#bridget chapel

[hournites]

Thank you...for being there for me. 

[marthaskane]

Rick, from what Beth told us, you just rushed in. You even hit Courtney.

STARGIRL (2020- ) ↳ Frenemies: Chapter Ten | The Killer

[bluevalley-esque]

- What should I have said? - “He hit a tree.” That worked for me before.

DC’S STARGIRL: Frenemies - 3x04 - The Evidence

[granolabird]

I Always Knew, it’s You

My final after-Stargirl hournite fic. It feels weird saying that. Still, this one is my favourite yet, maybe because it’s the first canon-complacent fic I can write where Hournite is ACTUALLY canon. But who’s to say? To everyone who loves my fics fear not, there are more to come, this is most certainly not the last <3

Title is from I Always Knew by The Vaccines :)

.

After the dinner at the Whitmore-Dugan house, Beth’s parents insist that Rick goes home with them. Between his intermittent withdrawal symptoms and his lack of parental support at home they are adamant that he stay in their guest room, even if it’s for only one night. He wants to refuse, he’s not used to this sort of kindness, but he knows they’re right. It’s safer for him to stay somewhere with other people, at least until he’s feeling one hundred percent. He fed Grundy (Who was very hungry after months of being buried) before the dinner, so he really had no reason to go back to Matt’s old house anyway. That’s something his mind latches on to for a moment. The way he’s never stopped thinking of that place as Matt’s old house, even after Matt left. Too many memories of Matt’s drunken rages, insults thrown that never quite faded from the back of his mind, and bloodstains that never quite faded from the floorboards. It was never a home, with or without Matt.

So, Rick resigns to his fate of sitting in the back of the Chapel’s SUV, listening to Beth’s father rattle on about all his new ideas for Beth’s costume. Beth seems completely embarrassed, but Rick can’t help but smile. It’s nice to see how much her parents care for her, and apparently him as well, as shown by her father’s ideas for his own new costume design. Yet throughout it all he’s entirely too aware of the way Beth’s hand is placed in the middle of the seat, resting just between them as they weave their way down the road towards Beth’s house. He keeps wondering if he should take it, hold her hand for the rest of the ride home, but he doesn’t. He already wonders if he pushed his boundaries with his whole spur of the moment hand-on-Beth’s-back decision during her earlier conversation with her parents. It’s all got him on edge. 

He likes Beth. A lot. But he’s also terribly bad at showing it. As a friend, he always knows what to say to Beth, he always knows what to do. But as soon as his brain tells him he’s trying to romance her, it’s like he’s turned into Bambi on ice, limbs uncoordinated and heart uncontrollable. So he leaves her hand, playing the unaware card, barely even glancing Beth’s way for fear of the way it might make him implode entirely. Yet he still doesn’t miss the disappointed glance Beth sends his way when they pull into the driveway, ringing her hands together in a way that sends his mind into a further spiral.

The guest room is already made for him, and it’s ten o'clock when they arrive home so Beth’s parents immediately begin to get ready to go to bed. They both have an early shift in the morning, yet even when they emerge from their room in their pyjamas, they don’t stop chattering

“So Rick, what did you think of our costume ideas?” Her mother asks, voice full of excitement.

“I, uh, think they’re pretty good. I’d need a visual to get a full idea, but I think it sounds cool.” He agrees, trying his best to sound enthusiastic enough to match their energy.

“I definitely need to start drawing mockups on my break. I’m thinking shoulder pads!” Her dad chimes in, pointing at Rick’s shoulders for emphasis.

Rick shakes his head, but upon seeing the disappointed look on Beth’s parent’s faces, he immediately explains, “I don’t wanna change my costume too much. It is my dad’s originally, I have to keep the legacy.”

Beth’s father nods, suddenly very understanding. “Oh yes, of course! I suppose we’ve never asked. What was your father like, anyway?”

Rick feels his stomach sink. His memories of his father are vague and hazy but all good. Yet with everything that’s happened in the past few days, and tonight, somehow the memory of his father feels so much more raw. The hourglass and its limiter, Sylvester… He takes a breath.

“He was… incredible. What I remember of him, at least. Way better to me than Matt ever was. I miss him. My mom too. I miss them more than anything.” He explains, trying to steady himself.

“Well, we’re here for you Rick. If you ever need a parent to talk to, you have us, okay?” Beth’s mom assures him, resting her hand on his shoulder.

Rick blinks away tears, smiling softly. “Yeah. Yeah, thanks.”

Mrs. Chapel offers him a hug which he gladly accepts. It’s been so long since any adult has been this kind to him, much less the parents of the girl he’s not-so-subtly in love with. It’s a lot to process. He’s not sure what to say next, finding himself swaying awkwardly in the hallway, when as if sent from above Beth comes up the stairs. She looks between him and her parents, but if she notices the tears still welling in his eyes she doesn’t say a word.

“You two should be in bed! Don’t you have to be up at five?” Beth chides, crossing her arms sternly as her parents glance at each other, before sighing and nodding in sync.

“Yes I suppose you’re right.” Her father huffs, already heading into the room.

Her mother begins to follow, but pauses in the doorway, turning to Rick.

“You know sometimes I think this girl is more of a parent to us then we are to her. You have to watch out for this one Rick, if you’re not careful she’ll be setting your bedtimes and making you breakfast within the week.”

That makes Rick laugh, even more so when Beth halfheartedly bats them away, herding them into their room. They all say their goodnights, going their separate ways, but as they walk past Beth’s room, she stops him.

“Hey do you wanna… talk?”

That could mean a lot of things. Rick and Beth talk a lot, that’s nothing out of the ordinary. He’s spent too many nights to count holed up in the Pit Stop, pouring over books, talking about the day to day nothings of highschool life. That’s normal. But the hesitancy in her voice, the quiet waver that only Rick could pick up, makes him think this is different. That Beth has something important to say. So, he nods and follows her in. He’s been in her room before but it never gets any less exciting for him, walking into her space. The walls covered in drawings, and polaroids, and sticky notes faded with time. She gestures for him to sit on her bed so he does, his hands coming together automatically so that he can twiddle his thumbs to try and rid himself of some of his anxiety.

“So? What’s up?” He asks, trying to not sound as unsure as he’s feeling.

“It’s just… I… hmph!” Beth makes a sound of frustration as she paces in front of him, clearly searching for her words.

