#I actually drew this to pass the time in church

[transbeamrooikat]

party poison doodle from earlier :3

[summercomfort]

in my pursuit of ever-increasingly niche comics, I drew a 13 page comic about Tape v Hurley, a court case about Chinese-American school segregation in 1885. The rest of the pages are after the readmore, as well as on AO3 here. More obsure Chinese American court case comics are there, as well.

Historical Notes

Mary and Joseph Tape were not born in America, but their names and identities were very much formed in America. Joseph Tape was born Jeu Dip in Guangdong, China, immigrated the America when he was twelve, and spent his teenage years working as a house servant in an Irish household. Mary arrived in America at the age of eleven, and was found and raised as Mary McGladery in a Protestant orphanage as the only Chinese child amongst ~80 children. Both Mary and Jeu spent their formative years amongst White Christian families, so when Jeu Dip and Mary married in 1875, little wonder that Jeu picked the English name of Joseph Tape -- Joseph to match with Mary, and the German last name Tape as a nod to his former name of Dip.

The Tape family lived about 14 blocks outside of Chinatown, in a primarily white neighborhood. They dressed in Western clothing, spoke English at home, and Mamie grew up playing with non-Chinese kids. Naturally, they wanted their children to attend the local elementary school, a mere 3 blocks from their home. The principal, Ms. Hurley, denied her entrance, claiming that she was “filthy and diseased.” At the time, there was no public school option for Chinese children -- the 1870 state law stipulated separate schools for “African and Indian children” only, not Chinese. The Tape family, with the help of the Chinese Six Companies, their church, and the Chinese consulate, decided to sue, claiming that the 1880 California school code guaranteed everyone a right to public education and that this was a violation of the 14th Amendment.

They won.

But this was 1885, three years after the passage of the Chinese Exclusion Act and six years before Plessy v Ferguson. Regardless of what the California Supreme Court might decide, public sentiment was on the side of the San Francisco school district. Determined to keep out this “invasion of Mongol barbarism”, the California State Legislature passed a law permitting separate schools for Chinese children, which then allowed Principal Hurley to reject Mamie Tape once more.

While Mamie was rejected from the Spring Valley Elementary School for being Chinese, she also had a hard time fitting in to the Chinese public school. The Chinese merchants saw Western education as something primarily for boys. (Their girl children learned from their mothers at home.) Mamie, a girl dressed in Western clothes, would have stood out like a sore thumb. The final panel of the comic was based on a photo from three years later, and even then, Mamie was the only girl.

Places where I fudged the history: Frank, Mamie’s younger brother, was actually six years old and should have been more present in the comic, but I wante to keep the focus on Mamie and Mary. Also, Mamie had actually shown up to her first day of school in Western clothes. An earlier draft of the comic had a separate arc involving Mamie feeling rejected at school and Mary buying her some Chinese clothes, but that got too long and complicated.

Much of this was drawn from Mae Ngai’s book about the Tape family and their experiences as 2nd and 3rd generation Chinese Americans, titled “The Lucky Ones.”

----------

Here is Mary Tape's letter to the San Francisco School Board, 1885:

1769 Green Street. San Francisco, April 8, 1885. To the Board of Education - Dear Sirs: I see that you are going to make all sorts of excuses to keep my child out off the Public schools. Dear sirs, Will you please to tell me! Is it a disgrace to be Born a Chinese? Didn’t God make us all!!! What right have you to bar my children out of the school because she is a chinese Decend. They is no other worldly reason that you could keep her out, except that. I suppose, you all goes to churches on Sundays! Do you call that a Christian act to compell my little children to go so far to a school that is made in purpose for them. My children don’t dress like the other Chinese. They look just as phunny amongst them as the Chinese dress in Chinese look amongst you Caucasians. Besides, if I had any wish to send them to a chinese school I could have sent them two years ago without going to all this trouble. You have expended a lot of the Public money foolishly, all because ofa one poor little Child. Her playmates is all Caucasians ever since she could toddle around. If she is good enough to play with them! Then is she not good enough to be in the same room and studie with them? You had better come and see for yourselves. See if the Tape’s is not same as other Caucasians, except in features. It seems no matter how a Chinese may live and dress so long as you know they Chinese. Then they are hated as one. There is not any right or justice for them. You have seen my husband and child. You told him it wasn’t Mamie Tape you object to. If it were not Mamie Tape you object to, then why didn’t you let her attend the school nearest her home! Instead of first making one pre tense Then another pretense of some kind to keep her out? It seems to me Mr. Moulder has a grudge against this Eight-year-old Mamie Tape. I know they is no other child I mean Chinese child! care to go to your public Chinese school. May you Mr. Moulder, never be persecuted like the way you have persecuted little Mamie Tape. Mamie Tape will never attend any of the Chinese schools of your making! Never!!! I will let the world see sir What justice there is When it is govern by the Race prejudice men! Just because she is of the Chinese decend, not because she don’t dress like you because she does. Just because she is descended of Chinese parents I guess she is more of a American then a good many of you that is going to prewent her being Educated. Mrs. M. Tape

[former-ghost-of-the-internet]

One Night in Medellín

(Screen shot and image edits done by me)

Summary: Takes place during s2ep5, when Los Pepes first attacks the narcos on the streets of  Medellín. You lose your hearing during a standoff and are dumped at the Search Bloc base. Javi comforts you in the aftermath, finding ways to communicate through your temporary deafness. 

Javier Peña x f reader

Word count: 3526

Rating: 18+ for some dark content in the background. My blog/‘place I keep my reblogs’ is very Mature, so no minors allowed there, sorry.

Warnings: series typical violence, hurt/comfort, soft Javi, tiny bit of your blood, descriptions of panicked reader, generally able-bodied reader, might read as shorter than Javi, only one instance of female clothing for a funny awkward moment, no specific descriptions of reader, hopefully this is fairly inclusive for everyone. No y/n, no smut.

Authors note:   100% bad information on everything medical related in this story. Any cultural inaccuracies are my own fault too. Apologies to Steve Murphy for being the butt of a joke or two. First time writing in second-person. Not American so the spelling will be slightly different.

Please enjoy 😊

....

Medellín nights were always festive, despite one man’s war with the Colombian government. 

You’d had a long but good day, far far away from the UNICEF office and in a little communa church hall, where you and the other doctors and nurses had vaccinated as many children as could be rounded up. Even the abuelitas had rooted out the most stubborn kids, and either guilted them into coming down, or whacked them in the right direction with their walking sticks and shoes, if not open palms on skulls. Each time was a commotion, and to ease hurt childish feelings, you slipped enough pesos into their hands for an ice cream. For the hard-working abuelitas a coffee cart vendor happily provided free coffee, after you had thrown a pretty smile his way and warned him the little old women were worked up enough to be a threat to anyone not on their side. And he absolutely wanted to be on their side. 

With the unused vaccines stored at a major hospital, and saying goodnight to the local doctors who’d been right next to you since sunrise, you’d headed to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant one nurse raved about during one break you’d taken with her, with free coffees, thanks to a sharp glare from the abuelitas, bless their hearts. 

It was further from the city centre than where you’d been told to stay close to at night, but you hoped your very bright UNICEF shirt would offer some protection in the dark. Even your backpack had a big red cross on it. Anything to say you were a doctor, here to help, and absolutely not a threat. 

The restaurant was packed, even the few plastic tables shoved outside were full, and the small waitstaff offered paper plates to take-away, which many people had chosen, and sat on the street curbs to eat, under the yellow streetlights.

At last the line to order, which the waitstaff had banished to wait outside the actual restaurant, had shortened to only you and the two men in front of you. They both carried full gym bags. And as you noticed with a slight chill through your spine, handguns tucked into their belts. They chatted together without a care in the world, as you looked away to make sure you didn’t see their faces, even in low-light. 

You stared up the street to the top of the hill and the man who walked down it with an assured swagger, encased in khaki pants. Like he’d stepped out of the jungle. 

You frowned as he passed under a streetlight. Something about his face was familiar in a bad way. 

He had his focus on the men standing next to you, and in a blink, drew his own handgun out. 

An arm grabbed you around your shoulders, pulling you back into a chest, your backpack falling to the ground. Then the cold metal of a weapon held to your ear. 

Shouts in Spanish between the men, some sort of negotiation happened as you tried to simply breathe. This is what everyone was afraid would happen to you, from the president of Colombia, to your superiors, and your family, down to the Medellín officials and a couple of American DEA agents. They’d all wanted you to stay out of the murder capital of the world. You’d told them no one would target you. The local doctors were still here, so why shouldn’t you? 

Now you were a human shield, not because of your work, but because you were the closest person to grab. You had never considered the possibility of it before this minute. 

The man behind you moved a step back, taking you with him. Except your legs refused to work, staying where you had left them. Another step back, dragging you along, and your legs crumpled underneath you, making you slide down his body at an awkward angle. Enough for the man in khakis to shoot.

The bullet entered his chest right by your ear. All sound stopped and you were falling.  

You landed on a dead man’s chest. On instinct, you curled into yourself and away from everyone, hitting the rough and hard concrete of Medellín’s streets. 

Hands grabbed you and hauled you to your feet, half carrying you to a waiting SUV. First you, then your backpack were bundled into the darkness of the back seat. The dead men’s gym bags also ended up with you. The owner of the hands hopped into the front, and the driver took off.

A hand came back to tap your cheek, grabbing your chin and twisting your head to look up. The accidental light of street-lamps and cars flashed across your view. He smiled at you and his mouth moved as if he was talking.

You frowned and focused on his mouth. None of his words were getting through to you. You blinked hard to try to clear away the fuzziness of the world, but it changed nothing.

His mouth made these exaggerated shapes and his spare hand moved in circles, like a hamster spinning uncontrollably on a wheel. Maybe he was shouting at you.

You blinked again to be sure, and then had to shake your head. You couldn’t hear anything.

He smiled then tapped your ear and gave a thumbs down. You nodded. 

That caused an explosion of arms from him, as he whacked his driver on the shoulder. Looking back at you, he took note of the UNICEF insignia on your shirt, and you realised where you had seen him before. Carlos Castaño. A paramilitary man based in the jungle, fighting communist guerrillas. 

You had met once before. You’d had to get permission from every side, paramilitary commanders, regular military commanders, government officials, and even the guerrilla commanders, before they let you step anywhere near the Amazon. All so you could vaccinate a few children in a communist village.

The communists had been straight-forward to convince, once you talked in their lingo, focusing on healthcare for all. For the others, a bribe that came out of your pocket, another a promise not to get in the way of anything and to get out in under 24 hours. The Castaños you convinced by saying the communists were dirty, potentially disease-ridden plague carriers. If the brothers couldn’t promise you every communist in the jungle dead in three months time, then they had to let you in to vaccinate, so no epidemic could start from their continued existence. 

You hated saying it, and drunk too much later that night to get the sound of it out of your mouth, but it worked. Those kids wouldn’t die from a preventable disease. But you couldn’t save them from a bullet shot by mad, greedy men. 

Carlos smiled at you again, and pointed his driver to take the next left. 

Some minutes later, the car pulled up to the curb.  Carlos turned to you and put a finger over his lips and shushed you. Then he dragged the same finger across his neck and finally pointed it at you. 

You didn’t know what your face was doing at this point, you probably looked like a scared rabbit, all wide eyes and trembling body. Carlos broke and laughed at you, waving you out of the car. You fumbled with the car door, and stumbled onto the dark, damp street, dragging your backpack with you. They sped off into the night as you stumbled with your own weight.

Not far away, in a pool of white light, was a gate-way guarded by Search Bloc officers. Carlos had dumped you, the little lost foreigner, in front of their base. Your legs co-operated long enough to get you to the gate.

The guards stopped you with one hand up and the other resting on their rifles. You raised both hands up, and announced to everyone’s ears but your own, your name and nationality, that your passport was in your bag. The words felt like they slurred coming off your tongue, like they were heavier than usual. You wondered if you made any sense, but one man nodded at you to continue. It took you no time to dig out your passport. 

With a short inspection of your passport, and a torch flashed into your face, the guards waved you through the gate. One of them touched your ear and brought it up to your eyes to show you blood. The other held his radio up to his mouth. 

As you checked your ear for more blood, a police car came from the base, and the guards helped you in. A short ride and you were taken inside the bright building. The lights blinded you, and you tried to cover your eyes, barely seeing the medic ushering you to a bench. 

You kept blinking, like if you could turn off the world for a bit you would be alright again. You’d be able to focus, to think, to speak, to hear. The outside world was right there in front of you, and as much as you tried to reach out, you were locked behind your eyes. 

A warm hand caressed your arm and shoulder, bringing your attention to its owner. Javier Peña. He stared at you with big brown eyes, looking you over better than any doctor. His hand slid down to yours, keeping it safe under his. 

Javi listened to the medic, then his attention went to a nearby officer, and you saw his lips ask a question, his eyes straying to the dark streets beyond the base. You shook your head, grabbing his shoulder with your other hand, pulling his eyes back to yours, shouting out your warning in clumsy sounds you couldn’t quite hear. If you had your way, no one, not even the narcos, would be out on those streets tonight. Especially not him. 

Because Javi cared. No matter what anyone, or even he said. His heart cared for so many people you’d lost count, though he tried to keep it secret from the rest of the world.

And somehow, somewhere, he decided he cared about you too.

Javi nodded, as serious as ever, and cupped your cheek. Message understood. Relieved, you crumple into him, his arm wrapping around you to hold you close. His chest rumbled, maybe talking to you, or maybe to the officer. After a few breaths, he squeezed your hand and tilted your body back to look at him. He nodded towards the stairs. You nodded back and he helped you up, letting you lean against him.

He led you upstairs, past many doors, until he reached one particular darkened room, and ushered you in. You recognised some of Javi’s colourful shirts piled on a chair, and larger piles of Steve’s shoes, pants, and tops, scattered over half the room and one of the two-tier bunk beds.

Javi led you to a small desk, its small lamp draped a soft light over the room, pulled out the chair for you, and poured a glass of whiskey. He made sure you had both of your hands cradling the drink before he let you take the slight weight from him. You sipped a little at the strong drink, watching as he first gathered up his few visible clothes, shoving them in a suitcase, and then collected Steve’s mess, roughly sorting and folding, then at last dumped into a closet.

Javi went to the neater bunk bed, not Steve’s, pulling back the thin covers, inviting you to rest there. But you didn’t move. You just sat there blinking at the world.

He came back to you, dropped to a knee, and untied your shoelaces, gently taking off your shoes. Setting them aside, his eyes looked you over again, and settled on the whiskey in your hands. He pointed at it, and then glanced up at you. It took a second or two before you realised he was asking if you wanted more. You shook your head and moved the glass away from you. Javi plucked the drink out of your hands. He had a quick debate with himself, ended with a short shrug, and then downed the remains.

Putting the glass on the desk, he swallowed again, before catching your gaze with his. He lifted both hands to his chest, cupping them like the air was something heavy he could hold up, and jiggled them up and down. Then he pointed at you and made a gesture like he was swiping a cobweb away. You frowned and he repeated the sequence. This time his cupped hands looked like a bikini top. You still had no idea what he wanted to say.

With a quick lick of his lips, he reached forward and tapped a finger on your bra strap under your top.

