#crucified delight

[crucifieddelight]

{started a fire with a lonely spark}

Listen/purchase: On Trial by Crucified Delight

[squidsploitation]

Sometimes I think about Colombo in Hellraiser telling Julia how his wife loves puzzles

“a lament configuration, huh? well now ain’t that something special.. me i wouldn’t make heads or tails outta it but, you know, - my wife - she knows all about the experiments in the higher reaches of pleasure, or, ahem, those cenobite fellas, now let me tell ya — that’s an interesting bunch… the point, mrs. cotton? oh well sure i’m getting to it.. the thing about the order of the gash though, - but you must’ve heard about that already, - the thing is once they’ve got their hooks in ya, it’s awful hard to get away from their dimension, you know? at least, without a blood sacrifice, and see, that’s funny ta me how there’s s—

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Christian Woman

(König x Nun!Reader)

Word count: 6.4 k Tags/warnings: Pining intensifies, religious despair intensifies, minor injuries, treatment of wounds, crying, enthusiastic kissing, König gets a few boners. 18+ for eventual smut in this story.

A/N: Don't tell me you wouldn't get horny scared too if you saw this tall guy suddenly emerging from the shadows in his full war gear :) There's a cute date night and a lot of angst in this chapter too, I tried to summon an actual plot here... As always, I need to explain why they’re bonking! But smut is coming, next and last chapter will be full of fluff and steamy first times (Reader is virgin!)

Part 2

You have a feeling that this is the last day you’ll see him.

The stranger from the Austrian Alps, the kindest mercenary you’ve ever met – the only mercenary you’ve ever met – the giant soldier who now carries a piece of your heart with him. You wonder if he even knows he owns it.

The morning prayers and mass are a chore and bring you no comfort, and the usual dawn bliss is gone. You find no delight in singing with your sisters, and withdrawing to your cell for solitary prayer feels like stepping back inside your own personal purgatory. 

You’ve been in heaven and in hell for days now. Maybe since the moment you met him...

But at the same time, you know it must’ve been the Lord who brought you together. There must be a reason for God to make you two meet, you refuse to think it’s only because He wishes to tempt you. There must be a bigger plan; the connection, as sinful and carnal as it is, has to serve some higher purpose.

And you wonder if you’re going mad, because your most sinful thought is that you actually see God in him. It’s just your lower instincts speaking, a demon of some sort that tries to misguide you because no man is like Lord Jesus. 

And yet, don’t they always preach that you meet Him in every person you meet? And that through you, other people meet God too…? 

This reasoning feels much better. It solidifies the mercy you’ve longed for during the brief weeks you’ve known this man who brashly calls himself König. You want to believe that he carries a spark of the Divine in him, and that you hold a grain of the Virgin Mary’s compassion and love in you. 

You decide to hold on to this thought: that you were meant to meet so that you could come to know God through each other. For in König, you see a suffering God, a crucified Christ who rises against evil by offering himself to the cruelty of men. Somehow, the image of him as a mortal man starts to twist into a divine, dark trooper, someone who battles the forces of the evil in this world.

And this reasoning leads you to think that it is only natural that you, a Sister of the Faith, have helped him find some rest and relief in the middle of his work. It’s pretty clear that König has found some solace in your company, and even if things have ventured into a forbidden area of low, simple lust, it’s not dark enough to taint the beauty and grace you've felt together. As long as you hold on to this purity, nothing can go wrong.

While praying for both of you that morning, you find yourself replaying the smiles and touches König has given you these past weeks. You know you will drown yourself in memories after he's gone because they are all you’ll ever have of him.

And they're more than enough.

Or at least they should be…

You feel a tiny dagger of guilt push into your heart, the place reserved for Christ, when you’re assigned to do some spiritual reading instead of helping out in the kitchen or organizing the small library. The appointed texts are about falling into temptation and sin, reminding you about the consequences of such actions. You read the passings with a heavy heart and then slip out to meet König, possibly for the last time.

You wear your everyday clothes to the café, and König says nothing about your sudden moral choice, only gives you another longing, enamored once-over. You keep him at arm’s length, both physically and emotionally, and the effects of this unexpected cold shower are immediate. The man doesn’t even try to disguise the sad, puppy-eyed stares he shoots your way. 

You hate it that the bright, playful air of your meetings is gone, and your heart is tearing itself apart in your chest because the only thing you wanted was to spread joy into his world. Even the Lord seems disappointed in you being so cold-hearted, and you can’t bear to see His sadness and suffering in König’s eyes.

You get offered not one, but two coffees today, and a large piece of dark chocolate cake that tastes of pure sin. He talks about how he would love to write to you, but you tell him you can’t be in correspondence with a man who isn’t your brother or father. König isn’t even married, so it would only raise questions – you would find yourself reading spiritual texts about lust and sin until it drives you crazy.

“I’m leaving early tomorrow,” he finally reveals with a voice thick with sorrow. “Can I see you before I go...? One last time?”

“I’d love to, but… I’m sort of being watched,” you say, slowly coming out of your shell to make it clear that you’d want to spend the rest of your life with him, but you simply just can’t.

Your weak, apologetic look is like a dose of confidence shot through his veins because the face opposite of you brightens immediately. König’s whole posture gets a hopeful uplift.

“Just for a little walk...? To see what the city looks like in the evening?”

“I don’t know if I can make it… I have to work until six... And attend the evening prayer at seven. And then silence starts at eight…” 

You’re wringing your hands under the table while you explain, hoping König will come up with a solution to this dilemma.

“We can go for a walk after silence, then,” he shrugs.

“I–I can’t just escape from the window.”

“...Why not?”

You look at König; he looks straight back.

The man’s serious about you sneaking out your window at night; he’s actually serious, even if there’s a dark, playful smile rising on his lips. 

“I can help,” he grins.

Your heart cracks open, it shoots full of light only more and more with that smile. König doesn’t need to ram a door down and shoot his way through your chest; all he has to do is sneak inside your heart and take the place that belongs to God. You don’t even feel the difference as he makes himself at home. 

Well, actually, you do... It’s like your Christ’s love and mercy have finally come to flesh and blood before you. They're materialized in the man sitting opposite of you, bouncing his knee excitedly and grinning like the most innocent little devil on Earth.

You find yourself whispering “Ok”, and the whole world shifts. 

You take a step towards something forbidden but great, your whole heart starts to sing along with life. You haven’t even done the actual thing yet but you’re already filled with bubbling laughter and excitement. If only your friend could see you now, about to do things she probably did when she was fifteen...

But everything feels so right that it can’t be a sin – if it is, it just so happens to be the most natural, most divine thing to do too.

If this is the last day you’ll ever see him, you can surely steal a tiny moment for yourself and forget about rights and wrongs for a moment. Just forget about the rules, and live in the actual world for a few hours, breathe the worldly air, see what normal people do and pretend you’re one of them, for just one night. 

…

You feel like Cinderella when picking clothes for the evening.

You rummage through the only closet in your room – during the time that should be spent in silent prayer before bed – and notice you still have your old jeans.

They’re light blue and still fit; actually, they fit more than well... You know that König’s eyes will be glued to your butt when you’re not looking.

You have completely forgotten how nice you look in jeans, and it’s the Devil talking, making you admire yourself in tight denim like this. You never cared about how you look before; you certainly never gave much thought to how men see you or if they’re checking out your butt or breasts. Now you’re grooming yourself like never before, trying to decide what to do with your hair as if your life depended on it.

You choose a simple, black t-shirt to pair with the jeans and not make it too obvious that you’re trying to flaunt yourself. It hugs your form but is otherwise plain, and for some people, your choice of clothing is probably their regular work outfit. To you, it feels like you’re about to go out to seduce everyone.

Everything’s so tight and earthly; everything’s so… there. Visible... Touchable.

Lord, have mercy on me. I know I’m weak. But please let me have this, just this once…

And König has seen you without makeup all this time, so what on earth has possessed you to lament the fact that you don’t own a single case of lipstick? You’d kill for a few sweeps of mascara, too, just to bat your lashes at a silly man.

It’s not a date, you remind yourself.

It’s not a date... It’s not a date. You’re just going to have a short walk with him.

And you fear that accepting König’s “help” was a mistake. If you get caught with a man on the convent perimeter, you’ll get your ass thoroughly whooped…

Can a man of his size even keep quiet?

He probably suggested it so that you wouldn’t chicken out of this. If König is at your window by 8 and there’s no sign of you, he’ll probably just come in, throw you on his shoulder and jump out. He knows where your window is located now, and surely has some questionable skills due to his profession, skills you know nothing about, but you’re still about to have a panic attack from pure excitement when the clock strikes 8. 

You push the window ajar and settle on the sill to keep watch, gasping when you hear his familiar accent down below as soon as the window is open.

“Kätzchen...”

“König…?”

You peek down and meet his stupid, grinning face – God, he’s so happy to see you kept your promise. His eyes are shining, his fingers interlock to help you have something to place your foot on. 

“Here, kitty, kitty…”

You could easily jump out the window without hurting yourself, but of course he wants to help you since you were so kind to tell him where he could come and "pick you up".

But to see that playful smile and hear him trying to coax you out like you’re some skittish little kitten…

Could a grown man get any more silly?

You wiggle yourself out the window, trying to ignore the fact that he’s probably staring at your butt, still grinning like crazy while you do it. 

SupportING your entire weight like it’s no trouble at all, he helps you down. You’ve never been this close to him since you bumped into him: you have to take support from his shoulders as you search for a footing, and he scoops you in his arms the minute both your feet are safely on the ground.

“I knew you’d come,” he purrs with joy, and you place your hands on his chest – not to keep him at bay, but to touch him in a way that is as appropriate as possible when a man is hugging you like this.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you whisper, still unsure if this is the best or the worst decision of your entire life.

“Kitty… Live a little, hmm?”

You have to crane your neck to look up at him – you’re not sure if you’re in the embrace of Jesus or Lucifer because the warmth of those eyes compare to the love of God, but they also make you weak and helpless. Whenever you’re with your sisters, the feeling is pure, pristine love, not a surge of complex emotions and thrill like it is with König.

“You’re a bad influence,” you breathe – König only laughs, and the grip around you tightens. 

“My lady. You’re the one who climbed out the window.”

“Because someone would’ve probably thrown small rocks on it if I hadn’t…!”

“Natürlich. And if that didn’t work… A serenade or two. Do you like love songs?” 

You look down at his chest, smiling, heart fluttering at the thought of a silly Austrian man serenading under your window. You have no trouble imagining him singing something syrupy in German, waking everyone up with his racket.

“You’re crazy, did you know that...?” 

“Sure. They tell me that all the time at work. Aber du… Du bist süss.” 

