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lacybunie · 2 months

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i cry, i pray, mon dieu!

“lord, give me one more chance!”

pairing: afab!reader x re4r!leon

warnings: smut, blasphemy, mentions of virginity loss, dubcon, slapping, religious reader, oral (male receiving), facefucking, corruption, rough sex, semi-public sex, degrading, manipulation, mind break, fucking in a church, crying during sex, creampie, biting, porn with plot (again), mean leon, ooc leon (again x2)

note: part 2 of adieu, mon dieu! he says the thing in this!!! :P

the tears streaming down your painted cheeks form a hot puddle below your feet, a glimpse into eternal hell. “do not be afraid to confess, my child. the lord shall forgive you.” the priest on the other side reassures but it only has you heaving for air as this confined space grows smaller around you. you cannot bear the pain that is confessing the betrayal you committed to your heavenly father just four days ago. nor can you bear to confess that you enjoyed it.

the moment you stepped into this temple for mass, flames sparked throughout the veins of your heart like a wildfire. the blood and body of your god tastes bitter and foul, threatening to come back up and escape your unclean body. each verse, each preaching, each word is a twisted stab into your soul. if hell is anything like being punished right now, you would rather suffer the most torturous death over and over.

“forgive me, i can’t.” you manage to choke out before stumbling out the confessional booth, almost falling over your feet in front of sister olivia. your mind drowns out what she’s saying, for the better or worse. the burning in your chest leads you outside to be embraced in the arms of your damned lover. the warmth of leon engulfs you, your brain scrambles for the familiarity. you clutch onto him tightly as he’s the only thing keeping you from falling. “you’re alright, sweetheart.” he reassures, his words bathe you in serenity.

his comfort is medicine for the painful wound in your heart. a hazy halo casts around his head from your teary-eyed vision, you hiccup gibberish as his lips gently kiss your head. “you can try again in a few.” leon grins at you, eyes suffocating yours. his scent of coffee and honey is a warm blanket covering your trembling form. gently wiping at the tears flowing down your cheeks, leon looks at you as if you’re as delicate as the rosary he ripped away from you. “i’ll go with you, yeah?” you nod wearily at the proposition as you get into leon’s jeep.

for the past 96 hours, you are attached to leon’s hip like a parasite latched onto its host. the paranoia that is being alone without him constantly has you in a frantic state. too petrified that the lord will send you to hell without him. your father is probably damning your soul to hell for disobeying every rule he’s enforced. leon is safer to be with, to confide in, to speak to. with the ghost of a smirk that prominently rests on his lips, you can tell leon doesn’t mind.

the parking lot is covered in a lilac veil, the sun fading into a crescent moon. your eyes divert to the cross atop the church’s roof, to the few cars dispersing in the lot, and to your priest finally walking out the building. saturday night mass is over, all that’s left is leon and you. eyes flicker to meet his as the church bell loudly chimes. “i’m scared.” “you have me, angel.” leon faintly smiles, caressing the side of your face. your tooth could ache from how sweet leon is.

hastily making your way pass the large doors of the church, the fragrance of the incense burns your nose so much that you might just vomit. the once comforting scent now revolting. you grab a hold of leon’s hand when you approach the dark oak booth, body filling with dread. “you okay?” you can hear leon whisper, his hand soothing the lower half of your back. the faint shadows of blues and reds from the stained windows cover his face. the aesthetics of this cathedral cannot compare to him.

“can you come in with me?” a soft plead escapes your mouth. thinking it’s such a silly request as your priest is not around to hear your sins but it’s for the best that he doesn’t. you look back to the booth, beams of light along with a large cross carved carefully into its wood. the pit of your stomach is burning with anxiety, lightning striking down on you would be more comforting. the temperature of your body rises a little too high when you look towards leon whose lips are pulled into a smirk. you feel weaker, smaller under his gaze. a sheep tethered in sharp teeth. “of course, sweetheart.”

leon enters the booth before you, taking up the seat in the cramped space. his stare is locked on you when his legs spread open, practically inviting you to sit on him. you don’t break the stare while dragging your feet into the confined space, shutting the heavy door behind you. there’s an indescribable look swirling in leon’s eyes, that look muffles out all thoughts you have. it’s almost hypnotic like leon is purposefully trying to trap you. you can’t seem to pull yourself out of it.

leon hums lowly as you shyly shuffle your way towards him, fiddling with the purity ring that still rests on your finger. “is it okay if i sit on your lap?” the heat of your cheeks are so hot and red asking the question that leon only chuckles at you. “you’ve done worse.” your throat burns at the remark, there’s a lingering tinge in your chest from earlier that grows stronger as you are reminded that this is far from the worse thing you’ve done. leon grasps your wrist to pull you onto his lap, his hands find solace on your waist.

“go on, angel. confess to your god.” leon mutters against your exposed skin that peaks from your dress. butterflies faintly flutter around in your lower abdomen, a feeling you know all too well. its difficult to get your words out when leon begins to knead at your waist, for your comfort or his own purpose. you blur out the feeling as you close your eyes and put your hands in prayer. “forgive me, father, for i have committed the biggest sin of all!” you cry out, heart beating hard against your ribs.

“i have betrayed you, my lord. i gave into temptation and gave into lust. it was gluttonous of me. i’m sorry for betraying you, i know what i have done is terrible.” a cold touch on your bare thigh has you choke on your words, your teary eyes open to see leon bunching up your dress to caress your thighs. “leon?” you whimper, tears cascading down your dampen cheeks. “finish it.” leon demands, his voice raspy. you look over at him, there’s a faint glint in his eyes. the butterflies in your stomach multiply in twos and threes.

“i said, finish it.” leon warns as his hands spread you open, something he knows how to do very well. you close your eyes once again as a sudden rush to your body has the blood in your heart pump harder. “please forgive me, i beg so desperately for your forgiveness.” “pathetic.” there’s a soft rub of a finger on your clothed cunt. you swallow the moan that’s trying to force its way out of your parted lips. “please, leon.” you want him to stop but you can’t bring yourself to rip away from him. “tell em’ what you did.” leon scoffs, pressing a kiss to the nape of your neck.

lips quiver from the little ecstasy leon grants you. oh how infinitely doomed you must be for committing such lewd acts in this very temple. the sight could cause hysteria if anyone were to open the door right now. “i had premarital sex with my lover. i’m so sorry, my lord. i’m sorry for indulging and enjoying sin.” leon rubs your covered clit harshly, your body is burning. “i’m sorry for losing my virginity to a man that’s not my husband. i’m sorry for-” “getting your brains fucked out.” leon interrupts, there’s a quick smack to the skin of your thigh.

you don’t fully process leon pushing you off his lap just as you don’t realize how quick you are to get on your knees before him. leon roughly grabs at your face, squishing your cheeks as if you’re a child getting scolded. “no god will forgive you for being a dirty slut.” leon grits through his teeth, delivering pathetic slaps to your face. a buzzing in your head soon reaches your cunt with each hit. “apologizing for getting your pussy ripped open when i told you it was okay.” “i’m sorry, leon.” you muffle out a sob, knees burning against the aging wood.

“you’re so fucking pathetic.” leon roughly pushes you away, tears blur your vision as you cannot fathom the anger he’s bearing onto you. you had betrayed him, sobbing out your regret right in front of him. your heart is imprinting itself on your chest from the pounding, you cowardly crawl back towards him. “i’m sorry, leon! please forgive me.” your hands tremble to grab his, crying harder than before. “so damn whiny, i need to shut that fucking mouth.” leon unbuckles his belt in a haste, just like he did a few days prior.

leon’s hard cock hits his lower abdomen, you’re dazed at the sight. he says something muffled before grabbing your face and shoving his cock into your mouth, eliciting a muffled gasp from you. your jaw slacks so naturally that it’s hard to believe this is your first time doing this. the now restricted air burns the branches in your lungs like cigarette smoke. your tears cascade down to his exposed thigh, he fucks your throat as if you’re nothing yet everything.

“look at you, slobbering on that cock.” leon grunts, roughly snapping his hips into your face. you unknowingly moan around him, watching a smile creep onto his lips in response. his fingers are tangled in your hair, a sweet sting from the pulling has whimpers escaping your stuffed throat. “making me feel so good, should’ve done this earlier.” leon chuckles, eyes burning through you. your body fights to stay conscious as your oxygen is running terribly low yet you do not seem to mind it. passing out from giving your lover pleasure, what a heavenly way to go.

there’s a craving leon fills as he fucks your mouth, that craving you first had a few nights ago. always wanting more of him, yearning for that feeling he gives you when you reach pure euphoria. no matter how hard you’ve searched to find it in something else, you can not. no amount of bible studies or mass will ever fill your craving. it seems it only resides in leon, and how selfless will you be if you keep depriving yourself from it.

“nasty fucking girl.” leon sighs while freeing his cock from your warm mouth, slapping the tip against your puffy lips. your body is on fire, knees gushing out blood from the rough wood, but the way leon makes you feel is divine. you temporarily taste your salty tears before he shoves his fat cock back into your salivating mouth, throat burning as it gets stretched out. the sight of you would have you crucified in front of the church, so selfish and greedy that you have betrayed your heavenly father again in his own temple.

“doing such a good job, should fuck that pussy of yours.” you moan at the praise, looking up at him in admiration. leon’s face contorts in pure bliss as you hum around his cock, not noticing the crucifix above him shaking to a tilt. your cunt squeezes around nothing as you obediently take him. the feeling of your throat convulsing around leon has him moan out a symphony. “come here.” he pulls you off to sit you atop of his lap, back against his chest. your lips glisten in the candlelit cubicle of your own saliva, shining in the same way as when you drink the blood of christ.

you watch leon fully rip off your dove white panties to expose your drenched cunt. there’s a fuzziness in your brain, like a broken tv displaying static. “i’ll bring you salvation.” leon mutters while slapping the tip of his cock against your cunt. your fingers grip at the hand that’s around your throat when he teases your sopping hole, temporarily depriving you of your craving. “i’ll give you a holy body.” he whispers softly in your ear as he roughly shoves his fat cock into your cunt. hot tears blur your vision once more as leon answers your prayers.

the moans escaping your chest ricochets off the oak walls and straight back into your mouth. leon is fucking you so harshly that you can’t breathe without moaning. his cock abuses your poor cervix that you think you’ll faint if he keeps going. “there’s my pretty girl.” leon’s fingers messily rub your clit, your heartbeat becomes erratic. your eyes pry open to wearily watch as his cock disappears into your cunt, the sight making you dizzy. “got yourself so wet for me.” “god.” you blabber out with drool coating your mouth, too fucked out already, too gone.

there’s a pitiful slap to your rose tinted cheeks, it only makes the coil in your stomach tighten. “bet you missed this. all those tears and prayers will never save you from being a dirty little girl.” leon taunts while biting your neck, drawing the smallest trickle of blood. his tongue laps at your neck while your lungs are filled with fire as leon’s grip on your throat loosens just for a moment. his cock repeatedly hits that sweet spot, your body is going numb from the euphoria. “i can save you, i’m all you need.”

the coil in your stomach seemingly snaps already, whether at leon’s words or his cock ruthlessly pounding your insides, you don’t know for sure. you’re gasping for air, body stupidly shaking at the strong rush of dopamine coming out of your cunt. “leon.” you whine loudly, clawing at his wrist as he doesn’t stop fucking your brains out. this feeling is so much stronger than the first time that the circuit of your brain seems to rewire itself, you’re completely and utterly broken.

“there you go, pretty. all over my cock just like that.” leon hooks his arms around your thighs, finally letting your throat breathe in the hot air. your brain is melted, the only thought you have is leon and his cock. tears stain your eyes as leon pounds deeper into you, not letting your body rest just yet. ears filled with the wet sounds of skin on skin and your own moans. the candles mounted on the oak walls are extinguished, the image of your heavenly father above the doorframe views you with disgust.

“no god will ever make you feel this good.” leon grunts, voice raspy and heavy. “only you, leon.” you manage to say, breaking eye contact with the painting pitifully judging you as you lose yourself in leon. his cock hitting every single spot in repeated thrusts, stars are in your eyes at the indescribable feeling your body is currently drowning in. “only you, only you, only you.” you chant in a lust filled mantra, gripping at the oak walls as leon pounds your cunt harder.

“only me, huh? you’re so fucked.” leon muffles his chuckle into your shoulder, sliding a hand down to your cunt once again. you pathetically make an attempt to stop him from rubbing harsh circles into your clit, already overstimulated enough. “leon, don’t.” you sob as you feel the coil about to snap again. the plead falls on deaf ears, leon bites into your skin while rubbing messy circles on your clit. your cries are broken into scattered moans when leon roughly hits that sweet spot in your cunt, making the coil snap for the second time.

the wave of bliss has you speechless, throat releasing nothing but breathless moans. your body thrashes as the ecstasy you’re receiving is unreal. “such a good girl.” rings in your ears as you feel the hot essence of leon’s cum filling you to the point of fullness. he desperately rids himself of every drop, groaning into the nape of your neck. your throat burns as you moan faintly, like liquid to a sore throat. leon grabs your face to immediately kiss your bruised lips, grasping your limp body into a tight hold. the taste of blood falls onto your tongue, your blood.

“i’m all you need.” leon repeats onto your lips, staring into your eyes and straight through your soul. that familiar glint in his eyes has your heart beating haphazardly. you believe he is the only thing you ever need, your heavenly father will never give you such pleasure as leon does. your heavenly father will never be leon. you mindlessly nod, giddily smiling at leon before kissing his lips, relishing in your newfound faith.

you found god and he’s leon.

#leon kennedy x fem reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy smut #resident evil 4 smut #leon kennedy imagine #omfg how do i tag this!!!!

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blurredcolour · 7 days

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Undone Before You

[One-shot]

John Brady x Female!Reader

John Brady's wedding day with his sweetheart has arrived at last, but the war and events back home have certainly left their mark upon him. After years of waiting, he cannot help but wonder if love is really enough to build a life on? All you have to do is take him into your arms and prove that it is.

Warnings: Grieving, Death, Graveyard, Wedding, Alcohol Consumption, Catholicism (light), Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes [fingering - f receiving, oral sex - f receiving, virginity loss - m/f, premature ejaculation, multiple orgasms, cum play] - 18+ ONLY.

Author's Note: Technically a sequel to Parting Gifts but can be read as a standalone. Special shoutout to @precious-little-scoundrel for helping foster this from day one - this is truly a product of countless DMs.

Word Count: 3728

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John Brady’s wedding day began in a graveyard, which was certainly not how he had imagined the start to one of the happiest days of his life. Yet he had also not imagined spending over a year-and-a-half as a prisoner of war, nor his own father dying back home in his absence. All told, the last four years of his life had been entirely constructed of the unimaginable, most of it horrific and unspeakable, but there had also been meeting you. Asking you for directions, insisting on escorting you home, only to become even more hopelessly lost on the cold January streets of Sioux City, Iowa. Falling in love with you over those short months the 100th trained there, the letters which you sent to sustain him throughout his time at Thorpe Abbots and later in prison camp.

The war had torn the world apart and obliterated much of the life he had known and yet it had brought him you. A woman beyond compare, who had not only waited for him, but had made the journey to New York harbor to await his return on board one of the many ships of men recently freed from German captivity. He must have imagined proposing to you a thousand times – the style of ring he would buy you, the words of devotion he would speak as he sank to one knee as he slid it onto your finger. As it was, he had barely wrapped his arms around you before the plea for you to be his bride had flown from his mouth into your sweet-smelling hair.

