#light a candle and pray that the tags work !!!

[knightyoomyoui]

My Wife's Unbeatable Cake [+18]

ft. TWICE's Mina (x Male Reader)

TYPE: Fluff, Smut

WORD COUNT: 2782

NOTE: Belated happy birthday once again to our beloved penguin!

DONATE OR REQUEST FOR COMMISSION HERE: https://ko-fi.com/knightyoomyoui

TAGS: birthday sex, ass worship, ass eating, breeding, creampie, anal sex, food kink, LITERALLY EVERYTHING IS ABOUT GYATT

DESCRIPTION: As a loving husband, you surprised your wife a cake on her birthday. In return, she gave you her own that will make you crave a lot from now on.

===OOO===

START

It’s your wife Mina’s birthday. You just got out of your work and the current time had you in distraught.

Lady luck is on your side, your decision to pick your bicycle as a means of transportation for today gave you a huge assist to travel smoothly. There was a slight traffic going on in an another road, with your bike it managed you to find an alternate yet narrow route to your destination.

“Shoot, 5 minutes.” You looked at your watch. Both feet went faster on spinning the pedal until a familiar place with its bright lights still open caught your eyes.

“Don’t close yet, don’t close yet!!!” You hit the brake and quickly hopped out of the bike to enter the store. Just as when the owner comes close to the door and flip the placard from OPEN to CLOSED, you showed up at her glass door and gestured not to.

Your sudden appearance gave her a jumpscare. She opened the door and looks at you with her hand on her chest and face looking astounded. “My god, you gave me a heart attack there. What is it?”

“I know you’re about to close but can I please buy one more cake? It’s my wife’s birthday and I just got out from work.” You pleaded, hands praying for her kindness. “This is the bakery she always go to, that’s why I can’t find any more place other than this.”

The owner looks around at the shop to inspect then returned you with a sigh and a sassy expression. “Aside from scaring me to death, fine. I appreciate the compliments. Hurry, go in.” She opened the door wide and you followed her before she finally flips the card to CLOSED.

“What are you going to order?”

“This caramel paradise, please.” 

She takes it out from the shelf and placed it on the counter. “Any message you want me to write on the cake?”

“Yeah.” She handed you a piece of paper and a ballpen. You wrote it and gave it back to her.

She copied your note on the cake, you watched how flawlessly she swirls the frosting as she forms letters each by each on the cake’s surface. After finishing, she wrapped it up with a box and grabbed some candles.

“I wish you wife a happy birthday and thanks for visiting my store often.”

“Thank you so much and you’re welcome as well.” You bowed respectfully at her and left the store instantly. Looking at the box of cake with you, a huge smile grew in your lips.

Driving back home, you parked your bike in the garage and knocked at the door. You feel energized to see your wife’s reaction to this little surprise you have for her.

She opened the door, your lovely wife Mina standing in front of you in her nightgown. “You’re back.” She looked at you with a smile.

Revealing the box you’ve been hiding on your back, you presented it to her proudly. “Surprise! Got you some present to end the night.”

“Woah, is this cake?” Mina was awed by it. She observed it and excitement starting to fill her up inside. “Is this from the bakery I always go to?”

“Yup. There’s nothing more I could trust than that if it’s for you. Also, I bought your favorite.”

Mina glances dearly at you. You entered the house and closed the door. 

You stood closer at her and gently grabb

ed her to be wrapped around your embrace. “Happy Birthday, my Minari.” A greeting with a kiss on her forehead.

“I’m so touched. Arigato, honey.” Mina shyly said. “Change yourself, I can’t wait for us to eat this.”

You ran through your bedroom and undressed your work attire back into your normal home  clothing. As you went downstairs, you find Mina unboxing the cake with her eyes sparkling as she watched how delicious the cake looks. 

“Allow me.” You approached her and took the candle on the table. Grabbing a lighter from the kitchen, you clicked it and lit up its end before inserting the candle on the center of the cake.

Taking out your cellphone, you went to Spotify to play a song. As you clicked it, a Happy Birthday instrumental can be heard, and Mina chuckled while you began to sang to her.

“Go on, make a wish.” Mina closes her eyes and clasped her hands. While she does that, you took the precious time to admire her beauty up close. 

She opened her eyes again and blew the candle. Both of you clapped in celebration. “Short story, I almost didn’t able to grab this one.”

“Why?”

“If it wasn’t for my bike, I would be stuck on the traffic there plus, as usual my boss is a pain in the ass.” You rolled your eyes in frustration. Mina stifled her laughter and patted your chest.

“My poor husband, it would be bad if it happened but as you see, it didn’t. Let’s just be happy that this “surprise” of yours for me was a success.” Mina cheered you up. “You must be scared that I might be mad at you if you didn’t gave me a gift?”

“Yeah.” You frowned.

Mina kisses you and pinched your cheek. “So thoughtful of you. Don’t worry, I’m even happier now that I’m with you to make this birthday lasts until the end. Grab a plate, I can’t wait anymore to eat this.” 

You handed Mina one as well from the dishrack. You sliced the cake for her and applied one to her plate including yours.

First bite, and Mina hummed in satisfaction right as she tasted that caramel’s right amount of sweetness on her mouth. You joined her reaction as you find it amazingly good.

“This is the best cake I’ve eaten for years. Thank you so much for this, love.” 

“Anytime. Eat up whatever you want, it’s all yours.

After you cleaned up your plate, you returned it at the sink. Mina looked at you surprisingly. “You’re already finished? You just took a slice.”

“I’m not that much of an avid cake enthusiast. It’s delicious but not the type of food I’ll eat for another plate and so on.” You answered. “Hey, atleast this would be fine. We can just store the rest on the fridge for you to munch tomorrow or the days after.”

“Well I guess you’re right.” Mina shrugged and continued eating her cake until in its last pieces. You were just using your phone beside her when she stood up and placed hers on the sink.

“I guess I have to empty mine immediately because I have something for you tonight also, honey.” Mina walked towards you. You turned off your phone and looked upwards to see your wife standing in front of you and began stroking your hair.

“For me? What for?”

“You know, just as a simple thank you in return from me. I was actually planning this since earlier while you were away, then as you come home and brought me some cake I realized how coincidental it was.” She shared.

“I know you don’t like cake as much, but I don’t want to be the one who has a gift for tonight. I want you to feel appreciated for staying by my side and making me happy on my birthday too, honey.” Your jaw dropped when Mina turns her back around you and bent forward. Her sweatpants spoiling the outline of her panties was already enticing.

Not until when she pulled its waistband down, you gulped with eye wides open at the sight of her huge butt barely concealed by her lace clad red panties all exposed at you.

“I’m going to change your mind tonight, baby. I have a cake of my own that you’ll surely enjoy. Go on, have a taste.”

You rushed out of the seat to push Mina through the back of the couch. Her ass is in full display on you. You helped her remove her lower garments sticking on her ankle to allow her spread her legs further before spanking her cheeks, the ripple physics present at how soft it was.

“F-fuck, you love this cake I have for you?”

“Hell yes, Mina. This ain’t no just a cake right here, you got the whole bakery in you.” You kneeled and inhaled the lavender scent of her freshly washed rear, burying your nose into the confined gaps of her cheeks. You tugged them down, and now the bare flash is ready for you to devour.

“Tell me how you love it. I wanna hear it.” Mina bit her lips as she feels how great your hands around her plump end. You resumed fondling her cheeks before you started planting kisses one by one.

“Good lord,  love how big it was.” You weighed and examined its entire size on your palm, your fingers almost sinking from its fluffiness. “ So soft. So smooth.” Smooch. You squeezed the upper part and you went lower, making sure she can still feel your gentle massage while you worship it. “You did it, I take back my word. I won’t prefer anything except this.” Another smooch.

You spreaded her cheeks to view her inviting taut ring. “Look at this. The perfect cherry on top.” You smirked before giving it a kiss and some tonguing as well, Mina gasped at your mouthwork ensuring not a single spot won’t be left unattended. 

“F-fuck, mhm yes. That’s the sweet spot right there, hon.”

“I can tell that. It’s tasty.” Another peck was left before you aggressively rubbed your face across her butt, with Mina helping you by swaying her hips back and forth.

“I can’t ever get enough of this, Mina.”

“I wish you won’t. This is all for you to have.” She said as she continued swaying her hips while you slap her cheeks alternatively.

“You’ll allow me to eat this anytime I like?” 

“Yes.”

“Louder!”

“Y-yes!” Another slap echoed in the room.

���AGAIN!”

“YES!!! IT’S ALL YOURS FOR FREE!” Mina breathes deeply as screamed with the combination of arousal and pain caused by your intimidating treatment.

“I’m definitely going to request a daily serving of this, Mina. Fuck all the cakes out there, this is simply the best. Only mine to devour, just for free… and my chances to have this are unlimited.” You said as you admired the view of her curve like a masterpiece it is.

“You’re not done yet, aren’t you?”

“Oh no I’m not. Hold on, I just thought of something to try for a little spin.” You left her bent on the couch as you searched on the kitchen shelves. Returning back to your spot, you were about to kneel when you noticed something dripping on her thighs.

“Somebody is really excited.” Mina blushed as she got caught. “It’s overflowing. Very considerate of you, Mina. You provided an additional filling for more flavor.” You remarked, parting her vaginal lips for a wider view with your thumb.

“I want you to be satisfied, t-that’s why.” 

“Oh I will, and I’ll do the same for you. I’ll fill you up with my generous tip for your perfectly made dessert after I’m done.” You ran your fingertips at the stream of pre-cum on Mina’s thighs and tasted it. Straight from the source, you lapped and sipped the sweet fluid greedily like your life depends on it, causing Mina to moan out loud at the pleasure.

Going back to the things that you found in the kitchen, you opened a bottle of pancake syrup and poured it down on her butt. Mina felt a pool of slimy and thick substance behind her.

“Ahhh mhmmph haaa~” She whimpered at the sensation of your tongue gliding across her skin to scatter the syrup around. “Oh yes! Bite me down there, eat my ass however you like!” She yelled as you used your jaw more actively now at this point, gnawing at the spit and syrup ridden flesh like its indeed a baked dough you’re consuming.

Another bottle occupied your hands, consisting a whipped cream. You sprayed some on the other half and also on her slick pussy. “Good idea you got there, honey. Don’t stop, please.” Mina said as her handling on the couch’s cover tightened with every ticklish spark you create into her senses with your touch.

You ran your tongue through the length of her creamy velvet pie, encouraging Mina to escape incomprehensible sounds. You hollowed your mouth to suck the coated bun of hers intensely, turning yourself into a perverted human vacuum just to service your wife in ecstasy.

Lowering yourself, you targeting that popping cherry topped on her pie. You placed a pint of cream on your fingers and poked it on the correct spot before you bite it gently, licked, and suck it, enough to finally make Mina shiver on her legs as she barely can support herself anymore on the couch.

Now convinced that she has to meet her peak to properly conclude her special dessert, Mina felt something large and long running through her asscrack, a needy grin evident on her face.

“Here’s my tip for your delicious dessert, Mina.”

“Yes, thank you. Give it to me, please. I highly appreciate it that you would.”

Opening her gap, you slowly inserted your cock inside her hole. Mina lets outs a whine and you continue moving your hips to let your cock reach the depths of her delectable ass.

“Ungh ugh hmph fuck grr yes I love this so much.” Mina said through her moans with your constant backshots, your skin slapping in lustful rhythm. “Harder! Faster! Make that generous tip worth it!” She challenged you as she starts grinding her ass by eagerly twerking to your strokes.

You hammered the way through her ass, relentlessly fucking her limp body on the couch. As you kept her body steady with a hand on her waist, you sneakily directed another back into her clit to stimulate her.

“Aw f-fuck oh God… oh God, Y-YN i’m close!!!” You fastened the movements of your fingers until she gets overwhelmed with her orgasm. You felt your legs become moist as your wife lets out a weak scream while she squirted intensely in your naughty hands.

You gave her a minute to ride out her climax before you proceeded by switching from her ass to the newly drained pussy of hers. Squelching sounds went louder the more she takes your shaft all the way in as you plunge with all your might, savoring the sexiness of your gorgeous wife’s back figure.

Mina endured your heavy weight as your entire body is now pressing on her back, you hugged her and roamed your hands around her covered tits. “Shit, Mina… I’m about to bust inside. You’re about to receive it.”

“Cum inside me!”

What a sentence to encourage you at your best of breeding your wife. You plummeted between her thighs, her ass absorbing the remaining impacts of your crotch colliding on her soft flesh until your lower abdomen gave up on the familiar clenching feeling caused by your balls.

Mina exhaled for long as she can feel your plenty amount of cum giving her another version of creampie you did to her. You slid out of her to shoot the remaining load on top of her ass for one last additional coating before you gave up in exhaustion in a nearby chair.

Your cock twitched before it semi-erects at the sight of your wife’s messy ass and pussy overflowing with cum. Mina stands up from the couch and kneeled below you to clean the remnants of your cock with few deepthroats before she helps you wipe it off with a tissue.

“You really weren’t joking when you said you’re going to give a generous tip for rewarding you in free terms huh.” Mina said as she glances at her private part now about to deliver your seed to her womb that will most likely enable to carry your child after nine months.

“I was saving it, and I guess today’s the perfect day to spend it all.” You chuckled. Mina felt flustered at your comment. 

She invited you for another kiss. “You don’t know how happy I am today because of you alone aside from my family. I hope there’s more birthday of mine to come where I’ll celebrate with you and… especially, a kid of ours to finally join us.” 

“It’ll be possible one day, just we wait.” You cupped her face with an assuring smile. “I love you and happy birthday again, Mina.”