“...What’s that?” 

His smile only widens as he takes in your lips, your neck, the tight shirt that finally gives him something more to look at.

“You’re cute.”

…

The whole evening is heavenly. 

It’s everything you’ve ever wanted from a date and more.

He doesn’t take you for a short walk, oh no. He takes you out to eat, at some lively restaurant where they serve delicious, artisan, wood-fired pizzas. You have créme brûlée for dessert, and König gives you his strawberries when he notices you eat them first, but only on one condition: you have to let him feed them to you one by one. 

He buys you a rose: a big, red, plump one. No man has ever bought you flowers before, and even if you love lush, abundant bouquets, the fact that he chose you a single red rose after you’ve spoken about the beauty of simplicity, doesn't escape you.

König hasn’t only listened to you these past few weeks: he gets you. And how symbolic is it that he chose a rose that’s also tied to all the mysteries of God?

You walk the streets with a flower in one hand and his palm in the other. It's a holy trinity of him and you and the Great Mystery, it’s passion and it’s thorns, it’s blood and beauty and pain, and you feel like he just gets you; he knows you through and through. 

You pass by an outdoor bar with live music, and the place is so crowded that people are dancing on the streets. No cars honk as they slowly pass by the scene, the music and the laughing, dancing pairs make even the grumpiest passersby smile.

It shouldn’t be a surprise that König pulls you to him before you get to escape the scene. You’re drawn flush against his chest, hips colliding with his, hands finding each other in a slow sway that has never even seen the steps of Latin dances.

“Nuns are allowed to dance, no?” 

He smiles dreamily, enveloped in the same sweet haze as you.

“Not with a man,” you correct, but don’t even bother to push him away. Instead, you let König guide his hand down your waist and draw you closer. If this isn't a date, you don't know what is...

“I can take the blame,” he says. “You can tell everybody it was me.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” you laugh. 

“Why not?” 

His eyes are glued to yours, making you warm all over, so much so that you feel like you’re burning from the neck up. You guide your stare down to his chest, then over to the quick heartbeat on his neck.

He's nervous, too... Your cruel soldier is nervous, and kind, and shy because he's pressed against you.

You rest your head there on his chest, watching the golden sunset far away, painting the rooftops with a genial glow. Your heart is made of molten gold, too, as you allow yourself find a home in his embrace.

“I can take your sins,” he promises above you. “Jesus did that too, right?”

“You’re not Jesus,” you smile against his shirt – black, always black...

“Are you sure? I would go to hell for you.”

Your dance comes to a halt as you swallow and lift your gaze. The smiles are gone now, both yours and his. He’s so close now he could touch your lips with his if he wanted to.

And he does want to.

You don’t shy away as he leans down to kiss you. It’s chaste at first, a slow exploration, but then he opens your mouth with his, demanding, hot, intoxicating. You melt in his arms, and he somehow supports you through it all, turning the dance into an embrace and the decent little kiss into a full French one.

It’s hot and wet and slow, so, so passionate that your knees are about to give in. You devour him back, feel how he grows hard against your stomach �� the swelling erection makes you dizzy before you come to your senses, but only barely.

You break away an inch, panting into his mouth while he’s panting into yours. What a blessing that you don’t own any lipstick; both of your lips are red without it…

“This is–”

“Inappropriate?”

His voice is husky, and sends a flood of wetness down between your legs. Your heart is racing, but you can’t even note how terribly alive you are before he attacks your lips again.

The kiss is even more desperate than the first one, and the slow urgency is gone. His mouth leaves you without air, and then – he wraps his arms around you and picks you up from the ground like you weigh nothing. Your hands get squished somewhere between you, naturally coming to cup his face as you kiss him back. 

It’s eager, pure lust, so powerful and needy that it scorches through your chest and ties your heartstrings into tight little knots, makes your brows knit together, too.

He grunts into your mouth, sensing you’re more than up for this after all. You let him see the full depth of your hunger and your lust, just waiting to be released and taken – made love to until you’re both sore and messy and limp.

God… This is better than God…

You hear whistles and whoos in the distance, some men yelling, “Let’s go!” and “Get a room” while they pass by. Realizing you’ve fallen into a dream trap of strong arms and needy lips about to depart tomorrow, you know it's something you could have had years ago, perhaps, but not anymore. You'll lose everything if you break your vows tonight: basically, you’ve already broken them, but no permanent damage has been done.

You can still turn back if you turn back now…

You push yourself away, push him away, heart clenching when you see his adoring, love-drunk, half-lidded stare.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, fighting back tears as you come down from your high. “I just–I can’t…”

He breathes labouriously, still clutching you against him, holding you in the air like you’re the thing he has searched for his entire life and now, finally discovered… Only to be told that he now has to put it back where he found it. 

You’re crying by the time he sets you down, and you have no heart or will to pull away. Instead, you bury your face in his chest and cry your fill in his shirt. It’s soon damp from your tears as König hugs and supports you through his own stoic heartbreak.

“I’m sorry... I’m sorry…”

You repeat it until you can’t repeat it anymore, bawling in his chest while the world around you continues to spin despite your heaven and hell, despite your vows, despite your stupid devotion. The world revolves like it always has, as you choose a crucified man over the one who’s flesh and blood and holds you through your pain.

“Kätzchen, don’t cry,” he pets your hair while you sniffle and tremble in his embrace. You know this is not the last time you will cry your heart out over him, but knowing it doesn't help you when he offers you his last, bittersweet comfort.

“It was a good dream while it lasted...”

…

The rose withers in your cell.

You turn it upside down and tie it to the curtain rod to prevent it from dropping its petals. It dries beautifully and keeps its bloodred colour, now reminding you of both Jesus and him. 

There hasn’t been a word from König in months, and of course there hasn’t. You denied his wish to write you, and the dried rose is the only thing left of your time with him. 

In the first weeks, it’s hard to keep up a charade. You show up to prayer, work and mass with red eyes, revealing to everyone that you’re going through a loss of some sort. Somewhere during the first week, the abbess summons you to meet her and you brace yourself for a scolding.

God knows you don’t need the rebuke, and when you close the door and turn to face the symbolic mother of the convent, you end up breaking into tears right in front of her.

“Whatever you were up to, my child, I am glad that it is over now,” she says with all the gentleness of the world. 

“Me too,” your voice breaks, and when the abbess extends her hands, you go to her, fall to your knees, and have another heartwrenching cry with your face in her lap.

You’ve denied yourself love and mercy for days, expecting to be expelled or shamed or ridiculed, but mercy is what you’re offered now, even after you’ve sinned.

The abbess caresses your hair just as softly as König did just days ago, and the fact that her kind gesture reminds you of some silly, infatuated soldier, only makes the breakdown worse. You bawl like a little child who’s deprived of candy, and you don’t even have the strength to berate yourself for it.

“I hope you haven’t done anything irredeemable...?” 

“No... Nothing happened,” you sob and look out of the rose window, desperate for sun while your head rests on a gentle but distant lap. 

Nothing happened except the most sinful, beautiful, lustful kiss of your life... Nothing happened except that you saw this man every time you could, held hands with him, swam in his smiles and affection, and went to bed with thoughts inappropriate for any human being. 

“The world tests us in many ways... But Lord never tests us. He only loves us.”

Something in that sentence finally quenches the neverending flow of tears. Your muscles start to relax, and you remember that this is the eternal truth: to surrender, over and over again, to a power far greater than you. 

The abbess never asks for details about what you have done. She never tells you you have sinned; you don’t need to be told that. The punishment has been dealt already: whoever ties herself to this world and its temptations will suffer exactly like this when the passion and excitement ends. The key to escaping its grip is to simply let go first, once and for all, surrender to the love of God, and trust that everything fill fall into place eventually.

“You must offer your mind and body to work now,” the motherly voice speaks above you. “Work, time and prayer will ease your pain.”

…

Work, time and prayer do ease the pain. 

They ease all pains, but it takes almost six months to stop thinking about him every hour of every day.

You’re proud of yourself when you find out one day that you haven’t thought about him at all. He just now crossed your mind when you remember how he used to smell: of salty seabreeze mixed with intoxicating musk, the scent of excitement and safety all in one. 

You could almost swear you catch a whiff of that particular scent in the yard when you go and water the flowers one evening, but it can’t be: he’s gone, and there’s nothing you can do about it, nothing you even want to do about it because you already made your choice. This path leads you to greater peace of mind in the long run, and you know you made the right decision even if it hurt you and König.

Sunsets still remind you of him, the colour of rose and gold mixed with endings, but the memories are now laced with bittersweet love rather than blunt despair and pain. The times you spent with him are a collection of brief, blissful moments, and you treasure every single one of them in your heart. You still pray for him, not every day, but nearly every day. You touch the rose when the hurt reaches its peak, but the last time you did that was almost a week ago.

And you thought you had forgotten his scent, but apparently, you have not. In fact, it seems to drift to your nose again, which is odd because you’re outside, after all…

“Kätzchen.” 

A whisper is hissed from the shadows just as you’re about to straighten and investigate, because either you’re going crazy or then there’s someone here who smells exactly like him.

You startle and almost drop the watering can, staring straight into the shadows under your window. The tallest man you’ve ever seen steps out from the dark in full combat gear, and while you can’t see his face because it’s covered with a draping black hood, you recognize it’s him simply from the way he moves. 

“Don’t be afraid. It’s me,” he rasps and tries to straighten from the slightly hunched position he’s in, but immediately falls back, then slants to lean on the wall. His gear is dirty, and he holds the side of his stomach with one hand, the lively blue eyes either drunk or very very tired.

“Dear God… What happened to you?”

You abandon the watering can and rush to him; it’s useless to ask if he’s injured when, clearly, he’s trying to prevent himself from slumping to the ground. 

He’s enormous and intimidating even when wounded, a soldier loaded with ammo and weapons and protective paddings and guards, wearing a hood and a helmet and a radio of some sort, his tactical gloves bloody and eyes droopy. The weapon by his side is almost half as tall as you, and God – is that a grenade strapped to his vest?

“I got compromised,” König looks down at the wound but doesn’t remove his hand. He looks so different, like another man entirely when he’s not dressed in his customary olive green pants and a casual black t-shirt. He seems even buffier now, even taller, so terrifying that you wonder if you ever even knew this man.

You must look like a frightened deer because König mistakes your horrified look as sweet, simple concern.

“Don’t worry... They have it much worse, I assure you,” he says with his usual grin – you can hear it from the way he says it that he’s smiling. But it’s so weary now, so exhausted and frail compared to his confident, playful laughs and that husky voice with which he spoke to you after your kiss.