You were even prettier than his memory had been able to maintain.

To his immense relief, you had agreed without hesitation, pulling his lips to yours, the softest sensation he had encountered in months. It was not easy to secure a date at the local cathedral. With the war in Europe over, marriage seemed to be on everyone’s mind, and so the pair of you had opted for the first available date near the end of August. It had worked well enough, meant your family could make the trip, allowed him to make the short journey to see the family of the waist gunner, Clanton, they had lost in the Munster raid. But the agony of waiting was made all the more acute with you so close at hand, just in the guestroom. While the paid of you had committed a great deal of sneaking around to satiate your need for one another previously, something about the idea of doing so under his mother’s roof had turned his stomach and had kept his hands very respectfully to himself.

It did nothing to stop the looks of longing across the dinner table or lingering kisses good night, however. And when your parents arrived and bundled you off to a local hotel for the last few nights before the wedding, he had felt your absence like a hole in the foundation of his childhood home. The very size and depth of his feelings for you was honestly terrifying at times, leaving him feeling lost, adrift in the churning expanse of them. It was the desire for a grounding conversation that had taken him to the graveside of his father, before his mother had even risen to make breakfast. Setting a simple bouquet of cheerful, hand-picked daisies, collected during his walk over, against the headstone, he crouched down to try and initiate a facsimile of the conversation he ought to be having with the man who raised him.

“I’m getting married today, father.” John murmured in the hush of the church yard, the birds only just beginning their morning song. “Wish you could have met your daughter-in-law, she’s something else.”

He exhaled deeply at the awkward silence that ensued, driving home how truly one-sided an endeavor this was. About to give up, to straighten and make his way back to the house to put on his nicest suit, he blurted out the question that he wished he could get an answer to.

“Were you terrified? I’ve flown into combat, marched across all of Germany through ice and snow, but I feel ready to jump out of my skin. Not of marrying her – god no, would’ve done that the first day back if I could, but…of disappointing her. I love her so much, I just want to make her happy and what if I’m not…” He trailed off, birdsong quickly filling the vacuum left by his silence.

“John?”

He straightened quickly and turned towards the sight of Father Hastings making his way through the rows of headstones.

“Morning, Father.”

“Thought that might be you, you’re up with the birds this morning.” His green eyes glittered beneath bushy grey eyebrows though the rest of his hair had gone stark white. John could not help but smile a little with a sheepish shrug. “Can hardly blame you I suppose, it’s the big day after all. Nice of you to visit your father.”

John nodded as the pair of them turned to look at the headstone, a little less lonely looking courtesy of his posy of daisies.

“Suppose today would be a day to sit you down for a talk about manly responsibilities and all that. Sorry this old, unmarried man is such a poor substitute – the only advice I can offer you is to love that woman with all your heart and soul. I’ve seen the way she looks at you, I’d say you two will be just fine.”

With a rough gulp, John took a shaky breath and offered the priest a nod of thanks. Somehow the answer had still managed to make its way to him, the very words he needed to hear. “Thank you very much, Father.”

With a warm grin, Father Hastings glanced at his watch. “You’d best go home and get some breakfast in you, don’t want you fainting on me at the altar. I’ll see you at one o’clock, John.”

He huffed a short laugh. “That you will, Father.” He replied before turning to make his way home.

Time took on a hazy, hastened quality, breakfast blurring into setting up the borrowed chairs and tables in the backyard for the homespun reception before he took his shower and shaved, then carefully dressed in his suit. His thoughts strayed often to you, pondering the lengths of your preparations as well, certain you were being subjected to all manner of womanly things that were utterly unnecessary as you were already stunning, in his opinion.

Stepping into the sanctuary, bedecked with flowers by your family that very morning, stretched an undeniable grin across his face. The blooms brought the familiar space to life with beauty and fragrance, gave him something to focus on as he and his brother took their places at the front of the church along with several of his schoolmates. None of the boys of the 100th had been able to make the trip, unfortunately, though the pair of you had extensive invitations to visit on your honeymoon. Kansas, Wisconsin, New York City, Wyoming. Perhaps not conventional destinations but certainly fitting for the connections made during his time in the service.

His perception of time seemed to inverse as the doors to the sanctuary opened and you followed behind your bridal party, everything slowing to a crawl as his vision narrowed in on you. For someone who was gorgeous every day to become so breathtakingly stunning…John was briefly worried he might faint on Father Hastings after all as he struggled to take in a sufficient amount of oxygen. And yet the moment your hand landed in his, balance was suddenly restored. The pace of the clock, and of his breath, returned to normal and he found his feet by focusing on the faint shimmer of happy tears in your eyes.

Vows were spoken, rings exchanged, and your union was blessed before everything was sealed with a ceremonial kiss – much to the delight of your gathered guests. Photos followed before the entire crowd descended upon the festooned backyard of the Brady family home for champagne, sandwiches, and cake. For the cobbled-together nature of it all, it felt like utter perfection. His hand rarely surrendered its hold on yours until you demanded freedom to change into your going away dress so the pair of you might make your escape to the Canandaigua Hotel where your families had booked you several days of privacy as a wedding gift.

“For that, I suppose I can let you go, Mrs. Brady.” He murmured with a small smile, which promptly widened as your lips pressed against his, to the nigh-obnoxious tinkling of cutlery against glassware. “Get me out of here.” He tacked on, basking in your responding giggle and releasing your hand so the pair of you might flee as soon as possible.

Packed into the car with much fanfare as the sun began to set, the sudden silence inside the vehicle was striking, your gaze meeting his as he navigated his way out of town, sending you both into a short fit of laughter.

“We did it, Johnny.” You breathed, your hand coming to rest on his shoulder, making him swallow thickly as the skin well-hidden beneath the layers of his suit jacket and dress shirt still came alive at your touch.

“We sure did, sweetheart.”

He set his hand, palm-up, upon his thigh and you promptly laced your fingers with his. The feel of the bands on your ring finger immediately drew his attention, his thumb shifting to trace along them as he glanced at your brilliant smile. It was difficult to maintain his focus on the road as you lifted his hand to brush your lips against the back of it, shifting along the bench seat to press against him, laying your head on his shoulder and setting your entwined hands in your lap.

John was acutely aware of the warmth of you, the faint scent of your shampoo and hint of icing combined with champagne on your breath. His lower belly ached with the need to taste that on your tongue.

“Just ten minutes.” He breathed, perhaps more for himself than for you.

You hummed against his shoulder in response, squeezing his captive hand but making no move to release your hold on him. As you neared the westernmost of the Finger Lakes, it was his turn to lift your hand, placing a kiss of apology to the back of it before gently releasing it, navigating his way to the modest four-story hotel that had become a main-stay of the area in the 1920s. Check-in was smooth, with your small amount of luggage, and the suite your families had booked was spacious enough to include a sitting area in addition to the bedroom.

“I’m going to freshen up, I’ll be right back.” You said with an enigmatic grin that had him swallowing again, his trousers feeling slightly too tight as he pulled you in to indulge in one thorough kiss before acquiescing to your request.

Licking his lips absently, he set about slipping his suit jacket from his shoulders and hanging it in the closet, unpacking the rest of his suitcase with well-trained, military precision. The sudden appearance of your bare arms slinking around his waist from behind halted his movements, his hands dropping to your elbows to palm along the soft skin of your forearms before unentangling himself. Stepping back and turning, his breath stuttered in his throat at the vision of you in the most ineffective underclothes ever produced – truly they left very little to the imagination, practically see-through and utterly tantalizing.

“Sweetheart…” He exhaled roughly, faintly registering the way your mouth ticked up in delight before his lips descended upon yours ravenously, grasping your waist to pull you flush against him.

Feeling you arch against him, pressing closer, he shuddered slightly and quickly began to manoeuvre you towards the well-appointed bed in the middle of the room, determined to take his time and please you in an appropriate place at last. No more bathrooms or closets or whatever locked door you could hide behind. You were his wife, and he would lay you out upon the bedding and worship your body accordingly. You let out a faint squeak as the backs of your calves found the mattress and he pulled his lips from yours to guide you to lay upon the pillows, shucking off his dress pants and shirt to remain only in his singlet and boxers.

Taking a moment to drink in the sight of you, laid out on the bed like some kind of offering, he took a deep breath before crawling onto the duvet beside you, trailing hot kisses down your neck as the hand not supporting his body began kneading at each of your breasts in turn, teasing the fabric of your lingerie against your nipples. Soft noises of pleasure echoed from your throat, sealed between bitten lips, swallowed down.

“No need to hide it now, Mrs. Brady, let me hear how good you feel.” He whispered into your ear, shuddering at the intensity of the moan his statement earned him, the sound of it sending a rush of blood straight to his cock.

“Mmm, Johnny!” You whimpered as his mouth dampened the lacy fabric over one nipple and then the other, leaving his fingers to toy with the taught bud he left in his wake.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Feels good…don’t stop…” The obvious difficulty you were having forming words stroked some egotistical part of his brain and brought a smirk to his face, eased some of the nerves that had been plaguing him for quite some time at the thought of bedding you fully.

“Good.” He murmured, quite pleased, and removed the fabric from the top half of your body, revealing an expanse of skin to be tasted and conquered by his greedy mouth.

Lips curling against the warmth of your sternum as he slid his hand between your thighs to find a generous accumulation of warm slick, he began to tease your folds until your chest was heaving beneath him, fingers digging into his shoulders, pleas falling from your lips.

“I’ve got you.” He placated with a kiss to your side, sliding from your grip to remove your underwear and settle on the bed between your thighs, the pressure against his throbbing length requiring he take a moment to steady his breath and regain his focus.

Draping your legs over his shoulders, he craned his neck forward to seal his mouth over your core and deliver a devastatingly thorough kiss to your folds. He could feel your thighs tremble against him, your fingers threading into his hair as a high-pitched moan floated down to him. It took all his self-control not to grind his hips into the mattress self-indulgently in response. As you began to buck and writhe in response to his ministrations, his hands slid beneath your buttocks to grip at your fleshy globes, both holding you still and angling you closer to his mouth, making it that much easier for him to dole out his pleasure to you.

Once again memory had failed him here, failed to capture and retain the erotic nuances of your sweet musk, and particularly combined with your newfound vocal liberty, John found himself in a new struggle for self-control. One that had him only doubling his efforts to obtain your release, wanting nothing more than to satisfy you before he attempted anything further. Plunging his tongue deep inside the alluringly plush warmth of you, and relentlessly nudging his nose against your clit, seemed to be the key to driving you over the edge as it did not take long of that combination until you were shaking and crying his name while flooding his tongue with still more sweetness.

Charting a course up your body with sporadic kisses, he smiled at you softly as he smoothed some errant hair from your face. “How’re you feeling?”

“Greedy.” Your murmur following by the sight of your teeth sinking into your lip punched the air from his lungs, gave him little warning before you pulled him down for a kiss and tugged at his undershirt.

“Yeah?” He puffed against your lips, feeling your eager nod in reply before straightening to efficiently strip himself completely, hissing a little at just how sensitive he was in his current state of arousal.

The look on your face as your eyes raked him over gave him pause, made him raise his eyebrow to confirm yet again, to which you nodded and opened your arms. Easing into them carefully, he settled his hips between yours, shivering almost violently at the smear of your slick across his length.

“Tell me if it hurts…” He ground out, throat wanting to clench up on him as he took his cock in hand, slowly pressing forward into your entrance.

While John was no stranger to the feel of your wet heat, the way it seemed to grab at his length and pull him in, wrapping around him so snuggly, had his eyes rolling back in their sockets. Pressing his face tightly against your neck, he bit off a string of curses, gritting his teeth against the prehistoric urge to slam home. Somehow prevailing upon himself to be a gentleman, he waited for your nod until moving again, the friction unlike any earthly feeling he had ever experienced, forcing an agonized moan from his throat and quickly driving his hips back into the warmth of you. Sweat beading along his hairline, he could feel his balls growing dangerously heavy and tight, the imminence of release not obeying his usual iron grip of self control in the face of the pleasure of you.

“Oh fuck, sweetheart…” He rasped in warning, in apology, before his hips seemed to take over, snapping into yours in quick succession as his orgasm overcame him.

Briefly disconnected from reality, there was only mind-numbing, blinding pleasure, until he returned to full consciousness, panting against your collarbone. Your hands were stroking lovingly across his shoulders, down his back, as you craned your neck to kiss at his temple.

“Mmmm Johnny.” You purred, not sounding the least bit annoyed with him and he slowly raised his head, eyes widening as you ducked in for a kiss. “Good?” You murmured against his lips, and he huffed a laugh.

“You are heaven itself, Mrs. Brady. I definitely didn’t intend for that to be over so quickly…”

A soft tut sounded before you were kissing him again. “How much pleasure have you given me, Mr. Brady? Thank you for letting me return the favor, though I hardly did a thing.” You smiled warmly, your fingers carding through his hair so very soothingly. “Regardless, we have our whole lives to practice.” You added with a mischievous grin that sent a molten flash of desire through his abdomen.

“Why Mrs. Brady…” He smirked slowly and nipped at your lower lip, fingers seeking out your still weeping core, determined to finish what he had started with his cock. “…that sounds an awful lot like a proposition.”

Your gasp as he found his target had his tongue dragging across his lower lip.

“Is it a proposition when you’re my husband?” Your voice took on a deliciously breathless quality as he sunk two fingers into you, but he was immediately distracted by the extra slickness he found there, suddenly recognizing that you were full of his cum.

Yet another jolt of desire rocketed to the apex of his thighs, and he found himself sinking lower down the bed, driven by deep curiosity as he continued to work you towards released. The sight of his white, sticky mess dripping from you as you once again began to climb towards climax, his thumb circling at your begging clit – it was all having an unexpectedly powerful effect on him.

“Uhn, Johnny s’good…please…” You whined and he pressed his lips to your quaking inner thigh in acknowledgement.

He could feel you beginning to tighten around his fingers, a sure sign you were not far off, and one subtle pump of his cock confirmed he was fully hard, by some miracle. That miracle being the sheer eroticism of you, surely. Pulling his fingers from you earned him a pitiful cry of protest and he quickly pressed his lips to yours.

“I know, sweetheart, I know.” He soothed, taking a deep, steadying breath before thrusting into the sinful heat of you.

The mixture of your cries was practically pornographic, the fingers of his left hand lacing through yours, his wedding band pressing tightly to your skin, as the thumb of his right kept up the pressure on your clit as he managed twice as many thrusts this time. Combined with the thorough groundwork he had lain, it was enough. Enough to push you first into orgasm, clenching around him so tightly he forgot how to breathe, vision going white as he followed quickly behind with a cry so intense it erupted silently against your shoulder.

Laying on your backs, shoulder to shoulder with your fingers still semi-intertwined, panting weakly, John turned his head to find you already smiling at him adoringly.

“I love you, Mr. Brady.”

“Good thing too, can’t return me now, Mrs. Brady.” He smirked and kissed the scoff right off your face, caressing your neck warmly. “C’mon let me run you a bath.”

“Mmm, we sure made a mess didn’t we…” You remarked, shifting to stand.

“Sure we will again, too.” He chuckled, knowing full well he had a lot of practice ahead to perfect his technique. It was something he found himself very much looking forward to. Following your lead, he slid to his feet, retrieving your lingerie from the floor. “We also should get you new underwear, sweetheart. These really do absolutely nothing to cover you up…” He remarked, holding out the flimsy garment hooked on his fingertips with a raised eyebrow.