She hugged you in return, placing her head on your shoulder for comfort. “I love you too and thank you again, YN.” 

[astonmartinii]

we don’t play about halloween | max verstappen social media au

pairing: max verstappen x fem reader

max doesn’t play about three things: formula one, his cats and his girlfriend’s love for halloween

MASTERLIST | TIPS

yourusername

liked by oscarpiastri, maxverstappen1 and 607,344 others

tagged: maxverstappen1

yourusername: yes we dress up to carve pumpkins, it’s rude if you don’t.

view all comments

user1: gosh they are so cute

user2: did max just dress as himself whenever he’s within 5ft of y/n?

maxverstappen1: i get why the americans don’t play about the statue of liberty

yourusername: i think they should build one of you in zandvoort

maxverstappen1: and they still wouldn’t worship it as much as i worship you

yourusername: i literally light candles in your name and pray for you with you mum, i think i worship you more sorry

maxverstappen1: the ONLY loss i’ll take

user3: i feel lonely year round because of them but it’s SO much worse during halloween

user4: they are the definition of the couple costume they invented it and they PERFECTED it

landonorris: i thought your apartment was a safe space, why did i get harassed over my costume?

yourusername: it was more of the lack of costume? “streamer” does not count

landonorris: who actually dresses up to carve pumpkins?

maxverstappen1: COOL PEOPLE

yourusername: imagine not dressing up and having an awful pumpkin … could never be me

landonorris: STOP BULLYING ME

maxverstappen1: do better then.

user5: obsessed with how peace and love y/n is for the whole year but as soon as someone doesn’t care about halloween it’s fight time

charles_leclerc: remind me to never accept an invite to a halloween event at the verstappen-l/n household - far TOO much stress

yourusername: but you’re like the only one who deserves an invite to next year because the air max costume slayed

maxverstappen1: i might even let you back on it

charles_leclerc: might???

maxverstappen1: follow me on instagram

yourusername: 2019 was so long ago we really need to move on

danielricciardo: you seriously underestimate just how petty these men are

maxverstappen1

liked by danielricciardo, yourusername and 894,560 others

tagged: yourusername

maxverstappen1: halloween is a full family affair

view all comments

user8: JIMMY AND SASSY I CAN'T

user9: yall looking at the croissant and the lobster i'm focusing on AMY AND NICK?

user10: has max even seen this film?

maxverstappen1: nope i just like doing the costumes y/n wants to do

user11: i wish i had enough friends to have like ten billion halloween parties

oscarpiastri: i didn't know what to expect but i did not think i was going to see alex trying to drown george at the apple bobbing station

yourusername: i let them work out their own mess as long as they don't accidentally flood our living room again

oscarpiastri: AGAIN?

maxverstappen1: f1 drivers are just competitive about apple bobbing as they are about driving

alexalbon: in my defence there is a sick trophy for the champ i simply cannot let anyone else win it

user12: they got a trophy made? and girlies are serious about this?

yourusername: custom trophies for apple bobbing, pumpkin carving and best costume

alexalbon: three time apple bobbing champ right here

charles_leclerc: i'm coming for best costume this year

danielricciardo: pumpkin carving was an easy dub last year

maxverstappen1: but no one has out done us for costumes thus far

yourusername: and that's not bias, there is a democratic voting process x

user13: i need to be in this friendship group right now

yourusername

liked by georgerussell63, maxverstappen1 and 723,409 others

tagged: maxverstappen1

yourusername: it's the most wonderful time of the year ! thanks to everyone who came out and making the spooky season special. p.s. shout out to max who found this wig while going through our costume box and insisted on not taking it off the whole set up.

view all comments

user16: NOOOOO WHY IS HALLOWEEN OVER ALREADY

user17: rip to all of us who were hoping for a sexy y/n x max costume

user18: they heard we wanted sexy and gave us ratatouille i hate their asses

oscarpiastri: okay so lando wasn't lying when he said you guys go insane for halloween

yourusername: i fear not. i hope you enjoyed your dip in the pool, we found you in a guest room in my bath robe at 3am

oscarpiastri: oops.

maxverstappen1: you fared better than others on their rookie halloween appearance, just ask lando and charles

landonorris: you told me there was no alcohol in the jelly so it's not my fault i ate the whole bowl and threw up in your shower

yourusername: wow way to blame the victims there lando, you literally blocked the drain

landonorris: MAX SAID THERE WAS NO ALCOHOL

yourusername: it was labelled with the ingredients. you just can't read

landonorris: no comment

yourusername: and charles got so drunk that he decided he would sleep on the couch but got 'lonely' and insisted on cuddling with us

charles_leclerc: Y/N!!!! YOU SAID YOU'D KEEP THAT A SECRET

maxverstappen1: don't worry we thought it was cute

carlossainz55: wait is that why you came as a "cuddle bug" this year?

charles_leclerc: NO

alexalbon: and that must be why he got best costume RIGGORY

yourusername: no riggory here, you and lily as mavis and jonathon were a close second

user19: i won't rest until i have an invite next year.

maxverstappen1

liked by charles_leclerc, yourusername and 821,309 others

tagged: yourusername

maxverstappen1: sorting the recycling with your head barely attached is always the worst part of halloween

view all comments

user20: drunk max looks like so much fun

yourusername: i think i might drink my weight in coffee today but i need to see the kitchen floor soon before i lose my mind

user21: ma'am i know you're clinging to life rn but can we know who won what?

alexalbon: ALEX ALBON APPLE BOBBING CHAMP FOUR YEARS IN A ROW

charles_leclerc: i won best costume and it's purely because i'm cute cause NO one there knew about my cuddling escapades last year

landonorris: ugh pretty privilege back at it again

charles_leclerc: jealousy is a disease get well soon

oscarpiastri: my pumpkin ended up winning !! turns out people love a kangaroo in the ghostface mask

maxverstappen1: first rookie to win that title (i am so impressed by the kangaroo)

yourusername: you were actually so good you have to help me with all the decorative ones next year

oscarpiastri: i'm in

user21: but who won the real award - most embarrassing moment?

maxverstappen1: daniel got stuck in the door in his inflatable horse/cowboy costume

danielricciardo: NO esteban dressing as the cheese string man was worse

estebanocon: that's real creativity at least i didn't fall asleep in the bath like carlos

yourusername: not to gang up on carlos but the blanket you took in their is damaged beyond repair and i request a replacement

carlossainz55: fair, but it was me, lando and george in the tub

georgerussell63: fake news @carmenmundt

carmenmundt: i was also at the party babe, it was impressive how you all fit in there

user22: the fact they do all of this and race like two weeks later and the teams just deal with it

maxverstappen1: we've done much worse on race weekends

yourusername: someone didn't have to try and get home after abu dhabi 2021, halloween is nothing compared to that

note: a lil halloween one for you all. i also DO NOT PLAY ABOUT HALLOWEEN. and am currently planning my costume lol. just wanted to get a small one out before all my work comes in tomorrow, much love xx

[jordiemeow]

summary: new rochelle is watched over by father patrick: charismatic, trusted, adored by the town's youth. but when you, a troubled young woman, begin confessing desires you can barely name, he finds himself drawn to more than just your need for salvation.

warnings: 18+, masturbation, religious themes/blasphemy, morally dubious priest, specific age gap not specified but implied (patrick early 30s at most), power imbalance mentioned + alludes to patrick seeing himself as god, patrick jerking off while reader is unaware so tagging dubcon, reader confessing sins/praying gets this freak horny

notes: inspired by rewatching fleabag. hot priest. mmm. patrick hot priest. mmm x2. patrick hot fucked up priest. mmm x3. haven't been to church in like 4 years forgive me for anything inaccurate x

—

Patrick Zweig—or Father Patrick, as you know him—has long since noticed the way the young people of New Rochelle come to him. They do not only seek someone to represent their faith but something more elusive. Perhaps it is because he is younger than most priests. Not old and distant, but in his early thirties at most, with an easy smile and a voice that carries warmth and humour. Young enough to understand the pulse of the town's restless youth but old enough to carry the weight of the Lord's unyielding authority.

The people of the town gravitate towards him for the rare sense of understanding he offers. His sermons aren't just words; they feel like conversations, one between a sinner who has repented inviting them to do the same. It’s raw. Real. Sometimes he thinks they have come to trust him a little too much.

That must be what draws you to him. Conversations in town, staying after service to light candles just to catch a glimpse of him tidying away prayer books or emerging from the sacristy absent of his vestments. The real man behind those robes of faith. 

He’s come to enjoy your company. The shy smiles you offer when he lights a candle next to yours, or the way your pupils dilate when your lips part oh-so-willingly to accept communion from his giving hands. Yes, perhaps it’s not the company itself he likes, but rather the way you look at him as if you’re waiting for his absolution. Not God's. His.

And it comes eventually when you bump into him while walking home after a rough day. Bloodshot eyes, nose running and hands trembling when you choke out a "Father, I must confess. May I come by the Church tomorrow?"

He agrees. What kind of priest would he be to turn away a parishioner in need? He knows that's not why, of course. He enjoys the thrill of command in his sacred space. The silent dominance in your submission. It is a heady feeling to hold power not just as a priest, but as a man standing between your past and your hope for redemption.

"Tell me," he says. "What would you like me to do for you tonight?"

Your hands wring together nervously. The sight makes something stir within him. "I want to feel clean. I want to believe I'm not beyond saving."

"Then you must accept your truth and seek the path towards light. Not by denial, but by courage." He nods towards the booth. Your eyes dart over nervously, but you mimic his nod in wordless assent.

Neither of you speak as you settle in on opposite sides, curtain shut until the sacred and forbidden mingle only in the flickering candlelight beneath the red fabric. He can barely make out the blurry shape of your face through the lattice, and for a moment all he hears is his breathing mixing with your own.

It starts tame. Things like I pretended to be sick to get out of going to work or I've been slacking on my nightly prayers because I've been too lazy before bed. He wants to press, because clearly you did not beg to come to confession just for this. There must be something darker weighing on your soul.

But he forces himself to be patient, interjecting only when necessary to assure you that you are holding yourself accountable and therefore will be cleansed in the eyes of God. Until you utter the words:

"And... and sometimes I touch myself. To relieve the ache within me. I know it is wrong, and I want to stop. To repent."

Blood instantly rushes south at those words. His fingers dig in to his palms so hard it almost feels like his nails would rend his flesh. Such admissions are commonplace in the House of the Lord, and yet hearing you speak them does something to Patrick. His mind wanders to places it shouldn't. He conjures images of you writhing in the silence of your room while your hand seeks that sinful high. 

His nails dig into his skin and he has to inhale through his nose to keep his voice from cracking when he asks, "How often does this ache come upon you?"

It is so quiet in the booth that he can hear your shaky exhale. "Almost every night, Father."

His chest rises and falls heavier as he listens to your confession, his fingers trembling under the fabric of his green cassock. He shouldn't ask. This is your place to confess, but the question slips out anyways:

"And you said you... touch yourself?"

You hesitate. You trust him enough to give him everything. The shame, the fear, the secret part of your soul you dare not speak aloud to anyone else. Attraction. Desire. Truth you're terrified to claim. It reaches into places that Patrick has long since buried beneath years of study and prayer.

He's never had the need to wait so desperately for the next sentence to fall from someone's lips. He feels as though he's hanging on to every word, hand gripping his thigh as he waits for you to continue.

"Yes," you breathe, as if you're picturing it now, too.

"Just to relieve the ache, as you say," he clarifies. This is not something new for him. But you. He’s always been so fond of you and the way you looked up at him with those sweet eyes of yours… 

This is wrong. This is holy ground. He is supposed to guide you, not...

Not what? Want you? Use you? Revel in the control of your secrets?

He remembers his vows, the promise he made to serve God, to resist temptation, to be a vessel of mercy and purity. But in the quiet of the chapel, the lines blur. He holds the power here—the power to condemn or to forgive—and that knowledge intoxicates him like a dark prayer one would utter to a deity that was not his own God.

Patrick wonders, then, can he separate the man from the priest? Can he keep his desire buried beneath the robes and rituals? Or is he already lost in the same darkness you're confessing to, tangled in the very sins he is sworn to save you from?

"May I ask where this ache comes from? If only to understand what you are confessing to."

His heart beats faster. It's not just a spiritual power right now. It's deeply personal, because here you are, a young woman trembling with fear and shame, laying your soul bare behind the veil of confession. And to hold the key to your salvation, or your condemnation, is an all-consuming thing. One that leads his hand to slip down, down, down into the tight confines of his cassocks. Fumbling with buttons to push further until he reaches into his boxers and—

"Well, Father, I... I find myself drawn to… men. Ones that I should not be." Oh. Yes, there it is. A gasp that is not completely in disbelief came from the other side of the confessional as his fingers curl around himself. The quiet of the booth is broken only by your voice and the faint rustle of clothing from across the lattice as he listens intently.

Married men, his brain supplies. Or perhaps someone as unobtainable as him. "Attracted in a way I should not be. I don’t want to feel this way. It’s like a weight inside me, like a stain on my soul. I pray for it to go away, but the feelings grow stronger. I’m scared I’m lost."

"You are not lost," he rasps. "Those thoughts you have... they do not define you. You are a child of God." His breathing is heavy, punctuated by a low, almost choked off groan that he prays you do not acknowledge. "The church teaches us about sin, yes, but also about love and forgiveness. What matters is your heart’s honesty."

He hears you breathe out a shaky sigh. "But I feel so dirty. Like I’m breaking God’s law."

Dirty. Breaking. God. His hand tightens around his cock, stroking up-down, up-down, up-down as your words struggle to find clarity in his head. Dirty dirty dirty. Your voice is so soft, so tinged by despair. He cannot decide whether he wants to save you or ruin you further.