“I came to ask for help,” he continues under his breath, wobbling even when leaning against a wall. “You’re the only one I can… trust.”

“Of course, anything. I will do anything I can.”

His eyes smile down at you from behind the executioner’s veil. It’s that same devoted stare you’ve been trying to dispel for months now. You give yourself a quick mental shake, then tell him to wait here while you go in and call for an ambulance. 

König bounces off the wall and seizes your hand, telling you he can’t go to a hospital and that, if anything, he must avoid any kind of public places. You don’t ask any further questions, even if you know you’re in a pickle now, and not only because those glacial eyes are making your knees weak again. There’s nothing much you can do: he’s wounded and still in danger, saying he can’t trust anyone else. Of course you have to help him in any way you can. If he says it’s not safe, then you must help him get somewhere where it is safe. 

And besides, aren’t you a nun? You’re supposed to help those in need. 

So when he asks you if there are any motels or a bed & breakfast nearby, you say you know just the place. 

It makes your heart bleed that König takes support from you while you slowly make your way down the street. A man of his size, a body trained to withstand whatever his job throws at him, seeking support from a frail little nun… It’s a joke, indeed, and a horrid one. 

When you get to the small place run by a humble old man, you don’t know who to feel more sorry for: the elder behind the counter or König, desperately trying to stay on his feet.

“I mean no trouble,” he says while pushing an unnerving amount of money across the table. “I just need a place to rest.”

The receptionist’s eyes dart to you, then back to König, who still has what you suppose is a loaded rifle dangling by his waist. The safety is on, probably, but there are also knives and grenades strapped to his person, and with that hood, he mainly looks like a terrorist of some sort.

“She’s here to help. See...? Bride of Christ. Even less trouble than I am.” 

You try to smile reassuringly as the man risks a better look at you now instead of being fixated on König or his weapons.

You must make an odd pair, a soldier and a nun... The old man probably has a ton of questions in his head right now.

“No shooting,” he says to you, but his words are directed at König.

“No shooting,” he promises. “No mess if no one knows we’re here. Ok...? You’ve never even seen us.”

The receptionist nods. Then he extends a trembling hand and takes the money, and hands out a key without taking any check-in information.

You go to König and help him up the small stairs and into his room paid with bloody money and a menacing appearance. The fitted carpet is old, and floral patterned, the room small and adorable and meant for visitors far more petite than König. The bedspread is old-fashioned and floral too and has never even seen blood, of that you are sure when König lays himself down with a grunt. 

You spend the next minutes – or hours, you can’t tell – in a tunnel-visioned fog as you do exactly as he says.

You help him out of his gear and weapons and lay them aside quickly but gently, you cut his shirt with an ugly-looking knife, then get a watered towel for him to press against the wound. You rush back to his tactical vest and search for a first aid kit and some medicine, and start to treat his wounds per his advice.

The sun sets in the window, and you patch up your injured soldier with care, trusting his word when he says it’s only a flesh wound and that it looks far worse than it is.

“I should get shot more often,” he purrs when you’re cleaning the rest of the blood off his skin.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you scold, trying to focus on your task and not the vast plates that make his chest. Or the thick abs, right there under your fingertips… Or the fact that he has incredibly narrow hips, and a luscious breath of dark hair leading from his navel down and underneath the waistband of his pants. 

You suppose this is what your friend calls a happy trail...

And it does make you very happy.

You don’t dare to look beyond that because the pants he usually wears aren’t as tight as these, and you fear he’ll catch you checking out his junk in an attempt to see if your friend was correct about his size. 

To your blessing – or your curse – you don’t even have to look straight at it to see he’s having an erection. You can actually see from the corner of your eye how König grows hard while you’re treating him – it’s right there, a robust tent that rises beside you while you concentrate on wiping off the blood. 

“Pay no mind to that,” he says thickly and completely without shame. “It just happens… Can’t control it.”

He breathes a bit too heavy for someone who’s lying down, and you fear it’s because of the blood loss. But then you start to suspect it’s probably because all the remaining blood has gone between his legs… He doesn’t even try to tone down the heated, obsessive stares he shoots your way, and you suppose he’s either missed you very much, or then there’s a fever rising after all. You’re not sure if you’re glad or disappointed that the bullet didn’t scrape his leg instead.

“I missed you,” he says like he just read your thoughts. He whispers the sentence slowly and with purpose, saying it like a long-withheld secret.

“I missed you too,” you whisper back. 

Gosh… Here you are, a silly little nun who’s tried to get over a crush for six months, crying after him at night and caressing his rose during the day. You’ve been petting a withering flower some mercenary gave you in hopes of getting into your pants, you’ve fawned over memories of a few smiles and a kiss, all the while the said mercenary has killed people for money and now got shot. He came here to work again, but never sent a message, he only came to see you when he was injured… 

...And you’re glad he did. If a bullet was needed to bring him back to you, then you’re grateful for it, no matter how horrible it is.

“Did you ever… find someone?” You ask while keeping your gaze fixed on his navel instead of the raging bulge in his pants.

“Someone, who?”

“Someone to hold hands with.”

He gives a strained laugh. “Ah. No. No time for that.”

You swallow, and slowly guide your eyes to his.

“Are you still happy with your crucified man?”

Ouch.

“I… I don’t know.”

His brows knit together; you can see it even in the dim light of the table lamp, you can see it even if there’s some godforsaken black war paint all over his face under that hood.

There’s a distant hurt in his eyes before he blinks softly, slowly.

“I wrote to you, Braut Christi... Many times. Never sent the letters… They’re still in my room, at the base.”

Your heart skips a beat. 

He hasn’t had “time” for women, yet has written you letters all these months. He’s written letters while you’ve caressed a rose…. 

You wonder if hearts can find each other, even through a distance, and if you’ve felt the urge to go to the flower he gave you at the same time König has gotten the desire to write another letter to you. It’s bittersweet, like this whole thing between you two, the mystery that both brings you together and rips you apart. 

“I wish I hadn’t… I wish I...” you start, but can’t bring yourself to finish.

“Liebling. I should’ve sent them anyway.”

You go get rid of the bloodied paper towels before you start to cry in front of him.

God… You’re not only in a pickle, you’re neck-deep in trouble, and you only notice you forgot to wash your hands when you return to him.

He reaches for your hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. Peace settles in, even if there’s blood on your hands and the man you adore is lying next to you, patched up with the help of a first aid kit when he should be lying in a hospital, receiving treatment and care.

There’s a knife and a pistol tucked under the bedspread, next to his hand, and the fact that he’s still prepared to fight anyone who tries to come through that door underlines the fact that you two come from very different worlds. König is more than just a rose buying, coffee offering gentleman, he's more than just a silly guy who threatens to sing serenades under your window if you don’t come out to play with him.

You’re not sure if you’re more enamoured or scared.

“You’re an angel,” he rasps from the bed as you try to swallow the tears that refuse to go down.

“No I’m not.” 

“Yes, you are.”

A teardrop falls on the innocent floral bedspread as you wish you were in this room as a married couple instead of an injured, horny soldier and a childish nun in love. Spending your honeymoon or something, getting some rest after an eventful day in town, choosing this absurd old Bed & Breakfast as your place to stay for the night.

You wish you were doing anything else than treating his wounds, lethal or not.

“Are you crying?”

His voice is gentler than you even remembered. Six months of despair have turned him into a dark, alluring trickster when he’s really just a man, a big, amazing, tender man who’s multifaceted, multitalented, and always kind.

He's about to fall asleep, and it’s no wonder. The events of the evening have left you drained, too. You kneel beside his bed, too tired to even sit on a chair, wondering if he’ll die from his wounds tonight or get hunted down by the people who still want him dead. 

“I wish you would stop killing people... I wish you would stop getting killed.” 

You must look silly, kneeling beside a giant soldier’s bed, crying and holding his hand between yours as if praying. But his eyes smile at you, and while you’d want nothing more than to see his face again, you realise you kind of like König this way. Masked and menacing and mean to his enemies, but stripped down to his soul when he’s with you.

“I wish you would stop praying... And start living,” he mutters gently.

“Praying helps sometimes,” you whisper.

In truth, you wish you’d start living, too. You always thought you were brave when you said ‘no’ to the world. Perhaps you were only running away from it…

The hand is warm but not feverish. His breaths start to even, and his lids get heavier; his thumb gives you a small caress before he drifts off to sleep.

“Perhaps that’s why I’m still here, Kätzchen.”

[brawlingdiscontent]

I’ve been thinking more about Lestat’s wedding ring, which we see him wearing publicly during the trial, and later on tour—but not elsewhere, including alone in his vampire hovel. It seems that he’s not wearing the ring for himself. My sense is that Lestat thinks of marriage as a human construct (along with his general disdain for many human institutions like religion), and that he considers his and Louis’ companionship (their “transcendent love between two vampires of the same sex”) to be far above the limitations of human definitions, and so doesn’t feel the need to tokenize it accordingly. But we do see him mobilize marriage and the wedding ring strategically for two audiences: humans and Louis. 

As the trial makes clear, Lestat is very conscious of the implications of his ‘wedding’ to Louis on the night of Louis’ turning when he speaks of offering himself, “in the church, on the altar.” But never does he use the term ‘marriage’ to describe what they have - it’s always ‘companionship’ or ‘union.’ 

At the moment of Louis’ turning, I think the marriage parallels are about making clear to the then-human Louis that what he is offering is akin to (better than) human marriage, and also that he takes not-so-secret delight in profaning the rites of Christianity through their bloody same-sex union (just like he gleefully destroys the wooden figure of crucified Jesus). 

During the trial, besides the marriage analogy being a tool to win over the human audience to his and Louis’ relationship (who he needs onside as much as possible to ease the way for his little mind-bending trick), I think the wedding ring functions as a signal to LOUIS, who he has always chided for his stubborn attachment to his humanity. He can’t do much within the trial’s carefully-controlled confines, but he can signal to Louis through the ring that he still loves him, that he still believes in their union, that he’s here to save him. 

So then what about the tour wedding ring? I would argue it’s both 1) A signal to his fans – “Back off! I’m taken.” – and, more importantly 2) A signal to Louis: “It’s you; it’s always you. I’ll wait forever.” (And also probably, mascara streaming down his face, "I never agreed to our breakup so it never happened!!")

[the-one-that-weeps]

Is it my time to get crucified yet?

Some explanation under the cut:

Honami is the ultimate crybaby. Don't get me wrong, she'll beat you to death with her bare knuckles, she'll just do it while sobbing her eyes out. She's especially sensitive to topics of separation. Get a sad movie about love that was never meant to be and you have a crying Honami and a pissed l/n waiting for you by the door.