“They were a gift for you, Johnny…seeing as you stole my last pair.” You raised a pointed eyebrow in return, and he feigned complete innocence.

“Have no idea what you mean sweetheart, c’mon now, bath.” He slid his arm around your waist, kissing your temple as he guided you into the ensuite, knowing full well those pilfered panties were still hidden in the bottom of his footlocker back home.

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Masters of the Air Masterlist

#john brady x reader #john brady imagine #john brady #john brady fic #ladies who brady #mota fic #masters of the air fanfic

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dresshistorynerd · 1 year

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Favorite Historical Architectural Styles

Since I've done my favorite historical fashions, I thought it would be fun to do historical architectural styles too. I want to write more about architecture too, but I've started thinking should I do a separate blog for architecture and architectural history or should I just do it all here? I think it would be better in a way that I wouldn't have to worry if anything I want to write is too far from the actual topic of the blog, but then again, there is a lot of overlap, especially when it comes to Arts and Crafts movement (which I'm currently writing my thesis about and which I definitely will talk a lot about), and also I would have to manage yet another blog.

Anyway, I'll again do this from oldest to newest. I will limit myself to western styles (except when we get to Modernism all styles are very international), even though there's a lot of non-western styles I enjoy, but it's what I know most about.

Perpendicular Gothic

I love Gothic architecture in general and the several first entries will be my favorite sub-styles of it. I love the the way Gothic Cathedrals try and so often succeed to feel like forests. I love how the structural elements are used to create the aesthetic. I love the organic visual elements. I love that it's such a unique style in Western architecture. And I love the amazing craftsmanship that went into it.

I'm particularly a fan of English Gothic because of it's insanely beautiful and complex ribbed vaults. From English Gothic my favorite though is the Perpendicular style, which was basically the English late Gothic. It's characteristics can be seen in the second pic. It has the stretched arch and the very flowing and organic traceries. I do include here the rest of English Gothic too, since even though the Perpendicular style is my favorite of them, all if it is still one of my Gothic favorites.

German Late Gothic

As it's becoming clear I love Late Gothic architecture in general the most, and in the geographical axis I also love German Gothic. Early and High Gothic were mainly divided into French and English styles and the French style dominated in the continent, just being altered a little to the local building traditions outside of France, but during late Gothic it diverged much more strongly into different styles.

German Gothic also has beautiful complex faulting (though less insane than English) and it also has that same pursuit of massive height French Gothic has. Those combined with that Late Gothic's more streamlined flowing and organic aesthetic, some of the German Late Gothic cathedrals really sell that feeling of standing in a forest.

Finnish "Gothic"

I have a soft spot for the Finnish Medieval stone churches, which are not nearly as sophisticated or detailed as the other European counterparts, but still made with beautiful craftsmanship and they have some cool own features. It's very far from the European Gothic traditions, as you can see, but that's still the influence, hence Gothic in scare quotes. I love the simple outward appearance with the exposed thick stone walls, the details of the gable that worked as the calling card for the building master and the very steep roof. Like everywhere at the time, the roof in these has wooden structure, which is frankly super cool. It was not a simple engineering problem to make a roof that steep and massive at the time, but the structure works so well there's 600 year old roofs with the original logs still working perfectly well. I also really love the original medieval murals in them, which were painted over during the Reformation (you can't have color in a Lutheran church damn it), but thankfully some of them have been restored from under the paint.

Finnish "Renaissance" Log Churches

Renaissance also didn't land in Finland similarly as it did rest of the Europe. When Renaissance was going on in Europe, they still were building those "Gothic" churches here. These log churches were based on Scandinavian version of the Renaissance church, but they didn't really look like Renaissance churches, and were kinda it's own thing continuing a lot of the aesthetics from those Gothic churches. This is a highly specific style, but I just think they are so cool and pretty? Like they really made a CUPOLA out of log.

Arts and Crafts Movement

Arts and Crafts Movement didn't have exactly a style, rather a design philosophy that was more important than specific style. There's of course a lot of stylistic similarities in the works of the different members of the Movement, because they had overlapping sources of inspiration and were influenced by each other, so we can think of it as a style. I could, have and will talk about them for hours, but briefly now: It was a moment in latter half of the 19th century and early 20th century and their goals were reviving craftsmanship skills and professions, socialism, opposing industrialism and abolishing the hierarchy between fine arts and applied arts. They were very much influenced by Medievalism and Gothic art and architecture, though unlike Gothic Revivalist, they took more from the guiding principles than the aesthetics. They basically started Modernism and lay ground to all the Modernist architecture's main principles, like form follows function.

Art Nouveau

Art Nouveau was directly influenced by the Arts and Crafts Movement and was the first mainstream Modernist style. I especially love the more toned down Finnish Art Nouveau, or Jugend as it's called here, but I do love the style more broadly too. I'm not that into those almost Baroque style versions of it though, with barely any straight lines. I love the round doors, the stylized floral patterns and the use of light.

Organic architecture

This has to be my favorite modernist/post-modernist (?) style. It's direct successor of Arts and Crafts movement and it's also more of a design principle than a unified style. There is some stylistic similarities, but it is stylistically very diverse philosophy. It was most prominent during the 20th century, but it always stayed in the sidelines, though there are still architects who might be considered practicing organic architecture. Organic architecture is all about living in harmony with nature, taking inspiration from it, designing the building to fit the building spot and the surroundings, extra care taken in to preserve the nature already there, and using local natural materials when possible. My favorite architects are Raili and Reima Pietilä, who were most prominent organic architects in Finland. (I almost moved into apartment designed by them, but it was in pretty bad condition, so it wouldn't have unfortunately been worth the price.)

Brutalism

I know it's not for everyone and it's not easy to make it work but when it works, it really does. It was born in 1950s during the reconstruction era. Brutalism is not just concrete though. The point is to show the raw materials and the structural elements. Technically a lot of Gothic and Arts and Crafts architecture is then brutalist. Timber frame architecture? Also brutalist. I'm only half joking, of course the style itself is also very bare and, well, brutal, but I love it for the same reasons. I really love bare textures of materials and exposing the materials of the structural elements. And I do actually really like the texture of concrete. Though I will say concrete is destroying our world and we should use it as little as possible. But we should also protect old buildings and keep using them rather than built new ones, so I feel fine admiring the old brutalist buildings. The best brutalist buildings combine materials very intentionally and make works of art with the light.

Bonus - Favorite contemporary architecture: Traditional methods

As we're living in the post-modern times, there's not really unified and specifiable styles or architectural ideologies anymore. They all kinda flow into each other and architects don't organize themselves into clear groups based on style and design philosophy. So it's hard to put into words the style I like in contemporary architecture. There's been growing interest in studying traditional structures and methods, learn from their sustainability and incorporate them into contemporary architecture. They are techniques that have been developed through trial and error on the span of centuries, so we really don't have to reinvent the wheel here. Traditional methods of a given area have also been developed for that area and it's climate, from the materials available there, so they also push us to use local materials. Typically these traditional structures are very simple, often made from solid material, which makes them easier to built without construction error (a huge problem in modern structures), and easier to fix and maintain, when inevitably there is issues. Also they are beautiful, definitely more so that steel and glass. I love solid brick structures, log structures, timber frames, natural stone, rammed earth and all of them, especially when these beautiful materials are left bare.

#architecture #architectural history #historical architecture #history #art history #modern architecture #gothic architecture #brutalism #arts and crafts movement #art nouveau

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sepublic · 1 year

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OWL HOUSE ANIMATED TEST LEAKED?!!?!

ALL RIGHT SO THE ORIGINAL ANIMATED TEST GOT LEAKED?! This is an animated test btw, a proof-of-concept of what TOH could look like, according to the person who posted this; The actual pilot still eludes us!

What we get and hear are more or less what we've already glimpsed and could guess at, just expanded a bit more; Luz wants to learn magic, Eda is skeptical, that sort of thing. What's interesting is that Luz claims King told HER he once knew magic, but based on how the final story went, this was probably one of his made-up delusions. He also has a lot more repressed, built-up anger from being coddled and patronized, which would've been interesting to see...

I wonder if that trait ended up transferring over to Proto Willow; Or rather, Paulina! I heard someone suggest the spelling is Polina since it's Slavic and TOH is based on Slavic myth, but for now, let's keep it simple. Paulina would def start off the same way as our Willow; Not doing well in magic, and messing up (this time on Luz herself, hilariously), but I presume the idea for her to shift to plant magic as her true calling was still there. Not only do we see this in earlier concept art, but a later bit with one of Paulina's plants harassing Luz. And she still has the issue of glowing green magic that she can't quite control...

We get Prince William, who shows up when Luz mentions the most 'powerful wizards', more on him later. It's generally speculated and agreed that William is a prototypical version of Hunter, so I find it neat that Paulina's name changed to Willow, as William became Hunter...

There's a glimpse of the Owl House's original design, as seen in the first proof-of-concept poster released back when the show was announced in 2018, with Eda's shop built into the front of the building! The tower doesn't have a roof, and the giant eye window blinks, which was carried over to the first episode's ending. We have some Spencer Wan concept animations he released a while back, but fully colored and animated... A Luz Doppelgänger seems to have always been an idea, so I guess the creepy puppet is Proto Vee?

THIS! We have what I suspect to be a prototype version of Emperor Belos, possibly when he was advisor to Emperor Pupa? I'm not sure, but the context, the blue eyes in darkness, the mask... Their location in what seems to be a cathedral, plus the resemblance to this concept art for Belos?

This is Proto-Belos. Him taking Eda away in what resembles a cathedral seems to indicate that his Christian extremist-leanings were a thing as early as this animated pitch, and what's more...

In the stained-glass window behind Luz, we see a portrait of Sir William, complete with that wavy-styled sword that resembles the knife Philip killed Caleb with! This raises so many questions... Is the Sir William we see here the real deal? Was he deposed and put into a slumber by Belos, the way Pupa would've been? And William is the true ruler of the isles?

Would William have been Belos' brother, his Caleb, hence the round human ears? Why does he look so young, was he de-aged, or is he a clone, a Grimwalker that was abandoned for not being sufficient, and/or discovered in an 'incubation' stage when Luz slapped him awake? I presume this concept of Hunter, who is actually referred to by this name, came later down the line;

Overall, very fascinating stuff! A better glimpse into the development of Willow, Belos, and Hunter(?) as well as an older idea for King's personality, and of course a better look at the original Owl House design shown in 2018! Brief yet wonderful and to the point, we've seen most of the stuff from this pitch as silent clips or images, but I'm glad to have it as part of a cohesive narrative this time! May we one day find the actual pilot itself...!

#the owl house #luz noceda #willow park #the owl house hunter #emperor belos #philip wittebane #concept

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whencyclopedia · 1 month

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History & Mining Culture of the Ore Mountains

The Ore Mountains (Erzgebirge) on the border between Germany and the Czech Republic is a region rich in history and culture connected to the mining industry. For centuries the cities on both sides of the mountain range had sustained themselves and flourished by the extraction of tin, copper, zinc, uranium, and most importantly silver. Even though the mines are now closed the mining culture and heritage is still widely celebrated and visible for visitors, with the hammer and chisel motif on many buildings in the different mining towns.

The rich mining heritage of the region was recently inscribed on the UNESCO world heritage list (July 2019 CE), with sites on both sides of the border. On the German side, in the Free State of Saxony, the cities of Freiberg and Annaberg-Buchholz has much to offer in educating visitors about the mining industry, both from the Middle Ages and more recent times and how this intensive industry shaped the lives and culture of the people living there. A visit is definitely recommended for anyone interested in mining history, early industrialization or for those who seek to experience an authentic German Christmas market.

Freiberg

Freiberg, a one-hour train ride from Dresden, traces its history back to 1168 CE. At that time the forest region was under the control of the Margrave of Meissen. A silver ore was discovered close to the small settlement Christiandorf and lead to the establishment of the city of Freiberg, which got its name from the mining rights belonging to the “free miner”. The mining industry became a very important source of income for the Margrave of Meissen, Otto II (r. c. 1156-1190 CE), known later as Otto the Rich. A large statue of the town's 'founder' can now be seen at the main square of the historic city center. Freiberg's importance and wealth increased rapidly after the discovery of silver, and it remained the economic center and mint of Saxony until the 16th century CE. The mining industry continued in the Freiberg region for 800 years until the mines were finally closed in 1968 CE.

Today Freiberg is a lively and charming city with many exciting sites to see, amongst other the Town Hall from the 15th century CE, and the Cathedral of St. Mary, first contracted in 1180 CE as a Romanesque basilica, the current building dates to c. 1500 CE. On the south side of the cathedral, you can visit a part of the old church, The Golden Gate, a richly ornamented sandstone portal from 1230 CE.

Even though the town was destroyed by fire several times and suffered during the Thirty Years' War (1618-1648 CE), much of the medieval town is still standing. Walking around in the historic center, one architectural feature is especially remarkable: the Gothic patrician houses with very high and steep pitched roof constructions. The main square, Obermakt, is definitely worth a visit, where you will see both the statue of Otto the Rich and the beautiful Town Hall. On the north side of the square, you can also marvel at a gate with intricate carvings depicturing the miners hard at work.

It is impossible to visit this city without being drawn towards the rich mining history and culture. To learn more, visitors are recommended to spend a couple of hours in the Freiberg City and Mining Museum. Located in a stunning late Gothic building, it is one of Saxony's oldest museums, established in 1861 CE. The museum is filled with tools, art, photographs, and other objects connected to work in the mines throughout the ages or the culture that flourished thanks to the mining industry. In addition, no one should leave without a visit to the Freudenstein Castle, where the mineral exhibition Terra Mineralia is on display with over 3,500 minerals, precious stones, and meteorites. The exhibition is presented by the Technical University Bergakademie Freiberg, the oldest university of mining and metallurgy in the world, and is a real treasure trove filled with gems from all over the world.

#History #Copper #Mine #Silver #WHE #[#]

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underthewingsofthblackeagle · 1 month

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"This is our Notre Dame, this is our National Treasure" - Exactly 5 years after the fire of the French National Landmark, another Landmark, this time of the Danish capital, the Old Stock Exchange of Copenhagen, is burning

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In Copenhagen, a major fire has destroyed the approximately 400-year-old stock exchange. Workers, rescue workers and local residents joined forces to try and save art treasures from the historic building. In front of passers-by, the characteristic spire collapsed onto the street in the city centre.

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Denmark’s 400-year-old stock exchange building has burned down during renovation works. The iconic spire of Copenhagen’s Borsen building toppled into the flames early on April 16 in what onlookers branded the city’s ’Notre Dame moment’. The Borsen dates back to 1625 and sits in the historic old part of Copenhagen near the parliament building and royal palace. It was undergoing restoration works at the time and was covered in scaffolding which firefighters said complicated efforts to save the building. Much of the structure, which now houses the Danish Houses of Commerce, is thought to have been damaged in the fire. It was not immediately clear how the blaze started, but it echoed the blaze which destroyed the roof of Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris back in 2019. An official cause of that fire has still not been established, though investigators have ruled it was accidental.