"Sometimes, what we fear most is what we must face." His lip catches between his teeth so hard he can taste the tangible rust of blood on his tongue. "And in confession, you find not judgement, but understanding."

"Do you understand me, Father?"

Yes. Oh, you have no idea how much he understands you. Does God hear the conflict in my heart as clearly as your confession? He wonders. I am a priest. I am meant to forgive. But who forgives me when my own sins are tangled in the shadows?

His other hand grips the wooden screen, nails digging fruitlessly into the timber-stained beech. You may not go to Hell for this, but he certainly will. A servant of God indulging in the sin of lust in his very House of Worship. Patrick's hand picks up faster at just the thought.

"You are not alone, my child." He forces the words out. It comes out strangled, a little too sharp, a crack in the steady command you're used to. His head falls forward until his forehead brushes the screen. Patrick holds onto his weakening composure with gritted teeth.

"The Devil whispers in all our ears, but it is up to us to reject his sinful promises."

"And have you? Rejected his sinful promises?"

In that moment, he wonders if this is a test. One he is failing and too far gone to fix. Patrick lets out a hoarse laugh and doesn’t even try to hide the desperation that seeps into it.

"You have no idea." His breath hitches. His mouth is dry. His eyes burn with something that feels like pain. His cock throbs with something that feels like divine pleasure. "The things I would do to—"

He chokes on his own words. No. You are the one confessing, not him. The room feels like it is spinning and his body thrums with a sinful ache he has not felt in years. The Father he is sworn to serve would not have him succumb to this selfish desire, and yet here he is. He closes his eyes, willing himself to focus on the heavy, burning wood beneath his hand, but all he can picture beneath the screen is you. On your knees, eyes wide, waiting for him to do something about this burning hunger.

"This is a house of prayer, my child." His voice is hoarse. Raw. "I urge you to do the same."

His hand is a blur in his trousers and it's harder and harder to keep his voice steady. "You have not yet given me your penance for these sins."

"So I must pray?"

"Yes. On your knees."

He hears you sink down on floor, forehead pressing into the opposite side of the screen as his. He can only imagine what he would be doing—tasting—if not for the wooden barrier. He feels dizzy. Light-headed.

The weight of the penance he imposes feels like a chain, one you're willing to accept. Because in that submission, you find a flicker of hope. Your hands clasp together in your lap.

"Repeat after me. Our Father—" His breath catches on the word father. He hears you say the words on the other side of the lattice.

"—Who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name."

Patrick's hand picks up. Squeezing at the base of his thick length, dragging it up to smear himself in the essence of his own dark desire. He wonders if you can hear the slick slide of his hand around his cock with as much clarity as he does.

"Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread—"

Something that sounds like a moan pushes out from behind the screen. You pause.

"Father? Are you alright?"

"Yes." His answer is too fast, too breathy, but he commands nonetheless: "Keep going."

You continue without him. His eyes are screwed shut as he pumps himself, listening to your sweet voice sing to him like an angel. Temptation personified praying to the Lord who will condemn him for the gratification he is bringing himself right now.

And then, eventually:

"Amen."

That does it for him. Sudden and abrupt, the warmth of his sin spills into his hand, coating his fingers and the inside of his boxers. A pleasure so hot that it feels like it comes from the Seven Hells themselves, vision whiting out as a low groan forces its way out of his throat, raw and guttural.

The silence afterwards is stifling. He takes in ragged breaths that sound more like sobs. It leaves you kneeling in your guilt, heart pounding, unsure what to do next. What was that noise? Was Father Patrick crying? Or was it something else? You swallow thickly.

He slowly slides back onto the bench, running an unsteady hand through his dark hair. "Rise, child." He hears the scuffling of you pushing yourself up to your feet. "God has freed you from your sins. Go in peace."

Silence on the other side of the lattice, before you speak tentatively: "Thank you, Father." You do not thank God. You thank him directly. It should not make him feel as satisfied as it does.

Patrick does not move when he hears the curtain draw, or when your footsteps disappear down the nave. It is only after he hears the distant sound of you blessing yourself in the narthex and the door creaks shut behind you that he rises.

He steps out, inspecting the glistening of his hand in the dying sunlight that peeks through the clerestory. He is stained by guilt, and yet he makes no effort to scrub the evidence from his skin.

Because if he wants to feel clean, truly clean, he must be willing to feel dirty first.

—

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[zepskies]

BREAKING POINT - Part 2

Pairing: Russell Shaw x Reader

Summary: Russell made you a promise, but “getting out” of government contract work is even more difficult than he thought it would be. Is he willing to put the past aside, or is this going to be your breaking point?

AN: Deep breaths, friends. It's about to be another angsty fun time. 😅

Song Inspo: “Come in From the Night” by Chicago

Posted on Patreon: 4/04/2025

Word Count: 8K

Tags/Warnings: 2x02 events, perilous situations, blood and violence, injuries, protective Russell, another Shaw sibling reunion, secrets and confessions come to light, major angst, but also major hurt/comfort…

⌖ Series Masterlist

Part 2: One Chance

You still hadn’t been able to get in touch with Russell. All your texts had been going unanswered. You grabbed your phone and began to find Reenie in your contacts, but you paused. You were reminded of something you forgot to do when you walked in the door. 

Along with the coded door lock, there was an app on your phone where you could monitor the cameras strategically placed outside the house. However, when you checked the app, you realized that the camera feed said Unavailable. For every single camera. 

Your brows furrowed. That’s weird… 

Seconds later, the first bullet broke through your impact windows. 

You flinched at the fracture of glass, the splintering corner of your Pottery Barn coffee table. Shock made your entire body stiffen. 

But when the second and third bullet became lodged in your couch and finished shattering two windows, you screamed and dove for the ground. You crawled on hands and knees across the hardwood floor, no doubt cutting your palms on broken glass. The coffee table only somewhat protected your body, but seeing the edge of something black in the corner of your eye, you managed to grab one of Russell’s Glocks taped under the wood that typically held your empty wine glasses and lavender candles.

Your mad scramble took you across the living room and into the bathroom, where you locked the door and backed away from the door, to the farthest corner beside the tub. Your path on the white tile was streaked with your own blood. 

You clutched Russell’s gun with shaking hands, your thumb just barely managing to pull back the safety. When you tried to shift your body away from where the bottom of the sink hung over your head, you whimpered at a sharp twinge in your side. Looking down, you realized that blood had plumed through your shirt, right along the curve of your waist. 

You took one trembling hand off the gun to lift the hem of your shirt, and a shaky breath escaped you. 

Fuck. You’d been hit. 

You didn’t see the bullet, or even a hole puncture. You prayed that you had just been grazed.

But! You still had your cell phone. It was lodged in the back pocket of your jeans. Your hands were occupied though, so you had to make a choice—keeping your weapon at the ready, stopping yourself from bleeding out, or calling for help. 

You heard the front door splintering open at a distance, footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors. Holding in a whimper, you heeded your instincts and reached for your phone. You tried calling Russell first, but it just went to voicemail. Goddamn it…

You considered calling 9-1-1, but in your manic desperation, all you could think of was reaching your boyfriend. 

So you called Reenie next.

While the phone rang, tucked between your shoulder and your ear, you were forced to set down the gun. You quietly rifled through your medicine cabinet for gauze or an ace bandage. Fuck, yes! Okay. This could work. You found the big square bandages that stick on. Russell bought them the last time he came home with a couple of nasty abrasions from a job.

Still, the phone rang.

Come on, come on, come onnnn!

“Hello?” The lawyer’s voice was smooth and retaining a note of exasperation.

“Reenie! Where’s Russell?” you whisper-hissed. You forgot about the bandage for the moment.

“I have him right here. What’s wrong?” she asked. Immediately, her tone shifted to concern. You’d never met Reenie in person, but you knew she worked with Colter and, according to Russell, was damn good at what she did. 

You didn’t give a shit about any of that right now.

“Put him on the phone, please!” 

In a few seconds of shuffling, you finally, finally heard his voice. 

“Sweetheart, what’s going on?”

A breath of relief escaped you in a rush.

“Russell,” you sobbed.

The raw panic in your voice made his spine stiffen. Every muscle in his body coiled in alarm. Russell sat up straight in the backseat of the SUV with Colter right beside him, along with the retired Scott Palmer, the conspiracy theorist they saved from a government black site. Reenie looked back in concern from the front seat.  

“Someone’s in the house,” you said on the line. Every word was ragged, like you were trying to stay quiet, but crying all the same. “I got hit, bleeding a lot. I’m locked in the bathroom…”

In a beat of a second, Russell processed the words, I got hit. 

The fucker was armed. You were shot. He wasn’t there to help you.

His blood turned to ice in his veins. A nightmare. A waking nightmare.

“Okay, it’s okay,” Russell said, immediately hiding what he felt under calm reassurance. His dark brows became a knitted line. “Were you able to get to one of my guns? Under the bed, under the—”

“Coffee table,” you said, in a tremulous voice. “Russ, what do I—”

Your scream was shrill in his ear after a gunshot went off, even making him flinch. His eyes never blinked though. He could hear the door ripping open, and a rustle of clothing preceded your sharp yelp. Someone manhandled you to your feet. 

Russell’s jaw clenched tight. His heart hammered under his ribcage as he followed every sound. He yelled at the driver of this SUV to fucking floor it. 

The sounds reaching him on the phone fuzzed over then, like someone was grabbing the phone out of your hand. You screamed and struggled, but a man’s grunt and a sharp hit echoed in the phone speaker. Russell’s teeth ground together so hard, he could feel them creaking with strain. He shouted your name.

The call ended abruptly.

Russell felt every minute, every second that clipped by. 

Another half hour would pass before he reached his car. In that time, Colter had to explain to Reenie why calling the police right now was a bad idea. 

“The police are going to trigger them to react. It’s more likely they’ll take her and move her than leave her behind,” Colter said, sharing a grim look with his brother. “Worst case…”

Russell shook his head and stared out the window, his lips pursing tight. He didn’t need to hear that said out loud. He was already thinking it, his mind shooting off sparks of one scenario after another. Each and every one of them shredded his insides to ribbons. His fingers clenched around the interior door handle of the car.  

“Okay, but who’s doing this? The shady-ass government operatives you just pissed off?” Rennie asked. 

“That’s my bet,” Russell said gruffly. He could picture that blue-eyed smarmy dick in his mind’s eye too—the shadow government stooge who took his brother captive, and thought he could get the drop on Russell at that lab. 

He was probably still salty about the way Russell broke his goddamn nose. 

“This one’s coming out of their ass,” he groused.

“We can’t underestimate them,” Colter said. His tone wasn’t censuring, but a reminder. “They got to Dr. Blair.”

Dr. Blair was an astrophysics professor who had taken special interest in some of Scott Palmer’s theories, particularly into the idea of extraterrestrial life. The professor had been found dead in her own car that afternoon, barely a couple of hours after Russell and Colter questioned her about the missing Scott’s whereabouts and her involvement with him. The police had ruled it a suicide. 

Russell did glare at Colter this time. What happened to that professor wasn’t going to happen to you. You weren’t directly involved in this mess…

Russell’s fists clenched at his sides. He slid a hand over his bearded face and thought hard. Whoever had you was going to answer to him. Anything they’d done to you was going to be a mercy, compared to what he had in mind for them.

Colter parked his truck and airstream just behind Russell’s Chevy in your neighborhood. They hadn’t parked directly in front of your house, however. They wanted to retain the element of surprise, just in case your captors were still here. 

Looks like they are, Russell noted by the dark gray SUV parked on the street, right next to your mailbox.   

If they hadn’t moved, it was because they wanted Russell to go into the house. They wanted to make a show of this, drag this out. 

Russell could just see that arrogant fuck in his mind’s eye already, waiting for him, smirking at him when he walked in. 

“Like your father, Ashton Shaw. You have a long family history of getting in the government’s way,” he’d said, while holding Russell at gunpoint.

Then Russell proceeded to talk a little shit, as was his specialty, followed by a thorough ass-kicking. Also his specialty. 

But he was interrupted from that satisfying recap by Colter’s subtle tap on his shoulder. He pointed toward the house with two fingers. Russell nodded and signaled back, leading him in. 

Both of them had suited up with bullet-proof vests and proper weapons, with Russell favoring his usual .45 caliber M1911. He called her Betsy. She’d take your kneecaps off if you weren’t careful, and Russell was always careful. Especially about kneecaps. 

He and Colter cased the house and veered to the left, where they caught sight of the carnage that wrecked the living room. Whoever broke in must’ve used silencers on their guns, because surely in a residential neighborhood like this, someone would’ve heard the commotion and called the cops themselves. All three windows at the front of the house were shattered, littering glass across the floor. The couch was a Swiss cheese rendering of fabric and stuffing, with picture frames, candles, books and bookshelves, and other keepsakes battered, ruined, and scattered. 

Russell was sorry to see it, feeling an angry twinge, but it only got worse when he saw who was sitting on the edge of the couch. The man was flanked by four other men in solid black uniforms and guns, their faces obscured by masks.  

Russell’s eyes widened in shock at first. And then in anger, and steely determination. After giving his brother a nod, he and Colter split up without needing to speak or signal. Colter went around the back and stirred the men’s attention. Three of them split off and went toward the diversion of the back door caving in. 

Meanwhile, Russell shot out the window near the kitchen. It allowed him to tumble into the house, protecting his head from glass as he went. By the time he rolled to a crouch, he had his gun at the ready to shoot the remaining two men—headshot for the first one, arm and neck for the second one. 

Adam Brody stood ready to shoot him next. He wore tactical gear as well, but he didn’t bother to mask up his face.