Your face heated as you realised his question. Did you want to take your bra off? Yes, you did, and you nodded at him.

Javi joined you in nodding, but then put a finger up, telling you to wait. Another nod from you, and he was on his feet, dragging out his suitcase again, digging to the bottom of it. At last he brought out a khaki green t-shirt, and placed it on the end of the bunk for you. As you got to your feet, he shoved the suitcase away and retreated to the door, closing it behind him.

He could have stayed and turned his back, but maybe Javi thought that was too hard to mime. You change out of everything except your undies, draping it all over the back of the chair, and slipped on the t-shirt.

The door remained shut. It felt colder without him in the room. You rubbed an arm to try to stop your shivers. Was he coming back? Should you wait? Or was this everything you could expect from him? He had done plenty for you.

He’s probably not there. Why would he be? He’s got files to read still, the radio to sit by, informants to call, Steve to rescue, or maybe he’s finding another bunk to sleep on. So long as he stayed on the base it would be fine. He would be fine.

The hallway is empty. It has to be. You were on your own, you just had to be alright with that. And you would be. Eventually.

It would take time but you would be good again.

You huddled into yourself, your eyes dropping to the ground, as you tried to make your heart understand that Javi had done enough for you tonight. Then you saw the shadow under the door, like something was behind it. Your hand was on the knob before your brain could think.

Javi twisted his body to face you. He had stood guard on your door as you changed. The worried look over his features seems to be a permanent guest this evening.

Your eyes must have said please come back, as he maneuvered you inside with a gentle hand above your elbow, and followed, closing the door again. He sat you down on his bunk bed, and then further down to lie on your back.

He rubbed your arms a few times, slow and comforting, staring at you for a while. At last one hand came up to cup your cheek and he pressed a kiss to your forehead. You nuzzled closer, his mustache tickling your skin. Your heart, mind, and body called out for Javi to stay. Nothing else would help you, could soothe your tremors, calm you and find yourself again, like being close to him.

Javi drew back, and your hand shot out to grab his arm, gripped tight so he couldn’t leave you.

His hand still cupped your cheek, his thumb soothing over the slight hurt he’d caused.

When your breathing eased, you pointed at him and then at the bunk below you.

Javi looked over his shoulder at the door, like he was saying he would find another place to sleep, but that wasn’t what you meant.

You jostled his shoulder to get his attention once more, pointed forcefully first at him then at your bunk. Not another bed, this one. With you. This time he understood. His eyes flicked from place to place, your bunk and then Steve’s bunk, even down at his shoes as he thought of something, and then he nodded.

You were shuffling to make room for him when he stopped you. Javi pointed at you then covered his eyes with a hand. He wanted you to keep your eyes closed, so he could get comfy too. But it meant you’d be down another sense. No sight and no sound. The world would be even further from you.

His eyes begged you to trust him. You took a few deliberate breaths, and he waited for you, watching for any sign of major distress. At last, you nodded and used both hands over your eyes to show you weren’t peeking.

In your darkness and quiet, the only company you had was the bunk under you and Javi’s weight next to your thigh. You could smell his aftershave and cigarette smoke, not overpowering, but most definitely there with you, and not leaving anytime soon. Nice and comforting and him. You took deep breaths of it.

He shifted his weight forward, one way then another. Shoes, you guessed. He came back to you, and did a short wiggle. Something landed next to your arm, soft and warm. His shirt.

Javi’s weight left the bunk completely. Panic made your muscles clench, and you forced your hands down into your eyes, trying to glue them in place, and breathed as best you could.

Something rougher and stiffer and warm landed on top of his shirt. Jeans? He was still here.

You waited a long, long moment for something more to happen.

Two fingers tapped the back of your hand. A deliberate action, purposeful, a message to you. Safe to look now. You drew your hands away and saw Javi standing next to the bunk in a pair of white boxers, folding his shirt and jeans away in his suitcase. He leaned over and placed a quick kiss on your forehead. A thank-you for your bravery.

He left before you could catch him, going to the bottom end of Steve’s bunk, lifting it up and closer to your bunk. He repeated with the top end, and you got to your knees, reaching over to grab the metal frame and pulled it in snug next to yours.

Javi, the genius man that he is, had just created a queen-sized bunk bed. Room enough for your body and his broad shoulders.

You watched as Javi climbed into his side, wondering how he wanted to sleep, when he draped his arm over to you, hugging you to lay snug against his side, your head resting on his bare chest, one of your arms across his waist. He fussed with the covers for a moment or two, making sure most of your body was underneath it.

He was warm and smooth and solid. Safe. At last. You breathed in deeply, his unique scent filling your nose, and then let it go. Another in, and out again.

Your heart had settled. The world was as far away as it needed to be right now. Or perhaps the world was as small as this room, as this bunk. This man. Your arms around him, and his around you.

If your eyes closed tonight, Javi would be there, under your touch.

One more thing left to do. You shifted to look into his eyes. They were filled with concern, until you whispered your thanks to his ears alone. Even a tiny smile on his lips crinkled the corners of his eyes. You couldn’t stop yourself from planting a kiss to his cheek. One of his hands cradled the back of your head, and he nuzzled his nose against yours as soon as your lips left his skin, then moved up to your forehead, kissing it again.

Those brown eyes locked with yours for a moment, before he closed his eyelids, and then opened them quickly and nodded at you.

He wanted you to close your eyes. So you did. You felt Javi lean in closer still, and then his lips placed a kiss first on one eyelid, then the other.

Opening your eyes, you pressed your forehead to his, and moved your hand from his chest, to soothe over his jaw, his chin, then trace over his lips. You wanted to kiss him there. And from the glint in his brown eyes, he wanted it too.

But it wasn’t the right time. Both of you knew it. Besides, you wanted to hear him.

Javi’s lips twitched into a soft grin as if he heard your last thought. His mouth formed words, slow but firm. Three short words. Then he settled you back down onto his warm chest.

You felt Javi’s heartbeat against your cheek, counted its beat without numbers, let its languid pace lull you further towards sleep, until at last your eyes closed with the peace he gave you.

And in your dreams Javi’s heartbeat was your world.

....

Thank you for reading!!!!!!!!!!!!

[gold-rhine]

You know, now that I’ve played the event I think Ayaka’s skin is revolutionary actually. Like, all skins before are pretty basic in conception and smth you could reasonably expect to see a character wearing. And it had to be tied to the event storyline, which also seems pretty limiting.

Like, Keqing and Ning got fancy new dresses for the Lantern rite, completely normal. Jean and Barbara are on summer islands vacation, they get summer swim suits, okay. Diluc got his old batman costume out for a ride, sure. Fischl is cosplaying her fav kinnie character, Lisa has a sumeru scholar uniform, nothing unexpected.

But like, Ayaka is cosplaying a French Nancy Drew because she was supposed to fight in a ritual dueling event with religious connotations, but the votes got mixed up with some manga popularity polls??? Like if THAT’s a valid reason for a skin, then ANYTHING is. Do u guys get it, EVERYTHING is on the table now, no matter how bullshit and the timing doesn’t need to make any sense.

Like you might expect a Hu Tao ghost skin on Halloween, given the spooky associations, but no, it’s Ayato dressed as a Dracula bc he’s doing some party for cultural exchange or whatever. He has an enormous cravat, purple cape and instead of boba, he’s drinking red wine from a fancy goblet, but still with a straw and he’s still slurping.

Heizou has to conduct an investigation on the cat island in a cat island event which you KNOW is coming one day, that’s too marketable to pass up, and you know how he likes to dress up to ~blend in~ with locals, so boom – Heizou in a catboy outfit. He’ll look super cute and can you imagine how funny his punching combat animations will look

I know we all want Venti’s whore Archon skin, but like no, there’s a Mond event where they celebrate Barbatos and they make Rosaria to dress up like his Archon outfit as like someone who will represent him from the church, but she makes it goth, so she looks like an undead fallen angel with black roses, dark feathers and shit.

Thoma seems like a no-brainer for a maid outfit, but he’s already a maid, that’s nothing new. Instead it’s Chide, bc he’s all about home and cooking and so on, but it’s the thriller movie maid, his outfit is just a little askew and ruffled and there are sus specks of red, and he has an idle where he twirls a huge bloodied butcher knife. His idle where he dramatically throw the scarf over the shoulder is changed for an animation of his just as dramatically fluffing up the skirts.

Beidou dressed as a sexy boxer bc she’s running some hand-to-hand combat event. Eldritch Kokomi skin after we finally get a new event in Enkanomiya. Alternatively, Enkanomiya event with Albedo since he got screwed over Dragonspine event this year, where he goes to investigate truth about ancient civilization and gets an ancient greek toga-inspired outfit, but sluttier. Lets go wild guys

[totallyjustabunchofhocuspocus]

Fic: Something to Sink Your Teeth Into 3/?

Read on AO3

Pairing: Buck/Tommy

Vampire/Witch!AU

CW: I'll throw a dubcon warning for the inherently erotic nature of vampire bites. And a general warning for the kind of night where getting bitten and kidnapped by a vampire is actually the better of the potential outcomes.

Note: Not important, but I need everyone to know I am the physical embodiment of that gif of Captain Holt going Oh....oh n-no whilst looking at the rapidly growing outline for this in my notes app.

In his human life, Tommy had been a soldier. He thought. He didn’t know exactly where—he knew he’d been born somewhere in England. Probably in the early 1200’s just based on a few major events and people he could remember hearing about when he could still walk in the sun. Honestly, his earliest memories seemed to grow a little dimmer with each passing decade. The faces were blurrier, the places more shadowy and indistinct, buried under centuries and centuries of other faces, other events, other places. His mother was the only person from his human life, his human family, that he had any recollection of whatsoever, and the whole of her memory was the feel of her arm around him when they sat together in church. Her face, her voice, the color of her hair or eyes…all the details were lost to him.

But he remembered the weight of the weapon he carried in service of a lord that history had forgotten. He remembered the misery of endless marches. He remembered the way men screamed when they died on a battlefield.

He’d always thought it was unfair that he could recall the whistle of an arrow past his cheek, but not the way his mother sounded when she sang him to sleep. Or even if she’d done something like that.

In his human life, he’d been a soldier. It had been what drew his maker to him. The bastard—always just ‘the bastard’ in Tommy’s head…he refused to recall his name when Tommy had no idea if he’d ever had brothers or sisters—had wanted foot soldiers for his coven. Cannon fodder for some coven conflict, vampires who already knew how to fight and follow orders. Tommy had managed to both stay ‘alive’ during the conflict and impress the bastard with his ability to strategize, and the rest was history.

He didn’t know the particulars of Gerrard’s human life and had never cared to. He’d been turned shortly before Tommy had been, for the same reason, and until Tommy had shown up, he’d been the strongest vampire in the bastard’s coven apart from the bastard himself. Tommy had never overtaken Gerrard’s status in the coven…but he’d always been just that much stronger. Gerrard had never forgiven him for it, taking a special delight in tormenting Tommy as much as he was allowed to.

The bastard had found it amusing, and his only intervention had been to forbid them from killing each other.

For nearly three hundred years, Gerrard had made it his mission to make Tommy as miserable as possible. He’d undercut him at every turn, taken every opportunity to try and sabotage him in the eyes of the bastard and the rest of their coven, openly mocked him in front of other covens. To say nothing of the physical tortures he’d inflicted whenever the bastard left him in charge. If Tommy’s skin had still been able to scar, he’d be covered from head to toe. He was honestly surprised Gerrard had never had the balls to permanently maim him.

The day the bastard had finally angered someone more powerful than him was the best day of Tommy’s immortal life. It had been worth the chaos, worth the pain of the bond that kept him bound to his maker’s coven severing. There had never been even an instant in which he considered trying to stay with the remains of the coven. He’d vanished into the night practically before his maker’s head stopped rolling in the dust, and never looked back.

For the longest time, Gerrard had been just a bad dream. Another example of the sheer unfairness of what he had forgotten versus what was seared into his mind.

And then Tommy had gone and made friends with a vampire named Sal…and stayed good enough friends that when Sal invited him to join Alonzo’s coven, he’d accepted. He’d never regretted the decision. Even when it brought him back into Gerrard’s orbit.

He turned now, blanking his face of every emotion, tucking his hatred of this main into the corners of a carefully neutral smile. Evan wavered drunkenly at the motion, slumping further against his side and he saw Gerrard’s eyes flick over him briefly, his lips curling into a nasty smirk as he noted the uniform Evan was wearing.

“Enjoying the party favors?” he asked, the gleam in his eyes setting Tommy on edge. He knew this game. Had been forced to thread this needle more times than he cared to count. If he let on that he had even a shred of real interest in Evan, for food or sex or anything in between, Gerrard would demand Tommy hand him over, just to take something Tommy wanted. And as his guest, Tommy would have no excuse not to. If he acted too bored, like Evan was nothing but a takeout bag, Gerrard might demand him anyway, just so he could make a big deal about Tommy not appreciating his hospitality in front of some of the major covens in the area.

“I’ve got no complaints,” he said. He tightened his grip on Evan, pushing him deeper into the thrall, willing him to stay still and silent, to not do anything to draw Gerrard’s attention. He tilted his head, regarding his “brother” calmly, letting just the right amount of boredom trickle into his expression. It wasn’t fun for Gerrard if he didn’t get some kind of reaction out of Tommy…and though Tommy didn’t have his political power, he had enough respect among the covens that it wouldn’t be worth it to Gerrard to needlessly torment him. Not anymore.

“You sure? Seems like you’re just playing with your food.” Gerrard’s eyes narrowed slightly as he looked Evan up and down again, a bit of calculation entering his gaze now.

Gerrard had always been an observant motherfucker. And Tommy had always had a type.

He saw Gerrard’s smirk start to turn knowing, saw the vicious amusement start to glimmer in his eyes, and knew he had seconds to keep exactly what he’d been afraid of from happening. He acted on instinct, the experience of three centuries trapped in a coven with this man informing his actions. He made himself roll his eyes in pretended irritation, silently apologized to Evan, and grabbed a fistful of the witch’s hair, yanking his head backward to expose the column of his throat.

He took a brief second to brace himself for what he knew was coming, and then plunged his fangs into Evan’s neck.

Tommy had tasted witch blood a few times in his long life. It was not something one could ever get used to.

From the instant it touched his tongue, Evan’s blood was like liquid fire pouring down his throat. It didn’t burn, didn’t hurt—but dear God, the power in it. The life. If Tommy closed his eyes, he could have convinced himself he was basking under the light of the sun. Warmth raced through him, flooding his limbs with strength. As iron-clad as his control was, and had been for centuries, it took everything in him not to tear into the witch’s vulnerable throat, to open the wound wider, to drink deeper, to take more, more, more.

Dimly, he heard Evan let out a whimper of pain, and without thinking too hard about it, he reached through the thrall that bound them, altering the witch’s perceptions of what was happening. Turning the burning pain of the bite to dizzying pleasure, the pull of mouthful after mouthful of blood from his body into an aching caress. Evan shuddered in his arms, pushing closer to him, his breath coming in pants as Tommy drank. And drank. And drank.

He forced himself to go slow, though everything in him strained against the impulse. He wanted more. More of the consuming fire, more of the power, more of the pure goddamn light that was the witch’s blood. He clutched Evan to him, clawed at the bonds of the thrall, every part of him wanting every part of this man closer, closer, closer.

