#I picture Mind as this pathetic priest

[anicehomicidaltree]

Lately I’ve been drawing mind as a priest and Heart and Soul as the angel and demon following him

I kinda wanna make an au out of this but I know next to nothing about catholicism or priesthood

[sugarsnappeases]

book i’m reading just mentioned ‘losing at chess as a seductive gambit’ so now i’m thinking about bartylus

[pouralaura]

penance or whatever

a raphtav short

tags: priest/nun roleplay, cum, my usual psychosexual bs

"Bend over and lift your garment."

Raphael is sitting before her in a floor-length priest's robe and high collar. He'd outfitted them both with a snap of his fingers. Eris, clad now in an approximation of a temple sister's habit, barely manages to stifle an eye roll -- but it's paired with that little swoop in her stomach that's never quite gone away in the months since beginning their elaborate little dance.

(Butterflies, but worse, she thinks. Twisted and good and frightening like the beginnings of an addiction she just can't shake.)

Her devil loves a bit of roleplay, particularly when he gets to play the part of the master. She won't complain too much -- it's not as if she can resist him for even a moment -- and so she complies. Bends at the waist, pulling up the hem of her robe to just above her hips, and rests her forearms on the desk in front of him.

Raphael stands, tall and looming.

"No underthings, I see. One ought to be mindful, girl, of how she appears where only her Lord can see."

Oh, and mindful she is. Mindful of her Lord Devil, craving His devouring gaze. Can almost feel his fiery orange irises in the momentary guise of warm brown boring through her. Can almost feel her skin sizzle underneath that gaze as he circles, light footfalls to match his lithe human form all-too-familiar, coming to a stop behind her where she can't see him.

He tsks after a moment of silence. Eris squeezes her eyes shut in anticipation.

"Sister. Tell me how you've come to be in this state."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Father Abbot."

"The insides of your thighs are tacky and sticky; flaky with drying spend. How terribly wanton of you, sister. A grievous affront to your Lord." He drags a finger along the offending area. Eris can feel a remnant of dried, crusty release peel from her skin, tugging at the soft fuzzy hairs beneath the curve of her ass. She remains silent.

"Tell me, sister: who fucked your sinful little cunt? Whose seed drips from you in tandem with your own thirst, painting your thighs with evidence of your impurity?"

(It's his, of course. He's well aware. Doesn't even let Haarlep come in her; how territorial, how demanding he is.)

"It's yours, Father," she breathes. "Yours."

She can feel him smile; can picture it in her mind. The corners of his pretty mouth curling up slowly, smile lines becoming more prominent as if he's simply a kind, good-humored older gentleman.

(He is not. He is more.)

"What is mine, sweet girl? Tell me again."

"Your seed."

"And what else?"

Eris knows what he wants to hear. Wants her to say it, to tell him he's the only one for her -- though he already knows. "My cunt."

Yes, he already knows; for who else can do what he does, be what he is? Insufferable, vain, possessive, everything and nothing and whatever is in between. Her nemesis and her obsession, her adversary and her would-be savior --

"Very good, sweetling. I fucked your weeping, repentant little hole." He hums in delight, a low rumble. Music to her ears. "Your Lord is the only one who gets to fill you up, as often as I deem it necessary."

He is her Lord, for sake of indulgence. For sake of himself.

The Father Abbot, the Devil drags his fingers against her again, flicking roughly against her clit. Makes her spasm; she bucks gently into his hand.

"You need it, after all," he asserts, low and growling. "For what other road have you to deliverance?"

(It's pathetic, the way he is the one who needs this.

It's pathetic, the way she is the one who wants him.)

"You'll come to me again," Raphael says, withdrawing and gliding over to the cushioned, high-backed armchair behind his desk. "Now, please, sister."

As bidden, Eris straightens up, her habit falling back down around her ankles, and attends him without a word. Stands in front of her lover, cheeks pink and lips parted in unconscious want as she watches him sink into the plush velvet seat. Thinks idly that he grows more and more handsome the longer she looks, as she studies his features, his lines, each and every detail of him.

"Take it out."

She doesn't need to ask what he means -- he's already tenting his robes. Probably been hard since putting her in costume, not fifteen minutes after claiming her last, painting her pink folds and inner thighs in now-dry and cracking creamy white. Surely, she thinks, he'd have gone again immediately if he could. If the sound he makes when he looks at her ruined and covered with him is any indication, he'd press back in right after pulling out, just as shamelessly eager to see his milky cum gush from her around him as to put it there in the first place.

A searching hand through the folds of his robes produces her target, ruddy and engorged and mouthwatering, still flecked with their prior combined release just as she is. Eris can't help but feel lightheaded. Both of them drunk once again by and on his petty vanity.

"Astride your Father's lap. Seek your salvation, sweet Eris."

It's a stretch when she sinks down onto him, sore as she is from their rough coupling not half an hour ago. Predictable. Wanted. Satisfying. She loves the way he feels in her. She tells him so, over and over.

"Give Father a kiss." Raphael taps his cheek with a long finger. "Be a good girl. Perhaps, if we reach far enough with my cock, together we'll find that piety within you."

Eris shivers, leaning forward in deference to grace him with the requested brush of lips against his tanned jaw. Opens her mouth; moistens his skin with her breath -- don't be greedy, she chastises herself before pressing her tongue to him anyway, already-raw cunt clenching hard around his thick length at the salty taste of him -- and he chuckles.

"Oh, dear sister," Raphael rumbles, dark and not-quite-admonishing. "So hungry for your penance. It is good of you to be so rapturously devoted."

His hands come up to grasp at her thighs, squeezing hard as he fucks up into her, and Eris feels his fingertips lengthen, his sharp pointed claws dig in. A warning. Her stomach drops in sick, adoring thrill. "But I will decide what is reward and what is punishment."

What is she supposedly to have done to deserve such discipline? It doesn't matter. That's not the important part. Again, she knows what he wants: to see her lust for him slowly overwhelm the natural inclination to roll her eyes in utter exasperation. To come to him for salvation -- pleasure -- of all kinds. There is no power struggle anymore between them; now she sighs because she wants him too desperately, and he, ever vain and watchful and just as desperate a fool as she, craves her want like nothing else. Indulge me, he's said a thousand times if he's said it even once, and oh, how Eris obeys!

To play along so indulgently is her ultimate form of worship. She could pay him no higher compliment; could be no more patronizing. He revels in it. She swears she sees a flash of orange in his eyes as his control begins to unravel. Certainly can see his forked tongue manifesting when he parts his lips, tilting his head back in satisfaction, something close to a whine bubbling up from his throat as she drags her fingertips up his neck above his high collar.

"Beautiful," Raphael groans as he finishes inside of her again, too-soon, and it makes her fucking crazy. "Beautiful." And he's referring to himself.

(Or is he?)

[shootybangbang]

The Upsides of Property Damage [Part 4/5]

Authored by @verai-marcel and @shootybangbang

[Ao3 link]

[Pairing]: Arthur Morgan/Reader

[Rating]: Mature

[Content Advisory]: light D/S undertones

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4]

[Author's Note]: Thank you guys so, so much for your patience, and so sorry for the delay! Most of chapter 5 has been completed and should be out soon. If you want to be notified when that comes out, go ahead and leave a comment down below and I'll make a taglist or something.

--------

The maintenance request form states: [Please give a brief description of the problem.]

for the past few days i've been so fixated on fucking the maintenance man that i've been having difficulty accomplishing basic tasks because every time i try to concentrate on anything even remotely meaningful all i can think about is him saying "maybe you just enjoy my company" and if this keeps up i'm fairly certain that i'm going to actually get fired from my job so clearly i need to either get laid or get evicted

This statement makes you look certifiably insane. It’s not even a request– it’s a confession . Sending this would be tantamount to seating yourself beside the grated window of a church booth and asking its captive priest whether he’d prefer you spit or swallow.

More importantly, it also exceeds the text box’s 250 character limit. You rapidly tap the delete key until the entire obscene paragraph disappears. Then you try again. 

broken cabinet.

Hmm. Lacks an element of genuine contrition.

broken cabinet. sorry. :’(

[Your service request has been logged. Please allow up to one standard business day for a response.]

You glance at the time displayed on the microwave’s grease-spattered screen. 4:36PM. Morgan’s probably already packed up for the day– and taking normal operating hours into account, the earliest he could possibly show up tomorrow would be 9AM… which gives you at least sixteen hours to emotionally prepare yourself to confront him.

Morosely, you drag yourself out of your kitchen chair to pour yourself a glass of sparkling water. So this is what I’ve sunk to . Using service requests as a means of personal summons for the hot repairman. Pathetic. Shameful. And 100% necessary for the preservation of your sanity.

How many times have you pictured it now? Morgan, cornering you against the wall and wrapping his hand around your jaw… Or maybe , he’d rumble, caressing your lower lip with his thumb. You just enjoy my company . Then he’d fuck you silly, of course, in a series of lurid positions that grow increasingly obscene with each imagining.

And how many times have you pictured its inverse? Morgan, backing away in response to your hypothetical advance, his face contorted with faint disgust as he asks, “You know I was just joking, right?” Following which you’d get written up for sexual harassment by the leasing office and put on… housing probation, or something.

Being humiliated, you can handle. Albeit not very well— but you’re usually able to stay at least semi-functional. The same goes for flirtation. It’s this hopeless vacillation between the two possibilities that drives you out of your mind. Schrodinger’s boner: simultaneously fucked and unfucked. And like that quantum superposition, you’ve been plunged into a private hell of uncertainty until your reality can settle definitively on one or the other.

This has been predictably bad for your job performance. Earlier today, you’d accidentally deleted two entire spreadsheets of data whilst lost in competing visions of fornication and abject rejection, and then constructed a pivot table so incomprehensible that one of your colleagues had personally reached out to ask whether you’d recently experienced head trauma. 

God. At this point, you really have no choice but to put the question to him directly. Plain and simple. Just a quick “are you hitting on me” and it’ll all be–

Your thoughts are interrupted by an urgent knock at the door. 

Huh. Looks like Defying Your Blue Collar Dom is getting delivered a day early? It’s unusual for Amazon to leave packages at your doorstep instead of in the lobby, but it does happen, so…

…Oh.

It’s Morgan. What the fuck.

“But you were supposed to come tomorrow ,” you blurt, eyes wide with panic.

“That so?” Morgan asks, one eyebrow raised. He glances sidelong to the empty hallway, and shifts his weight uneasily from one leg to the other. With a shrug, he squares up his shoulders and turns back towards the stairwell. “Later, then.”

Shit. This is all going wrong. “No, that’s not what I meant. It’s just that I– I, uh…I’m… ”

He allows your stammer to run its course into awkward silence. Then the corner of his mouth angles upwards in a sly smile and he asks, “Or d’you need a minute to put away anything else your ‘friend’ mighta left out? I can wait.”

Somewhere in the realm of missed quips, there probably exists a clever response to this. Somewhere that is decidedly not here. “No,” you reply in a small, pained voice. “She, uh– she hasn’t been around, so… y’know…”

The sentence unspools like loose yarn. Jesus Christ, this is stupid.

“You alright?” Morgan asks, frowning down at you from where he stands. “You ain’t normally this incoherent.”

His comment implies that you’ve been operating thus far on an existing, baseline level of incoherence. Biting back the urge to query exactly what that looks like, you reply with a clipped, terse, “I’m fine.”

As you lead him towards your kitchen, you nearly trip over the half-packed suitcase parked beside the door. At this, Morgan again voices his concern. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you this on edge before. Something botherin’ you?”

Yes , you think to yourself. My libido.

“Or is it some one that’s botherin’ you?”

He says the words with such a darkly implicative undertone that you actually turn around to stare at him, disarmed by the sudden shift. The warmth in his eyes has gone out like a blown candle. “Is it one of the other maintenance men?” he asks, and the whisper of lethality in his countenance surfaces so quickly that it speaks to a kind of practiced efficiency. 

A mingled thrill of fear and intrigue runs up your spine, and you swallow hard.

“If one of ‘em’s harassin’ you— if anyone’s harassin’ you…” he says these words with slow deliberation, while curling his free hand into a fist, thumb tucked over his folded fingers in that characteristic manner of boxers and street brawlers alike, and god if he were anyone else you’d likely be shrinking against the wall in terror right now. “Then you come tell me. And I’ll handle it.”

You have a sneaking suspicion that his method of conflict resolution involves grievous bodily injury. “Nobody’s bothering me,” you reply. Then, because he still looks vaguely homicidal, you follow up quickly with, “Just had an off day.”

This placates him somewhat. The tension diminishes like a rope going slack, and you realize with a hot pang of humiliation that your underwear is slick with arousal.

It’s not until he’s crouched in front of your broken cabinet, which stands ajar with its wooden door peaked at a 45 degree angle, that you finally work up the nerve to confront him. “So. Morgan.” You lean against the edge of your kitchen countertop like the faux marble might offer you emotional support. “There’s, uh. Something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

He’s sorting through his tool kit and doesn’t lift his head. Picks through an array of silver chiseled pieces so deftly that you can’t help but wonder what else those hands might be clever at. “Yeah?’ he asks, selecting a screwdriver head. He slips it into the drill chuck, twisting it tight.

“Are you, um…”

Fuck. You can’t say it. Your mouth literally refuses to shape itself to the words. Instead, you hear yourself ask, “Are you thirsty? You want some seltzer?”

Morgan blinks, then turns to you looking predictably baffled. “That’s… what you’ve been wantin’ to ask me? Whether or not I’m thirsty?”

“Yes,” you reply weakly.

For once, it’s him who’s been caught off guard. “I– uh. Sure, I guess.”

He takes his drill and begins to remove the damaged hinge. Taking the door leaf and flipping it this way and that, he examines the damage.

The crack of aluminum when you pull back the can’s metal tab and the responding fizz of compressed air sounds a little like a rebuke. Scathingly, it hisses: what the hell are you doing?

I have no idea , you admit, pouring the can of sparkling water into a clean glass. You pass it over to Morgan after he presses the trigger on the drill twice and sets it on the countertop. He gulps down an absent mouthful, then immediately stands up to spit it in your sink.

Oh. He hates it.

Your voice is thin as a reed. “I guess you’re not a fan of sparkling grapefruit, huh?”

“It’s…” With the duty-bound reluctance of a dog given a loathed order, he takes another, tentative sip, and forces himself to swallow. “It’s fine.”

It is clearly not fine. “Do you, uh. Do you want a beer?”

“What, you encouragin’ me to drink on the job?”

You open the fridge. Good god, you might as well partake too. It’s not like you’re in any state to get any work done, stuck as you are in this miserable limbo . “In any case, I’m gonna have one. And I’m still on the clock.”

“Alright.” He sounds like he’s smiling. “So long as you’re complicit, why not?”

You end up downing half a bottle of 8% oatmeal stout in about three sips, then stand around blankly waiting for the roil of anxiety to abate. You’d attempt the precarious endeavor of small talk were it not for the fact that the only thing you can think of right now is “grapefruit”. Not the concept of grapefruit. Just the word “grapefruit”. This must be how computers feel when they spit out the same, continuous error message.

Mercifully, he intervenes. “You goin’ on vacation somewhere? Saw that suitcase by your door.”

“Catsitting,” you say.

“’…s’cuse me?”

“Catsitting. Like… babysitting. But for a cat,” you explain. “My friend’s going to Vegas the day after tomorrow, and her cat has anxiety.”

“Cats can get anxiety?”

“This cat takes cat Xanax . His name is Sebastian, and he’s the most neurotic animal I’ve ever met.” 

Morgan asks, “Yourself included?”

You make a noise that bears no resemblance to any word in the English language.

He chuckles. “Well, go on, tell me how neurotic he is.”

Thank fucking christ, the alcohol is finally beginning to course its way through your blood. Your tongue loosens enough to tell him how poor Sebastian had spent nearly an entire day curled up under your friend’s bed the first time you’d tried to take care of him, how you’d ended up driving to the grocery on a Sunday morning to scour the shelves for the most pungent can of sardines they had in stock, and how only then , with the room saturated in fish fumes, had the cat finally dragged itself out of the boxspring to nose curiously at your offering.

Morgan laughs. A good sign, you think. “That’s nothin’,” he says, and describes to you his boss’ cat: a purebred white Persian appropriately dubbed “The Count”, so thoroughly spoiled that she won’t eat the same meal twice in a row.

You snort at the image of a prissy little fluff ball turning her nose at a gourmet cat meal.

“Though it’s funny, I never took you for a cat person,” he says.

“No?”

“Figured you’d prefer snails.”

“Look, snails… snails are…” This is a sentence you started with absolutely no knowledge of how it should end. “I like snails,” you say lamely.

“Oh yeah? Think I remember somethin’ else that you like.” He puts his hand around his jaw and pretends to look thoughtful. “What was that book called again? Somethin’ about… bein’ punished by blue collar doms?”

“I’m sure that my friend who left her book on blue collar doms here very much enjoys them, if that’s what you’re referencing.”

He merely chuckles indulgently as he continues to fix the cabinet. You watch his muscles flex under his shirt as he drills new holes into the wood and sets the new hinge in place. As he works the power tool with a soft grunt, you find yourself idly wondering if he’d make the same sound as he drills you —

“Y’know,” he comments, stepping back as he tests the alignment of the door. “I’m actually kind of impressed. This is the most work I’ve ever had to do for a single apartment, barring natural disasters.”

“Wow. Comparing a girl to a natural disaster. Are you this charming with all the tenants, Mr Morgan?”

“You gonna be jealous if I say ‘yes’?”

The alcohol makes you honest. “Extremely.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that.” He grabs the edge of the kitchen counter and hauls himself back to his feet. “If this is the amount of property damage you cause normally, then I’d hate to see you angry.”

He takes another step forward. You take a step back reflexively, but find yourself pressed against the wall. He leans his forearm against the drywall and he’s close enough now that you can smell sweat and machine oil. Your heart beats hard in your chest. 

For once you’re lost for words. No quip comes to mind, for your brain is emitting sparks. “I, uh– I’m not–”

“You’re not what, exactly?” 

“I don’t know,” you say weakly.

He raises his hand to your jaw, tips your chin up with two fingers. “The answer’s ‘no’, by the way,” he says quietly. “It’s just you.”

Morgan looks like he’s going to kiss you. The expression on his face is softer than you’ve ever seen it, all his gruffness melted away. You tentatively tug at the fabric of his jumpsuit and stand on your toes to–

But he puts his hand on your shoulder and pushes you back down. “Goddamn,” he says, frowning. “You’re really red.”

Huh. What.

“Listen, I ain’t one for takin’ advantage of drunks, even if they got themselves into this mess.” He picks you up as if you weigh nothing at all and sets you down on the couch. “Now, I’m goin’ to get you some water, and yer goin’ to sit here and sober up while I finish this cabinet. Alright?”

“I’m not even that drunk,” you protest loudly.

“Yer about the color of a fire hydrant right now.”

When you press the back of your hand to your cheeks and forehead, your skin feels feverish. Begrudgingly, you sink down into your couch cushions and cross your arms.