“Hey, Russ,” he said, with a humorless smile. There was something melancholy in his blue eyes. 

“It’s simple. Start fucking talking, or I start shooting,” Russell snapped. Inside, he raged at the betrayal. It roiled like acid deep in his gut and solidified like a stone.  

Adam sighed heavily. “Trust me, this wasn’t an assignment I wanted.”

He shifted the aim of his gun away from Russell…and directly to the ground, just a few feet away from him. Russell followed the trajectory with his eyes, and his throat constricted.

You were lying there on the cold floor, half twisted onto your side. Your arm was bent at the wrong angle beneath your cheek. The left side of your face that Russell could see was bruised and bloody, and there were shards of glass in your hair. But the sight that stopped him cold was the large patch of blood staining your waist and stomach through your shirt. It was slowly getting worse. 

Russell’s gaze flicked back to Adam, and it sharpened, his fingers tightening a fraction on his gun.

“Let her go,” Russell demanded. 

“We got what we came for. I don’t think we need to take it any further than this,” Adam said. “Just consider tonight as a warning. And word of advice? Stay off of the fucking black sites. You could get into some real trouble out there.”

“That’s not fucking good enough," Russell seethed through clenched teeth. "Why this? Because I quit?”

Adam gave him a look that was slightly pitying. Like a teacher who secretly thought you were the dumbest kid alive.  

“No,” he replied. “That gig was just our way of keeping an eye on you.”

Russell blinked, a new layer of shock rattling down his spine.

“What, Horizon wanted to keep tabs on me?" he said. "Before I fucking joined up?” 

Adam didn’t answer him, but there was more there in his silence than his slimy words could’ve spoken. He slowly leaned over and grabbed up an old white shoebox from where it was placed on the arm of the couch. 

“I’m here for this,” he said. There seemed to be real conflict in his eyes when he looked back at his friend, a man who once was his brother in the deepest of fucking trenches. “Look, Russ, I had a job to do and I did it. It’s really all just business.”

Russell’s eyes narrowed with cold fire.

“It’s never just business, you stupid fuck.”

Adam’s mouth twitched at a frown. He knew the look in Russell’s eye. It held a deadly promise, marked right here and now. And as Adam knew better than anyone, Russell never forgot to make good on a promise.

Adam’s fingers slowly flexed over his gun. Before he could make a decision about Russell, he saw Colter coming out of the corner of his eye. Adam moved fast, shooting off a clip at Colter first. Colter manage to dive back behind the wall that led to your bedroom. Then Adam ducked and dodged Russell’s aim at his head, all while still holding onto the box.

Adam threw himself through the last remaining window in the living room to make his escape. Russell moved to follow him, but he spared a second to lock eyes with his brother and gesture at you.

“Stay with her!” Russell barked.

Colter nodded and was already kneeling by your side to check your pulse. It tore at Russell’s heart, but he couldn’t just let Adam go. Russell ripped the front door open and sprinted outside. Dawn was just approaching over the horizon, with rays of orange-gold peeking out behind rows of suburbia and picket fences. Adam was half a shadow getting into the black SUV parked out front.

Russell fired off a shot that somewhat made its mark. He couldn’t aim for the heart; Adam was wearing a bullet-proof vest. Couldn’t aim for the head; he was moving too quick. But when Adam opened the car door, the bullet caught him under the arm, where the vest couldn’t cover. The projectile could rip through the chest cavity and at least knick an artery, if not a lung.

Adam cried out in pain and grabbed at the bleeding wound, but he still managed to climb into the passenger seat and shut the door as the car sped off. The windows were tinted, so Russell couldn’t see inside. It didn’t stop him from emptying his clip at the car’s windows and tires as he ran into the street.

Russell’s dark brows knitted in anger as he watched the SUV drive on and turn the corner, even with a blown tire. 2Y5-M20 read the license plate. Russell muttered the number to himself over and over while he ran back inside.

There he found you and Colter in the same place in the living room, except that he had carefully turned you over onto your back and moved your broken arm into a more stable position. He also grabbed your favorite throw blanket off the back of the couch; he had the corner of it crumpled in his hand to put pressure against the wound in your side.

“She was grazed, no bullet entry,” Colter said, hearing his brother’s boots approaching. “I need to grab some stuff from the car to help stabilize her arm before the ambulance gets here. Police are on their way too.”

Russell’s knees hit the ground beside you, where he carefully took control of keeping pressure on your wound. He then gathered you into his arms. He stroked your bruised cheek with a gentle, half-gloved hand. 

“Hey, sweetheart. Can you open your eyes for me? Huh?” he said. 

When you didn’t respond, still unconscious, he had to check your pulse for himself. It was weaker than it should’ve been, but it was there. 

You were alive. 

While Colter ran back out to the car, Russell’s thoughts led him in exhaustive circles, questioning every word that had come out of Adam’s mouth, questioning himself and his choices, worrying for you, and what you would say when you opened your eyes.

It was good that Colter called the police too though. There would be no other way to explain your injuries at the hospital than a break-in, else they might suspect Russell himself as the culprit. Always the boyfriend, as they said. 

Maybe that was the case in civilian life, but not in Russell’s. In his, it was much crueler than that.

A couple of minutes later, Colter returned with the supplies he needed. He found his brother holding you as tightly as he dared, his face deep and brooding as he rested his cheek against the side of your head. Between the brothers, they were able to stem the bleeding on your wounded side and stabilize your broken arm. Russell tried to rub some warmth back into your bare arms. 

“Come on, sweetheart. I know you can hear me,” he murmured into your hair. There was a subtle shake growing in his voice. 

Colter glanced up and met his gaze. There Russell saw the weight of concern, for you and for him.

The hospital room was tense from all angles while you slept.

Russell sat in a chair on your right side, Dory to your left. Again, he silently brooded with his hands folded under his chin, elbows resting on his thighs. Dory was slumped in her seat, head in hand; tear tracks remained on her pale skin. Colter leaned against the wall by the door. 

None of them spoke, because they all knew what each other was thinking. All of them wore shades of guilt, along with underlying anger. Colter had some measure of a grudge at Dory for giving you a burden you weren’t meant to have. He thought she should’ve given that damn box to him or Russell directly. Dory carried that guilt in hindsight, but she was also angry at Russell, and to some extent Colter too, for exposing you to this kind of danger. 

Russell could harbor resentment for both of his siblings right now, but mainly, he was angry at himself. 

“So Adam doesn’t really work for Horizon?” Colter asked, keeping his voice quiet. The question was aimed at his brother, who glanced up at him. 

“Not sure,” Russell replied after a moment. “Could be. Or could be that whoever he works for does business with Horizon. Either way, I think he might’ve been planted there to recruit me, then watch me, keep me occupied.” 

To keep him from looking into his father’s death.

Colter nodded. He directed his attention to Dory. “We’re going to have to do a sweep of your apartment for bugs. Likely they were watching you too.”

Dory’s eyes widened. “That’s how they knew I had Dad’s stuff, that I gave it to her. But why did they want it so bad?”

“Dad must've been into some shady shit,” Russell replied, shaking his head. 

“The question is what,” Colter said. 

“Check…m’ cloth-s,” you interrupted. 

All three Shaw siblings stirred to attention with concern, their heads swiveling toward you.

You finally clawed your way through the anesthesia to keep your eyes open. It hurt, even to speak. The bruising around your throat betrayed Adam’s iron grip, choking you halfway to unconsciousness. The left side of your face was one mottled, ugly bruise all the way to your eyebrow, your lower lip split near the corner. 

Russell stood quickly, his chair scraping the floor. He drew closer to you and sat at the edge of your bed so he could gently take up your hand. Dory came up on your other side and touched your shoulder—the one not currently wrapped in a sling. The doctor told them you’d broken your arm in two places. Not only would you need surgery, but you would also be in a cast for several weeks. The bullet wound had been a graze, for which you’d still lost a decent amount of blood. You would need to stay at the hospital for a week, at least.

“What, baby?” Russell asked. But then he thought better of it. “Don’t worry about it, just take it easy.”

“Check…m’clothes,” you repeated, with slightly more strength. You blinked your weary eyes open and found Russell. Your lips twitched when he pressed a gentle kiss to your knuckles and threaded your fingers together. 

Then he shot Dory an imploring look. He’d rather it be her sorting through your bag of bloody clothing than Colter, and Russell didn’t want to let go of your hand. 

With a small sigh, she grabbed it from under the hospital bed and sorted through, finding just your jeans, shoes, and underwear, since the Emergency Department has cut through your shirt and bra.

“I don’t…” Dory began to say, but she cut herself off short when she found a small, old-fashioned film tube mixed in with your panties. 

You hadn’t just taken the box with you into the house. On the way home last night, you’d stopped at a red light. Your curiosity was insatiable at the best of times, and you couldn’t stop yourself from having a look inside the box.

You found a short stack of essays and a couple of small wood carvings, but you also found that film tube. It reminded you of the disposable Kodak cameras you used to buy as a kid, complete with a little container for undeveloped rolls of film. 

You took out the little canister and examined it. When you popped it open, you found rolled up papers inside.

And then the light turned green, a car honking behind you. You shot the black SUV behind you a narrowed look of annoyance. Instead of tossing the thing back into the box, you folded the papers back up into the little canister, secured the lid, and slipped it into your pocket on reflex. 

Later, when you sat huddled and terrified and bloody on your bathroom floor, you set down the gun and took out the film tube from your pocket. If this thing was important, if it had anything to do with Ashton Shaw’s death, then you didn’t want to give it up so easily. 

You stuffed it behind the waistband of your jeans, hopefully for safe keeping. The thought was dubious at best, but it was still worth a shot, you thought.

Now, Dory stared at the tube with the cap popped open. She saw the papers rolled up inside, but didn’t bother to unfurl them. She didn’t want to know what they were, but she knew instinctively that this was what you almost died for.

She bit her lip and gazed back at you in apologetic sorrow. Handing the item off to Colter, she went back to you and laid a gentle hand on your shoulder. 

“I’m so sorry,” she said tearfully. “I should’ve never given…”

Her tears sparked your own, welling up in your eyes. You managed to shake your head a little.

“Y’didn’t know,” you replied.

Dory tried and failed to stifle her weeping. Colter came up to your bedside as well.

"I'm sorry for what happened," he said. You managed to roll your head somewhat in his direction, your gaze reflecting some wryness.

“Why? ‘S not like you work…for Horizon,” you said, glancing over at Russell. He pursed his lips, lowering your hand to the bed. 

Colter picked up on the vibe that you and Russell had things to talk about. Sharing a nod with Dory, he helped her up out of her chair and subtly led her out of the room with him. After the door clicked closed, Russell sighed, hanging his head.

After a moment, he drew enough courage to look up at your beaten face. His eyes were full of devastation, and the remnants of self-loathing.

“Sweetheart, I’m so—”

“Don’t you sweetheart me,” you warned. Your eyes stung all over again, and you sucked in a shaking, painful breath. “The world you’re a part of…you and Colter…it’s dangerous. I knew that full well when we got together, but…I naively thought you knew you what you were doing.” 

Russell’s shoulders sunk. His gaze fell to his hands, resting on his thighs.

“You said you wouldn’t bring your work home with you,” you accused. 

“I’m gonna protect you, I swear,” he vowed. 

“From what? Horizon? Your friend? Whoever he works for? You don’t. Have. A clue,” you said. You still struggled for breath, for every word. “Regardless, you’re not breaking out of this life anytime soon. And I…I can’t do this anymore.”

Hot tears slid down your cheeks. They stung over cuts and nicks in your skin. But the distressed look on Russell’s face was what threatened to break you. His jaw worked as he processed your words. He looked away for a moment to gather himself, but he soon met your gaze again. 

“I was just starting to turn things around, wasn’t I? Please, give me a chance to fix this,” he said. 

You shook your head wearily. “Russell, there are parts of you that I’m never going to know. There are things that you either can’t or won’t let go of, things you can't control. I’m tired of getting caught in the crossfire.”

You didn’t know if you were being fair, but you couldn’t help how you felt. And yet, you also felt shredded from the inside just looking at him, knowing that you were breaking his heart as well as your own. But how else could you protect yourself at this point? It was all just too much.

“I need you to go,” you said. 

Russell’s eyes widened. That was the one thing you’d never asked of him, no matter how pissed off you got. You might’ve wanted a little space in bed, but you never told him to sleep on the couch, never told him to go find a motel, or sleep in his truck. There was space, and there was space. This was fucking it.

“Baby, come on. I’m not leaving you,” he said. His hand itched to take hold of yours again, but you moved it away from his grasp, resting carefully over your bruised ribs.

“No,” you said more firmly, even though it hurt to strain your voice. “Just go.”

Everything within him protested. But, at that hard, angry, broken look on your face, he rose to his feet. He forced himself to head for the door, briefly hesitating there. He cast you one last look, his jaw and his heart clenching in tandem at the sight of your watery eyes, your swollen face, your pained attempts for even breaths.

He left your hospital room.

But, of fuckin’ course, the man he ran into in the hall was Charlie.

“Hey, where’re you going?” Charlie asked, grabbing Russell’s arm. “What happened? You barely told me anything on the phone—”

Russell sighed. He led your brother a little further away from your door so you hopefully wouldn’t overhear, but he tried to explain it all in its simplest terms, avoiding any talk about his father’s death. He understood Charlie’s anger. It mounted and mounted in your hothead brother, until he was gripping Russell’s jacket in half a threat.

“It was my fault,” Russell said. He didn’t even bother to grab Charlie’s wrist. He fucking deserved the hit if it was coming. “They were using me, and I didn’t know. Just waiting for an opening to grab something they thought was important.”

