for your return and here you are. Won’t you join us, courier? There’s plenty of food to go around.” 

You fumble with the car door, desperate to be out there with him, with all the multitudes of Nelton. You hear Jamie calling out to you in confusion, but they suddenly stop. They are utterly still and silent, staring in wide-eyed shock and horror out the window. Malachi locks eyes with them and you hear an awful, muffled sound come from Jamie—from within them. Not human noise, but something shrill, screeching and suffering.

“Just the courier, I’m afraid. This feast would be wasted on you.” He opens the door and takes your hand in his, helping you out of your seat and pulling you against his chest. Jamie watches helplessly, trembling in their seat. “There’s no room in you for the holy spirit,” he says, his smile wide and threatening.

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: SILENCE BY DELERIUM FEAT. SARAH MCLACHLAN]

They bring you to the edge of town. To the river and up the grassy hill where the church waits. You remember something being wrong with this place before but all you see is peace now, people who are glad to see you, enough food that no one will go hungry. There are tables and folding chairs set up, picnic blankets stretched across the grass. You’re welcomed by everyone you see with warm smiles and embraces, kisses to the cheek. 

They make room for you, parting to form a path to a soft, tasseled blanket with a feast already laid out. There is space for two, for Malachi to pull you gently down to earth, your head resting in his lap. You are surrounded by food of impossible splendor; a living commercial and five-star buffet, everything fresh and fragrant and lovingly arranged. There are ripe, red grapes and plump strawberries, apple pie with glistening ruby insides and thick raspberry jam. The deli sandwiches have hot, soft bread fresh out of the oven, crisp tomatoes and artfully folded slices of meat. You smell charcoal, hear the sizzle of a grill. 

“You’ve got some heavy troubles weighing you down. Do you want to talk about it?” Malachi says, stroking his hand over your hair. You inhale sharply. You don’t want to think about it now. But Malachi cups your cheek, urging you to look up and into his soothing gaze. You could tell him anything, you think.

So you do. Everything, as far back as you can remember, even the things you’ve never told anyone. He listens with sympathy, stopping only to nod, to wipe away your tears, and to feed you. He plucks a single grape from the stem and presses it to your lips. You’re grateful. It bursts on your tongue, the skin thicker than you expect, chewy, the delicate fruit inside the sweetest you’ve ever tasted. 

“I have these nightmares,” you whisper. “I shouldn’t. I should dream about home. But I don’t know where I am, or who’s there with me. And it hurts, and I’m afraid, and I can’t breathe, I can’t remember—”

He offers you a slice of pie and you think nothing of the mess you make, how the flaky crust crumbles and makes a mess on his beautiful vestments or the filling, red and glistening, thick like jam, smears across your cheeks and chin. He chuckles fondly and gently wipes at the excess with his thumb. Some he gives to you, humming in approval when your tongue laps at his palm like a hungry bird. The rest he takes for himself, licking his fingers and moaning at the taste. 

Your thoughts are turning to sludge. You were telling him about home—where it wasn’t, Anchor and its gates and its cold people and how it felt to drive away—but it’s getting harder to string a sentence together, to remember where you leave off after every irresistible bite. Someone passes a charcuterie board around and Malachi has you sample each and every slice of meat, marbled cuts of prosciutto, spotted, peppery salami, breasola curled like pig’s ears. 

“I’m scared that there’s no one like me,” you tell him. “Because I can’t go home, and because I dream about something I don’t understand, that doesn’t understand me. I’m scared that I wouldn’t know even if I met someone like me, because I don’t even know what I am, and I’ll be lost and alone forever.” 

“Oh, courier,” Malachi says, tears welling up in his eyes. “You’re not alone. You’re here today where you were always meant to be, and you’ll never be alone again. This will be your home. You’ll become the same us, and we will be the same as you, and we will always understand each other. Do you know how I know that?” You shake your head. Malachi smiles. He has you sit up, straddling his lap, hushing your nervous stammering that you’re getting his vestments dirty. “I know,” he murmurs, cupping your chin, “because that’s the miracle. It’s there, in the Feeding of the Multitude and the Lord’s Supper. ‘He who eateth my flesh and drinketh my blood dwelleth in me, and I in him.’ We were all remade in the image of God.” 

He takes an apple, teeth crunching into smooth, scarlet skin, and then he cups the back of your neck. All of your reservations are nothing but dying whispers against the roar of your hungry need. To kiss him is to taste satiation for the first time. Malachi makes soft, pleased moans at your growing boldness, how your hands rest on his shoulder and you come closer, pressed against his chest. He presses the pale flesh of the apple between your open mouths and your tongues twine around it, saliva, sweet and runny, dribbling down your chin. His hand slides down the curve of your back, stroking your hip. When you bite the apple, it bleeds. 

That’s almost enough to scare you lucid, but the taste of it—the richness, the savory notes, dark red ambrosia sliding thick across your tongue—drags you back down into voracious hunger. 

“I think you’re ready,” Malachi murmurs against your lips. Both of his hands are on your hips, kneading the flesh, rocking you gently forward and back over the throbbing hardness beneath his vestments. “Finally, finally ready. You’ve been so worth the wait.” He presses one more hard, nipping kiss against your mouth and then he turns you around, making you lean your back against his chest. “Close your eyes. Relax.” 

You do as he says and are rewarded with a soft, sliding touch down the center of your body. You hear the grass rustling, the people of Nelton drawing closer, watching with bated breath. Someone kneels on your left, another on your right, holding your hands. Holding them down, you realize. Keeping them pinned to the ground. Someone is in front of you, crouching. A whisper of gratitude floats by your ear.

Something is pressed against your lips. It’s soft. Tender. Still warm, still dripping. “Open your mouth,” Malachi whispers. His fingers stroke your scalp. “This is it, courier. This will make Nelton your home. You will never be afraid or alone or lost again.” 

You hesitate. Is that what you wanted? It seems like it should be. Somewhere you can always go back to. People who will understand. Anchor ripped a hole in your heart and still it yearns for the place that wounded it. This will fill that void, you know it will. This will eat away at the tether, bit by bit.

Someone offered you this before and you refused. But why? 

“Open,” Malachi says softly. There is a hand on your chin, a palm cupping your jaw. The touch is not cruel but it is firm, guiding. You feel the give of flesh pressing past your teeth. It’s soft and coated in briny glaze, and there’s so much of it. There are more hands now, holding your head steady and tilted back, keeping your jaw open. “You have to swallow this one whole. I know you can do it.” 

You squirm nervously. No. This isn’t what you wanted. You try to pull away, to turn your head, but you can’t. There are too many people holding you, hands on your legs, your shoulders, your head, keeping you trapped against Malachi. Someone covers your eyes and you try to thrash, a muffled cry lodged in your throat.

“No, don’t fight,” Malachi says. He sounds so hurt, so sad that you would even try. “Don’t struggle. You’ve already come so far. You’re ready, courier. Don’t you want to come home?” 

You strain against his hold. Jamie—where’s Jamie? Are they hurt? You can’t remember. Everything is a blur since you crossed the bridge into Nelton and smelled food, a fog clouding your mind. But you know you don’t want this. It was never just the place or the people. Home, you have always believed, is more than a dream or a sketch on your map or the other end of the tether. There’s something you’ve always wanted more than to know what road to take, to see it with your own eyes. You want the freedom to choose where home is. 

Malachi sighs, the sound exasperated and affectionate. “Let me help you, courier. Let me show you how to take this last step.” Someone—it must be him—touches the front of your throat. Kneading. Massaging. Pushing and prodding, inducing you to swallow. You make a frightened sound. More of the thing slides into your mouth.

It twitches. Wriggling, stringy tendrils slither into your throat and your stomach lurches. It’s alive. It’s pulsating. You shiver and fight but you are held still and the thing undulates forward, deeper, nudging against the back of your throat. Malachi squeezes your neck again and you can’t stop yourself from swallowing again, taking more of the thing inside yourself. Tears fill your eyes.

“Swallow,” Malachi whispers. There’s an edge of excitement to his voice, breathless anticipation making him rasp his words. “Swallow, courier. That’s it. Yes, just like that. Oh, you’re radiant! More. More, darling. You’re doing so well. If only you could see yourself like this…”

You’re choking, gagging on the thing. Malachi squeezes and caresses, conducting the muscles in your neck with a musician’s finesse and you swallow, swallow, swallow. It feels like a snake but more slippery, moving at an agonizing inchworm pace. Your brain whites out at the sheer horror of what’s happening. Knowing but not really knowing, imagining what its bulging girth looks like as it crams itself into your throat, not being able to make it stop. Malachi never stops speaking even as you stop understanding, a steady stream of soft, soothing sounds purred against your ear. The air feels heavy, the silence weighted beyond the obscene squelch of flesh stuffing your throat and your muffled, gurgling whines. 

“There you are, angel.” 

You flinch. That wasn’t Malachi. That wasn’t a voice you recognize. The words were crystal clear even though the world sounds muffled and far away, louder than your pulse, than the racing of your thoughts and your pitiful, choked whimpers. It was the exquisite softness of a real bed after days of driving. It was the graze of a lover’s fingertips down your back, familiar and long-awaited. It was the freedom of the road, the crisp newness of the air after a shift. All the fight drains out of you, all the tension and fear fading away. 

You are seen. Known. Held. Home. You don’t need to choose. Hands fall away from you with lingering touches, stroking your head, your face, your relaxing shoulders, but you still feel wrapped in that all-encompassing embrace. Your head lolls back against Malachi’s shoulder and you hear him praying. Giving thanks. You taste sugar and blood, something sweet and tangy leaking from the corner of your mouth. Malachi gathers a thick, red droplet on his fingers and tastes it, shuddering in delight. 

“You are an angel, aren’t you?” he whispers. “Our angel.” 

You hear a scream. Fear, anger, horror. Unimportant, you think. Nothing matters but the peace of this moment, Malachi helping you turn and tuck your head against his chest, his hand rubbing up and down your back. There’s a sharpness in your chest, a thorny prickle in your lungs like you’ve swallowed glass. Unimportant. The pain is not greater than the easy pleasure of belonging. Malachi kisses your forehead, your cheek, just above your eye. It’s easy, the most natural thing in the world, to lift your head and kiss him back. 

Someone is screaming. Calling for you. Someone is fighting, biting, clawing, tearing their way through Nelton. You hear a table overturned, plates shattering, flesh violently meeting flesh and the crack of breaking bone. You don’t care. Malachi parts your lips with his tongue and something deep within him touches something deep within you. There is a spark of connection; of knowing, and being known. Nelton’s decades flit before your closed eyes like an unraveling film reel, swift and silent.

Loneliness. Emptiness. Hunger. Two boys crouched at the back of a church, whispering promises. The miracle, vivid and visceral. The Feeding of the Multitude. 

And then you’re ripped away, out of his arms. And you are moving, being moved, being dragged through a mess of hunched, wounded bodies and wasted food, Godflesh still warm and beating where it fell into the dirt. This one doesn’t know. They don’t understand. But you can change their mind. That’s why you look back and Malachi is smiling. That’s why you let yourself be taken.

Jamie is covered in blood. Good blood, holy blood. The blood of your home. It’s beautiful speckled on their cheeks and splattered across their clothes, the scent tantalizing. “I’m sorry,” they sob, holding you tightly. “Fuck, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened, I couldn’t move, I couldn’t think, he was in my head somehow. I think he’s—he’s like me somehow, but different. Those aren’t the same species, I’ve never seen anything like it…” They trail off, fresh tears trickling down their face as they look at you. 

You smile, wiping absently at the sweet, holy blood oozing from your mouth. 

Jamie shoves you into the passenger seat. Their hands are shaking. They buckle your seatbelt for you, check that your hands and feet are clear of the door, and then slam it shut. They cross quickly to the driver’s side and you watch with placid curiosity as they turn on the car, struggling to back out and onto the road. “I’ll fix this,” they say, their voice cracking with a sob. “I promise you, courier, I’m going to get that thing out of you. I’ll find a way.” 

You don’t think that’s possible. And even if it was, why would you want that? But you smile and relax in your seat, watching Nelton’s streets pass by. It’s bittersweet to leave home so soon after arriving but you know you’ll be back before long. You’ll bring Jamie. Maybe you’ll even bring whoever Jamie thinks can “help” you. You’ll bring as many as you can. The holiday will be over by then, but there will still be food and shelter and the unquestioning kindness of this wonderful place, a miracle that is eager to be shared.

You are an angel and your law is hospitality. You will feed as many as you can.

(next)

[thesoulesscollection]

✂️ - What is one of your OC’s worst memories?

Sorry this took me a while as I didn't know at first what to do but thought a little one-shot would do better. I've decided to do this with Honey as I feel that she's been neglected from my attention. 

The Death Of Candy Kinsley 

Tw/Tags: Angst, Hurt/No Comfort, Character Death - Old Age?, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Complicated/Abusive Relationships, & Ambiguously Open Ending

1978: Honey, 19yo; Choc, 22yo; Candy, 77yo

Death has always been a harrowing event for Honey as much as she tries to understand, accept or deny it.

An omnipotent force, unkindly unyielding, has loomed over her since she was an infant. Not one to be reckoned with either as many said to her, that it is unkind to all, no matter the circumstance or age. 

Despite what the mongers projecting fear try to say, how she should subserviently bow to the whims of life set for her, she was a feisty young lady willing to get her well manicured hands dirty if need be to achieve her heart's whims. 

This though wasn't what she expected and now is at an unease over. 

“You're sure about this, Choc?” Her pristine image of bravado confidence wavers, “This can't be the way we deal with it. I don't feel right” 

“Yes. I am” 

Then her brother, Choc comes along into the picture, as she often imagined it as one that's been scratched up and faded with time it was no longer recognizable. Unlike her, he took to being forgotten about in the shadows, rather preferring to be a silent observer. Soon she's  baffled he sounded nonchalant, that he can 

be emotionally detached and quite aloof on the matter. 

Their grandmother, Candy Kinsley is terribly ill, basically on death's doorstep for goodness sake! He should've tried to show an ounce of sympathy! 

When he heard the tragic news which she witnessed in person, Choc simply shrugged his broad shoulders with a blank expression, looking elsewhere into the distance. 

While she stood unsettled, many more took it as him being upset yet decidedly as the man of the family chose to do his suffering silently in due respect and swallow down the pain for everyone's sake, taking part as the glue that kept them both stable and happy. 

As his sister Honey knew better than anyone however, she didn't feel any better knowing the whole truth. Only that the horrid truth then the stifling realization. She couldn't back out. 

“She won't take it from me, outright refuse if she knew. With you, it's different. You're her favorite and we all know that” He admits with a scorned expression. “So why don't you out the two of us go ahead and comfort her in this trying time” 

In his hands was a cupcake, simply detailed, chocolate in flavor with the same flavor as a frosting on top. He soon hands it to her with careful effort to not drop it, picking up on her hesitancy. Choc's face fell, lips in a soft frown and sighs. A disgruntled groan disguised as a tired sigh Honey picks on, she was testing his limits like any and all siblings tend to do towards one another. His hand brushes back unkempt pale blond curls that broke free from its clean, side sweep style. The siblings must look presentable and at their best for the delicate occasion. 