“You… hmph?” Rick asks, trying his best to mimic the noise Beth had just made.

“Rick! I’m trying to be serious here!”

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry.” He raises his hands in feigned innocence, which only seems to fluster Beth more.

She seems to debate what to say next before she sighs and walks over to her desk. Beth picks up a photo, running her fingers over it as she stares at it. Rick waits a moment before he stands, peering over her shoulder to see what she’s looking at. It takes him a moment to register what he’s looking at, but as soon as he recognises the photo, he speaks.

“Hey, I remember that one.”

Beth jumps, whirling around to face him so that they’re practically chest-to-chest. She backs up as far as she can, leaning against her desk.

“Don’t scare me like that!” She yelps, her grip tight on the photo as she recovers from the scare he’s just given her.

“It’s not my fault you were too busy gazing longingly at a photo of us bowling to hear me coming.”

“Rick!” She waves the photo at him in a feeble attempt to dispel him.

He laughs, gesturing for her to hand him the photo. She does, and he takes it carefully, eyes tracing over its laminated surface. It’s him and Beth, from over the summer. He’d driven them out to a bowling alley for a day trip, while Courtney was still out camping. Beth had a great time, while Rick had never felt so angry at a stupid game in his life. He wouldn’t doubt it if someone told him he hadn’t hit one pin. Apparently bowling was not his forte. The photo is a happy one, though, with Beth leaning into him as they stand in front of their scoreboard. They’d had some woman take the photo, she’d been taking her son to the arcade. She’d told them they’d made a cute couple and they’d both vehemently protested they were just friends. The memory floods back as if it were just yesterday and not months ago. Rick can’t help but smile softly, handing the photo back to Beth.

“Why are you looking at that photo, Beth?”

Beth pauses, still staring at the photo.

“Because… Do you remember what that lady said after she took the photo of us?”

Rick nods, “That we’d be a cute couple.”

“Right.”

“And?” He pries, mind already racing, thinking of where this conversation might be going.

“And, after everything, with you all alone, and my family being so welcoming… I don’t know.”

“Are you trying to ask me if I’d date you, Beth?”

Beth immediately begins to backtrack, “If you don’t want to, it’s fine! You’re my best friend, and I’d never want to ruin that, it’s just-”

Rick takes a step forward so that he’s right in front of Beth, carefully raising his hand to her cheek.

“Oh.” Is all she can utter, staring up at him wide eyed.

Rick takes a breath, making sure he’s sure about what he’s about to say.

“Beth, I’ve been in love with you since the day you helped me find out what happened to my parents. I’ve never wanted anything more than to date you.” Rick reassures her quietly, eyes searching her own, hoping somehow he can tell if she feels the same.

Finally Beth speaks, her voice filled with excitement, “Well then why didn’t you say anything! We could’ve been together ages ago!”

Rick finally allows himself to feel relieved, nearly beginning to cry again.

“I just wasn’t sure, I didn’t know if you felt the same way.” He admits.

Beth laughs, unbridled full laughter that causes her to bend over, burying her face into his shirt. Rick doesn’t know how to respond, so he simply puts a hand on her back, trying to keep the confusion off of his face.

“What’s so funny?” Rick finally asks, once Beth has caught her breath, his hand still snug around her, not quite ready to let go.

“It’s just that, I thought the exact same thing. I didn’t want to be the one to ask you, because I didn’t know if you felt the same, when the reality was we both felt that way all along. We’re hopeless.”

Now it’s Rick’s turn to laugh, though not nearly as much as Beth, as he takes her hand and leads her to her bed, before sitting beside her. He feels giddy, like his heart is about to burst from his chest from joy, and fear, and excitement, and nerves, and everything in between. He wishes he had Beth’s polaroid camera now, so that he could capture the look on her face forever. Her eyes bright, staring at him as if this was the first time she’d ever seen him, and he was the most beautiful thing in the world. He can only assume he's looking at her the same way.

“So, now what?” She asks, hand still gripping his tightly.

“Well, I think after everything we’ve been through, I should take my lovely girlfriend out to lunch tomorrow, and then maybe we can figure out who we’re gonna tell. Because I know as soon as your parents know, I’m never going to hear the end of it.”

“Girlfriend?” Beth asks, her face etched with complete disbelief.

“Uh… yeah, is that not what just happened? I thought-” Rick tries to amend, but Beth nods her head, silencing him.

“Yes! Yes, yeah, no please call me your girlfriend.”

They both lean forward, pressing their foreheads together, as they both giggle at their own romantic confusion.

“We really are hopeless.” Rick affirms, squeezing Beth’s hand with another huff of laughter.

When he finally opens his eyes, he sees her looking back at him. Their noses are touching, faces close together so that all he can see is Beth. Everything seems to go silent, as if they’re the only thing left in the world. Rick thinks he likes it this way. If he could stay in this moment forever, he would. Beth is the first to break the silence, her voice quiet, as if her speaking would break whatever moment they’re having.

“Rick?”

“Yeah?” He says, more as a confirmation than a question, letting his eyes trail down her face, towards her lips.

“Yeah.” She affirms.

And then they’re kissing. It’s everything that Rick’s ever imagined and more. He would be lying if he hadn’t thought about him and Beth kissing before. He’s thought about asking her on a date and kissing at Richie’s, or in his car, or at the park, a million times. But here, now, when it’s actually happening? Nothing can compare. It’s slow, and sweet, and Beth’s hand is threading into his hair in a way that makes him melt into her touch entirely.

He is Beth’s in all entirety.

He always has been.

They stay like that for a long time, kissing and giggling and holding hands, until the clock ticks past midnight and Beth can’t stop yawning

“I should probably go. We’ve had a long day, we need to get some rest.” Rick stands up to leave, but Beth catches his arm, her face pleading.

“Don’t go, please.”

“Beth-”

“Please?”

Rick sighs, but sits back down beside Beth. She doesn’t say anything else, just stands, gathering some photos, pens and a book, placing them down on the end of her bed in a messy fashion.

“Are we… scrapbooking?” He asks, picking up a pen and twirling it around his fingers.

“What? No! No, this is so that if you fall asleep here, my parents don’t get the wrong idea. We were scrapbooking, didn’t notice the time and both fell asleep. See?” She gestures to the mess she’s made with a self-satisfied grin.