Saki is a close second, not only because the Tenmas are genetically crybabies, but also because (after spending so much time in the hospital) even the most normal things can seem overwhelming for her. She's the kind of person to cry when she remembers snakes can't hug because they have no arms. Don't even get me started on how she reacts to sad movies about dogs.

Similarly to Honami, Ichika is extremely sensitive to topics of separation, loneliness and doomed yuri. If anyone in l/n makes a divorce joke she'll come running to them 5 minutes later with her big wet eyes and whine "baeee, *hic* please go back to bed i misss uuuu"

Please join the crybaby Ena Shinonome agenda. Sure she's not the usual "ueueueue😭" crybaby but she's one nonetheless please I will literally die on this hill

Emu Otori almost got her own section because even though she's made cry fairly easily nobody ever sees her like that except wxs, and even then it happens only seldom. She's only lower than Tsukasa because she doesn't get the daily wxs-typical bug exposure Tsukasa gets.

Almost put An in the section below but I think she's doing better than them. *casually erases Lutf and wtwg from the viewer's head*

Rui doesn't know how to cry in the same way some people don't know how to whistle. He will scrunch his face in abnormal ways but a tear will never shed.

Changed Haruka as a last moment epiphany but I think she just forgot how to cry all that much after being an idol for so long. She can if she really wants to but most of the time she'll just stare at you with her weezer blue orbs and feel bad for the rest of her life *points at her initial 3* untrained*

Nene and Shiho look absolutely delightful while crying, they just see it as a skill issue type of thing.

But if you've ever read mmj main story you know Airi is an ugly crier.

Please appreciate this wet ass creature. /aff

[yuellii]

allowed heaven, fill the empty me

𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐁𝐈𝐃𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 ;; a world of secrecy and stuttered glances in which you cannot proclaim the man that is rightfully yours ( but for some, he would rather die just to claim you as his )

feat. priest! zhongli, psychiatrist! baizhu, prison warden! wriothesley, master! ayato ( separately )

notes. completely SFW, zhongli’s is a bit suggestive; baizhu’s is written kinda darker, arranged marriage and non-sexual infidelity ( ayato ), religious themes ( zhongli ), manipulated dependency + family issues ( baizhu )

ZHONGLI.

He lights a dim candle in the darkness. Perhaps it was too much of an allowance from the ever-so knowledgeable priest.

But it allows him to see you, nevertheless; you, with your wrists bloodily bound in front of your body, rows of rosaries with crosses in between each bead. They’re tight, they burn your skin with a cast of holiness he himself bestowed, for any trace of the Gods would rightfully etch into the body of a demon like you.

And yet, you still flash him the sickest of grins, little fang in your mouth and eyes of the devil looking at him with such excitement he wishes was not there. “You came down here?” you almost laughed, wrists writhing against their restraints as you angled your head to tilt up from the cold, stone dungeon floor. “All the way down here, just to see me?”

It truly was such a long way down where he kept you for now, locked far below at the deepest dwellings under the cathedral. No one must know the head priest was keeping a demon on a leash under such golden grounds.

“I could have you crucified,” he threatens with a glare, though even he himself knows it is one not upheld.

You smiled, “But you won’t.”

He hated that grin of yours. It pulled at the black and gold robes that adorned his body in a way that was sinful—an entity in which his restrictions as a priest could not reach. There was a fire much more ferocious than this dim candle carried carelessly in his hands. Such a spark was gifted from yourself to his growing desire just to set you free.

“Come a little closer,” you called out, quieter than before, “won’t you, Father Priest?”

There was not any fear to be held against you, not with the gold cross hanging from his neck or the pure water he carried around protecting his aura. But there was a fear for himself. For if he found himself closer, still, he doesn’t know if he’d control himself to keep you bounded. This was the way of demons, so tempting—even to a respected man well under faith like himself.

Perhaps he didn’t know quite yet you already owned his soul the moment he spared you.

He found himself kneeling before you, suddenly not caring for the dirty stone coming in contact with the purity of his clothes. You, in contrast, we’re all beaten, bruised, and bloodied from being locked down here, bound by the ropes of the Gods that the priest himself tied on you. And somehow, the sight of you like this only made him crave for you even more.

“Closer.” His stomach dropped at the tantalizing smirk on your face.

And when the feeling of your breath hit his face only inches away, his heart raced, and that was when he knew it was too late. Your lips captured his like a kiss from Judas, the taste of iron immediately filling his senses. And yet, he found it delightful. So grotesque and so sinful, and yet he was relishing in the taste of your lips like it was the last supper of his faith. If the Gods could see him now, on his knees and mouth locked with the devil, he was not sure if he’d be begging for forgiveness.

And when you finally let go, pulling back your head to look at him, you could already tell from the shift in his eyes alone that he was now a man of sin.

BAIZHU.

“I got you something.”

A packaged wrap of paint was placed into your hands as your psychiatrist sat down on the couch in front of you. He crossed his legs with a small smile on his face, though his eyes were clouded with certain expectations. Scrutinizing gaze, it was akin to a vulture.

Your eyes considerably lighten up in naivety. “Thank you, Doctor! My parents wouldn’t let me buy this set…”

“I figured,” he laughed off. And he did so with that same smile on his face, eyes even closing to show a false crinkle at the corner of his lids—a fabricated happiness that gave you the impression of a boundary between patient and doctor. “I thought that maybe I could at least provide you something they cannot give. Or, they refuse to give.”

Key word differences, but he was far in too deep to have them matter too much. Then you beamed quite genuinely, “I can always rely on you.”

Good, he liked hearing that. Devotion was built on loyalty, and loyalty was built from a constant source of trust. That’s why he bought you those paint brushes last session, and that sketchbook the previous section. It’s why he keeps denouncing your parents to shift your reliance.

“So,” he started up. A facade he kept on to pose as your doctor, oh, how was he so lucky? “Anything new since we last spoke together?” ‘Together’; as long as he kept pushing the word—as long as he kept pushing the mere idea of it—surely it will stick in your head.

Your smile suddenly fell, and he took careful notice of how your hands suddenly grip at the paints like you value them.

He stops himself from grinning.

“Not a surprise,” you start, “but my father took away the sketchbook you gave me.” Oh, you poor thing. He immediately pushed out his bottom lip to resemble a pout. Surely, you’d see how much this saddens him. And so surely, you’d value the gifts he gives you even more. “I may have overreacted, and then an argument with both my parents started…”

“Oh no, not at all,” he dismissed. “They just don’t understand how much art means to you.”

Your face held desperation as he said that—confirming whatever thoughts you had in hopes that at least someone would understand you, if not your family. But he understands you, and he wants to make sure you know that. “Yeah, exactly!”

The doctor stood up. He made his way around the coffee table that was in between the both of you, stopping just to take a seat right next to you. You visibly tensed; he’s never been so close before. “Is this alright?” he asked as innocently as he could, placing a steady hand down on your shoulder.

You stuttered, eyes shifting away. “Yeah…”

And then he leaned in, using the length of his body against yours to pull closer until you were on his shoulder for some sort of half-embrace. “You need to learn that not everyone will understand you, especially when your parents are like that.” He spoke such mutters into your ear—a close proximity he was almost dying to have. “But, eventually someone will.” And that someone is me, and only me.

“I know you understand me, doctor,” you mumbled.

He could not see your face, but oh, he was glad you could not see his. Because your words, so unsure of yourself yet so naive, were like music to his ears.

WRIOTHESLEY.

“Careful, careful with ‘em, now,” the scruffy voice of the man behind you said, yanking at the cuffs bounding your wrists together. “This one’s the warden’s favorite.”

This was happening a little too often, happenings in which you were cuffed and brutally thrown down onto a cold chair in the prison administrator’s office. Being a criminal locked down here in the deepest depths of the Nation of Justice was no small feat, especially when it was kilometers under the ocean.

But how romantic is that? You, and him… oceans underneath.

“Aww,” you smiled, in sore pain from the way the previous guards threw you down. But the black haired warden in front of you sat with perfectly calm posture, the scars on his face only crinkling in his movements to sip at his tea. “I missed you too, Your Grace, but don’t you think you’re a little obsessed with seeing me?”

He did not have to look up to see the smirk on your face—it was practically audible via your words alone.

“A warden must check on his convicts,” the Duke merely replied. “Especially the most rowdy of them.” His tone when he said ‘rowdy’; that was the most interest you’d ever get from his voice. And yet, even as his eyes scanned his morning Fontainian newspaper in absolute boredom, you could tell. It was obvious with how much he called you in here, all the effort just to see you.

You scoffed. “You and I both know that’s far from true.” This finally earned you a glance from him—a glare, sure, but a glance nevertheless. It was like you succeeded, almost. “But anyways,” you dismissed. His gaze moved down to the table, right where you tossed a full pouch of Mora on top.

He gave it a toothy grin. “Heh, bail money or lawyer funds this time?”

“Both,” you shrugged.

Your eyes followed as he stood up from his chair, making his way around to the back of your seat. You wish you could move, you really did. But the very handcuffs that were restricting your wrists just now got pulled by the calloused fingers of his hand. “Where’d you even get money like this?” he questioned you so suddenly. He was bent down almost to the level of your chair, head right close to yours. And when you made the mistake of turning your face towards him, you could feel the cold air of his breath hit your cheek. “I’m sure the other convicts here wouldn’t just cough it up.”

“Well aren’t you touchy today…” you scowled. “And here I thought you liked me enough to just take the coins.” His grip was unwavering, and you felt your arms being pulled at your shoulders. Such a calm man, he was, but his strength could change that in seconds. “Then why have you been calling me in everyday? Where’s my Mora going?”

“I’ll buy you something pretty, don’t you worry.” There was a small chuckle in his voice. You didn’t particularly like the sound when it came from right behind you.

“A lawyer is pretty.”

“You’re not getting a lawyer.”

If you were able to turn around and glare at him, you would. “Why, you just wanna keep me here forever until I die?”

There was an oncoming silence that made your stomach drop. Surely. Surely not. Surely he was not infatuated enough to want to keep you imprisoned just because he wanted to see you every day. But when he spoke no words, and when you felt a coldness that creeped up your spine, his intentions as he stared down at your collar like a preying wolf were more than obvious.

“Oh. Oh, you’re sick.”

“Can’t help it.”

You were quick to thrash your hands against the handcuffs until he let go of you, but that wasn’t the case. And by then, all you could feel was the looming presence of the weight of his body pressed to the chair behind you. Because if you were let go from his place, he wouldn’t get to see you every day like he does now. And if you leave, well, there’d be this ocean separating the two of you apart.

And if you were freed, then… He wouldn’t get the authority over you like this anymore—archons, the twisted fantasy in his eyes as he watched you struggle in front of him—right?