Honey wore her best, an outfit outshining the rest in her entire wardrobe already filled with the brim in expensive beauty chosen by her grandmother almost over two years ago for these events. Still she frets all the same at every step, smoothing the cream colored ruffled blouse decorated with hand stitched gold trims then fixes the crooked diamond buttons, and tugs down the wrinkled knee length silk skirt. It made her appear older than what she actually was so naturally it didn't suit her tastes. 

She doesn't enjoy it. As if she was going to church to pray at a higher being that may or may not exist for a better outcome. 

“You do understand I'm only doing this for you. For us” He almost sounded remorseful, a particular emotion she doesn't get to view too often. “This is for the best. Keep her out of her misery”  

Only ever the cheerful fakeness displayed on like a cheap mask. 

“She has been getting worse, hasn't she?” 

A mutual sense of subdued understanding surfaces for the siblings, their grandmother is the lone parental figure they've got and now it may be coming to an end. Honey's emotions are feverishly out of whack where a pit in her stomach grows heavier while Choc just lightly nudges her, remaining calm. 

“That she has. You probably should get going then. She doesn't like to wait” 

Her posture straight, heels clicked together and clammy hands clasped together, Honey squeezes them. Antsy walked to a door, on the other inside she knows likely there will be their grandmother on her deathbed awaiting for Honey's arrival. 

***

“Grandmother?” She calls, as Choc lingered behind her by the open door. The cupcake is placed on the small, square bedside table to stay for now. Whatever purpose that sweet treat has is unknown to her and she doesn't focus her attention longer on it. 

“Ah. My dear, sweet girl. Honey come closer” 

The raspy voice answers back in a pained drawl causing Honey to stiffen. She didn't mean to react in an unfashionable manner. What she saw with her own eyes hadn't helped either. 

“You look beautiful. What brings you here?” 

In a twin sized bed propped up by pillows lies an elderly woman. Clearly ill, bedridden, skin and bones, Honey swallows, “I came to visit you. To check up on you, grandma” Piercing chestnut eyes, sunken in, stares through her, almost in her soul if it could and a gaunt face that's heavily wrinkled complexion used to be a smooth, warm light brown has to force any dwindling energy into the smallest imaginable smile. Graying hair once a pure ebony color is anything but wispy and thin hanging off the scalp similarly to hay. 

A sickening sight of someone that's been full of hard life months ago is twisting a knife into her heart. 

“Oh, how wonderful that is of you. So is it just you who's visiting?” It came out as a sharply pointed question, a purposeful intention when the pair switched their gaze from one another to the door. 

Choc still stands by the entrance, gripping at the door frame, hesitant to really leave. In his common silent stance, statue-esque he eyes them unblinking until he is startled a moment later. Upon hearing the older woman's choice words, not too kind, her brother gruffly huffed, Honey could tell he'd rolled his eyes as well despite having already turned around to leave. 

The door slammed shut behind him, leading the two women to be left alone with the eerie silence, Honey wincing at the sound whereas her grandmother remained still with a neutral expression. 

“That's better. He tends to be in the way” Her grandmother spoke, she listens dutifully with open ears. “He never knows what's good for him. Out of all that training by the chief you'd think it would be beaten into him. Obedience and respect”   

“Grammy. I've come to visit you. See if you're doing alright” She weakly starts, watching the older woman stall, thankful to get the leeway to continue on. “Let's… Not talk about him right now. He's just upset like I am…” 

“Dear. You're sweet” 

A hand, shaky, attempts to pat Honey's arm and the younger woman laid her own on top, settling down the movement. 

“I. I got you something too” When she made the move to grab the cupcake, she stopped as her grandmother gripped her hand with a tight hold that shouldn't be too becoming of an elderly woman in her failing health. 

“I see. It appears nice. Perhaps edible but let's talk first” 

Honey couldn't pull away, looking confused, a hint terrified. 

“My time is almost up. We all know it. Don't we? It is something we must discuss before then” As if on cue Honey reluctantly nodded, she didn't want to accept it. “So whatever you do, child, prepare. For death, for everything it will catch up to you, all of us in the end. You can not let it happen by any means you throw out them, don't let it"

Words spewed out her grandmother's mouth like a waterfall. Pouring out her crackling lips, some of it doesn't make sense. The rambling in the middle was as clear as day and Honey isn't enjoying it. 

“Do I make myself clear? Do you understand what you must do for this family” A firm order, not to ignore unless she is seeking for a slew of trouble her way. Similar to her brother, she learned the hard way in the past by the hand for her mistakes. 

“Y-yes, Grams... Yes, ma'am” Honey quickly corrects, eventually being let go. Her arm is stinging in familiar tingling pain almost all the way up the elbow, she rubs it and stumbles to sit again. 

“Good. Now be nice and go ahead and hand me that cupcake, would you?”

Honey listens. 

Not a day later is when the siblings receive the grave news of their grandmother's passing. 

[headcanontheshitoutofsoulsborne]

Elden Ring Chain 2, Part 1

This time we did the chain a little differently. Two people got the same prompt, but instead of letting eight people do one chain with eight entries, we split them in two groups. Once the first half was done, the other group did receive the last art piece/fic and continued with it, so we got two chains for the price of one ^^ Please be aware that one of the chains is an entry short, because I, the mod, had to drop out thanks to life circumstances. For now, let's start with the first chain. Prompt: A tale of Godwyn's favoured Servant, Fia

@redsixwing

Title: A Banished Companion

Prompt: A tale of Godwyn's favoured Servant, Fia

Limit: 4k 

Length: ~2500

Summary

Fia’s departure from Leyndell is sudden and unwanted, but even after the tragic death of Godwyn the Golden, all is not lost.

Warnings 

Very sad. Canon character death.

Notes

In proper Fromsoft fashion, the only concession I’ve made to early English is to use thee/thy for informal speech. “You” is used between strangers or to mark that the speaker is of less rank than the listener.

This isn’t meant to be a full reflection on the role of Destined Death - rather, it’s an attempt to view the effects of Marika’s rage from the outside. In her anger and grief, she shatters more than she knows, and sows the seeds of her own destruction.

Fic Body

Before, Godwyn, demigod ascendant, pride of his family, was called the Golden.

Before, he was the conqueror of dragons, the bosom companion of fearsome Fortissax. He took after his father in charisma and his mother in might. As the only child of the Eternal Queen and the Elden Lord, he was welcome everywhere, favored everywhere. Of course he had enemies, just as She did. Of course the divine family expected his grace and power to protect him.  

When the Black Knives came, the accolades and expectations all proved hollow. 

***

That bleak morning, Leyndell was in chaos. The gold-and-white banners lay limp beneath black mourning streamers that had not flown since the end of the war against the Gloam-Eyed Queen. The knights were out in force, patrolling the streets in threes and fours and shouting at everyone who stepped out their doors to go back inside.

Fia was in the lower city’s sole Church. All three of the active Deathbed Companions stayed there, along with their Revered Mother. Along with Fia herself, whose apprenticeship had ended so recently that she had not yet performed her rites. 

The sanctuary was empty this morning. The Companions, fresh from their morning prayers, occupied a half-circle of chairs before the ornate seat of the Revered Mother. Light poured in the windows and the open door from the Erdtree, brighter than the sun. The plain walls and waxed wooden furnishings made a homelike setting, and the five black-clad figures huddled together, trying to understand what was the matter.

No black-clad messenger came to ask the Companions’ boon. No noble scion or spouse lay grieving on the front steps, begging to have a beloved relative borne back to life. Instead, knights clustered around the Church in ominous silence, and sent groups down the nearby alleys as if searching for something.. 

“What has befallen us?” The Revered Mother, Sarah, spoke from her chair. “Will one of ye go and ask the knights what it is they are doing?” She looked to rise, but her vigor had faded years ago, and it would not be easy for her to walk even so far. 

“Of course, Mother.” Fia rose. Iris, one of the older Companions, followed along behind her.

“Sir knight?” Fia called through the Church’s open door. The nearest one turned, crisp, hand on his weapon. 

“Go back inside,” he commanded. “This is no time to be out.” 

“What news, sir? Please - we haven’t heard.” Fia stepped obediently back, peering around the door. Iris, behind her, leaned to peer out too. 

The knight shook his head. “You don’t know? The Golden lies slain, by some foul-” 

Whatever he would’ve said was cut off. With a clap of wings like thunder, the dragon Fortissax cruised low overhead. Toward the base of the Erdtree! The knight ducked by reflex. Iris squeaked and hid behind the door. Fia stepped back into shadow, hand over her mouth. In moments, the dragon was past, the shattering noise gone.

Fia closed the door with a mournful creak of hinges. Iris slumped against it. “No,” she whispered. “It can’t be-.” 

Fia crouched by her side, patting at her shoulders. “He is a god,” she said, barely believing. “Yet even gods may die.” 

And dead he was. 

The Companions spent their afternoon trying to guess what would be next. While Leyndell tolerated Those who Live in Death, it seemed past belief that the Eternal Queen would recommend one of Her own for the ancient, sacred practice when She could grant Erdtree burial instead. And how had the Golden fallen? They, who studied death and knew it intimately, had not known he was close to his ending.

They split for a time, the Companions to their quarters to worry and to prepare. Fia stayed with the Revered Mother, tending to her needs. 

A knight came as the sun was setting, tacked a bill to the door under the Golden Seal, and left without speaking a word. Fia retrieved it and handed it to the Revered Mother. A handwritten note was wrapped inside it. When Sarah read it, her face went pale. 

“So it is true.” She sagged in her chair. Fia, anxious, moved to pat her thin hand. The Revered Mother said first, in a flat voice: “I am not to show this to you, or share this warning.” She put the first, handwritten slip of paper into a candleflame, watched it crumble to ash, and read the formal bill aloud: 

“Mourn, Leyndell! Godwyn the Golden lies slain by a blasphemous conspiracy. 

He will be buried in two days’ time at the foot of the Erdtree. His faithful companion Fortissax shall attend his grave, as is the custom among dragons. All loyal citizens of Leyndell may attend ceremonies on the grounds of the Church of the Order. All faithful of the Golden Order are welcome within the Erdtree Sanctuary or upon its grounds.

Fear, traitors and blasphemers! Ye shall bow to the wrath of the Golden Order, and all those who practice the arts of Death shall fall beside ye. 

Heed now my words: Never again shall Death sully the Divine.” 

Sarah laid the scroll across her knees. Below the final line, the seal of the Eternal Queen glowed golden. Fia stood stock-still, stunned. 

“Apprentice mine. My last, precious student.” Sarah grasped both her hands. “Gather the others, now.” 

Iris was easy to find in her quarters, reading a book before her long mirror. Shannon was examining his wardrobe. Ciara was at the altar, as was so often the case. Fia called them all together, and the four Deathbed Companions knelt before their leader one final time. 

Once again, she read the dreadful scroll. Sarah waited for the gasps and soft cries to finish, and folded her withered hands over her knees. 

“My little ones. Faithful Companions all, who have borne so many back to life. This is the last assignment I will ever give ye.” 

Iris stifled a sob. 

“Flee now, Companions. Flee before the knights come, or Death will hold us all before morning.”  

“Revered Mother.” Shannon spoke through a handkerchief of black lace, held over his mouth. “What of you?” 

“I will remain.” Sarah lifted her chin in pride, white hair curling over her shoulders. Her beauty had outlasted her vigor.

“May we not stay beside you?” 

“Lovely Shannon! Someone must speak for Death, but it need not be thee.” Sarah leaned forward to place a hand on his head. “Flee Leyndell. Go far and fast.”

Only Ciara did not speak, but knelt with head bowed, silent and still. Tears streamed in silent protest.  

“Go now, Companions.” Sarah rose with difficulty from her chair, and walked to the door. “I do not know how long we have.”

“Come, Shannon.” Ciara was standing in a flash, holding a hand out. Shannon grasped it and they made haste for the door. Iris followed after. 

“Fia? Aren’t you coming to pack your things?” 

“No. I’m going now.” Fia looked from her elders to her Revered Mother, and saw pride in Sarah’s pale eyes. Her cloak, her stipend - 

Well, she would figure out a way, if only she had her life. There was no reason to believe the knights would hesitate. 

“Good girl,” Sarah whispered. “Go with my blessing.” 

Fia fled. 

***

Leyndell lay unrestful in the evening. 

Fia left the Church by an entrance she had used as a child: a gap where the wall did not quite meet a mighty limb of the Erdtree. As a girl, she’d scrambled through that gap to play among the golden leaves. Now, the limb was bare, and she used its bulk to hide from a patrol of passing knights. Working fast, she stripped her distinctive headdress off, tucked it into her dress for safekeeping, and let down her hair. Her Companion’s dress might give her away, but there was no time to change it. 

That group of knights formed a loose line around the front of her Church, her home, and paused. Their superior, notable in a golden cloak with the Erdtree’s emblem woven in white, walked the line in approving silence.

Out of sight but not out of hearing, a mailed fist hammered on the wooden door. The hinges gave their mournful creak. 

Fia slunk down out of sight, took to the road, and ran for all she was worth. 

Within the area around the little Church, all had been quiet. When she reached one of the main thoroughfares, she found it packed with people. In the throng, she was only a pale woman in a black dress, one of many. Some, tears on their faces and offerings in hand, were going to the Erdtree Sanctuary. Others, wearing cloaks and bearing bundles on their backs, were heading for the gates. Knights on horseback tried to control the crowd, to little effect. 

Fia put her head down, feeling the lack of her headdress like a pressure on the back of her neck, and stayed as far from the mounted knights as possible. The currents of the crowd would bear her toward the gates, if only she could avoid notice. It was a long walk in the best of circumstances; she guessed it would be hours, if all the roads were so crowded.

Snatches of conversation came to her ears. 

“I can’t believe it-”

“Blasphemy against the Eternal!”

“He’s going to prepare their home in Caelid-”

“Who would do such a thing?” 

“Heard it was a demigod…”

“That can’t be right.”

“Liurnia is nice this time of year.”

“The Heir is fallen too, didn’t you know?” 

“Whole Order is up in arms, it’s war, no mistake.”

“We need to go.”

Dire news, if it was true, and Leyndell gave her no reason to believe it wasn’t. Everywhere, on every tongue, murmurs of blasphemy and conspiracy. The notices were everywhere, posted on doors all through Leyndell. With her heart in her throat and a burning blur in her eyes, Fia wondered how many others had been taken by Leyndell’s knights. She couldn’t let herself think of the Revered Mother or her friends and fellow-students, or she would betray herself and them with her grief. 

Grief, and anger. The Eternal claimed that the Gods would never again be touched by death - but was she not a mortal queen, before she took the throne? Was not her consort, father of that so-beloved son, a mortal man? She claimed immunity from something she could not begin to understand! Like anyone, the bereaved mother screamed and beat at the coffin, as if it would bring her son back to her unchanged. 