“Beth Chapel, is my ‘town bad boy’ status rubbing off on you?” He teases, bumping her with his shoulder, which makes her start laughing again, burying her head into the crook of his neck.

“Only just a little.”

Then they’re kissing again, hands entwined, holding each other close.

When Beth falls asleep against Rick somewhere around halfway into him telling her stories from when he was a kid, he doesn’t dare move. Instead he lets his arm wrap around her and grabs a pillow for himself, letting himself fall into the most peaceful sleep he’s had in years. He thinks of Matt’s house again, during that nondescript haze when his brain is just on the verge of sleep. He thinks about it not being the place for him. But here, with Beth by his side, and a family that cares for him so deeply, a warm feeling settles in his chest.

A feeling that says he’s finally home.

When Beth’s parents awake in the morning to go to work, they peek into Beth’s room. They don’t say a word, just share a quiet smile. Rick and Beth are sound asleep, snuggled close to one another, still in the clothes they wore to the dinner.

Mrs. and Mr. Chapel don’t mind.

They always wanted a son.

[leotanaka]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Stargirl (TV 2020) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Beth Chapel, Bridget Chapel, James Chapel, Cameron Mahkent Additional Tags: Child Death, Cameron's villain arc Summary:

set in season 3: beth makes a discovery about an event from the past which leads to another suspect in the murder, someone she had never previously considered.

[becharm-27]

THE CHAPELS

STARS & HEARTS: A Stargirl-centric celebration of romance, friendship, family, and self-love - DAY 7

DAY 1 DAY 3 DAY 4  DAY 5  DAY 6   DAY 8 DAY 9 DAY 10 DAY 11 DAY 12 DAY 13 DAY 14

[ohnopicturesofanothercat]

I feel like Bridget is posed perfectly for that painting at the Sistine Chapel.

[allwaswell16]

A fic rec of One Direction fics that are romantic comedies or have a rom com vibe to them as requested in this ask. If you enjoy the fics, please leave kudos and comments for the writers! You can find my other fic recs here. Happy reading!

—Louis/Harry—

🧡 You Drive Me Crazy (but it feels alright) by MrsStylinson

(T, 102k, movie au) Bridget Jones' Diary AU.“Harry is not short for Harold,” he corrects, his voice as thick as molasses. He lowers his eyes to Louis’ sequined lapels, rubbing one between two fingers. “Is this small or extra small? It looks lovely.”

🧡 Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow by @1diamondinthesun

(NR, 84k, movie au) the American high school AU loosely inspired by She's All That.

🧡 Gemma's Dad (Could Use A Guy Like Me) by @lululawrence

(NR, 82k, age difference) Louis wasn't planning on getting home and learning that Gemma's dad had gotten the house in the divorce and was dealing with things by focusing on work, the house, and his newly planted garden. It becomes obvious early on that Harry is a bit lost and Gemma is worried about him. To help both of them, Louis is more than happy to help Harry find himself again.

🧡 Let Our Hearts Collide by @crinkle-eyed-boo

(M, 76k, movie au) When Harry, a lonely transit worker, saves the life of the handsome commuter he's been secretly pining for, an innocent mistake results in Liam Payne's family believing that Harry is engaged to their son. A While You Were Sleeping AU

🧡 i must admit i thought i'd like to make you mine by @disgruntledkittenface

(M, 50k, girl direction) Blindsided and scrambling to save face, Louis lets herself get talked into a fake relationship with her new friend Harry. 

🧡 From Dust to Lust by jacaranda_bloom / @jacaranda-bloom

(E, 45k, Australia) the one where Louis and Harry are fly-in-fly-out mine workers, coincidences are totally a thing, karaoke is an underrated form of foreplay, and the universe most definitely works in mysterious ways.

🧡 Love Isn't Always on Time by @softfonds

(E, 45k, movie au) Falling in love with your best friend sounds like a good idea, until he comes back from a work trip engaged to another man. A Made of Honor AU.

🧡 Until That Day by @kingsofeverything

(E, 44k, movie au) Hoping to witness Harry leave another groom at the altar, Louis heads to Holmes Chapel, where nothing goes as planned, and he finds himself falling for the serial heartbreaker. A Runaway Bride movie AU

🧡my only working remedy by YesIsAWorld / @louandhazaf

(E, 42k, famous/not famous) His Team steps it up a notch when Harry is in between movies and they do a promo by launching the contest “Win a Date with Harry Styles!” Everything goes wrong for Harry's Team when the winner is a guy, Louis Tomlinson. 

🧡 crown me with your heart (your love is king) by @perfectdagger

(G, 41k, movie au) The Princess Diaries 2: Royal Wedding au in which Harry is the Crown Prince of the small island of Eroda and Louis’ uncle is trying to take the throne from him, with a slight a/b/o twist and some more.

🧡 Set the Sky Alight, Oh Holy Night by LadyLondonderry / @londonfoginacup

(T, 33k, roommates) One house, five almost-strangers (plus Niall), six new beginnings.

🧡 From the Start by @allwaswell16

(E, 32k, fake relationship) Louis has no idea that one act of kindness will cause his life to spiral out of control. But that's what happens when his new friend fake proposes to him and a video of it goes viral.

🧡 Making Waves by @haztobegood

(E, 30k, movie au) the one where Louis can’t remember, Harry needs money, and Niall has a plan. An Overboard AU.

🧡 Supposed to Be by kikikryslee / @flamboyantommo

(M, 26k, movie au) the Geek Charming AU where Harry's a film geek, Louis' a popular jock, and they both need each other to get what they want.

🧡 Retiens la nuit by TeamLouis / @teamlouis2023

(E, 26k, movie au) Everything is too much for Harry. His exboyfriend, his job, his whole life actually. Flying across the globe to find a quiet place for Christmas holidays is exactly what he needs. The Holiday AU

🧡 And I’d Marry You Harry (Because You Forced Me) by @2tiedships2

(NR, 24k, movie au) The Proposal AU featuring Harry as Sandra Bullock, Louis as Ryan Reynolds, and all the fun a fake relationship and forced engagement can bring.

🧡 in the end I started thinking about the beginning by @infinitelymint

(E, 21k, wedding planner) When Louis returned from Malaysia to attend his best mate Zayn's wedding, he hadn't expected their wedding planner to be Harry Styles.