KAMISATO AYATO.

Scarlet roses adorn scarlet letters in this garden of Eden.

What surfaced as a lovely night was truly a raging tempest, though he could not have it any other way. He kisses you with the lips of a married man, though he was already wed to a woman of status and riches. And you, all the meanwhile, felt like a homewrecker.

Of course, their marriage was arranged. Your lover was not a cheater. But if that was true, then why did you feel so dirty?

“The wedding was awful,” he groaned against your neck, arms snaking tight around your waist as he leaned into you for comfort. You could only hate yourself for feeling loved among his embrace; your fingers weaved through his hair, garden hedges shaded you from scrutinizing moonlight. Perhaps if the divine Gods of the moon could see you in the light, they’d be frowning. “All I could imagine was you walking down the aisle just to force a smile on my face.”

You could only mutter, “And how was the lovely bride?”

“I didn’t bother to pay attention, I’m afraid,” he sighed. You wondered why you cared so much about a woman you didn’t even know. Surely, she didn’t wish for an arranged marriage too, right? “I just wanted to get out of there.”

You stayed silent.

Perhaps he noticed it, the way you were tense. You were not like this before the wedding actually happened. And you were all for it—these stolen glances and longing gazes. A forced, loveless marriage with a woman he only met on the day of the wedding is a means to keep your relationship, sure; but the band on his finger spun you back to reality.

And that was when you leaned back, forcing his head to tilt up towards you. Your gaze, it looked so solemn. “What’s wrong, my love?” The shakiness in his voice… Perhaps he feared the same thing.

“I…” There was a lump in your throat. But when his left hand reached up to cup the side of your cheek—the stinging cold of his metal ring practically burned at your skin. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

He sat up straight immediately, eyes widening and hands locking around your body in a sudden panic that cut his breath short. And for the first time, he stutters in his speech. “What…?” There’s a breathlessness in his voice, one that forces you to bite your tongue. “Please, no, don’t say things like that—What are you saying?”

“This relationship,” you continued through gritted teeth, much to his horror. “Don’t you think this has gone too far? You’re married now!”

“If the clan let me marry you, I promise I would’ve—” His words were beginning to slur together; it was clear he was at a complete loss of composure and clarity. His eyes held a desperation you never wanted to see. “I promise, I tried!”

This was only a losing game. “But you couldn’t,” you solidified. Did your voice always sound this close to tears?

“Then I’ll try again!” he countered. His hands moved up to grasp your face, both of them holding your cheeks as if he waited any longer, you would disappear from his sight. Archons. You hated seeing him cry. “Tomorrow, I promise you. I’ll meet with the other clans and commissioners for however long it takes just to call on a divorce so we can—”

“But your reputation,” you argued. To that, he immediately opened his mouth again, but you cut him off. “Think of what the citizens of Inazuma would speak of you? Words denouncing respect and calling you a disgrace… I don’t want your name to go to shambles if it just means being with me.”

He wanted to say he didn’t care about his family name, he really did. But you both already know: He would not have married that woman and her status if it were true at all.

It’s you, or his family.

You both stay silent. The moonlight stretches overhead, shining down on the finale of sad, saccharine sin.

PLZ SUPPORT THIS POST I ACTUALLY RLY LIKED IT !! 🥹

[revehae]

two days ago, this blog turned two years old. well, that’s if you ignore the fact that i accidentally deleted my blogs this january. in spite of that, so many of you are still here with me and have been supportive even when i was quite literally losing my marbles. you guys have been patient through my periods of inactivity and reread my fics with the same amount of appreciation for them as you had the first read - if not more. and for that, i say thank you.

but i’m also saying goodbye.

just kidding! i was being serious for too long and so i felt the need to potentially strike some fear into someone’s heart for fun. anywho, no, i’m not actually leaving. not yet, anyway. there is so much more i want to do with this blog and so many ideas i want to share that will most likely carry on to the following year. so yeah, you guys are still stuck with me.

am i taking the two-year anniversary of a mostly k-pop tumblr blog teeming with dark, degenerate fantasies that ought to get me stoned by stubby, hairy ogres way too seriously? perhaps. but i’ll never forget what this blog means to me. i’m in a place now where my trauma is no longer something i feel suffocated by or bound to, but when i created this blog, i admit that there were still large parts of me that felt like i was “broken.” this was only possible because i found safe places where i could acknowledge it without fear of being judged, blamed, or attacked.

i realize not everyone has those places. one of the greatest delights i have is being able to own a blog where people with similar experiences as me are able to confront their pain in a way that makes them feel safe, comfortable, and most importantly, in control.

i went through periods of time where i wouldn’t even leave my room because i was so terrified of being subjected to the same nightmare again. i couldn’t go out in public, because when i did, i was constantly worried that someone was out to give me. this affected my relationships with my friends, family, myself, sex, the world - everything. it is a hell i wouldn’t even wish on Trumpington McDonaldton. or would i? just kidding. not really, considering his track record. but, back to the point, i know what it’s like to live in the dark. i know how unfair it is that someone can swoop in, ruin your life, and never, ever face consequences. meanwhile, you are staring at the consequences of what someone else did every single day. i know what it’s like to blame yourself. i know what it’s like to wish that things were different.

but i also know that as unfair as it is, as painful as it is, and as hard as it may be to accept, no one is going to single-handedly fix you. you have to be your own healer. you have to put the work in to build yourself back up and bounce back stronger than ever. i know firsthand how intimidating that can be, however, in my experience, the first step was not hiding from what i’d gone through. in a way that i originally never thought would be possible, writing and reading noncon fics was one of the most helpful ways of doing that. everything about this blog has been extremely cathartic for me. and the best part about it is that many of you have told me it’s cathartic for you as well, which fills me with a glee words cannot describe.

now, of course, my blog is not limited to Traumatized Individuals who had their brains rewired in the worst way possible via some negative experience - although i doubt you’re not still somehow traumatized if you religiously read my content. if you aren’t a victim of SA, you aren’t going to be crucified for reading noncon. it’s okay. don’t worry. but still, i will always support and stand up for those that are, even if they don’t cope in the same way as me. because not reading is also okay. there are so many different ways to cope with SA; i’m just happy to provide one of them to those that seek it out.

again, thank you all! thank you to those that have been here since the beginning. thank you to those that followed me this week. thank you to those who leave nice messages in my inbox, and reblog, and leave comments. thank you to my dearest sweet mutuals. thank you to those who followed me here from lisired and didn’t unfollow me when you realized i’m a little bit insane. thank you to those that read my fics over and over and never get bored! let’s heal together everyone. but let’s also be depraved and Scare The Hoes. and if you read all of this, i love you and i hope you get everything you ever wanted in life.

- with all of the love in the world, revehae!

[saijspellhart]

Tumblr keeps recommending me posts with some of the worst takes on Catra’s character. Always an//ti//Catradora posts. (Like, did we watch the same show? We couldn’t have possibly watched the same show. Why the fuck would anyone compare her trauma to Hordak? Because they are on two entirely different character journeys, at wildly different age ranges and maturity, and with wildly different amounts of time to grow and change. Never mind the constant outside negative authority influences on Catra all the fucking damn time, that Hordak never has to deal with until season 5. And fortunate for Hordak, Prime doesn’t allow him the free will to choose a path, so Hordak gets a free pass, his character growth and budding humanity remain intact.) Don’t get me started on this, I could write a whole critical analysis on why Catra is a wonderfully written complex character, and why comparing her to Hordak is fucking ludicrous. Honestly the lack of comprehension about writing, character, fantasy, narrative and trauma astounds me when I see some of these Catra hate posts pop up in my recommended feed.

Tumblr, hopefully your algorithm gets this, but I LOVE Catra. I love her. I love this tortured mess, I love the writing that went into her character, I love her waffling precarious hold on sanity and reason. I love how she struggles to cope with her trauma. I love the realism put into her character despite the fantasy setting. But I also love that they didn’t push the realism too far, because it is at the end of the day a fantasy story. I love the delicate balance they wove into her character. I love the complexity and thought put into her entire character arc through the whole series. (And before anyone comes to crucify me, I say I love Catra, as a person who suffered immense parental trauma and manipulation. As a victim of some of the worst of it. I shouldn’t even have to mention my own trauma to justify appreciating a FICTIONAL character. But here we are.)

Would I have loved one extra season to really explore her redemption more thoroughly? Yes of course. An extra season would have been delightful to explore a lot of the character relationships more thoroughly. But we didn’t get that, and what the show creators did give us was still wonderful and satisfying. (Even if I have some critiques on some things.) the writing of the show at the end of the day is still smart, and tight, and so so competent. (Looking at the myriad of other story driven cartoons and shows that fall apart in the later seasons or just have an overwhelming amount of inconsistencies and botched writing. **coughs** Voltron, Miraculous, YGO, Netflix Carmen Sandiego, Bleach, many animes in general, just to name a few. Not that I didn’t love and adore most of these shows too.) the fact that She-ra (2018) stayed consistently tight and snappy and smart with their writing, narrative, and characters from beginning to end is a treasure.

Anyway. Catra is great. I could write a character analysis going into why from a writing and storytelling standpoint. But honestly I don’t think anyone cares that deeply, and I don’t exactly have followers who are particularly interested in She-ra. Tumblr, you god forsaken windfall apple, please stop suggesting an//ti//Catra and an//ti//Catradora posts. I don’t want to see them. I support the canon relationships. And I support the non canon ships too. What I do not support is hating on shippers who like other ships. It breeds contempt in a fandom, and leads to a fandom canabalizing itself until there are no fans left. Also letting hate and disdain take up such a large amount of time and space in your brain, leads you down some dark paths mentally.

[hiwelcometothemonstersancturary]

LOL I hope Dogday and Catnap end up together after all the typical romantic comedy shenanigans!

How did Dogday get feelings for Catnap? I bet it was hard once Catnap went off the deep end…but did he ever feel the same about him before? I imagine they were both at least pretty good friends at one point…

:3

Dogday and Catnap were close since before they were turned into toys. I think kid Dogday (Im considering naming him Oskar) would protect Theo from bullies, and was worried sick when he just dissapeared one day. When they turned into toys, both Dogday and Catnap continued to be sort of close to each other. Catnap was isolated from the other Smiling Critters, and it was Dogday who would drag him to interact with everyone! I think this is when the mutual crush first started. Dogday saw a kind-hearted and shy friend who genuinely wanted to connect with others, while Catnap saw a ray of sunshine dragging him out of his misery corner in order to have him make friends with others.

For Dogday, Catnap was just everything he needed during that time: Someone who listens and is kind, not demanding much from him, much less getting mad at him for not doing things right. Catnap helped calm him down, and Dogday, touch and attention-starved, just caught himself suddenly developing an innocent crush on his best friend.