But unlike just anyone, Marika’s fury had consequences. She had, with a stroke of a pen, consigned Fia and all those who she loved to the very same fate she would not admit for herself. Banned the arts of Death! Why, as well she could outlaw Death itself. Forbid anyone to die! And in such ridiculous fashion, doom the whole world to stagnation.

And, insult to injury, strip away the purpose of one woman she’d never met. 

Never had Fia lain with a noble; never had she completed the sacred rites and borne someone back to life. Now, she never would. No longer could she call herself Deathbed Companion, if the Eternal had declared all the arts of Death anathema. Would her gifts even work, without the blessed perfume? Without the ceremonial bed in its gorgeous drapery of brocade?

No, she thought. They were components of the ritual for good reason. 

She was just Fia, now and always. Just Fia. Just a silent, resentful enemy of the Eternal Queen herself.

Fia passed the gates in a crowd so thick that the knights could not stop everyone, not without spilling blood and making the situation a hundred times worse. When one of Leyndell’s mighty sentinels lowered his lance for a barrier, she and half a dozen others ducked under it, so close the breath of his huge steed ruffled her hair. 

“Stop!” cried the knight, but nobody did. To pursue would have been to let even more of the milling crowd flow out. The knight stayed in his place, shouting at the tide of people to slow down.

The golden road across the Altus Plateau lay open. Fia left it as soon as she could and hid. She shivered unseen in a hollow beneath a tree until she was sure the knights were not coming for her. 

***

Morning came, and Fia realized she was hungry. 

Hungry meant alive. Waking meant she’d slept. Her sore eyes and dry mouth said she’d wept for the Companions, for Godwyn, for herself. 

As she’d been trained, she hovered between sleep and awake, and took stock of what was around her. Hard earth below, barely cushioned by fallen leaves. Birdsong, distant. The itch of an insect bite. The shush of rain, falling just outside her leafy shelter.

The sound of someone breathing, very nearby. 

Her eyes snapped open unbidden. Every muscle tense, she saw-

Another woman, perhaps twenty years her senior, anonymous in a heavy cloak of thick grey fur. The stranger had shoulder-length hair of an indeterminate shade and appeared no more prepared than Fia herself. 

“Shhh,” she said. 

Fia, half a heartbeat from leaping to her feet, trembled with the effort of staying put. “Who are you?” she hissed. 

“Just another traveler fleeing Leyndell ‘fore it gets any worse. I don’t want to be found any more than you do.” The traveler tilted her head. “So, please- let me rest here where it’s dry.” 

“All right.” Fia lowered her head. She couldn’t stop the traveler, and making a fuss would just draw the sentinels down on them both. She was no longer a Deathbed Companion, to cloister herself away. Her home, her friends, her pride, all gone, with Marika’s fury to ensure she would never return.

“Hey,” came the soft voice. “Hey.” 

Fia did not look up. 

“Is there some way I can help you? I’ve got food, drink. Even a little sorcery.”

“What confidence you have,” Fia managed, in a choked voice. 

“Well, I’ve been on the roads before.”

“Then, if you will - let me hold you, only for a moment.” The cadence of her training came back, easing the words. “Share your vigor with me, and I’ll ask for nothing more.” 

The stranger smiled, quizzical. “Is that all you want? Well then, by all means.” 

Fia uncurled, surreptitiously dabbing her face with a sleeve, and spread her arms. 

There in the hollow of the golden-barked tree, she took a confident stranger into her arms. There, for the first time, she felt the rich force of another’s life flow into her body, given by that willing touch. 

Even without the rituals, without the blessed perfumes or the embroidered baldachin to hide her from profane eyes, she was yet a Deathbed Companion. The raw loss of her church and title, even her Revered Mother, became just a little more bearable.

She was Fia, Deathbed Companion, and some day, she would bring the truth of Death home to the very gods.

The stranger sighed. “I’ll stay a moment longer.” 

“Please,” said Fia, and began once more to don her veil.

*****

Character notes

Sarah: Revered Mother of the Deathbed Companions. Taught all of the current active Companions as well as Fia, the apprentice. ~60 years old.

Iris: eldest Deathbed Companion. ~38 years old. she/her

Shannon: active Deathbed Companion. ~34 years old. he/him

(I hope this doesn’t offend anyone; my hc is that Deathbed Companions are not restricted to women only)

Ciara: active Deathbed Companion. ~29 years old. No pronouns. 

Fia: newly made Deathbed Companion. ~18 years old. she/her

Note: Fia may be a diminutive form of “Delphia,” meaning ‘womb’ 

@shadowsheik14

@mrslittletall

Fia was sitting in the fields of Leyndell, in the shelter of a hollow tree, waiting.

How long had it been since she had been forced to leave her homeland? How ironic it was, that she, a deathbed companion, whose whole existence was to lie with corpses to grant them a second chance at life, was chased away once her own corpse had stirred again, awakening still hugging the noble she had tried to revive back then.

A Tarnished she was now and therefore she had come to the Land's Between, in search of her purpose and soon she had found a purpose.

It could be said that the Land's Between were a broken land... and one of the things that were broken was the concept of death. That had led to a bunch of corpses reanimating, not as Tarnished, but simply known as “Those who live in Death”. Fia had been drawn to them, maybe because she always had laid with corpses and it was in her nature?

She didn't really know the reason, but she knew that she had to protect those beings that were neither alive nor dead... even though the ruling order of the Land's Between, the Golden Order, was very against their existence.

Fia had taken up residence at the Roundtable Hold then, the place at which Tarnished gathered. She had offered her services to the many champions that came along, starved for a gentle touch, and in return taken their vigor. At first she hadn't known who to revive with all this vigor that she had collected, but then she had met Rogier.

Sorcerer Rogier... a very sweet man... who had come to take her services quite often... and then he had talked to her, told her about things that he had found... below the castle of Stormveil...

It was how Fia figured out the origin of “Those who lived in Death”. Their origin, a prince whose soul had been killed but not his body, forever being trapped in a state that was neither alive nor dead...

Fia was sure of it, if she would lay with him, she could change the order of this world.

And thus, she was waiting. Before she could go down to the depths, to fulfil her purpose, she needed her champions once more... it would have been easier at the Roundtable Hold for sure, but she had killed that awful D, that had made it his life purpose to hunt and kill those that she protected... she wasn't able to stay there anymore.

However, her champions were finding her regardless... and soon she was hugging the last of them, taking their vigor. Once they left with the Baldachin's Blessing, she knew she was ready. All of the Tarnished who had her blessing... they would be able to be summoned for her trial, to make sure that the one she had her eyes on would find the child she was about to create.

Soon Fia was waiting again... but this time not for her champions. This time she was waiting for the one Tarnished. The special one. The one that had managed to collect not only one, but several great runes.

Her eyes were on the not yet living, not yet dead body of Godwyn the Golden as she waited. She had it with her, the cursemark of death that had been carved into him... but it was only half of it. A true death had been denied to him. She could only breathe new life in him if he would be fully dead... and for that she needed the help of the Tarnished.

They came, eventually, facing her champions. A variety of all of the ones that she had taken vigor from... even sweet Rogier was there... even though the deathroot eventually got to him, his phantom was still helping her out, that was how sincere he had been about helping her and “Those who live in Death.”

And after the Tarnished had bested her champions, proving to her that they were strong enough, she braced herself. For there was no guarantee that they would help her... If they would cling onto the teachings of the Golden Order, Fia would accept her death at their blade...

So she asked them a question. She directly provoked them, telling them that they intended to deny her and her children. Their answer, however, surprised her.

No, I want to be held.

So she held them and whispered to them, she told them about the hallowbrand, that there had to be the second half of it anywhere, somewhere... and they left and Fia was left waiting again.

It might have felt lonely for anyone but her. She was used to lying with the dead, the ones who didn't talk, didn't even know she was there. The solitude felt like a part of her, so it barely bothered her that she had to wait... even though she never knew if the Tarnished came back, but a part of her just knew that they would come back.

After all, in a Land as cruel as the Land's Between, which warrior didn't crave to be held?

And just as she had predicted, they came back, carrying the other half of the cursemark of death. She didn't know how they managed it, how they found something so small in a land so big, but she thanked them nonetheless. With one last hug. They were her true champion and she made sure that they would know about the child she was about to bear inheriting their warmth...

And so, Fia laid with Godwyn. After he was finally granted a proper death, she could use all the vigor and warmth that she had collected from the champions and raise him as the lord of the dead. After a good while, her child was born... the beautiful rune of death. Now the Tarnished only had to claim it... but Fia couldn't talk to them anymore. Laying with Godwyn had taken a lot out of her and she had to rest... only her dreams were telling her what was going on...

The Tarnished came indeed back, but before they could claim the rune, a dragon was in their way... ah, the Lichdragon Fortissax, an old companion of Godwyn... but of course the Tarnished managed to overcome this challenge and they could claim the rune.

Fia wished for them to become the Elden Lord, that they would make it possible for “Those who live in Death” to not be hunted anymore, so that they might find peace...

That was the last time Fia ever sensed the Tarnished... in fact, the last thing she managed to notice was a voice that she thought had been quieted by her... and this armour set and... the sword...

Fia was helpless against the revenge of this figure that looked like an exact copy of D. But it was fine... she had done her duty. The rune of death had been created. The Tarnished had taken it and would integrate it into the Elden Ring... She felt like she was ready to leave now...

Because what greater blessing could there be, but to be born a Deathbed Companion?

@palepious

@sputnstuff

INT-DARKROOT DEPTHS A stone coffin opens up near a white river surrounded by dark roots ancient ruins and an overbearing stench of death and decay that welcomes the Tarnished to this strange new land. Leaving the coffin, the wanderer stares in awe at the sight of a kingdom long forgotten, like something was built on top of it and it had no choice but to sink further into the underground.

Who were the people that used to inhabit these forgotten structures and how did they lived? Those were some among the many many questions that the Tarnish asked themselves as they crossed the ruins, went up a root path leading to a cliff and reaching a stone archway leading to a massive open area where the stench of death and decay is stronger than ever. The Tarnished at first hesitates in entering due to not only the smell of death, but also due to a much bigger factor: A massive deformed body, twisted and tangled up on dark roots catches the Tarnished’s eyes as they tremble at the sight of it. After taking quick breaths in an attempt to gather courage, they go in, still trembling at the sight in front of them and hand on their weapon’s hilt ready for whatever that comes next.

The Tarnished’s caution was well founded for within the open area, some spirits made their appearance and started to attack the lost knight, with one of them being a familiar face. It was Rogier, the sorcerer the tarnished met at Stormveil castle and who perished due to the deathblight he caught there. Despite the familiar face present in front, the Tarnished unsheathed their longsword and one by one, each spirit that was protecting the area, including Rogier himself, fell to the knight’s blade. Rogier didn’t seemed to have recognized the Tarnished, but they knew him and driving their longsword to the sorcerer’s chest left the Tarnished sad for a couple of seconds before returning their attention towards a new spirit that has emerged, one wearing a massive steel hat shaped helmet, a round chest piece and using a rapier as his weapon of choice. His weapon attacks were fiercer than any of the other spirits that were summoned to protect the area and the magic he used had the same feel as the area the fought, one of heath and decay concentrated within each bolt cast.

This was the tougher battle the Tarnished had to deal with, but after many back and forth, after lots of blows traded, the knight of the massive steel hat falls and the Tarnished comes out victorious, falling on their knees, gasping for air and breathing in the stench of death and decay that surround this large open area.

After catching their breath, the Tarnished stood up and walked towards the massive deformed figure, only to find a familiar face, one whose skin is as pale as a bone, whose dress is as black as the night sky, one whose stare is as fierce and cold as death itself. It was Fia, the tarnished who once resided in round table hold and who left of her own accord after the death of the knight D.

FIA: Ah...there you are. I knew you would come. What is it you intend? To deny us, and our ways? Like the dogmatic brutes of the Golden Order? 

The Tarnished, who is visibly tired, walks towards the lady. Their arm is dragging their longsword down, too tired to wield it properly. Their feet drag through the ground, too tired to lift them. Then they fall on their knees and stare at Fia’s eyes. Their eyes, covered by their helmet, can’t hide the sadness and exhaustion they endured up until now. 

TARNISHED: Fia, I have travelled far and beyond only to have stumbled upon this place. Never would I have thought to find you here of all places. Your missing presence was felt for too long, I wish to be with you, I wish to stay at your side forever. 

Fia’s eyes widen in awe at the Tarnished’s words. It’s almost like they were asking her hand for marriage. 

FIA: I am the guardian of Those Who Live In Death. Iam called a foul and rotten witch by many. Yet you… 

Fia Is suddenly interrupted by the Tarnished grabbing her tightly around her as their head rests on her cold shoulder. The arms, unable to control their strength, wrap Fia with the strength of one who crossed a desert and found a source of water. The grip of the Tarnished’s fingers is felt as they grab her shoulders with the strength of someone who’s been starving for too long. 

FIA (Subtly Surprised): You are an odd one indeed. But your warmth is just as comfortable as it was when I fist held you. 

Saying that she wrapped her arms gently around the Tarnished. One hand behind their back and the other behind their head. The gentile hug of Fia is a massive contrast when compared to the Tarnished, more similar to a caring mother or a grieving widow, and just as honest as the Tarnished’s hug who starts trembling, as if they’re crying. 

FIA: I don’t wish to ruin this lovely moment, but I have a request for you. 

The Tarnished raises their head and looks at Fia’s eyes. 

FIA: Many who live in death also live in fear of the Golden Order and its brutes. What I ask, I ask because you have more than earned your place as a champion of the unfortunate. Fia caresses the Tarnished’s helmet that covers its face. 

FIA: Once you become Elden Lord, I ask you to replace the Golden Order, so that we who live in death can roam freely in these lands. 

The Tarnished looks at the massive deformed figure above them and then at Fia, giving her a simple nod. Fia, satisfied with the answer, puts her other hand on the Tarnished’s head and approaches her head towards the Tarnished’s. 

FIA: I will never forget this act of kindness, my lord. Lord Godwyn and I will forever be grateful for your kindness. 

Saying that, Fia removes the Tarnished’s helmet and kisses them on their lips.

@patchesenthusiast

@dbzespio

The Kaiden sellsword heaved a breath, dragging his latest kill through the sand.

Something at the edge of his vision glittered, but he paid it no mind at all. He knew he needed to devote what little energy he had left towards trudging his way back to his meager camp, for his heavy boots still struggled slightly within the shifting sand. Every step forward was a wearisome challenge, despite his eagerness to return and quell his still-growling stomach. Admittedly, if it weren’t for the emptiness within his gut, he surely wouldn’t have even found the motivation to leave his little campsite in the first place. Not that it truly provided him much shelter at all; he hadn’t even a spare blanket to his name. But at the very least it was out of sight from those monstrous crabs...