“Good girl,” he rumbles, patting your head affectionately.

***

You slouch on your friend’s comfy couch with Sebastian sitting regally in your lap as if you were his loyal subject.

“Hey Sebastian, I think I did something really stupid.”

Sebastian stretches and yawns. 

“I hit on the maintenance man.”

He meows. It sounds almost disapproving. Even the cat is judging you. 

“It gets worse.” You loll your chin downwards until it touches your chest. “I was sloppy drunk.”

Sebastian tilts his head at you and blinks.

“Okay, one bottle drunk.”

He sniffs haughtily.

“Right? Pathetic, I know.” You move to pick up Sebastian, but he begins to arch his back and you stop, leaning back against the cushions again. He relaxes and maintains his regal position.

“Well, maybe YouTube will keep my mind off him for the next two days…”

***

You return from your friend’s place, having used her cat and your friend’s YouTube Premium as your therapy sessions. You feel better about things now, and life should return to normal. Right?

The washer’s inner mechanism gives a promising rattle as it swallows your last six quarters. There’s a low rumble of moving parts, the click of something slotting into place— and then silence. The drum of the machine sits sedately in place. Your dirty clothes sit inside in a quiet, unsoaked heap.

“Son of a bitch,” you mutter under your breath. 

You try out a couple different methods: Turn the knobs to various settings without success. Jiggle the handle to try and unlock the washer door. Yell at the machine, call it a worthless piece of shit.

But where discourse fails, violence often prevails. It’s a lesson that has offered a decent measure of success in your dealings with vending machines, keurigs, and lawnmowers. So it’s not merely anger that guides you to kick the washer. No, this is… this is a strategic use of force.

The first kick yields no results. The second kick produces an interesting sputter. Perhaps , you reason, a more precise method is needed here . You raise your fist.

Before you can punch the machine, someone grabs you by the wrist.

“What the hell are you doin’?” Morgan asks, exasperated.

“Laundry,” you answer matter-of-factly.

“What part of laundry involves fightin’ inanimate objects?”

“The part where I get this piece of shit to finally work.” You attempt to give the washer a last parting shot out of pure anti-machine sentiment with your other hand.

Before you can continue to perform percussive maintenance, he grabs your other wrist too.

You tug on both your arms, but he is ridiculously solid; it’s like trying to break free of handcuffs.

Of course my mind goes there.

Looking up at him, he’s realizing at the same time as you of how suggestive this looks. His eyes widen a bit, and you take that as a look of surprise and embarrassment. Yet neither of you moves for a full minute.

“Well,” you say finally. “Are you gonna let me go? Or are you gonna make me submit?”

His eyes narrow for a moment before a smirk slowly grows on his face. “Sounds like that’s what you want.”

He pulls you away from the machine and instead pushes you up against the closest wall. You can feel the heat of his body through the thin linen of your sundress. He traps your wrists against the cold surface and presses his whole body against yours. 

“Mr Morgan—”

“It’s Arthur,” he interrupts. “Call me Arthur.”

You whisper his name, beckoning. His expression darkens ever so slightly as his desire for you manifests in a slight twitch of his lips, a crinkling of his brow.

Then he kisses you hard, his tongue lashing against yours before lightly nipping your bottom lip. When he pulls back, his lips are wet and his pupils are blown out with desire.

Letting go of your wrists, he reaches for the hem of your sundress and hikes it up, his calloused hands stroking upwards from your thighs to your hips. He shifts his knee between your legs and nudges them apart before grinding against you. You can feel how hard he is, how big he is, and you moan softly. Burying his head between your neck and shoulder, he begins to suck on the delicate skin there—

The door creaks open. Mrs. Smith, the septuagenarian from down the hall, walks into the doorway with a hamper of laundry in her arms, then pauses when she sees the two of you.

For a second, everyone stands tense and still as participants in a shootout.

“Well,” Mrs. Smith says mildly. She doesn’t look surprised or scandalized. If anything, she looks mildly entertained. “I can see you two are busy. I’ll come back in an hour or so—”

“No! It’s fine,” you say before laughing nervously. You yank your skirt back down. Arthur immediately releases you and begins intensely inspecting the washing machine. “I was actually just leaving. This, uh, this machine’s broken.”

Morgan’s face is red as he makes a noise of confirmation and nods.

“That certainly seemed a novel means of repair,” Mrs. Smith says. The smile on her face is benign, but knowing.

“Anyway!” You pick up your empty laundry basket. “I really must get back. I have a…that is, I… I think I left my oven on.”

You barrel out the door, nearly knocking Mrs. Smith over in your escape. You run down three flights of stairs and into your apartment, slamming the door shut. Marching to your couch, you put a pillow over your face and scream .

***

Watching her leave, Arthur stands in shock at first, then glances over at Mrs. Smith and turns himself towards one of the washing machines, examining it with great focus.

A soft chuckle reaches his ears and he turns his head to look at the old lady, steadily pulling out one piece of laundry at a time from another machine. Under the pretense of examining all the machines, he notes that she also slowly and methodically loads the dryer.

“You should just go after her,” she says quietly, throwing a pair of large pink underpants into the dryer. “She’s a nice one, that girl.”

Arthur can only mutter, “I got work to do.”

“Come now, we both know that’s a lie.”

He sighs. It’s bad enough that John is on his case, but now 705 is giving him grief. 

“Do you like her?”

He’s silent. He does not want to be having this conversation.

“Because a girl as pretty as her…”

“I know, I know,” Arthur grumbles. “I’m goin’.”

As he walks past her, Mrs. Smith grins knowingly.

[ne-umeyu-tancevat]

hiiiii. top 5 sexiest tony looks? GO !!

ok hardmode go im not as familiar yet with the whole tony perkins catalogue as some of y'all, therefore i dont know if i can come up with five looks that ive explicitly thought were Sexy buuuuut in no particular order

gonna have to start off with the illustrious reverend peter shayne since he's on both our minds today... i mean, fictional depictions of madness, just crazy guys have gotten me for as long as i can remember ok. he got me from the gifset before i even watched the movie. disheveled silver fox, he looks unshowered, he's unpredictable and a lil gross. he's in a priest's collar and nikes. he's frightening and also pathetic. i want him so bad.

i also have a growing appreciation for 70's era longer fluffy hair tony, not quite fuck that old man territory yet, but like dad age. who doesnt love a good dilf?

another really good one white tshirt only. like the gifset i reblogged earlier from on the beach (which i havent watched). i think i've also seen a similar outfit from a gifset of five miles to midnight????? + cigarette hanginf from his lip too. (it was untucked shirt and flipped up collar + cigarette dangling from his lip, also hot as fuck) which i also haven't watched yet. but i can just picture him fresh from sleep, white tshirt and boxers only, like hello good morning honey why dont you come back to bed ;)

i am a sucker for period dress. i guess by now all his old looks are pretty much period dress. but give me tony in a waistcoat anyyyy day like late 1800s-early 1900s style i know he's done a few roles like that god yes yes yes

[outeremissary]

PFKM for the thing. gimme the god tier Emi Opinions

It took me long enough to type this up to get the question a second time whoops

[Image ID: An ask from kuroimarzipan reading "someones gotta ask u about kingmaker for the fandom ask meme and im gonna be that person"]

Buckle up, everyone, because this will be very long, variably coherent, and likely things a lot of folks have heard before!

Favorite Male Character

[Image ID: A three part meme taken from the Simpsons. In the first picture, a group gathers around Bart's desk, saying "Say the line, Emi!" In the second, Bart says "Tristian" with a dejected face of resignation. In the final image the class cheers around the despondent Bart.]

I know I have a certain reputation. The reputation for having lost my sanity and likely my dignity as well on account of that pathetic priest. That guy haunts me in ways you can't imagine. That guy was the cause of some strain with my ex, who was very tired of hearing about Tristian. It has destroyed any respect my irl friends have for me. And I think the worst part is that I don't even even think he's attractive. I find his face dull and in every way he's not at all my type. It would be better if this was just a mind lost to horny thing I think.

Anyway. For better or worse I'm in it with this guy for the forseeable future, and I have a Lot Of Thoughts About That. I know I've said before that when I started Kingmaker, I was so confident that I wouldn't be at all interested in Tristian as a character that I settled on playing a male character because of it. The universe mocks me, I swear. And I was right until that guy started being a little weird and a little fucked up! And then suddenly I had to know more, and then he was in the party temporarily, and then permanently, and he's just so pathetic in all the right ways... And the way that despite that sweet, holy character there would be moments of startling condescension or naive accidental cruelty... the fact that everything about his background was so clearly a lie... Agh, it drew me in, and then the betrayal sealed the deal. Curse my love of traitors, and of inhuman things straining under the weight of sudden humanity! Something wretched has taken hold of me. This is my own curse.

I think it's insult to injury that I really love Tristian's voice as well. Life is so cruel.

Anyway! Tristian is a fantastically compelling character because I love the way that nothing is actually quite a front with him despite the fact that he's deceiving you. He's so painfully sincere about being compassionate and altruistic. He really does want the best for you and to set you on the right path. He's blindingly sweet and kind and naive, but at the same time is capable of committing to truly terrifying acts for his own selfish goals. He's so terrified of his flaws that he can lie to himself about his own motives and overcome his intense aversion to falsehood to lie to you... I love the way that even when there are cracks in his story, he's somehow so difficult to disbelieve because it's so counter to his nature to be up to anything sinister that somehow, the mind rejects the evidence (mine did, at least). I like that much like Nyrissa he's someone who thought of himself as the main character of every story he was a part of (or at least deserving of a leading role) and who is now soundly punished for his hubris by living in a way he believes makes him a shadow of himself. And I like that all of his darkness is just a part of him! Like I said- no falsehoods. There's no "fake" Tristian. Every bit of it is real. It makes him feel so complex and human.

Anyway Tristian nonbinary I was told that by the owlcat itself it's true and I'm right

Favorite Female Character

In a game with two of the best girlbosses ever made, it's so hard to choose... but choose I shall, because I came to this game for one perfect woman, and I'm committed to the scythe wife, who has never let me down. I adore Jaethal! She's cool as hell, of course, by virtue of being a tall (no one argue I'm right) spooky undead lady with a giant scythe. But I also just find her a delight to be around. That unflappable immortal arrogance makes her funny as hell. There's not a single line from her that isn't iconic, I swear. The experience of being in some serious cutscene and having her interrupt with something mortifying like "well we all know family is what really matters" is integral to Kingmaker, I think. You're really missing something playing without that. And her backstory? Also an 11/10. She's a lawyer. She's a serial killer. She's a cultist. She's a milf. She's the worst person to have at your family gatherings. She's everything to me.

And of course, what I especially love about her are what we might term her "bestie qualities." I love that she's absolutely, unfailingly honest, even when she might have every reason to lie. She'll tell you so straightforwardly that she's undead, and then without any hesitation about her Extremely Criminal Past. She's confident that you'll either work with her, or that if you won't then she doesn't need you (she is, after all, immortal. eternal. everlasting.). But if you place your trust in her, it's rewarded with unwavering loyalty and earnest counsel. She always cuts to the point and never tries to manipulate or flatter. She's always absolutely, unapologetically herself. I love that about her. She feels like such a natural match for an evil character. She's ruthless and seeks power, but she's also content with what she finds at your side and is so fiercely devoted.

Then after saying all that, there's the fact she has easily the best companion quest in the game! Even though we see so little of Nortellara, I love the relationship between them. Jaethal has such complicated feelings for her offspring: she's controlling and condescending, but at the same time has some affection for the girl despite herself. I love the part of her first quest when after turning the nameless elvish girl for having a resemblance to her daughter, she reacts to her with disgust for displaying what she feels is a cowardice that would be beneath Nortellara. She thinks a lot of the girl- although at the same time, the way she thinks of Nortellara is also a reflection of how she sees herself. The question of how much of that affection and respect is for Nortellara as an individual vs. Nortellara as the miniature Jaethal she thinks that she's succeeded in making her is also one I find myself turning over in my head. Jaethal is one of the video game parents of all time to me

Least Favorite Character

Of the companions? Jubilost. Shoutout to Jubilost for being the only companion I hold no warmth in my heart for. I know this is a bit of a controversial take (and also that you've heard it from me already, for the most part), but I truly can't stand that guy. He's funny sometimes, sure, and I really like his questline (especially the Inconsequent Debates for letting me see my bestest immortal friend in the whole universe), but he frustrates me as a person. You know how Jaethal is a fun and cool fictional villain? Jubilost is a real dude I could find on Reddit right now. Or Twitter. Or in my high school yearbook, since he'd have been one of the classmates mad at me for taking the top spot in class rankings from my betters (cis men). I really tried to like him, and I did my best to committing to him in the party on my second playthrough, but he ran out my patience in record time with the way he talked to Octavia (as well as to Linzi and Valerie). I don't care if she started it, his responses disgust me.

In terms of non-companions...? That chieftain of the Six Bears, Akaia. For some similar reasons, that guy obviously sucks. Don't even need to say much more about it. He's lame and obviously he was made to be hated. He doesn't even have any amusing quips. Amiri deserves to do a little murder to him. As a treat.

Favorite Ship

It is no news to you or anyone else who's known me for more than two days that my brain has been absolutely melted by Balthazar/Tristian. That has held me at goddamn knifepoint for over two years now. Send help. I know I covered the two of them at some length here, here, and here. I really love the way that they're kind of foils to one another- the trickster and the earnest priest, the aasimar desperately rejecting his heritage and the fallen angel willing to do anything to claw his way back to heaven. And I love the ways that they're the same as well. They're both suffering at the hands of the expectations placed on them for a celestial nature, expectations neither can meet. Both have the same fierce commitment to their ideals, and both are also gifted liars. There's a lot there. It's like accidentally tripping into making some kind of shonen rival ship. It makes me so deranged.

Though if you asked me to pick something that doesn't involve my beloved special OC and isn't the easy Octavia and Regongar (I want them to work it out so bad)... I'd say Linzi and Amiri! i like Linzi's gay little crush on Amiri, it's really cute.

On the other hand my dark and evil fave is that I am secretly a Nyrissa/Tristian guy. I just like... there's something about that. There's something about the Stockholm ship.

Favorite Friendship

I mean. Jaethal and Balthazar, of course. Mean bisexual alliance. I love how in sync they tend to be, and I love the trust that can exist between two evil people. :) Every tyrant needs a loyal right hand! I also think that she's someone who has always been able to see through his deceptions and fronts and is able to cut straight to what's on his mind- she demands an earnesty that's terribly unfamiliar at first, but trusting her comes to be second nature.

If we remove my OC from the equation though... I really love seeing Octavia and Harrim interact, and the moments here and there that she's able to break through that gloom and coax out some little positive response, a smile or a good natured comment. The unstoppable optimist and the persistent pessimist being pals is just :)

Favorite Quote

For once in my life, I don't need to think for even a minute about it. "You are my reflection, Balthazar, just a little luckier." I know I even made a whole post gushing about it on the side blog! It's my favorite, and her telling you not to bow down before power, just as she never did, in the same conversation. Wow. Wow. I just... she's everything, you know?

Honorary mention though to "I'm lying to you again, Balthazar." I'm so insane brained about Tristian there had to be something here, right? All of his dramatic and self-pitying stuff (especially the self-pitying stuff) is dear to my heart, but something about the frank admission of not only the most abhorrent selfishness but the act of catching himself trying to conceal it is really amazing to me. I mean, there's so much character in just that. He's someone who's so burdened by shame that even when he tries to confess one he's compulsively still hiding and minimizing, and he sees it as a sign that he's fallen so far and become so sullied. But I think it's one of the most human things about him. I find it painfully relatable. I find it so fascinating that he's a character who holds himself to impossible standards who by the time of story has already long since failed in his attempt to live up to them. And of course, the attempt to return to the time that things were perfect and he could live with them only tangles him further and further in things that shame and humiliate him and make him a stranger to himself. I really love the struggle he's always going through to understand himself and accept these flaws.

Worst Character Death (if any)

That BASTARD TRISTIAN! I don't hold Jaethal accountable for what happened there just. Full hands in head. Aaaagh. Devastated! Heartbroken! Dismayed! Ripped my heart out of my chest! The only fatality I had in the House on my first playthrough and it was a NIGHTMARE. I knew it was coming, my roommate had warned me, but I still had such a hollow feeling in my chest afterwards. The book in the House that has Tristian's memories made me full on tear up. His death is also the reason that Balthazar killed Nyrissa instead of taking the opportunity from Shyka to be crueler- after that there was no playing around. She had to die, and that was that.

Of course, Nyrissa's death was also the worst. She's such a wonderful character that it was devastating to lose her. But I think there's a certain poetry to it. Even if you kill her, in the end you become her. And if you emerge victorious from the struggle against the Lantern King, then it's her victory too. You're the understudy who's filled her role and you'll see the show through to the end. I like to think she'd be happy to see what you did with it. I love her so much my heart aches btw

This made me so happy you have no idea Moment

Oh, there are many options in the epic highs and lows of Pathfinder: Kingmaker. But a really memorable one from the first go around was talking down the mob in Season of Bloom by seizing on the words of Balthazar's very few supporters and using them to just gaslight the crowd into sad submission. RIP to the common people of the Stolen Lands but I love the evil diplomancy win. Along similar lines would be talking Hargulka into beating Tartuk to a bloody pulp (sorry Tartuk) and then recruiting him on the spot afterwards, recruiting one of Nyrissa's lieutenants by being the scariest motherfucker she'd ever met (I love when my feeble posh aasimar gets to intimidate!), instilling a puppet ruler over the Tiger Lords... basically all the cheating bastard evil diplomacy wins. I'm so grateful that Kingmaker allowed me to play my concept to the fullest.

But also every moment that Shyka was onscreen because them make me so happy :)

Saddest Moment

Aside from that asshole Tristian dying on me? Well, I remember the ending slides I got the first time around were... largely pretty rough. Jaethal leaving was :( But aside from that. Umm. Linzi death. Linzi scripted death got me. Even having disliked her for most of the game before that, suddenly having her pulled away, finding that she died for you even after her spirit was broken and she had become disillusioned... there was something tragic about that, especially playing a character who hadn't really valued her and had encouraged her to make self-destructive choices. I think there's something about seeing her give herself up in blind trust one last time for the hero she's given everything to is, from a meta perspective, extremely sad. I suppose she didn't really know that her encounter with Nyrissa would end in death, but I think our robin understood what she was gambling with. And then the epilogues finishing with the "and now I shall go silent forever" as if her life amounted to no more value than being the vessel for the main character's tale... never! That's devastating as well! And hard to reconcile with a protagonist who had already told her not to put a period on things when the story was far from over.

Favorite Location

Vordakai's Tomb. *the crowd boos* No no hear me out I just think it's a really compelling and atmospheric story location!!! I think it's an excellently paced dungeon with a lot of fascinating parts!!! Like, it's so neat down there. I like the variation in the dungeon geography, which is some of the most interesting environmental storytelling in the game. Being stalked by Vordakai's familiar (and watching in despair as you optimistic dumbass companions give up their names) is neat. We get some sweet, sweet leadup to Tristian breakdown, and the iconic "if something like, happened to me, and you never saw me again for some reason, is there anything you'd want to say to me...?" He makes me yearn for the sweet embrace of death sometimes. But yeah. The sense of dread down there is cool, I like being properly locked in, it's a good dungeon. As a dungeon aficionado, I'm fond of it!