He did close his eyes now, struggling not to lose himself in the liquid fire, struggling not to lose control and drain Evan dry right here, right now. He wanted more.

When he opened his eyes again, he was…somewhere else.

He was still in Gerrard’s mansion, still standing in a blood-soaked living room with the man he hated more than anyone else except the bastard himself. Still surrounded by dozens of his kind in various states of a blood frenzy, still standing in the middle of an absolute slaughter.

But he was also in an echoing room, lit by harsh fluorescent lights and bare of any furniture except a massive, ornately carved wooden table. Seven people—utter strangers—were seated at the table, all staring at him with varying degrees of disinterest, disappointment, or disgust. His stomach swirled sickly with dread, the empty space behind him feeling cavernous. They hadn’t come. He might be sentenced to death today, and they hadn’t come. Couldn’t even be bothered to stand behind him in support while the high coven decided his fate.

He clenched his fists so tightly his nails bit half-moons into his palms, refusing to give into the urge to cry. He could do this. He’d known this was a possibility when he made the decision, and he wasn’t going to regret it now. He could do this. For Maddie, he could do this.

He didn’t know anyone named Maddie.

He loved her more than he loved anything—more than he loved himself.

He had no idea who she was.

He knew he’d do anything, give anything to keep her safe. He hadn’t been able to protect her then, but he could protect her now.

“Do you understand the charges leveled against you, Mr. Buckley?” one of the figures said, a woman with iron-gray hair and a severe expression. She was the one who had been arguing the hardest that they should look on him as an adult. He had committed a heinous crime, and he would be eighteen in less than three months. He should face the consequences as an adult.

He licked his dry, dry lips and forced himself to look the high coven in the eye. “Yes ma’am, I do.”

“State them.” A man this time. He hadn’t been as vocal, but his eyes were like two chips of ice every time he looked at him.

“F-false witness. Evading capture. M…murder.”

“Of your coven and your kin.” Another woman. He couldn’t get a read on her, but he thought he saw her scoff in disbelief a few times during the testimony against him. “Your guilt is declared. According to your accusers you used your magic in the foulest way. All that’s left is to decide what to do with you. If you have anything else to say in your defense, now is the time.”

He bit his lip, the only words that might change any of their minds knocking at his teeth. He swallowed them back. For Maddie.

For Maddie.

“I…I can o-only submit my, uh myself to the chance of your, your, your mercy,” he said, stumbling over the formal words. He focused on a spot on the wall above all their heads. The empty, empty space behind him seemed to grow colder.

The same woman spoke again. “In light of your youth, the lack of any abuses of your power before this, and the…unsubstantiated rumors of your motive, we reject the sentence of death.”

His knees nearly gave out, and he sucked in a great gasp of air. The woman plunged on ruthlessly, though, her dark eyes boring into his. “Evan Buckley, you are hereby banished from this territory. Your coven bond is severed. Your rights and responsibilities as a coven-bound are voided, and your magic shall fade as to nothing. You shall fade as to nothing. No other coven shall accept you. None shall know you, none shall aid you, none shall give you comfort or shelter. If you step foot in our borders again, you will be executed. You have seven days and seven nights to vacate yourself of our territory. Do you understand?”

Each word was like a hammer blow against his chest, stealing his breath, leaving him dizzy and reeling. Banished. He’d known, he’d known…hell, he’d hoped and prayed that all they would do was banish him. But now that it was happening…he thought he might throw up.

For Maddie, he reminded himself. For the only person who had ever loved him, the only person he loved. For Maddie.

“I understand,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

“You are dismissed.”

Tommy came back to himself with a start, his mouth filled with the glorious taste of Evan’s blood, his body practically singing with the strength of it. The witch was clinging to him desperately, his eyes fluttering as he panted, open-mouthed, through the false pleasure of the bite. Gerrard was still watching them, and only three centuries of dealing with the man’s torments gave him the ability to keep the complete and utter shock and confusion coursing through him off his face.

What the fuck had just happened?

Slowly, he pulled his fangs from Evan’s neck, resisting the urge to dive in and start licking at the rivulets of blood running down his throat from the puncture wounds. Beside him, Gerrard scoffed, his lip curling in irritation as Evan moaned softly. Tommy would never understand how in eight-hundred-odd years, he’d never managed to even slightly enlighten his attitudes about certain things. But—thank fuck—boredom had started to fill his expression. “Always good to see you, little brother,” he muttered, somehow managing to make every word sound like an insult. “I’m sure you remember where the door is.”

It was a clear dismissal, meant to be a slight, ordering a vampire of Tommy’s age and power around like a fresh turn. Fuck it, Tommy couldn’t be anything but grateful for the excuse to leave. He swung around, taking most of Evan’s weight as the witch stumbled weakly, shaking his head in a daze as the false feelings of heat and desire started to fade now that Tommy was no longer drinking from him. His face was ghost-pale, the streaks of drying red on his throat standing out in stark relief…damn it, Tommy had taken more than he intended. Not enough to be dangerous…but the kid had had a rough night.

He all but carried Evan through the house, nearly wilting in relief when he made it into the foyer and finally laid eyes on the massive door. In the first goddamn bit of good luck he’d experienced all night, Sal and Lucy were just exiting one of the rooms on the other side of the foyer, Lucy dabbing delicately at her lips with a few tissues. They practically did a double-take as they saw him rushing towards them, zeroing in on Evan as the kid finally made a soft, distressed sound and went limp, his sudden deadweight nearly slipping out of Tommy’s hold just because he wasn’t expecting it.

He cursed, and scooped the witch up into his arms, barely breaking stride. “We’re leaving,” he snapped.

To their credit, they didn’t question him. Lucy scrambled for the door, opening it just as he reached them, and the three of them spilled out into the night. Sal fumbled in his pockets for the car keys as Tommy stalked down the driveway, thanking his lucky stars that Gerrard hadn’t bothered to set up a valet station like he had at the last party like this he’d hosted. The fewer witnesses to their exit, the better.

“Okay, when I said you need to participate more when we go to these things, this isn’t quite what I had in mind,” Lucy said as they hurried along. “What the fuck, Kinard? Did you turn this kid?”

Tommy sighed and shook his head. Automatically, he shifted Evan’s weight so his head was resting more comfortably against his shoulder. The power of the witch’s blood sang through him. He felt like he could fucking fly right now, and if what he’d…seen? Dreamed? Fucking hallucinated? Whatever, if what had just happened when he drank from Evan was even slightly based in reality, that should not be the case.

“Not here, Luce,” he sighed. “Just get us the fuck home.”

What the hell had he gotten himself into?

[autisticrosewilson]

Hiii!! Do you have any Jason & Catherine, Jason & Willis headcanons to spare?? Alsoo, permission to use on fics? 👀

Thank YOU FOR THE ASK!! And of course I love when people use my headcanons!!

For Jason and Catherine I think he gets his love of theatre, especially musicals, from Cathy. She seems like the type to study classics or work at an antique shop or something and a lot of their apartment used to be decorated with assorted knickknacks. It was a little bit of push back against her Catholic upbringing which demonized earthly pleasures and material goods.

Admittedly she used to have hoarder tendencies, she would get very attached to her collections, they became a crutch for her while caring for her mother and after her mother's death, and I think this is what inspired Jason's tendency to keep as little on him at all times. He couldn't stand the clutter for the first few months after Willis was arrested.

I've mentioned it before but I think a big part of why they never had a kid of their own after taking in Jason is because Catherine was scared of passing down her hereditary disease, especially because in my version she originally comes back to Gotham to take care of her sick mom. In this way she spares Jason from dying like her and her mother, but she ultimately fails to save him the pain of watching his mom deteriorate right in front of him.

Jason comes by his autism honestly, from both parents. Neither Catherine or Willis were particularly aware of it but they totally understood all of Jason's interests and his insistence on rigid routines. Neighbors and teachers would be like "don't you find how isolated he is odd?" And they would be like "Nope :) kneeling on the playground collecting rocks and organizing the classroom bookshelf during recess are perfectly normal. And so is him crying when the lights are too bright and eating his food section by section."

I know that Jason was the CHUNKIEST baby, I know it I was there. Catherine and Willis dressed him as a pumpkin as often as they could and he made all the girls and old people in the apartment SWOON and fawn over him. He didn't even have teeth and he was raking in candy.

Catherine and Willis had VERY different parenting techniques, Cathy grew up on a farm going to church every Sunday in Virginia while Willis grew up running Gotham's streets with little to no reliable supervision. So Catherine was kind of a helicopter mom because Jason was her miracle kid, while Willis was a lot more laid back. Which isn't to say that Willis loved him less, but Willis prefers to teach Jason to be self sufficient because he knows exactly what it takes to survive in Gotham.

Willis always wanted to take Jason fishing but due to it being Gotham...that never happened. Regardless, he tries to hit as many of the typical father-son milestones as he could because he never really got to do those things with his own father. Jason wasn't particularly sporty, but he was canonically a baseball fan and I also think he's a hockey fan, so that's something him and Willis bonded over. They definitely found their favorite bonding activity working on cars together though (can someone say shared special interest).

I actually think Jason gets his love of cooking from Willis! I imagine he worked with a lot of street food vendors and at a lot of different mom and pop restaurants, he seems like the type who bounced from a lot of different jobs throughout his teen and college years so he's kind of a jack of all trades and has a bunch of niche skills from his EXTENSIVE career. Willis Todd is much like Barbie to me. But anyway he passed down a lot of those recipes and his love for food and different cultures to Jason. Catherine can cook but after growing up being told it would always be her responsibility, something she was obligated to do as a wife, Willis's delight in doing domestic tasks like that is part of what drew her to him.

Willis had a picture of Jason in his wallet and he bragged about Jason to anyone who would listen so a lot of people recognized Jason on the streets, which put a target on his back but also so many of Willis's friends (exes) knew Jason that part of why Jason survived so long is that people were a lot more willing to help him. There was a not insignificant community of Crime Alley who were delighted as well as suspicious when Jason was adopted. There was a candlelight vigil held for him after he died since no one got to attend the funeral.

Jason has always had Catherine's smile, and he still does. It's amazing how easy it was for her to pass as his bio mom, if you raise someone long enough they'll eventually start to emulate you. No one ever denied that Jason was Cathy's. No one knew Catherine was pregnant? Some of Jay's traits are... unaccounted for? Nope Jason has the same speech patterns and gets the same look when he's judging someone and has that same light in his eyes when he's reading a particularly good book.

In tribute to them he has a tattoo of a shield surrounded by lilies. The shield is for Willis because in some languages his name means resolute protector, and the lilies are for Catherine because like her name they mean purity.

After moving in with Bruce after finding out Willis died he asked to hold funerals for both of them and they have matching headstones at Gotham cemetery. For Catherine's he chose a Bible quote (Timothy 1:7) and for Willis's he chose a dedication to the only version of Willis he knew (loving father, devoted husband, friend of many, brave till the end). The ceremony was public and the venue was overflowing with people who had known Willis, Jason learned more about his dad than he'd ever known before listening to their memories of him. Ma Gunn was still in jail but when word got back to her she sent a letter to Wayne Manor thanking him, because she might be a hateful old bitch but that was still her son.

[sasster]

Puzzling

We’re really earning that title of Timeline Jumper now, folks.

Can I interest you in another blast from the past?

—

Trolls are not known for giving too much attention to their dead, short of dispatching them so thoroughly that they do not return as the shambling members of a daywalking horde, their fates aren’t really worried after. A corpse is burnt or sent to the ditches, never to be considered again. That’s just how it is. Clowns are much the same, if not worse, a crushed skull keeps the daywalkers away and someone else will be by to clean up the mess. Maybe. Or some wild animal will pick it apart. Or the sun would come along and swelter it so thoroughly, baking the rot into it in such a way that no one will want to touch it. Who cares?

All of this to say that it came as quite a shock when the three leaders of this particular subjuggulator sect set aside some actual space in an unused cellar for one of their followers to tend to their dead. Somehow this strange man convinced them that this would be a service to the Messiahs. Why would we leave our sisters and our brothers to fester as a prize for their glory? What sort of legacy does that leave behind? And it worked. From then on fallen subjuggulators would be dragged back to that strange man in his strange den and arrangements would be made for them.

Perhaps this ability to get the crowd on his side is what drew Harlan to him in the first place. The visits started infrequently enough, just a little something to satisfy an itch of curiosity, but steadily they grew into a routine as his fascination with the man started to rise.

Harlan sits with his hands folded into his lap, watching the peculiar mortician flit about, with grace, the fresh wave of bodies that’d been brought down to him. The careless way with which the average troll tends to handle the dead means that many of them were worse for wear, their appearances left a lot to be desired, by the time they made it down to him. But his magic of prepping the dead never seemed to wane, he always got it done. Today the wave included only three fresh corpses; This one needed a portion running up their side stitched shut, that one had a trocar needle and tubing placed beside him for cavity filling, and the last was made ready for embalming fluid to be sent through their veins.

The smell of formaldehyde hangs heavy in the air. It used to be that the chemical smell of the morgue clung to his senses and made it difficult to sit still and enjoy the process, but as his visits became more frequent so too did his tolerance for the sting in his eyes and the muddling of his sense of smell start to rise.

His gaze falls on the hands of the mortician, as it often does, as he returns to the cadaver in dire need of stitches, learned hands navigating around the bulk of the black nitrile gloves that encase them with ease to weave a fine thread through the infinitesimal eye of a needle on the first try. 

Silence always suited the pair and as such, sometimes these sessions would pass in their entirety with barely a word passed between them. Harlan appreciated having a place away from the rowdy going-ons of the church above them and especially from the odd friends Orfuse has a tendency of bringing around his hive, so he rarely finds himself being the one to break that silence.

Rarely does not mean never, however.

“How is a cadaver any different?” He asks when the needle pierces the skin with a squelch that must be more audible to the mortician situated just above the source.

Thanat does not look up from his work, one deft hand pinching the offending wound while the other goes through the motions of suturing it shut. “Different from what, Harls?”

His own idle hands tingle as the neat row of stitches are neatly closed off and tied shut.

“From touching people, how do they differ?”

The mortician shrugs, dropping the needle into a tray of discarded instruments and moves on to the trocar needle that awaited him. “Well, to start, I am still wearing gloves.” He holds one of his hands up for emphasis and wiggles his fingers. Harlan exhales a humored breath and rolls his eyes. They both know what he meant.

He pierces the abdomen with the trocar, and surely being so near the contents of a stomach cavity would be a germaphobe’s nightmare, but he does not flinch. He instead goes about inserting the tubing necessary for draining. Harlan has seen him do it a handful of times, so he is not surprised, only ever fascinated with the mortician.

“I think there is something cleansing about death,” he explains, in the middle of trading the sullied gloves for a pair of new ones. “It is different because they are cleansed, I guess.”

Harlan moves to cross one leg over the other, bringing a hand up to rest his chin upon. He lets out a thoughtful hum. “What a strange mind you have, Thanat Lycaon.”

“No more puzzling than yours, Harlan Mahkir,” he says with just the faintest of smiles. “Besides, there are not many trolls tending to the dead around here. Someone has to do it.”

“Unless you count Lenore, of course.”