#Copenhagen #Kopenhagen #Denmark #Dänemark #Alte Börse Kopenhagen #Notre Dame Moment #copenhagen #Borsen #fire #Youtube

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monstercampus · 10 months

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Archangel Professor & Isaac of Virtue - First Meeting

(cws: none)

Considering how many demons you've met at the school so far, it's a little shocking to hear from your harpy classmate that there's a chapel on campus. Especially since you haven't seen such a building anywhere in your tours, but you wonder if perhaps it's due to the sensitive nature of such a place. It's not exactly something you're planning on looking out for, but when she mentions it, the idea sticks in your head for the rest of class.

It's but a week later that you notice the distinct chiming of a bell on your way to the dining hall for lunch, the brisk Sunday morning chilly and damp but not enough to stop you from diverting your path to follow it. It entrances you in a way, leads you down a cobblestone path right up the steps of an enormous cathedral sat squarely in the midst of the university's sprawling gardens. It looms over you in an almost intimidating way, so tall and grand with the kind of elegant architecture you'd see in any travel magazine for some historically exotic vacation spot. As you venture through the tall but shockingly light front doors, your eyes lock on to the first thing that enters your vision; a being standing before the pulpit that stands as if he was awaiting your arrival, alongside a smaller companion that busies himself with organizing what looks to be the donations from a busy service. Once the doors squeal shut with a heavy thud behind you, he lifts his head to look over his shoulder, his feathery white wings flicking up in surprise before he regains himself and turns to face you fully with a grin.

The church itself resembles one you would probably see back home, but only in the symbolic sense alone. There are pews lined from back to front, a podium for one to deliver sermons, stained-glass windows at the far end and gorgeously decorated walls and floors lined with eternal candles that burn forever. But unlike back home, there's a touch of nature inside the chapel; a light breeze blows through the room and sends tiny glitters of stardust careening through the air, and while there certainly looks to be a roof from the outside, all you see upon looking upwards is a cover of clouds that obscures all that lies within. Unlike the gloomy skies outside, this artificial one glows with a rosy-pink hue that casts over the whole interior, giving the cathedral a dreamy edge-of-sunset glow that feels as though you're seeing through rose-tinted glasses.

The archangel–who you only recognize as such upon thinking back to your Holy World History classes–isn't at all what you thought they would look like. His blinding white two-piece suit is the only part of him that betrays any humanity; the rest of him is a mishmash of different features that don't seem to meld together. His hands float in tune with the movement of his arms but they aren't attached, rather there's an empty space between his wrists and palms. Where there should be a head, there's nothing but eyes; a faint cloud of tiny, sparkling bits of stardust seems to be the only thing that indicates the space where his eyes remain in place. And a pair of huge, heavenly wings sit folded up against his back, yet they're so large even on his tall frame that they scrape the ground and leave small, glowing scratches of gold that brighten before quickly fading into nothing.

His assistant, however, appears to be astoundingly human. The young man watches you through snow-white eyes and a fringe of soft, pale blond hair, which is otherwise perfectly combed down and trimmed at the neck. The suit he wears resembles his mentor's to a T, aside from the jacket he's missing that leaves him only in the perfectly creased pants and black dress shirt. Somehow, despite the very air emanating a holiness here, something about his particular gaze betrays…well, it holds a hint of lechery to it, especially as his attention flickers between meeting your eyes and catching the bared skin of your ankles beneath your jeans as you halt in front of them. Here, in this moment, you feel the heavy uncertainty weigh on your shoulders at standing before the judge and jury.

"Here only a moment, and already you tempt my steward." A voice booms authoritatively from the head of the cathedral, and at that, the archangel's assistant guiltily turns his eyes away from you, and you're left feeling shame heat your chest despite doing nothing wrong. "Is there anything of note that you require, human, or do you desire nothing but to waste my time?"

The severity of the tongue-lashing you've just gotten could send you into shock had you not grown used to the terrifyingly abnormal by now. You would expect a being of such grandiosity and holiness to address you with gentleness and love–but this archangel speaks with bitterness hot on his tongue, so stern you feel like a child being reprimanded despite not knowing what for.

"Professor, the human has no ill intentions. I believe the Dean instructed us to welcome them with open arms." The angel leans over to murmur those words quite conspicuously, clearly forgoing the guilt of his stare in favour of easing himself into that tense space between yourself and the archangel. In this chapel, you feel he may as well be the only one on your side. Yet, if it weren't wholly improper, you would be sure you'd see those dozens of eyes rolling as the archangel heaves a breathy sigh.

"Welcome to our esteemed campus. I thank you for defiling our holy ground without warning nor reason." Suddenly, as if godly in nature, a crack of thunder erupts and the clouds overhead grow dark and worrisome. Yet despite the frightening shift, neither the archangel nor his assistant bat an eye as if the ill omen is an everyday occurrence–though the former does huff quietly, clearly aware of who that warning was meant for. "...Pardon my faithless utterances. I beg your forgiveness."

You distinctly hear the angel at his side mutter something about someone upstairs giving them an earful for that. Although the archangel himself couldn't sound less uncaring about his own apology nor whether you'd accept it, you do, and in return the professor takes his leave with a sweep of his wings around his frame–just barely avoiding clipping you with his feathers as he takes off in a golden blur into the sky, diving upright into the sea of clouds above and disappearing completely.

In the silence that follows, the protégé himself sighs. In the absence of his superior, he introduces himself as the angel, Isaac of Virtue, and the professor as archangel Mikael, formerly Dominion. All hefty titles, yet without much more you desire to say or to see, you turn your eyes away from the brilliant light and move to take your leave of this chapel that clearly wishes not to welcome you.

But Isaac catches your wrist as you do so, his mentor's many eyes having turned away and vanished to attend to whatever is his business. His smile carries a gentler edge this time, just as cool and soft to the touch as his palm on your skin as it lingers there.

"Don't mind the professor's words, human. He's….well, he's ancient," Isaac chuckles, the lighthearted attempt at a joke doing what he hoped and drawing a small smile out of you. "He doesn't really mind humans as much as it seems. He's just…well, he's quite stubborn. Very set in his ways…" That last part comes out quiet and soft in the airy space between the pews. However, when he inquires about any questions you might have that he'd be happy to answer, only one comes to your mind at the moment.

"Um…do all angels…are they like..?" You gesture towards your own eyes, although your focus shifts above his head to spot the twinkling of something as the light refracts off of it. It's invisible to the naked eye, but you could swear you see some kind of halo shape hovering there in the prismatic glow.

Isaac seems to understand your words without you speaking the rest of them, his grip loosening but not letting go–and with a nod, he proves his answer by closing his eyes. When he opens them again, three more pairs crack open down each of his cheeks and blink to take you into focus, the three extra sets surveying you independently with a heart-chilling shade of red irises. When you've gotten a good look, he's quick to blink again–and this time, only his primary pair of eyes reopen, the whites tinged a very pale pink before the colour soon drains away.

"I hope this was a show of good faith. We should be friends, no?" It's hard to disagree with such an innocently sweet expression staring back at you, so with little thought given to the verbal contract you're signing you agree with a soft "of course".

"Wonderful!" He finally releases you from his grip and claps his hands together, only afterwards ducking his head around out of habit to check if the archangel is listening. But at no sign of interruption above from the fiercely stern professor, he turns back around and produces a card from his sleeve that he presses into your palm. And with a cautiously big step back, Isaac extends his wings fully and takes off into the air, sending whips of a breeze to tousle your hair and clothes as he soars up into the cloud-covered ceiling.

As soon as he's gone, you turn the card around in your hands to take a look while hustling your steps out of the now-empty cathedral. On one side is nothing but a bit of gold engraving on the white cardstock, while the other side has a phone number beneath his name and university status. You can't help but notice how the golden ink moves within the card, lines writhing and intertwining within each other to spell new words out the longer you look at it.

"Isaac the Virtuous, aide to Archangel Mikael, envoy of angelic healing….friend of the equally virtuous–and charming–human."

#archangel prof #isaac of virtue #angel x reader #angel boyfriend #monster boyfriend #archangel prof x reader #isaac x reader #monster campus introductions #monster campus #neutral pov #ellie writes #1k

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bad-fucking-omens · 6 months

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The Witch Twin (Alec V. x OC) - Chapter 8 - Welcome

Summary: When I thought about my future, I was sure that I had the rest of my life vaguely planned out.

Then, my older sister moved up from Arizona to stay with us — and turned my entire life upside down.

I had no idea just how bad it had gotten until I was standing in a castle in Italy, convinced that I was about to die.

Length: 3.2K words (Complete fic 71.8K words)

Fic warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, death, explicit smut (M/F), referenced/implied past child abuse, emotional manipulation by sibling

Chapter warnings: None

Read on AO3 or read below

8. WELCOME

I woke up just as the private jet was about to land in Florence, Italy. My eyes fluttered open and I lifted my head from Alec’s shoulder. He smiled at my tired expression and deftly brushed my hair away from where it had fallen across my face.

“Good morning,” he murmured softly.

“Is it morning?” I asked.

Alec’s smile grew. “No. It’s about seven in the evening. The sun is just starting to set.”

He lifted the shade that covered the window next to him. Golden light spilled into the dim cabin and I leaned closer to him to look out of the window.

“It’s so beautiful. . . .”

I could see the entire, large city of Florence beneath us. The Renaissance-style buildings were all varying shades of pale yellow and beige and white, their roofs all lined with terracotta-colored tiles. The basilica cathedral in the center of the city stood above all of the other buildings. A river ran through the city and mountains surrounded the city on one side.

“It is,” Alec agreed. He looked away from the city to look at me. He trailed his cool fingertips along my cheek. “But not as beautiful as you.”

I smiled at him and kissed his cheek. “You’re so sweet.”

“Only for you,” he whispered teasingly. I laughed and laid my head on his shoulder again. Alec hummed and rested his head against mine, taking my hand and linking our fingers together just as the plane began to descend.

Alec carried my suitcase for me as we walked down the stairs from the jet onto the pavement. He took my hand in his again and led me across the landing strip, through the airfield, to the small parking lot nearby. He put my suitcase in the front-trunk of a white Lamborghini. I smirked and raised an eyebrow at him. Alec simply grinned and moved around the car to open my door for me. He closed the door once I was seated and got into the driver’s seat. He took my hand again once he started the car and began driving.

“How far are we from Volterra?” I asked, looking out of the dark-tinted window and watching the gorgeous Italian countryside pass by.

“About half an hour,” he replied.

I nodded, though I could feel the anxiety begin to crawl under my skin at the thought of returning to the place where I thought I would die. Alec rubbed circles on the back of my hand with his thumb and said, “Eve, I promise that everything will be okay. I will be right by your side the whole time, and I would never allow you to be harmed in any way — not that anyone would dare to harm you. You have nothing to worry about, my love.”

My heartbeat slowed as my nerves settled. I looked at Alec and smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”

He smiled back at me and squeezed my hand gently, linking our fingers together. He said, “Aro requested that I bring you directly to see the masters when we arrive. Aro wants to greet you properly, as my mate.”

“You’ll be with me?”

“Of course,” he said. Alec lifted my hand up to his mouth and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of my hand.

Alec drove through the gates of the city. I looked around at the Tuscan-style buildings as he drove carefully through the narrow streets. Volterra was even more beautiful than I remembered, especially now that the streets weren’t flooded with people dressed in red and I wasn’t worried about my sister reaching Edward in time or worried about both of us dying.

The castle where the Volturi resided finally came into view. Alec brushed his thumb along the back of my hand as my anxiety spiked again and my stomach twisted uncomfortably. The wrought-iron gates to the castle opened to allow the car past the tall, pale stone walls. Alec pulled the car into a part of the castle that turned out to be a garage filled with expensive, European sports cars. He parked in a spot near the doors that led inside the castle.

We got out of the car. Alec grabbed my suitcase from the trunk, then took my hand in his once again. He led me into the castle, to the lobby where the receptionist was sitting behind her tall, wooden desk.

“Welcome back, Alec . . . Eve,” Gianna said with a smile.

Alec led me past her, ignoring her without a second glance. Halfway through the hallway that led to the throne room, Alec stopped walking. He drew me into his arms and held me against his body. I closed my eyes and rested my head against his chest, winding my arms around his waist.

“Do you feel a little less anxious, now?” Alec murmured softly. I nodded. He hummed and kissed the top of my head.

“Alec.”

We broke apart from each other and turned towards the voice. Jane was standing a few feet away from us, dressed in a knee-length, black, sleeveless dress with her hair tied back in a simple plait. Her face was neutral, until she met my gaze. Then, her eyes narrowed slightly at me. Instinctively, I pressed a little closer to Alec’s side, glancing down at the floor.

“Jane,” Alec warned, a slight edge to his voice as his arm tightened around me. “Play nice, sister.”

I looked up as she huffed in annoyance. She looked back at me and said begrudgingly, “Hello, Evelyn.” Her crimson eyes flicked back to Alec. “Don’t keep them waiting much longer, brother.”

He nodded. Jane walked past us and into the throne room. Alec looked down at me and brushed his thumb along my cheekbone.

“Let’s go, my love.”

I followed Alec down the length of the hallway. He slid aside the piece of paneling and opened the plain wooden door hidden behind it. Alec walked in ahead of me, clearly protective as he took measured steps and kept my hand firmly in his, using his body to shield mine.

“Ah, you have returned to us, young Eve.”

I gripped Alec’s hand nervously as Aro approached us, smiling. The other two leaders, Marcus and Caius, were sitting in their thrones, a bored expression on Caius’ face and a passive one on Marcus’. The guards I had seen on my previous trip — and several that I didn’t recognize — were gathered in the room, their red eyes all watching me curiously. All the attention was unnerving, so I pressed closer to Alec’s side and he squeezed my hand gently.

Aro laughed lightly and said, “Relax, young one. We are all quite happy that you have decided to join our dear Alec, and us by extension.” I saw Jane roll her eyes from the corner of my vision. Aro either ignored her or didn’t see her. He extended his hand to me. “May I?”

I placed my hand in his. He clasped my hand between both of his frozen ones, his cloudy crimson eyes staring into mine intensely. No one spoke or moved while Aro searched through my thoughts.

Finally, he blinked and smiled, gently patting my hand. “Thank you, my dear. I am sorry that you anguish over causing your father pain by disappearing from your previous life.” My heart twisted in my chest as Aro looked at the vampire standing beside me. “Alec, take your mate to your chambers. We shall allow her to settle in for a while before she is turned.”

“Yes, Master,” Alec said softly.

Alec bowed his head to Aro before he guided me out of the room. As soon as the door closed behind us, he wrapped his arms around my waist and lifted me up off the ground. I laughed and wrapped my legs around his waist as my arms curled around his neck. He kissed my cheek, then lightly pushed my head down to nestle in the crook of his neck. I smiled against his ice-cold skin as he carried me through the castle.

I barely felt him move, so it surprised me when only a couple seconds later, Alec loosened his grip on me and let me slowly drop down to my feet. He kept his arms around my waist as I turned to look at the room.

The bedroom was large and rectangular, made of the same, light, beige-colored stone that the rest of the castle was built with. Dark oak-colored bookshelves lined most of the walls from floor to ceiling, almost every shelf filled entirely with books. Some books looked ancient and delicate, made of leather and parchment, while others were clearly more modern. A black leather couch, matching armchair, and a dark, wooden coffee table — which also held a couple small stacks of books — stood in front of a fireplace that was built into the wall. A large, flat-screen TV hung above the fireplace and a few gaming systems were resting on the mantle.