I love the capital before it becomes a city as well, and a lot of the nondescript forest locations. Many locations are hard to love due to being actively attacked in them, alas.

[caffiend-queen]

The Auction

A dystopian tale of the “New Americas,” where the divide between the wealthy and… everyone else is too great to cross. But with all the other viruses comes one that lies dormant in the genes, activating at birth and it is inevitably fatal. So now, perfect genetics are the most desired thing in a mate. Even if you have to buy one.

Important note: there are discussions of disabilities in this chapter viewed by the assholes in this dystopian tales as ‘adverse elements.’ Since my twin boys have autism, I know this is bullshit. Please keep in mind that any discussion of the differently-abled is only for the purpose of the story and their negative responses are pathetic and uneducated.

You’ll be seeing Rich Asshole Ransom Drysdale at the auction tonight, along with James Buchanan Barnes and Terrifying But So Good in a Suit Loki. All obscenely rich bastards. All looking for a wife.

Chapter One - This Can’t Be Happening

“This can’t be happening.”

The woman weeping softly to the right of Rowan might be a little older than she was, but it’s clear she had no frame of reference for what was about to happen to her.

“Stop, don’t mess up your makeup,” Rowan whispered, trying to wipe away the mascara streaming down the woman’s wet cheeks. “Look, it’ll be…”

It’ll be okay?

Was she really about to say something as stupid as that? The group of overly made-up captives - including Rowan, the crying woman clutching her hand, and the twelve other young women shivering in sheer dresses - were most definitely not going to be okay.

“Listen, you’re here now,” she squeezed the crying woman’s hand, trying to get her to look at her. “This is going to happen, so you have to take control of it, okay? You-”

“What is the problem here?”

The voice was sharp, no-nonsense, and sounded much like the priest at the shelter Rowan had left the instant she turned eighteen. But this man definitely took no vow of poverty. His suit was bespoke and perfectly tailored to hide the beginning of a paunch, silver hair expensively styled. “Number Eleven, you’re foolish enough to dismantle the stylist’s work for a tantrum? Who do you think wants to bid on a crying mess? Who would think you were worth millions of credits?” His sharp brown eyes went to Rowan. “And why are you encouraging this, Number Fourteen?”

“I’m not, Mr. Toussaint, I was just-” she tried to smile, to disarm the angry… What did they call him, she thought. Not a pimp, uh, a procurer?

He waved her off impatiently. “I don’t care. Amber!” he shouted over his shoulder, “Come touch up Number Eleven.” The man stepped back and looked over the group. “Listen to me carefully. I have done everything I can to improve your chances of a good match: your wardrobe, your manners, the expensive stylists... Your future is now your responsibility. You can receive a highly lucrative five-year contract with a wealthy partner who will spoil you. Or you can show yourself as weak, poor quality material, and then,” he paused ominously, “I cannot predict your future. The House of Toussaint is known as the finest auction house in the New Americas. I will not allow you to cheapen that reputation. Do you hear me?”

There was a chorus of mumbles and “yessirs,” but he wasn’t happy.

“Do you HEAR ME?”

“Yes, Sir!” Rowan said loudly, clearly, and while the others hurried to add to her answer, Toussaint stared at her, eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

“There’s a reason you are the last item up for auction tonight,” he said, “I intend to showcase your superb genetics. But that can change if you attempt to speak out again or involve yourself with the other girls.”

She gritted her teeth hard enough to crack a molar before taking a deep breath and offering her sweetest smile. “Absolutely, Sir. I understand completely.” She could picture Ben’s sweet smile as vividly as if he was standing in front of her. She could be sweet, too. She could be very, very sweet.

“Keep up that smile,” her pimp, procurer, whatever he wanted to be called, was standing behind her, looking at their reflection in the mirror. “The live feed to the reception room begins in ten minutes.”

The live feed. She shuddered. Her only moment of gratitude was that the humiliation of flouncing down the catwalk in that dress would be witnessed only by the men and women bidding for her and the others. At any other time, she would have liked this dress; not too much cleavage, with slim straps spread wide on her shoulders to show off her collarbones and neck, but dipping scandalously low in the back. It was beaded, silver, and a green so dark it almost looked black under the lights, with a long slit showing part of her right thigh. And so heavy. What did they make these beads out of, Rowan wondered, lead?

The stylist had pinned her hair up loosely, at some point, the auctioneer would tell her to take her hair out of its chignon and sweep it out to show off the length. Long hair, real long hair, not extensions, was rare, apparently.

As if any of that mattered.

Well, maybe it did. These women - and a couple of men she’d heard - who would be bid on like cattle tonight were all extremely attractive. Rowan sneered, carefully turning away so no one would catch her expression. Good genes weren’t enough for these rich bastards. Their bought and paid-for’s had to have good looks, too.

“Number One, you’re up!”

The girl was sweet, a classic Irish with pale skin, flaming red hair and a pretty spatter of freckles buried under a heavy layer of makeup. What was her name? Rowan tried to remember: they’d shared breakfast that morning, her oatmeal for Glenna’s fruit. Glenna! That’s right!

“Glenna, you got this!” Feeling stupid even as she did it, Rowan held up both thumbs, nodding and smiling. The redhead at least managed a watery grin and a thumbs-up before Amber hustled her out the door.

Walking back and forth, hands on her beaded hips, Rowan listened to the muffled sounds of the auctioneer, how he’d pause, waiting for laughter or some other response from the room stuffed with rich entitled assholes.

One of which is buying you and taking you home tonight, her spiteful inner voice reminded her.

“I don’t think I can do this.”

It was Mina, one of the few who had willingly signed up for the Bride Auction. Her warm brown eyes were wide, clearly trying to keep the tears from spilling. She had a wonderfully lush mouth, glowing skin the color of molten chocolate and a voluptuous figure, the kind of bombshell look that was wildly popular.

Rowan tried to smile, “I think it’s too late. Do you want the pep talk or to just cry a little?”

Mina’s full lower lip trembled. “P- p- p- pep talk.”

Oh, crap a stutter, Rowan groaned silently. It was nothing, nothing at all but with these choosy trust fund scum, the slightest sign of anything less than conventionally perfect could be dangerous. “Okay, I got you. Look. I’d tell you to picture everyone out there as naked, but I think that’s probably too gross to relax you.”

That helped, Mina giggled and hiccuped a bit.

“Who are you doing this for?” Rowan persisted.

“M- m- sister’s k- kids. She got in an accident last month, a hit and run. Just… coming home from work, carrying a bag of groceries. The car hit her hard enough that they found her soup cans a block away. They’re living with m- m- me but my roommates told me they have to leave or we all do. This is-” Mina’s hands were shaking and she clutched them into fists. “This is all I h- have,” gesturing bitterly at her face and body.

“Number Five!” Miss Lavigne said sharply, “Get in line. You’re nearly up.”

Mina turned to go and Rowan grabbed her arm. “Listen,” she said, leaning in close. “There is one unarguable truth in this entire shit show. These rich bastards, they think they have everything; the money, the power, they think they own us. But don’t you forget that there is something they don’t have: our perfect genetic profile. And they’re scared, scared enough to pay for it. They need you just as much as you need them. You strut down that catwalk like you own it. Like you own them. You make them bid so high their banker will have an aneurysm. You hear me?”

She’d been whispering to keep the malevolent Miss Lavigne from hearing her, but when Rowan let Mina go she realized there was a little circle of girls around them. “Don’t any of you forget it. They’re scared and they need you.” They scattered like they were mice when the kitchen light turned on, and Mr. Toussaint stepped in front of her, eyes narrowed with fury.

“It seems, Number Fourteen that you don’t want to see your brother ever again.”

Her hands darted behind her back so he couldn’t see them shake. “You should be thanking me.”

“What?” Now his ruddy skin flushed even darker.

“You want these girls to drain your clients out there of every last million they’re willing to spend and then several million more. Well, now they will.”

Mr. Toussaint’s sharp eyes canvassed the dressing room. The auction items were standing taller, checking their hair, or lipstick in the mirror, straightening the straps on their dress.

“Number Five! You’re on.”

Mina gave Rowan one last smile, and she nodded back.

He stared down at her for a moment longer. “Go have Amber look at your hair. It’s a mess." She was edging away when Toussaint leaned closer. “Your little speech was quite inspiring to these poor, deluded girls. But there are dozens just like you that have been sold through this house. These people fear nothing. And if they wish to carve you open and extract your DNA, no one will stop them. This auction that you so despise? It protects you. With marriage, with financial security that your new spouse cannot access. I do not expect humility from such as you, but be bright enough to pretend you do.”

Toussaint straightened his tie and left without another look at her.

Rowan was submitting to another re-pinning of her carelessly upswept chignon that took a good hour to create and practicing her smile in the mirror. Inviting, confident, a little demure, and uncertain… So many important people! She pretended to bat her eyelashes. It’s such an honor to be here!

It was fucking terrifying to be here. These were the names no one knew, the families so wealthy that they could crush notoriety. These people owned the New Americas.

Everything. Everyone.

Every law that passed, every new “Moral Mandate” was straight from their twisted brains.

“Number Fourteen! You’re on.”

And now, one of them would own her.

“Rowan Wallace is twenty-eight, stands 5”8 with black hair and pale green eyes,” the auctioneer’s voice is smooth and ingratiating and if Rowan wasn’t so busy trying to walk smoothly with a spotlight blinding her, she would have flipped him off.

“She is in superb health, with a full vaccination status, administered and verified by the Chronology Medical Group, which also performed a full genetic panel. You can see the numbers here on the monitor, and her specialized genome projection that…”

The room was dark beyond the brightly lit stage. Of course, Rowan thought, I don’t deserve to see who’s bidding on me. I’m just the shiny object.

“Her IQ has been tested, with a score of 145.”

Rowan slowed on her turn, letting the audience see the sway of her hips, a slight arch to her back as she turned her head to look over one shoulder. My IQ? When the hell did they test me for that? What else did they test me for?

“You’ll see,” the auctioneer continued, “on the 3D projection that Number Fourteen’s uterus and ovaries are in excellent health, and-”

That little revelation almost made Rowan trip on the edge of her dress, but she managed to make the stumble look like another half turn.

“Number Fourteen,” this time, the voice was Mr. Toussaint's. “Stand at the end of the catwalk, if you would.”

Yeah, so pleasant and oh, so posh when your rich assholes are in the room, she thought bitterly. Bitter, but not stupid enough to defy him, she sashayed back to the circular end, posing with her right leg turned and slightly bent at the knee, hand demurely behind her back.

“You rank at 495 out of 500 on the Genetic Reliability Outcome Consensus, Number Fourteen, quite superb.” There was actually a little round of applause at this and it took every ounce of self-control to keep from rolling her eyes.

Mr. Toussaint was looking at her, seemingly expecting some sort of response, so Rowan flashed him an insincere smile, eyes lowered. “That’s… good to hear, Sir.”

A little chuckle rippled through the bidders and she gave a sweet little shrug. Don’t think of these bastards, think of Ben. Don’t you forget why we’re all up here! Her feet were killing her, these high heels must be lined with razor wire or something because-

“However, adding in the adverse element score, you do drop fifty points, dear.” The son of a bitch bastard’s bleached white teeth glowed in the stage lighting. “Your brother was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder, and of course is part of the package, isn’t he?”

Of course, Rowan’s teeth gritted, another ignorant asshole considering her brother as an ‘adverse element?’ How dare he! Oh, it’s on fucker!

“Well, Mr. Toussaint, I am sure you know, as do all of these extremely well-educated and well-informed leaders in the New Americas, that autism is an indication of the evolution of the human brain. Many people on the Autism Spectrum have unique gifts and talents, along with high scores for intelligence and potential to overcome sensory challenges that might inhibit their abilities to contribute to their community.”

His stupid bleached teeth opened like he was about to interrupt. Oh, no, bitch, I am on a roll.

“My brother Ben is a gift. He is challenging and intelligent, courageous in a way that I’m not. He makes me a better person, he makes everyone around him want to be more than they are. Truthfully?” Rowan looked out into the darkened room again. “He is the best part of this package.”

There was silence for a moment, quiet enough to hear the low buzz of the 3D projector and the rattling of the bracelet on her wrist as she tried to clench her shaking hands together. She'd screwed up. She had so screwed this up.

The auctioneer gave a light chuckle, smoothly divesting Mr. Toussaint of the mic. “Lovely, and it seems passion and loyalty are other excellent traits of Number Fourteen. And now, dear, if you will remove your dress.”

Rowan’s heart stopped. What? This was NOT in their practice runs! She looked out again, licking her lips. He was kidding. This wasn’t humiliating enough? Oh, there’s no way-

“Number Fourteen? Now, if you please.”

Ben’s sweet smile. She could remember it so vividly when he handed her the lunch he’d packed for her when she’d left their apartment that morning before they took him away. When he’d told her, “This is going to be a perfect day!” When he’d smiled, and…

Standing straight, shoulders back and looking regally over the darkened crowd, Rowan raised her hands to the glittering straps holding the heavy gown up and pulled them down. The silver and green beads flashed in the light as the dress dropped to the floor.

Alerting mutuals who I think might be interested, please let me know if you’d like on or off this list. Thank you!

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[bruhstories]

Personal Demon

Summary: Because of a mistake, you're assigned a devil instead of an angel. Pairing: Demon!Eren Jaeger x Fem!Reader Warnings & Conent: oh boy, here we go - language, mentions of suicide, mentions of self harm, mentions of rape, fingering, unprotexted sex, alcohol consumption, mentions of drug abuse, mentions of reader in an asylum, sliiiiight dumbification of reader, slight corruption of reader, Eren's a little shit Word Count: 3.9 k

A/N: So I wrote this in, like, 3-4 days because I felt like it's pretty bad but not bad enough not to post it. I hope you still enjoy it, though!

You always felt it — breathing in your nape, moving in the corner of your room at night, whispering things you shouldn't dare think about. Your own personal demon. Most of the time you did a good job at ignoring it. Most of the time you abused substances to make it go away, at least for a minute. With the puff of weed or a bottle of alcohol, it stayed away, only watching from afar and never involving itself with you. Most of the time.

Keys clung in your hands, door shutting behind as you walked into your apartment, fingers wrapped around your grocery bags. Yet another night of drinking the voice away.

"Not today, Satan." You hummed, popping open a bottle of gin, nose scrunching at the bitter taste.

"I keep telling you, the easiest way to get rid of me would be to kill yourself." It spoke, this time outside of your head.

"And I keep telling you to stay the fuck away from me." You growled back.

"We both know that's not possible."

Another sip and you put the bottle down, hands digging inside the bag for a snack.

"You're gonna need something stronger than that."

There it was, the bar of chocolate you so eagerly starved for. The TV suddenly turned on. It was craving entertainment.

"Anything unusual happened today?"

No, it was craving attention and you were not about to give it any. You put the groceries inside the fridge and grabbed the bottle, plopping on the couch.

"How long are you going to pretend I'm not here?"

"As long as I need." You snapped back, eyes glued to the TV.

"Well, that didn't last long." It laughed. "Come on, Y/N, we've been together for, what, 24 years?"

"Can you just shut up? Disappear? Crawl back to Hell?"

"Nope. Waaaaait, I know why you've got your panties in a twist. It's because that Jean guy you like hooked up with Mikasa, right?"

It was impossible to deal with. Every single second, it was there. Since you've been born, it was there, always watching, always following you, always. You tried to go to a priest, a monk, anything, but nothing helped. The angel that was supposed to guide you happened to be a demon and there was nothing you could do about it. But you were not going to give it the satisfaction of ending your pathetic life, no matter how much you wanted to, because despite being a demon, it still had to keep you alive until your time came. It, however, did like to push you over the edge, push you until you grabbed a knife and slit your wrists, only for the knife to get shoved by some invisible force before you could finish the job. It tormented you and it loved it.

"I told you, not today, Satan."

"Ugh, my name's-"

"I don't care." Your head snapped into the direction of the voice, only to be met with a wall. "Let's face it, we shouldn't have been in this situation, so why don't you shut your mouth up and let me get on with my life?"

"What life?" It laughed and you could already picture the sneer on its face, flashing you fangs and a forked tongue. "That's not even what I look like."

"Get out of my head!" You screamed before grabbing the bottle and emptying half of its contents.

"Careful, Y/N, the neighbours might call the police and you don't want to end up like last time, do you?"

Last time... you were but a child, throwing plates at the wall only to make it stop talking when your parents admitted you to an asylum. You had to live with it for half a year before they let you out.

"Please, please stay out of my head." Tears pooled at your eyes as you clutched the bottle at your chest.

"Now why would I stay out when it's just so much fun in you?"

"God, I hate you so much!"

"Me or beardy up there? I couldn't quite get it." It laughed again, laughing at your damn misery as you got up from the couch and left the apartment.

The alcohol already made its way to your brain when you reached the ground floor of the building. Rain poured outside but you didn't care, you just ran as far away from it as possible and for the first time in years, it didn't follow you. Grateful and content, you slowed down, admiring the beauty of the city which you ignored because of the voice inside of your head. The smell of rain, the colourful buildings, the empty streets, everything felt new and refreshing, and you took it all in. Time seemed to slow down without itconstantly nagging in the back of your mind and you realised you were pretty far away from your home, an area unknown to you. Still, you knew how to get back, you hoped, but when you turned around, a man pushed you into an alleyway.

"Satan?" You whispered, dizzy from the lingering gin and smell of rain. The man pinned you to a wall and finally you were beginning to realise what was happening.

"Call me whatever you want, baby, just keep that pretty voice down." His hand moved up your thigh and panic seeped through your veins. "We don't want to draw any attention, now, do we?" He kissed your neck and you froze on the spot, eyes widening in fear and body shivering.

"L-let go of me!" You managed, the alcohol numbing your arms, rendering you unable to push the stranger away.

"Shhh, don't fight it." The man squeezed your arms, his fingers bruising the soft skin. Anger, sadness and pain coiled together in your chest and you couldn't breathe anymore. Oh, how you wished you never left your flat, how you wished you stayed back and listened to itconstantly yapping, like a maggot crawling into your brain. "Aren't you a pretty one?" He cooed, his hand travelling lower, lower, to the point where tears started rolling down your cheeks, mixing with the snot and rain on your face.

And then it happened — in the blink of an eye, your assailant was thrown against the other wall by the too familiar invisible force as you sank to the ground, eyes puffy and red, legs trembling.

"The fuck? What are you?" The man hissed at you, his hands holding his abdomen.

"I'm the devil." It spoke, voice inhuman and perilous, and you could only sneer at him. For the first time you were happy it was there. Sick, twisted thoughts invaded your mind and you wanted to watch him suffer, and itknew. It knew, because the devil was always in your head.