“Carrion birds provide a different form of tending, I’m afraid.”

Harlan only hums again, still humored, distracted anew by the mortician handling his instruments and cadavers when he takes up moving about again.

[writingcold]

Why hello there!  

I was looking over @hearts-hunger writing prompts for her Halloween Event and I thought to myself that I’ve never, ever tried to write spooky.  I doubted that I would ever — wait.  What was this?  #18 Visiting a Graveyard?  Oh really…  I started to sketch out this just to play with it and let me tell you - shit happened.  My brain would not stop.  My hair may have caught fire.  Wow.

So, in this process, the story that I thought would be a quick one, has possessed me and has turned into a much longer, multi-chapter fiction.  And you know that I’m not a big fan of posting while still in the writing process - but!  I really want to share this opening chapter of this very gothic, paranormal romance that somehow went from exploring a graveyard to a cursed love that will span across five lifetimes, and over 300 years.  Yeah.  You know it, I’ve been at the research again.  Lol I say that like it’s an addiction.  You might want to check in with @jakekiszkasbuttsweat as I’ve been torturing her with all of this mess and some pretty out there ideas.  Thank you, my friend!  I so appreciate you. And a big thank you to @allieisacrybaby for putting together the amazing Jake collage together for me! It's so pretty.

I’ll shut up now, but I hope you enjoy this first chapter.  I’m hoping to begin posting this as soon as the story is completed.  Be sure to check out all the other stories that are attached to this project.  They are by some of the best writers and brains.  You can find the masterlist here!

Contents Warning: None.  Just gothic overtones and a smidge of blood.

Word Count: approx. 3300

The Dead, Part 1: The Entity in the Graveyard

     It was a season of newness.  Rebirth.  He had slumbered for a spell.  Of that he was certain.  His vision started out blurred, but sharpened as the human days passed, allowing him to grow in form.  He sat, perched like a gargoyle on his headstone when the sight of the church across the road came into focus.  Ah.  The familiar white boards were still full of peeling, toxic paint and were cupping from years of weathering and neglect.  The stained glass still caught the morning sun to reflect out onto the unkempt blades of grass and weeds, albeit was not as vibrant as it once had been.  The bell still clanged its ghostly chime if the wind screamed from the north or south.

     He could feel the air did not welcome his presence.  Why had he stirred?  He should have slept through the years until the time of the Thinning.  He stood straight up on his stone, face trained to the muted colors of the night sky.  He watched the music of the cosmos twist and twirl amongst the stars.  His senses had finally begun to stretch across the graveyard, assessing his, for lack of a better word, kingdom.  He was, after all, the oldest resident of the grounds.  There were no new ghosts to speak of but there was a scent upon the air that he could not place.  It was close to his stone and carried the heaviness of iron.  It carried the rapacity of cells.  It carried life.  He began to move, seeking out the source of that life.  Surely no one of the living had visited the grounds, aside from him - the caretaker.  It had been years since anyone new had been planted into their grave, and all of the families of the rotted in the ground were long, long gone.  So why would…

      He paused when he drew upon the edge of the rock bordered path.  Iron.  Cells.  Life.  He moved down against a particularly sharp stone, his spectral fingers drifting across the surface as wonder touched his thoughts.  Life.  Actual life that had fueled a living human was spilled across the smattering of rocks.  He moved his face in close to feel the faint vibration that was still carried in the blood.  It is a joy to feel this.  A joy to know that a life had passed across the grass and taken in the space of his graveyard.  The corners of his mouth curled and stretched as he retreated back to his headstone.  There had been life present.  Was that why he had been roused?  He felt his essence tremble over the possibility.  Instead of resuming his slumber, he decided to wait; watch; contemplate the oddity.

      His hand pushed through the headstone that had anchored him nearly every day of the human year, save the thin times when the fabric would fail and allow those of the living to confuse those of the dead as one of their own.  His index finger traced the deep cut ‘J’ in the polished stormy granite that marked the first letter of his name.  The letters no longer truly held meaning.  No one was left to mourn him.  No one was left for him to remember through faded fondness and cooled over warm memories.

      It was an odd feeling whenever it struck.  No one was left to remember him.  How many ancient cultures believed that if the soul was remember by those of the living, then in fact the one who was dead lived on?  And wasn’t it also believed if the one who was dead, and not remembered, the soul would cease to exist?  And yet, he was there, chained to the stone his melted corpse resided beneath.  Chained to the grounds that only the dead could dare to know on such an intimate level.

      He was by no means alone.  Although many had disappeared, embracing the light or welcoming the fire when the solitude gripped too tightly for too long, or perhaps when their patch of ground grew too putrid and obnoxious that either joy or damnation would be accepted readily.  Not him, though.  The radiance was never offered, while the hellfire never beckoned like a lover either.  He truly was part of the in-between.  Not that it bothered him.  The Thinning time was his glory, even though it was rare and erratic.

      Each Thinning, she would appear.  She was neither of the living nor of the dead.   He wondered if she was a goddess - eternal like time, ethereal like nature.  Perhaps she was a forgotten entity, purged to make way for man and his foolish and mostly stupid beliefs that he was any better, any smarter, any stronger.  If there was one thing he understood from his centuries of life and death was that man was nothing but juvenile.  Juvenile in their handling of life.  Juvenile in their handling of grief.  A woman on her own understood life, understood grief.  She could survive alone just fine.

     Time flowed beyond his attention.  The grass began to push through the patches of stubborn snow that clung to the hope that the cold would remain.  There was a brightness that curled and sweetened the sky with a life’s breath that only the dead and those of the in-between could appreciate enough to see.  The vibrant peach and lavender of the sun’s trail caught his eyes long enough to push wildflowers from the earth to bring forth the swarming of the crickets and bugs of the early summer.

     ‘A’.  The letter had a chink in the cross where the stone cutter botched it up.  He dragged his finger across the flaw for human hours at a time, grimacing over the tortured frame of what it meant to be the letter ‘A’.  The fog was growing thicker as the supposed witching hour of the night drew forth.  He often wondered over the purpose of such an hour.  Time never affected the dead or those of the in-between.  The so-called witches that the time was meant for never were concerned to wait for the practice of their sacred rituals.  Perhaps it was used for those who were of the veil but not of his own likeness.  He smiled as his sight passed over those who were his incognizant companions in the graveyard.  They never acknowledged his presence, nor that of each other for that matter.  It was a point of contention when he first discovered himself in the cemetery.  Why would there be such division beyond the veil of the living?  Was it the casting of purgatory to punish those who were arrested in the frozen state of death before the larger powers to claim their own dead beings?  Baffling.

     He lazed before his stone; his thoughts stretched out beyond the land he was bound to, images of lives he had lived projecting out of him like a film, though he scarcely could remember what he could only identify as vague memories.  How could he have sailed the Great Lakes and trod across virgin land, and travel the earth in search of great knowledge and culture, and stain his hands in a vineyard as a farmer and strummed his fingers against the frets of a guitar for the enjoyment of many?  Surely not just in one lifetime.  There were overwhelming moments of fragility, pain, love and… ugliness.

     Frustrated over the toil of his thoughts, he moved across the fractured landscape to the wrought iron gates.  The chain of his headstone gave him a gentle tug with each inch that he passed along.  He could feel the air of the living billowing on the other side, dancing in the sunlight of the day.  Wasn’t it just night?  He glanced back to find indeed the sun had risen and passed overhead.  A wanton expression passed over his otherwise unmoving lips.

     He drifted north, following the chinks and twists and flaws of the neglected fence as if he could ever leave the boundary of his world.  He paused at the edge and forced his vision to dim to nothing so that he might feel nothing.  It would be easy enough as only fields of early crops and a singular road stretched out before him in an endless roll of land.  But…

     A light beckoned.  It sparkled on the very horizon like a star, but cooled as it drew closer until it faded into a human form.  A human-shaped woman in all her fragility and vigor was walking along the broken asphalt of the road.  Dressed in a flowing fabric drenched in light, she demanded his attention through her silence.  He trailed behind her until finally, he stopped, face to face with her, discovering her reaching for the cemetery gate as if reaching out for him.  Her skin, smooth and without the tarnish of age, shimmered with a perfume that he is sure is beautiful like apple blossoms, or perhaps delicate lilacs.  Her graceful gait makes her appear to be floating over the hidden rock and fissures of the ground.  He was compelled in his interest by the creature as the corners of her eyes began to fade and signs of aging began to whisper across the skin of her hands and throat.  Her hair began to thin and lose its luster.  He had never come across such a human as to grow old before him.  Perhaps she was wraith, untethered and unseeing of his being.

     He followed her step for step through the graveyard.  Her body grew small and bent by gravity.  Her face becomes ancient and heavily marred by time.  Her eyes cloud over as is always the case of the elderly, as if they can take in more of the world around them.  And yet - she is beautiful.  Delicate.  Alluring.  He was drawn to her like a lighthouse calling him to shore.

     “What are you?”  he whispered into her scraggle of hair that had loosened from its tether.

     She appears to nearly tumble across the stone path and he is in awe that she comes to a stop before his headstone.  Her body is ancient.  Her clouded eyes blur and close as her breath labors to enter and leave her body.  A badly twisted hand snaked out from the woman’s shroud and landed against his name.  He watched silently as she lowered herself to her knees, resting her forehead to the granite before her.  Her breath became shallow…  unmeasured.

      “Are you dying?”  he asked, his eyes wide as he came to rest beside her.

      She stretched out onto the hardness of the ground, cheek resting upon her arm.  He lays beside her like a forgotten lover.  He longs to touch her.  To ease her pain as a mumbled sting of ache bubbles from her mouth.  For a span of minutes, there is nothing.  No breath.  No sound.  No… life.  He watches her in utter fascination, finding himself unable to do anything other than lay beside her.  

     “Are you…”  

     His words fail in a crackled mess as a note stirred within him.  A note of bitter familiarity that clawed and scratched at his mind like it was trying to force him to remember something that refused to be revealed.  The creature gasped and sputtered and choked, startling him.  One gnarled hand, followed by the other, began to push against the earth.  He rose up over her, stunned as in painfully slow fashion, she gathered her knees beneath her once more.  Her noises are guttural and deep as she uses his headstone to make her way back to standing.  He moved around to the back of the stone as she paused to capture her breath once more.  He looked into her face and a pang of awareness crashed upon him like a wave.  The knowledge of this person was a blackened spot to him, but there was a sense of familiarity that he could not place.  She began to turn away, the brittleness of her bones crinkled and popped against his ears.

     Achingly slow, she began her journey back towards the gate.  He drifted around her, looping his mist through her fingers and against the exposed skin of her cheek.  The breeze tickled shades of blush and orange against her hair and he noticed the age that had tugged and blurred and swirled against her to bend her was reversing.  Her back became straighter with each of her steps.  The deep lines of wisdom and life were fading.  The full curve of her lip and striking beauty of her skin bloomed before him and fully returned by the time her hand pushed open the heavy gate.

     For the briefest of moments, he stood before her.  Her eyes appeared to be locked upon only him.  Had she known of his presence all along?  He wondered if she could see him as he had been - wisps of chestnut strands that floated across his shoulders and the hair that curled around its tie that fell between his shoulder blades.  The coy ghost of a smile that always seemed to be present upon his mouth.  Did she see the dark swirl of earth tones in his eyes and the caramel tint of his skin?

     Her eyes shimmered as he dared to reach his spectral hand out to brush against the heated flesh of her cheek.  He pretended to press the palm against the plump flesh and smooth the pad of his thumb across the ridge of her cheekbone.  For a fraction of a second, she even seemed to lean into his hand like a welcomed lover.  And then…

.

.

.

     She walked away from him, dragging a light that grew brighter the further away she moved.  He watched the light, beaming like a star until it disappeared beyond the horizon.

     The ‘C’ of his name was the most elaborate, but most shallow of the cuts into the stone.  It scrolled with a flourish that left him to wonder if it was created to remind him of a flamboyant moment that he had once lived.  Or perhaps the stone cutter thought he was being funny, perhaps cryptic with such a deliberate act.  Regardless, it could keep him enthralled for days, tracing the intricate loops and noticing how quickly the craftsmanship faded over the years.

     There was not much of his human self he remembered.  Perhaps he was rather insignificant and there was nothing of notoriety to remember.  He could not recount the number of spirits who cried over their being, only to wail as their loved ones drifted through the tall grass and treacherously uneven grounds to mourn their passing.  He wondered if time had given him so much distance from his human self to no longer realize that simple magic of the world and thus, released his mortal memory to allow the wonderment of the dead in.

      The days were stretched to the limit, gobbling up each extra second like a greedy tick.  He felt the air shimmering fat around him with a heat and kiss of life that he seldom took the chance to relish.  His fingers pressed into the center swirl of the ‘C’ as his thoughts bent to the creature.  She was not present on the mortal daily, but her appearance had become fixture - stretching from the horizon, her light bellowed in like a tidal wave.  He could not help but to follow as she tread through her aging process to stoop and drop a lily.  He tried to grab her attention.  He tried to test to see if she could see him.  Each time, he would be left to wonder.  Her reaction was always the same, one that could be construed as the human tilt of her head, a longing look to join him, maybe.  There was no definitive proof that she offered in her visits.

      ‘O’.  Never ending.  No beginning.  No ending.  Maybe the ‘O’ was like himself in that manner.  How a blink of his eye could find him removed and forwarded by whole earthly seasons.  The air had turned.  It no longer held the breath of warmth and sunshine of summer.  Instead, it held the darkening, faded breath of life.  The line between those of the living and those of the dead was thinning.  He could feel it against where his skin once resided.  If he were amongst the living, he would inhale this air until his lungs could hold no more.  To the point of it burning and almost painful but the perfume too beautiful to not relish in such a manner.  Alas, his body required no lungs, no skin.

      The creature’s visits were growing more sporadic.  He watched from up close and from afar.  He tried to touch and tried to ignore.  It did not matter.  Her tread was always the same.  Her return to the horizon was unfettered by whatever antics he would attempt.  To say that it was maddening would admit to feeling something of his residual humanness.  Was it impatience?  Curiosity, perhaps.  Whatever it was, he did not like being centered around this being that could come and go, taking his attention and thoughts with it.

     ‘B’.  His final letter allowed him to return and finish his own name.  The letter resides just as deep as the ‘J’, but the flag at the top bends backwards in a trail that weaves through the loop of the ‘O’ and tangles with the flair of the ‘C’, like a tree branch.  It skews the ‘A’ and hovers over the ‘J’, providing a fancy little cap to the name he had known as his own for all his time.  Jacob.

      It was not the first incarnation of his name.  There were older forms of the name that he had known.  All meaning the same thing - the surplanter.  He wondered if he had been a good man.  Had he been evil in a good world?  The fuzziness of his memories were mere echoes of what could have been but never concrete.  Never accurate.   

      The brittle leaves of the poplars and birch rattled like an old, sick man’s breath and were yellowed like his teeth.  He tilted his chin upwards, looking into the gray sky beyond the dense canopy above and caught sight of the swirl of the cosmos that only those beyond the veil were privy to.  The stars were dancing and singing, though no human could ever hear the beauty that was always wrapped around them in their ignorance.  And yet, he tapped his toe and hummed along like a human would to their most favorite tune.  The crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened over the idiocy of the moment, but then, who was he not to enjoy a little morsel of what it was like to be the human he once was?  Music stirred deep within him like nothing else.  It saddened him, maddened him, and filled him with the feeling that he once had been real, although he was unsure of how long he had indeed been dead.