🧡 i'd never sing of love if it does not exist by wildestdreams / @lavendrhaze

(M, 20k, movie au) “This…,” Louis said. “Use each other for sex…at all hours of the day and nothing else.” or a No Strings Attached AU

🧡 Your secret's safe with me by lightswoodmagic / @lightwoodsmagic

(M, 7k, royal) when Louis' favourite singer comes back and announces he's performing again, him and the rest of his group chat decide to go. When Haz, the man Louis' fallen in love with without meeting him, says that he can't, Louis tries his best to convince him with a drunken phone call, hearing his voice for the first time. 

—Rare Pairs—

🧡 Eight Days by LadyAJ_13 / @ladyaj-13

(T, 22k, Liam/Louis) Louis and Liam got hitched in Vegas, completely forgot about it for more than a decade, and it comes back to bite them. Sort of.

🧡 I Got the Recipe (And It's Called Black Magic) by @fallinglikethis

(T, 10k, Liam/Louis) Louis needs to believe in love again, and with a little help from Almost-Liam Payne, Harry makes it happen.

[humanpurposes]

From Eden

Chapter 1: Little Novice

Danes attack Wincombe Abbey and a young novice crosses paths with a group of mercenaries and their Baby Monk // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Osferth x Original Female Character

Warnings: bit of violence and death, suggestive themes if you squint, there will eventually be smut

Words: 4000

A/n: not me starting another series oops but i can't resist the baby monk

Today saw the first snowfall of the year. A few flakes landed on Bridget’s sleeves as she sauntered past the hard and frosted soil of the vegetable garden, past the pigsty and towards the stream that circled Wincombe Abbey. She swung an empty pitcher back and forth as she hummed the least melancholy hymn she could think of.

They had guests currently. Lady Aethelflaed of Mercia had arrived two days ago, bringing with her a group of guards who were camping at outside the Abbey. Bridget had been tempted to walk past the men on her errand, but the Abbess was already in a foul mood and she didn’t fancy testing her temper. Not unless it was for something interesting.

She had spent her morning as she always did. Prayers first. Her knees were never not bruised by the flagstone floor of the chapel, but with winter settling in they were numb too. Then she saw to the goats and the pigs. Then she helped in the kitchen. Finally, she got to eat in the hall with her Sisters. Bread with some winter preserves and slices of cured ham.

When she got to the stream, she placed the pitcher by her feet. With a final glance over her shoulder to the solitary stone building of the Abbey, she hopped across the water on a sparse path of rocks and made for the line of trees ahead of her.

The woods were the only place she felt like a living person and not simply a novice in a habit.

Bridget couldn’t stand how quiet life the Abbey could be. The Abbess, a stern but fair woman, told her it was because she was restless and unappreciative, but perhaps she was simply not well suited to mindfulness and prayer. Sometimes she could find things to laugh about with the younger girls, but then the Abbess would scold her for her “impiety”.

Once she was amongst the trees she tugged at her habit. In the summer she might take it off, but it offered some extra warmth in the colder months.

Her preferred weapon was where she left it, leaning against the trunk of a young oak tree. A broken bit of a branch, small enough for her to wield and heavy enough to hit against the trees.

She twirled it through her hands, just as her brother used to show her. From the few memories she had, she remembered he could do all sorts of impressive tricks with his sword. He could spin it and slice it through the air in controlled and precise movements.

It had been a decade since she had seen her brother, but she tried to keep his teachings with her, swinging branches at tree trunks, imagining she was a great warrior, like David slaying Goliath. Technically David had slayed Goliath with a rock and a sling, a detail the Abbess insisted was important. Bridget could invent a thousand reasons why, but she didn’t care to.

Especially when she was younger, she liked to imagine herself as a warrior when she was tasked with cutting wood or slaughtering and butchering the pigs. They were both hard work, but she was always willing to do it, if only to have an excuse to be destructive for once. She found it could be quite cathartic.

After a particularly harsh blow against a tree that cracked the branch almost in two, she froze. She heard horses. She hoped they would move on, but she made out a few figures in the distance, figures who appeared to have spotted her and were moving closer.

She dropped the branch and fixed her habit, to find a lock of her hair hovering over her forehead. She tucked it back in as the faces of the riders came into view.

There were five who rode at the front, four men and a woman with pale, blonde hair and strange markings on her face. A larger group, no more than twenty, hung back a little.

“A nun,” one of the men called. He rode in front of the group, their leader, she supposed.

“There we are then, you’ll feel right at home, Baby Monk,” another said. He had a gruff voice and an Irish accent. One of the other men laughed. The woman didn’t react at all.

“Is the Abbey nearby?” The leader asked.

Bridget frowned. He had an accent she could not place. “You are Danish?” She looked amongst the rest of their group, and they each seemed to find her accusation amusing.

“What is my religion to you, girl?”

“I would like to know if you would seek to do us harm.”

He raised a brow. “And you believe the best measure of a man to be the gods he follows?”

“I believe the best measure of a man is his intentions,” she said, meeting his eye and determined to keep her expression stoic.

But apparently he was pleased with her response. “You and I are similar in this respect,” he said, loosening the grip of his reins. “We seek the Lady Aethelflaed.”

“Would you seek to do her harm?”

“Only the good kind,” the Irishman mumbled with a smirk.

The leader rolled his eyes. “She and I are friends. I have come to offer her my protection.”

Bridget looked into the eyes of each of their group, the leader, the Irishman, the one who from his hair also looked to be a Dane, and the younger man riding at the back of the group. The woman had an unsettling gaze, she was the only one Bridget felt she felt compelled to look away from. The Abbess would call the markings on her face the markings of a heathen.

“There is a bridge over the stream,” she said, pointing through the trees. “Cross there. There will be room for your horses in the stables.”

She watched the men move away, each of them offering thankful smiles. She concealed her own, and headed back the way she came, across the stream and to the abbey with the empty pitcher.

Lady Aethelflaed welcomed them warmly and named their leader as Lord Uhtred. After it was agreed that they were decidedly not Danes (not the kind who would attack an Abbey anyhow), they settled in the hall, where Bridget and the nuns brought them bowls of stew and bread.

She expected them to eat like the Mercian guards, wolfing down bread and stew like they hadn’t seen food in days, but Lord Uhtred and his men thanked her graciously as she placed bowls on the table and went round to ladle out more stew for them.

Until she came to the man sitting at the end of the table, beside Lady Aethelflaed. He was the youngest of the group, with wide blue eyes and a sharp jaw. He kept to himself, slightly hunched over his stew.