"You crazy bitch!" The assailant, now helpless and overpowered, did not know about your own personal demon, and he tried to get up, tried to leap forward at you and strangle the last bit of air out of your lungs, but he couldn't. Somethingwas holding him back.

"You want him dead?" It asked, but you know the devil took more pleasure in inflicting pain rather than swiftly killing.

"No." You grinned, eyes dark and dangerous. "I want him to suffer."

"That's my girl."

Blood-curling screams echoed in the alleyway. You didn't know what it was doing to him, but you knew for a fact that you were enjoying the sounds that came out of your attacker. His wrists contorted in a way you didn't think was possible, and the melody of broken bones reminded you that what was happening was wrong. For a moment, your brain was rational, telling you that it should stop, that you should both just leave and forget this ever happened. But... it also felt good, it felt like you've just been reborn, discovering a deeply buried part of you that ached to be exposed. Then, his legs twisted and the man winced in pain, so much pain, and your heart fluttered in your chest.

"More?" It asked and you nodded.

"More."

His arms looped, like a deformed puppet loosely strung, and it made him dance in the rain until his body gave up from fatigue.

"Aw, I was really hoping he'd be a feisty one." It mused, and you also clicked your tongue in disappointment. Before you left, you gave your assailant a good kick in the stomach, your boot stomping on his face with so much anger and force that what remained was unrecognisable.

Wet clothes piled on the floor, you wrapped your naked body in a blanket to warm yourself up. What just happened? What did you do? Why did you allow it to happen and more importantly, why did you love every minute of it? The questions jogged in your fuzzy brain, as you slowly sobered up.

"Why did I enjoy it, Satan?" You asked, lips quivering.

"I told you, my name's not Satan, it's-"

"Eren, I know. I remember." You could feel it quirk a brow, surprised and impressed by its name rolling down your tongue so naturally. "Why did I enjoy it? It's wrong and disgusting."

"Do you remember what happens when you say my name?" It sounded almost concerned.

"You physically manifest, I know. Now answer my fuckingquestion."

"What do you want me to say?" Itasked, fragments of muscle, skin and silk pulling together from thin air. First, its legs. Then, its upper body, draped in a charcoal-black robe. "That you're as sadistic as I am? Maybe it wasn't a mistake that you have a demon, not an angel." And finally, its face materialised in front of you — long dark brown hair falling down his shoulders and eyes so green, it felt like a forest was in them. It looked almost human, the hooked nose, the elongated ears, the deeply sunken emeralds and jagged mouth betraying its true nature.

"I thought you'd have fangs." Was your only response at the scene unfolding in front of you, blanket clutched at your chest. Any normal person would shudder at the demonic sight of Eren appearing in front of them, but to you, it felt comforting to finally assign a face to the voice you so desperately tried to ignore.

"And I thought you wanted to get rid of me." It scoffed, its facial features changing, becoming softer and resembling a human man, but those eyes didn't change an ounce.

"I don't know what I want anymore. If it weren't for you, I would've been raped and dead, probably."

"Just embrace it, Y/N. Just let go of that annoying voice in your head that tells you it's wrong." He encouraged. "There's no such thing as good or bad, right or wrong. It's just surviving, adapting or dying."

Eren looked unbelievably human and incredibly handsome in the dim light of your living room lamp. Maybe it was the alcohol that hasn't left your body yet, or maybe it was the fact that he saved you, again, but the truth was that the devil in your house was making you feel something you couldn't even feel for Jean — and you thought you were in love with Jean.

"Alright, let's pretend for a moment that I give into temptation." Your eyes found his and you felt hypnotised, the rational part of your brain slowly overshadowed by your instincts and feelings. "What then? Do you leave me alone? Do you go back to hell? Do Igo to hell?"

"Oh, I wouldn't call it hell. More like a demonic paradise." He shrugged, eyes bored and blank, devout of any emotion. You leaned forward trying to search for something in his darkened orbs.

"Why are you being nice to me? You're supposed to save me from death, not rape."

He clicked his tongue, your question drilling into his brain, repeating itself over and over again. Why did he save you? It's not like he cared, he only did his job, right? Right?

Wrong.

The demon you grew up with, the demon who tormented you, the demon who tried so desperately to ruin your life did, in fact, give two shits about you and your pathetic existence. Just not in the way you thought.

"Let's just say no one gets to touch you but me." Eren closed the gap between you two, his nose almost grazing over yours. He was absolutely intoxicating and you always fought with the constant need to let him control you. After all, he was always with you, he saw you hit your lowest points, he saw the best of you, he saw your naked body, he saw everything, ergo you were his. Your head quickly turned to the side before you leaned back, exhaustion written all over your face as Eren clicked his tongue. The thing about demons was that they couldn't physically interfere without their human's consent, only using invisible force to stop you from dying and he was just so close.

"Ah, but you can't touch me, though." You trailed off, brow quirked at his narrowed eyes. You've done your homework, you knew what he needed, but still, that side of you tried to prevail over the side that craved his touch.

"Yet." Eren snapped back before your drifted to sleep.

Once again you dreamt of it him, his cock buried deep inside your needy cunt as you screamed his name over and over again while you came undone. When you jolted up from your sleep, he was there, watching you, like a predator stalking its prey. Normally he wouldn't be there, but since you called his name, Eren was glaring down at your helpless body, famished for something only you could give him.

"What's the time?" You groaned, fingers rubbing your eyelids.

"Three in the morning." He answered, eyes glued to you. "Bad dream?" The demon sneered. You knew he'd been in your head again, you knew those dreams existed for a reason.

"They wouldn't be bad if you'd just stay the fuck out of my mind." You hummed with a fake smile.

"Alright then, look me in the eye and tell me, reallytell me you want me to leave you alone." But you couldn't and he knew it. "Stop fighting it, Y/N. For two decades you kept trying. Maybe you should stop being stubborn and just give in." Eren shrugged, his voice tempting and you only wondered if that's how Eve felt when the snake tempted her. You weren't a Christian by any means, but you knew the story well enough to figure out the consequences.

"I have work tomorrow. Please let me sleep." You got up from the couch, blanket wrapped around your shoulders.

And that's when Eren reached his limits. He followed you into your bedroom, something knocking the wind out of you as you fell on the mattress. Somethingpulling the blanket off of you. Somethingtravelling down your arms, goosebumps dotting your skin as he stood in the doorway.

"I can't touch you, but I can do so many things to you." He inched closer, his figure imposing and dangerous and you could feel your core burning. "I can smell your arousal, Y/N. I know you want it. You just have to say it." Eren demanded and you hated that he was right. Slowly but surely, the battle in your heart and mind was coming to an end the more he got closer to the bed. "Say it."

You whined and writhed in pain and pleasure, and in the blink of an eye your life flashed before your eyes as you came to the conclusion that you've tried so hard to stay away from the demon, but either he was too persistent, or you were too weak. Or you just simply wanted him to ravage you and you were okay with that. Your hands stopped moving, your body stopped fighting.

"Do it..." You half-begged, judgement clouded, vision blurry. "Please, do it! Touch me, break me, fuck me, please! I need you, need to feel you..."

Like some sort of spell had just been lifted, Eren felt relieved. The sight of your sprawled body, combined with the lustful look in your lidded eyes only fed his hunger and he was famished. Calloused fingertips grazed over your knees, up your thighs, sending chills down your spine as you arched your back, pulling the demon closer to your face.

"Kiss me?" You asked, voice sweet and needy and he crushed his lips onto yours. They were surprisingly soft, tasting of whiskey and honey and the flavour lingered on your lips after he pulled away. Your body quivered under his touch, yearning for more, hands tugging at his silken robe to expose the chiselled chest. Eren pressed his forehead onto yours, hot breath tickling your cheeks.

"I'm going to ruin you, Y/N." He dug his teeth into your shoulder, the imprint burning into your skin, all the pent-up frustration slowly being released with each movement. He dragged one hand over your breasts before settling on one nipple, fingers pinching it to earn a reaction out of you. A whimper escaped from your lips as you pushed your chest upwards, wanting him closer than the laws of physics would allow. Your slender hands tangled in his locks as Eren left a trail of purple marks and bites all over your neck and shoulder.

"Fill me up, please..."

"Patience." He mused. "I've waited so many years for this, you can wait a few more minutes." Head buried between your tits, his hand travelled lower until it found your wet cunt. Fingers grazed over your folds before he drove his index into your soaked pussy and that's when you knew just how much you craved him. Your silken walls clenched around his curled-up finger and your neediness made him add another one, moans drilling through his eardrums, into his brain. "Fuck, you're so wet..." Eren hummed, vibrations tickling your skin. You couldn't form a coherent sentence even if your life counted on it. All you could think about was that if his fingers stretched you, his cock would tear your cunt apart — and you reallywanted to feel that. Fingernails dug into his back and he hissed, his tongue flicking your nipple and all the build-up was too much for you.

"Eren, please..." You mewled, your chest rising and falling with each breath, with each touch, each lick.

"You want me to fuck you? Want me to tear you apart?" The demon growled. His sudden change in tone only further added fuel to the fire inside your core and you eagerly nodded.

"Yes, God — yes! But Eren, I want to see you, not this pretty face you put on." You pleaded, eyes teary and demanding.

"No." He simply answered and that instantly made you jolt up, forcefully pushing him off of you.

"Are you trying to screw with my mind again? You've literally been with me for 24 years!" You shouted, and even Eren was slightly confused. "You tormented me for two decades, put me in an asylum, constantly stopped me from killing myself and now I can't even see the real you?" You threw your hands at him and he caught your wrists with ease. "You owe me at least that, Satan." Tears freely rolled down your face and you could feel his hot tongue lick the salty drops from your cheek. Your pain was his pleasure, he was a demon after all, the embodiment of all evil, but he decided you were corruptedenough to at least see his true colours, which you only managed to glance at.

"You're right, Y/N," Eren kissed your forehead and you couldn't even notice the manipulative hints in his voice, "you deserve at least this." He pulled back, and slowly his face distorted, allowing you to look at his disfigured mouth, elongated ears and abnormally long tongue.

"Thank you, thank you!" You beamed with bright eyes.

The woman who battled her demon? Gone.

In her place stood only a shell of a person, whose sole purpose was to get fucked by the demon in front of her. You feverishly parted his lips with your tongue, touch-starved and desperate, and Eren threw you onto the bed, robe pooled on the floor. And you were right, his cock wouldtear you apart by the looks of it. Before he could do anything, you spread your legs for him, like a good little slut, mouth agape and nothing but lust in your eyes. The sneer on his face was unlike anything you've seen before, and it both terrified and aroused you.

"Eager to please, aren't you?" He climbed onto the bed, the velvety tip of his cock barely touching your wet slit.

"I'm begging you, Eren, please fuck me!"

The demon scoffed at your pathetic words, but he couldn't deny how much he loved to hear your needy voice. You wouldn't have to know that, of course. He ever so slowly pushed the tip in between your folds, your cunt greedily taking it all in while you whimpered at the foreign sensation.

"Shhh," Eren cooed at you mockingly, "you love it, don't you?"

"Y-yes, please, d-deeper..."

Was it really you speaking or was this another one of his demonic tricks? And more importantly, did it even matter that he made you say those things when his cock felt just so good inside of you? Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer to you as Eren thrusts became harder. Your tits bounced with every move, pleasure engulfing both of you and you never knew demons fucked so raw.

"Fuck, you're so tight." He hissed into your ear, the compliment only making you clench your walls around his impossibly hard cock. "Such a good girl." Eren praised you, knowing perfectly well how much you lacked appreciation from your parents, knowing perfectly well how your childhood traumas and frustration only aided him. He was your demon, after all. When your only response was to roll your eyes at the back of your head like a possessed woman, Eren picked up the pace, his abnormal tongue licking at your collarbone.

"D-do you l-like it?" You asked, concerned that he might not be satisfied with you. He wouldn't be fucking you so hard if he didn't, but you were so brainwashed that nothing made sense anymore.

"I do, doll, now be a good whore and rub that clit, will you?" The demon urged and with a shaky hand you complied, the friction mixed with his thrusts sending you into a frenzy. You were close and he knew it.

"Oh, f-fuck! Eren!"

His cock hit that sweet spot and you were done for, your legs loosened around his waist, falling onto the bed, but he kept on fucking you.

"My turn." Eren growled, his hands lifting your hips like you were some sort of ragdoll between his fingers. Your vision blurred, every word you tried to utter lost in your throat the more he buried himself into you, yet somehow you still managed to clench your walls. With one final thrust you felt him spill his hot seed, cum dripping out of your sore cunt as he pulled out.

Eren plopped next to you and you curled up in a ball, head on his chest. You were craving his attention, his care, but he responded by bringing his hands behind his head, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. He wanted to hold you tightly, he wanted to pet your head, but he couldn’t. And you were alright with that, because you knew that, no matter what, you would always have your own personal demon at your side.

[daisys-gard3n]

tw: SO spoilers, emetophobia, sa mentioned

If there was a point in time in Stone Ocean while the gang escaped prison for that moment before the Made in Heaven arc...Raphael saw that father from his past.

He could have had a stand, but it didn't matter. His stand would be too weak, there was no drive or a sense of courage in him. It would be like fighting a toddler at that point.

Seeing Father La Coste after all these years, he was still the pathetic man he was: short in stature, little to no muscles on his bones, a face only a mother could love...It was cruel to pick apart someone because of their looks, Raphael knew this all to well since he was the only child in the orphanage with dark skin. But it was justified in this case - That coward of a man was now a foot under him, the only difference from then and now was the grey hair that had sprouted from his head and he set of wrinkles he obtained. He was probably fifty now, and yet he somehow looked seventy. Filthy souls don't age that well after all, since they were so rotten to the core it eventually comes to the surface.

"Do you remember me?" Raphael towered over the cowering priest, who of course maintained his position after so many years. He shook, shaking his head in fear. It made the green-haired man huff. "What? You developed amnesia or something? I was the only dark-skinned kid under your care...The one you liked to pick out a lot."

"I-I don't want any trouble."

"Trouble? You should have thought about that when you were in your late twenties...What? Guess you couldn't find a chick because you were so ugly? You were scared of dying alone because you had no wife or kids...Or perhaps...You were scared that your organization would find out that you were gay...And you couldn't handle it, so you had to take it out on a kid." Raphael began to crack his knuckles, one by one, staying in place while Father La Coste tried to dial someone for help on his phone, only for it to be snatched away and crushed by Sympathy for the Devil. He smiled, so lovingly to the cowering man. "Does 'Raphael Lauren' ring a bell to you? Probably not, you didn't call me by my name a lot...You just called me 'son' and 'child' because you didn't want to refer to me by my name...You didn't even see me as a person, La Coste."

"W-Wait...F-From...Saint Valentino Orphanage? T-The Birmingham location?"

"Wow! So you do have some sort of memory in your head! Maybe I can help you out and make you remember more!...I was the very kid who knocked your nose into that shape...You think I can punch it straight again? It's cheaper than plastic surgery."

"I-I wasn't in the right state of mind at the time...I-I wasn't thinking correctly!"

"Oh?...You sure were able to think about trying to pull my pants down." With his heavy boots thudding on the ground below, walking closer to the cowering priest who fell down to his knees. Shaking in fear as Raphael recalled what he remembered in the back room of the church. "You were realllyyyyy stable-minded when you put your tongue in my throat, or how you put your hand down my pants and touch me...You were even able to take your cossack off and undo your pants...Did it feel nice? To take a child who trusted you when his own parents weren't even in the picture? When you were the only thing he had close to a parent? And then throw him down to the ground and use him to get off while you thought about fucking some twink from a gay magazine? Not even that...You thought about fucking that same little boy who just wanted to help you clean the pews after service. Did it feel nice you sick fuck? Right before I caved your face in? Even then I couldn't help your face at that point, but the injury made you look a little more tolerable."

"R-Ralph I-"

"Don't." The muscular man took his foot and lodged it into La Coste's stomach, making him wail in pain as he curled into a ball, shaking with fear as he wheezed. "You don't get to call me that...Only my friends call me that...You are far from it."

"Do you know how long I've been waiting for this day? To finally...To finally be the one in control? To no longer cry under the grasp of some pedophilic mother fucker? You...You fucking broke me and didn't clean up or take responsibility...So the debt collector came back and is wanting all the debt you owe, plus interest."

Another solid kick went into Father La Coste's stomach, vomit spewing from his lips as he coughed and hurled whatever was in his stomach. Raphael sneered at the sight, Sympathy for the Devil manifesting behind him. It seemed like La Coste was a stand user since he seemed more terrified looking up, looking into the scowl of his stand as it loomed over him. Like death had come and deemed him scum, ready to send him to hell where he belonged. The long blue and purple arm of Sympathy for the Devil reaching over to the older man, what seemed to be a pink cloud of dust washing over him until the look of fear was completely wiped away, a blush forming on his wrinkled cheeks as he started to pant. Raphael looked down upon him, like a bug wriggling in the dirt.

"...Did you love me?...Even once?"

"Y-Yes...I-I love you so much! Y-You're the most beautiful specimen to walk upon this earth! I'm simply scum in your presence! P-Please, please let me service you!"

"What did you even like about me?"

"Oh, how your skin is such a beautiful dark shade of cinnamon, the muscles you have on your back and how they're formed! A-And god, how attractive you are! Oh, please let me have a taste." La Coste wriggled on the ground, behind pressed down by Sympathy's foot. Raphael was silent for a moment, the sounds of this old priest's moaning and wants becoming white noise he could tune out.

"...So you never loved me. You just liked the idea of me."

"ANA!" Sympathy stomped on La Coste's chest, a moan and groan mixture left his lips as he was arched up. It kept repeating...And repeating...and repeating...

ANA ANA ANA ANA ANA ANA ANA ANA ANA

The more Sympathy rushed the older man on the ground with his foot, the wind gusting through Ralph's hair as he watched the scene with a blank face. Watching the injuries grow more and more until the final attack blown.

ANASTASIA!

He was nothing more than a bruised up mush on the ground, still panting and groaning as he coughed up more whatever was left in his stomach. Raphael stuffed his hands into his pockets as he scoffed.

"My range is only ten meters...When I walk away, you're gonna be in the most excruciating pain in your life...I wasn't gonna kill you, I'm not a murderer. I just get into fights...But the thought of you living in pain for the rest of your pathetic life, it brings me joy in my sad little life...I hope you burn in hell, scum."

As what he said, the second Raphael walked 10 meters away, he heard the beautiful tunes of that man screaming in agony. His ribs and stomach now probably messed up for life. He continued walking until he finally caught up with Jolyne and Hermes, before the black and green-haired woman could say anything. The taller man wrapped his arms around her, his arms holding onto her so tightly like she was going to disappear if he didn't. She felt so warm, a touch he craved so much that wasn't full of lust. The one who was half way responsible for making his heart stir with craze, the one that made him realize that having such a soft touch was something he deserved.

"R-Ralph?"

"Just...Let me do this...For a little bit...It's weird but...Please."

Without another word, Jolyne just wrapped her arms around Ralph's back and awkwardly comforted him with a stroke of to his back...It was so nice...He could have cried right there.

He felt so loved.