      Days were shortening.  They were becoming like a careworn silk belt on a robe.  He enjoyed sitting on his headstone, watching the wind play against the grass.  Humans couldn’t see the colors that are pushed around flying like dandelion fluff, carrying the fallen leaves and bits of life too dry to survive upon its host.  Perhaps it was one of those things that were put forth to mesmerize the eye of the dead to distract from the living.  He didn’t care.  If the colors of the world and the cosmos of the sky were placed there to keep him from terrorizing the grander scale of the world, so be it.

Divider by @cafekitsune

I hope you liked this intro chapter.  If you would like to be added to my taglist, let me know - reply or send an ask.  The Dead will probably not be ready fully for posting until after the first of the new year.  I really have a lot of work to do on it.  In the meantime, I do have a new fiction starting soon that is rather angsty.  See you again soon!

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[daydreamtofiction]

Thou Shalt Not Covet // 5: Sacrifice

Contents | Part 4 | First Person Version [AO3]

Summary: (Priest!Benedict x Female Reader) Attending Sunday Mass leaves you confused and frustrated.

Word Count: 5.1K

Warnings: Strong language, irreverence, dark humour, adult & sexual themes, religious imagery, infidelity, explicit sexual content including: penetrative sex, using, light choking & domination by reader. Readers must be 18+

You woke to the weight of an arm draped across your stomach, a nose nudging your shoulder, warming your skin with gentle breaths. You fought to open your eyes, turning your head and blinking past crystals of sleep to find Alfie nestled against your side. 

When he slept, it was easy to forget just how much things had changed. In sleep he regained his softness; a pretty face unsullied by cocky smiles and dismissive eye rolls, a warm body that reached for you in search of comfort in the middle of the night. 

Each night you would go to bed so certain it was over, that the bond between you was broken beyond repair. Only to wake the next morning and find him holding you as he slept, and - just for a while - you wondered if there was something salvageable in it all. 

"Morning," he croaked.

You hadn't realised he was awake, startling slightly at the sound of his voice. "Oh, morning." 

"You were talking in your sleep." 

"I was?" 

"Mhm. 'Alfie, oh god, Alfie'," he mimicked your voice in a breathy moan. 

"Yeah right." You chuckled sleepily. "You wish." 

He laughed too, eyes still closed as he nuzzled his face against your arm. "You really were talking in your sleep though. I swear you said something about the ten commandments." 

"Really?" 

"Yeah. Think you're going to church too much." 

"Mm. Well I'm actually going again today." 

"Wow, you sure you're not planning to convert?" he joked. 

You gave a soft laugh. "I just like the atmosphere. And now Mara's looking to have the baby baptised there so I said I'd join her for mass." 

"What time will you be home?" 

"I'm not sure, why?" 

He shrugged. "Was just wondering. I feel like I've barely seen you since you started volunteering." 

You brought your hands up to rub your face, pressing the tips of your fingers into the inner corners of your eyes. "I mean, we weren't exactly spending tons of time together anyway." 

"Fair enough." He gave a resigned sigh and draped one leg over yours, cuddling closer. "Just one of those relationship ruts I suppose." 

Rut was not exactly the word you would have chosen. Demise, perhaps, collapse, unraveling, expiration, decay, ruin, death, failure-

"But we're good though, right?" he asked.

"Hm?" 

He placed a lazy kiss at the top of your arm. "Me and you, we're good?"

"Oh." You paused for a moment before nodding slightly, your words turning to mush in your mouth. "Yeah, I- We're... Fine." 

You'd grown so used to the guilt that the feeling had stopped fully going away. Instead it remained there in your chest, like a pilot light, always flickering as it waited for a reminder to ignite it again.

"Good," he said, kissing your arm once more, then your shoulder. "So what's your thoughts on a blow job then?" 

You turned to look at him, this time with an unamused expression. "I think it's a stupid name for something that involves no blowing whatsoever." 

He rolled his eyes, shifting closer, lips now pressing against your neck. "I meant what do you think to... you know..." 

"What? Sucking you off first thing in the morning? I'll pass, thanks." 

He drew the air in through his teeth with a quiet hiss, feigning offence, though you suspected there was some truth in it. 

"Okay," he said. "Well how about a quickie instead?"

You sighed. "I'm just... Not in the mood."

He surrendered, flopping back onto his side of the bed and staring up at the ceiling in defeat. 

"Sorry," you added. 

"It's fine. Would just be nice if you actually were in the mood from time to time." 

"If I was-? We had sex last week, Alfie, don't act like we never do it-"

"We don't. Not compared to how much we used to." 

You shook your head, breathing out a discontented laugh.

"I just mean, you complain I'm not attentive enough, but then I suggest sex and it's like you're not interested."

You sat up, twisting the top half of your body to face him. "Sticking your dick in something does not equal attentiveness."

"I was just trying to be a bit spontaneous, alright," he mumbled like a child. "Gina said girls like that." 

"Right, well firstly, I'm not a girl. And secondly, I'm not Gina." You climbed out of bed and began making your way towards the door. 

"Sorry, woman, whatever." 

You paused as you wrapped your fingers around the door handle. "Why are you getting relationship advice from Gina?" You turned to look at him. "Have you been talking to her about us?" 

He shrugged awkwardly. "Am I not allowed to?" 

"Allowed to what? Wait until I go out so you can sit around talking about me? About our sex life?" 

"And you're telling me you don't talk to anyone about those things?" 

You gave a shrug, your voice fading, as though the quieter you spoke, the less duplicitous your response would be. "Who would I talk to?" 

"I don't know, you seem quite pally with our lord and fucking saviour lately." 

"Oh, piss off Alfie." You opened the door and walked out of the room without another word.

When he slept, it may have been easy to forget. But the moment he woke, the fog was always quick to clear. 

There was a car waiting for you outside. It was expensive-looking, spotless, shiny, so big you wondered how it even fit down the narrow, congested road. You closed the front door behind you and hurried down the path, stopping when the passenger window began to roll down. 

"What the fuck are you wearing!?" Mara shouted from inside the car, a look of horror on her beautifully made-up face. 

You looked down at yourself, at your regular clothes that you thought looked quite nice, then back up to her. "What's wrong with it?" 

"Aren't you supposed to dress up? Like fancy?" 

"It's just mass," you said with a shrug. "No need really."

"Jesus. Right okay, whatever, just... can you come and get in, please." 

You walked to the back door, opening it to see a huge carseat strapped inside, baby Soleil squinting up at you in the sunlight. 

"Other side," said Mara. 

"Yep," you replied before shutting the door and walking around the car. 

You climbed in, glancing at your sister in the front passenger seat and pressing your lips together to hide a smirk. 

You could see now why your appearance had bothered her; her hair was swept up and decorated like she was attending a wedding, her makeup perfect, cream coloured dress immaculate. Her husband Nathan sat in the drivers seat wearing a shirt and tie, expensive watch peeking out from under the sleeve of his brown peacoat. 

"So we're overdressed, then?" he asked casually as he began to drive. 

"It's fine, people wear all sorts," you replied. "I tend to stick around after the service to help out so I like to be comfortable, I suppose..." 

"Seat belt," said Mara sternly.

You pulled it around you and clipped it in, glancing over at Soleil as she slept, her tiny body swallowed in a dress of flowers and frills, the carseat strapped and buckled to within an inch of its life. 

Your eyes flitted back to Mara, watching her flip down the sun visor and examine herself in the mirror. 

"You look nice," you said. 

"Mm," she replied, unconvinced. "I was already worried it might be a bit slutty-"

"Slutty?"

"Y'know, by the church's standards."

Nathan glanced at you in the rearview mirror as he drove. "She's worried she might be showing too much skin, whereas I'm worried she might burst into flames the second she sets foot inside."

You smirked.

She swatted his arm. "If Ellis didn't burn then I think I'm good." 

"Nice one, thanks," you scoffed. 

"How did you end up friends with a priest, anyway?" Nathan asked. 

"I started volunteering at his church. It's pretty self explanatory." 

"All sounds a bit kinky if you ask me."

"Nathan," said Mara sternly, before turning to look at you. "It does though." 

You rolled your eyes. "Is it not possible that I could just be doing something nice? Y'know, for the community?" 

"No," she replied bluntly. 

By the time you got to the church, the small carpark was almost full. You got out and walked ahead with Mara, leaving Nathan to wrestle with the baby's carseat alone. 

This was the most you'd talked in a while, the most time you'd spent in her company without feeling like she was counting down the minutes until she could get away. You wondered what had changed, if this was progress, or if it was all temporary. 

"Do my tits look okay?" she asked, high heels clacking against the path. 

You looked at her from the corner of your eye, before dropping your gaze to her chest. "They look fine..." 

"I mean they're not too... in your face? And they're not leaking, are they?" 

"No, they're not leaking." 

"Good, I wore two lots of breast pads today just to make s..." she trailed off as you reached the church steps. 

You watched as she stared up at the building, her face turning hard and angular as she ground her teeth, balling her hands into fists, squeezing and releasing, pressing her nails into her palms. 

"I don't do churches," she said quietly. 

You cleared your throat and swallowed. "Yeah, me neither." 

"What are you talking about? You said you come all the time." 

"Well I suppose this one's not so bad." 

She dallied on the bottom few steps. It reminded you of the first service you ever came to, how you'd stood outside for so long that you missed the entire thing. 

"Is it the incense-y smell?" you asked. "Because you get used to it."

"No, Ellis, it's not the-" She huffed. "Let's just get this over with."

You went inside and showed her the back pew where you usually sat, letting out a sigh when she ignored you and moved closer to the front. You begrudgingly followed, shuffling in to sit beside her. Nathan joined soon after, making you move up so he could sit down. 

It felt weird being there with them, like they were intruding on a fortress you'd built; a place that had been only yours for so long. This was your sanctuary, your reverie, and they were invading it. 

A bell rang, followed by June asking everyone to stand. You elbowed Mara and she reluctantly rose to her feet, looking around curiously as the entrance hymn began. You knew by now what that music meant; it meant Father Benedict was there, about to walk down the aisle with his candle bearers, make eye contact with you for a split second as he passed. 

Mara peered over her shoulder to the back of the room, finally getting a glimpse of him for the first time, before turning her head back to you slowly with a judgmental glare. 

"What?" you whispered. 

"Volunteering my arse." 

You furrowed your brow, shaking your head and shrugging your shoulders. 

"You-" she stopped suddenly when the congregation began to sing, pretending to mouth along with the words for a moment before leaning in to continue whispering. "You've not been coming here out of the goodness of your own heart. You've been coming here to perv. On that." She pointed at Father Benedict as he approached the altar. 

You gasped softly, placing a hand on your chest in feigned outrage. "I can't believe you think I'd do something like that." 

"I think you would absolutely do something like that."

You stared at her for a moment before sighing in defeat. "Look, it's fine, it's not like anything's going to happen. He doesn't- He's not-" You huffed. "He's a priest."

"Tall, sexy priest." 

"That's your opinion."

She scoffed quietly, pressing her tongue to the inside of her cheek. 

"Mara. I'm with Alfie, and I'm not a cheat."

"Hm." 

She'd never liked Alfie, and at first it seemed petty, nothing more than a shallow dislike, a clash of character. But perhaps she'd sensed something, like a dog able to sniff out a seed of cancer before it began to spread. 

"Look, I met him by chance," you whispered. "And he's become a good friend, that's it. I've been having a rough time and he's been supporting me through it." 

"Does he think you're religious?" 

You paused. "There's a chance he might think I'm... interested in converting." 

"Why on earth would he think that?" 

"Because I told him so." 

"Christ, Ellis," she hissed. "You can't-"

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit," Father Benedict's voice echoed through the chapel. 

"Amen," said the congregation in unison.

"Amen," you mumbled, sitting down along with everyone else. 

"The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with you all," he said. 

"And with your spirit," everyone replied.

"With your spirit," Mara muttered distractedly, too busy looking at you; watching you watch him, like she was waiting for your face to give you away. 

"Brethren," he said. "Let us acknowledge our sins, and so prepare ourselves to celebrate the sacred mysteries." 

You tried to relax the muscles in your face; tilting your head a little, lips parting slightly, as though the softer you made yourself, the less she would be able to decipher, like a puzzle piece with no edges, a crossword without lines. 

But when Father Benedict glanced in your direction, you suddenly found your composure harder to keep. Though it was not from lust, but pure aggravation. Your brows came together, just for a moment, eyes narrowing as you watched him avoid your gaze. 

"I confess to almighty God," he began, leading a prayer. "And to you, my brothers and sisters, that I have greatly sinned, in my thoughts and in my words, in what I have done and in what I have failed to do..." 

In what I have done and in what I have failed to do. 

You'd never understood that part before - 'failed to do' - how could there possibly be sin in doing nothing? But you were starting to get it; realising how the moments when neither of you said anything were somehow the most dangerous. Maybe that was why he wasn't looking at you. 

"Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault," he continued.  

The words burned, and there was a part of you that believed he wanted them to, like a searing reminder of your last conversation earlier that week. 

You sat in the passenger seat of his car, folding your train ticket back and forth like a paper fan and lamenting the extra money you'd spent on the return you hadn't ended up needing. The drive back from his old parish had been uncharacteristically quiet; Father Benedict insisting on taking you home, yet barely speaking, instead focusing on the road ahead as you watched the world rush by through the window.

The car rolled to a stop against the kerb, the engine cutting out as you looked over at your house. It was so quiet, no lights on despite the sun beginning to set, rainwater dripping from the broken gutter onto an Amazon package that hadn't been taken inside. 

You sighed and turned to Father Benedict, eyes falling to his hands as they remained on the steering wheel, anchoring him to it. 

"Well thank you," you finally said, pressing your mouth into a straight line smile. "I enjoyed today." 

"Good," he said, nodding politely. "Thank you for joining me." 

"No problem." 

You reached for the handle, forcing the stiff door open slightly when his voice made you stop.

"You asked if I sinned during my time away..."  

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye before slowly pulling the door closed again.

"Ask me..." he continued, his voice slow, controlled. "What you really wanted to ask me." 

"I... I don't-"

"Ask me."

You fell quiet, drawing in a deep breath through your nose and holding it in your chest, like you were trying to keep the words down, unwilling to let them surface. 

"Ask me, Ellis." 

You exhaled softly. "Did you... Break your vow of celibacy?" 

"No," he replied quickly, as though he knew all along what your question was going to be. "And I won't."

You chewed your lip for a moment before raising your eyebrows playfully. "Sounds like a challenge." 

But he didn't seem to find it funny. 

"That was a joke," you added.

His face finally broke, a soft laugh escaping his nose as he shook his head and looked away from you. "I can't," he said quietly.

"I didn't ask you to..."

"No, I know. I just- I needed to say it out loud, for myself."

"And for him?" You flitted your eyes towards the sky. 

He turned his attention back to you, eyes locking with yours as his grip tightened around the steering wheel, making your stomach burn with a deep, sudden heat. 