She was rather fascinated by his robes and the small silver cross around his neck. If he had a slightly worse haircut he would look like a monk. But that was ridiculous, why would a monk be travelling with a group of mercenaries?

She approached him and waited for him to notice her. He looked up at her a smiled vaguely.

She indicated to the pot she was carrying.

“Please,” he muttered, holding out his bowl.

She dished a few spoonfuls for him and he smiled again, a little wider this time. She smiled back.

She wondered where he might be from, why he served a Dane if he wore a cross, how far their group had travelled and how many tales they might have.

“May I ask your name?” He asked.

She had been so distracted trying to think of something to say that his question took her by surprise.

“Oh… Bridget,” she said. “And you?”

“I am Osferth,” he said. He was very softly spoken, she thought. There was something so gentle and subdued about him.

“Are you a monk, Osferth?” She asked.

He glanced down at the cross hanging from his neck. “I was, I left my order to serve Lord Uhtred.”

“And now you are, what, a mercenary?”

Osferth chuckled to himself and shook his head lightly. “I am not much of a fighter just yet.”

“But you have a sword, and your friends are warriors.”

“I am still learning. In the meantime I can only practice and pray to God for courage and strength.”

She felt a light feeling in her chest she was sure she hadn’t felt in years. That’s what she prayed for too, even when the nuns told her she should be praying for patience and forgiveness.

“How did you—”

“Bridget.” The Abbess called, glaring at her from across the table.

Bridget nodded her head to Osferth, a farewell, she supposed, and headed back to the kitchen. One of the girls followed behind her, with a now empty pitcher of ale.

“The Irishman is handsome,” Bridget whispered into her ear once they were through the doors.

The other girl’s mouth fell open.

“What? Surely it is not a sin to look?”

The next morning, the Abbess ensured Bridget stayed in the kitchen. “So you might not be so easily distracted,” she warned, leaving her to peel and slice an endless amount of vegetables.

The Abbess seemed rather distressed at hosting Lord Uhtred and his men. “Ravenous permanently,” she grumbled, marching in through the kitchen with the remains of their breakfast. “They are eating into our winter stores.”

“So why let them stay?” Bridget muttered, dragging the edge of her knife over the skin of a few carrots.

“Because it is our place to show kindness,” the Abbess insisted through her teeth. She emptied the plate into a bucket by Bridget’s feet. “Take that out to the pigs.”

Bridget made no verbal protest. She placed the knife down and left through a small door that led out to the side of the Abbey, just as she had done the previous day. The skin of her cheeks stung when it met the icy morning air. The snow was heavier today. She blinked a few flakes out of her eyes and marched quickly towards the pigsty.

She made sure to scratch them behind the ears, poor things, left out in the cold.

She made her way around the building, to the front doors of the Abbey, and blinked.

And blinked again.

No, there was defineately an army of Danes lined up on the other side of the bridge.

“Good morning, nun!” One cried from atop a grey horse.

“Who are you?” Bridget demanded, but her voice came out a little more broken than intended.

The man chuckled and nodded to the bridge.

They had three hostages, each with a knife being held to their throats.

But with the order from their leader, the first hostage’s throat was sliced open, his body carelessly left to fall to the floor.

Bridget couldn’t bring herself to scream and choked out a broken sort of gasp.

They made no demands, made no moves towards her, and there was no indication they intended to kill the other two hostages. Not yet.

She slowly stalked towards the doors, unable to keep her eyes away from the danger.

“We will wait!” The man on the horse called, “for Aethelflaed!”

She ran to the kitchen first.

“To the hall!” She cried, moving to shut the windows.

The others all stared at her for a moment.

“Now!”

“What is the meaning of this?” The Abbess asked, bolting the door to the gardens as the others fled the kitchen.

“Danes,” Bridget breathed. She hadn’t realised her lack of breath or the restless feeling creeping under her skin.

The Abbess’s skin turned pale. She placed her hand on Bridget’s shoulder and ushered her towards the hall.

The nuns and novices had raised alarm amongst the men. Half of them were already reaching for their weapons.

Bridget and the Abbess slammed the doors of the hall with an ominous thud.

“What is it?” Lord Uhtred demanded.

“Danes. Outside.”

Every man was on his feet in an instant, and the sound of unsheathed swords rang through the hall.

“How many Danes?” The Irishman asked.

Bridget faltered. She hadn’t thought to count them. “More than twenty. Less than fifty.”

A few men moved towards the doors and the windows, but Lord Uhtred ordered them to hold for the time being.

He turned to Bridget. “Do you know what they want?”

“He asked for Lady Aethelflaed.”

“But they may not know we are here,” he said to his men.

“They know someone is here,” Osferth’s voice came. He was still sat at the table and had not drawn his sword.

“But they have hostages,” Bridget said. “They killed one man and they have two more.”

“We remain inside, and we remain silent,” Uhtred ordered, coming towards Bridget and the Abbess. “They must believe you are unprotected,” he said.

He looked between them for a moment, and turned back to Bridget. “Would you speak with them?”

Her heart must have stopped for a moment. “What?”

“We cannot save the hostages, but you can save the lives of the men and women here.”

“And Aethelflaed,” Osferth added.

“You must deny she is here; convince them you have nothing to offer.”

Her restlessness was starting to feel like fear, but she understood Lord Uhtred’s plan, and she could not say why, but she was inclined to trust him.

Until the Abbess interjected. “No!”

Bridget’s heart sank a little. “Abbess, I can do it—”

“No, child, this is my house. This will be my responsibility.” She turned to Lord Uhtred. “I will do it.”

Bridget followed Uhtred and some of the other men into the entrance hall. She stood by one of the windows, out of sight of the Danes, occasionally stealing glances of the Abbess as she stepped out to attempt a negotiation.

“We know him,” a voice muttered beside her. She looked up to see Osferth’s jaw hovering over her. “His name is Haesten.”

The Abbess made her plea for mercy.

In turn, a second man had his throat slit.

“Deny her presence again and a third man dies. And I will burn down your nunnery, and everyone in it.”

Bridget placed her hand on her throat. She could feel her heart pulsing.

A hand gently came onto her shoulder, but Osferth said nothing. His hands were larger than she realised. It wasn’t exactly calming, but she liked it.