“Did they get it?” Charlie asked. “What even was it?”

Russell hesitated. “It doesn’t matter. But I’m going to make sure she’s safe.”

Charlie made a sound of frustration and shoved at Russell’s chest.

“I fucking trusted you!” he shouted. “I thought you’d be the last one to let some shit like this happen to her!”

“I know,” Russell said, swallowing his shame. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Charlie paced in the hall like an agitated animal. He seemed to be warring with his instincts to throw that punch, maybe more than one. But Charlie knew what kind of guilt was on Russell’s shoulders. Charlie still bore the weight of that guilt, even today. It would never leave him for as long as he lived.

So, Charlie simmered down, pressing a fist against the wall to try and calm himself.

“I’ve, uh…I’ve gotta go,” Russell said.

Charlie frowned and glared back at him again. “You’re leaving?”

Russell met his gaze, but he couldn’t hold it. Otherwise, his shame would break through the cracks.  

“She asked me to,” he said. 

Charlie shook his head. “Do you love her?”

“Charlie.” The look on Russell’s face warned him not to ask stupid questions. There was only so much he could handle right now.

“Okay,” Charlie nodded. “So are you gonna make good? Are you gonna protect her, or not?”

Russell didn’t know why, but he felt pinned to ground by that question. His heart, his soul, and his mind were all at war, pulling in different directions of what he should do, what he wanted to do, and what he knew he couldn’t.

Charlie’s frown deepened, with a spark of his anger returning.

“Make a fucking decision, Russell,” he snapped, and made the last few strides over to your room.

It left Russell in the hall, contemplating his next move. His fingers twitched at his sides. He stared hard at the linoleum, until the tiny blue patterns became smudges in his vision.

Then, he kept walking, even took the elevator downstairs. You’d told him to leave after all, but to go where? Back home? 

That was your house. Hadn’t you broken up with him? All his stuff was still there though. Not to mention, your house was a mess. He wouldn’t leave it like that for you to come home to.

Even with all those thoughts swirling like angry coils of snakes through his mind, he stopped short of leaving the hospital. He stood in the way of the lobby’s glass double doors, his fingers flexing at his sides and nearly closing into fists. His jaw clenched and ticked with strain. 

He turned back and took a seat in the lobby. He sat there for an hour, and then two. He passed time on his phone, but really, he was watching every single person who walked in through the double doors. He made a note of each face and scanned the way they walked and what they were bringing in the building with them. He checked each of them off as not a threat. 

He couldn’t be certain that Adam would keep his word about backing off for now. If he realized that you took something important from that damn box…

Every muscle in Russell’s body wanted to go back up to your hospital room. He wanted to tell you again that he was sorry. Matter of fact, he’d be content if you just let him sit there beside you in silence. 

Okay, maybe he’d try to crack a joke or two, see if he could make you smile. Extra brownie points if he could make you laugh. 

Yeah, don’t bet on that one.

Russell sighed and rubbed at his face with both hands. 

Colter came around to find him, first asking how you were. The look on Russell’s face was good enough of an answer.

Colter let him know that he’d just dropped off Dory at her place. He was going to stick around for a couple of days to keep an eye on her, just in case Adam came poking around. 

“For the record, I don’t think he will,” Colter said. He took out the film tube you recovered from the box. Russell’s gaze fell to the little black canister. 

“I had a look, and—” Colter began, but Russell raised up a hand. 

“I don’t care,” he said. He slowly stood and met his younger brother’s gaze. “Look, if you wanna go chasing ghosts, that’s your prerogative, but count me out. I don’t wanna know about it, don’t wanna hear about it. As far as I’m concerned, Dad’s dead, and he ain’t coming back no matter what the fuck we find at the end of that tunnel.”

For once, Colter looked taken aback. It wasn’t a big expression, but it was enough to make his eyes widen a little, his mouth parting with almost nothing to say. 

“You’re saying you won’t help me?” he asked. 

“I’m saying if you open that door, you’re on your own. I’m not losing anything more to this,” Russell said. His eyes burned with his determination, and perhaps other emotions he wasn’t willing to let fly in front of his brother.

He lowered back down into his seat and crossed his arms. Colter watched him with a measure of dismay. But ultimately, he respected his brother’s choice.

“I’m sorry. Really, I am,” Colter said. He hesitated, and even drew closer to lay a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

Then, he left. 

Out in the parking lot as he headed over to his pickup truck, Colter’s hand tightened on that film tube. In his mind’s eye, he already saw the map that was hastily scrawled on the curled-up page inside.  

As for Russell, he spent the rest of the evening there in the waiting room. 

A security guard eventually came over to tell him that visiting hours were over. Russell only pretended to leave. He waited until the guard was distracted, flirting with the receptionist, and Russell snuck back into the stairwell. 

He found his way up to the second floor, then the third. He slipped down the empty halls. He didn’t intend to check in on you in your room, but that was where his feet ended up, stopping just outside of the door. It was open a crack. 

When he peeked inside, he saw that you were sleeping after your surgery on your arm. Charlie was watching over you, so Russell pulled back. He stayed in the hospital all night, ducking nurses and doctors on the night shift. He retained some of his peace of mind, knowing you weren’t alone. 

In the morning, Russell headed back home just to shower. He felt all right about it, knowing Dory was at the hospital with you today after relieving Charlie. Russell arrived at the house, just to remember that it was still an incredible mess after the police had cleared out. 

Russell took the time to sweep up the glass, and mop up your blood from the hardwood floors in the living room and the bathroom tiles. He righted picture frames and whatever else he could. The rest, he stored in a big black garbage bag in case you wanted to sort through it later. Then he finally ate a sandwich and showered up. He hadn’t slept in 48 hours, but he kept pushing himself.

He took measurements of every window that got busted, and he went to the closest hardware store to buy replacements. He installed them himself.

Finally, Russell allowed himself to sleep for just a few hours. Afterward, he returned to the hospital. He resumed his seat in the lobby, and he subtly monitored who came in and out while looking busy on his phone. He never forgot a single face. 

The cycle repeated itself. Three days.

He didn’t let himself see you.

Your voice was still weak and muffled, being that half your face was swollen, but you had enough energy to argue with your brother.

“Saving Private Ryan is more historically accurate than Jurassic Park is scientifically accurate,” you said, more than a little testy already. 

“You’re giving me a stats-based argument,” said Charlie, “when all that really matters is the dinosaurs still look real! The CGI holds up—”

“Oh, please,” you huffed. “Lincoln, War Horse, Schindler’s List—Spielberg movies that actually matter.”

“Hey, tell my eight-year-old self that dinosaurs don’t matter,” he said. “Raiders of the Lost Ark, Temple of Doom, Close Encounters, fucking Jaws—these are the staples of Hollywood, my friend. Those are the movies people actually remember when they think of Spielberg and his Steve Jobs glasses.”

“Raiders is all right,” you grumbled, after a moment of deliberation. “At least it’s rooted in some real history.”

Charlie snorted. “You’re such a nerd.”

Your smile weakened. “That’s Russ’s favorite.”

Charlie perked up in attention, noticing your shift in demeanor. 

“What, Raiders?” he asked. When you merely nodded, seeming lost in thought, Charlie smiled a little. “It’s a classic.”

You knew that it was one of the few movies Russell remembered watching before his father moved the Shaw family to that compound in the Sierra National Forest.

You tried to take in a deep breath. Letting it out was painful though, a sharp twinge in your side making you wince. Goddamn stitches.

“You okay?” Charlie asked. He was coiled and ready to spring into action, whatever you needed. “Want me to adjust your pillow? Or you want to lay on your side again?”

“‘M fine,” you managed. You both knew they were empty words.

The room fell quiet, save for the movie playing on your small TV screen that was mounted against the wall. Laura Dern was limping on one foot away from a velociraptor. 

After lowering the volume, you turned your head on your pillow toward Charlie, even though you couldn’t quite hold his gaze. 

“He’s still here, isn’t he?” you said. There was a knowing gleam in your eyes. 

Charlie feigned innocence. “Who?”

You just gave him a look. Your brother’s lips twitched at a smile, and he leaned back in the recliner seat, folding his hands over his chest.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Your Mountain Man’s still here.”

You blew out a sigh of exasperation. “I told him to go home.”

“To an empty house that isn’t his, not knowing how long he’s gonna be able to stay there?” Charlie pointed out. “Did you break up with him for sure?”

You couldn’t bring yourself to answer. You knew you weren’t all that specific when you told Russell to leave, but…maybe it was because your heart hadn’t totally decided on the matter.

“You know, he finds a way to dodge security every night, just so he can keep an eye on you, make sure you’re okay when I’m not here,” Charlie said. “Hell, even when I am here. Don’t know whether I should be insulted by that one.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, fighting a swell of emotion. Looking back on that conversation after you woke up, you’d felt so raw and frayed. You knew what happened to you wasn’t exactly Russell's fault. He’d needed to help his brother. His own friend had likely sold him out as well as betrayed him.

You just couldn’t help the deep well of insecurity lying far underneath your skin, a bone-deep thought…

“He’s never going to be happy with a boring, normal life,” you said, with tears burning behind your lids. “I’m never going to be enough.”

Charlie frowned in sadness. For once, he felt bad for Russell. He opened his mouth to reply, but someone else beat him to it.

“Sorry,” Russell said from the doorway. “But that’s just categorically untrue, baby.” 

Your eyes widened at the sight of him. Your breath stilled in your lungs. He entered the room cautiously, waiting for you to throw him out. When you just stared back at him with those weary, uncertain, glassy eyes, he tried to give you a smile.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

After a beat of hesitation, you nodded. It was barely a movement of your head, but he’d take it. 

And Charlie took his cue to stand up, rubbing his hands together. 

“Think I’ll get myself a burger or something,” he said. 

On his way out, he and Russell shared a look. On Charlie’s end, it was imbued with a cautious trust. 

One chance. 

Russell understood full well. He nodded in agreement.

The door shut behind Charlie. Russell lowered himself into a chair and tugged it over to your bedside, resting his hand on the mattress. You still didn’t know what to say, but despite your reluctance, your heart swelled just to see him. You missed him beyond belief.

You slowly moved your hand toward his on the bed. Russell noticed, and he smiled. He took your hand with both of his big, calloused ones, and he laid a tender kiss across your knuckles. 

You trembled inside as your tears spilled over, hot and unfettered. Your breathing shallowed with it, your emotions bubbling up and over the surface. On your first hiccupping sob, Russell moved. He got up to sit on the edge of your bed, and he cupped your uninjured cheek, so he could press a gentle kiss to your forehead. Your hand, still clasped in his, he pressed over his heart. He was sure you'd be able to feel the uptick beating of it.

Once chance.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he said. It was a confession from the very depths of him, laden with grit. “This is on me. But I’m done, you understand? I’m done with all that shit.”

You pulled away a little. “What do you mean?” 

“I’m more than ready to be my own boss,” he said, grinning some. “When you’re feeling better, I’m gonna need your help tasting the menu for the brewery. Plus, the décor. You know me, I’m shit at figuring out what kinda lamps go with beige walls.”

You uttered a weak laugh through your tears. You raised a trembling hand to cup his cheek. Your thumb brushed tenderly there. All too soon though, your smile dimmed.

“Look, I know what I said, but understand if you want to find your father’s killer,” you whispered.   

Russell released a sigh through his nose. He appreciated you for that, and even kind of marveled that you could say that to him from your hospital bed. But this was enough.

What he couldn’t tell you, not just yet, was that he planned to track down Adam Brody. Russell could care less who the man worked for now, but once he dealt with that unfinished business, he fully intended to devote the rest of his attention toward building a steadier life, that firm foundation. He wasn’t about to take this second chance with you for granted.

“I’m done with contract work, and with anything having to do with my father,” he said firmly, grasping your hand. “It’s not worth losing you.”

Your lips trembled. You were still a hint uncertain, trying to figure out if he was being sincere. You knew he wanted to protect you, to be with you, but could he really give up all the rest of it?

“Are you sure?” you asked. 

Russell sobered further. He licked his lips, debating something in his mind. He could be honest about one thing, at least. 

“When I was a kid, I saw a man up on that cliff with my dad,” he said. “You know that part. Now, I didn’t see what happened. Maybe they argued, scuffled. Maybe that guy was a part of what my dad was running from all those years. But when I got up there and I looked over that cliff, even in the rain I saw his body down below, mangled up…”

He shook his head. You squeezed his hand. Even now, you let him know that you were listening, that he had an anchor. He let out a slightly shaky breath.

“Colter was there,” he admitted. “He was just a kid. All he could do was try to connect the dots on what he saw, and that was me on the top of that cliff.”

Your eyes widened. “No, he…he thought you did it?”

Russell nodded. “When I got back to the house, my mom told me it’d be best for the family if I got gone. So, I left. And I stayed gone. Wasn’t ‘til last year that I could get Colter to hear me out, let alone believe me.”

“God, Russ,” you said in dismay. His mom told him to leave? How could she do that? What the hell was in her head?

Questions, too many questions…and you wondered if Russell had those same ones. How could he not? The more you learned about his parents, the more you understood his and Dory’s decision to try to bury it, and leave the past behind.

“My dad was a paranoid son of a bitch. You know, he even pulled a fucking knife on me once,” Russell said, earning your gasp. “Yeah. One of his little episodes. Mom calmed him down, but…"

He thought better of diving into that one, considering what you'd just been through. He met your gaze.

"No, the line for me was when he started going off again on his bullshit, grabbed my little sister and pinned her to the wall," he said. "I saw fucking red then. Pulled him away, made him snap the fuck out of it. That was the night he took off.”

Your lips pursed in shock. Russell shook his head at the old memory, though it still got to him. He rolled his shoulders and forced himself to relax. 