Pausing only briefly to catch his breath, he set his tiny bonfire alight using one of the firebombs he had tucked away for safekeeping and promptly tossed his lunch over the flame. The man glanced up towards the sun with a grimace; ‘twas only noon, and here, he had eaten a second breakfast mere hours ago. Stifling a sigh, he collapsed to a seat beside the fire, his eyes only barely open enough to watch his crab cook.

He ran a hand over his heart.

Ever since receiving that Baldachin’s blessing…

He grew ever more hungry and weary by the day. Would it ever end?

But still… he frowned, considering.

No, it was all worth it.

For Fia, he would bear it. Would do anything.

It was odd, though.

Admittedly, he had never felt such for anyone... aside from his sweet wife, in the short years they had spent together. Her life had been taken by wolves, back when their homeland had first become ravaged by ever-worsening conditions. Even he, hale as he was, was eventually forced to flee, with the soil unable to sustain him and the creatures of the wilds growing yet deadlier as time passed.

He felt no love for Fia, certainly not like that which he had held for his dear wife, but he could not deny that there was something there. Something he couldn’t quite describe, but rather, felt, deep within his very soul.

She made him feel… Even now… his soul felt... alight.

Fia. And it was all because of Fia.

He rose uncertainly, kicking sand over his fire. His lunch was not quite finished, but such trivial things could certainly wait.

Yes, he truly wasn’t quite so hungry now, and, yes... he needed to see her.

His steps light, he rushed along the shoreline, and, somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized all the terrible creatures were gone; the beach was laid bare for him. For them.

But such things truly didn’t matter. At the end of the day, it was all because of her. Fia.

He soon reached a little grotto, a place he would never have noticed, were it not for her and her subtle guidance, reaching out to him, as if he were within a dream.

“Fia…?” he called, his voice uncertain, and quiet, so as not to disturb the inherent peace of the place. He could practically smell the incoming rain in the air, but the heavy clouds still allowed for a tender light to spill through. For the delicate foliage in her hair nearly appeared to be shining, or perhaps... ‘twas merely his fondness for her shining through instead.

She was seated just within the mouth of the cavern, and he could see her face, pale and bright within the fading light. That was when he realized: he had never before seen her face. She was always shrouded, her features hidden away beneath her cloak. And now he knew for certain: she was even more beautiful then he had ever imagined possible.

“Fia…” he whispered and abruptly noticed tears upon his cheeks.

Wordlessly, she held out her arms to him, her expression unchanging from a gentle smile. She already knew; how he felt, how they fit together, in that certain way only they could.

He felt himself collapse to his knees before her, tears still streaming from his eyes. “Fia…”

She guided him into a loose embrace, and he felt himself collapse upon her more so than return the gesture. A sob caught his throat. “Fia…”

“Thank you, my dear…” she whispered, turning her gaze towards the sea.

For soon he would be waiting for her... among the waves

@fateoftheundead

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

Normally I would keep this in a tag post or not post at all but I know no one’s s around so fuck it:

I’ve been thinking a lot about folklore/evermore and even Lover in recent days and about how so much of it sounded like a promise of the future: I take this magnetic force of a man to be my lover, I’d marry you with paper rings, church bells ring carry me home rice in the ground looks like snow, I want to teach you how forever feels, one single thread of gold tied me to you, I’d swing with you for the fences sit with you in the trenches give you my wild give you a child (really all of peace), I’m begging for you to take my hand wreck my plans, now I just keep you warm and my waves meet your shore ever and evermore and he feels like home, etc.

And in retrospect with what we know from later music and events, instead of a promise of the future, it was more an aspiration of it. It’s less, “this is where we’re heading” and by Renegade is more, “this is how good we could have it if you’d just let us.” Which is sad because it’s clearly something Taylor (or the narrator) thinks is worthwhile and comforting, but then by the time we get to Midnights, or at least You're Losing Me (and arguably Lavender Haze), it’s become a point of pain instead of hope. Yet it’s fascinating when taken as a whole and seeing how the themes connect to, play off of and contradict each other throughout her growing discography. (I don’t mean contradict as in, she said she wanted to get married and now she doesn’t! Because that’s not what she’s saying in LH anyway! But as in the push-pull of “this is what I dream of our future” and “this is how our actions make those dreams slip away”)

It’s kind of hard to grapple with this sometimes because I generally don’t try to make music about the artist’s literal life, even with a diaristic writer like Taylor, because once the music is out there it stands on its own, but it is impossible to ignore the real life element especially in the last year, and I think this is one of those rare cases where it even adds to the understanding and the development of the themes. (Truly the Taylor Cinematic Universe) As much as I’m personally terrified of aging and would never wish to speed up the process lol, it’s going to be fascinating to see how this music is studied decades from now when there are even more links to be made in hindsight with more art in her catalogue to come.

Anyway tl;dr: it’s sad to think that what felt so joyful and hopeful earlier almost became like convincing herself (and the subject of her songs ahem) that this was what their future held in contrast of a much less certain everyday life as time went on. Here’s hoping the next phase is decidedly clearer whatever it is.

[copias-sewer-rat]

THE BLOOD DROPPING FROM THE DARK ROSE IS ALWAYS THE SWEETEST.

Around 5K words, this is a big one for me. We get to meet new characters and Copia being caring and very cute. The plot is plotting. (I will probably revise the grammar and stuff the following days, so sorry for any kind of mistake.TW: Abuse of power by a member of the Catholic church, mentions of abuse in general, a bit angsty, mentions of blood. ⸸read on ao3⸸ ⸸masterlist⸸ Enjoy!

III - Dream On

The beeping from your alarm woke you up on Tuesday. You had not slept that much. Flashes of memories old forgotten were coming back to haunt you. You had dreamed about your parents, your room and of the pastor. It had been a while, but you could still remember their faces very clearly. It were as if they had been burnt into your retinas, always watching you when your eyes were closed. The thought made you feel sick to your stomach.

The dream itself was always the same, so much so that it was even a memory. Hands forcing you to your bed, the face of the pastor on top of you, smiling, mocking you. His name was Father Lawrence Tebbit. You could never forget him. The same prayers and passages from the Bible were spoken to you over and over again. Tears always pricking in your eyes and your pleads forever falling into deaf ears. Your parents were pinning your hands, not letting you escape the bed. Father Lawrence then climbs on top of your tiny chest, his legs restricting you. He shows you his cross and you try to look away, but his hand forcefully pulls you back to look at it. He shouts at you as your feel you breath quickening, the oxygen is leaving your lungs and you pass out to wake up back to reality.

Deciding to not entertain your painful memories anymore, you pushed the alarm back five minutes to think about which were your expectations for the day. Your number one priority was to finish the sketches from the Cardinal’s order and to get his approval. Yesterday, you got the main structures planned, now it was time to think about the distribution of colors and lengths of the flowers. After the confirmation from the cardinal, you needed to let Matty know about your final decision and at which time you would go for the flowers. Then you had other things. Again a couple of bouquets and start thinking about one of the wedding’s arrangements.

However, the most pressing matter in your head was to answer to Cardinal Copia’s pigeon picture. You had been thinking about it a lot before falling asleep, finally deciding on something cute, not corny and also a bit daring on your part.

Claire🌹: “Those babies are adorable! Thank you so much for showing them to me, I appreciate it. I hope to get regular updates of them. I want you to be my personal National Geographic cameraman, Cardinal.”

Without giving it much thought, you sent the message. You received a response almost instantly.

CC: “It will be my life’s duty to protect those pigeons. I swear to you they will be safe with me. I just hope my rats don’t get jealous.” There is a pause and then you realize what he is implying.

Claire🌹: “Wait… You own rats?”

CC: “Yes, they are very cute and also amazing pets.” You cannot believe what you are reading, you have loved rats ever since you were a kid. Ratatouille was only a boost for your love of the creatures.

Claire🌹: “YOU ACTUALLY DO!? I love rats, they are the cuttest! I have never met someone who owns a pet rat.”

CC: “Rats, plural actually. I have three. It is a pleasant surprise to find another rat enjoyer, there are not many like us around. However, due to your love for pigeons I assumed that you had to like rats as well.”

Claire🌹: “A gold star for you for your deduction skills⭐. You are pretty observant!”

CC: “Thank you, Claire. It is a nice feeling to feel appreciated. It does not happen to me much around the Ministry.” You heart sinks a bit hearing that. You have nothing but a good opinion of the Cardinal. Even if you didn’t know him that well, you saw how caring and responsible he was. There was not a lot of people like him.

Claire🌹: “I’m sorry to hear that. I am sure there are plenty of people who appreciate your work, even if they don’t say anything.” It takes a while for the Cardinal to text you back. You were hopping for a longer message, some more information about him. So, when your screen lit up you felt a bit sad.

CC: “I hope so, truly.” You needed to move the conversation to the professional side, even if you did not want to.

Claire🌹: “Now that I have you here, I also wanted to tell you that today you will be receiving the sketches I was telling you about. There are a couple more I want to finish so you have plenty to choose from.”

CC: “Oh, that is perfect then. Maybe it will take me a bit to decide, I am sure all of the drawings will be great.”

Claire🌹: “Let’s hope you do so before tomorrow. It is when I will be picking the flowers up to start the arrangement. It is going to be a lot of them, are you sure none of your band mates has allergies?” It was a very normal question to ask, but you felt a bit silly after sending it. Maybe it was because those masked people, who you supposed were the Cardinal’s band mates, were not… normal.

CC: “No need to worry about them, they are not allergic to flowers.” You were sure that he wanted to say something different, but that would be oversharing, and you were a stranger.

CC: “Also, if you need help picking up the flowers I offer myself to be your assistant for the morning.” Your eyes widened. You were sure that he was a pretty busy man. Why would he help you with something so trivial?

Claire🌹: “I am sure you are quite busy preparing everything. I wouldn’t want to cause any troubles.” You did not want to admit it, but now that he had offered to accompany you, you wanted nothing else that yo spend the following morning with him. Who knows? Maybe you got to know him a little bit more.

CC: “Nothing of the sort, cara. I will tell my brother Terzo to cover for me tomorrow morning. He is pretty familiar with all these preparations, but I will owe him a favor… that could go in any direction.” Now you felt a bit bad.

Claire🌹: “You seem conflicted. I can do it myself, Cardinal. Maybe I was just being a bit dramatic… that’s all”

CC: “If you said it, then it is true. Don’t try to diminish the weight of the task because you think it might be a bother to someone. At least with me you don’t have to do that, Claire. It is okie-dokie to ask for help.” You let out a breath you did not know you were holding, it was so easy to talk to him. And yet, he was able to read you like an open book, and that scared you… a lot.

Claire🌹: “I really appreciate that. I always get scared to be a burden, so I do everything myself. It is a bit tiring sometimes.” You didn’t know were the sudden burst of honesty had come from. Copia was really good at breaking your walls.

CC: “I understand. I am the same. If you want something done the correct way, better to do everything yourself, sì?” He truly understood you.

Claire🌹: “Exactly! Well, when should I pick you up tomorrow then?”

CC: “mmm… what about 9:30? Is it a good time for you?”

Claire🌹: “It is perfect. Do you want me to pick you up at the abbey or somewhere else?”

CC: “The abbey is fine. Do you know where it is?”

Claire🌹: “Not really… I don’t pay that close attention to religious buildings.”

CC: “Then you are missing out on a beautiful piece of architecture, Claire! Let me send you the address and I will wait for you at the entrance.”

Claire🌹: “Perfect! And do not turn off your phone! You still need to choose a sketch!”

CC: “It will be my number 1 priority, do not worry.”

Claire🌹: “I thought your number 1 priority were the pigeons…”

CC: “Mi dispiace! You are right. Then my number 2 priority, but it is very close to be number 1 eh! Do not think ill of me.” It felt like he was taking it so seriously, you laughed to yourself.

Claire🌹: “I was joking, Cardinal. I know that you are a professional. Those pigeons are lucky to have you as their guardian.”

CC: “Worry not! I will be the pigeon protector! It will be my most important title!” At this point, your stomach was hurting of how hard you were laughing.

Claire🌹: “You are so funny, Cardinal. I needed the laugh, thank you.” Again, there was a pause. You wish you were talking to him in person, get all his reactions, catch every glimpse of his eyes.

CC: “No worries, I am glad I could be of assistance. I have to go now, I have a meeting to attend. I will be waiting for you tomorrow then, and also for the drawings. Have a nice morning, Claire.”

Claire🌹: “You too Cardinal!”

The conversation was over and with it came a feeling of emptiness. It was so nice to talk to someone who was willing to listen to you. Maybe the Cardinal felt the same, but you could not be sure.

It was still early enough for you to get a coffee near your shop, so you decided to do exactly that. You dressed yourself in a comfortable way, today you did not need to meet a high member of the church. The choice was clear, your mom jeans, a big shirt with a skeleton dancing on one side, your favorite hoodie and your white boot Converse.

The morning was sunny, a bit windy so the hoodie was a good choice to make. The streets were awfully quiet as you drove to the coffee shop, which conveniently was on the same street as Dewdrop.

The coffee shop was actually a dream come true, at least one of the many dreams you had when you wanted to start a business. If you had not been a florist, the next idea in line was to be a barista. It was white on the outside, with a sunset orange sign that said “The Rest and Be Thankful Coffee Shop”. There was also a big wooden sign on the sign, those that you only see on old taverns. It was a carving of a mug with some steam coming out of it and some embellishments, probably custom made, but you were too afraid to ask.

The owner of the coffee shop, Sam, was a friendly woman to everybody except for you. She did not give you the gentle smile that gave everyone else, or made small talk with you. The coffee was always excellent, but you felt like you could be great friends if you got to talk. She had short dark blonde hair, piercing green eyes and a smile that could start a war. Once you entered, the sweet aroma of toasted beans and baked goods hit you and transported you to your personal heaven. The store was mostly empty but for two costumers sat on tables at the back. Savoring the ambiance of the establishment, you decided to get the usual, a latte and a croissant, which was made also at the coffee shop. Sam took your order, but while she was talking she spoke to one of her assistants.

“Are you sure that it was not fixed?”

“Pretty sure, boss.”

“What an arse! I have been complaining to him about it for months!” You just realized that Sam was Scottish, what a surprise.

“I will try to go to the committee later and see if they tell me anything.”

“Aye, please. If I trip again on it I am going to burn the committee building to the ground. Then they will listen for sure.” You remembered a very big hole close to the coffee shop, that was the thing they were talking about, for certain. Maybe this was your chance to befriend Sam.

“Sorry to interrupt. I could not help but overhear the conversation. Are you talking about the big hole just outside?”

“Aye. The chief of the committee won’t do shit. I have been complaining for months, but I cannot do anything unless they approve the permit.”

“I can help if you want…” Sam and her assistant both looked at you with a puzzled look.

“Pardon?”

“I can help. I helped the chief with a flower arrangement for his daughter’s wedding. He owes me one.” Sam’s eyes widened as you spoke.

“You are the florist! I knew your face was familiar, but I couldn’t remember from where for the life of me.”