True to the words of the Dane, the third man was slain, and when the Abbess reached for an axe she was met with a spear to her chest.

Bridget flinched into Osferth’s chest, keeping her hands over her eyes.

“Aethelflaed!” Haesten cried. “How many more men and women must die to save your bony arse?”

“To the hall,” Osferth said, taking one of her hands in his.

When she glanced once more out the window, Haesten and his men were moving past the bodies of the hostages and the Abbess, towards the doors.

Bridget, Osferth and Aethelflaed gathered the nuns and novices to the back of the hall, while Uhtred and his men lined up behind the doors with shields, spears and swords.

“Will you not fight?” Bridget asked Osferth.

“I told you, I am not much of a warrior,” he said solemnly, as he and Lady Aethelflaed positioned themselves before the others.

Bridget frowned, but tried to distract herself by whispering assurances to some of the younger girls.

When the doors finally burst open she felt utterly helpless. The fighting was kept by the doors and the entrance hall, while Osferth and Lady Aethelflaed watched with their swords drawn.

And when two of the Danes broke through the line protecting the door, they moved together. Lady Aethelflaed fought better than the monk, she thought.

She watched as a third man fought through, overwhelming Osferth while Aethelflaed was still preoccupied.

Bridget couldn’t stop herself. She darted towards the table and grabbed a knife. She supposed the man could have easily turned to her and lodged his axe in her chest, but he didn’t get a chance to even look at her before she rammed the knife into his neck, sending a spray of blood through the air.

The rest of the room was a haze. Something warm and wet landed on and dripped down her cheek.

Suddenly she felt two hands against her shoulders. She blinked.

Osferth’s blue eyes were glaring at her. “That was foolish,” he said.

Three men lay dead on the floor. Swords continued to clash in the entrance hall but Haesten and his men were retreating.

Osferth and Aethelflaed moved out to join Uhtred, while some of the nuns came to wipe the blood from Bridget’s face.

She told them of the Danes and the Abbess’ death. Some of the girls cried, some prayed. She came to clutch her own cross around her neck. But her hands would not stop shaking and her heart would not rest.

She killed a man. Really, it hadn’t been much harder than slaughtering a pig, but at least it felt a little more justified.

If the Abbess were not dead, she would have screamed at her, told her she was ungodly, no better than a cold-blooded murderer, or any of the Danes who ravaged villages and stole from innocent Mercians.

They stayed huddled in the hall until dusk, when Lord Uhtred seemed to finally come to a resolution.

The woman with the markings on her face, Skade, was a seer, and Haesten agreed to take her in Aethelflaed’s place.

Bridget watched the exchange from the doors to the main hall, and a shiver slipped down her spine when Skade turned to Uhtred with a dark look in her eyes.

“You are cursed once more, Uhtred of Bebbanburg.”

Bridget had hardly slept that night. She lay eyes closed, still in her robes and the white headscarf she wore under her habit, listening to the gentle snores of the girls in the beds around her and aware of the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.

The moment she heard the first whistle of birdsong at dawn, she was up. She pulled on a pair of boots and looked around her bed. But it occurred to her she owned nothing, save for her little silver cross.

She hurried through the abbey, past the open doors of the hall, now empty.

The men were outside, securing their saddles and mounting their horses.

She spotted Lord Uhtred as he was helping Lady Aethelflaed pack her own mount.

Osferth was by his horse, talking to the Irishman.

“Lord Uhtred!” Bridget called over the noise of the horses.

He turned to her with a small smile. “Fear not, we have not emptied your food stores—”

“I want to come with you,” she said.

She had the attention of the others now.

Uhtred chuckled to himself. “I already have a stray monk, I have no need for a little novice.”

Bridget’s skin still felt strange where it had been stained with blood. “I fought better than him.”

“Not a particularly high standard,” the Irishman joked. Osferth’s head sunk, but he was smirking too.

“So you killed one man and now you offer yourself as a warrior?” Uhtred asked.

Her breath caught in her throat as she finally realised the ridiculousness of her proposition. She could swing a branch, cut firewood and bury a knife into an unsuspecting man, but that would hardly help her in a true battle.

“With practice, perhaps?” She said, pressing her nails into her palm. “But I have some skills as a healer also. I’ve assisted the Abbess with all sorts of ailments, no doubt you encounter your fair share of injuries?”

“She’s got spirit, Uhtred, at least give her that,” Aethelflaed said.

“Please,” Bridget said, “give me the chance and I will prove myself to you.”

They each shared a few pointed glances.

“I admire your determination, but I cannot bring a girl onto the battlefield against armies of Danes. I cannot guarantee your protection and I cannot even offer you a horse.”

“Lord? She can ride with me,” Osferth said quietly. “With your permission of course. I can look out her.”

Uhtred raised his eyebrows. “Very well.”

Bridget felt herself smile, wide and showing off her top row of teeth. It felt uncomfortable but she didn’t try to stop herself.

The others were already starting to move off as she approached Osferth as he stroked the nose of his horse.

“Have you ridden before?” He asked.

“No.”

“You’ll sit behind me; I’ll help you up.”

Bridget nodded.

She watched as he placed his left foot in the stirrup and swung his leg over to the other side. “Easy,” he insisted, holding out his hand to her. “Don’t be afraid to use your strength.”

She followed his movements as best she could, but her skirt wouldn’t allow her to bring her leg to the other side of the saddle. She fell back onto her feet with a disgruntled huff.

“Other foot then, and slot both legs onto one side of the saddle.” He held out his hand again. “Ready?”

“Wait.” Bridget looked back to the space around her. The stream, the woods, the doors to the place that had never really felt like home. She reached for her headscarf and pulled it off her head, letting it fall to the ground. She didn’t suppose she would have any use for it now. Her hair fell down her back in a messy braid.

She looked back up at Osferth, between his hand, his eyes, and briefly to the curve of his upper lip. She held his hand tightly and hauled herself up onto the horse, her arms and legs trembling slightly at the effort.

Once the horse was settled Osferth gave it a gentle kick and they began to move. Bridget latched onto his shoulders as they began to sway with the movement.

“What if I fall off?” She asked, suddenly horrified at the prospect.

“You won’t fall off,” Osferth said, “use your thighs.”

“What?”

“Grip with your thighs,” he said.

She did so instinctively. Something about it felt… strange.