“Man, I was fucking relieved when he did,” he said, an edge of anger lacing his words. “But I didn’t kill him.”

You nodded. There was conviction in every word, and your heart ached terribly for him. You tugged him closer by his shirt, so you could slip your good arm around his broad shoulders and pull him in for as good of a hug as you could give him. His long hair tickled your cheek and your neck, but you didn’t care. You sucked in a breath, your eyes glistening with tears, and you kissed his cheek. It was a weak press of your lips, but he felt it.

Russell couldn’t believe that you were the one comforting him right now. Grateful, relieved, those words didn’t even cover what he felt. His chest swelled with warmth, allowing him to let go of some of that bitterness. Some of that hurt, buried deep. His arms slipped around you, strong, secure, but gentle.

Eventually he pulled away, just so he could stroke your cheek and smile down on you. He took in the bruising around your eye. Your right arm, too, was still in a sling. The doctor would probably fit you for a cast next week, after the swelling went down. 

“This is probably a stupid question, but how’re you feeling?” he asked, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. 

“I’m okay,” you replied. “Pain meds are awesome, when they want to give them to me.”

“They’re being fucking stingy, huh?” Russell gave you a conspiring look. “Want me to break into the pharmacy, grab you a couple of the little blue pills? They’re fun, I promise.”

You snorted a laugh, even though it hurt your side and your face. You winced in pain. Gotta stop doing that.

Russell slipped a hand over your hip in concern, and to try and soothe you. 

“It’s okay, I’m fine,” you said. 

He wasn’t buying it, but he didn’t press you either. 

“Will you stay with me tonight?” you asked, your lips tugging at a smile. “Legally I mean, in this room. We can let Charlie go home.”

Russell met your gaze and held it.

“Sweetheart, I’m not leaving you. Not if you don’t want me to.” 

Slowly releasing a deep breath, you nodded.

“I believe you,” you said.

Again, you tugged him closer with your hand on his cheek. He read the imploring request in your eyes. 

Russell leaned in, carefully brushing his lips against yours. You felt bold enough to meet him a second time with a better kiss. It hurt your cut lip, just a little, but it was worth it. 

You finally felt safe again.

AN: 🥹 whew! Okay, so perhaps a lot to unpack there, some 2x02 stuff, some plot stuff from the book cheekily making its way in here. I will say that this is an end to Breaking Point...for now.

I will probably continue this as a mini series within the ESC word, but I want to wait for the show to catch up to see what they do with certain book plotlines. Or, I might just get impatient and write my own spin on things. We'll see! 😂

Until then, what did you think about Russell's decision? How do you think he could settle his "unfinished business" with Adam, considering it might mire himself deeper with Horizon/the "mystery" employer Adam really works for? Or should Russ leave well enough alone on that one? 🤔

(Hint: We both know he won't.)

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[pixiepipedreams]

༺୨♡︎୧༺ — i am your angel of music // prologue

♡  ⁄  pairing: in-ho x reader, eventual gi-hun x reader ♡  ⁄  warnings & tags: fem!reader, obsessive behavior, lying/manipulation, age gap (reader is in her 20s, in-ho & gi-hun are late in their 40s), eventual mature themes ♡  ⁄ wordcount: 1.6k ♡  ⁄ summary: a mere background dancer in the sigongkwan theater, you've spent the last year receiving voice lessons from your angel of music. PHANTOM OF THE OPERA AU. (or should i call it, frontman of the opera--)

》﹒˚ ₊ ︵﹒⊹ ๑ ⊹* 。 • 。* ☾☼☽ * 。° 。* ⊹ ๑ ⊹﹒︵ ₊ ˚﹒ 《

A calm hush has settled over Sigongkwan Theatre. Sure, the sub-level basement, directly under the theater, plays host to the rehearsal after-party, debauchery unleashing on the theater group after a day of exhaustive work. But the halls, the dressing rooms, the theater itself, all remain silent and darkened. Few buildings have electricity in the newly divided southern Korea, and Sigongkwan relies on gas lamps and candles. With almost every resident of the theater in the only known basement level, the halls remain shrouded in midnight.

Every room is silent. Silent, but, at the very end of the hallway, there’s flickering glow peeking through the crack of the final door and the floor below it. It's only noticeable if you’re very close, if your eye catches on it.

The room is silent, an unused dressing room - except for a couple hours every night. The only light to see by are two candles - both lit by you. One for yourself, and one for the angel that visits you. Angels don't need light, you know this – it's out of respect more than anything else. You sit in front of the mirror, the dark room lingering behind you, an omnipotent presence that you could fear.

You're not afraid. You never would be. Not when your angel is coming.

The simple cotton dress that covers your legs as you sit in near-darkness is white, traditional sleepwear that leaves you open, vulnerable. To nobody else would you show yourself like this. Your hair is still wavy from the braid you wear to rehearsals, where you perform as a simple ensemble dancer. No lines, and certainly no singing part, has ever been assigned to you. When you first joined the theater group, your audition had only been for the part of dancer. Your voice was like an unpolished jewel, a precious gem that you’d tucked away to gather dust and lose its clarity after the death of your father.

Your angel believes you deserve to be the star. His quiet praise is just as intoxicating as his singing, even if you have a hard time believing you deserve anything more than the shadows you tuck yourself away in. His shadows.

“My dear muse.” A soft voice, quiet and measured, but somehow it always fills the room. Your wide eyes shine in the darkness, looking around for him like you always do, though he’s never revealed himself to you. It’s always just you and your own reflection, the two candles, and his voice. “Your performance today was the epitome of grace, elegance.” Head tilting, your eyes flutter shut, savoring the sound of that enigmatic voice.

A smile graces your lips, and you wait to hear more, but it doesn’t come. He speaks as little as is necessary, in these lessons, these secret meetings where you commune with the heaven he brings to you. “My angel,” you whisper, your voice hardly more than a breath. “Thank you. You’re too kind, as always.” Your fingers splay over the skirt of your dress, smoothing over the wrinkles, the desire to be perfect for him. “I am humbled by your return every night, to better my voice. I only wish to make you proud.” You duck your head respectfully, your voice filled with the ever-present awe of this gift he’s devoted to giving you. “I only wish I could give you something in return, more than this candle - an offering? Prayer?” Though, you and he both know that you pray to him nightly, that every moment on stage is an offering to him.

“Your melodic voice is the only gift in this room, dearest muse.” His murmur is like a balm to your soul, grace touching your ears. “Shall we begin our lesson?”

Little do you know, your dear angel watches you through the mirror you sit so devotedly in front of. Man, not angel, not pure heavenly being. He watches you, as always, with dark eyes, your perfect form, the way your own gaze seems to find his face, even in the dark, even with his obscured figure. It used to make him worry, that you saw through his trick mirror, his ruse, his little game. It doesn't feel like much of a game anymore - this obsession, deep and insidious, that has claimed him as surely as it has you.

The first time he’d heard your voice, it was sweet honey dripping down the side of a cup of yuja tea. You had thought you were alone - perhaps you were. He’s nothing more than a phantom, after all, a ghost stalking the walls and rafters of the theater. It was in those very walls that he’d first spied on you, heard the way you quietly sung to yourself as you brushed your hair. Fixation. Instant fixation. In a decade or so of solitude, you had shimmered like a vigil of hope. Watching you was easy, spending most of his days listening as you quietly lingered in the background, on the edges of the performance group. Your one friend, Yong-sik, was how In-ho learned more about you, your father. Your belief in him, like religion, and your certainty that one day, he would send to you an angel.

You made it too easy.

Whispers that would call to you in your small room, practically a closet, until one night you were drawn from your bed, following them down the halls. Until you came across this very room. One burning candle, and one unlit.

He can still see the confusion that had clouded your expression, but also the hope. As if you already understood what he wanted from you, you’d lit the other candle. Accepting him, offering yourself. That was the first night that he sang for you, taught you one of his songs. And slowly, ever so carefully, he coaxed out your persimmon-sweet voice. Since that night, over a year ago now, he’s coached you, taught you - and you, always his faithful student, were such a quick learner.

Perhaps tonight, In-ho feels nostalgic. The gentle tilt of your face, the perfect fall of your hair… You look the same as the first night, but now, there is only pure trust and adoration in your expression. His perfect muse. “Night and day… you are the one,” he croons in a low voice, carrying each note with a sweet caress. “Only you beneath the moon or under the sun… Whether near to me or far... it's no matter, darling, where you are... I think of you… Night and day....”

Just like that first night, you answer with the response to his call, your sweet voice carrying the next lines. Lighting the second candle, like you always do. “Day and night… Why is it so…. that this longing for you follows wherever I go?” Your eyes close slightly, lost in the words, in the joy of singing. “Hibiscus flowers’ bloom…. In the silence of my lonely room... I think of you… Night and day....”

“Like the persistent drip of raindrops…” He calls.

“When the summer shower is through…” You respond.

And finally, finally, your voices join together, mixing into the most saccharine melody, a perfect match. “So a voice within me keeps repeating you, you, you…” It’s the sweetest euphoria, a delicious drug running through his veins. He watches you, your eyes closed, your expression absolute bliss, and he knows you feel it too, the union of your voices, of your very souls. “Night and day, under the hide of me… There's such a hungry yearning burning inside of me… And its torment won't be through… ‘Till you let me spend my life devoted to you…” Your eyes flutter open, the glaze in them almost pushing him to slide away the mirror and pull you directly into his arms, to see you crumble into him. You’re beautiful, perfect, just like this, looking like you’re enchanted, just from his voice, from feeling it swirl inside you.

“Day and night…”

“Night and day…”

Your voices overlap on the final line, two perfect counterparts, and you take a shuddering gasp as the familiar melody finishes. That song… the very first one he taught you… It feels different, now. You’ve learned so much as his student, but also… you’ve grown so deeply fond of your angel. The sound of the music you make together is nothing short of rapturous. A dreamy smile spreads across your lips, and you blink, wishing, yearning for more, always more.

“Don’t go, my angel,” you say, before you can stop yourself. “Forgive me, I-I speak out of turn, I ask too much of you, but…” But it’s a lonely existence, in this theater. More so, you’ve been lonely ever since your father passed. Though you grew up without a mother, your father had loved you enough to fill both parental roles - your childhood had been filled with laughter and light, singing and music.

You lost the music, for years. But now, your angel, sent by your father himself, has brought it all back, by candlelight and the beams of the moon. You’d forgo every single break of dawn if it meant the loneliness would end, to fill your life with that harmony that only he brings you.

A soft sound, almost a sigh - or maybe the wind outside, tricking your ears, for surely angels don’t sigh? “Soon, my perfection,” he murmurs, his words sending a shudder through you. “Our union is near, sweet [Y/N]... just know, I am always by your side, always with you…”

It sounds like a promise, like everything you've ever wanted. So why does a chill run down your spine?

》﹒˚ ₊ ︵﹒⊹ ๑ ⊹* 。 • 。* ☾☼☽ * 。° 。* ⊹ ๑ ⊹﹒︵ ₊ ˚﹒ 《

A/N: sooo... i went a little insane planning this story out. aka, a lot of research on the aftermath of wwii on korea/south korea, and when western opera was introduced. placing it in paris didn't quite make sense, and i'm going to be taking a lot of creative liberties when it comes to the opera(s?) performed and the history of this particular theater, even though most of it will be background details that aren't even particularly necessary. i wanted to put out a prologue to introduce the story a bit... still deciding some things (like, will i have in-ho be wearing the mask to hide a disfigurement, or will it be more like sg s2, where he's secluded himself due to the death of the only person he cared about, and introduces himself as young-il at some point? decisions, decisions). hope you guys are down to join me on this journey lol, i promise i'll still be posting other stories that are much simpler in concept. also yes, the song they're singing is a slightly altered frank sinatra song... it felt very thematically fitting.

taglist: @pursued-by-the-squid, @bloooooopblopblop, @in-hos-wife

[primarisly-marooned]

first time posting a fic in this fandom aaaaaaa

warnings: none (but let me know if you think i should put something)

pairing: Titus x F!Reader

possible part one!

summary: Newly returned, and now Lieutenant, Titus finds himself adrift in his once home. In his wanderings as he struggles to find himself, he finds you.

tagging @vyzz-undercover @moodymisty and @beckyninja bc their writing got me into this fandom plz let me know if it was ok to tag you guys

bang bang

He had found you deep within the barge tending to some ancient mural. You were kneeling on the frigid ground, bent over and nearly touching the wall with your nose. Various paints and chemicals and tools lay scattered around in disorganized piles, a chaos only you understood to how they lay. It was an endless job, something that your family has been doing for generations. These murals were dusty and covered in layers of grime, splashes of what you're sure was once blood (human or not you remain uncertain), and chipped paint you'll have to color match once the wall is cleaned.

You had been here for hours already, having started just as the day shift ended and your fellow serfs went to their dorms, when you first heard him.

Normally nothing disturbed your work, having a preference for working during the simulated night cycle for that very reason. And this deep in the twisting halls it was rare to see anyone anyway. Much less one of the Emperor's Angels.

It was his footsteps that alerted you that you weren't alone, slow and heavy like a war drum. Boom, boom, boom. Your heart raced in surprised fear, never before had an Astartes traveled this deep within the ship in your memory.

You had never even met one before, but you knew the protocol. Scrambling upright on aching knees, back protesting as your joints crackled, you struggled to straighted your robe, internally lamenting that it wasn't even one of your cleaner ones.

His footsteps drew closer as you press your back against the wall, the frayed edges of you hood drawn down over your eyes, hands clasped in front of you as you dropped into a deep curtsey.