"You think I'm a test," you finally said. "That's what you meant, back at the church, you said god sent me to you."

He broke eye contact for a second, disappearing into his thoughts before returning to you with a softer, more amiable gaze. "Well, when said aloud like that it sounds awfully narcissistic of me." 

"Yeah, sort of does."

"I just... you have a way of looking at me-"

"Like you're not a priest," you said, repeating his own words back to him. 

"Yes." 

"Is that such a bad thing?" 

There was another long silence, his eyes never leaving you. 

"Yes." 

You slumped slightly against the back of the pew and let out a huff.

"May almighty God have mercy on us, forgive us our sins, and bring us to everlasting life," Father Benedict's voice echoed. 

"Amen," you muttered softly. 

Another hymn began and you groaned as everyone rose to their feet. You never sang along with the hymns. Never had; not here, not even in school assemblies as a child. Instead you would just move your lips to the song, only pretending to be part of it all.

Soleil began to fuss, finally stealing your sister's attention. You seized the moment to look over at him, your eyes catching his like they always did during his services. But instead of a smile, a pause or a shy bow of his head, he quickly looked away. 

You continued to watch him as he lead the congregation in prayer. The church fell silent, the pews transforming into a sea of stooped heads and closed eyes, all except for yours. You knew he could see you, despite pretending he couldn't. It was hard to miss you; right there near the front, back straight, eyes fixed on him.

"What did you mean when you said you've been having a rough time?" Mara whispered as the first reader stepped up to the ambo. 

You turned to look at her before shaking your head dismissively. "Nothing." 

"Tell me." 

"It's-" You stopped, distracted by the man's loud voice as he began to read. "It's nothing, honestly. Just... I've been feeling... stuck. I don't-"

"Is it because of Christmas?"

"No." 

"Because you know all of that, it was just... I was-"

"It's not about Christmas," you whispered through gritted teeth. "Trust me, you've blown up on me enough times in my life for it to be more traumatising when you're nice." 

"That's a horrible thing to say." 

You rolled your eyes, returning your attention to Father Benedict as he stepped forward again. 

"Thank you, Peter," he said, gesturing for the reader to go and sit down. "Now..." He paused, clearing his throat and gripping the ambo with both hands. "As I prepared my reading for today's Mass, I felt myself drawn to a certain verse from Corinthians..."

"We're very different people," Mara whispered. "You get on my tits, but it doesn't mean I want you to be miserable. You're still my sister." 

"It's not about Christmas," you repeated slowly. 

"It's easy sometimes," said Father Benedict. "To feel as though you are not in control. To feel that you are... Too weak to withstand the tests God puts before you." 

Mara huffed, leaning in to whisper. "What is it then? Money? Relationship? Have-"

"Ssshhh." You batted her away gently, your ears pricking with intrigue at the priest's words. 

"Which is why I've chosen to read this verse specifically," he continued, eyes falling to the bible in front of him. "No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability, but with the temptation he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it."

You narrowed your eyes. And though he still hadn't looked in your direction, it was clear his words were not intended for anyone else but you, not really. 

"It's important we remember that the strength of our temptations - no matter how powerful, how irresistible they may seem - are never greater than the strength God provides us to resist them."

You gave a disgruntled scoff, louder than you'd intended, causing a few people to glance in your direction. His eyes flitted towards you too, connecting with yours in a glacial stare, and you suddenly felt yourself shrinking into your seat. 

"Sorry," you muttered to the people around you. 

He coughed into his fist before returning his grip to the ambo in front of him, the same way he'd clung to the steering wheel that evening. "So... Erm..." He stalled, as though the contents of his mind had leaked out of him, leaving him empty, vacant. He shook his head and blinked a few times. "Sorry, I- As I was saying..." 

"I take it you're the temptation," Mara whispered as she leaned into you. 

"Of course I'm not." 

Your back was starting to ache, the hard, wooden pew unforgiving of your bad posture. You rolled your shoulders, tipping your head from side to side as another collective prayer came to an end. 

You hadn't paid attention to anything since Father Benedict's reading, not even bothering to move your lips along with the hymns or mumble the prayers. 

God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability, but with the temptation he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it.

You felt a fire kindling at the base of your chest, turning the air in your lungs to steam as it left you in hot, irritated breaths. Was that really how he saw you? Something to escape? To endure? Were you really nothing more than a lesson to him? An annotation he could slip between the chapters of Corinthians and shut away on a shelf?

"May the Body of Christ keep me safe for eternal life," he said, taking a sip from a large chalice. "May the Blood of Christ keep me safe for eternal life."

People began to rise, shuffling out into the aisle and forming a queue as he stood at the altar. You watched as one by one they stepped forward, taking a wafer into their mouths, a sip of wine.

The strength of our temptations - no matter how powerful, how irresistible they may seem - are never greater than the strength God provides us to resist them. 

You found yourself rising from your seat, as though your mind and body had split into two separate entities; one frozen, ruminating, the other taking action. 

"What are you doing?" Mara whispered. "You're not Catholic." 

You didn't reply as you stepped out into the aisle and made your way to the back of the queue. 

It was like his words had drawn you from your seat; goaded you, teased you. Like he'd left a message for you between the lines of his readings, one that told you he wasn't going to give in, that you were something he was more than capable of resisting. But as you stood there waiting, the line slowly moving closer towards the altar, your mind and body regained their synergy, and they were both saying the exact same thing:

He thought you were a test. Perhaps it was about time you started behaving like one.  The woman in front of you stepped forward, receiving her communion and bowing her head before stepping aside, leaving nothing but empty space between you and Father Benedict. His lips parted softly as his eyes met yours, his body stilling for a moment in a blend of shock and confusion. 

You shouldn't have been up there. You both knew it. But he didn't stop you. Instead he remained silent as you stepped forward, his jaw tight, gaze searing as you slowly lowered yourself to your knees in front of him. 

You stared up at him through your lashes, the sight of him standing before you creating a wave of excitement deep in your stomach, rippling through your body with hair-raising shivers. The moment felt eternal, the air so thick it made everything around you turn blurry and quiet. But you didn't care. 

"Body of Christ," he said in a deep, husky voice, a reluctance in his tone that only you could hear.

You opened your mouth and slowly stuck out your tongue, never breaking eye contact with him as he took a wafer and placed it there, his thumb lingering, finger gently grazing the underside of your chin before he pulled away. 

Your heart was pounding, desire pooling between your thighs as you knelt at his feet, letting the wafer melt in your mouth, knowing he was picturing something else entirely sliding down your throat. 

You stepped through the front door and stripped off your coat, throwing it lazily over the banister before rushing up the stairs. Your skin felt hot, cheeks flushed, palms sweaty, but it was your core that burned hottest, as though it was completely engulfed in flames. 

You bounded down the landing towards your bedroom, opening the door to an empty room and an unmade bed, a crumpled church newsletter glaring at you from the bin in the corner. It was like he was everywhere, you could feel him everywhere right now; on your neck, your tongue, in the throbbing ache between your legs. You squirmed, pressing your thighs together for a moment before closing the door and walking to Alfie's room instead. 

You didn't knock, stepping inside and closing the door behind you, pressing your back against it as you looked at him. He was sat on the edge of his bed, fiddling with different lenses on his camera, failing to even look up when you entered the room. You didn't know if he was still angry about this morning or simply too engrossed in what he was doing to notice your presence. 

Right now, you didn't care. 

You walked over, standing in front of him and reaching down to take his face in your hands. You tipped his head back to look up at you, reminded of the way you'd looked up at Father Benedict earlier, how powerless yet simultaneously powerful you'd felt on your knees before him. 

"What-"

You interrupted him with a kiss, lips crashing against his in a desperate need to be sated. Your tongue slipped into his mouth, making him groan and set his equipment aside to place his hands on your waist. But the touch you felt didn't belong to him. 

You snaked your fingers impatiently to the hem of his t-shirt, dragging it over his head and throwing it away, your nails grazing the bare skin of his chest - Father Benedict's chest, so smooth and strong, shoulders broad, back slender and toned. 

"What's got into you?" Alfie asked breathlessly. 

"Shush," you dismissed, removing your own top before returning your lips to his. 

Your hands fumbled with his jeans, popping them open and trying to drag them down. He shifted his hips off the bed, letting them fall before reaching up and working to unclip your bra. You could almost feel Father Benedict's long, agile fingers making light work of it, peeling it from your body and taking your breasts in his palms. Those palms, usually pressed together in prayer, now squeezing and pulling and kneading, drawing moans from your open mouth. 

You undid your trousers and kicked them off, pushing him back onto the bed as you kissed him. He traced his touch down your bare back, squeezing your hips, and you could feel yourself burning hotter, his rough handling of your body exactly what you needed. You straddled him, feeling his solid erection waiting beneath you, and you wondered if he was hard today in the church, if seeing you on your knees, tongue out, waiting, was enough to leave him aching too. 

You felt fingertips between your thighs, slipping past the thin cotton of your underwear to dip inside you. A moan escaped you, the friction making you roll your hips. 

Alfie sighed with pleasure. "Fuck, Ellis, you're so wet-"

You pressed your index finger to his lips to silence him, reaching down to free his cock and wasting no time in placing it at your entrance. You closed your eyes as you sank down onto it, picturing your priest laying beneath you; dark curls messy and sticking to his forehead, eyes fixed on you, hands guiding the rock of your hips. 

You imagined the conflict; the forbidden words he would mutter to himself, the shame and regret that would just make him fuck you harder. You moaned, leaning forward to kiss him as you moved, feeling his lips trail from your mouth to your neck, making their way to your nipples as Alfie's always did. 

You placed a hand gently around his throat, pushing his head back against the bed. "Don't ruin it," you whispered breathlessly.

"Fuck," he groaned, too overwhelmed with pleasure to protest.

You began to move faster, sitting up and letting your head fall back, feeling your priest beneath you once more. He thrust into you as you ground your hips, the feeling so electrifying you felt it coursing through your veins. You were going to come, the realisation as shocking as it was blissful. You cried out, biting your lip to stop his name from spilling out as your rhythm stuttered, a deep, intense wave of pleasure ripping through you. 

You were shaking as you came to a stop, chest heaving, beads of sweat trickling down your back. 

"Oh my god," said Alfie with a breathy laugh. "I think that's the best sex we've ever had."

You opened your eyes to an off white ceiling, slowly bringing your head forward until you were looking down at the face of the man beneath you. A face you should have been glad to see, but it wasn't the one you wanted.  

Part 6

*Tags: @evelynrosestuff @thealleydog @lexlexigogh @allie131313 @simpingbestie @ironstrange1991 @witchoftheages @queerbee8 @swds @jyessaminereads @withalittlehoney @hunterofshadows04 @slytherindoctorsat221b @diabaroxa @phoebe221 @hai-kbai @downtownshabby @dara-of-qui-zi @unfilteredmoonchild @classicrebound @bigratbitchsworld @aphroditesdilemma @bloodyxsaint @ployavengersog1

*If you would like to be tagged in future chapters, please feel free to ask, or you can add yourself to the list here

[fangirlvibez]

The Festival Of Hearts (a Royal Au) - part 1

Characters: King!Jake “hangman” Seresin x Queen!female!reader, Royal Huntsman!Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw, Master of Arms!Pete “Maverick” Mitchell, lady-in-waiting!Natasha “Phoenix” Trace, Royal Advisor!Robert “Bob” Floyd, King Champion!Javy “Coyote” Machado, Queen Champion!Reuben “Payback” Fitch and Queen Champion!Mickey “Fanboy” Garcia

Warnings: mention of arrange marriage, mention of dead parents, mention of killing, mention of attacking a person, inaccuracies in terms of the Middle Ages (Let me know if I forgot a warning)

Summary of the story: princess, now Queen Y/N (Y/M/N) Y/L/N was forced into marrying King Jake “Hangman” Seresin. Leaving her own kingdom, Eldoria, behind, she left to live and rule Jake kingdom, Misthaven. The time for an age-old tradition in Y/N kingdom came. Miraculously the Queen convinces Jake to invite her old village to come celebrate the tradition with them. This is the story on how the ruthless King learns how to love his Queen.

A/N: English is not my first language, so if there is any spelling or grammar errors: please let me know

Previous part - Next part - masterlist

Princess - now Queen - y/n (y/m/n) y/l/n, never saw her life going down this road. It's not like she didn't picture herself walking down the aisle to her future partner. No, she's had dreams about this magical day since she was a little princess. Sharing imaginary stories about the most important day of her life with her lady-in-waiting Natasha Trace. She knew exactly what she wanted during her wedding day. She knew what dress she wanted to wear, which colors and flowers would decorate the church, the ballroom, even the town. She knew what music should be played and what food should be served to not only other royals but the whole village. She knew what she wanted, and this was not it.

King Jacob “Hangman” Seresin of Misthaven wasn't exactly her dream partner. She wanted to get married to a partner she met herself. Someone she got the chance to meet on her own, spend time with and actually fall in love with, naturally. Not in this arranged marriage circus. She knew her father meant the best when he passed away. She knew protection was needed for their kingdom, but why? Why did her father chose King Jake, the most ruthless king to ever exist. People described him as the baddest of the bad kings. And she went through all this at the age of 19.

Y/n stood in front of King Jake. On her left side stood the priest, slowly reading from the Bible. Y/n’s hands were laying softly in Jakes hands. Her eyes drew towards Jakes face. She decided to take in his appearance while he was watching the priest talk. He didn’t seem happy to be there either. The young king shifts his gaze back to his future wife. Y/n’s eyes left his face and met his chest. He was wearing his royal suit, the Misthavens coat of arms visible on his right peck.

Her eyes traveled to her shoes and her long wedding dress. The wedding dress was beautiful, a gift from her future kingdom. But the dress was not her style, she felt like she was wearing someone else's style. This wasn’t the wedding dress she dreamed of when she was knee-high. Her eyes wondered to a decoration piece in the church. The colors were dull, or at least duller than she hoped the decorations would look like on this day.

Her eyes caught a moving foot next to the decoration she was looking at. The foot belonged to Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw, the Royal Huntsman of the kingdom. He was the third and last man standing next to the king. Y/n had never talked to Bradley before. Come to think of it, she never talked to any of the Kings acquaintances, apart from Javy “Coyote” Machado, the kings champion. He was the one welcoming her into the kingdom.

Next to Bradley stood Robert “Bob” Floyd, the Royal Advisor. Looking over the four men, Y/N already liked Bob the most. He looked the nicest. He even looked like he didn’t belong there, like he belonged to a whole different kingdom, not Misthaven. Y/n’s eyes met Bobs. He could see the fear in her eyes and gave the princess an assuring smile. For whatever reason that made Y/n less nervous.

Het eyes moved over to Javy, he was looking at the priest as well. The words of the priest faded in her ears but her eyes caught the movement of Javies arms, moving to hold the pillow with both rings in front of her and Jake. It was time, time to give each other the rings.

While she was repeating the words of the priest and looking into Jakes green eyes, she felt her veil move. Natasha must of fixed her veil to make it presentable. Y/n cried tears of joy when she found out not only Natasha but also Mickey and Rueben could come with her to Misthaven and leave Eldoria. It gave her a little hope that she won’t feel alone in a new place like this.