[hlizr50]

Update: The Raven and the Songbird

Chapter 4

Gwyn is coping. Merrill is the worst. Az is... Az.

Read on AO3

Gwyn rubbed her eyes, the book spines blurring in front of her. It didn’t help that she’d been banished to one of the lower levels, where the dark creeped between the stacks and threatened to follow her. It also didn’t help that she had barely slept the night before. And that she’d come to the library straight from training.

It had been six days since she’d woken up bleary-eyed after Azriel had left her in the rain. And, as she’d thought, things were better. She had thrown herself into training and work, but she felt good about how she was managing.

She was tired.

But she could deal with that.

Merrill, of course, had sunk her claws into Gwyn’s wounds almost immediately, but she knew how to handle the haughty, hateful priestess. The first few days had been rough, but she sang to herself through the extra hours she spent in the library and let the melodies accompany her as she shelved and retrieved the tomes Merrill had demanded.

Azriel had even returned to training, which was oddly comforting despite this new distance between them. It was almost normal again – Cassian with the advanced females and Azriel with the novices. Neither of them lingered after like they used to, but she couldn’t help stealing a glance or two in his direction.

She would have to work on that.

With the last book shelved and her cart filled with new volumes for the white-haired priestess, Gwyn began the trek back up the ramp. She tried not to think about what Merrill would say when she found out that Gwyn couldn’t locate one of the tomes on the shelves. She’d looked at every pile left on a table or desk but couldn’t locate it. If she hadn’t already taken too long she would have started inquiring with every priestess she could find –

“Where is that miserable girl?”

The freckles on Gwyn’s nose bunched as she scowled, Merrill’s screech echoing over the ramps. She inhaled deeply and breathed out her sigh, steeling herself for the encounter.

“I’m on my way, sister!” Her legs burned with the extra effort it took to push the cart laden with leather-bound parchment. With her extra time in the library – to help her minimize the time when she was idle and alone – her body was still adjusting to the additional walking, pushing, and lifting.

Library work really was good conditioning.

Merrill was no longer at the rail when she reached level four so Gwyn pushed the cart through the stacks and down the hall to the sister’s office. Papers and books were strewn about, and the copper-haired priestess wondered how she could possibly keep everything straight. Of course, she’d had Gwyn to help – that was how.

“I hope you found the time between frolicking and singing to do what I asked of you?”

“Merrill, I was fully focused on your task,” she searched for a way to satisfy the female. “The work just makes me so happy I can’t help but sing.” Gwyn pasted a bright smile on her face as she lugged a stack into the office, searching for any clear surface that might hold them.

“Foolish Gwyneth,” Merrill hissed, not deigning to look at her. “Have you ever thought that some of the females here don’t want your songs thrust upon them? Have you ever thought about how they might feel seeing you so joyous when they cannot be?”

The younger priestess stilled, arms growing heavy with the weight of the tomes in her grasp. She hadn’t considered that, ever. The library was a place of sanctuary and healing, and she had been experiencing those things. She had never noticed if any of the other sisters were affected by it. Surely Clotho would have mentioned something to her if there had been complaints.

“Selfish, wretched girl.”

Gwyn sighed and set the books down as gently as she could on the corner of a small end table.

“I couldn’t find the third volume of The Continent. One of the other priestesses must have it. But I’m going to inquire with them now.” She turned to leave, hoping she could make it before the wintry female could toss more vitriol at her.

“Pathetic, Gwyneth. To prance around happy and content when you can’t even perform your basic duties. When you play at being strong and brave yet can’t manage to leave the library. You should learn that you are not special. You are utterly plain and ordinary and you should behave as such.” Gwyn kept walking although her shoulders sagged. She knew she wasn’t special – had never thought herself better than anyone else. But she also knew she wasn’t ordinary. She had been training in combat for more than a year. She counted some of the most powerful fae in Prythian among her friends. She had won the Illyrian Blood Rite.

But Merrill, of course – the cunning white witch – had snagged a claw in one of her buried insecurities and dangled it before her, as if it were on display for all to see. Gwyn still wasn’t comfortable with venturing into the city, for all of her growth and accomplishments. She walked proudly most days with a smile pulling at her lips, secure in her body and strength and heart. But somehow Merrill always knew what to say, where to push and prod. She had joked with Nesta that she must be daemati and would just gaze into Gwyn’s mind as if it were her own.

Nesta had just said she was a bitchy old crone stuck in a fae body, doomed to live for a near-eternity, and she was just bitter about being alive for so long.

The priestess grinned to herself as she went in search of… well, anyone. She pictured the list of females that she would have to check off, one by one, to ensure she found the missing volume. She was nimbly navigating the stacks when a familiar voice reached her.

“Gwyn! Somehow I knew I’d find you still here.” Gwyn paused and turned toward Nesta’s call, smiling wide at her Valkyrie sister. She noticed how the eldest Archeron had started wearing her hair down and smiling easily, and Gwyn felt her heart swell to see happiness reflected in those once-frigid eyes.

“Nesta,” she sighed as they met for an embrace. “What brings you down here at this hour?”

“Well you weren’t in your room,” Nesta fixed her with a pointed look before echoing, “at this hour. You’ve been working a lot.” Not an assessment, nor an observation. Just a statement to the priestess, a signal that she was onto her.

Gwyn flashed the most convincing serene smile she could muster and beckoned for her friend to walk with her. If Merrill caught her dilly-dallying she was as good as dead. “Merrill has been very demanding lately. Spending more time here helps me accomplish more and helps me make sure she gets what she needs.” She avoided Nesta’s skeptical reaction, knowing full well the look in those eyes would burn right through her defenses.

“So… you’re working yourself to exhaustion to appease that witch?”

Gwyn couldn’t very well admit that she needed to stay occupied, or that her exhaustion wasn’t just because of long working hours.

“You know how much I value her research, Nesta. It’s worth a little extra effort.” The two warriors continued to wander through the stacks, Gwyn making sure to eyeball every stray pile of books in search of volume three of The Continent.

“Well, tomorrow night you’re taking off,” Nesta mused, breaking the companionable silence. The young priestess halted, mouth opening to argue. “You’re spending the night with Emerie and me.”

“Nesta –“

“No, Gwyn. You’ve been working constantly, barely talking to us after training. We miss you.” She gave Gwyn the most un-Nesta-like face, pouting her lower lip and widening those ice-gray eyes. “Pretty please, Gwynnie?”

“Oh you know I hate when you call me that,” Gwyn huffed. But her nose crinkled with her grin as she reached up and pinched her friend’s cheek. “How could I say no to that face, though?” The Valkyries giggled together and Nesta leaned in to kiss her sister’s cheek.

“Perfect. Six o’clock, the House library. We’ll have dinner and dessert and books and Mother knows what else.” Gwyn smiled as Nesta gave her a look. “Don’t work too late, Gwyn. You’re tired. I can tell.”