“That’s me! You can call me Claire.”

“Certainly a pleasure, Claire. I am Sam.” She extended her hand over the register and you shook it with a smile.

“The pleasure is all mine. As I said, if you ask for it, I will go to the committee building and ask for the favor.”

“You would actually do it? Why? It would certainly help you to be owed a favor by Mr. Shack in the future.”

“I find a lot of peace in this coffee shop, it would be a shame for you to go to jail for burning the committee building.”

“Oh, you are kind and funny. I like you. Just so you know, if I ever committed arson… they would never catch me.” That little remark made you laugh. A genuine laugh. You have probably laughed more these last couple of days than you have in years. The realization makes your heart hurt a bit.

“Oh, I am sure. You seem like the type of person that thinks every step of the way.”

“True, as do you.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Claire, I have seen you sitting here writing lists of pros and cons…” You felt your ears turn red with embarrassment. “It is not a bad thing , Claire. You just like to see both sides before you make an important decision.”

“Guilty. I promise I will talk with Mr. Shack later and try to solve your little hole problem.”

“No problem. Even if you don’t get him to pass the permit…” There was a heavy pause. “Thank you for trying at least. You are a good person.” As she spoke, Sam handed you your order.

“What do I owe you?”

“Nothing. It is on the house. And I will need your number so you can update me on the mission.” Sam gave you a genuine smile and you gave him one back, you had actually made a new friend.

“The mission, huh? Let’s call it operation Cobra.” The name did not convince you, but all the good names would make you look bad.

“Maybe too cliche fro my taste.” You handed her your phone with the new contact screen. “Operation Butt Crack?” She was on your wavelength, amazing.

“Fun and a bit childish, I love it.” She handed your phone back. She had saved her contact as “Sam🍑⚡”. You called her so she would have your number as well. She then gave you a thumbs up.

The store was a starting to pack and a line was starting to form behind you so you said your goodbyes to Sam and her assistant and promised to update her later in the day on Operation Butt Crack.

You sat at your usual spot, close to the window so you could see all the trees outside. Fall was starting to show itself thought the last days of summer and you were glad. Now it was the perfect time to finish the sketch for the Cardinal. You thought of the best position for the flowers, where to put the longer ones and how the colors would coordinate when put together. An hour passed and you felt like you got it. It was done. You were beaming with happiness and without thinking too much took a picture and sent it to the Cardinal. You hopped for a quick response, but then you looked to the last message. He had a reunion, he would not see your message for now. The time to open store for the day had come, so waved Sam and mouthed that you were on your way. She smiled and waved energetically.

The stroll to your store was short but sweet. Some of the tree leaves were falling at your feet and as you step on them you heard a very satisfying crunch. There it stood Drewdrop, always charming and beautiful. It was a slow day overall, few clients that actually bought anything expensive. The majority of the day was spent finishing arrangements. It was quite late, time to close, and you still had not received a message from the Cardinal. You were worried a bit, but you would not tell him that. It did not matter for now as you had a mission, it was time to begging Operation Butt Crack.

————

The building that contained the subject of Operation Butt Crack should be inside working, or at least seeming like he was doing so. You told the woman at the entrance who you were and that you wanted to see Mr. Shack and she responded that he was very busy with a meeting, but that maybe he could talk to you afterwards. However, she did not know when he was going to finish. You told her it was fine and went to Mr. Shack’s office.

It was quiet, everybody had packed up to go home and you were aware of every sound that was happening around you. You head the buzzing of the fridge, the cicadas outside lingering to the last remaining rays of the summer sun, the leak of a heater… and a conversation. You did not want to eavesdrop, but it was so quiet. What were you going to do? Put your hands on your ears like a child who did not want to hear her parents arguing? You knew better.

“The reputation of this good Christian city is going down the drain.”

“It is good that I am here then.”

“I asked specifically for you because of your reputation, Father Tebbit.” Your heart skipped a beat. You could not believe what you were hearing, or rather who. “I want them out. Use whatever means necessary. That Satanic Church mush go away. You understand?” You had to go, you had to tell the Cardinal, but you were frozen.

“I do. I want the same Mr. Shack. Devotees of the Dark Lord should not roam free or be without divine punishment. I am here to provide that.” There was a lot of poison to his voice, which made you even more scared.

Tears were falling down your cheeks, your brain spiraling out of your head and your heart beating so fast you thought it was going to come out. The adrenaline must have hit at the right moment because you started to run. You were so focused about getting out that you had not noticed the office door opening. Father Tebbit only saw your outline going down the stairs, but he could swear that you looked familiar.

Once you were out the building, but you needed to get far away, you could not risk it. Tebbit had come to the town to get rid of the Satanic Church Cardinal Copia was a part of. You knew what he was capable of. He had done it to you, day after day for a year. He was an expert cleanser. Such were his methods that even the Catholic Church had reservations about him. Father Tebbit leaned more towards the cultist side of the church, much more aggressive and “holy”, as he liked to tell you. You were sure he remembered you. You were the reason why he had to use a cane.

One time that you were trying to escape your parents’ house, Father Tebbit had come without invitation. He had said that it was just to check on you. You did not want to risk it, so you hid behind the door and with all the strength your little arms could harvest, you put a heavy box of books on top of it. You were hoping for it to fall of Tebbit’s head, it instead landing on his left foot. He had developed a chronic limp ever since and had to use a cane. The design was pretty telling and you remind it well. He used to hit you with it. He said it was because it helped to get the demons out, you knew it was because of revenge. The shaft of the cane was entirely black, the handle was a ball of amber, and inside there was a wasp. Tebbit had explained that it was a symbol, a symbol of his power to contain evil, to make it stop. You thought it was bullshit.

Once you were far away the committee building you took out your phone. Hands still shaky, you tried to message the Cardinal. He had not answered to your sketch yet. You had no other choice but to call. You needed to keep it together, to sound serious, it was a very serious matter after all. Each tone was a nail on the coffin, a clear sentence of you inability to sound collected. It took eight long tones until the Cardinal picked the phone.

“Buon pomeriggio (good afternoon) Claire. I am sorry I could not answer sooner, but I am currently in an important meeting. Is everything okie dokie?”

At this point you were fully crying again, so you put your hand on the speaker, hopping the Cardinal did not hear you sobbing.

“Everything is okie dokie, Cardinal.” You said with a shaky voice. “I was just worried because you had not seen my sketch yet…” Not a full lie, but a lie nonetheless. You were bothering him. It was an stupid idea to call him, so stupid.

“You…are crying.” Your tears stopped suddenly, it was like he was watching you. Maybe you were not as good as a liar or as an actor as you had hopped. “Where are you, cara?” He sounded so serious, his voice dropping. You could almost see the frown on his face.

“It is nothing reall-” You could not even finish your sentence.

“Not again, cara. Not with me, remember? All that bothers you is important, if you need help is okie-dokie to ask.” You started to cry again.

“I-I need h-help.” You managed to say between sobs.

“Where are you?”You had not even notice, but your sprint had taken you to the local park. You told it to him. “I will be there in fifteen. Stay there.”

He hung the phone and you were crying even harder, missing his voice. There was a bench close to you, it was hard and cold. The sun was starting to set and you were feeling so vulnerable. The face of Father Tebbit was in every cloud and every tree, laughing at you. You were a stupid girl if you thought you were safe from him. You had the sudden urge to run away, start a new. You must have been thinking quite hard because the nest thing you see is Cardinal Copia kneeling beside you, opening your hands. They were bloody, probably done by your own nails.

“Cara, look at me. What is wrong? Are you well?” His hair was a bit all over the place and he was sweating. Copia had run to get to you as fast as his legs could take him.

“I am not. S-someone dangerous is coming to get you, Cardinal. You and your church. He is a putrid human, evil and corruption ooze from him...”

“Claire, I don’t understand you…” His eyes sparkled with worry thanks to the last rays of sun of the day and you let out a dry sob.

“There is a man named Father Lawrence Tebbit. He tortured me when I was a child. He is here, and has been assigned to destroy your church.” Your voice was so calm, the tears were still falling, but there was such a calmness to your voice that the Cardinal seemed worried. His eyes widened, he tried to keep calm for you. While he waited for you to speak again, he was drawing circles on the back of your hand. “He is very dangerous, Cardinal. He won’t only destroy you, he will erase your existence from this town. He can do it, he has the means.”

“This is a very serious issue, Claire. I need you to tell me everything you now. First, however, we need to take care of your hands. Do you have medical supplies in your apartment?” You nodded slightly. “Can you take me there?” You nodded again and Cardinal Copia helped you get up. Your legs were shaky and the Cardinal waited until you moved for him to do so with you. Slowly but steadily you took him to your apartment.

————

It was so dark until you flicked the light. It had scared you once, the dark, when you were a child. You were afraid of being scared of it again.

“Where is your first aid kit?” The Cardinal asked. For a while his hand had been placed on the top part of your back. You were grateful thought, without it you might have fallen.

“Bathroom. Behind the mirror.” You said, and the Cardinal let you rest against the wall of your hall. You heard as he fidgeted with the mirror. Something fell and he cursed in Italian. Then, he rushed back to your side.

“Let’s sit you down and then I will cure your hands.”

Your apartment was a mess, but he did not care. Your face was a mess, but he also did not care. He helped you sit on your couch and then he sat right next to you, preparing the alcohol and some gauze.

“Mi dispiace cara (I am sorry darling). This will sting a bit.” He removed his gloves to avoid them getting stained with the alcohol. His hands were big, with long and firm fingers. The Cardinal meticulously cleaned the marks on your palms. You hissed at the painful sensation, but at least it meant you were back to your senses a bit.

After putting some clean gauze on your hands, the Cardinal stood up to throw the bloodied ones in your kitchen. He was gone for a second, but somehow he managed to come back with a glass of water.

“Thank you, Cardinal.” You gave him a slight polite smile.

“Call me Copia, per favore (please).” You blushed a bit.

“Thank you, Copia.”

“Prego (you are welcome).” He smiled back at you. That is when you truly felt safe for the first time since you had heard Father Tebbit’s voice.

“I am sorry for causing you so much trouble, Copia.” You muttered, lowering your head.

“Don’t be sorry about that. You were afraid and seemingly angry. Please explain everything to me so I can understand properly.” You nodded.

You told the Cardinal bits of your childhood. Not the worst ones tough, you were not ready to talk about then. You explained enough for him to be aware of the weight of the situation. Tebbit’s character, what drives him, his large web of connections to violent people… You also told him a bit about your parents and how you ran away. His expression was kind and patient. Nonetheless, as you continued speaking, you could see his brows sinking more and more. Lastly, you explained what you heard, how Mr. Shack had hired Tebbit to get rid of the Satanic church that resided there. The expression on Copia’s face tried to be understanding, but you could feel his anger.

“I am not lying, Copia, I swear.”

“I believe you, cara. Do not worry.” He finally said. “I need to get back to the abbey and explain what you just said. Will you be safe here?” Copia rose from his seat.

“I think so, Tebbit does not know where I live that I know of.”

“Va bene (it's good), for now that should be enough. And I am sorry, Claire, tomorrow I won’t be able to accompany you to pick the flowers. I will send a couple of my ghouls with you to get them. They will pick you up here, at the time we said.” You wanted to go with him though, you decided to keep your desire to yourself.

“Okie dokie, Copia.” You nodded. The Cardinal was turning away from you, putting his gloves back on and heading towards the door. Then you remembered. “Wait. I know it is a bit anticlimactic… you still need to get my sketch approved.”

Copia stood there, in the middle of your hall. He faintly smiled and nodded back to you. You went back to get your sketchbook, a bit nervous. You wanted for Copia to like the drawing, it would balance everything bad out. As you got back to Copia, he was sending a text message. He would probably need to give a lot of explanations when he got back to the abbey. You handed him the drawing. While looking at it, you could see a sad smile appear on his lips.

“It is perfect, cara. I approve.” You smiled so big that you feared some tears would start falling again. As he gave you the sketchbook back, he caught your hand in his, careful to not hurt you, and kissed the back so gently, but you hoped it stained the bandage a bit, a memento.

“Sei un'artista meravigliosa (You are an amazing artist). I will talk to you tomorrow, I promise. Until then, rest well, cara.” After that, he left.

Suddenly the apartment was cold. You did not have the energy to do anything else so you changed into your pajamas and went to bed, wishing there was someone holding you as you drifted into your slumber.

...

Hope you enjoyed! I had a lot of fun writing this chapter (I love drama). Next week I am going away again so I will try to work on some of the AUs. Down below I leave you a rendition made by yours trully of the arragement sketch. It is not as good as I wanted it to be, but you get the idea.

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-MASTERLIST-

[endlesslystarlitskies]

Lost and Found- Part 7

A/N: Here is the next chapter! I’m not getting a lot of engagement on these posts, but I am still loving writing the story so I’m going to keep posting. This is a shorter chapter, but I might post another one again later. Who knows! I think this story is going to end up being 13 chapters long, so there’s that. Please let me know what you think!

Genre: Horror, action, adventure, Romance, Slow-Burn,  

Pairing: Leon Kennedy x Named Reader (Named but not Described)

Summary: Ella was one of the missing hikers who was kidnapped by the villagers. She narrowly escaped being sacrificed, but her friends weren’t so lucky. Managing to survive out in the woods with her previous skills and knowledge, she runs into Leon, and that meeting begins the longest, most dangerous adventure of her life as she tries to help him save the girl she saw being taken into the church. What will happen along the way? Only one way to find out.  

Warnings: Canon typical violence and gore, Death, Murder, Monsters, Suicidal ideations mentioned, Ella has little regard for her own life and is dealing with the loss of someone closest to her while also fighting to survive with waning self-preservation instincts. Please be cautious if that triggers you.

Word Count: 4,838

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

Story Masterlist

xXx

Leon had told Ashely to get into the locker when the two women with chainsaws made themselves known, wanting her safe and out of the way so he and Ella could handle them quickly.

However, Ella’s absence was quickly noted, and Leon could only assume she got held up with some villagers, which meant he had to take them on himself. It wasn’t a real problem, as he could handle them and the few villagers coming through the hole they had created, but he couldn’t help but be concerned that Ella wasn’t right behind them. He couldn’t worry about it now, having to dodge the chainsaw coming towards his head and take care of the issue right in front of him. xXx

Ashley left the locker when the coast was clear, and Leon picked up the lever they had needed to get through the gate. He took a moment to listen for the sound of gunshots or the footsteps of Ella returning, but it was quiet, a bad feeling settling in his gut. “Did you see where Ella went?” He asked Ashley, who had noticed Ella’s absence and wore a look of concern. “No, I thought she was right behind us.” Leon had thought that too. 

He grit his teeth as the bad feeling grew, and they left the wooden building before taking the hill back up to where they had last been when she was with them, but there was no sign of her. 