However, after the Hour of Joy, Catnap spent some time hiding with the Prototype as he taught him how to hunt. When he came back to the Playcare, he had changed. Hardened. He wasnt little Theo anymore, just like how Catnap wasnt little Oskar anymore. One became a hunter, the other, a leader. They clashed many times with Catnap wanting to go after other toys and the Smiling Critters not wanting to kill for their own survival. And when Catnap's religion became bigger than his own logic and morality, the two fell apart.

Below the cut are my thoughts on how their relationship went during the decade and after Angel rescued them!

Catnap did attack some of the Smiling Critters and he did tore off some of their limbs to feed the mini critters and himself. It was either that or starve, at least in his POV. Him crucifying Dogday consisted of him almost begging poor Oskar to quit with his morality and join him and Prototype. He wanted Dogday to listen, and he wanted to be together with his best friend, but tearing someone's stomach and legs off isnt the way to make them listen to you talk about how the guy who put everyone into this mess is the one and only true savior and god.

After Angel arrives at Playcare and saves not only Dogday but Miss Delight and even some of the mini critters, Catnap's world view start to shift, esp with how Angel treats him. "What happened to you?" is one of the first things they say to him, and Catnap, lonely and away from his dad/god and any company asides from the mini critters, just inevitably ends up getting attached to who he now sees as a messiah. This only gets worse after Angel saves Catnap's life.

Dogday... Oh, my poor baby. He DESPERATELY wanted Catnap to quit with the Prototype bullshit and just listen to him. They can hunt others, yes, but they shouldn't be cruel about it. They can confront the Prototype about putting them into this situation, they can leave Playtime Co, they can do anything, but please please please just LISTEN to him and STOP TALKING ABOUT THE PROTOTYPE AS IF HE'S A GOD. Dogday is ready to kill Catnap if necessary during Angel's time at Playcare, mind you, he just doesn't want to do that. And when Catnap is saved, guess who helps Angel treat his wounds? Yup, it's our big puppy.

Dogday feels guilt from letting his friends die, and feels anger at Catnap for helping with their deaths and for crucifying him. He wants Catnap to do better, but he feels like he lost him and will never get him back. And his happiness at seeing Catnap helping Angel is only for a moment, as he realizes Catnap just changed his god for Angel to fit the label.

After they confront Prototype and they leave the factory for good, they're both kind of lost. Catnap deep down knows neither Angel nor Prototype are gods, but what else are they for being able to survive such circumstances? And for Dogday, what else is there in the outside world, now that he feels more alone than ever before because his mind isn't busy with surviving anymore?

And then, BAM, every single Smiling Critter was actually alive. They're both shocked but happy at this, and begin to rekindle their relationship as they both agree that they're the only ones who can actually protect both their old friends and the newfound family they have. Their relationship at this point is two traumatized young adults trying to protect what they have of hope, still getting out of the survival instincts and way of life. They bicker a LOOOOT, but since day 1 from escaping they have sometimes slept next to each other because that's the only way they can fall asleep. They have so many conflicts but they are so much about each other in a way only they can truly understand (and also us but we don't count because we're just readers and players lmao).

With enough weeks passing by, and with enough long nights of these two being close and even playing with each other because they missed the other so much, they start talking. Untangling the mess. Catnap did apologize to Dogday when they were still inside Playtime Co, ofc, and he and Dogday had a moment when they saw the Sun for the first time since they were young children, but two conversations aren't enough to fix +5 years of hurt.

I think the mutual crush smacks them both in the head at the same time during the, like, third month of living with Angel. Sillies gotta be silly right?

[barrenclan]

I think catabolic seed by the scary jokes is very slugpelt, maybe about her life in general?

Yeah, I think so! I like the themes in this song about trying to take control of your life by reaching out to other people, but getting denied. That's very Slugpelt.

Also, check out this awesome PMV with Catabolic Seed, which I just have to show off cause I love it so much.

"But is bad luck really such a crime? If you won't be my valentine, could you at least give me a little bit of sympathy?"

"I don't care if I'm losing myself in the garden of earthly delights I could drop dead right where I stand, and I wouldn't mind"

You guys always find such interesting songs. I like this one. It's definitely got good Rainhaze energy.

"even through the pain animals cannot change dance with the skeletons and float away"

"eat and then die all your siblings cast aside too"

"see with new eyes a world ready to despise you"

No, no one's recommended this Hannibal fansong yet. But nice call for Ranger talking to Rainhaze!

"So look in the mirror And tell me, who do you see? Is it still you? Or is it me?"

"Do you feel the hunger Does it howl inside? Does it terrify you? Or do you feel alive?"

That's a good classic ask, back from the beginning of the blog. Never forget Christmas music Daff.

"Underground, boxed and glum Left you there for rot All my fears are overgrown Will someone burn this grove?"

"Welcome home! It's been a while Do you miss your head? With your tattered clothes and your bloody nose?"

I LOVE Vulture Culture! That song is great. I've been wanting to do a version of its animation meme for years now with a fandom I'm in. Maybe someday.

It can be a Rainhaze song and a Defiance song. They're so interlinked now, right?

"We live and die in a vulture culture We crucify anyone we hunger Gemini and a broken brother We live and die, my friend"

"Well, I guess I made my bed Now I gotta lie in it Like a suicidal kiss I got a guilty conscience"

BarrenClan is a cursed land!...

"The curse ruled from the underground, down by the shore And their hope grew with a hunger to live unlike before"

"If they called on every soul in the land, on the moon Only then would they know a blessing in disguise"

Asphodelpaw's themesong is a MARINA song, so you're already halfway there! I also agree with you about the idea of Asphodel feeling like she has to put on a strong front and pretend like she doesn't have any genuine feelings.

"It's okay to say you've got a weak spot You don't always have to be on top Better to be hated Than loved loved loved for what your not"

"You're vulnerable, you're vulnerable You are not a robot You're lovable, so lovable But you're just troubled"

What a wonderful title for a song. I also love mashing my OCs into any vaguely related song to them.

"I bid the sunshine adieu! In 1872 When the girl that I liked Made me a creature of the night"

"On the shortest night of the year I told him he’d nothing to fear As I bit his throat and crooned as he choked “Together forever my dear”

I'm certain this song has been suggested before, but that's only because any song from The Crane Wives discography could fit into PATFW.

"He taught me that the hand that feeds Deserves to be bitten when it beats He taught me how to break my chains And that money ain't worth a thing"

"Reminding me how little I have But as for time, as for time It's mine, it's mine"

Poor Pinepaw! He really does know too much, often envious of who he used to be.

...yeah, that's going on the playlist.

"Everything here is built on bones

Everything everything everything

And men will do as they’re foretold

Everything everything everything

Visions you don’t want to see

Everything everything everything

Hide your face from prophecy"

If I'm being real - since this song is so desert-themed, it's giving much bigger Saltburn's Clan energy, especially with the line about "mountain cats". (Blasting beams into the 3 people who read this's head to go read SBC at @nanistar)

If you want my opinion, I would say Slugpelt.

"So, if I can wait five more In this shape that I abhor I'll sleep with an open door Knowing you haven't touched a cell on my body"

"Now, my love carries the task Of handling the aftermath Can you smooth the looping lines Of fingerprints before your time?"

Lol I ran out of video embeds

[lunarbreaksblog]

How Vulpes, Arcade and Boone would react to you being transgender (MtF)

Note: This is for MtF sisters❤ also started playing fallout New vegas

Note 2: I know Vulpes will probably crucify you but I want him to be nice for a little bit but he is a very bad person

Vulpes Inculta

He's concerned and confused— he doesn't like being confused

Will force you to be more masculine since the legion states that women are inferior- Why would you want to be weak? It confuses him

None the less if you are in a relationship with him, he'll try to accommodate you in private. In public it's a whole different story.

The legion isn't homophobic to say the least but it is transphobic after all maybe you're just confused.

But no, you are not, you are confident—you are a woman in a man's body.

Vulpes will reluctantly let you leave the legion— so that you are happier. He could see being a woman for you was making you happy and free

Still checks in on you, if you ran away from the legion, although hiddenly

Arcade Gannon

He helps you with your monthly shots— he's always delighted to talk to you

He finds gender very interesting, he's okay in his gender but he can empathize if someone is not in their correct gender.

He knows that gender can be weird at times so he'll talk with you about how gender is quite confusing at times and how you wish you were in the correct body

Arcade and the followers are very pro-LGBTQ+ even if you aren't a good person

He probably feels so honoured when you tell him, he'll hesitantly tell you a little bit more about his childhood since you told him something about yourself. You've opened yourself to him.

If you are in a relationship with him, he'll gladly help you with everything since he's read many pre-war magazines (that was the only thing to read half the time)

You are both the housewives

Craig Boone

Be careful with this man— you'll make him confused but once he finally understands he'll be cool with it.

Literally the only thing he said after you told him was “Cool”

He's not a people's person

However if you've worked your way into his heart — He will protect you against any transphobic people he comes across.

Acts as your guard dog

All that matters is that you've proved yourself on the battlefield— he could care less about gender

Will be little happy since you shared something with him even when he was not the greatest of friends at time.

Feel free to request!

[crucifieddelight]

godless, depressed, and cheated

[galebrainrot2024]

GalexYou Dinner Party Pt. 4

Summary: The party is all here! Gale draws up the teams for a game, pure fluff and banter ahead. Thank you @thebitchycloudpainter for the idea! :) I... will likely make a Part 5 as I got carried away and we didn't actually get to the game yet. Everyone (the characters) has a lot to say and I want to include as many as I can, as well as I can. Enjoy!

Part 3 | Master List | Read on Ao3

Once the rest of your companions arrived, your home was abuzz with rancorous laughter, joy, and story-telling as Gale flitted between meal-prep and hosting duties. You loved seeing him this way - bursting at the seems with excitement and pride, his cheeks lightly flushed from the heat of so many bodies in close proximity and the warmth of the wine kissing them. He looked so alive, and you felt yourself come undone as you watched him. 

Gale cleared his throat and held up a hand and to your surprise, everyone settled into a hushed silence. He held the rapt attention of the room, the collective breath bated in pause. “Esteemed and honored guests,” Gale said, smirking and bowing at the waist, his playfulness revealing itself in the buzz of wine, “Dinner is served.” 

As everyone took their seats around the table, Karlach rubbed her hands together and licked her lips. “Oh, you know I am always ready for a good meal. This looks great, Gale.” 

“Compliments to the chef,” Wyll said, raising a glass and the rest followed suit. “To vanquished foes and boundless friendship - may there be more laughter and shared merriment to come.” 