A king-sized bed sat between two of the tall bookshelves, covered with a dark gray comforter and pillows that were tucked into black satin pillowcases. To the right of the doorway to the hallway, there were two doors fitted between another couple of bookshelves. I assumed that they led to a closet and possibly a bathroom. Directly across the room from them, to the left of where we were standing, laid a balcony with an intricately designed wrought-iron railing behind two glass doors.

“Your room is amazing,” I said.

“Our room,” Alec corrected softly. He pressed a kiss to my hair.

I laughed quietly. “Our room,” I repeated. I turned around and rested my head against his shoulder. Alec smoothed his hand over my long, dark hair. I reached up to play with one of the drawstrings of his hoodie, twisting it around my finger lazily.

“My sweet girl. . . . We should put your things away.”

I nodded, though neither of us moved to pull away from each other. Alec chuckled warmly and I smiled. Just hearing his laugh made me feel warm and happy.

Alec wrapped his arms around me and picked me up easily. He moved us over to the couch, where he laid down with me laying on his chest. Our legs tangled together as I rested my head on his chest. Alec pulled a thick blanket that had been hanging over the couch over us, gently tucking it around my body. I hummed happily, nestling into his side as his hand rubbed along my back.

“I’m so happy that you’re here with me,” he murmured, brushing my hair away from my face. He took a deep breath and sighed. “I wasn’t sure that I would ever meet my mate, and I would never have imagined that I would bond with you so quickly, but now I cannot fathom living without you.”

“I think in some ways, I’m still in shock from all of this,” I mumbled. “I mean, it’s crazy that just a few weeks ago, I had no idea that vampires were real, and I could never have imagined that I would fall in love with a vampire. But I wouldn’t trade any of it for the world, Alec. . . . Will you tell me something?”

“Anything.”

“What happened to you when I decided to stay in Forks?” I asked, pushing myself up a little to look at him. I could see his hesitation and I said, “Please tell me, Alec. I want to know. . . . Please .”

I could see his resolve crumble at my plea. He sighed and looked up at the ceiling as I laid back on his chest. His voice was quiet as he spoke.

“I . . . I was barely able to do anything other than sit in the corner of my room and focus on the pain in my heart. It . . . it was the second worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life. . . . I kept the shirt that I had been wearing when I first met you. It still had your scent on it, and every time I caught your sweet scent, it made the pain worse and better, as strange as it sounds. The day I came for you, Marcus had come to me. He convinced me to go to you.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, curling closer to his body.

“Don’t apologize,” Alec replied quickly. “This was not your fault, my love. You were manipulated and lied to. . . . But you’re here with me now, and that’s all that matters.”

He brushed his lips along my forehead and I let my eyes flutter shut.

“How long do I have until I’m turned?”

“Aro suggested three days. Is that okay?”

I nodded. My eyes fluttered open as Alec very gently pushed my head up with his finger under my chin. He looked into my eyes for a long moment before he pressed his lips to mine for the very first time.

I gasped softly against his mouth. His lips were as hard and cold as ice, yet somehow he was so very gentle. I took a deep breath through my nose, breathing in his perfect, sweet, intoxicating scent — which put my mind into overdrive. Everything except the feeling of his lips on mine faded away. I fisted my hand in the soft fabric of his hoodie and pressed as close as I could to his body. All I could think about was pulling him closer, closer, closer.

Alec pulled away, carefully holding me back with a gentle hand on my shoulder. I sucked in a deep breath, filling my deprived lungs with air. I panted softly as he brushed his hand along my cheek.

“Are you okay?” he asked anxiously. “I’m sorry, I knew that it would be overwhelming–”

“I’m fine,” I assured him, still a little breathless. My lips tingled the same way my skin had when he had first touched my cheek. “Don’t apologize. It was amazing.”

He smiled a little smugly and I rolled my eyes at him. I jokingly slapped his chest, then hissed at the pain that radiated through my hand. Alec quickly wrapped his hand around mine, letting his cold skin soothe away the ache. He raised my hand to his mouth and brushed his lips across my knuckles.

“Careful, sweet girl,” he murmured.

I sighed after a moment and said, “I really should unpack my stuff.”

“We can just lay here, if you want.”

“But if I unpack, then we will have nothing to do other than cuddle together.”

Alec laughed and said, “That’s a good point, love.”

We slowly untangled ourselves and got up off the couch. Alec moved my suitcase onto the bed and unzipped it. He put his arm around my waist.

“I can take care of all of this for you in a few seconds,” he offered. “Then we can go lay down again.”

“You’re very persuasive,” I teased with a smile.

“Is that a yes?”

I nodded. Alec hummed and placed a kiss on my cheek. Then, I only saw a blur moving around the room as things disappeared from my suitcase. Mere seconds passed before he returned to my side, only the photo of me and Charlie left. I took it from his hands, smiling sadly down at it.

“I wasn’t sure where you would want it,” Alec said.

“Um . . . I’m not sure.”

“Maybe over here?” he suggested, leading me over to one of the bookshelves. I hadn’t noticed earlier when I was looking around that two of the shelves in this particular bookshelf held small paintings and pictures of him and Jane and a couple other members of the Volturi over the years. He took the picture from my hands and tucked it into the corner of one of the large picture frames.

“We’ll get it it’s own frame soon,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Of course, love.”

“Where did you put my books?” I asked.

Alec smirked and teased, “Somehow I knew you would ask that first.” He took my hand in his and led me over to another bookshelf. He knelt down and traced his fingertips along the spines of the books that I had brought with me to Italy.

“Which one is your favorite?” he asked.

I brushed my fingers through his silky, dark brown hair. Alec leaned into my touch as I said, “That’s a hard question. . . . I really enjoyed Frankenstein when I read it, more than I thought I would.”

“Mm,” he hummed.

I smiled down at him. Alec seemed far more focused on my fingers in his hair than my answer to his question. He rested his head against the side of my thigh and closed his eyes. My smile widened as I watched him, continuing to run my fingers through his soft curls.

“Get off the floor, Alec, you are not a dog.”

The sudden, vicious voice in the room made me jump. I pulled my hand away from Alec’s hair, my eyes going wide as I looked over at Jane. Her lip was curled into an angry sneer, her hands balled into fists as she glared at me.

I looked away from her quickly, glancing down at Alec. Alec’s bottom lip was just barely jutted out into a slight pout, likely from our moment being interrupted. He sighed and took my hand in his, looking up at me as he pressed a lingering kiss to my knuckles. My anxious heartbeat slowed even as I blushed at his affection. Alec stood and turned to look at his twin sister, hiding me partially behind him.

“Jane,” he greeted.

Her eyes finally moved away from me and her gaze lost all hostility as she looked at her brother.

“I was coming to steal you away for a while,” Jane said pleasantly. A surprisingly soft smile curled her lips as she waited for his response.

“Sister, you know that my mate just joined me. I won’t leave her alone,” he replied carefully.

The blonde girl frowned and shot me another glare from over Alec’s shoulder. Guilt twisted my heart.

“It’s okay, Alec,” I said softly. “You should spend time with her.”

Alec turned to look at me, and my heart ached even more when I saw the confusion and slight hurt in his eyes. But only a second later, it all disappeared and he suddenly looked determined. He turned back towards his twin.

“I will visit with you later, Jane. I promise,” Alec added in a softer tone when she sent me another annoyed look. I looked down at the ground. “I want to spend time with Eve right now.”

Jane growled angrily and whirled around, quickly leaving the room. Alec turned fully towards me and lifted my chin gently so I was looking into his crimson eyes.

“Do not put anyone else’s feelings or desires above your own,” he murmured. “Jane will adjust to not being able to monopolize all of my time. We have spent the last twelve-hundred years by each other’s sides. She can handle a few days without me.”

“I just don’t want to come between you,” I said.

Alec took my face in his hands. “You won’t, sweet girl. Jane just needs time to adjust and get to know you.”

I nodded. Alec leaned close to drop a kiss on my forehead.

“Okay. Now, I’ve been a little daft and have forgotten that my beautiful mate is still human and needs to eat,” he said. I smiled with him. “Let’s go get you something to eat.”

“Lead the way.”

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rotworld · 8 months

Text

7: Metamorphosis

(previous)

the girl goes home. you visit an old friend.

->sexually suggestive. contains mild gore, ear penetration, terato, mentions of drugging, mentions of child trafficking and child abuse.

The last leg of the journey is always a thing of wonder. You unfold your crumpled, egg-stained map and marvel at the neatness of the reality, the momentary certainty of things. This is the understanding you carved out in a corner of the world. This is how far you’ve come. The Drift is mercurial. It won’t last. These cities will have scattered again, these roads you thought you knew winding in strange, new ways. But for now, for just a moment, you bask in a sense of wearied accomplishment. You are still here, despite everything.

There were tears this morning. Albie drew a map of his own depicting his family’s corner of Verlinda, landmarks painstakingly rendered in colored pencils scribbles and labeled with shaky letters. A little cottage in the forest, surrounded by trees, bordered by a stream and many smiling animals, is labeled “MY HOUSE.” He wanted to make sure the girl would be able to find her way back someday. She has it on her lap, neatly folded, clutched in her small hands.

“It’s close,” you tell her.

She watches the scenery with rapt attention, memorizing every detail. “Close,” she agrees, glancing at you in surprise. “How know?”

“See the dirt? It’s kind of a reddish color. And that spicy-sweet smell is from the mulberry gardens.” The sign is just over the hill, exactly as you remember it; a metal slab suspended between old wooden posts, bearing elegant lettering and a curling ribbon design. “Welcome to Compass Hill,” it says, and your heart beats faster in recognition, anticipation and dread. “I grew up here,” you add softly.

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: HOW YOU REMEMBER BY AZURE RAY]

Roads into Compass Hill are long, decorated promenades of flattened cobblestone and stately scenery. Here is the visitor’s center, glass-paneled and flower-filled like a Victorian greenhouse. There is a lakeside sculpture garden with abstract figures and lanterns dotting the winding footpath. In the distance, the city’s crown jewel, a sprawling campus of red brick cathedrals—the head office and processing factory of Compass Hill Textiles.

“This used to be an awful place,” you say. “Someone might tell you the story later. Not to scare you, but because you should know. People would bring children of the road here because the company would pay them for it.”

You slow as you drive past the textiles building. They’ve kept it maintained, you notice, maybe to avoid suspicion. The lawn is trimmed, the hedges bordering the path up to the front steps neatly manicured. There’s a water fountain with an angel perched on top. The plaque set into the stone commemorates an ancient patriarch of the Dewitt family, a name emblazoned all over town. It was the Dewitts who built the mill, after all, a dynasty of textile magnates made wealthy by the harvest and refinement of exquisite silks.

You point to the factory. “I used to live there. It looks nice from outside, but most of the space is for machinery. Rows and rows of rattling, whirring things that took up whole rooms. The kids who couldn’t weave slept in the cramped, overheated basement, right under all the noise. Eventually, we’d get our license and start delivering silk.” The girl studies the building with a small frown. “It’s different now,” you assure her. “The factory’s closed. Nobody has to sleep on a concrete floor anymore.”

There’s a gate just beyond the factory. Curling wrought iron arches form symmetrical shapes where they meet, an insectoid body with large, sweeping wings. You can hear something just faintly; a buzzing hum. A faraway melody. The gates pull apart with a loud metallic clattering, welcoming you inside. In your rearview mirror, you see a large shape on the roof of the old textile factory. It crouches, spreads its wings, and flits away. The girl sits up sharply, startled and curious.

“Probably went to tell everyone we’re here,” you say.

“Everyone?” she asks. Something catches her eye and she turns back towards the window, her eyes widening.

“Everyone. You’re home.”

Beyond the gate is the true, new Compass Hill, built on the bones of the old. Structures are soft and rounded rather than angular, wispy, cloud-like material woven across the city skyline. Gossamer threads sparkle in dazzling neon shades and subdued earth tones alike. The schoolhouse is a powdery blue dome with rocks and flowers woven around the entrance, while the open air marketplace is adorned with rippling canopy shades and decorative arches. Everything is silk as only Compass Hill knows it, exquisite color and unbelievably versatile texture.

But the girl isn’t looking at the buildings. She’s looking at the people. Peering through honeycomb windows and ambling into the street, a crowd gathers, curiously chittering, all around your car. You stop in the middle of the road to let them see her, and for her to see them. Scaled skin and shimmering carapaces, wings and claws and softly clicking mandibles, bristle-thin hairs and thick, curly manes. The people of Compass Hill are as varied as the silk they spin. A child with slender vespid wings and gangly, striped arms comes right up to the window and the girl stares back at her with tears filling her four eyes.

“Home!” she wails. “Home! Home!” You unlock the door and she tumbles into the waiting arms of family she has only dreamed of. A woman, pale pink and violet with a mantis’ tapered abdomen and sharp, hooked fingers, gently works the knots from the girl’s hair. The hum rises, louder now, a gentle, rolling melody of a thousand voices harmonizing. It’s the Song, welcoming you both. When you step out of the car, you’re swarmed with gentle touches and fond nuzzling.

“You’re back.” There’s a pleased purring beside your ear as four soft, lightly furred arms encircle you from behind. You recognize her quiet, higher-pitched notes before you see her. Chiffon is one of the oldest weavers in Compass Hill, her great wings as thick and heavy as a blanket. She slips in front of you, taking each of your hands in hers, the other two free to cup your face. Her four eyes arch in worry. “Where have you been? And where are you going?”

“I’ll have to show you my map. It’s been a long trip,” you say. Chiffon chitters with laughter, a sound echoed all the way down the street as she passes the joke through the Song. “And I don’t know where I’m going yet. I was in a hurry to get here before the next shift.”

“Your hand…” She’s gentle with it, fingers worrying the skin all around your bandages. “I’ll have a look at this later. You’ll stay the night. Rest. He’ll be so happy to see you.” Your smile wanes. Chiffon squeezes your hands, reassuring but also pleading. “Please,” she sings softer. “Please go see him.”

You hear a delighted warble, the melody rising. The girl looks startled, clutching a wad of fresh, glistening silk in her hand, small string still connected to her mouth. The color is like a sunrise, a blue ombre glinting with strands of gold. One of the old weavers bends down and shows her how to braid it, tying off the ends so it doesn’t fray. “That’s hopesilk,” he says, pausing his singing so she can understand him. “Very strong, and very pretty. Someone believes in you very much.”

You wipe at your eyes and nod at Chiffon. The crowd parts for the two of you as a slow, undulating note enters the Song, a bittersweet melody. They’ve missed you. They wish you’d stay.

The Dewitt estate is at the very edge of town. Similar grand manors and luxurious homes dot the hills but the others are old, fallen into disrepair. The fences have crumbled, the stately brickwork has eroded, and mulberry branches snake out of the broken windows. They are Verlinda’s by right but remain, dilapidated and unoccupied, out of respect for the children of Compass Hill and everything they have endured.

It is only the Dewitt estate, all the way at the top of the hill, that is still maintained. Someone cuts the grass and trims the hedges. Someone fixes the roof when it leaks. Someone leaves food at the door. As you get closer, you hear a piercing scream from somewhere inside. “How is he?” you ask.

Chiffon feels your worry. She chirps a Song of one, fluttering and bird-like. “He’s…better, I think. He spends less and less time here.” She stops when you reach the front porch of the manor. Her wings are drooping, the larger ones folded around her like a shawl. “But he’s still…well. It’s rather shocking inside.”