“Oh, quit worrying you busybody,” she shooed Nesta away as she stuck out her tongue. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

~~~

Azriel paced around the group of novices, shrewdly observing footwork, weight distribution, and body position as they moved through their stretching and grounding exercises. Despite his neutral expression he was relatively impressed. It wasn’t like him to offer praise in the training ring – that was more Cassian’s and Gwyn’s nature – but he could acknowledge consistent improvement he was seeing.

“Alright, take a break,” he let his voice rise into the summer afternoon. “Get some water. We’ll start working core in a few minutes.” The shadowsinger quirked his lip as he ignored their groans and strode over to the other side of the training ring, where his shadows had been pulling him. They had been particularly insistent since he returned to training, eager to be nearer to a certain priestess after so long apart. Cassian stood, arms crossed, observing the sparring matches between the advance females. Gwyn and Nesta were a blur of punches, feints, and footwork as Azriel stopped next to the general.

“Berdara is sluggish. Watch,” Cassian muttered, and Az forced his gaze toward that ribbon-tied hair shining like copper in the sun. Even with her face red with exertion he could see the bruise-like circles under her eyes and the tightness in her features. Her breathing was ragged, shoulders slouched, weight too far on her heels.

“She’s dropped her left elbow every time she side-steps. She’s lucky Nesta hasn’t targeted that shoulder.” Azriel tried to sound like the seasoned teacher and watchful warrior, not belying the concern blooming within him.

“She’s lucky she’s talented enough with hand-to-hand. If they had weapons I would sideline her,” the general growled, frustrated. “It’s not safe for her to fight in that condition.” As soon as he said it Nesta’s foot connected with Gwyn’s shoulder. She swiped the priestess’ feet out from under her as she staggered and she fell with a resounding thud on her back. Azriel winced as he tried to control his twirling shadows – they wanted to go to her, to make sure she was okay. It was an effort not to give in to them.

“Water, you two!” Cassian called over as Nesta and Emerie pulled Gwyn to her feet. The spymaster’s eyes narrowed as he watched her. She bent over, hands braced on her knees, panting. Likely that fall had knocked the wind out of her. He looked up in time to see Nesta approaching, water in hand.

“Well fought, Archeron.” Azriel dipped his chin, acknowledging her effort.

“No. I’m not going to claim that victory.” She shook her head before looking to her mate. “She’s not herself.”

The shadowsinger bristled and his shadows seemed to twitch around him.

“What’s going on with her, then?” Cassian asked.

“I’m not sure. I know she’s working double shifts in the library. I’m not sure how she’s sleeping but she seems tired.” Nesta looked between the two Illyrians. “Even if she’s sleeping fine, spending extra time getting berated by Merrill can’t be healthy.”

Azriel grimaced. The priestess – Merrill – had a reputation, to be sure. And to hear that Gwyn was putting herself under so much stress was alarming. He glanced back across the ring and studied her. No laughter, no shining smile.

“I’ve staged an intervention for tonight. She’s spending the night here with me and Emerie.” Azriel felt Nesta’s eyes on him as she spoke. “We’ll get to the bottom of it.” When he dared to glance to the side he found them both with shrewd stares centered on him.

“What?” He knew his attempt at nonchalance was pitiful.

“Nothing to offer, Azriel? No thoughts you’d like to share?” Nesta raised her brow to challenge him. Azriel held his mask firmly in place, stoic and cold. But his chest was a chasm, guilt rushing in like a waterfall. He knew… he knew the changes they were seeing were because of him. He turned unseeing eyes across the ring, struggling to find a place to focus. But that copper-spun hair shining in the heat of the afternoon grounded him, a tether to reality. He couldn’t get the sound of her crying out of his head as he took in her wan features and sagging posture. Smoky tendrils settled over his shoulders in resignation.

He had been a fool. A coward.

He had been wrong to walk away.

Azriel turned from Cassian and his mate without a word, ignoring the questioning gazes and the racing thoughts. Instead he slipped into that quiet, observant, demanding presence with the females under his charge.

“Alright, ladies. You’ve had long enough. Time for core.”

He didn’t even grin like he usually did when they begrudgingly obeyed, his mind too full and his soul too empty.

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[multifandomgirl-us]

Johnny Don't Leave Me

Slightly based off the song Bust Your Kneecaps by Pomplamoose

link to song X

Terry has to do some undercover work as John Ludwig and it involves getting close to you, the daughter of one of the biggest mafia bosses around. He has been undercover for a couple years now and thinks he finally has enough evidence to stop pretending.

Disclaimer: Terry in Batman Beyond is 16 years old but in this story he is 22 when he meets the reader and about 24 when the incident happens and they confront each other again.

Undercover!Terry x Mafia!reader

The sparkling diamond ring sat on the left hand ring finger perfectly. The sunshine reflecting off of it was blinding to those not used to it. You have been admiring it for the last half hour while you sat waiting for your appointment at the bridal shop. A slight smile has stayed permanent on your lips ever since the proposal from your now fiance John Ludwig.

You and John had met at a coffee shop that you and your family owned. Although coffee wasn't the only thing your small family business dealt with, that is where you spent most of your time. John had walked in one day while you were on break and asked to sit with you even though there were other tables open. From there he proceeded to woo you and you had fallen in love with him. A couple years passed and he had asked for your hand in marriage. You of course said yes and he promised to love you forever.

The wedding preparations were going as smooth as they could but you had almost forgotten one thing: the dress. Hence the appointment today at the shop. With you was your cousins Anna and Amber who were the closest thing you had to sisters. You were the only child as your mom had passed away giving birth to you. With you being the only child, you were also your father's little princess and he and the family would hurt anyone or anything that dared to lay a finger on you in the wrong way. This caused suitor after suitor to flee and for you to be single for most of your life. The only one who decided he could handle your family and you was John, or Johnny as you like to call him. He made it through your first date and more importantly he made it through being introduced to your father which is where most of them ran off.

"Y/N, we're ready for you if you will just follow me," the sales representative said, approaching your small group.

“Of course.”

As you walked, you gazed around at the white Victorian style walls lined with pictures of models in each frame wearing some of the dresses available in the boutique. Luckily for you, you knew what style of dress you wanted and had contacted the shop in order to have the style pulled right away and put in your changing room.

All of the extravagant dresses lined the wall, hanging by the rod that was fastened across the wall. Dress after dress, almost none of them felt right to you, they didn't give you that wow, until about three dresses from the last did you find the one for you.

You weren’t a traditional woman so the whole 'white dress for the wedding day' was not for you. Your power colors were red and black and that is what you were going to stick with. Your final decision was a flowing red dress with a deep v-neck and black accents on the bodice. The train of the dress was longer than the dress itself and you found a red lace veil with a tiara to match. The final preparations for your wedding were now complete and you could not wait to marry the love of your life.

-Time skip-

“Do you John Ludwig take Y/N to be your lawfully wedded wife? If so, say ‘I do’,” the priest spoke. At that moment, the usually non-existent smile appeared on John’s face and he let go of your hands. Your smile vanishes and instant panic sets in.

“I don’t,” John states with relief. After he spoke those words, you regretted your ‘no weapons’ rule that you put in place. Besides the pain and sadness running through your mind was the urge to hurt John.

“Get down on the ground!” The sound of multiple police officers and the doors to the chapel slamming open were all muffled to you as the only thing on your mind was getting revenge. Unfortunately for you, revenge would have to wait as John was nowhere to be seen and the friends and family who were gracious enough to attend your wedding were either being escorted out in handcuffs or running away. As most of the police were being distracted with your guests, you took your chance to escape. There was no way you could get your revenge if you were locked up.

Although those who were unlucky enough to not get away wouldn’t be locked up for long, you were still going to have to wait for the rest of your family to get out to carry out your plans. You used this time to gather resources and information on who this John character was and any family he had. He made it personal so it was only right for you to attack him on a personal level as well.

-Time skip-

Months of cyber-stalking research and actual stalking observance had led you to the true identity of the man you knew as John Ludwig. Which leads you to your current situation. The sound of guns being fired resounds throughout the warehouse, covering the sound of grunts and punches being thrown at the bat who caused all this. John, who you discovered was actually the Bat in disguise, was currently giving and receiving punches. Unfortunately for your men, it was more giving than receiving. Over half of your men in the room were getting their asses handed to them and the other half were still working on loading the “cargo” or were unconscious.

You had gotten permission from your father and gathered the men he considered “disposable” and created this whole thing. The crates being loaded were just left over boxes from previous shipments in order to not lose any actual precious cargo. The men were just some of the newbies that had joined. This whole thing was all a charade to get the Bat to you and clearly, it worked. Even if the overall heist did not work out and he found out it was a hoax, you had a plan B which was more devious than you wished to go but a girl’s gotta do what a girls gotta do.

Majority of your men had been knocked out when you decided to reveal yourself to Batman. “Well, well, well. Isn’t it Batman, or would you rather I called you John, or even better yet, Terry?” you took slow calculated steps towards the man in the skintight batsuit. As you said his real name, you saw the whites of the mask where his eyes would be widen slightly.

“Wha-, mhmm, What do you mean, who’s Terry?” the Bat asked.

“Don’t play dumb with me Terry McGinnis. When you destroyed a day that was supposed to be special for me you made it personal. So, I made sure to find out personal things about the supposed John Ludwig who to my surprise does not exist. See when the cops took over and arrested my family and friends on our wedding day. I just so happened to see the oh so familiar silhouette of Batman. Now, it was pretty obvious that either John knew the Bat or was him. I did some digging and to my surprise, found your real name is not John Ludwig, but Terry McGinnis. Your reaction to being called Terry was just the confirmation that it is you. Lucky for me, I found out everything I could about you. Like your brother Max who lives with your mom, how your dad died, or even past girlfriends like Melanie better known as 10 and Dana, your highschool sweetheart. There is nothing that you can hide from me Terry. Not when you messed with my family.” By the time you were done with your spiel, you were within arms reach of Terry. He saw this as an opportunity to grab you and shove you against the closest wall-like object to the two of you. This so happened to be one of the pallets which had a loose box on the top. The box dropped at the impact, bursting open to reveal packing peanuts and crumpled up pieces of paper.

Terry looked down at the mess just made and then back at you, “this was all just some ruse, there was no shipment going out tonight was there?”

“Wow, great detective work,” you deadpanned.

“You were really so obsessed with the idea of revenge that you created this whole scheme. Even if John Ludwig did exist, the chances of the both of you divorcing is high. All of this for a ruined wedding. That’s pathetic.”

“Yes, I did. But not just for a ruined wedding. It’s for the loss of trust, the family that was locked up, the family that was shot while being apprehended, and for messing with my emotions. I loved you and the day of the wedding is when I was shown that you had no care for me at all. I tried to stay out of my father’s business, I was trying to get out of my family because I didn’t want to subject you, subject John, to my messed up family. Turns out this family, my family, is the only group of people worth trusting. Because when you broke my heart, they did everything they could to help me even while dealing with the deaths and detainments of their own. It may be pathetic to you but you are the one who pushed me to my breaking point. Anything I do now, is your fault. Remember that, Terry McGinnis.” As much as you wanted your revenge to happen at that moment, you knew that it would be stupid and that you would be overpowered. Terry has had years of training and you are just getting started. You would get your revenge in due time but for now the psychological toll of what you would be doing in the future was enough for you.

soooooo this was long overdue... sorry

also thank you to @offendedfishnoises for continuous motivation to write this and for looking it over for me! <3

[translations-by-aiimee]

Dig a Grave to Dig Out a Ghost - Chapter 30

Original Title: 挖坟挖出鬼

Genres: Drama, Horror, Mystery, Supernatural, Yaoi

This translation is based on multiple MTLs and my own limited knowledge of Chinese characters. If I have made any egregious mistakes, please let me know.

Chapter Index

Chapter 30

Is she calling me? Lin Yan nodded his head in a daze. His mind was spinning, his legs were weak like he was stepping on cotton. The light in the living room dimmed even darker. Wind blew in from the window. His hair was still slightly wet from the shower and the cold wind made his head go numb.

"Why doesn't it look like you?" Lin Yan asked.

The little girl struck a big cross across the face in the drawing with a black crayon, a thick black bar slashing across her teeth: "Why doesn't it look like me? This is how I looked when I died."

"Brother." The little girl stood up. She tilted her head and stared at Lin Yan. Her head was crookedly rested on her right shoulder, but her thumb was still in her mouth. When she took it out after a while, the top part was gone, the nail chewed halfway down her finger. The girl grinned, her mouth full of scarlet blood flowing past her lips.

"Brother, follow me, follow me." The little girl threw the crayon aside. She tugged on Lin Yan's hand and dragged him towards the bathroom: "I'll show you what I looked like when I died, it was beautiful."

Lin Yan muddled behind her. He instinctively sensed something was wrong, but he couldn't tell what it was. His head felt like a steel nail was being nailed into it, throbbing intensely.

Why was the wind so strong? Did he forget to close the windows?

"My brother bought me new clothes and then I died, hehe. Grandma is dead, Grandpa is also dead. Everyone is dead." The little girl took Lin Yan's hand and jumped forward. The braid on the back of her head was tied with a faded pink string. The bow was coming undone and the long string was stretched out and hung behind her head. "Brother, you are dying too. I'll draw a picture for you too when you die."

"Brother, hee hee, come with us." The little girl pulled the old padded jacket on her body. Her head became even more crooked as if it would accidentally fall off. "Come on, hurry. We have to catch up."

His vision was distorted. The dark corridor looked like a giant beast's gaping mouth. Lin Yan quickened his pace and suddenly kicked something with his toes. Lin Yan subconsciously climbed onto it and went up onto a platform. It was so cold, so windy. . .

Why wasn't he there yet?

"Lin Yan!" An anxious voice sounded like it came from another world, a distant echo: "Come back."

It was a familiar voice. Lin Yan twisted his stiff neck and tried to look back, but the little girl grabbed his wrist harshly and yanked him forward: "It's too late, hurry up."

Lin Yan nodded and took a staggering step forward, but his foot didn't land on anything and he lost his balance and fell. As soon as he fell forward, a huge resistance suddenly came from his torso, aggressively holding his waist. The fresh scent of shower gel jolted him back to his senses as if he had suddenly awakened from a nightmare. He looked around in confusion and saw that the old movie-like dark surroundings had returned to their usual appearance. The little girl was gone. Lin Yan looked down. The scene in front of him left him utterly speechless, only able to suck in a sharp breath.

He was standing on the windowsill in his bedroom. The window was wide open, the curtains were billowing out in the night wind, rustling and rattling. Half of his body had already stepped out. Looking down the outer wall of the apartment building, the flowerbeds and dark shadows of the trees seemed to stretch towards him on the twelfth floor. Two hazy figures in the garden were looking up and waving at him. One was the little girl in the old cotton jacket, and the one holding her hand was the second was the soul that they hadn't been able to recover today, Second Immortal Gu!

"We're dead, we're all dead, and you're going to die too." The little girl's voice echoed in his head: "Hurry up, you have to catch up to us."

"Xiao Yu, Xiao Yu!" Lin Yan yelled out in despair. He instinctively backed away and slammed into the arms of someone behind him. The hand hooked around his waist squeezed tighter, spinning him around. The deep voice repeated over and over again: "I'm here, I'm here."

That cold body had never been as warm as it was now. Shocked, Lin Yan buried his face in Xiao Yu's chest, but Xiao Yu didn't reciprocate intimately. He immediately led Lin Yan down the window sill and closed it. He stared at the flower bed on the ground and frowned.

Lin Yan looked at Xiao Yu's profile. His serious expression made him almost forget for a minute that Xiao Yu was a ghost. Lin Yan pursed his lips. He felt that he must be really disturbed to come up with the idea of letting him hold him for a while longer.

After shaking his head to drive the weird idea from his mind, he leaned on the windowsill and looked down. The green courtyard was surrounded by trees and the tiled path was empty. Second Immortal Gu and the little girl were gone.

"The little girl and the old lady were standing down there just now." Lin Yan stammered. "They waved to me. . ."

"I can't see them." Xiao Yu's expression was serious. and he raised his hand to straighten out his damp hair. Raising his hand to fix his wet hair, Lin Yan realized that he seemed to have rushed straight out of the bathtub. His clothes hanging loosely on his body, exposing his marble-like chest. Lin Yan felt himself blush and hurriedly turned his head to the side to hide it.

"They're not like me." Xiao Yu closed the curtains. "Don't go too far away from me."

Lin Yan was silent for a while then asked softly: ". . . how are they not the same?"

Xiao Yu didn't answer. He took a deep look at him and abruptly dragged Lin Yan from the bedroom back to the living room and pressed him into the sofa. Just when Lin Yan thought he was going to force himself on him again, Xiao Yu let go. He picked up the ancient books that had fallen on the ground and shoved them at him. He said seriously: "Learn these."

"Dude, are you kidding. . ." Lin Yan swept through the pages of the books, glancing at a large string of unheard-of terms. He couldn't help but let out a pathetic laugh: "Putting aside the fact that there's no way I can get through all of these, even if I look up each individual word to understand what it meant, I can't become a Daoist priest in one day."

Xiao Yu was silent for a while and said lightly: "If I leave one day, you have to know how to protect yourself."

Xiao Yu's hands pressed on his knees as he spoke, his demeanour as tame and gentle as usual, but something seemed different. Lin Yan hesitantly asked him in a low voice: "Are you going to leave?"

"Haven't you been looking forward to it?" Xiao Yu replied coldly.

Lin Yan didn't know what to say. He raised his hand and gently touched his face. His delicate and cold skin felt like fine porcelain. He slowly rested his palm on his face and stroked his jaw. Xiao Yu didn't shy away, quietly lying on Lin Yan’s knees. Just when Lin Yan thought he was asleep and was going to take him back to the bedroom, Xiao Yu suddenly shot up. He spread open the book on Lin Yan’s lap and stared at him calmly, eyes almost sad.

"You really want me to learn this?" Lin Yan asked in surprise.

Xiao Yu nodded. Lin Yan still wanted to argue, but when he saw his serious expression, he swallowed his retorts.

The books from the online store covered almost every subject. Not only was there I Ching Feng Shui, the Five Elements of Yin and Yang, Astrology and Geomancy, Tomb Charms Guide, Qimen Dunjia*, but even calling back souls to raise corpses so they could continue their lives. Some of the books were reasonable and well-founded, but most of them contradicted themselves. The authors were shooting themselves in the foot trying to sound all-knowing with all the contradicting information. The more Lin Yan read, the more nonsensical it all seemed. He yawned sleepily. He had drunk three cups of coffee overnight and smoked almost a full pack of cigarettes without finding anything. Every time he wanted to stop. he was forced to continue by Xiao Yu's murderous eyes. He wasn't allowed to sleep at all until dawn.

*(T/N: 奇门遁甲 - a type of divination)

Feudal superstition kills people. People need to be selective about what they absorb from traditional culture. Keep the essence stuff and discard the rest. Lin Yan vaguely remembered his junior high Chinese history textbooks. He muttered that after years of atheistic education, he was forced to go to Liangshan* by a ghost.

*(T/N: 梁山 - this is where the Daoist heroes from the Water Margin were from. So kind of like a land of heavy spiritualism)

If someone really wanted to learn something, you can’t eat one bite to become a fat guy*. Lin Yan lazily lay on Xiao Yu's lap, his cold palm stroking his shoulders down to his waist. After getting used to the coldness of his body, he felt very at ease. Lin Yan huddled up on the sofa and all the symbols and phrases in the book appeared in his mind; so much Yin and Yang, the sun rises in the east, how to disrupt a nightmare, avoid bad luck. . .

*(T/N: 一口吃成个胖子 - an idiom that means basically it's not going to happen all at once)

He slowly nodded off as the dawn sky began to lighten.

The next few days were extremely hard. In addition to visiting the young Daoist priest in the hospital every day at lunch with Yin Zhou, Lin Yan spent almost all his time buried in a variety of old books. Xiao Yu seemed determined to train him to become a Daoist master. On the table were large stacks of white paper, each one scrawled with odd incantations taken from the books. Some of them weren't even in Chinese. He could only trace them with a pencil, noting the patterns and corresponding them with their intended purpose.

The worst thing was that he had no way of experimenting with the effects of these charms. Lin Yan lay on the table and stared at Xiao Yu's back, reluctantly thinking that the only thing he had as a test subject was this ghost. But no matter what talisman he tried, there was no reaction. After trying more than a dozen, Lin Yan's patience had finally worn out. He uncontrollably swept the books onto the ground. He slammed his hands on the table and yelled at Xiao Yu: "Are you fucking playing with me?"

Xiao Yu wasn't angry. He patiently picked the books off the ground, turning back to where they had been and placed them in front of Lin Yan. He stepped aside and looked at him quietly. Lin Yan felt like a dumb firecracker, extinguished by a pot of water before he had the chance to explode. It happened to rain for several days, the sound of rain and the sound of pages turning made the house extremely quiet. Lin Yan, for the thousandth time, wrote out notes on geomancy. Xiao Yu had more patience than him. No matter how long Lin Yan sat at his desk, Xiao Yu stayed beside him for as long as he could. Every time Lin Yan turned around, their eyes would meet. He had given up on the idea of slacking off. He lit a cigarette and continued to bury himself in the pile of books.

"You have been sitting here with me for ages, don't you feel bored?" Lin Yan sighed. "The remote is on the table and there's a notebook in my room. I'll teach you how to use it. This is also your home. You don't need to be so polite with me."

"There's some pens and ink. You'll have to use it yourself. You can write or paint anything you want. I don't have that kind of talent anyways. I won't be able to tell if it's bad." Lin Yan chatted up and laughed a bit. "It's a bit like filming a TV series."

He still didn't answer. The whole room seemed to grow mouldy in the rainy weather. Coupled with the chilly aura radiating from Xiao Yu's body, Lin Yan felt that he had become a mushroom growing in one of the damp corners. Before Xiao Yu could speak, he always liked to hug him whenever he had the opportunity. Now that he had regained some consciousness, he didn't touch him as much. He just watched from behind, the silence suffocating and making Lin Yan somewhat uneasy.

[yikesharringrove]

I both really want to read a conversion camp fic and really fucking DONT lol but I trust you to do it well and not absolutely destroy us so... I am asking for you to write the conversion camp fic please.

Oh, my plan is to absolutely destroy you all with this one.

This is modern bc it wasn’t gonna be but then I wrote a part and it kinda had to be lol

TW: religion, homophobia, transphobia (nd Steve), conversion camp, anxiety, depression, physical abuse, the word r*pe is thrown around, suicidal ideations, basically, it’s a DOOZY

Seriously, this shit gets DARK. I have A LOT of untapped emotions.

But it has a happy ending, don’t worry

-

Steve’s hands were shaking as they dug through his bag.

They had already pulled out the eyeshadow palette he had tried to sneak in, needed something to make himself feel okay in this inevitable Hell.

“Did you receive our guidelines?” They had found the lipstick he had shoved in one of his shoes. “We specifically outlined prohibited items.” He took a shaky breath. “Your perversion is much deeper than anticipated, Mr. Harrington.” He just nodded.

He was shuffled about, led to a cold blank room.

His first meeting with a conversion specialist.

“What is your infatuation with women’s things?” The man’s voice made Steve feel like there was cold water dripping down his back.

“I just like pretty things.”

“Why do you deny your manhood?”

“I don’t.”

“You say that, but you do. Every time you pretend you’re a woman-”

“I don’t pretend I’m a woman. I just like makeup and stuff.” He gave Steve a disgusted look.

“By denying your true self, you have turned your back on God. You have allowed the devil to infiltrate your soul, to convince you that these perversions are okay.” He looked down at the paper in his lap, the forms Steve had been forced to sit and fill out with his parents. “You were not close with your father, were you?”

“Um, no. Not really.”

“So you pushed away your male role model?”

“He pushed me away, more like.” The man pursed his lips.

“A father does not push away his son unless there is something evil within him. A father can always tell when there is something wrong, something disgusting in his offspring.” He stood up, towering over Steve.

“You are disgusting, Steven Harrington. You are perverse and foul. You turn your back on your Creator. But you are not without a savior. You can be saved. Denounce the devil that tempts you to this life. Follow your savior, and He will lead you to safety.” He held out his hand. Steve took a breath, and shook it.

-

Steve’s first day was a fucking nightmare.

He was led to his room, a small room with two bunked beds and no doors. He was told he’d have three roommates, and if they were caught touching one another, the punishment would be painful.

And then it was group therapy.

He sat in a circle with ten of the other boys from the program. They were forced to discuss every attraction they had ever felt to anyone besides women. They were forced to discuss sexual encounters they had had with men, and call themselves disgusting.

And as it was Steve’s turn, and he talked about wearing panties, and fingering himself, and sucking Tommy’s dick, and he felt disgusting.

At dinner he met one of his roommates, and his heart sank.

“Where’d they scrape you up?” The guy was fucking gorgeous.

“Indiana.”

“And you just a homo? Or...?” The guy’s voice trailed off as he looked Steve up and down. “You one a’ them crossdressers, too?” Steve flushed deeply.

“How, how did you know?”

“Because you look like they got to you already. Means they got something on you. Make you feel real bad about yourself.”

“How, how long have you been here?”

“Long enough. Seen plenty a’ boys come and go. Some cured, some just a lost cause.” He was so nonchalant about the whole thing.

“Why, why so long?” He grinned at Steve, sharp and beautiful.

“Because I’m immune, Pretty Boy.” Steve’s breath hitched. The guy licked over his teeth. “Can’t beat the gay outta me if they tried. And they fuckin’ have.”

“But why, why don’t you want to change? I mean, they’re, they’re right.” His blue eyes went cold.

“They got you deep. Damn, you might be the quickest turn around I’ve ever seen.”

“I just, I don’t want to be wrong anymore.” He leaned closer to Steve.

“You have never been wrong.” Steve felt like he was gonna cry.

A firm hand clapped down on Steve’s shoulder.

“William, I hope you’re treating our new guest nicely.” William’s face fell immediately.

“Yes, Father.” Steve looked up to see a priest holding onto him. His hair was greying and neat. His eyes were cold and dead.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to take Steven with me.” Steve followed him, eyes downcast, all the way to his office. “Steven, my name is Father Andrew. I’m here to help you.” Steve didn’t like his smile. “We’re going to meet everyday at 8:30 pm for your therapy.”

He pulled out a folder from the bottom drawer of his desk. He placed a photograph in front of Steve with a flourish.

It was porn.

It was fucking gay porn.

He stood in front of Steve, leaning against the desk, off to the side of the image.

“Tell me what you see here.” One of the men had dark hair. He was being taken from behind by the other man, his blond hair and bright eyes stirred something in Steve.

“Two men. Having sex.”

He didn’t see Father Andrew’s hand, just heard the crack of it against his cheek.

His eyes watered, his cheek burned.

“What do you see?”

“Two perverts.”

“What are they doing?”

“Defiling one another.”

“Good, Steven. You’re learning.”

He placed another photograph down. This time, the man being fucked had a full face of makeup, tears making the dark eyeliner run as he was on his back, hands cuffed to the bed. The man fucking him was smirking at the camera, tongue between his teeth.

“How does this make you feel?”

“Disgusted.”

“Why?”

“That they, they would touch each other like that.”

“Do you have fantasies like this? Of being tied up by another man? Raped by another man?”

And the answer, the answer was technically yes. He had plenty of fantasies of being tied up, taken rough, taken dirty.

But rape. That’s a strong fucking word.

“No, Father.” Another crack. Another slap.

“Lying is a sin, Steven.”

“I, I don’t want to be, to be raped.” Another slap.

“Lying is a sin, Steven.”

“Yes, yes Father. I have had fantasies.”

“These are not fantasies, these are perversions planted in your mind by demons, by the devil trying to pull you away from Christ our Lord. Do not let these demons lead you astray.”

He pulled out another picture.

Steve’s heart fucking stopped.

It was a picture of himself. A nude he had taken for Tommy.

He was wearing pretty lingerie, pouting to the camera. He remembers taking it, remembers putting on his makeup, posing over and over until he took one he liked. They must’ve gone through his phone, through his texts.

“Why do you dress like a woman?”

“Be-because I’m disgusting.” And the thing is, Steve had been told plenty of times that day that he’s disgusting, and he had begun to believe it.

“Good, Steven. You are disgusting. Do you believe you’re a woman?”

“No, Father.”

“Then why have you been experimenting with women’s things?”

“I believed I wasn’t a man.”

“And are you a man?”

“Yes, Father.”

“God made you a man.”

“Yes, Father.” Steve still didn’t like his smile.

He switched the image.

And it was another one of his nudes. This time he was in a skirt, kneeling with his back to the mirror, one hand spreading his cheeks, showing off the silver plug in his ass.

He even remembers the text he had sent with it.

Tommy had been studying for a test, so Steve sent that picture and said but im lonely :( and Tommy had replied I’ll be there in twenty.

“Why do you have an obsession with your anus?” Steve could feel the blood drain from his face.

“I, uh, it feels good.” Another slap.

“How does spitting in the face of your Heavenly Father feel good, Steven? Sodomy does not feel good.” Another slap. Steve’s face felt like it was on fire.

“I’m sorry, Father. I am vile, and disgusting.” Steve was sobbing, felt so fucking pathetic, trying to look anywhere but the printed image of himself.

“I think that’s enough for tonight. I expect you here tomorrow after dinner.”

Steve fucking ran back to his room.

The other boys were asleep. He climbed into the top bunk, curling into himself.

He felt disgusting, he felt foul and wrong and bad.

He tried to stifle his sobs into his pillow, the scratchy case muffling his panic attack.

“Hey, Stevie.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll try to be quiet.” There was a sigh, breath fanning over his face.

And then the boy from earlier was swinging himself into bed with him, curling against him.

“They said-”

“I know exactly what times they patrol. I’ll leave your bed before then.” He sighed. “First night’s always the hardest. You just gotta get through. Tell them what they wanna hear, but remember that they’re fucking wrong. You are valid, and real. Being gay is not disgusting.”

Steve curled into him, letting himself be comforted.

“Thank you. Thank you, William.”

“Oh, Christ. Call me Billy.”

“Thank you, Billy.”

-

As time passed, it was easy to retreat into himself.

He met with Father Andrew every night, got slapped and hit when his answers weren’t condemning enough.

But each night, Billy would crawl into bed with him, would hold him when he broke down.

The kiss was inevitable.

It happened after Steve had an extreme day, the beating he received when he had admitted to being nonbinary, that he had asked his friends at home to use other pronouns.

And Billy had said you’re perfect the way you are, Sweet Thing.

And Steve kissed him.

And Steve wanted to die.

-

“Forgive me, Father. For I have sinned.” Steve took a shaking breath.

He was kneeling in the small confessional.

They had Mass every three days, and confession each Friday.

“It has been one week since my last confession.” He took a deep breath. He needed to get this of his chest, needed to get the punishment he deserved. “Father, I, the feelings have not gone away. There is, there’s a boy, and I, I love him. And I try not to. I try not to look at him, to remember the devil is leading me astray. But Father, I think about him. I think about him often.”

“This is an extremely grievous sin, my son.”

“I know, Father. Please help me. I want to, I want to be pure. To be free of this sin, this temptation.”

“I offer, as penance for your sins, to pray a rosary for each time you have had an evil thought about your fellow man this week. As you ponder the Mysteries of the rosary, consider how God created you, how Jesus died for you, and you wipe your feet on their love.”

“Yes, Father.”

“And our meeting will be arduous tonight, Steven.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Now please, recite the Act of Contrition.”

Steve’s hands shook as he recited the prayer, finishing his confession with Father Andrew.

-

“Now, Steven. You discussed having impure thoughts today.”

Steve’s knees ached from praying the rosary so many times earlier today. He hadn’t eaten, had gone straight to the Chapel after his confession.

He wanted to pray, to cleanse himself.

And he didn’t want to risk seeing Billy.

“Yes, Father.”

“And you mentioned that you love another boy.”

“The devil is trying to make me think it’s love.” Father Andrew smiled his empty smile down at Steve.

“That’s right Steven. Because love cannot exist between two men. Love is a beautiful thing created and given to us by The Lord God.” Father Andrew leaned over Steve, made him shrink back in his seat. “Which is why you are unlovable as you are. You are foul and vile. You may be loved if you change.”