“Here, here!” Minsc slammed his fists on the table, the sound of glass shaking and wobbling made your eyes widen and he grimaced sheepishly as Jaheira rolled her eyes and covered her face as if to indicate ‘I can’t bring him anywhere.’ 

Astarion, surprisingly offered up a rare compliment: “My Gale, you’ve outdone yourself… you’re rather lucky, you know,” he said, shooting a look at you and grinned. “Gale has an exceptionally refined palate.” You felt a blush creep across your cheeks and you smiled, glancing up at Gale who returned your adoration ten fold. 

Shadowheart nodded enthusiastically, “Honestly if it weren’t for you, I would have tried to seduce the wizard myself.” 

Gale blushed furiously, embarrassed by the collective praise and you laughed, posting your fork towards her. “There’s still time.” 

** 

When everyone was sated and the wine flowed freely in the lounge, Gale clapped his hands together as you cleared the table and watched him address everyone. “Alright, now, this would not be a proper dinner party if we didn’t force you into some amusements.” 

Shadowheart and Astarion groaned, rolling their eyes and Karlach punched Astarion playfully in the arm. “OUCH!” 

“Be serious,” Karlach laughed, shaking her head. “You just don’t want to lose.” 

“How do you know it’s a game?” Astarion rose a brow, swinging his leg over the other to cross it and rested his arms behind his head. 

“Ah! Well,” Gale interjected, pointing to Astarion, “What better way to commemorate our time together than some good, old fashioned games eh?” 

Karlach and Wyll whooped, Minsc shook Jaheira by her shoulders with anticipation. “Truly? A game? Minsc has not played games since his time as a boy in Rashemen! The suspense is too much, tell us Wizard what will we play!” 

Gale grinned, “My suggestion is a classic, a game that will test our performance skills and abilities,” there was a little squeal of delight from Shadowheart, “Charades.” 

Astarion rolled his eyes and groaned, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. “Gale, you can’t be serious.” 

“I am rather serious,” Gale shot him a cheeky, lopsided grin, the flush of the wine taking over. “And, I’d wager your reaction is due to you not wanting to be crucified in front of your friends.” 

Your brows shot up and there was a collective, jesting ‘oooo’ from the companions. Wyll leaned forward in his seat, tapping Astarion on the knee, “Don’t worry Astarion, I’ll be your teammate.” Wyll pointed two fingers to Gale and then at his eyes, “You’re on, wizard.” 

“Magical,” Gale turned to you and winked, the air sparking with serendipity and infectious joy. Your heart and mind had never felt lighter than when you were among your friends and lover, having the privilege to be able to watch Gale in his full splendor. You felt your eyes begin to mist, recognizing this is a moment that almost wasn’t many times. Had you not been clever or strong enough to pull him from the portal, had you not insisted they find another way to destroy the absolute and dissuaded him from the crown… how many different times did you nearly lose the man who stood before you now, beaming and bursting at the seams with electrifying exuberance. 

“My love?” Gale said again, his smile soft and warm. You must have zoned out and shook your head, returning his grin. 

“Yes?” 

“How do you think we should arrange the teams? Two teams?” He froze for a moment, a few different expressions flashing across his face before he tilted his head and twisted his wrist upside-down, holding it to the side before bending to point at you. “Three teams?” He flashed his brows up, grinning. “What do you say?” 

You couldn’t help but to bite your lip and smile. He was infectious. “Let’s say three teams.” 

“Delightful. Random?” He gestured around the room, seeing if anyone had strong opinions one way or another. Everyone seemed to look around and shrug in collective agreement. Gale smiled, twisting his finger in the air. “Random it is then. Astarion, would you be so kind and pass me that parchment beside you?” Astarion held up the paper and Gale nodded, “The very one, yes -“ he leaned forward and took it from Astarion, beginning to rip it into smaller pieces. “Darling, will you please hand me that pen?” He gestured towards the embedded shelf above you and you grabbed it, holding it out for him to take. As he did, he bent forward and kissed you. “Thank you. Now,” he began scribbling everyone’s names furiously onto the paper. 

The piano’s melodies echoed faintly around you as you watched Gale work, refusing assistance. Once the names were written, he carefully folded the papers and dropped them into a pouch and secured it with a ribbon. Then, he shook it and conjured a mage hand with a deft twist. Minsc shook with glee, “That never gets old, such a clever trick!” 

Gale covered his eyes and allowed the mage hand to remove the ribbon before he conjured a second hand. The two held the bag opened and he shut his eyes as he drew out the names of the teams. “I can cast blindness if you’d like,” Shadowheart joked, a half-smirk on her lips. 

“Ha-ha,” Gale said, picking out the final name. He clapped his hands together then gestured broadly. “So, who’s on whose team? And, a drum roll, if you please.” A collective groan shook the room and Gale shrugged and said, “Indulge me.” So they did, producing a cacophony of noises that made your head spin. It didn’t help that you had a soft buzz from the wine. Gale gestured for silence and the room grew quiet. Astarion, the pain he could be, cleared his throat in the middle of the dramatic pause. Karlach nudged him. “Team one: Karlach, Me,-“ 

“FUCK YES,” the tiefling boomed, reaching her hand out to tap Gale’s. “Let’s GO!” 

Gale laughed and took a moment to catch his breath, looking down at the last name, “And Wyll.” 

“You’re on,” Wyll said, sticking his tongue out a bit and pointing at the rest, moving his seat to join Karlach. 

“Collusion!” Astarion called and Shadowheart nodded in agreement. 

“Shall I finish reading the teams before we start tossing around a healthy dose of trash talk? There is a difference, Astarion, we don’t want a repeat of last time.”

Astarion hissed and crossed his arms. “Go on.” 

“Team Two: Shadowheart, Astarion, and Minsc.” The three were already seated together, as they had arrived together. 

“Truly!” Minsc said, wrapping his arms around the two and pulling them closer. “We already make an excellent team, perhaps Gale colluded in favor of us. But boo?” Minsc said, looking at Gale. “Is boo on Minsc’s team or will he be a vile traitor?” Boo squeaked in defiance. “Only kidding, of course.” 

“Um,” Gale said, cocking his head to the side and furrowed his brow before he looked at you. “What do you think, my love?” 

“I say… boo can decide their fate.” You pursed your lips and looked at the hamster knowingly. You didn’t understand a damn word it said, but you did understand enough not to get on Boo’s bad side. Boo squeaked twice for approval. 

Jaheira was already shaking her head, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this, I’m too old to be doing this.” 

“Team Three: Halsin, Jaheira, and you, my darling.” He beamed as he said your name, it rolled off his tongue as if he’d known it for a thousand lifetimes. “Before we get started,” he took a deep breath and clapped his hands together, “Desert and coffee, anyone?” Collective nods and approvals. 

You wondered how you got so lucky as he gestured for you to stay, to talk and enjoy the moment while he took care of it all. Could you imagine? 

[walkswithmyfather]

‭‭Proverbs‬ ‭3:5‭-‬12‬ (‭ESV)‬‬. “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths. Be not wise in your own eyes; fear the Lord, and turn away from evil. It will be healing to your flesh and refreshment to your bones. Honor the Lord with your wealth and with the firstfruits of all your produce; then your barns will be filled with plenty, and your vats will be bursting with wine. My son, do not despise the Lord’s discipline or be weary of his reproof, for the Lord reproves him whom he loves, as a father the son in whom he delights.”

‭‭Galatians‬ ‭2:20‬ ‭(ESV‬‬). “I have been crucified with Christ. It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me. And the life I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me.”

“Living Abundantly” By In Touch Ministries:

“Our best life is found when we trust God completely and live surrendered to His will.”

“God created us with a longing to know that we matter. He also designed us to find the fulfillment of that desire through His Son.

Dependence on God is central to an abundant life. Trusting Him with all our heart means giving Him control over everything—our family, finances, emotions, and thoughts. Today’s passage emphasizes how essential trust is to a fruitful life: It cautions against being wise in our own eyes and warns not to lean on our own understanding (vv. 5, 7). When faced with decisions, it’s tempting to choose the answer we think is right. But we can’t know all the facts or predict with certainty how others will respond. The Lord, however, does know. He reads our heart and perceives every thought (1 Chronicles 28:9). No aspect of our situation escapes His notice (Psalm 11:4), and He cares about everyone. That’s why He alone is certain which decision will be best.

The abundant life also involves acknowledging God in all we do. Speaking about Him is just part of what it means to give Him recognition. As His children, we’re to have a marked resemblance to our heavenly Father—in thoughts, attitudes, and actions.

Life becomes fruitful as we surrender ourselves to God and carry out His will. When His Spirit lives through us (Galatians 2:20), our life will be characterized by significance and satisfaction.”

[Photo by Explore with Joshua at Unsplash].

[loving-family-poll]

Sooo mad petrellicest is losing lmao, put some fucking respect on their name! What tf even is sharp objects? But Heroes was a fucking flagship show that everyone was watching and literally in the first episode Peter says "it's biological. I can't help it. We're connected." and then the final episode of s1 they literally have the big "I love you" scene and then fly off to explode together. Not to mention the deleted treehouse scene from s2 where Nathan very heavily implies *something* went on between him and Peter there when they were younger (bearing in mind Peter is twelve years younger than him) and that he went back there the first night his powers manifested (which is also exactly the same time his brother's powers manifested) and he's so fucking distressed about it. Also in season 3 he tries so hard to seduce Peter by coming to his apartment before their date and licking his fucking lips at him. Also anon underplayed the "Peter crucified someone to try and save Nathan" like not only that, he NAIL GUNNED him to a board, said "give Nathan back to me BODY AND SOUL" and tried to FORCE THE GUY TO SHAPESHIFT BACK INTO HIS ALREADY DEAD BROTHER. NOBODY was doing it like them, sorry. The actors were in on it, the creator was in on it, the fucking music people were in on it - shout-out Wendy and Lisa. (Anyway all this and more on @petrellicest - if this poll or this ask encourages anyone to watch heroes then I will be more than delighted). I also would have submitted Nathan/Angela (his mom) since apparently THOSE weird vibes were entirely intentional from the start and I'm sick in the head, but I know that would have been just me lol

Also can't believe Jonas/Martha didn't even make the list. More people need to watch Dark. More timeloop incest than you can shake a stick at.