They cantered to catch up with the group and Bridget gripped Osferth’s shoulders a little tighter. Until he took one of her hands and placed it on his waist, so she wouldn’t impede on his arms. She muttered an apology and unsurely placed her other hand around him.

A few days ago she hadn’t so much as spoken to a man in years, except an incident where a nearby farmer had broken his leg, and even then she only wordlessly assisted the Abbess to bandage his limb.

Now she had her arms around a man’s torso, close enough to feel his warmth from under his winter cloak as her body rocked against his back.

“You’re frozen,” Osferth said, briefly brushing his thumb over her hand.

“It’s winter.”

“Did you not have anything warmer to wear?”

“We don’t attach ourselves to material items,” she said in a mockingly wistful voice.

He huffed a small laugh and pulled the horse to a stop before swinging his leg around the its head, landing on the ground in one smooth movement.

He undid the clasp on his cloak and held it up to her.

“Thank you,” she said, wrapping it around her shoulders, “but I don’t want you to get cold.”

He mounted again, a little awkwardly with Bridget already in the saddle. “Hold it around me. We can keep each other warm.”

She shuffled closer into him. Osferth brought one hand off the reins and pulled the corner of the cloak around his arm as Bridget settled against his back, resting her head at the base of his neck.

Thank God he couldn’t see her as her cheeks started to burn against the cold and the snow.

[are-they-all-sims]

San Sequoia Chapel, 6:30 PM

With the wedding approaching soon, Bridget decided to visit their venue with Andrew again before he had to head back to Brindleton Bay. Their chaperone was a friend from church who they both knew well.

The chapel was small, but Bridget and Andrew weren't expecting a lot of guests. Although Andrew comes from a big family, since he's the youngest, most of his older siblings are married and lead busy lives with children and careers. Andrew would be lucky if even 5 out of his 13 siblings showed up, especially since most were scattered across Simerica.

After they looked around the small church, picturing their perfect wedding day, Bridget and Andrew sneak off while their chaperone was in the bathroom.

"You know, it's getting harder for me to keep my hands off of you, Bridget," Andrew says, "You're so beautiful."

Bridget blushes, but lets his compliments wash over her. She's struggled with her appearance almost her entire life, having constantly been degraded by her mother. Andrew made her actually feel beautiful for once. She feels him wrap his arms around her and push his lips to the side of her head.

"Is this okay? I can let you go if it's too much," Andrew says.

Bridget shakes her head, "No, don't let go!" she says, her blush deepening.

Andrew looks in her eyes and Bridget wants him to kiss her so desperately it hurts. She didn't want to wait 6 more weeks and she certainly didn't want her first kiss to be in front of her family and friends. God would forgive her, wouldn't he?

"Kiss me," she whispers and he obliges.

[garadinervi]

Abisag Tüllmann (photograph), Bridget Riley, White Chapel Gallery, London, 1966 [bpk-Bildagentur, Berlin. CC-License: BY-NC-ND]

[hournites]

Flirtatious Hournite | Stargirl 3x13

[miyagiverse]

Beth Chapel. Born May 15, 2004 at Omaha General Hospital to Dr. Bridget Chapel, currently a thoracic surgeon at the Blue Valley Medical Center, and James Michael Chapel, a salesman for the American Dream. Beth Chapel has a 4.4 weighted GPA, 4.0 unweighted. She’s the founder and only member of the Blue Valley High student teachers appreciation club.

HAPPY BETH DAY! Beth Chapel played by Anjelika Washington

[hedgiwithapen]

Stargirl Barb: “I’m not cut out for this.”

set during 2x06

The machines beeped quietly, a constant alert that Pat's heart was beating, that his lungs were filling, that at least he was alive. Barb took a moment to press her face into the cool white sheets of the hospital bed, struggling to breathe herself.  She hadn't allowed herself to fall apart with Courtney there, though she'd wanted to the moment her work phone had rang, and she'd heard the awful sob  on the other end of the line-- "Mom, Pat--Pat's--oh, god, there's blood--"

She'd thought he was dead. Bridget Chapel had assured her and Courtney and the voicemail running on Mike's unanswered phone, that he'd be ok. Weak and maybe dizzy for a few days, but nothing that wouldn't heal in time.

Barb wasn't sure they had time.  "I'm not cut out for this," she told Pat, still asleep, his chest rising and falling awkwardly around the ribs that were at best bruised. This wasn't supposed to be her life. A year ago, she'd been preparing for a move here, envisioning the best parts of her childhood. That was what Courtney and Mike should have had; drive in movies, homecoming dances, family dinners. Not monsters trying to kill them in their own home. 

Courtney had the Staff. It would protect her, and Mike, Barb knew, but that hadn't been enough to save Pat's old friend. She wanted to stand and pace. She didn't want to let go of Pat's hand. 

"I'm not cut out for this," she said again. Sitting, and waiting, and waiting, and waiting, and hoping... she hated every minute of it. But what was there she could actually do? She didn't have a mech, or a legacy to carry. 

She had a phone, though. And a business card tucked into her pocket. 

Carefully, she pulled her hand free, wincing at the tiny noise that escaped Pat's throat when she did. 

The Shade. Pat had said he was a villain. He'd been nothing but ominous. But he could have hurt her, in that storage room. He could have taken all of Zarrick's things, and surely more of them had to be real magic. He had found where she worked. He could have found her home as easily as asking anyone on the sidewalk.

She walked to the window, squinting in the direction of the school. There was no sign of a fight, yet. She hoped that was good. closing her eyes, she hoped that she was doing the right thing, because she had to do something.

The Shade answered before the first ring of the phone had finished.  

[skippyv20]

Who Is Saint Jude?

Saint Jude, also known as Saint Jude Thaddeus, is known and loved throughout the world as the Patron Saint of Hopeless Causes. He was one of the twelve Apostles and a cousin of Jesus Christ. He courageously preached the Gospel, often in the most difficult circumstances.

Over the ages many people in desperate need have turned to Saint Jude in prayer. Saint Bridget of Sweden said she was directed in a vision to pray with deep faith and confidence to Saint Jude. She stated that Christ told her, “In accordance with his surname, Thaddeus, the amiable or loving, Saint Jude will show himself most willing to help.”