He grabbed Steve’s hair, holding his head still as he slapped his face.

And Steve let him.

He was foul, he was vile.

He deserved the pain.

-

Two months.

That’s how long it took Steve to “graduate”.

He left the facility in clean khakis, a nice sweater his mother had sent him to wear home.

Billy had left a week and a half prior.

He was deemed a lost cause.

Steve’s mother was there to pick him up, hugged him tight and told him how happy she was that he was fixed.

He was quiet as they drove, watching the shadows the summer sun cast on the side of the plain flat road.

“Your father will be pleased. You’ve made such wonderful progress. Free of all those delusions.”

They passed Tommy’s house.

He felt sick.

-

The first thing Steve did when he got home was destroy all his make up.

He took everything feminine from it’s hiding spot in the back of his closet.

He scraped out the eye shadow, smeared the lipstick all over his dresses.

He cut up his lingerie, shoved everything into a black garbage back, driving into town to toss it in the dumpster behind the gas station.

He wanted it away, he wanted it gone. He wanted to be pure.

-

His hands shook as he zipped up the suitcase.

He didn’t have much in there, was planning on taking enough to get him through a little while, then maybe buying some things, some pretty things.

His parents were asleep downstairs, he was planning on being long gone by the time they woke up.

He put on his backpack, taking his wallet and tiptoeing down the stairs, his shoes in his hand.

He had a plan, would drive to the bus station, leave his car there.

Someone will find it, and at that point, he’ll be long gone.

He bought a bus ticket to Chicago, paid in cash and gave a fake name.

He was fucking out of here.

They were fucking out of here.

-

“As I live, and fucking breathe.”

Steve startled as a hand came down on their shoulder.

They startled again when they turned around, came face to face with a ghost from the past.

“B-Billy?” Billy’s hair was longer than it had been at the camp. His smile was lazier, his eyes brighter. Steve’s gut gave an excited little flutter as he looked them up and down.

“You look fuckin’ gorgeous, Pretty Boy.” Steve flushed, adjusting their dress. It was new.

It had been three years since the camp. One year of Steve living in pain, until they packed their shit, and moved to the Golden Coast. They left in the middle of the fucking night, ran away like a scared child, never looking back.

And here was the love of their goddamn life, in some hole in the wall coffee shop in San Fransisco.

“It’s uh, it’s not Pretty Boy, anymore.” Billy’s grin got even wider.

“Thank fuck.” He swung himself into the seat across from Steve’s, upsetting some of the papers they were working on.

“What happened to you, Billy?” Billy’s smiled slipped, just a little.

“My dad was tired a’ paying for that joint if I wasn’t getting better. So he said if I wasn’t fixed in like, a month, he would stop paying, and I would be kicked out. Stayed true to his word. Haven’t seen the bastard since.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Getting kicked outta that place is the best fuckin’ thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“I graduated. Went through the whole thing. Took me a year to realize how fucked up it was.”

“Jesus. They got you deep.” Steve shrugged.

“I’m okay now.”

“Yeah? What’re you doin’?”

“Goin’ to school. Gonna be a counselor. Hopefully work in an elementary school, or something.” Billy’s eyes were bright.

“That’s amazing. Gonna tell all the little queer kids that they’re valid and all that?”

“That’s the goal.” Billy grinned. “What are you doing now? You with anyone?”

“I own a bar, actually. Kind of a dive, but it’s a good time.” He looked at Steve through his lashes. “You should come by, sometime. Be good to see you.”

“I’d like to see you too.”

“And to answer your question, I’m not with anyone. Not right now.” He smirked. “But I could be.” He leaned over the table, drawing one finger down Steve’s hand. “I like seeing you happy. Feel like I only ever saw you cryin’ in that joint.”

“Well, spent a lot of time crying there.”

“For good reason.” Billy took their hand. “It’s really good to see you.”

“Y’know I told Father Andrew I was in love with you. Got beat black and fuckin’ blue for it.” Billy’s face was grave.

“Why’d you do that?”

“Wanted to be fixed. Took me a year to realize I didn’t need that.”

“You stop lovin’ me in that year?”

“Not even in the two after that.” Billy took a shaking breath.

“You know, I uh, I love you too. Always did. It broke my fucking heart to leave you in that place. Was gonna wake you up that night, get you to run away with me. But they took me out, uh, forcibly.”

“Bet you put up a real good fight.”

“Broke Father Ryan’s nose.” Steve let out a burst of laughter, clapping one hand over their mouth.

“I was wondering about that. He had a splint for like, a month.”

“Yeah, well, bastard kept tryin’ to exorcise me. Headbutted him right in the face.”

“Good for you, Bill. Sometimes I wish I could light the whole place on fire.”

“Me too.” Billy took their hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it. “I gotta head, but I wanna see you. Soon. Later today, if you can.”

“Yeah, uh, I’m just doing some homework, but I could stop by the bar tonight? I don’t have shit to do tomorrow.”

“Lemme pick you up. We can go to dinner before I take you to the bar.” They smiled softly at him.

“I’d like that.”

[putflowersinmyhair-callmepretty]

The fate of a nun (Finan x OFC); part 7

GENERAL A/N: Hi there! This story is my first attempt to write a fanfiction. English is not my first language, so feel free to let me know how to improve my writing/language skills 😊 I will try and post a chapter per week, let’s see how it goes! The story takes place in season 3 and you will notice that I have used some of the sequences and dialogues from the tv series, changing them to include my OC. I did try not to be too colloquial and informal with my writing -giving the time of the story- but I preferred to make it more enjoyable and “readable” than realistic, same goes for Finan’s accent. I’m nervous and excited to share my work, hope you enjoy! Bacini, Cate.

A/N: Hiiiii! Sorry for the long break, I’ve been veeeery busy with uni :( Happy New Year and I hope you like this chapter, cause I love it!

Summary: The life of the young novice Aoife completely changes when the Lady of Mercia arrives to the Abbey of Wincelcumb. Oaths, battles and love will turn her in a warrior.

General warnings: Violence, Blood, Strong Language, Smut, Fluff, Graphic description of violence

Chapter’s warning:  Blood and little of Finan in this chapter.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven: Cenric

Abbey of Wincelcumb, Mercia, five years before. The harebells brushed against Aoife’s ankles, leaving an itchy kiss on her soft skin, and she laughed lightly. She had few memories of her mother, but every time the breeze moved her hair, it felt just like her touch. “Quick, quick, child!” Sister Aeskel mumbled patting her back lightly “Always so distracted! God really takes special care of you, I’m surprised you haven’t fallen into a ravine yet.” she growled in her thick Northumbrian accent, but she was trying to suppress a smile. “But you wouldn’t let me die, would you, Sister?” “ Course not! I wouldn’t waste precious help!” Aoife’s cackle was covered by a drumming of hooves, so close that the ground under her naked feet trembled. A beautiful black horse was galloping up the hill, right towards them. “I looked, and behold, a black horse; and he who sat on it had a pair of scales in his hand.” Sister Aeskel cried terrified, but Aoife was not scared, nor believed that the horse was an omen of the apocalypse. As a punch on her stomach, a memory came: a young Aoife was running her small hands on the smooth coat of a horse and her mother was begging her to be careful, a worried look on her ripe, sweet face. “Aoife!” the Sister screamed, pulling her aside just moments before the horse trampled the ground she was standing. It did not stop, running straight towards the Abbey. On its back, a body lay pathetically, like one of those rag dolls sprawled in the corner of her room. “Sister, ‘twas a person!” “I know child, I’m old not blind! Come, quick! Try not to harm yourself until we’re at the Abbey!” There was a library in the nunnery, a square room with the four walls covered with books from floor to ceiling. When she was six, the Abbess forced her to read each of those books. “Books clear your path to Heaven. A full mind is a full soul” she used to say, and at the time Aoife was too scare to disobey; little by little, she started enjoying reading, which pleased the Abbess greatly, and many months before her fourteenth birth she had already read every book in the room. She especially liked the pictures, she would run the tips of her fingers on the lines, her touch light as a feather, careful not to ruin the thin parchment. There was one particular image that intrigued her: a deposition of Christ, his body covered by a thin cloth. The man, lying on the infirmary bed, reminded her of that image. He was sleeping, his breath shallow and heavy. A sheet covered his waist, and a wide and deep wound run down his chest. When Aoife and Sister Aeskel reached the Abbey, the horse was neighing loudly and banging his hooves on the ground. The man had fallen down its back and was now laying on the stairs, a puddle of blood widening under him. Four sisters had hurried him in the nunnery, where Aoife, frozen in horror, had watched Sister Aeskel trying to save his life. “He will live, Aoife.” Sister Aeskel approached her with a motherly smile “Can you please wash him?” She still had his blood under her nails, pressing uncomfortably again her skin and she tried to brush it away on her smock. No matter how hard she tried, she could not take her eyes off the man. He had red hair, messily falling to his broad shoulder, harsh skin burnt by the sun and strong features, with a wide jaw and high cheekbones; she had met men before, bishops, priests and farmers from the village, but no one as handsome as him that even now, passed out and covered in sweat, resembled an angel. She dropped on the chair next to his bed and without thinking about it, took his hand in hers. She knew then that he would be her despair. “Are the ropes tight, Aoife?” She felt weak and feverish, her fingers trembling on the knots. “Aoife!” Sister Aeskel insisted “I need your head to be clear for once.” “They’re tight, Sister.” The nun nodded, gripping nervously the iron poker and pulling it out from the fire. Its red, angry spike made Aoife’s stomach turn. The man’s wound had infected and poking it with burning iron was the only remedy Aeskel knew. “Keep his head still, Aoife.” she ordered. They had moved him on a wooden table, and he was lying unconscious, ankles and wrists tightened with thick ropes. Aoife stuck between his teeth a thick piece of leather, then, with a hand on his cheek and one on his forehead, she kept him down against the wood. “Pray for him, child” Sister Aeskel whispered and pushed the spike in the open wound. There was a moment of celestial peace, then the man squirmed in pain, an animalistic scream exploded from his throat and Aoife was crying, shouting her apologise over his shrieks and she had to push him down with the entire weigh of her body, Aeskel prayers a distant noise in her ears. It lasted not more than a minute, but at the end Aoife was exhausted. Her limbs were shaking violently but she forced herself to pat a fresh cloth on his face, cleaning the sweat and tears from his eyes and skin. His eyelids quivered under her touch and his breath was short but deep, and she smiled gratefully, thanking God for the miracle. And then, she met the palest eyes she had ever seen. The man was awake, for the first time in days, and a weak smile cracked his harsh features. “Are you an angel?” he whispered and passed out again. She entered slowly, careful not to drop the tray with ale and food, while keeping the door open with her hip. “Sir?” she called “I bring food.” He was sitting with his back against the wall, legs stretched and a book on his thighs. He has been awake for a couple of days now, healing faster that she would have expected. Aoife had brought him food since the day he had woken up and he still hadn’t addressed her, and each time she grew more annoyed with the ungrateful man and his surly attitude. He shot her the usual glance, followed by a nod and she stepped closer, putting the tray on the table. She smoothed the creases of her skirt and stood, right in front of him, with her arm crossed. She could not stand ungrateful people, even less being ignored. She felt like she deserved a word of thanks, or at least some kind of acknowledgment. And her sisters too. “Why are you here?” He looked up, an amazed grin on his thin lips “You should change your tone, nun.” She gestured her unveiled head “Clearly, I’m not a nun.” “Why are you living here, then?” “I do not own you an explanation.” “Neither do I.” “I saved your life!” He chuckled coldly “You did not. I clearly remember your pretty face right in front of my eyes, you could not be the one pushing the iron against my flesh, lady.” “But I was the one who took care of you afterwards.” “You expect me to thank you?” Aoife raised her arms exasperated and, with a last venomous look, she left the room. “I apologize, lady.” Aoife did not look up from the herbs she was grinding. She was being difficult, of course, the man’s attitude was annoying, but he had not offended her seriously, not enough to deserve her silence. But, in that world that had stripped her of most of her freedom, her voice was the only power she still owned, and she was allowed to decide who deserved her time. He had not offended her seriously, but he had still been disrespectful and she would not waste another moment being kind to him. “Lay down, lord.” she instructed, and still pushed him down before her words could reach his ears, just because she felt the urge to treat him like a child. God would forgive her, he would even laugh, she was sure of it. Despite her prideful thoughts, she could not help but admire his pale bare torso, the soft blonde hair covering his chest and the bright red line of the healed wound. He had a mark on the base of his neck and the desire to press her lips on that area shook her to her core. “Yeah, just skip this part of the story, would you?” Finan mumbled, eyes fixed on the dancing flames. Aoife blushed, both for the cold breeze and the embarrassment of her words, and nodded quickly. Somewhere, deep in her soul, she acknowledged his jealousy and the small, sinful fairy in her, who enjoyed Finan’s attention more that her Christian education would allow her to, smirked viciously. At some point while she was talking, his hand had dropped in her lap and she had held it since and with every stroke of his rough thumb on the back of her hand, she felt her heart rate speed up. “Of course, yes. Where was I?” She spread the poultice all over his irritated skin, careful not to hurt him. “It shall fasten the healing.” she explained coldly, all her attention fixed on what she was doing. Still, she could not help but look up when his hand closed around hers. The man was already watching her, with a tentative smile, and when he noticed her attention, he retracted his hand quickly and she found herself missing the warmth of his touch on her skin. “Lady, I must apologise for my previous words. I did not intended to offend you.” She scoffed, getting back up and stepping away “You did offended me, lord. You can or cannot tell me who you are, it is not in my powers nor my intentions to force you to tell us what you might desire to keep a secret. And I apologise for demanding it.” She was rushing her words, afraid that if she would stop, she would not find the courage to keep going “However, you own words of thanks and an explanation to my Sisters that had sheltered and took care of you, only with kindness, but you’ve been patronizing us and treating the people that are healing and feeding you with arrogance.” she collected her mortar and pestle “You could be the king of Northumbria, for all I know, but this is the house of God and before him we’re all the same.” she smiled coldly and with a little bow, she walked to the door. “I am no king, lady.” he raised his voice to hopefully stopping her from leaving. She turned around slightly, watching him with her eyebrows raised. “I am no king, lady. I’m just a man and you can call me Cenric. If you’ll allow me, I will tell you my story.” Under his hesitant gaze, she smiled tenderly “Thank you, Cenric. I’d be honoured.” It was a cloudy, calm spring day, but the summer was coming, she could smell it in the breeze. The lord was walking slowly, carefully leaning on a wooden stick she had grossly carved during the night. Sister Aeskel had asked Aoife to take him for a walk and she had more than gladly obey, she was craving any piece of information over the man. He was breathing heavily and Aoife asked him many times if he wanted to rest somewhere for a while, but he was as stubborn as a bull and every time she pointed out his fatigue, he sped up his pace, so she stopped asking, humouring him to prevent his wound to open again. They walked for a while in silence, and she patiently let him enjoy the clear air and peace; wherever he came from, she was sure there was no place as restful as the gardens of the Abbey. Somehow, they ended up in the stables. Cenric’s majestic black horse was the only one in the stalls and was chewing hay slowly. “Poor thing” Aoife said lowly “It must miss running.” She could feel his gaze on her skin “She sure does, she’s always being restless.” he stepped closer and the horse pushed her face against the palm of her owner. Cenric caressed her with long, slow strokes and gestured Aoife to approach them. “Put your hand under her nose, let her smell you.” The horse sniffed her deeply, tickling Aoife’s wrist with her warm breath. She couldn’t help but laugh lightly and the sound amazed the animal that shot her a wary look and then pushed her long face against the girl’s shoulder. The strong, affectionate touch took Aoife by surprise and she stepped back, losing her balance. She felt Cenric’s strong touch against the small of her back, sending shivers down her spine. Aoife held her breath, careful not to break the perfection of that experience. No man had ever touched her before, not even a brush of fingers, and the pressure of Cenric’s hand on her was secure and strong and made her head spin. It was just a moment, though, then he drifted away to run his fingers through the mare’s coat; she mimicked him and it felt like the most precious velvet under her fingertips. “What’s her name?” she asked then timidly, she hoped he would not notice the shortness of her breath and the blush on her full cheeks. She could hear him smile through his words “Godiva.” “Godiva!” Finan turned around shooting a knowing smile to the black mare that was grazing grass a few steps further. “Ye’.” Aoife smiled fondly at the creature “A valuable gift.” “He must have loved you dearly.” Finan noticed, watching her through his thick eyelashes. Aoife could not meet his eyes, fearing that she would break in tears in front of that stupid fire “Shush, let me talk.” “She must have cost a fortune.” “She was gifted to me.” Cenric answered and his amused smirked appeared under Godiva’s neck “You’re a curious little thing, aren’t you?” She smiled brightly “You promised me you would tell me your story.” He chuckled, watching her intensely “Indeed I promised. What do you want to know, lady? You can ask me freely.” “I have to ask?” He raised his eyebrows, a blank expression on his face, and with an exasperated groan she pointed at his chest “Who hurt you? And how? And why?” “So many questions…” “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” He rolled his eyes “I will, you eager woman, but I’m tired and sore. I say we rest for a while.” The sun had begun peeping out from the clouds and its warm kiss tinted Aoife’s face of a dark pink; she took of her shoes and settled her long skirt to cover her naked feet while she sat on the soft grass. She had dragged out from the stables two hay bales, for him to sit on, and was now waiting patiently for him to answer her questions. Knowing exactly, and enjoying greatly, the effect his secrecy had on her, he took his time to get comfortable and enjoy the warm sun, a rarity in his lands. When he reopened his eyes and they got used to the light, he found her already staring at him, with her pretty, fresh face on her bent knees that she was hugging tightly. He smiled again, impressed to still be able to do it; he had tortured her enough and, as hard as it was for him to open up, she had treated him much better that he deserved and, for reason he could only associate with the attractiveness of that young peculiar woman, he was eager to guide her through the lighter path of his dark past. “There’s not much to tell, lady.” “It won’t take long, then.” He was playing with the wood stick and Aoife waited patiently while he collected his thoughts. “My father gave me Godiva.” he finally said, eyes fixed on the grass. “I was seventeen at the time, ready to leave for my first battle against the Danes. He gifted me his best horse because he was certain I would die in that battle and he wanted my last friend to be that majestic horse. I would never forget the surprise on his face when I returned home, alive on Godiva’s back. I left for battle many times after that and I returned each time. I’ve been a warrior for the past seven years and I am certain I’ll be a swordman for the rest of my life.” he patted his chest lightly “And this wound is nothing more than a misunderstanding between swordmen in the ale house down in the village. Warriors are proud people, especially when ale is involved.” he raised his eyes to look at Aoife “I’m sorry if you were expecting a compelling story, lady. My life is not worthy of songs.” She knew he was lying, or at least he was not telling the entire truth, no one would be that much secretive about such normal life. Also, she was just a nun, but she knew that no tenants could afford a horse like that, and she was quite offended he would think she was fool enough to believe his simplistic explanation. Yet, she accepted what he was giving her, hoping that time would also heal his wary soul. “Thank you for talking to me.” He looked up to her, astonished “You’re a peculiar creature, lady.”

“Aoife.” “Pardon?” She shrugged timidly “You keep calling me lady, but I am not. Just call me Aoife.” He tilted his head, in a caricature of a bow “Well then, Aoife. It was a pleasure to walk with you.” “I do not trust him, Sister.” The Abbess was standing at the window of her room, watching, if not spying, young Aoife and that ungodly man. Even from distance, she could see that their hands were brushing against each other. Months had passed since his wound had completely healed, but he had asked permission to extend his stay. “I need God’s forgiveness, Mother” he had said, and the Abbess was in no position to refuse, but she knew, without the slightest doubt, that his soul’s redemption was not the reason of his stay. “I’m not blind, Aeskel, nor a fool. They think they’re outwitting us with their sneaking around during the night, but I’ve seen them.” She turned around, and looked Sister Aeskel with her sternest glance, the other nun nodded cautiously. “We’ve always known we couldn’t force her into becoming a nun; it is not the path God had planned for her.” she reached her Abbess and they watched in silence the shy lovers laugh under the sun of the hottest summer Mercia had experience in a long time. “I’m aware of that, Sister.” the Abbess then broke the silence “But she’s our responsibility and she won’t leave this Abbey with less than the most respectful and god fearing man she deserves.” Aeskel sighed sadly “I do not trust him, Mother.” she admitted “There is something under his perfect appearance that does not convince me.” “You’re freezing, my love.” Cenric’s hands run up and down Aoife’s arms, trying to warm her up; with the sweetest smile, she held his hand, stopping his frantic movement. “It is weird, isn’t it? How hot the days and cold the nights are here.” “You balance it, though.” He trapped a strand of her hair with his long fingers “Cold during the day, the warmest during the night.” In the holy house of God, their love was blossoming like the most beautiful, strongest rose in England; every step was new for Aoife and she had blindly entrusted her soul and heart to his experienced hands. She knew he had known other women, in deeper ways that she had allowed him to know her, but she preferred not to wandered too much around those thoughts, knowing way too well that she could not compare to the beauty and wit of women outside that Church. “You’re insulting yourself, Aoife.” Finan interrupted her again sternly, squeezing her hand “I’ve known my fair number of women…” “Not interested to know those stories…” “Let me finish” he scowled her and she silenced, and his harsh features softened in the tiniest smile “I’ve known my fair number of women and your beauty exceeds every man’s desire.” he tapped her temple with two fingers “And your more brilliant than any man, king, priest or warrior, I’ve ever met.” he patted her blushing cheek sweetly “There’s still work to do on your innocence, though. But we’ll get there.” he smirked smugly “Go on with your story.” “You know why I am distant in front of the nuns, Cenric. If the Abbess find out what is going on between us, she will separate us forever.” she caressed his cheek, and his stubble tickled the palm of her hand “She has the power to do so.” “Then come with me!” he exclaimed fiercely, gripping her hair tightly “We shall escape this miserable place and ride back to Wessex, where we could get married.” he embraced her hips, pulling her body against his “And birth children.” “This miserable place is my house.” she protested lightly, yet she could not hide how torn she was. “Do you love me, Aoife?” he whispered on her lips. She did, how can she not love the man, who held her with passion and promised her the freedom and family she had ever longed? And yet again, how could love be such a selfish feeling, was she in love with him or was she tricking herself into believing she did, only because he was the key to the life she had always aspired? Her response to his offer would change forever her path, and she should have reflected more than she actually did. But she was young and hastier that she would have like to admit. So she kissed him, with such force to make him stumble backwards, and whispered “I will come with you.”

“I’m in love, Sister.” Aeskel looked up from the herbarium “Are you now?” “I am.” “You’re just a child, dear.” “Girls younger than me have already birthed children!” The nun stopped what she was doing and sat on a chair “Come, child.” she patted her knees and Aoife chuckled lightly but followed her silent order and sat on them, careful not to hurt the nun. Years had passed since the last time she had been in that position, yet wrapping her arms around the nun’s shoulders felt natural and familiar. Time was leaving its mark on her face, but, behind the deep wrinkles and the patches on her skin, she still was a beautiful woman, with big doe eyes and a pretty nose. “Listen to me, baby.” the woman said, caressing Aoife’s back and hair “Cenric is a good person, but you’ve known him for less than a butterfly’s life.” Aoife’s looked up to heaven, trying not to cry. She knew she was stubborn, and it was too late for the Sister to try and change her mind, she was to leave with Cenric. And yet, her heart was breaking in a million pieces, because escaping that place also meant leaving behind the only family she had ever had. “I cannot explain my heart, Sister. I wish I knew the words to describe such a deep feeling.” She kissed the nun on her forehead “But I leave this place with a burden on my soul.” Aeskel stiffened “Are you to leave?” The girl smiled and stood up “I will forever cherish our time together, Sister.” and left. She had packed her bags too soon. Cenric had instructed her to meet him at the stables, when the moon was at its highest spot in the sky. At dinner, she had excused herself early, as the emotions swirling in her stomach would not let her eat, and at the last lights of sunset she had already packed her few belongings. Surrounded by the silence of the dark, she had watched her feet scrape the wooden floor and waited, long enough for fear to overcome excitement. Luckily, when she was about to reconsider her choice, the moon touched the top of the dome of the sky, and she left, with her light sack and heavy heart. When she reached the stables, the cold had already pierced through her mantle and into her bones and she gladly welcome the warm of the horse’ breath. “Hello my love.” she greeted Godiva, patting her on the neck, “Are you eager to leave?” The horse neighed and pushed against her hand; Aoife grew fonder of Godiva every day and the animal too seemed to prefer her attention to those of everyone else. And so she waited her lover, patting his horse and listening to her heartbeats and the noises of the animals in the night. At some point, she slipped down to the floor and, when the first lights of the day brighten the stables, she was still laying there. No sign of Cenric. “That’s it? He was just gone?” Aoife smiled sorely “Just like fog. Nobody saw him leave or had the guts to tell me that he did, but he was gone.” she chuckled bitterly “The coward took his time to go to my room and leave his weapons as a gift. How generous of him, right?” “I really don’t know how I should answer to that, Aoife.” “You shall not.” she brought her hands to the fire, grazing the flames with the tips of her fingers. “Did you love him, Aoife?” Finan asked, before realizing that he didn’t want to know the answer and the more she thought about it, the more he wanted to pretend like he had not asked anything. She noticed his discomfort and put a hand on his face; her skin was hot and welcoming, and he relaxed under her touch. “Don’t take my silence as uncertainty, Finan. It’s hard for me to interpret my feelings at times, but I’m sure about this. He was handsome and I desired him, but I know now that love is something deeper, it is longing a body as much as a soul and a heart and a mind. I craved his body and the freedom he promised me, but when I closed my eyes and pictured a family and a happy life, he wasn’t part of it.” she shrugged, unsure “Sometimes I wonder where I would be now if he hadn’t left.” “Well, we’ll never know. And I’m glad about that.” Finan smirked smugly, then the sound of footsteps made him turn around. Two companions were approaching to replace them on guard duty. Finan patted Aoife on her back “Come on. Time to sleep.” “Thank God, I’m freezing.” she stretched her limbs and got closer to her friend, to enjoy the warmth of his body until they reached the tents. She hit his hip with hers “Thank you for listening.” He wrapped her shoulders with his strong arm “I have to say, I preferred you when you were quiet, you blabber wee thing.”

“Oy!”

[the-unaligned-player]

Dream: You expect many things.

???: ...

Dream: You expect incendiary rage for the audacity you had in imprisoning me. A mindless entity whose sole mode of action will be destruction and suffering. Less a person and more a force of nature. Because you don’t need to feel bad for a force of nature.

???: ...

Dream: You expect acidic fear for the loss of power you have inflicted upon me. A shaking rotted and wilted flower too broken to even bear acknowledging that anything but itself exists. Still a person yes, but a pitiable one. Broken, and in need of fixing.

???: ...

Dream: You expect hungry greed for anything you would give me. A bird of carrion, a racoon, or a beggar that will beg for and hoard anything it has beyond the limits of sanity, still thinking itself a king. Very much a person, but a laughably pathetic one, unworthy of anything but lowbrow amusement and maybe an Aesop.

???: ...

Dream: You expect calcified will incapable of accepting or acknowledging that it has lost. A republican, an imperium soldier, you. A dethroned king still thinking that it has any authority in his chains. A person yes, and a marvelous one. A perfect example of how narcissism can divorce ones perception from reality.

???: ...

Dream: You expect baseless hope that can’t grasp that it is doomed. A little match girl on the cold winter streets, even with no choir ringing in her ice stuffed ears or light shining upon her frozen solid eyes, still believing everything will be alright. A wonder of self delusion and a sad conclusion to a mind that once perceived all.

???: ...

Dream: You expect bottomless compassion for those that I have hurt. A slave waiting for it’s masters, readily offering to serve anything from service to self mutilation not out of any desire to make amends or earn forgiveness but simply because that is all it knows to do. A perfect example of karma to the puppet master.

???: ...

Dream: You expect sickening love for everyone who stayed with me to the end . A priest, a cultist, a child. A yandere spending their days scrawling art of their loves on the wall in their own blood and making shrines out of their bones such is the fervor of their maddened love. A terrifying picture of utter madness.

???: ...

Dream: I imagine you are disappointed by the reality then. A model prisoner who made no fuss during incarceration, and has made not a singular escape attempt. Only kept his body in shape, and complied with the orders of the warden to letter and spirit with no requests.

???: ...

Dream: My apologies for letting you down my dear. I could act the part if it would please you and not conflict with my standing orders. Do you have any particular requests?

???: ... *Calls for Sam to let them out.*

Dream: Leaving so soon? That’s too bad. I truly thought you were interested in continuing our little chat. Will you be returning soon? I don’t often get visitors.

???: ... *Leaves the prison*

Dream: Well that is too bad. I do hope the return to the madness outside isn’t too harsh on them.

[frizz22]

Heavy is the Head

Hilda doesn’t let Zelda go back under the pretense of the Caligari spell.

Notes: This has been half finished in my drafts for ages, so sorry if it's an old idea. But it always bothered me that no one objected to Zelda going back after saying it was torture... anyway, hope you enjoy! Read on ao3 

Zelda sniffed in distaste as she picked up the bag with what remained of Leviathan. Steeling herself against the nausea roiling through her, Zelda forced her mask back into place.

Going back was the only way. Pretending, pretending to still be under the Caligari spell was the only way to keep them all safe and alive.

Deftly flipping her hair over her shoulder, Zelda sighed. “The things I do for this family.” She quipped, doing her best to sound unaffected by this decision.

As she made to leave, though, Hilda caught her arm. “I can’t.” She shook her head, lips pressed tightly together. “I can’t let you go back, Zelds.” 

Touched by her sister’s concern, Zelda gave her a small smile. “Hildie, I appreciate it, but there’s really no other—"

“We’ll find one.” Her sister interrupted, looking at her earnestly. “You said it was torture. This would be no different, or, or maybe it’d be even worse. I’m not letting you go back there either way.”

Forcing back tears of gratitude, Zelda swallowed hard. “Then what do you suggest we do? Faustus is expecting me back, if I don’t return, he’ll know, and Hell knows what would happen to Ambrose.”

A wicked smile curled her sister’s lips. “Oh, I have just the thing.” Eyes gleaming with rare malice, Hilda took her hand and led Zelda into the greenhouse.

Frowning, Zelda set the bag of mouse remains down and let herself be ushered deeper into the house. “Hilda...” she hedged. As much as she wanted an alternative, if they took too long Faustus would deduce something; he wasn’t an idiot, though he played the part convincingly enough at times.

Hilda held up a finger and flicked her free wrist to gather the supplies she needed. After everything floated to her worktable, Hilda arched a brow at Zelda. “A poppet.” She added, a little unnecessarily, given Zelda had recognized everything from when they made one for Shirley.

She huffed in disbelief. “Well, if it’s not broke...” she mumbled, joining her sister at the table. And it really was quite brilliant. Faustus would never be entrapped by a Caligari spell; he’d be too wary of any musical device after what he’d done to her.

They worked together in near silence, only occasionally asking to be handed an item. When the poppet was done, Hilda held up the tin of ear worms once more. “Take two, just to increase the strength.” She murmured, scowling at the miniature Faustus doll Zelda was holding. “Can’t chance the bastard wriggling his way out somehow.”  

Only too happy to comply, Zelda slipped two worms inside the poppet’s head and sewed it shut as she and Hilda sang the spell.

Once finished, Hilda looked up at her. “And now, we kill him.” She murmured darkly, likely picturing all the gruesome ways they could make Faustus kill himself.

Smiling cruelly, Zelda weighed the poppet in her hand. “No.” She breathed, possibilities flashing through her mind of how else they could approach this. While she wanted to punish Faustus, killing him was too easy, too final. “I have much better plans for him than death.” Feeling lighter than she had since that cursed spell was forced on her, Zelda winked at her sister, picked up the bag full of Leviathan, and teleported away. 