You march up the steps before you can lose your nerve. There’s another scream—fearful, but also furious. You thought it was just mindless shrieking before but now you can make out words, “wretched” and “ungrateful” and “horrible, abominable thing.” The door is cracked open. The foyer is a mess of broken glass and overturned furniture, old blood stains crusted into the carpet and stuck to the wallpaper. A silver platter has been flung against the wall, shattering a plate and splattering mashed potatoes and a chunk of cooked meat.

There is a man standing in the middle of the foyer, chest heaving and red in the face, screaming at something in the corner. You recognize Mr. Dewitt. He looks more sickly than you recall, sweat shining on his gaunt face. You’ve caught him in the middle of a tirade not unlike the ones you remember from childhood. He was always short-tempered, liable to fly into a rage at the slightest inconvenience. “I want to see my son! You can’t keep him from me! Just you wait, just you wait until they hear about this down at the factory!”

He whirls around at the sound of your footsteps and his wide, bloodshot eyes brighten. “Oh! Oh, it’s you!” he calls, grinning deliriously. His eyes are hazy and he’s not quite looking at you. He wobbles forward, looking inebriated. “You’ve come at the perfect time! I need to get a message down to the factory. Good practice for a courier, hm? Some incompetent let one of the weavers cocoon itself and now we’re stuck with this.” He gestures to the corner, the thing looming there silently. “It’s making demands. Can you tell them to send someone?”

You hesitate just a second too long and he’s screaming again, berating you, calling you a stupid, useless road-mongrel. The thing in the corner lunges forward then, faster than you can see it move. There’s a rush of air and a flash of movement. It lands heavily on top of the man, slamming his head into the floor. It’s your friend, the boy who grew up in this awful place with you. Older now, much bigger, casting a wide shadow with his wings outstretched. You see him tangle his claws in the man’s thinning hair, yanking his head higher. You see him lean in, proboscis unfurling.

“Hello,” he sings. Four eyes peer at you beneath stark white fringe. In adulthood, the silver ones have also turned deep, inky black. “Hello again. I was just thinking of you.”

His proboscis plunges forward like a needle and there’s a sickening crunch and a spurt of blood as it pierces Dewitt’s ear. He shakes and flails uncontrollably, mouth stretched open in a horrified, silent scream, but your friend holds him still; one hand on his head, one on his shoulder, the others easily keeping him pinned beneath the weight of his enormous body. Your friend, the Singer of Compass Hill, vibrates with a welcoming melody, his wings flapping in contentment. His proboscis goes taut and there’s a sick, slurping sound, another gush of blood dribbling down Dewitt’s face and neck.

“Why…is he…?” You swallow your revulsion. The Singer tilts his head slightly, the change in angle churning and squishing wetly against something in Dewitt’s head. The vibration of the song drones just louder than the gurgling screams Dewitt makes.

“He’s drugged. Not certain where or when he is. It’s the same thing he used to give me and all the others.” The Singer’s primary eyes are focused on feeding, but the smaller secondary ones rotate, fixed on you. “You don’t feel bad for him, do you?”

“I’m worried about you.”

The Singer drops Dewitt, proboscis yanking loose with a wet, ripping sound and slithering back into his mouth. He came out of his cocoon differently than all the others. No one else has emerged quite so large. His frilled antenna scrape the high ceiling, his legs bend strangely, and he has six long arms. A ring of thick, white fur circles his neck and drapes over his shoulders. There’s similar patches of fuzz all the way down his body, thinning out across his belly and limbs. His fingers are long and dexterous, warm when they reach out and graze your cheek.

His eyes have changed the least. There are mandibles on either side of his jaw, pearl-white and flexible, a proboscis curled up inside his mouth, but you’ll always recognize his eyes, no matter the color.

“Is he dead?” you say quietly, staring at the body lying limp and face-down on the carpet.

“No. I won’t let him die yet.” The Singer takes your hand in three of his. He turns it over, letting out a low hum in concern at the sight of bandages, the missing finger. “I’ll keep him here, just like I was kept. Except he has the luxury of a house when all I had was that cramped cell in the mountage wing of the factory, a bedroom shaped like a coffin. I’ll use him as he used me, without remorse. He can die when I have nothing to gain from him anymore.”

You tug on his arm, pulling him down to kneel in front of you, and embrace him. The Singer rests his chin and mandibles on your shoulders. His hands all knead the front of your shirt, just like when he was a boy. “I came here to complete a delivery,” you admit. “It’s a child. This is her home.”

The Singer hums appreciatively, nuzzling against your neck. “Yes. Good. I heard the Song. She’ll be safe here. She’ll decide what to do with her own silk. No one will keep her from cocooning and growing up.” His proboscis darts out, tasting the sweat on your throat. “Hope…savory. She grazed on this. You fed her well. There’s more hope here, as much as she could ever want.”

You rub his mandibles and he purrs. “You can have some, if you want. Hope, and whatever else I have.” You feel the vibration of the Song gone slow and deep with interest. He flicks one of his mandibles against your lips, tempted. “You have to eat something other than grudges,” you say gently.

“I can’t stomach much else. But…” He crouches further, pulling you into his lap. You’re settled on one of his thighs, half-turned away from him. He brushes your hair out of the way and caresses the shell of your ear, stroking the lobe with his thumb. “I’ll go very slow. Very gentle. It’s been a long time.”

Now that you’re actually here, clutching the fur on his upper chest, your stomach is flipping nervously. He’s right, it has been a long time. You haven’t fed him since you were both younger, shortly after the change came—he, young and clumsy and still figuring out his new, enormous body, and you, just old enough to drive the Drift. One more time, you’d agreed, before you left town. He couldn’t make silk anymore but it didn’t matter. He just needed to remember how you tasted.

“Hold onto me,” he sings gently. “It’s alright. Hold on tight. You won’t hurt me.” You don’t want to pull on his fur but he pushes your hands more firmly against his chest, encouraging you to dig your fingers in. He clutches your shoulders, your waist, your hips—his grip firm but not bruising. He tries to relax you. He nuzzles against you, splays his mandibles and leaves little kisses along your chin and cheek. His proboscis darts out and flicks against your lips, teasing. He trails higher, following the curve of your jaw.

Your breath hitches when he reaches your ear. He kisses it. His proboscis traces the shell, explores its shallow dips and grooves. Slowly, he lick his way closer to the hole and you let out an involuntary shiver. His hands squeeze all at once in reassurance and hold you still.

“Will you give me something sweet? Something light and airy?” One of the hands on your hip moves inward. Long, graceful fingers slip into your pants and settle on your heated sex. He traces one fingertip slowly up and down, faint and featherlight. Your hips chase the friction. That’s the moment he’s waiting for. You feel his proboscis, cold and smooth, slip easily into your ear canal.

True to his word, he’s slow and gentle. The penetration is a gradual slide, navigating impossibly small spaces to lap at something not entirely physical, nestled at the intersection of thought, feeling and memory. You feel it like the wet slide of a tongue against some place sensitive and you stiffen, eyes rolling back in your head. It’s too much—too much something. Not quite pain or pleasure, not quite anything you can name. But it’s too much. Explosive heat and sandpaper on your nerves, an avalanche of overstimulation.

The hand between your legs barely moves. It’s just two fingers, slender and nimble, rubbing so, so slowly. Up and down. Up and down. Your underwear is damp with your own want and he collects it on his fingertips, uses it to lubricate his steady rhythm. He strokes you right to the edge of madness, crooning softly. You feel the Song behind your eyes, in your brain. You feel all the love it carries.

Your hips jolt and your flinch violently in his grasp. You gasp, or maybe you scream. Your throat is raw when you drift back down into awareness, feeling his proboscis snaking back out and exit with a faint, wet pop. Soothing liquid dribbles out of your ear in his wake, something to numb soreness. You sag against him and catch your breath. He trills, smoothing his palms up and down your body. The hand between your legs comes out of your clothes glistening and sticky.

“What was it?” you asked. Your words are slurred, your tongue still clumsy. “Wh—what’d you taste?”

He wipes the excess fluid from your chin, pressing one last kiss to your ear. It’s starting to tingle. “Nostalgia. Exhaustion. Hope. And…” He pauses, turning your face towards him. “You’ve been having nightmares.”

He lets you avoid the subject and bury your face in his fur. He Sings, swaying gently. You shut your eyes and left your mind drift. Tomorrow, you’ll be leaving. Maybe you can deliver silk, just like the old days—but this silk will be better than Dewitt’s ever was. Made by children who are happy, woven by adults who care about them. Tomorrow, you and the girl will have to say your goodbyes, and you know she’ll ask you about home because she’s kind. And you will smile and lie or maybe say nothing at all, happy for her but stinging with agonizing envy.

“You could stay,” goes the Song, every time you hear it. “Make this home.”

You don’t answer. You never do. The Singer holds you while he still has the chance.

(next)

#rotpeach writes #goretober #the drift #ive had a couple anons mention theyre reading or rereading ritsukas pictures lately #im so glad youre enjoying it!! ;v; that story has a special place in my heart

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tarnishedinquirer · 24 days

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Church of Dragon Communion

On Yura's advice, I returned to the Coastal Cave, where Boc once lived. In my haste to leave, I had completely ignored the back exit. There were only a few Demi-humans back here, but they were easily dealt with.

I emerged on a small island. I'd seen it before, but now I knew how to get there. There wasn't anything here except small animals, so I started up the hill to the church.

Like most buildings in these lands, it was in ruins. But unlike most, it was easy to tell how this came to pass. Much like the capital, a dragon had died here, crashing through the roof and destroying the walls. It then petrified, and here it has remained ever since. It was different from Agheel, in that it had four legs instead of just two. Perhaps dragons had lost two of their limbs over the eons.

Just as notable were the numerous dragon statues scattered throughout the ruins. They were in no particular order, and were not displaced by the dying dragon. They were just placed here haphazardly, presumably sometime after the dragon died. They each had systematically had their head and one of their hands severed, a sign of ritual defacement.

This was a dumping ground. Statues from elsewhere, perhaps other churches, had been brought here and then just left. Why not tossed into the sea? Perhaps some superstition, which could explain why their right hands remained.

I decided to look around first before I would mess with the altar. Atop a large ruin fragment, I found a note in runes. I've seen plenty of runes written by other Tarnished, but as we are not especially learned in them, our messages tend to be simple (and sometimes crude). This one was more eloquent, but I understood it all the same

"Far to the east you'll find the Cathedral of Dragon Communion, where draconic power gathers."

I pulled out my spyglass and... ah. Right. It's in Caelid. I'll be going there eventually. Probably inevitable, really, but I'm in no hurry.

It was time. I stood before the altar, the eternally burning flame. It was a lurid maroon, a color similar to but still wholly unlike that of blood. The heart seemed simultaneously too small to have ever pumped the blood of such a beast, yet also too large for me to ever possibly consume. Was a small piece of it enough? Surely they could not expect me to eat the gravel stone.

It was not faith that brought me here. I did not place my trust and devotion in the power of dragons. Perhaps that would protect me from whatever corruption the heart will bring. If the power corrupts, then I will simply gain no power from this act. I will not use it. I'm probably not even capable of using dragon incantations.

But if I wasn't seeking power, then why? It was merely curiosity. No... more than that. It was an intellectual lust. If I could know it, I needed to. If I could do it, I needed to. I realized the inherently draconic character of such a thought too late, as I had already sank my teeth into the heart.

I tore at it like an animal. Blood coated my mouth, my face, my clothes, my hands. I was insatiable. A hunger that went far deeper than a mere belly full of food or a brain full of knowledge. It was primal. The faster I devoured, the faster I wanted to devour. I felt my teeth break on the gravel stone and still I consumed. The blood in my mouth was not just from the heart, it was my own as I swallowed the shattered chunks of my own teeth. I tore open my cheeks cramming it in. Where was my mask? How was I eating like this? It was impossible. the heart was gone. What was I still eating? Oh god my hands...

And then, I snapped back to reality. There was only the faintest trickle of blood on my lips. My teeth and hands were intact. The heart was gone. I chose to believe I had only taken a small bite and the fire consumed the rest, and everything after that was my mind playing tricks on me. Any other possibility was too much to bear.

Information flooded my mind. I was compelled to write it down, commit it to vellum in case memory failed me. I wrote feverishly in a script I did not recognize but could read nonetheless. It felt like a revelation, but not a divine one. More like some ancestral secrets locked away in my bones.

One of the incantations of Dragon Communion. Incantation of those who have hunted dragons and feasted upon their hearts. Theirs is a pure and overwhelming power.

I knew now how to become a dragon, at least in part. I knew that if I only believed, if I only understood, I could take some of their power for myself and breathe out their flame.

As long as I lived, I swore to myself, I would never do it. The power was indeed overwhelming. I did not like feeling so out of control. I did not like feeling like the vessel for something else.

I am me, and my soul is my own.

I will not ask questions of this. Some doors are best left closed.

#elden ring #elden ring lore #in character #in character blog #in character post #let's play

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postoctobrist · 1 year

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safety third. hello roz and liam and alice. hello guest.

i work on maintaining and restoring church bells and carillons. thats those ding-y things on churches. this incident happened back in the 70s but i figured I'd share it. So it happens that there's some Hollywood director with fuck-you money and he decides he wants to do a gunfight in the belltower of Cattedrale di San Gennaro.

The church smells money and agrees, but the government insists that the film crew hire a team to tell them how to shoot this scene safely. we are told that while they legally have to hire us, we had better sit tight, take our paychecks, and not try to cause problems.

anyways, one of the scenes calls for a window to be shot out. Now these windows weren't original, but they were replaced in the style, with thick glass. The first attempt by the pyrotechnicians completely failed to shatter the window. and so, being Americans, they did what they knew best and added more explosives. I was sitting downstairs when I heard a loud thud, and then the sounds of bricks toppling down on the roof above.

These Hollywood guys, it turns out, forgot they were in a 13th century cathedral and accidentally added building-destroying amounts of explosives in a high clock tower and set them off while actors were in the room.

The funny thing is, they kept it in the movie and critics seemed to really like it, saying that the outsized bullet holes were a representation of the main character's psyche as he is torn apart by his conflicting loyalties.

After that happened, I collected my paycheck and left. Fixing the mortarwork wasn't my job, but it eventually happened in the 80s I hear.

Thanks so much for the pod!

Martin Scorsese would never allow this to happen

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mishwanders · 1 year

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Chapter One {Saint}: Fish in a Birdcage

Pairing: Karl Heisenberg x GN!Disabled Reader

Summary: Today’s your first family meeting.

Warnings: cigarette/cigar smoke, Heisenberg being a bit of a meanie head, ghosts, mold.

Read On AO3 { X }

Goddamn snow…

It was cold in the village of shadows, ever present and as unrelenting as the icy wind that was piercing through your clothes, pricking your skin like an angry troupe of ants, biting you against your will, leaving your body in more pain than it had already been in before you stepped out of the comforting warmth of your home. You trudged your way through the thick blanket of snow, carefully placing your cane with each step, trying to keep it from sticking into the mud underneath. You had been called by Mother Miranda to meet at the cathedral for your first meeting with the Lords now that you had been promoted to a higher position, becoming Saint to the black god.

A worthy position to be in, one that was coveted amongst the faithful villagers.