"My lord," you murmur hoarsely when you can see his shining ceramite boots at the edge of you vision. You haven't spoken for days, and your throat burns.

His steps pause in front of you and his gaze is like a heavy weight branding you with his attention. You freeze, thighs burning, when you see a massive gauntlet slowly reach past your head and touch the wall behind you.

The scrape of metal against the stone sounds like what you imagine artillery fire to sound like.

You're trembling now, legs shaking from holding your pose and you pray the Lord doesn't notice.

Then he spoke.

"I remember these battles told as stories when I was a boy." His voice is low, very nearly rumbling through you, shaking the air from your lungs. "You are restoring them."

It wasn't a question, but your mouth opened before your brain could catch up. "Y-yes, my Lord," you cough as discreetly as you could, throat clicking as you swallow. How long had it been since you had water? "It is my holy task to keep our great history alive."

Your legs were going to collapse, your shaking definitely noticeable now.

He was quiet for a moment before he was moving again, the hand against the wall coming around to tuck under your chin. Your helpless to the movement, rising from your suplication at the cold touch to your face. But he continues to nudge your face up.

Your eyes trace the intricate filigree of his chest plate and gorget, the gold almost tarnished against the deep blue of the Ultramarines. It made your fingers itch to restore it briefly before you caught sight of the Angel's face.

His skin was pale and weathered, small scars marking many fights. His service studs gleamed in the flicker lights of your meager candles, hair almost black in the shadows.

Then you saw his eyes.

His eyes were such a deep and clear blue, like nothing you have ever seen before. Not even the image you had once seen of the Avenging Son could compare, an almost blasphemous thought that you banished from your mind.

But when you looked deeper, breath still in you lungs, you saw more than just his stoic expression. He looked almost... lost. There was a darkness in his gaze that held you in pinned you in place better than if you had been bolted to the wall. An angry sort of... dare you say it...

Lonely. He looked lonely. Perhaps that why he stopped?

You shake yourself free from your thoughts as the Astartes moves back out of your space, air rushing into your lungs and clearing the fog from your mind. "My lord?"

He looks a second longer at you before he glances back at the wall. "How long until it is fully restored?"

It was said harshly, but the softening of his mouth gentled it.

"I-It's hard to say, my Lord," it was getting more difficult to speak, your voice cracking every other word. "No longer than a few weeks."

He hummed in what you could only assume was consideration, nearly subvocal as it vibrated your brain in your skull. "Very well then." He glanced back down at you and tilted one corner of his mouth up. Your heart sped up at the sight. "I look forward to your finished work."

As he walked away, leaving you stunned, you only had one thought in your dazed mind.

How the fuck am I supposed to finish this in less than a month?

[trans-rite]

How to join the Transgender Ancestor Rite: an FAQ on our updated format

What is it?

an annual, non-denominational ritual honoring transgender individuals who have passed on

an act of solidarity with the lineage of transgender ancestors who have come before us and paved the way, as well as with the descendants who will come after us when we are gone

a chance to share tenderness and kindness with the restless spirits of transgender people who lost their lives to violence

an opportunity for living transgender folks, including those who have lost trans loved ones, to grieve, mourn, and pray

a labor of love from a multiracial group of trans spirit workers, each at various stages of study in ancestor veneration practices, who have been putting on this ritual since 2014

When is it?

the ritual should take place on or around the Trans Day of Remembrance on November 20th, preferably within a week

most of us do it at night but any time of day is fine

if you need to do it a little before or after the 20th, don't sweat it

Where is it?

wherever you are!

groups are welcome to host local events and inform us about them, but the ritual itself takes place in a location of your own choosing, usually at home

if you have access to a local TDOR event that could incorporate some or all of this ritual, you are welcome to bring it there

most of the organizers have historically been located in the northeastern US but you don’t have to be

Who is it for?

it honors everyone from this year’s Trans Day of Remembrance official list, as well as any other deaths of trans individuals from the year that participants wish to include

illness losses, violent deaths, suicides, and natural deaths are all eligible for inclusion

it includes, cumulatively, all transgender deaths from previous years as well, named on the TDOR lists and unnamed, throughout history

it honors and praises the trans ancestors, people who were alive both recently and longer ago, who feel themselves in connection with us, who have received the care and honor we offered through previous years’ rituals, who are bright and well and who can tend the line from the other side

participants can be trans or cisgender, of any or no denomination or faith

Does it cost money?

nope! this is an anticapitalist affair

you can buy incense and offerings if you like, but you don’t need to spend money to participate

Why are y’all doing this?

honestly this could take pages and pages about the importance of this work and of soothing the troubled dead and tending our ancestral line et cetera et cetera ad infinitum but the short version is

we gotta

our ancestors require it and we’re making sure they get it

Okay, how does it work?

during the ritual, you sit or stand at an altar, light a candle, put out a glass of fresh water, and read a prayer

you may also make any other offerings you feel called to do

if so moved, you read the names of the dead from this year's TDOR list and call on our bright and well ancestors to tend to these newly passed souls

all the people participating in all the different places in the world help create a rising raft of energy that is greater than the sum of its parts, delivering the restless dead among our line into the care of our bright and well ancestors, who, in turn, also care for us, the living

Prayers? I thought you said this was non-denominational.

prayers can involve divinity, or they can be kind and soothing words to say to the dead

you can look through our prayers tag to get ideas and inspiration, but feel free to find poems on your own and/or write something yourself as well 

you are welcome to include deity or not, as you prefer

the organizers of this ritual incorporate gods and spirits in our practices but you by no means need to

on the flip side, if you want your gods involved, feel free to do so in whatever respectful manner works for you

What do I need on my altar?

the basics are an altar cloth (white is traditional; a bandana works), a cup to be filled with water, and a new or dedicated candle (white is traditional here also but follow your instincts)

other great offerings include cut flowers, portions of your food and drink (though alcohol is not advised with restless spirits), tobacco, honey, pictures and/or names of the deceased, art, music, dancing, and any gender paraphernalia you think the ancestors might like

do not put pictures of living people on the altar

it can be as simple or ornate as you choose: the important parts are the candle, the cup, and the cloth

Isn’t it sketchy to be working with dead people?

a little bit

it is much less sketchy since our format change in 2022, at which point this ritual shifted from working directly with restless spirits (dicey) to interfacing with them only through our cadre of elevated bright and well ancestors who have already benefited from previous years' rituals

we advise that you cleanse or purify in whatever way you prefer, ideally before and after the working

if you’re in a Western (especially American Christian) culture that views death as The End and discussion of death as taboo, consider reading up on cultures where ancestor veneration is a normal part of everyday life (hint: it’s most of them)

Other questions? Send them in and we’ll answer them, and maybe add them to the list! If you post about the ritual, tag #troe2023 and we will check it out!

Thank you for joining us!

- Mod Alder and team

[ellitx]

Chapter 20: Wind's Soliloquy

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁

previous || next

art belongs to: srr_yo

word count: 6.3k

           The rain had been pouring ever since. It never seemed to stop but it was not strong and heavy, fortunately. Yet the frequent raindrops made the land so gloomy as if the Hydro Archon was crying for days.

           A young maiden ran towards a nearby shelter, her shoes stepping on the muddy field and forming a small splash with each stride. Alas, she shielded herself from the cold droplets.

           The flowers in her arms were wet yet they still retained their shape and form. As much as she wanted to complain and scream at the sky for ruining her journey, she feared the Anemo Archon may hear her and punish her for saying such unthinkable things.

           She sighed disappointingly. Her fingers buried against the bouquet and held it tightly close to her. Her trip near the tower’s entrance had a purpose. She wasn’t aimlessly wandering, nor was she just a citizen passing through.

           No, she was here to ask for blessing from her nation’s god and his beloved. Legend has said if you offer an offering near the entrance, your wishes will be heeded. Of course, at first, she had doubts. There was no such thing as miracles. But she took back her word when an unbelievable and impossible incident became possible.

           Shortly after Ludi Harpastum, a festival of joy and celebration, a calamity struck. A massive storm surged. Houses were damaged, and the once vibrant fields lay ravaged. The disaster had devastated her family's home. Thankfully, the Knights of Favonius offered to let the victims stay at their headquarters for the meantime while they restore the city. And one thing she noticed, in particular, was how frequently the villagers are going outside the city to travel to the old broken tower.

           At first, she thought of it as simply gathering materials and the like. And her friends were tagging along with them, so she didn’t pay too much attention to it. But when those expeditions had become nothing with no result, she had grown suspicious.

           Everyone was bringing flowers, wines, and food.

           What were those for? That was the first thing she asked her mother after she returned to her “expedition”. Her mother smiled tiredly, patting her head affectionately before she motioned her to sit next to her.

           It seemed the offerings were meant to seek favor from the Anemo Archon.

           “By offering gifts and prayers to Lord Barbatos and his beloved, the city will be restored.”

           The daughter’s eyebrows scrunched together, her doubts growing further. “But will that really work? We can’t just simply sit still and pray then— poof!” She raised her arms, motioning them slowly like acting out an explosion, “Everything will magically return to normal,” she continued before flopping back to the edge of the bed.

           “Oh, you silly girl!” Her mother pulled her to her chest and playfully messed her hair which earned her a huff, but a lighthearted one which the mother fondly recognizes.

           The giggles and laughter died shortly as the dawn of silence took over the room. The candle was their only source of light and despite the poor lighting, she could easily notice there’s something on her mother’s mind that’s been distracting her.

           “Mom?” She called out. Her mother’s eyes flickered before snapping her gaze to her and forcing a smile.

           “It’s getting late, love. Do you want to hear a bedtime story?”

           It was ridiculous. Laughable even, that her mother just offered to tell her bedtime stories when she’s already in her teens.

           “I think I’ll pass. I’m too old already for bedtime stories,” she replied, trying to lighten the atmosphere with a playful grin. “Who said you’re too ‘old’ for bedtime stories?” The mother feigned shock, her tone higher than before.

           She chuckled, shaking her head at her mother's antics. “Mom, you know what I mean. I’m sixteen!”

           Her mother's expression softened, a flicker of sadness in her eyes that didn't go unnoticed. “You'll always be my little one, no matter how old you are.”

           The daughter’s heart tugged in guilt then sighed in defeat. Whether it’s because her mother was manipulating her feelings or not, she’s unable to resist her pleading gaze. “F-fine, I wouldn’t mind hearing another story as long as it’s you telling me.” The woman smiled widely and supported her weight by resting her face on her palm.

           “Legend tells of a corner of the city that has been forgotten by the wind.”

           Her fingers brushed over her hair, tucking it behind her daughter’s ear whilst lovingly gazing at her, taking notes of the changes in her features. She knows her mother is being sentimental again over how quickly she grows. She understands those sentiments yet it’s best not to speak of the topic and make it depressing when the blitheness was there a minute ago.

           “To reach that place, one must stand before the fountain and close their eyes, then wait for thirty-five heartbeats, then walk seven circles clockwise around the fountain followed by seven further circles anticlockwise. Upon opening one's eyes, one will find they have arrived at a little shop…”

           The daughter closed her eyes and let her ears envelop the tune of her kin’s soft voice. Time had slowed down between them. It was only her and her mother together in this lone room with a single stalk of candle. She didn’t mind. After all, her voice was calming and soothing.

             She didn’t exactly remember when and how it happened. Because by the time she woke up and heard ruckus and clamor outside of the Favonius’s Headquarters, her eyes couldn’t believe what she saw.

           Everything was restored. As if the aftermath of the storm wasn’t there from the beginning… Everyone was cheering, crying, applauding, and gathering at the plaza where the statue of the nation’s god stands. She didn’t bother changing her clothes and doing her morning routine.

           She needs to understand— know— what in the world just happened. Pushing and squeezing her lithe frame against the closely packed multitude, she looked for any familiar faces to answer her horde of questions that began to bubble over her head.

           She called out to her friend and finally freed herself from the applauding audience to stand next to her friend.

           The girl's friend turned with a wide grin, their eyes reflecting the joyous atmosphere. "Can you believe it? It's like a miracle! The city is restored!"

           "But how?" she questioned, her eyes scanning the crowd for anyone who might have answers.

           "Rumors say it was the Anemo Archon himself," they replied, pointing towards the statue of the god. "They say he granted our prayers and restored our home."

           She gazed at the statue, still skeptical of the sudden turn of events. “Wh-what are you talking about?” Her lips stuttered, unable to fathom their collective and unanimous praise.

           The corner of the friend's lips trembled. Their hands were shaking even if it was already on the girl's shoulder. She could feel them shaking— shaking like a scared dog but there was a big grin on their face.

           “The Anemo Archon forgave us of our sins.”

           That was the last thing she heard. The mutual and unified cries of the civilians, priests, and nuns, all together as they clasped their hands to one to honor and pray for their lord.

            But something felt amiss, a whisper of doubt amidst the jubilation. Why would the Anemo Archon intervene now? What sins were they being forgiven for? The questions swirled in her mind, leaving a lingering unease.

           If it was indeed the Anemo Archon's doing, she couldn't help but feel grateful. Yet, she wondered what had truly transpired. The mystery of the sudden restoration only deepened her curiosity.

           But days after days of trying to uncover the truth, all of those doubts are nothing but a disguise for her lack of faith in her god. She was just being an unfaithful devotee of Lord Barbatos. How could she? And she truly felt remorseful and guilty for having doubts of the Anemo Archon’s capabilities.

           He had saved their nation more than once aside from the recent events of the storm, and that was enough for her to be grateful to him. If it truly was a blessing from the Anemo Archon, a miracle of wherein she can believe in it, then please…

           The bouquet in her hold was settled on the concrete flooring. She ignored the raindrops collecting into the fabric of her blouse, focusing on her prayers and her prayers alone. Her fingers clasped together, intertwining into a tight grip as she muted out every noise, every raindrop.