“Leon, look!” Ashley called, standing by the corner of one of the shacks, and Leon moved over quickly, the sight confirming his fears. All of her gear was thrown half haphazardly in the corner, discarded. “Where is she?” Ashley asked in panicked worry, not understanding how she could just disappear like this. Leon recalled the moment he had thought he’d seen the glint of a gold necklace, and he became frustrated with himself that he didn’t realize what it had meant before. The man had taken her once more, and Leon had a feeling he knew where. xXx Ella slowly felt her senses come back to her as she blinked her eyes open, it taking a moment for her to register that she was being carried by someone, a shoulder pressing into her stomach uncomfortably. Her mind was fuzzy, and Ella had to squeeze her eyes shut to clear the remaining disorientation, before she tried to look up and take in her surroundings. Robes. She was surrounded by people in robes. This scene was starting to look eerily familiar. Panic and fear filled her being like ice water, and she immediately began struggling in the grip of the large man holding her. The shock of her sudden movement and the elbow to the chest forced the villager to release her, Ella falling to the ground and immediately scrambling to her feet, moving away from the man in robes to create distance. She reached for her gun, but her heart dropped when she realized it wasn’t there. None of her weapons, or even her pouch, was on her person anymore. Of course they had taken them. She cursed, realizing she had only one choice. Fight. She had to once again put her self-defense skills to good use- only this time, she had to win if she wanted to live, as she knew they wouldn’t make the same mistake they did last time in not keeping an eye on her. She immediately raised her leg to kick the man running towards her in the kneecap, hearing the sickening crunch as the bone broke under the force, and she kneed him right in the face when he went down, taking care of him for the moment. She had no time to breathe as she spun, ducking under the arms that tried to grab her, before she swept the feet of the female cultist out from under her. She wanted to stomp on her elbow and break her arm, but she had to immediately defend against another man who came at her with a knife, barely moving out of the way in time as he tried to stab her in the shoulder. 

She needed that knife, and she knew it. It would be much better than nothing, and she could use the skills Leon taught her to get herself out of this situation. 

However, before she could think up a quick plan of action, the cultists who had been surrounding her suddenly parted, and the leader in the decorated robe and the golden necklace calmly walked up to her. 

Ella raised her arms, getting in a defensive stance as she readied to take him on, having to push away the fear that tried to grip her heart at the sight of him. She had told him he couldn’t take her by surprise anymore, and she was proven wrong. Even with all the weapons and Leon right there, he had grabbed her the moment the opportunity presented itself, and there was nothing Ella could do about it. 

Despite that, Ella refused to let him win without a fight, and when he was within range, she threw a punch, which the man easily dodged, but she wasn’t done. She spun, trying to catch him in the face with her elbow, but he had moved faster than she had been ready for, his hand darting out as he sliced her in the stomach with a knife. Ella hissed as she stumbled back, looking to the tear in her shirt. It wasn’t deep whatsoever, being just a shallow cut, but it burned, as if the knife had been glowing red hot when it cut her. Ella immediately felt her body become weak, the trembling no longer being from the fear as she fell to her knees. “What did you-” She tried to breathe, but the pain was intense, and she couldn’t get the words out as her vision blurred. The realization was slow to come to her fogging mind. Poison. There had been poison on his blade.

“It is such a shame. This fighting spirit of yours is what piqued my interest. . .” She heard him sigh. “You would have been the perfect servant and solution to our problem.” Disappointment was heavy in his tone.

It wasn’t long before a ringing sounded in her ears, drowning out anything else for a moment, though it lessened just a bit. She wasn’t passing out, but everything around her became muted and unfocused, Ella being unable to defend herself as one of the robed men picked her up once again. “Do not worry child, the poison is slow acting. It won’t kill you before we get the chance to perform the ritual.” The ritual. The altar. The very place she had escaped once, but would be unable to escape again, the poison flowing through her blood incapacitating her and leaving her helpless.

xXx

The rain was coming down hard, putting some of the candles around them out as Ella was laid down on the stone altar. Her hands were now tied behind her back and a dirty cloth was placed between her teeth to muffle her whimpers, the symbol once again painted in blood on her face, just like Alice. “It was so nice of you to clear off the altar for me. It made this go so much more smoothly.” Ella wanted to feel anger at his words. She wanted to feel rage and spiteful defiance, but all she could feel was utter terror. All she could think about was the stupid fight she and Leon had. ‘If you wanted to die, then you wouldn’t have fought to survive in those woods for four days straight. You wouldn’t be here right now.’ He was right. She didn’t want to die. She wanted to live. She wanted to make sure Ashley got home safe. She wanted to tell Alice’s parents what happened to her, so they didn’t have to live the rest of their lives wondering why their baby girl never came home. She wanted to make sure that whatever was going on in this village was stopped, so no one was ever hurt by them again. She wanted to apologize to Leon, and tell him he was right. To get the chance to thank him for saving her life before she got herself killed in her moments of sorrow and grief. She had refused to apologize even though she knew she had been in the wrong. She had been so worried about coming to terms with the fact that she wanted to live because of what it meant, wanting to give herself time that she should have known she wouldn’t have. Now she was forced to accept that she wanted to live, moments before she was about to die. She couldn’t save herself this time, and Leon wouldn’t be there to save her either. 

She had told him not to come for her if something happened. She had harshly insulted him and then practically ignored him in the last couple of hours. He had a very important job to do. One he couldn’t get distracted from because she stupidly got herself taken, again. She wouldn’t come for her if she was him. And that was assuming he even knew what happened to her.

“I want you to know that I fought hard to keep you around. I saw your potential for greatness.” THe man brushed his dirtied, disgusting knuckles against her cheek, and Ella had enough strength in her to jerk her head, shoving his hand off, his touch making nausea swirl in her stomach. In the next moment, a large hand suddenly pressed down hard on her head, Ella gritting her teeth against the cloth at the pressure on her skull. “But Lord Saddler has determined you to be too much of a risk and nuisance, and I must follow my master's orders.” 

Ella couldn’t help but feel indignation at his words, as she didn’t see Leon lying on this table about to be sacrificed. What did she do to be so damn special?  She knew it didn’t really matter. It was her who was lying on the stone, and Ella could see the shadow of the executioner's arm raise above his head, the shape of the ax sending a sharp pang through her heart as she squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t want to watch as it came down to end her life. The chants of the cultists surrounding them echoed in her still ringing ears, the man in the gold necklace’s voice joining them, louder than the rest. Ella was sure it would be the last thing she would hear before her death, and that she would still hear it echo forever wherever she ended up after, the words being harshly ingrained into her mind. She waited for the pain of the ax lodging into her neck to come, but in the next moment, just as the executioner started to bring it down, gunshots cut off the chanting of the villagers, the executioner stumbling back and dropping the weapon as the pressure on her head was removed. Ella’s eyes shot open as fast as they could to see Leon vault over the back of the circular fence, his gun raised as he opened fire on the men surrounding her. Relief and shock filled Ella’s body as Leon made quick work of the cult members, though she didn’t miss the shadow of the leader slink into the background before disappearing completely. She honestly didn’t care at that moment, too relieved to worry about him as the last of the cultists fell to the ground, dead. Leon ran over to her, removing the cloth from her mouth as his eyes quickly scanned for any wounds.

“You okay? Talk to me.” There was a slight panic in Leon’s voice she had never heard before, or maybe that was a poison induced hallucination. She didn’t know, and at that moment, it didn’t matter.

“‘M fine.” She murmured as Leon cut her hands free, Ella bringing them in front of her to help push her up off the stone. “I thought you wouldn’t come.” She told him honestly, and if it weren’t for the poison in her system, she could cry and hug him.

“Yeah, well you called it from the beginning. I don’t leave people behind.” Leon told her firmly, now standing in front of her and using her wet flannel shirt to wipe the marking off of her face. His touch was gentle, his hand having come up to take her chin between his fingers and tilt her head back just a bit so he could use the rain to his advantage. 

Ella appreciated the gesture immensely, as Leon didn’t have to take the time to remove the symbol, but he did. Maybe he couldn’t stand to see it there as much as Ella couldn’t stand to know it was there. Whatever his reasoning, she was relieved he was doing it.

Once the blood was gone, Leon looked into her eyes, not missing how unfocused and clouded over they were. He brought his now free hand up, pressing it against her cheek and feeling how unnaturally warm her skin was, indicating she had a fever. 

“What did they do to you?” He asked her, the Merchant’s tip coming to his mind. He hadn’t seen a wound on her, but it was possible he had missed it, having done a quick glance over her in his worry.

“P-Poison.” She murmured, a shaky hand moving to push her flannel to the side, exposing the tear in her shirt Leon couldn’t see before. 

“Shit.” He cursed under his breath, reaching into his pouch and pulling out a container of crushed red and yellow leaves.

Ella had never seen a yellow herb before, wondering where he had gotten that. She couldn’t find the strength to ask, however. Especially when he pressed on her shoulder to have her lie back on the stone again, panic flowing through her. In a surprisingly quick movement, she grabbed his shirt, gripping it as tightly as she could as she leaned forward into his chest and away from the stone.

“What are you doing?” She breathed weakly, not wanting to lie back on the altar and not understanding why he was trying to make her with the poison clouding her common sense. 

“Hey, it’s okay.” Leon soothed in a surprisingly gentle voice, his breath tickling her ear. “I just need to see the cut and treat it, alright?” His hands moved to her shoulders, resting on them as he waited for her to let him go. She knew if Leon wanted, he could easily overpower her and force her back onto the stone, but she knew he would never do that, even if she was being a bit unreasonable at the moment.   

Despite knowing that, Ella still hesitated, her head resting against his chest as she thought over what he wanted from her. She just couldn’t shake the anxiety at the thought of lying back down after everything that had occurred on this altar. She was about to ask if he could just move her to the ground, not understanding why she had to be on this stone any longer, but his soft voice cut through the fear in her mind. 

“You’ve gotta trust me, Ella.” Ella felt his hand gently cover the one holding onto his shirt, the warmth of his touch helping to calm her panic slightly. Ella wondered then if she trusted him, and surprisingly, the answer to that was pretty easy to accept considering everything they had been through. Leon had never given her a reason not to trust him, and he had proven multiple times that he would do whatever it took to keep them safe. He had even put his mission on hold to come save her, and if that didn’t prove that she could trust him, Ella didn’t know what did. 

Taking a deep, shaky breath, she nodded, finally releasing his shirt and allowing him to push her back onto the altar despite her anxiety flaring up once more.

Leon moved quickly as he lifted her shirt, revealing the angry red and pus filled shallow cut on the left side of her abdomen. Shaking the crushed leaves into his palm, he pressed them into the wound, Ella whimpering through her teeth at the burning sensation that immediately followed. She knew that meant it was working, but that didn’t change the fact that it hurt.

Leon then wrapped the cut in a bandage, keeping the leaves there and letting the cloth hold them in place so they could continue to take care of the poison in her system. Once he was done, he lowered her shirt and helped her sit back up. He knew she couldn’t stand, let alone walk, so without a word he grabbed the outsides of her thighs, turning and pulling her to where her legs were hanging over the side of the altar. 

Ella hadn’t been expecting it, a light gasp escaping her lips at the sudden movement. He had done it with such ease, his fingers pressing into her thighs sending the strangest feeling along her skin and up her spine, distracting her from the pain at her stomach for a moment. She promptly ignored it, which was easy to do with how out of it she was, and she watched as Leon removed the shotgun from its place on his back, setting it out of the way before he turned to face away from her. Understanding what he was going to do, Ella had to push the embarrassment that immediately filled her away, knowing she couldn’t walk on her own even if she hated acknowledging the fact. 

She tried as hard as she could to assist Leon in pulling her onto his back, Ella wrapping her arms around his neck as his hands found her thighs once more, Leon securing her in place and making sure she wouldn’t fall. “Try to hold on, okay?” He instructed, and Ella nodded, tightening her grip as much as possible as Leon grabbed his shotgun and kept it in hand as they left the ritual area. He tried to move quickly, but he also wanted to be careful of alerting any possible enemies that could have appeared along their path. Ella was quiet, but her expression had relaxed as the burning pain slowly subsided bit by bit, her mind a little less foggy.

“Where’s Ashley?” She asked, hoping Leon hadn’t left her vulnerable to come and save her. She felt bad enough as it was. She knew her hope was in vain, as clearly the young girl wasn’t here with them. Not being beside Leon left her vulnerable, and Ella knew she’d be beating herself up over this for a while. 

“She’s safe, don’t worry.” He promised, but Ella wouldn’t be able to not worry until she could see Ashley herself. If something happened to Ashley because Leon had to come save her, Ella would never forgive herself. “Where did you get that yellow herb?” She hummed another question tiredly, though it wasn’t really what she wanted to say and she knew she was stalling on her apology. “The Merchant gave it to me. He said the Priest liked to use poison.” He explained, his voice low and quiet. Ella took that in, assuming the Priest was the title of the man with the necklace, before scoffing lightly. “He’s so strange.” She murmured, referring to the Merchant, and Leon gave a small breathy chuckle, to her pleasant surprise. “I’d have to agree.” It was quiet once more after that as Ella contemplated what she was going to say next. Maybe it wasn’t the time or place, but she didn’t know when her next chance would be, and she had to say what was on her mind. “I’m sorry.” She finally started. “I’m sorry for snapping at you, and I’m sorry for making you come all this way to get me.” She had told him she wouldn’t get in his way, and here she was. “Ella-” Leon tried, but she didn’t let him finish. “You were right, and I was so caught up in grief and self-loathing that I didn’t want to hear it.” Her voice was a little stronger now as the herb worked its magic, and Ella was prepared to lay it out all on the table. “I. . .I feel responsible for Alice and my friends.” She admitted softly. “And I don’t. . .I don’t know why I got to survive and they didn’t.” She had been questioning it over and over in her head when she couldn’t keep the thoughts away, and she could never come up with an answer. Only more reasons as to why it was her fault. 

“I know.” Leon responded gently, having guessed she was experiencing survivor’s guilt. He understood it more than she knew, and he knew that telling her it wasn’t her fault wouldn’t help her. It was something she would have to come to terms with on her own. “I-I know I’m just dealing with survivor's guilt, but knowing that doesn’t make it go away.” A lump formed in her throat, and Ella had to swallow it and push her emotions down. “Even so, I shouldn’t have taken that out on you when all you’ve been trying to do is help, and I’m sorry.” Leon didn’t protest this time, and she took that as his way of accepting her apology. “And I’m sorry you put your mission on hold because I got captured again. I’ve been trying really hard to not get in your way and make myself as useful as possible.” “You don’t have to do th-” “Yes, I do. Ashley needs as much attention as possible. She’s a kid who should be having the time of her life in college right now, her biggest stressor being how she’s going to turn in a 25-page essay on time. Not dealing with this shitty situation and fighting for her life.” She told him firmly, lifting her head up and looking at him. “Besides, I’m also doing it for myself. I have to do for Ashley what I couldn’t do for Alice, Leon. I just have to.” The resolve was back in her tone despite her still weakened voice. She needed him to understand how important this was for her. Not only that, but Leon was included in her personal mission. She didn’t say it, but it was implied behind her words. She couldn’t let another person she cared about down. She refused. 