Mother Miranda had seen your potential, had seen your faithfulness to being the black gods servant. When she had spoken to you about taking the position, you were ecstatic to take the opportunity - to be closer to her, to your god, to truly do something good for the community that was here in the village. You wanted to make your mark and Miranda was glad to give you that chance, even stating that if the black god so willed it, she would bestow upon you ‘the gift’. When you heard those words leave her lips, how could you say no?

So here you were, making your way through the cold snow to become everything you had ever dreamed of.

When you made it to the door you stopped for a moment, looking back behind you, taking everything in. You could see how the ground mirrored the sky above, blanketed in white, save for the buildings, monuments, and graves that broke up the seamless reflection. It was beautiful in its imperfection, and you couldn’t help but take one last look, smiling softly at the view as you pushed your way inside.

The large door creaked as you walked in, the sound of your boots and cane clopping against the uneven stone floor. You looked around the entrance, seeing the candles that had illuminated the stone room and hall with their dim orange glow. You closed the door and began to walk down the hall, smiling to yourself as you heard the sounds of the Lord's voices reaching your ears.

You entered into the large and darkened sanctuary, taking in the sight of it all. There was a large crimson rug that had spanned between the empty pew and the large chair you had seen Lady Dimitrescu sitting in, leading all the way up to the platform. The entire place was still lit by candles, except for a spot over the platform where the roof had caved in many moons ago. You knew that the men of the village were still working on fixing it, but Mother Miranda had stated that she did not see it as an urgent problem nor a disruption to her meetings for the time being.

Your eyes moved away from it, glancing around the people in the room. You could see Lord Salvatore Moreau standing next to the pew, wearing his darkened navy captain's coat over his body with his bone crown adorning his head. You knew that before he became the village doctor he was once a great fisherman, having sailed many voyages before settling here in the village. Once he met Mother Miranda he became enthralled in the religion that she had so gracefully renewed. After that he laid down his nets and soon became a fisher of men, converting newcomers and villagers alike to the service of the black god, and bestowing the gift upon them.

Across from him sitting on the stage you could see Lady Donna Beneviento, dressed in her all black ensemble that covered her body from head to toe, and her wonderful companion Angie the doll, who was dressed in a white wedding dress and a veil that was uncovered from her face. You didn’t know much about the lady or her doll, except for the fact that they made wonderful toys for the children. Other than that, the woman typically kept to herself and served the black god in her own ways.

And finally your eyes caught sight of the woman everyone in the village revered. The great and honorable Lady Alcina Dimitrescu. She was dressed in her pearl white empire waist gown, adorned with a pearl necklace, a broach of three obsidian roses, and an equally dark hat that spanned far over her shoulders. She was one of the Lords that provided many services to the villagers, whether it be through her personal winery or work in her gracious home. She truly had the definition of a servant's heart, with the way she gave back to the community, providing her home to be open for those in need.

You watched as she took a long drag of her cigarillo, blowing smoke in the air as her pale blue eyes caught sight of you.

“Well, well, what are you doing here, sweetness?” She asked

The woman had always been kind to you, always giving you some sort of name other than the one you owned. You had helped her once before when her vineyard was being plagued by blight - able to give her the solution on how to properly handle the situation quickly. She saw your kindness and ingenuity and took it to heart, always treating you as such in return after the event.

“Mother Miranda asked me to come.” You replied, “I’ll be working alongside her now.”

She looked at you, pleasantly surprised at your words.

“I assume we’ll be hearing more about this during the meeting then?“

You nodded.

“Yes, my Lady.”

“I already knew thaaaaat ~” Angie chimed in her sing-song voice.

You turned your attention to her and she came flying off of Donna’s lap to you, getting close to your face.

“Mother Miranda requested a present!” She said, pointing at the pew. “Lookie!”

Your gaze followed her wooden finger all the way to the dark stained oak pew, seeing the golden pillow embellished along the edges with metal beads. You stood there in surprise, your eyes going back to Donna. You couldn’t see her smiling but you could hear it in her voice.

“Mother Miranda had requested it to be made in time for today.” She explained, “I hope you like it.”

You walked over to it, gently touching the plush material with your hand before sitting down. It definitely took some of the pressure off of your hips, providing some comfort that the hardwood would never be able to.

“It’s perfect, thank you.” You replied

You took to your bag, rummaging through it, quickly pulling out your journal and pencil. Mother Miranda was a busy prophetess and had asked you to take notes for her during each meeting, specifically items of importance from the Lords.

That’s when you heard the sudden stop of boots in front of you, feeling a heavy presence before you from the looming stare coming from above. You could smell the scent of leather and metal mixing together with the cuban cigar as the smoke from it was blown in your direction. There were only two people you knew who smoked cigars in the entirety of the village and only one of them was invited to this meeting.

Lord Heisenberg had arrived.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He asked

You looked up at him with a small grin. You could see his messy dark hair wisping around his face, his unruly dark beard, and scared face etched with irritation.

“Mother Miranda asked me to be here.” You replied

“Why?”

“Be patient and you’ll soon find out like the rest of us.” Lady Dimitrescu remarked, “Now take your seat, Mother Miranda will be here any minute.”

You could see the scowl on his face at the sound of her voice. You were half afraid he was going to bite straight through that cigar of his, dropping the remains of it in your lap. You knew the two never liked each other, and never quite understood why.

“Fine. But you're in my seat.” He said, lifting his left hand.

With the flick of his wrist he had taken hold of the embellishments on the pillow with his power and forced you over to the side, knocking you into your bag and cane. The old wooden walking stick began to fall over to the stone floor, but Heisenberg was quick to catch it, bending down in front of you. He looked up at you from under the brim of his hat, and you caught a hint of glimmer from his hazel eyes above his mossy green sunglasses.

“My apologies. Don’t want to break this.” He said with a sly grin.

You huffed at him, now you were staring down at him with an irritated look. You knew he’d done it on purpose, always enjoying the attention. You were ready to call him every foul name that you could think of, but Lady Dimitrescu was already doing so, coming to your defense.

“Heisenberg, you insolent Buffoon.” She said, pinching her brow in frustration. “Take your seat and leave them be.”

For once in his life he didn’t argue with the woman, which came as a surprise to you. He handed you the cane back and took his seat beside you, splaying himself out, legs spread open, and resting his right arm atop the pew while the other was resting atop his thigh. You placed your cane beside your leg again, allowing it to rest against the edge of the pew before you flipped to an empty page in your journal. You knew Heisenberg was looking down at your hands, and you half expected him to make a comment about it. But that chance was taken when you all heard the murder of crows making their way in through the ceiling, encircling each other and forming together as one. A feathered figure appeared from within the midst of it all, with golden clad hands, a matching beaked mask, and adorned with a large golden headdress.

You smiled at the entrance of the figure knowing them to be none other than the great Mother Miranda herself.

“My apologies for my late entrance, my children.” She said, looking around the room.

Her eyes took in each person, gracefully smiling upon them until her eyes caught sight of you - and you noticed her smile grew wider.

“Thank you for coming, my dear.” She said, addressing you before turning her attention back to the group as a whole.

“Now we can get to the order of business.”

Mother Miranda went about her duties, giving out specific orders to the Lords, each of them asking specific questions of their tasks - divvying up the ways in which they needed to get the villagers involved in their projects. You sat there jotting away notes the entire time until the meeting had come to its close. Mother Miranda addressed them as a group one last time.

“And finally, my children, I would like to inform you of all the new additions to our little family.” She said gesturing to you, “They will be taking over a new role as Saint to the black god and will be working closely with me, assisting in our current endeavors with the situation plaguing the villagers.”

Everyone else around was looking at you with a sense of joy having you alongside them, but you could feel the piercing gaze of Heisenberg staring at you from behind his glasses. You could sense he wasn’t happy about it.

And it bothered you, because you didn’t understand why.

“So you’re tasking them with writing the damn manuscript then?” He asked, looking up at Mother Miranda.

“Well of course.” She replied, “Our Saint has been the most faithful and has shown great reverence for the black god. It’s like you said, there is only so much that blind faith can do. I have all trust that they will be able to prove their worth where needed. Isn’t that right, dear Saint?”

You nodded.

“Yes, Mother Miranda and I’m glad to be chosen to help bring forth the written word of the black god under your guidance.”

Mother Miranda turned her attention back to Heisenberg.

“See? They’re perfect for this and their knowledge of the written word is impeccable. I have all faith that our dear Saint will be able to bring forth this living word with all the grace it deserves.”

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks under Miranda’s praise. You were used to being looked past as just another face in the crowd, but here Miranda had put you in the middle of the spotlight, on the pedestal she had raised you up on.

You couldn’t help but enjoy the recognition, even just a little bit.

But the moment was quickly tarnished when you heard the voice of Heisenberg next to you, whispering under his breath.

“Welcome aboard then, Saint.”

The way he said Saint came out differently from him than it had from Miranda, the click of his tongue on the T sounding more like an insult rather than praise. You swallowed any insults that you were ready to hurl at him all the way down. You didn’t want to make a fool of yourself in front of the gracious Mother.

“With that, I bid you all farewell for the evening. Saint, when you get a chance, please come see me down in my chambers.”

You nodded, and just like that, her physical form had changed, morphing into a murder of crows once more and taking flight out of the sanctuary.

You turned your attention back to Heisenberg, ready to give him an earful, but he was already up and gone as well. You let out a sigh, seeing the empty space beside you. He always knew how to evade you, how to sneak out of your presence when needed - and you absolutely hated it.

The others began to make their leave as well, Lady Dimitrescu stopping beside you as you gathered your things.

“Do pay any mind to my insolent little brother.” She said, “He’s a child when it comes to things like this and prefers to keep to himself.”

You knew that much about him already. Once upon a time, you two used to be close. He was even your only friend there for a while, having sat beside you as kids in the orphanage and read you books when you were unable to move because of the pain your body succumbed to. But since he’d become a Lord, he had completely changed and continued to put more distance between you, making it impossible to get to him again.

“I know.” You replied, throwing the strap of the bag over your good shoulder, taking hold of your cane and gingerly standing up from your place on the pew.

“Thank you though. I just have not let him get to me.”

“Precisely.” Lady Dimitrescu said with a smile, “If you ever need anyone to talk to or anyone to knock some sense into him, you may always come to me, my door is always open for you my dear.”

You looked up at her with a surprised smile on your face, taken aback by her invitation.

“Thank you my Lady. That's most gracious of you.”

She gave you a bow and took her leave from the sanctuary. You turned around, taking one last look at the now empty room. You walked over to the platform, looking up to the clouded sky above through the slotted boards. You felt like a fish inside a birdcage from this position, unable to move up, unable to fly out like Mother Miranda. But maybe one day you would be able to move like her, maybe one day you would be granted wings too for your service.

You brought your attention back down to the platform. The gentle smile left your face when you caught sight of a figure standing in the darkness, feeling the fear grip your heart, wrapping its way around your throat like a snake.

‘No please - not now, please.’

You began to back away from the platform, eyes never leaving the figure in the dark. You knew it wasn’t real, just some damned thing that haunted you - taunted you when you were vulnerable. You never even understood why, even asked for the black god to take it away, but there it stood, regardless of your efforts to remove it from you and your mind.

It was a phantom of you, with roots trailing along your body, eyes glazed over like death as your mouth hung open in anguish, as if it had gotten stuck in place mid scream. You could see a larger black root wrapped around your neck like a noose ready to pull you up, completely and utterly bound to its will.

The real you continued to back away from him, whispering ‘it’s not real’ over and over again to yourself, like a prayer until you finally reached the door you had entered the sanctuary with. You placed your hand on the hard surface and took one last look down the candle lit hall. You saw the figure of yourself again, this time illuminated by the orange light. For a moment you thought that you had caught the hint of a smile on its face, one filled with evil intent, like a devil waiting for you to turn your back on it so it could strike you down. This version of you did not move from its place though, it only stood there, staring forward, pointing.

Pointing directly at you.

“Fuck this.” You whispered, pushing the door open.

You felt the blast of cold air hit your face, filling your lungs. You inhaled it deeply, allowing it to bring you back to your senses, killing the rising anxiety that was within your chest. You couldn’t worry about what you had seen right now, you had things to do, very important things - and you were not going to allow some phantom to keep you from it.

You had important things to do, business to attending to -

And a god to see.

Prologue: God Help You Dumb Boy

Chapter Two: Distance Oneself

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junebugwriter · 7 months

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Fortress Cathedral Theology

Conservatism as a thought process is inherently reactionary, by which I mean, it is done in reaction to perceived changes or threats. I like to call it “Fortress Cathedral” theology. Imagine, for the sake of argument, that there is a city in which there is a cathedral, and around the city is a fortress wall. Within the city are the only true believers in the world, and their cathedral is the only true church in the world. The cathedral has always been there for as long as anyone in the city remembers. Outside the city are other people who worship the same God—or at least they claim to. However, there are some differences between how people outside the cathedral worship, and how people who regularly go to the city cathedral worship. The people outside, well, they have some different ideas about how God works, and who is authorized to come and worship God, and how they worship God. Instead of learning from or communicating with the people outside the city, the people inside the city grow angry—how dare those people mock our God! How dare they worship differently, or just let any person worship God in whatever way they want to! There are rules that need to be enforced. There are boundaries that need to be maintained. Because of that, they see the solution not in understanding but in building up the other thing that the city is famous for: the wall. The wall needs to be secured! We must protect the sanctity and holiness of our God! Whereas the people outside the city see no need for such walls, and are surprised at the negative reaction that the city-dwellers are displaying. And so it goes, the solution is to cut the problem out entirely: seclude the city away from those who would threaten our way of life, and build the wall.

Now, this is an imperfect metaphor, and perhaps I’m building a strawman—completely valid critique. However, the approach and methodology is the most important part of the analogy. The conservative-evangelical theological landscape is one that is defined by its need to protect and defend—in a word, conserve—the tradition of the church, to the exclusion of any and all alternative approaches or methodologies. The tradition is perfect, and we need to change ourselves to fit the mold that was cast long before we were born so that people long after we die can do exactly the same thing.

Don’t get me wrong, tradition absolutely has its place in theology and religion. I’m a Methodist after all, apostate as I might be currently. Scripture, tradition, reason, and experience are essential aspects of how I do theology currently, and that won’t change anytime soon. However, there is a delicate balance to the big four. Scripture and tradition are the foundations, to be sure, but always interpreted with our reason and experience, and through the reason and experience of others.

I’m a constructive theologian by nature. It's the methodology by which I’m most comfortable with, and that’s the approach that makes the most sense to me. I’ll explain with another metaphor. Imagine that you have a building, one that is very, very old. You have been tasked with upkeep and maintenance of the building. However, because of the age of the building, there are going to be some issues with it; any person who has been tasked with maintaining an old building will tell you this. The building, if it is going to last into the future, will need repair. As you investigate further and deeper into the structure, you find that not only will it need repair, it will need actual renovation. You'll need some analysis on the foundations. You'll need some inspection of the walls, the building materials inside and out, the roofing, the flooring, the plumbing, the wiring, the HVAC system, and so forth. The more you investigate, the more you realize that though the foundation is mostly good and needs relatively little updating, there are some rotten walls, warped floorboards, holes in the roof and all the plumbing, wiring and HVAC are in desperate need of replacement. However, there is still some good material in there. The bones of the house are good! But there’s going to need some major updating if it’s going to last another ten years, let alone another hundred. So, you take out or address that which needs addressing, reinforce it with things that need some updating, do your best to make sure that the structure is more solid, if not perhaps any more outwardly different than before.