Anon I mean this is the most neutral way I am not trying to disparage heroes it genuinely seems cool it won many awards and the propaganda people have submitted makes me want to check it out! But it is soooo funny to go what tf is sharp objects and then call heroes a flagship show everyone was watching...sharp objects is Gillian Flynn's (you may know her as the author of Gone Girl) extremely successful debut novel that was adapted into a miniseries starring very famous celebrity Amy Adams and the main character and her sister kiss with tongue

[paulagrint95]

Sleep, Agron

Agron had always thought he could withstand physical pain well. He was a strong man, a beast from the east of the Rhine. And yet here he was, frightened like a small boy even though he did not want to admit it to himself. Two Romans held him tightly and stretched his arms out on a wooden plank. Caesar, with a triumphant smile, waited with nails and hammer. They were going to crucify him. His heart was beating fast. He gulped. But he would not let the fucking Romans see him like this, so he spent what little energy he had left on glaring at them all. Caesar's traitor bent down and drove a nail into Agron's palm. After a heavy hammering came the pain. And there was still more to come. The gladiator could not help but let out screams of agony to the delight of his captors, who enjoyed the suffering of others (and more so in someone from Spartacus' inner circle). For an instant, the Germanic thought crossed his mind to say everything he knew, to betray Spartacus so that the nail would no longer pierce his flesh and bones. But no, he had to make an effort and restrain himself. Besides, it was too late to speak, his sentence on the cross had been signed. He soon cursed himself that such a dastardly thought had crossed his mind. His screams continued to flood the camp, making him the centre of all eyes, both from comrades and enemies. The pain in his hands spread through his arms and the dead weight of his battered body as he was lifted did nothing to improve his situation. For that is how he lay, dying, a step between this world and the next. One by one, the Romans left. The last was Caesar, who gazed at him under the cross.

'The great Agron and Crixus, the Undefeated Gaul, have fallen like flies. If Spartacus surrounds himself with useless men like yourselves, we shall soon see the end of him.' And he walked away with an air of superiority. While he knew his words were not entirely true, for he knew the group of rebels well, and he knew their leader was cunning and hard to kill, he was in a good mood, and provoking the German was a good mood to raise his spirits.

So Crixus was dead… The fucking Gaul with whom he had had so many disagreements had fallen in battle at the gates of Rome, of glory. Agron sighed, which made his whole body ache even more. They had come so close. At least he hoped that his efforts and those of the thousands who had followed Crixus were worth it and that Spartacus and the free slaves could make it safely across the Alps, for they were several days ahead of Crassus' troops. The German looked around. Hundreds of bodies badly wounded in battle and with clear signs of torture were piled up along the camp wall, waiting for their hour to come, an end very different from that of the gladiator himself. For a moment Agron felt envious of them for not being nailed to wooden posts awaiting an utterly dishonourable death. He should have gone down on the battlefield, fighting, taking all those sons of bitches with him, and above all, in a dignified and swift manner. Why deny it to himself: even though he thought he could handle it all, he didn't want to suffer the slow and painful ordeal he had been condemned to. And all because of his position at Spartacus' side. If the Thracian had not held him in such high regard, he would have followed him in the background, doing his duty and serving the cause with the same determination.

What had Spartacus seen in him to give him such an opportunity - could he be compared to the Rainmaker, the Undefeated Gaul or Gannicus, the God of the Arena? Had it been he who proposed to attack Rome, no one would have followed him. And yet his lust for revenge and bloodlust made him follow the Gaul to certain death without thought for the consequences. While he was free to make his own decisions, he had to recognise that it had been a mistake to leave the side of Spartacus, whom he had trusted and admired so much. He had left behind a large group of slaves who, helpless in the absence of warriors who had joined Crixus' campaign, would not survive a surprise attack. He had abandoned Nasir. Nasir…

The sun was high in the sky and Agron could feel beads of sweat running down his forehead and neck. He could barely feel his arms anymore. The wound on his torso stung. Sooner or later he would leave this world, so why resist? So, weakened, he dropped his head to his chest and his mind wandered to madness and exhaustion. Leaving Nasir out of the war, forcing him to stay at Spartacus' side despite his refusal had been the best thing he had done, even if it broke his heart to think of it. He would not have allowed himself to drag the man he loved into a risky venture and certain death. Now he, thanks to her sacrifice, would be safe. He would live. He would be free and escape the clutches of Rome across the mountains. And, why deny it, he would be happy next to the cursed sackcloth. When their paths parted, Agron knew he was leaving the Syrian in good hands, for whether he liked it or not, it was clear that Castus would take good care of him. And that Nasir would allow himself to be cared for. Their relationship had been stable for more than a year, with its good times and bad, its quarrels and its reconciliations. They had sworn to each other that nothing and no one would keep them apart. They gave each other chaste kisses in public and let themselves be swept away by the most absolute passion that led them to fuck like gods in private.

The German had never felt anything like this for anyone before. Why, then, had he not told him? A thousand and one tokens of affection for this exotic, petite young man, yet unable to put his deepest feelings into words. Words that could never be spoken again. Her life was slowly slipping away from her body. Soon he would be reunited with his brother. Hard… Agon thought of his childhood, of how they had been captured as slaves and sold to the house of Batiatus, of how his brother had slowly grown up in the ludus and how he had given his life for him.

His bladder could take no more. Dirty, disgraced, humiliated like a stray dog. That would be the end of him. The sunlight blinded him, and at last the gladiator fell into a state of unconsciousness from which, he was sure, he would not wake up again…

An overly sudden movement that shook his aching body made him startle. Confused, thinking that perhaps he was already travelling to the other side, he opened the eye that was not black. It must have been a vision. Spartacus stood before him, firm and imposing with his cloak in the wind and his hand around the hilt of his sword. Could he be delirious? Agron was laid on the ground and the Romans removed the nails from his useless hands, which made him feel a mixture of sharp pain and relief. It made no fucking sense. Then, between a Roman and someone who clearly wasn't, they managed to pull him up. He was barely standing, and if it hadn't been for Spartacus grabbing him just in time he would have collapsed to the ground like a rag doll.

'You are still in this world, brother' said Spartacus in a calm tone, though his eyes revealed an uncontrollable inner happiness. 'How…?' 'Let us not go into details now. Crassus and I came to an agreement and the prisoners have been released. Let us return to our own.' The Thracian slipped Agron's nearly limp arm around his shoulders and his own around his companion's waist. Around them, dozens of rebels did the same for the survivors, and together, with slow, short steps, they walked away from the Roman base. Agron put all his strength into walking, and also into walking as upright as possible, but every now and then he stumbled and all his weight fell on his leader and friend. He needed to rest, sleep for days and regain his strength to be of use again. Spartacus did not complain about anything the whole way. Not only did he walk at the German's pace and carry him when his strength failed him, but he kept checking that everything around him was in order.

Suddenly, Agron was aware that they were returning to camp, "home" if he could call it that. He would see Nasir again, but… would his beloved be waiting for him with open arms, or would his arrival disrupt his new life? Spartacus spoke as if he had read his mind: 'The Romans left Naevia alive and she gave us the sad news of Crixus' fall and yours. We held games in your name. Nasir paced the camp as if he were not of this world, performing his duties but without a hint of life behind his eyes. I know that when the pirate Castus tried to console him he only got a few good punches in response. He still thinks you are dead, brother. Your return will restore peace… To both of us.' Agron nodded and closed his eyes, letting himself drift away.

It was not until the touch of a familiar hand touched his face that Agron opened his eyes. Before him, a divine vision he thought he would never see again. Nasir's gaze met his and a myriad of feelings flooded their hearts as Spartacus carefully laid the German's arm upon the little Syrian's, assisting in this unexpected and blessed reunion. 'The Gods return you to my arms' said Nasir, his eyes brimming with tears. 'I was fool to ever leave them,' Agron replied. Seeing his beloved again had given him the strength to speak. Spartacus felt that Nasir's company would be more welcome than his own and let the lovers wander off into the crowd.

Nasir led Agron to the tent he shared with several women and children he was to protect and watch over. He arranged blankets and gently laid Agron on them. Every movement was followed by a grunt of pain, but the gladiator's heart was fully healed by the dark-eyed, brown-skinned balm. 'I thought… I thought you'd gone from this world' whispered Nasir, who this time allowed tears to stream down his cheeks. Tears he had long held back because, as a Spartacus warrior, he had not allowed himself to shed them. Agron stroked the Syrian's handsome face with a bloody hand to wipe away the streams of salt water. 'Your memory kept me alive.'

Then the Syrian grasped that gigantic hand between his own and saw the hole through it from side to side right in the centre of the palm. An intense chill ran down his spine as he realised that Agron had been crucified, but he said nothing. Silently, he looked up to the heavens and thanked the gods that he was still alive. Then he returned to reality. 'I'll wash your wounds' he said as he sat up and picked up a small earthen basin filled with water and some rags. At that moment the door of the tent opened and a slender, black figure appeared through the door. Two pairs of eyes turned to him, and he exchanged his haughtiness for a submissive grimace. 'I know my presence is unwelcome and my company unwelcome' the man said, not daring to venture any further. However, despite our differences, I welcome your return, Agron of the East Rhine. 'Your gesture is gratefully received, Castus, but Agron needs rest' Nasir replied curtly. The Cilician pirate nodded and left. Nasir returned to the bedside and began to wash his beloved's body as if his affection alone was enough to heal the wounds. 'Nasir, I…' Agron stammered. 'If I chose to follow Crixus, it was because…'.

'Shh, do not talk' interrupted the dark-haired man. I don't want or need explanations. You did what you thought was right and you made your decision freely, just as I freely agreed to listen to you and stand by Spartacus, which I deeply regret. But now you are here, back by my side, and that is what matters. With a superhuman effort, Agron sat up in the blankets. Inwardly he seethed with grief, but he kept his tone calm and confident as he spoke. 'My fate is tied to that of Spartacus, as well as the rest of those people out there. One day not too far from now I will wield a sword again against the fucking Romans.' Despite his awareness of the wound in his hands, he was unable to contemplate any other option. He was a warrior, the battlefield was his life. No one could take that away from him. 'And I will be at your side,' Nasir replied quickly. Agron smiled at the little man's haste.

'If the gods are not kind this time and decide to take me with them, there is one thing you should know,' the German continued. I disagreed with Crixus about rescuing Naevia from the mines. I did not understand why someone of his worth would sacrifice his life for the shadow of a slave he once loved. The fucking Gaul could have many others at his side, yet a feeling that escaped my reason bound him to this woman. The same feeling that bound me to you from the first moment I saw you. I would have died a thousand deaths on that cross from which Spartacus freed me just for the gift of seeing your smile one more time. You give meaning to this cause, to the war and to my life. 'Mutual sentiment that makes you the sole owner of my heart' Nasir replied with words that came from his soul. Then he placed a tender kiss on Agron's forehead that finished healing him. 'And now sleep' he whispered as the wounded man closed his eyes. 'Sleep, Agron…'.