~~~

Faustus looked up from his book when she reappeared. Arching a brow, he marked his spot. “Run into trouble, dearest? It took you some time.”

Daintily placing the bag on his book, smothering a smile at how he sneered at how it leaked onto the pages, Zelda clasped her hands together. “They cloaked the mouse, husband, thinking they were being clever. I found it and dealt with it as you instructed.”

“Of course you did, Zelda.” He stood and rounded the table to stand in front of her. “Because you’re my good girl, aren’t you?” Faustus stroked the back of his fingers along her cheek before slipping his hand into her hair.

And oh, how such an action would have made her feel, even just a week ago, before the spell. Now it took all her self-control not to shred him for daring to touch her.

Carefully keeping her face blank except an empty smile, Zelda nodded despite the nausea growing in her stomach.

“I have something else for you, your Excellency.” Zelda added as Faustus turned to pick up his drink. He hummed and reached for the decanter to refill his glass without looking at her. Letting the Caligari demeanor drop, Zelda stepped up behind him and started to sing into his ear.

The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out, the worms play pinochle on your snout. They eat your eyes, they eat your nose, they eat the jelly between your toes.

The drink fell from Faustus’ hand and he stiffened. Pleased with herself, Zelda rounded her husband and gave him and assessing look.... he was fully bound by her spell.

Lifting her chin, Zelda smirked and moved to settle in his chair, propping her feet up on his desk. “Faustus, dearest,” she mocked the endearment, “pour me a drink.”

Face blank, Faustus moved automatically to fulfill her order.  

As the warmth of victory and revenge spread through her, Zelda lit a cigarette, taking a long, satisfying drag and blowing the smoke into Faustus’ face before she took the drink from him.

“Very good, husband.” She huffed in amusement at the title. “Now, sit and listen like a good little Antipope.” When he complied, Zelda continued. “I entered this marriage for power. And sex,” she admitted, “the sex was incredible and why would I have denied myself? It seemed such a simple marriage, both of us enjoying power and sex so why not get more of each by working together. But you had to go and reach beyond yourself. Tried to turn that power on me.” She tsked and knocked some ash off her cigarette. “You should have known better. Should have known you couldn’t control me, not for long at least. So now, as your punishment, I’ll control you.”

She took a sip and watched Faustus carefully, ensuring no facial tics indicating he wasn’t fully under her spell. Satisfied, she continued. “Only I did it better. Nothing to smash to end my spell... seems I’ve bested you again, Faustus, just like in our academy days.” Zelda arched a brow and took another drag of nicotine. “Sadly, I still need you. Don’t go convincing yourself it’s sentimental, it’s that you’re too powerful to waste. I’d have killed you by now otherwise. No,” she sighed and knocked back the rest of her drink and held out the glass to him, Faustus immediately stood to fill it. “I have to keep you if I want to rule. The witching realm isn’t ready for a witch leader, misogynistic as most warlocks are. So, I’ll rule through you, make sweeping reforms, raise up witches...” she looked off to the side, a small smile tugging her lips as she envisioned the future. Refocusing on the warlock in front of her, Zelda dropped her feet to the ground and stood. “I suppose all your conniving paid off in the end, I’d never be able to make such a difference with a mere High Priest for a husband, an Antipope though...” she lifted a brow and stubbed out her cigarette. “Clean up this mess, Faustus,” she indicated to the bag still leaking mouse fluids on the book, “and then come find me, we have a lot of work to do.” 

~~~

The following years passed smoothly.

Her reforms were questioned at first, but with Antipope Faustus as her mouthpiece the witching realm accepted them as the Dark Lord’s will and adopted them with alacrity and enthusiasm.

Sometimes, to toy with Faustus and gloat, rub his face in how well the witching realm was doing with her as the ruler, Zelda would let him surface—with a number of restrictive spells, of course.

Tonight was one of those times. Zelda had just passed a law stating witches could hold positions of power within their covens and the Churches of Darkness.  

Lounging on the couch in what was technically Faustus’ office, Zelda watched as the warlock struggled against his bounds. “I won’t need you much longer, dear husband.” She informed him, eyes gleaming cruelly. “As I’m sure you’re aware, you’ve praised me highly to both the High Council and the witching realm as the inspiration for all these popular reforms, for the peace we’ve been enjoying. With this new law, I will be the logical choice to become the next Antipope when you meet a sudden and unfortunate end. I’ll mourn you publicly, of course, but then I’ll bravely rally to carry the cause my late husband and I worked so hard to further. The High Council will fall over themselves in their haste to appoint me.”

“You won’t get away with it.” Faustus forced through clenched teeth, eyes a little manic. “You’ll crumble under the power and pressure.”

She smirked and continued to paint her nails. “Heavy is the head that wears the crown, dearest. You’d know, you crumbled pathetically fast under the weight when you got your hands on it. Fortunately for the witching realm, I wear and bear the crown so much better.”

Before he could argue further, Zelda cocked her head. “The worm crawls in...” she sang, inspecting her now finished manicure, and Faustus was back under.

Muttering a quick spell to dry her nails, Zelda teleported home, perhaps Hilda would have some creative ideas for murdering her husband and making it look an accident when the time came.