That is theology, to me. You take out the rotten wood and broken bricks, and you replace it with better materials. It might be costly in some ways, but better and longer lasting in the long term.

--excerpted from my substack:

#theology #church #religion #progressive christianity #constructive theology

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catholicism-connoiseur · 2 months

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St Augustine's

Following the experience of confession in St Peter's, I was naturally curious to see how other local churches treated the sacred practice. The next church by distance was Saint Augustine's Catholic Church; colloquially "the Augustinian". A smaller church, far from the cathedral-like scale of St. Peter's, the Augustinian hosts a far cozier and homely atmosphere than the imposing stone structure that maintains a centrepiece of the town. It hosts a significantly more community-focused and welcoming mass than most that I have seen elsewhere, and includes (by comparison to most churches' narratives, quite radically) forward thinking themes and choice interpretations of scripture in its teachings. They even have gluten-free communion bread!

In matters of exterior presentation, the church features a Victorian Gothic façade established at the same time as the church itself, in the years 1859-1866. The church has no such grand spires that reach great heights as other churches in town, rather is a humble and unobtrusive structure that sits neatly on Shop Street between an antiquated bar and a local clothing store. A gift shop inhabits part of the church's entrance, providing an information desk as well as sale of religious paraphernalia.

Entering the church, one can feel a stark and noticeable contrast in the environment to that of St. Peter's, St. Mary's and many other churches. Simple changes in interior decoration make enormous difference to the ambience: for example, the carpeted floors and cushioned pews create not only a more directly comfortable and welcoming place of worship, they also aid in removing the cold air and echoes found in more barren, abstemious churches that seem to almost pride themselves on their lack of comfort. By comparison, the Augustinian's interior is akin to walking into someone's (albeit massively spacious and oddly furnished) home. The air is warm but not stale; the lower ceiling creates an easier space to heat than enormously tall cathedral-style roofs, but maintains enough height for good circulation. (A more extensive catalogue of the church’s interior and exterior architecture can be found at the National Inventory of Architectural Heritage, including specifications on the nave, roof, walling, gables, rafters and most every other facet of the building.)

One attribute that draws attention though, is the unique stained glass windows adorning the church’s front face and behind the altar. Best seen from the inside to fully appreciate the use of colour and the intricate idiosyncrasies of the craftwork, one of the church’s windows depicts an elegant visage of the titular St Augustine as well as St Monica. The Passion Window, fitted in 1928 and restored in 1994, was created by a Harry Clarke, an acclaimed Irish artist of stained glass. Before his untimely death in 1931, Clarke had crafted over 130 stained glass windows, many religious but many others secular: his expression was not solely based in Catholicism and often featured flora, fauna, commentary on social issues and macabre characters and details that even juxtaposed traditional Catholic stained glass depictions. His work featured in the Augustinian is a beautiful, complex piece and is a treasure to the parish and town alike.

Another feature that grants this church a more communal and welcoming atmosphere is the adjoined Garden of Remembrance. This secluded garden adjoining the church's southern wall is found through a (wheelchair accessible) walkway into the main patio, where stand five stone slabs surround a water feature memorial. The slabs, and a portion of the southern wall too, hold plaques bearing names of loved ones to those in the parish, be it family, friends or pets. The area can be visited as a tranquil and sacred place to honour and remember those who have passed. There are wooden benches and soft lighting that creates a cozy and comforting atmosphere. Lush foliage adorns the enclosure, including holly, juniper and some fruit trees among many other aromatic plants. The garden is also a frequent haunt of the church's resident cat, Monica (after the Saint).

Continuing to the Confessional portion of this review, though: A dark marble plaque at the entrance informs of the church's mass, vigil and confession times. Inquiring at the small shop inside the church, I was advised to arrive punctually, as confessions tended to be busy, and so the next Friday at noon, I sat quietly in line behind a half dozen or so people. As the priest approached and the line began moving, I was admittedly elated to see that the confessional booth built into the wall of the church was in fact being used! This brought into question why, despite having a booth present, the previous church, St. Peters, elected instead for a face-to-face confessional. But for the moment, my own turn had arrived, and I entered the booth.

The box was small but not too restrictively so. A short kneeling bar on the floor faced the panel through which one speaks to the priest. It was dim and slightly difficult to see, but I figured this to be largely intentional to maintain the environment of anonymity and confidentiality. I confessed my "sin" to the priest, and was met with a decidedly calm and composed response. He seemed somewhat amused at the tameness of the sin in question, and prescribed but a single Hail Mary as penance. Funnily enough, this remarkably lax repentance granted some credulity to the idea (proposed during the drunken group brainstorming session) that perhaps those who frequented confessionals would go to one church over another for a lighter penance.

To conclude, the Augustinian is a church that many could take notes from. With such a mass exodus (pun intended) from the faith in recent decades, it's become more clear than ever that in our modern social climate, staunch rigidity to dogmatic doctrine and antiquated ideologies is pathetically ineffective at maintaining a dedicated following, much less at encouraging greater numbers to join. Some churches around the town (and country) have even been repurposed into art galleries and secular community halls due to insufficient patronage. For the religion to find any kind of long-term support from this and future generations, the path to follow is that which the Augustinian seems to set out. A church that serves and uplifts the people, not the reverse.

St Augustine's Drogheda Church gets a solid 8.5/10. Hell yeah.

#catholicism connoiseur #catholiscism #confession

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house-of-galathynius · 1 year

Text

The Long Road Home

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Thirteen - Chapter Fifteen

Word Count: 2.3k

London, England. April 2022: Two Hundred and Forty One Years Later

Spring in London was her favourite time. It always had been— although it was starkly different now than it had been when she had lived in the city over two hundred years ago. Although the trees still lined the streets and the parks were just as lovely as before, much had changed. The streets she had wandered all those years ago were now covered with concrete, towering skyscrapers were sat where wooden stalls of the market had been. There were still some familiar places that transported her back, like the the domed roof of St. Pauls Cathedral, the Tower of London and even some of the taverns that she had frequented as Arobynn’s wife. She’d searched for the place her parents had owned, but had been disappointed to find it demolished.

She had wanted to come back to London for some time. Her urge grew stronger after each loss of Rowan… but she had never been able to make the trip. But this time she had felt compelled more than ever. Despite the compulsion to return, she had still felt like she needed to build up her eventual return. A hundred years ago she might have been able to spend two or three weeks on a boat sailing here— enough time to prepare her for coming back to her home. But today, a plane journey was so quick that it would not give her ample time to prepare. So she had eased herself back.

After leaving Madrid she had gone to Ireland. Then after a few years or travelling through there, she had hopped on a plane to Scotland and finally explored the highlands, living in cabins and inns— meeting the greatest people. Scotland had been wonderful, but she felt unsettled, so she made the final push into England. She stayed in York for a while, but when she grew restless— so close to being home, yet so far— she had gone to Brighton.

If she thought London had changed, Brighton was a completely different city. It was dirtier and so much busier than when she had been there with Rowan. But it was a good thing. She liked that there was little familiarity there. She could walk around without being constantly reminded of him— of them. The sour taste that she had been left with as she was dragged away from the city, away from him.

Her eventual decision to return to London had been more of an impulse thing. She had thought about getting a train to Cornwall to see if she could find any remnants of Elena— honestly she wasn’t sure why she hadn’t thought about going back there before. Then she had been tempted to find where Rowan had grown up before his parents had died… but none of it seemed to feel right.

Then, when she was least expecting it, she received an email from one of the estate agents informing her that they needed to discuss some things about the property she owned. Aelin wasn’t sure what property that was. All her money— the little that she did have left— was secure in various banks. She had no idea how they had found her email, but she supposed Elena had been hard at work again. Either way, it had spurred her to pack her things and return.

The city was blooming all over, not just the trees and the flowers, but the people too. Every corner there were crowds chatting and laughing, drinking pints of beer and enjoying the warmth of the spring sunshine.

It was still her city, the city she had loved and hated and cried in.

The tube was busy when she finally entered onto the platform. She wasn’t sure where she was going… or maybe she did. She moved with the flow of the people and into the carriage, grabbing hold of the yellow rail and nervously watching the world go past.

“The next station is Turnham Green. Change for the District Line to Ealing Broadway.”

Exiting the tube she followed the small hoard of people to the exit and then she turned left and found herself on the busier high street. Buses roared past her, cars honking their horns at people running across the road. People walking their dogs smiled at each other before having to yank their pet away to continue. This wasn’t new to Aelin, she had seen this in every city, but it felt different in London.

She thought about the flat that had been sitting here for her. Rent being paid into an account in her name for years and years. She had acted knowledgeable the entire meeting, as if she was completely aware of the fact that she had six hundred thousand pounds sitting in a bank account, building interest over the last fifty or so years.

The flat itself was only down the road in Richmond. A small one bedroom place with a Juliet balcony from the kitchen and a little terrace off the living room in the back. It was nicely decorated, as if someone had been keeping it modern and looked after until she finally decided to come back. Aelin had been given a set of keys by the estate agents and then she had informed them she would be living there now. Although she was still staying in the rental place she had got, partly afraid of what she might find when she went to the flat in Richmond.

Aelin spotted a cafe across the road and made her way towards it. There was a table outside, enough room for five people, but it was the only one available. So she grabbed it quickly, getting comfortable whilst she looked through the menu. Moments later a waiter had appeared and she was ordering a slice of cake and a coffee.

For a while she just observed. The children giggling, swinging their school bags around. Teenagers strolling along holding hands, elderly people pulling shopping trolleys behind them. She loved the diversity of the city now. People from all walks of life just… living.

She heard him before she saw him.

Aelin didn’t move her head, she didn’t glance over even though she wanted nothing more than to do so. Distracting herself for a moment she brought the fork to her mouth and chewed and swallowed a bite of the cake.

“… I’m sorry, but we don’t have any tables free at the moment.”

Aelin finally looked.

He was wearing dark jeans and a dark green shirt that was unbuttoned, a white t-shirt stretched across his muscular chest underneath. He had a thick silver ring on the thumb of his right hand and a leather watch on the same wrist. His clothes were the only thing that ever changed, but his face would remain the same throughout time.

“Is there a chance you can move the tables? Or I can move them if you want.” Rowan said kindly.

Aelin watched him intently. She noticed the twitch of his jaw as he stood there waiting, the length of his eyelashes as he blinked. Those small things had faded from her memory. Things that sometimes she had never been able to relearn about him.

“I’m really sorry, but if you come back in half an hour I can make sure there’s something for you here.” The waiter said again.

No, don’t leave. Aelin thought. She was still watching him, and like he could hear her thoughts his own gaze found hers. It was only a second, but it was enough.

Aelin got up from her chair and waved to the waiter. “I’ve got enough room for more people here… you can move my table or,” she looked at Rowan, “or you can just join me. I’ll be going soon.” She pointed to the table she had just been at, “you can say no. But I thought I’d offer.” She smiled.

The waiter seemed to relax a fraction. Rowan thought for a second then nodded. “That’s kind of you, thanks.” His accent was almost identical to what it had been when she had first met him. The subtle northern lilt mixed in with a hint of southern English. She could remember making fun of him for the way he said things, giggling as he would repeat the words over, making a point to say them in a more stupid way each time.

She led them to the table, moving her things across making some space for him. She hadn’t been lying about leaving soon. She hadn’t really decided what she was going to do this time. After Madrid, she had told herself that enough was enough. But there was something nagging at her, a tug of a thread that was telling to just wait a little longer.

“… filter coffee.” She turned to Rowan who had finished ordering. She was a little unsure whether to strike up conversation. She was intrigued to see what name he’d have in this life— what he did, who his friends were. She would be lying if she wasn’t a little hopeful about the fact she had met him again in London, where they’d met the first time. That his voice was the same as before too. But she knew not to let that hope seep into her too much. Fate had a funny way of taking those pieces of happiness from her.

“Thanks again for letting me sit here. I could’ve gone down the road to somewhere else, but they have the best cinnamon rolls here.” As he spoke the waiter placed his pastry down in front of him and then the coffee before leaving. Rowan grinned down at the food and then to Aelin, “I mean look at how good this looks.”

Aelin laughed lightly. “It does look good.”

Rowan cut off a piece and carefully placed it on her now empty plate. “Try some.”

She widened her eyes and shook her head. “It’s yours. I’ve already had mine.”

He rolled his eyes playfully and took a bite of what was on his plate, groaning in an exaggerated way as he chewed the pastry and swallowed. “So good.” He mumbled, mouth still half full.

Aelin laughed then, finally taking a bite and nodding her agreement as she chewed. Putting her hand up to her mouth to cover her eating. Rowan watched her with a kind of curiosity, the look gone in an instant, returning to a neutral smile.

“Sorry, I’m told I can be a little forward at times. Feel free to ignore me from now on.” He chuckled.

Aelin never wanted to ignore him. She could listen to him talk for hours, even if it was just about how good food was. She would listen to him read out his shopping list or recite equations. If it meant she could listen to his voice.

She wanted to ask him. Aelin wanted to know his name. But she was terrified that it was going to be the same as before. It was harder and harder every time to let him go, to know that she could love him for a while but never long enough. She didn’t want to think about how in a blink of an eye he could be gone and she would have to continue on like she was fine.

But there was something about this time.

Something… different.

“Do you come here often?” Rowan asked eventually.

“It’s my first time, actually.” She rolled up the sleeves on her top and leant on the table, “I’ve just moved back to London, so I’m trying to find the best spots again.”

“Do you live locally?” He asked.

“Richmond. Not far really, but I used to live in Chiswick when I was younger.”

Rowan pondered for a second. “That can’t have been too long ago…?” His question trailing off, but she knew what he was implying.

“It was a while ago. At least long enough that I’ve forgotten a lot.” She didn’t know what to tell him. Her fake passport and drivers license said she was twenty-two. But she still looked like a nineteen year old— even with some make-up and nice clothes.

“Where did you go whilst you were away?” More digging.

She shrugged. “I’ve studied, travelled, worked a little.”

He relaxed a little and smiled again. “Did you study anything interesting?”

Well… she’d studied medicine, law, psychology, literature. And the rest. Although, she couldn’t exactly tell him she had studied half these things, if not because there was no possible way she could have had the time, but because she was technically twenty-two and medicine would have kept her at university until at least twenty-five.

“I graduated with a degree in psychology.” Close enough.

Rowan’s brow rose, impressed. “Do you think you’ll specialise in anything?”

She’d thought about it of course. Going to do a masters, but she changed her mind— like always. “I’m not sure. Maybe I’ll go back and getting a teaching degree or do a conversion. Who knows. I’m young, I’ve got plenty of time to figure it out.” Not a lie. “What about you?”

“I finished my masters a year ago in cyber security. I moved to London to start a new job at a bank.”

Aelin scrunched her face, “at a bank?” That isn’t very you.

He stilled and looked at her confused. Like he had heard her again. But he shook it off and nodded. “Making sure their systems are secure and whatever. Not very glamorous but I enjoy it.” He laughed and sipped his coffee before placing it down. “I never got your name.”

Aelin swallowed. She couldn’t leave now. If she got up and left now she could feel in her bones that it wouldn’t happen again. That this was the moment, the opportunity.

“Aelin.” She replied eventually.

She swore she saw recognition flash across his face, but it was gone in a second. Her heart was beating faster as she waited for him to reveal his name in this life of his. She prayed it was something nice.

And then he said the words she had been dreaming of for hundreds of years. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Aelin. I’m Rowan.”

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