Mickey “Fanboy” García was standing next to Natasha, following by Rueben “Payback” Fitch. The sight was odd, seeing two men stand in a place where bridesmaids should stand. But the whole place looked odd. At the doors of the church stood Pete “Maverick” Mitchell, together with three other guards. Their swords reflected in the light, ready to attack when needed.

Looking over the crowd in the church, wasn’t pleasing either. The crowd wore dull colors as well and their faces represented more like they were attending a funeral instead of a wedding. Y/n felt a pinch in her hand, her eyes met Jakes again and the words of the priest came back in her ears: “You may kiss the bride”.

————————————————————

Y/n was seated next to Jake in the carriage. Her hands layed nervously in her lap. She looked outside. The streets were filled with families, throwing rice at the newly-wedded couple. Around the carriage was Bradley and Pete with 4 other knights. The only sound Y/n could hear was the rice hitting the roof and sides of the carriage. There was no music, barely any laughter. The supposedly most joyful day of the woman’s life, wasn’t the most joyful day of her life.

A throat cleared next to her. She shifts her focus to her newly-minted husband. “Maids will show you your new room when we will arrive at the castle. You can ask them anything and they will bring it to or do it for you. There will be a celebrating dinner at 7:30 pm for your companions and mine” king Jake spoke with his deep voice. He wasn’t looking at her, but staring outside. “I will be away with Rooster until then, you can explore the castle, but I expect you to be ready when time will come.”

Y/n swallows, then asks in a small voice, “What about the villagers? When will the feast start for them?” Jake let out a chuckle, he turned his head towards her. “If the villagers want a feast to celebrate, they should organize one themself. I have more important tasks to accomplish then organize a feast on the costs of the castle.”

Y/n frowned, the kingdom of Misthaven didn’t get to celebrate their new queen? In her homeland, any big or small event was cause for a town-wide celebration. Holidays, weddings, arrivals of newborns, the castle and village wouldn't miss a moment to enjoy life. Whenever a new king or queen joined the royal line, they would organize a marvelous feast for the villagers, with live music, a huge buffet and dancing until the sun rises the next day. This wasn’t the wedding Y/n wanted, nor the life she'd imagined.

Taglist: @mirrorball-6 @corriegrace06 @dempy @the-romanian-is-bae (let me know if you want to be tagged)

[3rdeyeblaque]

On November 26th we venerate Elevated Ancestor & Hoodoo Saint Mama Sojourner Truth on the 140th anniversary of her passing 🕊

An abolitionist, Womens’ Rights activist, & itinerant evangelist, Mama Sojourner Truth truly lived up to her name as one of the fiercest, relentless, & unstoppable pro-abolitionist voices of the 19th Century.

Given the name, Isabella, at birth, Mama Truth was born around 1797 to Dutch-speaking enslaved parents on Colonel Ardinburgh Hurley's plantation in Ulster County, NY. The actual date of her birth remains unknown. At the age of 9 she was sold away from her parents. She was passed through the hands of several slavers across NY State before ending up with the Dumonts. As was the case for most enslaved folks in the rural North, Isabella was forcibly isolated from other slaves and suffered physical & sexual abuse at the hands of the Dumonts.

Alone in the nearby woods, she found peace. Here, she'd speak to Spirit/God. Inspired by her many conversations with Spirit, one day in 1826, she walked away from Dumont Farm to freedom. Although the journey tempted her to return to the Dumonts, she stayed the course after she was struck by a vision of a man she identified as Jesus, during which she felt "baptized in the Holy Spirit," and thus gained the strength & confidence to push on. Like countless Ancestors before her, Isabella called on Spirit & supernatural forces for the power to survive her conditions.

Eventually, she married & birthed 5 children. On July 4, 1827, the NY State Legislature emancipated the enslaved, including Isabella & her children. Yet the Dumont family who "owned" her, refused to comply. Before dawn the next morning, with her youngest baby cradled in her arms, she sought refuge 5 miles away with an abolitionist family. During her time there, she converted to Pentecostal and joined their local Methodist church.

She later then moved again, this time with one of her eldest sons, Peter, in NYC wherein by day she worked as a live-in domestic. Here she found & joined a religious cult called, The Kingdom. It's leader, Matthias, beat Isabella and forced her to take on the heaviest workload. Soon thereafter she became a Pentecostal preacher. Her faith and preaching along with her life story as an emancipated slave drew the attentions of abolitionists & women's rights crusaders. Her speeches were not political by nature. They were based on her unique interpretation - as a woman and a former slave -of the Christian Bible.

On June 1st 1863, Sojourner Truth was born. Isabella took on this new name for herself as she headed East to, “exhort the people to embrace Jesus, and refrain from sin". She lived in a utopian community called, The Northampton Association for Education & Industry, which was devoted to transcending class, race, & gender. She preached at camp meetings for a few years before the community was dissolved. Even though the community lasted less than five years, many highly influential & reform-minded individuals visited the Northampton community; including prolific abolitionist leaders such as Frederick Douglass & William Lloyd Garrison.

Through these connections, she began to speak at public events on behalf of slave abolition and women’s rights. Eventually, this compelled her infamous 1851,“Ar’nt I A Woman” speech at a Women’s Rights Convention in Akron, OH. This was a significant moment in the sociopolitical climate of the country at the time because, for the first time for most, "slave" became equated to women & "woman" became equated to Black. She became increasingly involved on the issue of Women's suffrage, but eventually separated her voice from leaders such as Susan B. Anthony & Elizabeth Cady Stanton one they asserted that they would not support the Black vote if Women were not also granted the same right.

In 1857, Mama Truth purchased a house with the help of friends in a small Spiritualist community called, Harmonia, near Battle Creek, MI. Here she lived thriving the years of supporting hwrself thrift paid speaking events, selling photographs of herself, publishing her book titled, "Narrative of Sojourner Truth" which was written by an amanuensis, as she was illiterate.

Once the Civil War began, Mama Truth pushed for the inclusion of Blacks in the Union Army, which was not intitially the case. She then poured her energy into gathering food & clothing supplies for the underserved volunteer regiments of Black Union soldiers. This is when the plight freed slaves captured her attention, as many of whom were living in refugee camps in Washington D.C.. Mama Truth embarked on a round-trip journey from her home near Battle Creek,MI to D.C. to meet with President Abraham Lincoln to discuss the conditions of the freedmen refugees in D.C. & across the North.

After the Civil War, she championed the idea of a colony for freed slaves out West where they could galvanize their desires to become self-reliant. Mama Truth garnered numerous signatures for her petition urging the U.S. Government to provide land for this endeavor. Although she presented this petition to then President Ulysses S. Grant, her mission never materialized. Nevertheless, in the Fall of 1879, a large migration of Southern freedmen ventured westward to start begin life anew. Mama Truth saw this as God's Divine Plan for our people. Despite her old age, Mama Truth traveled to Kansas to help them. Four years later, Mama Sojourner Truth passed away at her home near Battle Creek, MI. She was believed to be 86.

"How came Jesus into the world? Through God who created him and woman who bore him. Man, where is your part? But the women are coming up blessed by God and few of the men are coming up with them. But man is in a tight place, the poor slave is on him, woman is coming on him, and he is surely between a hawk an' a buzzard." - Sojourner Truth @ the 1851 Ohio Women's Convention.

We pour libations & give 💐 today as we celebrate Mama Truth her selfless service and pioneering vision for the freedom & self-determination of our people. May her life be a reminder of: the power of stillness & deep meditation, to lead with Spirit, & the grit of perseverance that's alive in our blood.

Offering suggestions: woodland soil, water, Pentecostal prayers/ scripture, read/share her speeches & written words.

‼️Note: offering suggestions are just that & strictly for veneration purposes only. Never attempt to conjure up any spirit or entity without proper divination/Mediumship counsel.‼️

[orthopunkfox]

I am no longer accepting the belief that Our Lord and Saint John the Beloved DID NOT have an extremely intimate relationship that went beyond teacher/disciple or even platonic friendship. There are three main reasons for this:

1. He's LITERALLY called Saint John the Beloved. In his gospel, he refers to himself as "the disciple Jesus loved" and makes it a point to tell us that he beat Saint Peter to Jesus's tomb after the resurrection. If that's not the behavior of a completely extra gay man idk what is. In all seriousness, Saint John was one of three people at the foot of the cross along with the Theotokos and Saint Mary Magdalene (don't get me started on HER relationship with Jesus). He was obviously considered extremely close to Our Lord. Not only this but Jesus left his mother the Theotokos in the care of Saint John from the cross. While as an Orthodox Christian I believe that Mary was a perpetual virgin and had no other biological children, scripture does reference other male relatives of Jesus. Whether they were his step brothers or cousins is unclear but the reality is that if John was just a friend, Mary's care would've passed to the closest male relative. Jesus wanted to make sure that John specifically took care of her, unless Jesus was married in which case his mother would've been cared for by the spouse of Jesus. It is well-known in the tradition of the Orthodox Church that the Theotokos, Mary Magdalene, and Saint John all lived together after Jesus's ascension. Indeed after the repose of the Theotokos, Saint John and Saint Mary Magdalene traveled to Ephesus where Mary Magdalene reposed peacefully. It is also worth noting that these three: Mary the Theotokos, Saint John, and Saint Mary Magdalene were the only of Christ's disciples who did not die as martyrs, John being the only one of the 12 not to meet a violent end. While there are theological reasons for this, it's clear that these people meant a great deal to Our Lord.

2. Reading Saint John's Gospel, it's incredibly clear that he understands Christ on an EXTREMELY intimate level. The other authors of the synoptic gospels record Jesus's life as man in the flesh on Earth. Each also puts his individual stamp on his account. Matthew the tax collector, the accountant, begins his gospel by listing the entirety of Jesus's lineage from Abraham forward. Luke the Physician records that in Gethsemane, Jesus's body was in such physical stress that he sweat blood. Mark, the law student gives a concise yet detailed accounting of Jesus's ministry beginning with the statement "The beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son of God." Saint John however begins with who Christ is, who He truly is "in the beginning was the LOGOS!" He seems to be the only apostle who truly, deeply, intimately understood that Jesus existed since the literal beginning of Time that He was the Word, the very Power that brought the world into being with the Father. While I don't doubt that the other apostles knew these things to be true, I think John actually understood it, which may have been why he was granted the vision of the Apocalypse, the fullness of the Divine Liturgy in Paradise for Eternity. Did he have this understanding because he had intimate knowledge of Jesus? Perhaps all that extra time spent close to Our Lord afforded him a deeper understanding than others. He definitely seems to understand Our Lord on a whole other level than the rest of the apostles. It's almost like when you meet your friend's partner and they reveal all of these things you didn't know about your friend before because they are afforded a level of intimacy you don't have.

3. THIS ART! LOOKS AT IT! The man is nuzzling into Jesus's lap in front of all the other disciples. Just..that's just gay. I really don't know what else to say about it. Clearly the medieval illuminators picked up on the affection vibes as well when they drew these.

I'd like to add a bit of a disclaimer here and say that Jesus having romantic or even sexual relationships during His ministry on Earth in no way invalidates who He was, why He came, what He accomplished or who He continues to be. Whether He partnered with Saint John or Saint Mary Magdalene or both, what we know and teach and hold about Him remains unchanged except that scripture is, once again, far more queer than mainline Christianity wants to admit.

[icycoldninja]

I’m such a Dante simp it hurts! So basically what about fem reader getting eloped/married to (younger dmc 1) Dante

Ahahahahaha sure, enjoy! 💜

Wedding day (DMC1!Dante x Fem!Reader)

You sucked in a deep breath, straightening your hair in the mirror and smoothing out some tiny wrinkles in your dress. You were nervous--rightfully so, as today was one of the biggest days of your life: Today, you were getting married to your boyfriend of several years, Dante. What was about to happen was something you'd dreamt of ever since you confessed your feelings to him, something you'd always imagined would happen. But now that the event was coming to pass, you were feeling more nervous than excited. So many possible outcomes, so many things could go wrong, so many what-if's, it made your brain hurt. You ran your hands over the long, sweeping skirt of your wedding gown and wondered if the wedding was going to go off the way you expected. Taking another deep breath, you steeled your quivering nerves and exited the dressing room, crossing the street and heading towards the church in which you and your fiance were to be wed. The church was made of white marble; you, Dante, and a couple friends decorated it with bouquets of white, red and pink flowers to spruce it up. You smiled, spotting the familiar faces of your friends and family grinning or at you as you made your way down the aisle, bridal bouquet in hand. Up ahead, standing at the altar, was the love of your life, actually wearing normal clothes for once. While you liked his usual badass outfits, there was something attractive about how he looked all dressed up like that. You couldn't keep the wide smile off your face as you took your place at his side before the altar, prompting the officiant to start speaking--something Dante completely ignored. "You look great." He whispered, smirking at you. You felt your cheeks flush and nodded, daring to reply in a hushed tone, "Thanks. You too." Dante winked at you before returning his attention to the officiant, who then asked the age-old traditional questions that were:

"Do you, Dante Sparda, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

"I do."

"Do you, Y/N L/N, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

"I do."

The officiant cleared his throat, turned a page in his book, and continued: "It is now time for you to exchange rings. Your rings symbolize the eternal commitment that you make to each other, and the never ending circle of your love. May these rings always remind you of the commitment you are making here today." He nodded at Dante, who immediately realized that was his cue to take out the rings. After fumbling in his pocket for a second, he produced two golden rings and gave one to you before slipping the other on your finger. Breathless with excitement, you took his hand in yours and slid the gold ring over his ring finger. Dante grinned up at you and returned his attention to the officiant, who went on to say, "By the power vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride."

This was it. The moment you'd been waiting for; the moment you'd been dreaming of. You could barely contain yourself; your heart thumped away in your chest as Dante gently cupped your cheeks and drew you close to him, before pressing his lips against yours. You melted into the kiss; if you has not been holding a massive bunch of flowers, you would have thrown your arms around his neck in an attempt to be closer to him. The kiss lasted for a moment or so before you pulled away, beaming at each other. Everyone in the church stood and gathered around the altar, clapping and cheering. You tossed your bridal bouquet into the crowd before Dante swept you off your feet, expertly maneuvering his way through the crowd and to the door. The guests continued to cheer for you, laughing and congratulating your marriage all the way till you and Dante were out of sight.

You couldn't stop laughing all the way till the two of you reached your house--you were just so happy. You could feel it in your bones, this marriage was gonna be a happy one. A happy marriage that would last.

[tarnishedinquirer]

Misc: Northeast Limgrave

Back in Limgrave now. I wasn't quite sure where to go so I just spent some time wandering around and seeing what I could see. Like nearly a dozen wolves attacking a Runebear and losing. Or a field of flowers that drew lightning to them. Or a glowing statue that cracked apart and revealed smithing stones when a giant attacked it. Interesting, noteworthy, but probably not worth investigating too much further.

I found a grey Teardrop Scarab just north of the Third Church. I'd actually passed it several times, but it disappeared before I noticed it. This time I was careful and took it out, rewarding me with Sacred Blade.

I'm starting to develop a theory that the grey scarabs tend to get their Ashes of War from someone nearby, or at least someone who had spent some time in the area. I found Determination near soldiers guarding a bridge. I found Unsheathe near Yura, a traveler from the Land of Reeds. And if my hunch is correct, there must be a holy warrior somewhere nearby.