“Alright, I hear you. But you have to be more careful. You can’t help Ashley if you get yourself killed.” He relented, accepting her apology, but making sure she knew he was serious.

“Hey, no argument there. I’ve learned my lesson, and I promise to do my best.” She assured. She couldn’t promise that she wouldn’t throw herself in harm's way to save either him or Ashley, but she would do her best to be as careful as possible and not get herself killed.

With most of what she needed to say off of her chest, she let out a breath, leaning her head on his shoulder and taking a moment to let the burning subside some more. “You’re not useless by the way.” She hadn’t expected him to say anything more, looking back at him. “You’ve already saved my life a couple of times. I don’t know if I would have gotten this far without you.” The poison must still be affecting Ella more than she previously thought, because she found it hard to believe he had just said that, giving him a suspicious look. “Yes you would have.” She pointed out, and he paused. “Yeah, you’re right.” She was about to roll her eyes, but he continued on. “But it’s definitely been easier thanks to you.” Her halfhearted annoyance faded, and she smiled softly, his words helping make her feel a little less guilty for the trouble she’d put him through. Letting out a sigh, she once again rested her head on his shoulder, exhaustion hitting her as her body recovered from the poison. The warmth emitting from Leon was comforting, and it made it hard for her to stay awake, though she tried her best. At least her mind had quieted now that she said what she needed to say- well, mostly.

“Thanks for not listening to me by the way.” She hummed as she closed her eyes. “You don’t have to thank me. I rarely do that anyway.” If she wasn’t so grateful he had saved her life, she would have smacked him upside the head. xXx

“Ella!” Ashley called in relief as Leon carried Ella into the shelter where the Merchant was still sitting, having watched over Ashley this entire time. It hadn’t been only Ella who had noticed that the villagers kept away from the Merchant’s area.

“She’s asleep. The poison hit her hard.” Leon explained as he laid her down gently against a cloth sack, before lifting her shirt and beginning to remove the leaves and change the bandage. The cut was no longer red and full of pus, looking relatively normal, and Leon let out a small breath of relief. He had guessed the Priest wouldn’t use a strong poison considering he had wanted to do the ritual, but Leon had still been worried he was wrong. “But she’s okay?” Ashley had to ask, having already grown attached to the woman. Not only was she fighting to protect her, but she provided comfort and reassurance where Leon struggled to. “Yeah, she’s okay.” Leon assured her as he applied the antiseptic spray and wrapped the new bandage more securely. “Wonderful! Then I can look forward to you three getting out of my area pretty soon, eh?” The Merchant grinned, and Ashley rolled her eyes. “Don’t listen to him. He wouldn’t stop talking while you were gone. I think he needed the company.” The Merchant laughed at that, but didn’t deny it. Leon stocked up on the ammo he had used up, before looking at Ashley. “I’m going to go search the villages for anything we might have missed. Stay here.” He ordered her gently. “Right.” Ashley nodded, watching as Leon left before she turned to Ella, moving over and taking a seat next to her. She took in the peaceful expression on her face, letting her tense body relax as the worry and anxiety she had been feeling faded away completely. 

xXx

Ella stirred awake maybe a half hour later, looking to her side and seeing Ashley sitting beside her as she realized she had fallen asleep. 

That had been the last thing she had wanted, as she had already taken up enough time as it was. “How long was I out?” She questioned, sitting up and grimacing slightly at the pain in her stomach. It was nothing compared to what she had felt before, however, and it passed quickly. “About thirty minutes.” It was Leon who answered, Ella not originally seeing him sitting on the wooden table in the back, and she cringed. “Sorry.” She felt bad she had held them up even more, and she wished they had woken her. “Hey don’t be, you needed the rest, and besides, I don’t think the world ending could have woken you up.” Ashley giggled, and Ella felt a bit sheepish, quickly thinking up a way to divert the attention from herself. “Hey, at least I wasn’t out for three hours, right?” She knew Leon would know what she meant, the blonde shooting her a look while Ashley was confused. “Yeah, well get going. If you’re not buying, you need to get out of my area.” Ella looked to the Merchant, her brows raising. He hadn’t actually sounded upset. In fact, he seemed amused if anything, and Ella grinned at him, not buying the act he was trying to sell. “You know you love us.” She teased, and he scoffed. “You mean I love your money.” He corrected with a laugh, and Ella shook her head, not expecting anything less from the man. “Sure.” She chuckled, before getting up. “Thank you by the way.” She told him, not forgetting how he had sold Leon the yellow herb. He didn’t respond out loud, just giving her a wink, and she smiled. “Alright enough sitting around, let’s get moving yeah?” She focused back on the task at hand. Leon watched her closely, making sure she was really okay, before he grabbed her gear, bringing it over to her. “Yeah, let’s get out of here.” She gave him an appreciative smile. It was time to get Ashley home and finish this.

xXx

“My lord, I beg you to please reconsider! He abandoned his mission to come for her! This means he cares for her! She can still be of great use to us if you would allow me to continue pursuing my goal!” The Priest bowed respectfully in front of Lord Saddler as he pleaded his case, desperate for the chance to impress him. It was quiet a few moments before the hooded man spoke. “Very well. But if she falls to our forces, then let this foolish goal go.” The Priest was grateful for the permission of his Lord, and he wouldn’t fail him. He’d prove to him that his creation would be useful to their goal.

[cnihachu]

(long ass post)

this all happened so long ago that only the oldest, most loyal residents of irisgard remember it. with the combination of two young kingdoms and one very large and prosperous one, history–currently captured in the scrolls of monks and song and dance–is fluid. you can hear these tales in the voices of the elders that loiter at the bar or watch the ships leave. if you’re braver, you can cross worlds into the nether to look at the ruins for yourself and theorize whether dragons are real are not. i’m the author, so i know it’s a true story, but for everyone else it’s not a well-remembered one. irisgard is focused on rebuilding, anyway. there are far more important things to be attended to than ruins and old wives tales, right? especially in the wake of something like the plague of silence. if there’s no evidence of it why bother? and there’s plenty of evidence of other magic in the world. witches, the fae, the spirit of the land who still is prayed to (in secret, without talking to the church). there are iron automatons that can speak human language, and orcs and even faraway giants. there is an entire alternate realm full of inhuman creatures that live within a bustling and cultivated civilization. and the princess is marrying one right now.

all this would be well and good if it were not for the war of the falling skies… historical event! the nether was overrun with dragons. most of the ancient dragons were born there, out of the fires of the depths itself. they split into three factions, living in the basalt wastes, in the dry soul sand and the forest. however, enough dragons followed one leader (from the wastes) that when this leader began to covet gold, it meant that kingdoms and civilizations of the nether were buried under rubble for it.

netherite and gold were the favorites of dragons, because they could use them to enforce their scales. eventually the two became status symbols: dragons drained the nether of its wealth to rise to the top their society. and when they felt the nether was empty, they burst out into the overworld. it was there that old irisgard (name tba) and the kingdom el would inherit joined their forces. the war was named ‘falling sky’ by humans because of the destruction that rained down: hellfire from the air. eventually, the nether kingdom rallied the more peaceful dragons to fight, and they were the ones that defeated the dragons of the waste. those then spread out, in the overworld and under. they became other species or hid themselves around the world under the skin of mountains or in the depths of the ocean.

kicker is that the dragon of the waste is said to live on as a spirit, maybe even a vengeful one, along with other prominent dragons who died. reincarnating into various people until it finds the right host.

-faye :3

I FUCKINH LBOR UOIU I FUCKING LOVE YOU I LVOE YOU FAYE...............GRIPPING AT THE EDGE OF MY TBALE........YOU DONT UDNERSTAND HOW MUCH I LOVE THIS. THE WORLD HISTORY IS SO RICH AND FUFILLING AND THERES SO MUCH FOR US TO WORK WITH AND BUILD ON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I SEE WHAT YOURE PUTTING DOWN. GOING ABSOUTELY INSANE. HELLOOOOOOOO... the dragons forged from the fires of what is essentially hell........................................ grgrjgrgrgjr i love our silly rp server sm

[hypnotisedfireflies]

What’s the funniest/dummest reason Tess or Joel knocked someone out. Like, did Tess ever really like someone’s shoes and Joel did her the favor ha.

Hahaha! Oh anon, you get a little ficlet. 🥰

You Haven't Seen Everything

Winter, 2021

"But getting out of Miami," Axel continued, placing another bag of cocoa on the scales, "that was something else. You ever seen infected on rollerblades? No? You haven't seen everything yet."

"Great, can you just concentrate on the merchandise, please?" Tess gestured to the pile.

"Oh sure, sure. Don't worry, I do this all the time."

Axel, with his shaved skull and toxic green mohawk bristling down the centre, gamely nodded at the scales as he pulled off the Ziploc bag and added it to the pile. He was a new contact. It had been worth travelling to this middling little New Hampshire town to meet him, but Joel was starting to think it wasn't worth the noise.

He leaned up harder against the wall like he could burrow his spine into the plaster and disappear. They were dealing in an old art supplies store, turned over and trashed, the wasted materials swept up against the walls like snowdrifts. Axel had set up a table in the bare centre and was scooping cocoa powder from a massive tin into the little bags, weighing them one by one. Tess sat opposite. Joel could see the patience sapping out of her with every breath Axel took.

But cocoa was a hot, rare property right now. It was the first time it had surfaced in the Boston QZ in years. Certainly not in the eleven since they'd made it home.

"I was hiding out in this Olive Garden? It was right on Miami Beach. All these infected staggering by on wheels. I just know that we got wheeled clickers down there. Board shorts and bikinis. That's something, right? Yeah, I seen some shit down there. I was in this golf club? You know the little carts?"

He looked between a silent Tess and a silent Joel.

"You know the buggies?"

Silence.

"Yeah. So there's these little buggies. You drive around the course on them. Just enough room for you, your buddies, your clubs. Make the caddy walk, though! The caddy, he goes after your balls. Not your actual balls, like your hairy gonads, but your golf balls. They hand you your clubs."

Joel slowly filled up his lungs. Axel slowly filled up the bags and carefully weighed them, one by one.

"I was hiding in this golf club. Beautiful place. Big ocean views. And we went to war, not against the infected, but against the club across the way! You talk about your gang wars, you know, but these rich old guys went to war with each other riding buggies like white Arab chargers. You ever seen old guys in polos whacking each other with putters out the side of a buggy? No? You haven't seen everything yet."

Tess stood up. "That's our cut. You're done?"

"Huh? What? Oh."

Disappointed, Axel watched Tess load her backpack up with the precious bags of cocoa. The trade - FEDRA-grade antiseptic, water purification tablets and a bottle of lube - sat on the edge of the table. Tess reshouldered the pack.

"Thanks. You know the frequency. Buzz us if you get something else interesting."

"Sure, sure. Let me show you out. So after the gold club, I thought that was too much for me, I got on this Greyhound bus. You know all the urban legends about them, right?"

Axel led them down the back, cheerful tongue wagging to the very end. Joel's chest began to lock up and his palms tingled.

"You ever take a Greyhound bus back in the old days? Overnight? Those were wild. You ever see that movie, Midnight Cowboy? Anyway I got on this bus. And you know who was on it? The Army of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. You ever seen Mormons fighting the forces of Satan in sunny Tampa? No?"

Tess gave Joel a slight nod.

He grabbed Axel by the scruff of the neck and turned him ninety degrees. He banged his face against the wall, hard and just once. That was all it took. He let go and Axel's unconscious body slid bonelessly to the floor.

"You haven't seen everything yet," Joel muttered.

Tess lifted the bar on the door and they stepped outside into the crisp winter afternoon. They were going to have to book it if they'd make it back to their own Olive Garden before dark.

[shadowsandstarlight]

The funniest thing that’s ever happened to me in a DnD game is still thanks to a magic item our DM gave us that was supposed to be completely useless. It was called the Cloak of Billowing Fashions, and combined the properties of a classic Cloak of Billowing (can be made to billow dramatically at will) and a Cloak of Many Fashions (can appear however you’d like it to, as long as it remains a cloak), with one extra little feature: if you so chose, whenever you made it billow, it could also make a loud thundering noise for extra dramatic effect. My party, naturally, collectively decided that that sound was canonically a vine boom. My character was a high elf warlock with an archfey patron, a charisma score of 16, and an affection for both dramatics and fine fabrics, so he took the cloak. Our quest led the party to a church, where we had to sneak around and investigate something. The issue was that it was the middle of the day, the church was crowded, and we didn’t have time to wait until night fell to look around. The party lacked a rogue, so we decided to make do with what we had. A couple of the most normal looking party members split off, blending in with the crowd and beginning to unobtrusively make their way toward the doors behind which we wanted to take a peek. The remainder of us set up a distraction. The Cloak took the form of a white feathered cloak, accented in gold. My warlock had Thaumaturgy thanks to some neat Pact of the Tome shenanigans, and we had another spellcaster with Prestidigitation, so we could give my boy some excellent special effects. So we get him all set up. A first cast of Thaumaturgy will let his voice boom several times louder than usual, a second will alter the appearance of his eyes, and Prestidigitation could create a fancy shower of sparks. The party members take their places, both in the game and at the table. Someone’s phone is ready to go with a soundboard open. The warlock bursts through the doors, cape billowing, vine booming, and loudly declares that this was sacrilege, that he was the god they claimed to worship and he disapproved wholeheartedly. An Eldritch Blast hits a chandelier. Chaos. In the midst of it all, he switches his cloak to imitate that of the surrounding peasants, and the party slips through a door, robs the scam church, and escapes. A small cult may or may not have formed around the god-warlock. That’s not important. The DM was losing her mind. I decided, in the midst of it all, to use the Fey Presence feature to frighten every creature within ten feet when the warlock’s declaration was made. It was glorious. That was the same campaign where I literally vaporized a few enemies with the sheer force of my Eldritch Blast (it happened multiple times where I rolled a nat 20 and did double damage, rolled the highest possible damage or close to it, had my Agonizing Blast eldritch invocation which added my +3 charisma modifier to the damage, and was in possession of a magic item which made it do +2 or 3 extra damage on top of that. Poor bastards didn’t stand a chance, they got obliterated instantly. My attacks didn’t hit as often as I’d’ve liked during that campaign, but when they did they hit like a damn truck. Level three and up, high elf tome pact warlock, you can’t go wrong, they’re insane.)

[kark3lia23]

𝔸/ℕ | 𝕀 𝕗𝕚𝕟𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕪 𝕕𝕖𝕔𝕚𝕕𝕖𝕕 𝕥𝕠 𝕦𝕡𝕝𝕠𝕒𝕕

(Church Girl AU)

SUNDAY MORNING

Bakugou POV

Light was all I saw when I first laid eyes on her face,

A radiance that outshone the sun's warm embrace.

Her smile, a beacon of joy in a world so cold,

Her laugh, a melody more precious than gold.