In the Americas, it was the Dominican Friars who helped spread devotion to Saint Jude, particularly in the United States. In 1903, Father Thomas Lorente, O.P., and members of the Spanish Dominican Province came to New Orleans and were asked to take care of the oldest church building in New Orleans, the Mortuary Chapel, now called Our Lady of Guadalupe Church. By 1935, Our Lady of Guadalupe Chapel began a public novena to Saint Jude.

Today, Saint Jude continues to be one of the most popular and beloved Saints, a trusted heavenly intercessor for all those seeking God’s assistance during times of family crisis, sickness, and trouble, especially when all hope seems lost.

[envihellbender]

Teen Hezekiah killing his monster in the final boy support group AU

Rating: Mature

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Characters: Hezekiah Wakeley, Nathaniel Beale

Content: Murder, serial killer, sexual assault mention, addiction, abuse, age difference, gore, buried alive

Summary: A letter Hezekiah wrote to Nathaniel about his experience with a serial killer.

—

Found within patient Hezekiah Wakeley’s belongings: a letter, never sent.

Dearest Nathaniel,

I have wanted to discuss this in person but it seems you have been reluctant to come visit me in the hospital. I suppose it would make things difficult for you if the lecherous journalists and photographers gathering outside were to spot you. I have decided you are owed an explanation, despite the fact I think it must be rather obvious given recent events. Since no individual from our St Columba’s Church has been to visit me, despite me attending since I was a babe, I assume their rhetoric on the subject differs from my account. I think it is only fair I give you both sides of the tale and I leave the matter of your own morality and allegiance to you.

You are aware of the story up until we left the aptly named “St Columba’s Rehabilitation for Wayward Teens” I am sure, or rather the story you prefer to tell yourself. I do not intend to list the ways in which you and the others failed us. As you also know, it turned out that the forest retreat was nothing but a well crafted lie, in reality the Monsignor took us to a house instead of a camp site, we were kept in a cellar with several mattresses. The cold stone did not have the same heart and life to it that I craved from the ground, we were allowed books to read I suppose, the others did have mobile devices that did not have any ‘signal’ or enough ‘battery life’. Junia was taken first, she was the loudest, she screamed when the Monsignor would check on us and fornicated with Zion when she thought we were asleep. Zion was next. The both of them were just like us in a way, following the rules of the rehabilitation centre only to have someone visit to rip the sacraments to shreds. Junia had a friend who brought in water bottles filled with vodka, Zion had a boyfriend who injected him with varying substances, and I had you slipping me red wine in a flask. I think that was why it was so difficult for us three, the cellar quickly became filled with the stench of vomit, it was not cleaned up as much as it should have been.

I cannot tell you what they went through. I can tell you Bridget’s abduction hurt the most. Back at the chapel we were almost perhaps friends. We would swap books, I would never be able to return her copy of Turning of the Screw. I still have it. I cannot bare to be rid of the thing. She used to help run the garden with me. I do hope someone is still taking care of the plants there. Whilst I am glad I am alive, seeing all of them be taken past me was quite horrific. I would not trade it for anything. Whilst Junia and Zion were loud in their removal, Bridget went quietly, she simply nodded and got to her feet. All I could think about were if you took my warnings seriously, we would have been safe - but I suppose there is little to be done now. Judah, Naomi, and Claudia. They were next. Would hearing of the descriptions of those you helped doom to the earth truly help? I know not.

When it was simply I left in the cellar, that is when I can regale to you the entire truth. I am unsure how long I was there for. I slept, vomited, and hallucinated much of the time I was there up until I was brought up to his small cabin, he had me bathed by some nurses who were too thorough, he had me an intravenous drip, and made me a rather delicious meal with a glass of rich expensive red. Of course I was suspicious of the entire display but I was too starved and desperate not to play along with the charade. From this entire story, I expect this next part will be the elements you dispute and argue against, as if being a pederast is anything compared to serial murder. After I finished eating the old man came up behind me, pulled me up by the hair, slammed my face into the table, and decided to use my weak body however he saw fit. It was not long, but it was not quick, it was painful and repulsive. He would use me in various ways six more times from either my behind or mouth depending on his fancy. I did tell you he had wandering hands, did I not, Nathaniel? I told you of his fingers brushing my thigh, of him slipping his hand into my trousers during confession, and you had told me I misunderstood. Will the church look upon his deeds in the same way?

It is most odd, for when he brought me to my feet I had no strength to fight back. He began to beat me, he punched, kicked and slapped me. He pulled my hair and forced my face into the table again and again. He had a cane he used to whip my thighs and between my legs. Eventually I was a whimpering, crying dog on the floor, curled up and desperate for mercy. He picked me up into his arms, he carried me into the forest like a babe, he kissed my forehead and after a few minutes in the cold and dark he dropped me. The fall was quick yet slow, numb yet overwhelming. My head was particularly loud upon hitting the earth, my cranium bled internally as it felt as if it had split in two. My body felt so angry, weak, and sore that I was pleased to be against the earth. I felt the mud around me and my eyes closed. I felt a smile spread across my face. Can you believe it Nathaniel? A smile! A smile for heaven’s sake! I felt as if I was returning to the earth, and I was at peace. That was until I felt the dirt be shovelled onto my body, a strength I did not know I had filled my body. I may be one with the earth, a peace I will never part from, but I knew I shall not return to it by the hands of this evil, sinful, rotten man.

I waited for the shovelling to pause before I made my escape. The Monsignor had not been wise enough to pack the soil in tightly. The loose dirt was easy to displace in a way, the hard part was pulling myself out. I was buried around four feet downwards, a pathetic attempt I agree. I was able to aid myself and this is when God I am certain must have been with me. For he sat on a lawn chair facing away from me looking upon a bare patch of ground between the trees. I noticed that there were six rocks in the ground two feet apart from each other and realised this is where they had been buried. I picked up the shovel that had been leaning on a nearby tree, and without a moment’s hesitation I began to beat the devil’s cranium. I hit him again, and again, and again. I did so until his head was concave into his body. It feels so small now I write it down, perhaps that is why it was so easy for you to dismiss my fears.

When I called the police, I anticipated an arrest, not a mug of tea. Not a safe house with a comfortable bed and a garden. I did not anticipate the kindness, the understanding. To be admitted into a secular hospital with a secular rehabilitation facility and psychiatric ward. I know I am one of the lucky ones, but I cannot say I was lucky when the only person I had to aid me was you.

I will forever be yours. I do love you. But I must beg of you: Please do not contact me again.

Hezekiah Wakeley