I'm pretty sure I did not find said holy warrior, but I did find an interesting character nonetheless. I heard someone crying from help and found one of those jars like surrounded the minor Erdtree. I assumed someone was trapped inside, but no, it was very much the jar itself calling for me.

He introduced himself as Iron Fist Alexander and asked for my help in freeing himself. The way he phrased it was a little...concerning. Not the first time someone has asked me unprompted to smack him on the bottom, but generally they don't go through the trouble of getting themselves stuck first. Once freed, the way he talked about things setting my "breast aflutter" made me very acutely aware of the fact that my shirt is very open and I do not have a band around my chest.

He said he was going east to Caelid and Redmane Castle, where there's some sort of warrior festival going on. I wished him luck and got away as fast as I can before he decided to get grabby, which would make me get stabby.

Were all the broken jars sapient?

What's inside a warrior jar?

Where is that holy warrior, anyway?

Was I really just sexually harassed by a fucking jar??

[vukovich]

V: video 👀

--I missed this from a prompt game, and now I can't find the prompt list, so it is hereby bequeathed the status of a Peculiar Prompt--

It Happened in a Blockbuster (as was the style at the time)

Y2K was probably all made up, Draco figured as he passed the news stand. The cover stories were nonsense about computers, and those, as far as he could tell, were actually magical.

But it was nothing to worry about. Or that's what Pansy had said when he mentioned it a few months ago. In October? No, September. Had it been that long?

The bell above the video store door jingled as he entered. He'd half-expected it to be closed at 8 PM on New Year's Eve.

After he slid his DVD returns through the slot, he took a deep breath. It always smelled the same. Something like socks, rubber, and artificial butter. The decor was bold blue and yellow, or had been before a decade's sun and slush, and maybe under the shelves, the carpet was still bright.

The clerk gave him a passing wave and went back to his magazine. His name was Terry, but Draco had never addressed him as such, because learning someone's name via their nametag felt illicit. He wouldn't call him by his name unless they'd properly introduced themselves, which they hadn't. And probably wouldn't.

Draco went days at a time without speaking to anyone. Not because he wanted to, it was just that there was rarely someone to talk to.

New releases first, right by the door, but Draco had already watched them. To the right, the children's movies with their covers like sweets boxes. To the left, in tidy alphabetical order, were films that had been in the store for between one and three months, precisely, and then they'd be shelved forevermore by genre and title.

Documentaries were what he rented most, but they weren't his favorite. They were good for when he wanted to feel as though he were sitting in companionable silence with someone. Action films were best for when his thoughts were too loud and needed to be drowned out by car chases and explosions. Romance movies were his favorite, but he was rarely in a state to watch them.

He'd never climb Mt Everest like in a documentary, or take down a rival car thief gang, but love? Unfortunately, love was something he could have, and the fact that he didn't was too much to sit with.

The wedding invitations started coming in like junk mail last year. Draco had tossed them all in his building's dumpster. Not many people had noticed his missing RSVPs.

He didn't need to witness romance in a church or on a television screen. Not if he could help it.

And especially on New Year's Eve. Alone.

He hadn't planned on becoming a film junkie. And maybe he wasn't really. He rarely remembered an actor or producer's name. He couldn't say what was a "bad" film versus a "good" one. Everything he knew about films was subjective. He liked blonde leads, either all romance or no romance, because a romance taking second booking to an action plot was an insult to both.

But having watched most of the local Blockbuster's stock hadn't been in his post-war plans. Well, assuming he'd had post-war plans. Which he didn't. Everyone else did, and they'd gone out and done them.

He thumbed through copies of Muppets from Space to see if one might be an extended edition. It wasn't.

A shorter man took down a copy of Never Been Kissed and turned it over in his hands. Drew Barrymore was one of Draco's least favorite lead actresses, so the fact that she mainly did romantic comedies was just fine by him. If he ever had to sit though her narrating a documentary, he'd-

"Malfoy?" Harry Potter was standing there, holding Drew Barrymore in his hands. "Hey, cool. I didn't know you lived around here."

He reached out to vaguely shake Draco's hand, skirted it into an almost-high five, then smoothed his hair back.

It was surreal seeing him somewhere like this. Arguably a bigger celebrity than anyone on that movie box, but Muggles didn't know. It was no big deal when he ran into Neville in the grocery store, or Granger at the bank. They weren't Harry Potter.

"Yeah," was all Draco said. "On Wilson Ave."

"Okay, well," Harry said, "Um, see you around?"

He waved the movie box as he turned to leave, but only made it a few paces before he stopped.

Draco quirked an eyebrow in question.

Harry bit the inside of his lip, then eventually said, "People talk about you." Before Draco could react, Harry shook his head, then added, "Not like, in a bad way. Like, we check in on you."

Draco's brow furrowed. "What?"

"It just comes up sometimes, you know? Has anyone seen Malfoy lately? How's he doing? What's he up to? You know, just stuff like that."

"Oh," Draco said.

"I just..." Harry smoothed his hair back with the movie box. "I just thought you might like knowing, you know?"

"Oh."

Draco looked down at the geometric patterns in the faded carpet. Did it matter that his classmates kept tabs on him? Like a surveillance web. Some kind of watchful net.

It made a certain warmth spread through his chest, because it did matter.

"Thanks," he said, swallowing thickly. He nodded towards Harry's hand. "That's probably an awful film. You'll have to believe in the kissability of Drew Barrymore."

Harry pulled a face and put it back on the shelf. "Dodged a bullet. Want to help me pick something else out? I'm not in a hurry."

Draco's lips cracked a smile. "Sure."

--

Three days later, he returned Austin Powers: the Spy Who Shagged Me, and took copies of Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery, GoldenEye, License to Kill,and Romeo + Juliet up to the desk.

"Hi, Terry," he said.

Terry rolled his eyes and scanned Draco's Blockbuster card. "You've got a late fee of... " he squinted at the computer monitor. "Two hundred thousand, five hundred, and thirty-seven pounds?"

Draco gasped. That Y2K nonsense really had turned all the computers evil.

--

[legzakimmbo]

October & The Visit - Gainesgoe Fic part 2 and 3

A tree with no leaves in the autumn.

When you’re walking by and you see a tree out of the corner of your eye, you don’t tend to acknowledge it. Walk into a tree, you acknowledge its presence but you swiftly resort to cursing it out. Some people who like trees may stop to admire it for a moment, especially if it's their favorite genus.

Ross encountered a tree that caught his attention on multiple occasions. It was quite a calloused tree. Brusque, even. Despite its sharp, vindictive surface, he still wanted to run his hands down its vitriolic trunk, feeling every curve and crevice that it had. He wanted to know the tree inside and out. He wanted to be selfish. He wanted to have the tree in his empty, fruitless garden so, in the fullness of time, he would be satisfied.

Initially, he never would have gone for such an abrasive tree.

In fact, he probably would have never been interested in any tree until he crossed paths with this one. Especially not one with rough edges or tattoos, or even…

“Are we still talking about trees, pet?”

He looked up at the reverend, shaking his head and tracing his thumb across his other hand. “No. I don’t think we are.”

“Thank the Lord. As if my day hasn’t been enough of a clusterfuck, I just thought you were just some nutter who wants to have sex with a stump.”

“Don’t think that’d be very pleasant,” Ross muttered in more of a ribbing tone. Bernice would let out a chuckle in response, standing up from the pew and lifting the small glass of sherry off of the poorly balanced Bible.

“Well, I can’t blame you, dearie. Majority of the lookers in Royston Vasey are cunts, but you best hurry up and get with one of them. You can at least try to change them, but you’ll never be able to change an inbred monkey who wipes their shit on the walls.”

Ross would actually consider this vulgar advice with a hum. He stood up and flung his khaki jacket over his arm, finalizing his decision. “Yeah. Cheers, Reverend.”

And with that, he bid his farewell and pushed himself through the rustic church doors.

Her advice wasn’t the most professional, he was aware of that. But for some strange reason, it somewhat made sense. As he walked, he took the time to slip his jacket back on, initially intending on just walking back home. But almost as if he was enticed by it, he took a different route. One slightly more rural and less riddled with maniacs. Autumn did a fine job at filling the silence with the sound of wind in his ears and dead leaves succumbing to his merciless step. Ross took his time, grazing over each and every tree that lined the old boulevard with a newfound interest.

With each tree he passed by, his walking speed decreased, until he drew to a halt, biting the inside of his lip for only a brief amount of time before he took action. He drew his phone out of his pocket and continued his journey home, holding the phone up to his ear once he had dialed a specific number.

A few seconds passed.

“...Hello? Yes, hi, I was wondering if I could take out a loan..Yes. 100 pounds. Actually, best make it 200.”

—----------------

Ross anticipated this day.

Matter of fact, he positioned himself on the sofa closest to the door, eyes aimlessly running over the outrageous articles splayed across the damp paper. Each headline meant nothing to him, for all he thought about in his head was how he was going to carry out the remainder of his petty little plan. Two hundred pounds would surely be enough to summon him after a couple of days. While it was a more merciful amount compared to the 2,000 the bar owner foolishly took out, he actually considered going all the way and taking a loan of ten grand. Of course, he didn’t fall through with this ; he only wanted to be paid a visit. Not to be murdered on his doorstep.

Settling with 200 might have been a good idea. He wasn’t quite certain.

About an hour or two passed, and the clock was just ticking over 4:32pm. By this point, Ross decided to save himself from the crippling boredom and actually get some leftover work done.

But as his pen hovered over the previously empty slate of paper, there came the graceless knock on the door, and almost immediately, Ross pushed himself off the sofa, flattening any creases on his dressing gown and pressing the mic down. “Doorbell works, you know.”

“Ohh! I didn’t notice that there! Fancy that!”

If there was one thing the brunette realised, it was that voice did not belong to Mr Lisgoe.

It was shrill. Perhaps a little bit annoying to listen to. It had a particular tone that you would expect from a dunce in a film. Ross, fairly disappointed, took a moment to actually look into the camera, being met with a large, simple looking man. Behind him stood someone who was more lanky in frame, and possibly just at least a bit more intimidating than the fat one. But that was hardly an achievement.

No. Neither of them could have been Lisgoe. Or so he hoped. Maybe his drunk thoughts deceived him.

Regardless, he buzzed them in, but only peeked his body out of the door a little. Once he arrived outside, the man, already breathless, began to rummage through his pocket before drawing out a crumpled piece of paper.

“All right! Says here you owe about 200 quid, so if you could-”

“Sorry, who said that?”

The two looked at each other in confusion. Ross’ tone of voice remained monotonous, whilst finally, the lanky one spoke up himself.

“Look mate, we’re not playing about. It’s been days, and really, someone with such a lovely apartment should be paying up quickly.”

Ross shook his head, closing the door a little bit more to stop either of them from trying to get any more prying glances into his private domicile. “If this was so important, I don’t see why they would send tweedle dee and tweedle dum to my door. How do I know that you’re both real loan sharks, and not trying to con me?”

“Ah-ah! Debt collectors. We don’t like the name loan shark, do we, Glenn?”

“Frankly, I don’t care what you prefer. I think you’re wasting my time.”

“We’re not-”

“I’m closing the door now.”

“Wait!”

The larger one used his weight to keep it open, which almost baffled Ross a bit. He was very close to just paying them so they could leave him alone.

“Barry, leave it mate, he might not-”

“What will it take!?”

Barry and Glenn were now both just staring at the brunette with earnest appeal. Uncomfortably, he adjusted his glasses and folded his arms, now leaning against the frame of his door. “I want you both to bugger off and send your boss.”

They exchanged a nervous glance. “No, I don’t think you’d want-”

“Cheers, bye!”

Following his farewell, Ross managed to force the door shut, locking it and smiling audaciously before returning to the sofa.

As predicted, it didn’t take long before the brunette was greeted with a much harsher knock, but it failed to waver his decision as he made his way back to the door. He was certain who it was, and so just buzzed him in without any need for introductions.

The familiar, unimpressed face of Mr Lisgoe was in fact at the door ; it was safe to say he wasn’t in his best mood. He had one arm leaning against the door, and the other positioned on his hip. The hand in his pocket tucked his jacket out of the way, so Ross could see (and possibly appreciate) his figure more clearly.

“I’m starting to think you’re just taking the piss out of me now,” Lisgoe spat.

“Sorry you feel that way.”

“A few drinks and a walk outside doesn’t mean you can take out 200 quid from my pocket and tell my men to bugger off. Do I look like your fucking sugar daddy?”

His husky, gravelling tone of voice accentuated by his thick Northern accent echoed throughout the brunette’s apartment, but like always, he did not waver one bit.

“You know, I never took you for an idiot, Lisgoe. Not until now.”

“You fucking what?”

“I haven’t spent a dime. I don’t need it.”

Lisgoe scrunched his brow in confusion, rendered speechless by the logic he was hearing. Meanwhile Ross would walk back into his apartment, leaving the door open enough to be considered an invitation inside. However, the debt collector didn’t falter from his position. Rather, he stood waiting, allowing his eyes to glaze over the portion of the flat he could see from his perspective. It was very suave. The cool undertones of the walls perfectly reflected the part of Ross’ personality he actually admired the most.

He really needed to stop thinking of him in that way.

The brunette shortly returned with a stack of money, leaning against the frame once again with that same irritating, monotone look. “Don’t get me wrong, I could do with two hundred quid. Everyone could. But actually, I just wanted to talk. To you. Sober.”

These words had Lisgoe thinking, as if you could actually see the cogs turning in his mind. Once it had processed, an unsure, coarse chuckle was what broke the silence.

“Are you having a laugh?”

Course he wasn’t. It didn’t take a lot of mind to see that Ross was dead serious, and so was the expression on his face. As this realisation came to be, Joseph’s laugh swiftly reduced down to a humoured smirk. “Wow. Shit, you really aren’t pulling my leg. Well,”

He followed these words by forcefully pulling the money back into his own hands, holding it up for Ross to see again. “This is not your plaything, Gaines. You don’t get to take it whenever you please.”

“Maybe if it was easier to talk to you, I wouldn’t have had to do that.”

“Why do you want to know me so fucking bad?”

“Same reason you want to know me.”

There was an uncomfortable pause.

Lisgoe shook his head slowly, letting out a deep huff before fumbling in his pocket. Out he drew a pen. Ross noted this, and went to step indoors. “I can grab you some pape-”

“No need.”

He used his free hand to grab Ross’ jaw quite abruptly. Ross quickly tensed up, and his hand raised, but only to hold onto Lisgoe’s wrist, putting up almost no fight in response. However, instead of going for the option Ross desired deep down, he began to scribble down something quickly across the skin of his neck. The pressure of the tip lightly dug into his jugular, but not enough to cause much harm. Soon after, Lisgoe let go, stuffing the pen back into his pocket. “You want to know me so bad? Start with that.”

If Ross denied not receiving a small sensation from that moment, he would have been lying.

Yet again, there was no goodbye.

Once Ross shut the door, he made his way over to the mirror so he could actually get a sense of what was written : the initials ‘JNL’ and a phone number.

What a character.

-------——––----—-—

Still can't comment or reply but thank you so much for the support on my last gainesgoe fic mwah LUV YALL hope u like this one