She possesses a will to fight for what she believes,

A strength that in her heart never grieves.

Ochaco, her name, a melody in my heart,

A love so deep, it sets me apart.

But my light has been dimmed by the hardships of training,

The stress of putting up with those she's entertaining.

Her friends, those "idiots," as I've constantly said,

Yet they're a part of her in every way.

Despite the challenges, my light shines on,

In her presence, my worries are gone.

For today, at least, is a day of rest,

A day when our love is at its best.

As God said, Sunday is a day of devotion,

A time to rest after labor's emotion.

My love will finally get her long-awaited rest,

And my heart, with love, will be blessed.

So here's to my light, my love, my all,

Together, we stand, never to fall.

For even as time dims our flame,

Our love will endure, all the same.

Spring

Sunday was always a regular day for me. Other than church, I was often forced to attend with my burden of a family.  In a tight suit that felt like if as if it were a straitjacket, I went every Sunday for the first 16 years of my life. Of course I still believe in God and all of  that shit but I just strayed away.  When I went away for school I never had time to go home to go to church with my family.

Even if i "hated" the people i hung out with I honestly liked hanging out with them

(Izuku included)

School was going great

Becoming a hero was going amazing

But of course summer had to come

And I had to go home 

To my same old House

Same old parents

Same old room

Same old bed

Same old church

But of course it couldn't be that easy

Summer

It wasn't like I was dreading going to church in a bad way

Like if you haven't gone to practice in a long time and just had to come back mid lap

That kind of dread

I hadn't been in about a year 

But apparently to my mother 'it would be embarrassing if everyone heard I came home and willingly didn't come'

--

So here I am in my white straitjacket at the door of my church

But we're late

And it wasn't even my fault, the hag forgot her 'good earrings' half way there

So we're here

and they're halfway through the sermon already

The door creaks as my family walks in

Heads turn to look at us 

'God this is embarrassing' 

And look at that the only open seats are in the front

'Shit'

We walk up to the front and take our seats

When I used to come no one sat in the front, everyone was too scared to be called out by the pastor

But to my surprise there was a single brave soul already at the front of isle

A beautiful brunette with big brown eyes 

Not a dirt color but like a owls

She sits there with a pen and notebook and hand

Looking deep into my eyes as I walk down the damned isle

She was dressed in all white like a wolf in sheep's clothing 

except there is no wolf

just her

She is glowing

I see the light bouncing off her pale skin

I finally sit down

Eyes not leaving hers

I make a silent vow to myself to find her after this

--

Finally after 2 hours of the pastor preaching we were free to go

I can go find her

She's not going to be hard to find

I think

Everyone at my church wears big fancy hats and bright colors

Like pink or a type of green

She was the only one in the room wearing white 

other than me of course

---

Its been about 30 minutes

She must have left unnoticed by me 

Unless...

I haven't checked the pastors office 

But there's no way that's the priest's daughter 

Right?

--

I've stood outside the priests office for about 2 minutes

but I hear her voice 

She sounds angelic

"Ochaco I would like you to attend the church more" I hear the pastor say, "Father you know that I'm swamped at school studying and training is one of my devotions along with god. You  paid for me to be there for all 3 years, I want to use your time and money to the best of my abilities. I'm really sorry bu-"

"Ochaco you're rambling but we can talk about this when we get home"

I guess I was right 

I guess that explains her being front and center 

"Ok father I'll leave now..."

I step back as I see her beautiful face in person

Its obvious she doesn't wear any make up just some lip gloss 

she is the most beautiful person I've ever seen

We look at each other in awe 

Eyes not leaving each others as she closes the door

"Hi"

---

"Hi"

𝕆𝕜 𝕘𝕦𝕪𝕤 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥'𝕤 𝕨𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕨𝕖 𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕝𝕖𝕒𝕧𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕚𝕥 𝕠𝕗𝕗 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕣𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕡𝕝𝕖𝕒𝕤𝕖 𝕝𝕖𝕥 𝕞𝕖 𝕜𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕚𝕗 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕒𝕟𝕥 𝕞𝕠𝕣𝕖. 𝕀 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕜𝕖𝕕 𝕠𝕟 𝕝𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝟚 𝟙/𝟚 𝕙𝕣𝕤 𝕠𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕥𝕠 𝕡𝕝𝕖𝕒𝕤𝕖 𝕝𝕖𝕥 𝕞𝕖 𝕜𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕙𝕠𝕨 𝕀 𝕕𝕚𝕕 :)

ℙ𝕊: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕤𝕥 𝕡𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕘𝕣𝕒𝕡𝕙 𝕚𝕤 𝕒 𝕡𝕠𝕖𝕞 𝕀 𝕨𝕣𝕠𝕥𝕖 𝕚𝕟 𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕤𝕤 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕚𝕤 𝕨𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕤𝕙𝕠𝕥 𝕚𝕤 𝕚𝕟𝕤𝕡𝕚𝕣𝕖𝕕 𝕓𝕪 :)))

𝕃𝕠𝕧𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕒 𝕘𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝕕𝕒𝕪 𝕠𝕣 𝕟𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥<𝟛

[gentle-sparda]

OC character post

Dont read past the fancy line if TW topics makes you uncomfy!!!

Writing stuff down for my oc, and I figure tumblr is the only place i can write a WHOOOLE lot of lore, and incoherent stuff. <3 i had this oc for about 4 years now and their design is constantly changing but i think i found a new base design that shows their overall general design. I think i should introduce them to everyone since they are my main oc, the ones I’ll write fanfics with Vergil. Bullet points are easier for those who just want to read a quick info dump that is in no particular order, below will be more story based around the DMC games (I’ve only played dmc3, so not everything is too accurate my apologies.)

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

Advent: 

TRANS! FTM, my oc my rules, <3

Uses they/them pronouns, sometimes he/him 

They are an angel controlling a human vessel (More will be explained in the paragraphs below) 

Advent stands at a 5’2 height 

The things around their head are technically another shape of a halo, but they acts like ears 

Both tail and halo are transparent and bright, Although it looks ghostly, it is very much physical, and feels like silk

Smug, sometimes dumb, but has  quick reaction time. They have trouble knowing when to quiet down and when to speak

Their clothing is based around Lady’s clothing 

Mexican american (Based on mine ethnicity) 

They are one year younger than the sparda brothers 

Although dimwitted, they are very empathic 

They cant seem to take anything serious at times 

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

[ TW: kidnapping, corrupted religious ideation , human trafficking bek] !!!!!

[ TW: Sexual assault, kidnapping, implied rape, corrupted religious ideation , human trafficking] !!!!!

(I include their stories based around the dmc lore i know, so some are not 100% canon to the games as i change to make the aus/characters fit) 

Backstory: childhood: 

Advent never knew their parents. They sold advent off to a cult for drug money. The cult, "The Divinity” was based around creating hybrids of demons and humans. To create a union to serve as a weapon for the church. They forced a mindset that only girls, who are pure and kept their virginity were bound to create a perfect hybrid. Part of this cult was a young man, Arkham, he was in charge of raising advent, whose actual name was called “Evelyn”. Arkham raised evelyn to be submissive, quiet, to deny their own right as a human. 

Evelyn was kept in a room with only a bed, a book and clothing. The bed had no support as it was on the floor. A simple blanket and a pillow. The book was written by the leader, it had notes and rules on how to behave. The clothing dawned pure white, lined with gold. The only time advent had seen the outside world was when arkham allowed her to. Only when evelyn displaced “good behavior”. This took place around the age of 11-13 

There were other girls that had their own rules. Eveyln had only see them pass by through the small crack on the door. They seemed to be having fun, unaware of the fate they met. 

Demons and humans don't have the same body biology that can allow a perfect hybrid. Even their reproductive organs dont match up. This inturn caused alot of issues. And when they don’t produce a baby, they are seen as used and discard them into the unknown. 

Arkham had different plans for advent. They had discovered a book that had a chance to summon demons into the body of a human. Upon discovering the book he had set out to complete the ritual. 

On her 16 birthday, arkham dressed evelyn in white, cloth covering their face, Arkham took them inside the temple that the cult held it’s meeting. The eyes of the cultist stared down art advent as they chanted eerily quiet words. Laying advent down on the altar, Arkham strikes their chest with a knife. 

Thinking that everything was going fine, something had gone wrong, arkham wished for the soul of a demon to enter eveyln’s body, but the anger of angel, who couldn't stand to sit idle, took revenge. 

 Entering the lifeless body of evelyn, it awoke the dead body to something anew. 

Advent had be born. Striking arkham��s throat, advent leaps away from the alter, running past the other cultist who tried to stop them. Failing to capture them, they ran as far and away as they possibly could. Losing themselves in the streets of a nearby city.

DMC3: (i’ve played this more so theres more to write and add context than the other dmc games that are goning to be shorter) 

The first person advent had ever met was Lady. She helped them into new clothing, earning their trust in a mutual hatred for arkham. 

Set out for revenge they follow lady like a guardian angel. 

At the age of 18, they had grown and sibling bond between lady and themselves. 

The rise of the temen ni gru had drawn their attention, they soon meet dante, their moral difference caused a small fight between them. This though, had turned into something positive. Advent had learned to summon a weapon in their defense, a sword that would be soon called “Lazarus” 

Traveling with dante, they learned abit from each other. Enough where small talk was easy to bring up every now and them. As they made their way to the top of the tower. Where advent would run into arkham once again. Along with meeting vergil for the first time. Their fight ended shortly with arkham chaining their wrist together with a curse 

Having to spend their days around vergil, it seemed he was the only person who tolerated their small talk. At first he didn’t seem to care what advent had to say, but as the days went on, they grew closer with each other, despite the situation they were in \

They had one night where they had caved into their touched starved instincts, stuck in library, away from arkham, it was the first time any of the two had felt the touch of someone warm. The touch of one against each other's skin led to something more…intimate. The irony of the situation was they did everything but kissed. 

A day after their exploration, they tried to act as if nothing happen. No strings attached. No feeling intertwined 

Later on it was discovered arkham wanted to finish killing off advent. 

They separated advent from vergil, using their blood to open then gates of hell, along with the sparda brother’s amulet. Fainting from the amount of blood they lost, their body was kicked to the side where lady found them again, a sense of relieve and worry. 

DMC 1&2 (age 20-27)

After the events of dmc3, advent had stayed with lady to heal, they found out their were carrying a child in their body. Confused and unsure, lady insisted in helping them out with caring for their child. A baby boy, blessed with the name “Vincent”. 

He had his father’s eyes, and demon parts. Horns, tail. Advent knew what that meant. But not knowing where he was, advent remained at the small house lady had helped them get. 

Years after, they receive a call from dante, urging them to help. Lady promised to care for vincent while they are gone. With that promise they head off to seek dante 

DMC4 (age: 28-33) (Their story takes place away from the main game) 

Advent gets lost in the city of Vatican, just far off from the city of Fortuna  and unknowingly passes by their kid, Vincent, who is now grown up to be a young man. Advent found themselves fighting a demon by the name of Azazel. An artificial demon that was made in the now lost cult of divinity. 

DMC5

After the defeat of Azazel, their body weakened to a state of slumber. only waking up to the presences of urizen. Once again in a situation of being a captive, advent learns who urizen is and what is goal is. Advent couldn't do anything until 3 days, where their power and strength regained enough to escape from urizen. 

later on meeting V, something about his presences had drawn advent close to him. V, kind and gentle to them, had shown what a lover in a fairy tale would look like. He took his time to learn about advent. Caring for their scars, their mental wounds, and their problems. They shared a kiss, one advent’s body seemed to desperately crave, 

Spending time in nico's van, they encounter their son, Vince. But advent never mentioned being their parent to him. down the road, advent mets vergil above the demon tree Qliphoth. A reunion, with the emotional twist of angst, relieve, and heart break. Their fight, sword clashing, had a poetic dance to it. As if vergil was actively avoiding hurting them. Some sort of romantic dance of death…..

Maybe i’ll had more details as i learn and remember about the DMC gameplay/lore, but with the information i have, this is what i have 

(=`ω´=)

I do hope you like this oc, it’s one of my favorite oc’s of all time and i love making little fanfics of them and vergil I promise that the fanfics are more light hearted than their backstory. (maybe i’ll write some smut with them too, we’ll see soon)  

[mask131]

The Art of the Myth (4)

Let’s leave 19th century for the weird world of 16th century Italo-Belgian mythological painting - with a bizarre painter known by a bunch of names. I discovered him under the name Jan Gossaert, but it is often Frenchizied as Jean Gossaert, even though he is also known as Jan Mabuse, or in shorter as “Mabuse”. 

And let’s begin with his first mythological painting: Neptune and Amphitrite, 1516:

This painting has everything I personally deem weird and strange about dear old Mabuse. The very... unusual anatomy, let’s say. The equally... unusual faces. The 80s hairdo before its time. And the... unique use of a seashell instead of the usual leaf to cover Neptune’s “shameful” parts. As you can tell this is a very... unique painting, so to speak.

Let’s look at a later piece. 1510′s “The Metamorphosis of Hermaphrodite and Salmacis”. A little less unusual than the first piece, though I do note that poor Gossaert still has a BIG problem with aligning the eyes. But it is quite interesting to have depicted in the background what seems to be an “androgyne” from the philosophical myth of the androgyne (you know, the story about how originally humans had eight limbs, two heads, two sets of genitals, but then were split in two by the gods). It is a very interesting idea to superpose this harmonious male-female creature that was forcefully torn apart by the gods, with this male-female character that is about to be created by an attack and one forcefully imposing themselves on the other. 

Next, “Venus and Cupid”, around 1521. Note that, while we might mock these early paintings of his, Gossaert was actually one of the FIRST painters to dare do “mythological nudes”. It wasn’t something usual or common before - he truly was a trend-starter. Even though hopefully the nudes did go better because... I am sorry but Mabuse’s anatomy is so strange. Just look at what is supposed to be the duo formed by the most beautiful of the goddesses and a “cute” little child:

Next on our list is 1527′s “Danae” depicting the titular princess “receiving” Zeus under his shape of a “rain of gold”. While the human depiction is... debatable, so to say, you can actually see in this painting the true reason why Gossaert/Mabuse was admired: his architectural painting. He was a killer when it came to painting buildings, facades, decorums, and this is what people loved and admired about him ; this is also why he always added grandiose buildings in his paintings no matter the subject, no matter how irrelevant it was to the myth.  For example in the myth of Danae the princess was locked in a shut-down tower to avoid anything or anyone reaching her, hence why Zeus had to become a shower of gold ; she was not in this large church-like palace covered by windows seen in the painting. But what can you say - Gossaert learnt a lot of his art in Italy, imitated Italian masters and spent a part of his life there, so of course he would be fascinated with Italian architecture (seen as the time as one of the best in the world).

And one more for the road... His “Hercules and Dejanire” piece, where... as you can see the weird faces and contorted positions are back at full force. But look behind the strange bodies - look at the walls and the ceiling and the engravings, look at all that is not flesh and you’ll see Mabuse true art.