           “Oh, Anemo Archon. I do not wish for anything but for the good health of my mother. I implore you to please guard her against illness and adversity,” she whispered fervently, her voice barely audible over the patter of the rain.

           Her mother had always been her pillar of strength, her unwavering support. The thought of losing her was too much to bear. So, with her heart heavy with worry, she offered her prayers to the divine, seeking protection and healing for her loved one.

  —

             The tempest of the snowstorm was undoubtedly so cold that even his cloak was not enough for him to provide the warmth he sought. Venti peeked over the window of his room, watching over the tower looming over them so ominously.

           A little jingling was heard next to him and it was enough to recognize who it was even if he was not looking where his little friend was.

           “We are so close to the outside world…” He mumbled to himself, vigilant eyes unfaltering as if he was fighting against the mere stack of bricks. “And tomorrow we’re going to face Decarabian…” He shifted his gaze to the figure sleeping on the other side of the bed.

           The little wisp levitated over to him slowly and tilted its head before letting out another chime of jingle. Venti chuckled and lightly patted the two little sprouts sticking out of its head.

           “I’m not afraid,” He replied. “But I am afraid of losing her…”

           He glanced at the sleeping figure once more, a wave of emotions crashing within him. The weight of the impending battle was heavy on his shoulders, but his love for her, and his determination to protect her, was even heavier. The wind stirred outside, a reminder of his responsibility to liberate the nation, but in this quiet moment, his thoughts were only for her.

           Barbatos’s two dotted white eyes squeezed, reassuring his friend as he twirled over to you and gave another set of ringing. He patiently waited if he had another word to say, but it was enough of an indication when the wisp returned to lodge next to him. Venti easily deciphered what he was saying:

           “I may be a wisp, but I will do everything in my power to protect the both of you.”

           His eyes creased before he cupped his hands and gently lifted Barbatos so they could see each other eye to eye. “Thank you. That means a lot. I started this rebellion myself and I’d be willing to do anything. However…”

           The young bard briefly paused, staring absently at where you lay and Barbatos followed his gaze. It was not unusual for Venti to be deep in his thoughts. With how they have often been together, it’s one characteristic of him that Barbatos took notice of.

           But unlike his deep pondering, within his deep blue eyes he could see swirls of uneasiness. Eyes of worry lost in contemplation, reflected a storm of concern. The furrowed brow framed windows into a troubled mind, where the weight of thoughts etched delicate lines around the eyes. In their depths, shadows danced, revealing a tumultuous sea of unease. The gaze, once bright, now carried a subdued flicker, like embers struggling against the encroaching darkness.

           Barbatos was quiet but he slowly approached his friend and flew over his shoulder. The wisp already knew what was bothering him, but he didn’t break the silence. Rather, he let the silence consume them.

           He already knew this war would be a matter of life and death. Full of bloodshed and ruthless crashing of swords and greatswords all for the sake of freedom. They had lost several allies, what more if Venti loses you?

           What more if you lose him?

           Venti bitterly laughed to himself, catching Barbatos off-guard. He wanted to soothe his friend, but the cold sweat running over to the nape of Venti’s neck and the clenching of his fist over to his shorts was enough to come to a conclusion: Venti was scared.

           How come when he’s this close— they’re so close, he began to cower? He prepared himself in and out. From days to weeks, weeks to months, he led and planned everything with precision. Did he doubt his capabilities? Or was he scared they would never obtain freedom? Perhaps the weight of responsibility pressed harder than he let on.

           The impending battle with Decarabian, a foe of colossal proportions, bore down on him. The prospect of facing an archaic power, an entity that once ruled over Mondstadt, sent shivers down even the god of freedom’s spine.

           Venti cast a sidelong glance at the peacefully slumbering figure beside him. In the quiet of the room, the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest served as a stark reminder of what he stood to lose. The very thought of harm befalling you awakened a vulnerability he tried to bury beneath the bravado.

           He sighed, a mix of frustration and self-awareness. The war-torn history and the battles fought in the shadows, all led to this moment. Yet, the proximity of his friend, the one who anchored him, uncovered a layer of trepidation he never fully acknowledged.

           The little wisp fluttered near him, its tiny form a manifestation of loyalty. It chimed softly, a melody of encouragement. Venti managed a rueful smile, realizing that even Barbatos wasn’t immune to the currents of fear and doubt. The approaching conflict, an inevitable clash with the remnants of a bygone era, hung heavy in the air.

           Perhaps it was fate upon meeting two important people,  in Barbatos’s life; and never did he foresee he’d forge a deeper relationship with them.

           Amidst the raging storms, he thought he would never be heard but alas there a boy clad in a dark cloak with a lyre in his hand appeared in front of him.

           “Barbatos,” he called. “If anything happens to me, protect [Name] for me, alright?” Venti stood up from his seat and discreetly walked over to your bed. Barbatos watched from a distance. The bard’s hand gently brushed over your tousled locks as he lovingly smoothed the disarray of strands.

           Venti's eyes held a tenderness, a silent promise etched within the gentle caress. The room was filled with a hushed intimacy, interrupted only by the soft rustle of hair beneath his fingers. He delicately gathered a handful of your hair, the strands flowing through his fingers like silken threads. Holding them close to his lips, he pressed a tender kiss upon them.

           “Watch over her. Promise me that. Please…”

           Barbatos, observing this silent exchange, nodded in understanding. The air in the room seemed to shimmer with an unspoken bond, a connection that transcended the uncertainties of the impending conflict.

  —

             Freedom. That’s all that matters. That’s all that matters to the people of Mond. Freedom is everything to them, and if it were to be taken from them, they would rebel and fight for it to get what is rightfully theirs.

           That is what everyone fought for. That is what Venti fought for when the tyrant locked them up. And that freedom is what he promised to seek for his dearly beloved.

           The promise… That’s right, the promise.

           Barbatos made a promise to his friend: to guard and keep you safe from your father’s wrath. That he achieved. He did not need any of those extravagant praises from everyone, or a luxurious celebration that he protected the last survivor of the royal family. Your love and attention were enough for him as his honorarium, and if his plans went smoothly, then he couldn’t ask for more than your presence.

           But what about his promise to you? Not as Venti, not as Barbatos the Anemo Archon, but as Barbatos the wind wisp. He faintly recalled from his memories, vague echoes of your voice ringing in his head to protect your dear. He could hear your cries, he could vision your tearful face, and he could smell the faint aroma of smoke and blood from the past.

           “Barbatos, please. Protect Venti…”

           He stood at the precipice of conflicting roles, torn between the weight of his promise to the girl he cherished and the duty he bore as the Anemo Archon. The memories of her pleas echoed through the chambers of his mind, each word a poignant reminder of the sacrifice she had made.

           As he prepared for the impending battle against Decarabian, Barbatos couldn't shake the dual nature of his existence. The freedom he had fought for was now intertwined with the personal pledge he made to safeguard Venti—the mortal guise he wore to be closer to you.

           The wind wisp, a manifestation of his divine essence, hovered beside him, a silent witness to the internal struggle. Barbatos knew that protecting Venti meant more than shielding the bard from physical harm; it meant preserving the essence of the person he had become through his interactions with you.

           The wind wisp chimed softly, a comforting melody that seemed to say, "I'll protect what you hold dear." At that moment, Barbatos made a silent vow to honor both promises—to secure the freedom of Mondstadt and to shield the vulnerable heart of the bard who had become an inseparable part of his divine existence.

           Yet no matter how much he convinced himself that he still preserved the life of Venti for all these years, those were merely pathetic excuses he gave to himself that he was unable to protect him. That was the harsh truth he wished to never know. The harsh truth he often ran away from. The harsh truth is the least he wanted you to know. And because of that harsh truth, you will never be able to uphold your promise to Venti to travel the world with him.

           You were living a life of lies.

           “I hate you,”

           Such vile words escaped from your delicate lips, coated with nothing but hatred. All love was lost and diminished. Resentment smoldered within you, a slow-burning fire that refused to be extinguished.

           “I hate you!”

           Three venomous words stung into his heart and soul. His eyes, once alight with the sparkle of mischief, were now dimmed by the torrent of tears that streamed down his ethereal face. He reached out his hand to you as tears cascaded down like a torrent.

           “[Name], no… Don’t leave me, please!”

           His voice cracked, carrying the weight of a thousand heartbreaks. His outstretched hand trembled, fingers desperately reaching for something that was slipping away.

           The once carefree Anemo Archon was now a broken deity, his essence shattered by the cruelty of your hatred.

           “No, no, no!! Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me here!!”

           His chest heaved with sobs, each tear a testament to the agony that consumed him. The celestial realm seemed to weep alongside him, mirroring the storm within his soul.

           Barbatos jolted upright in bed, gasping for breath. The echoes of your anguished words still reverberated in his ears, a haunting melody that refused to fade. The room felt oppressive, shadows dancing on the walls like spectral remnants of the nightmare that had gripped him.

           His chest heaved as he tried to dispel the lingering emotions from the dream. The remnants of your hatred clung to him, a weight that threatened to drown him in a sea of regret. The moon cast a soft glow through the window, a stark contrast to the turmoil that had unfolded in the dream.

           With trembling hands, Barbatos wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, realizing that he had been pulled into the depths of a waking nightmare. The images of your tears and the venomous words hung in the air, a phantom reality that felt too close for comfort.

           He whipped his head and cast his eyes promptly into the quiet room until they landed on a maiden deep in her slumber. Barbatos sighed in relief and for a moment, he simply sat there, the silence broken only by the erratic rhythm of his heartbeat. The nightmare had been a cruel reminder of the consequences of his choices, a vivid manifestation of the fears that lingered in the recesses of his heart.

           The lies Barbatos had forged for years were now haunting him. The lies that shielded you from the brutal reality all for the sake of selfish love. Barbatos had meticulously woven a tapestry of deception to protect you from the burden of his divine obligations, but mostly from his growing sick and obsessive love for you.

           You still haven’t discovered he was the new Anemo Archon until the blonde traveler told you everything about him during the night of the Ludi Harpastum festival. Barbatos scoffed, recalling how you were so caught off guard when the truth finally surfaced after you were separated from him. If only that pesky traveler and his fairy companion just minded their own business, he wouldn't need to cast you into a deep yet tranquil slumber.

           With great reluctance, he drew himself up and looked at the girl who held a very special place in his heart. You’ve brought so much joy and happiness to his life, not to mention more laughter than anyone else ever could. To see you seething with anger and searing pain would bring a weight on his chest like nothing else.

           Barbatos slowly embraced your hand to his, slipping his fingers in between, and softly brushed his lips along your knuckles, kissing each of them one by one. His vision blurred as his gaze wandered towards your angelic features, but a sudden pang of panic gripped his heart.

           “I didn’t knock her hard, have I?” he asked himself, his mind suddenly clouded with worry. The archon sighed deeply, berating himself over his unplanned actions. It was fortunate he still knew how to wield his powers and put you to sleep. He just hoped he didn’t dose you too much where it’ll take you years for you to wake up. He could only hope you’ll wake up soon, otherwise he might throw another outburst in Mondstadt.

           You've always brought light into his world and filled him with warmth. In a matter of minutes, you've managed to affect him in ways he never thought possible. He exhaled deeply and closed his eyes tightly, replaying the many times he found comfort in your arms or gave him a loving smile. There were many things he would like to say, but for now, his turbulent state of mind is not helping him.

           Barbatos groaned in frustration, ruffling his head in sheer irritation. It took every ounce of strength within him to restrain himself from throttling some ignorant traveler. Those ungrateful bastards deserve to pay dearly for ruining his precious morning.

           His rigid frame softened and he shook his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts. Barbatos slumped on the floor next to you and hugged his knees.

           As if afraid to wake up, it feels like a waste to even blink within this dream. And to think that the other side of the sky is so vast… Does he deserve this ending?

           Sometimes some things can’t be helped. While wounded by his own helplessness, the present in all its clumsiness, is changing into a brilliance of fabric reality.

           The more I protect it, the more it looks fragile. And the more I steal it, the more I want it…

           Barbatos sighed, the weight of his internal conflict bearing down on him. You’re everything to him—his source of strength, his light in the darkness, and the light at the end of the tunnel he was always seeking. The guilt that slowly piled upon him like countless millstones on a tree of regret and the past memories won’t let him move forward, hindering him from doing what’s right.

           He knew you deserved better than what he had given you. He’s been hiding a lot of things from you: his identity, his status as an archon, and even the death of Venti.

           Barbatos tugged his hair tighter, his frustration palpable in the agitated movements. He couldn't escape the relentless truth that bound him — because to you, Barbatos was merely your wisp friend. He was not the Anemo Archon, and certainly not the free-spirited bard.

           It frustrates me because I can’t be him and it begins to burn at my throat.

           Biting his lips, blood drew out. How cruel was he to decide to pose as your lover? He only wanted to be loved, cherished, and adored. To hide behind masks of illusions and cruelty? It’s not what you deserve.

           He clutched at his chest as if trying to quell the searing pain that echoed through his heart. The memories of carefree days as Venti taunted him like elusive specters. The laughter, the music, the unburdened joy — they felt like distant echoes mocking him in his current divine form.

           Barbatos needs you. Venti needs you. He fumblingly sauntered to your bed and gently opened his palms, caressing your soft skin. He felt a newborn warmth along him.

           The deceptive dance of his identity left him feeling vulnerable. The looming possibility that you might leave him once you wake up and still remember the truth was a haunting specter. Every moment spent with you was tinged with the fear of losing the connection he so desperately craved. For now, everything is falling into place. He'll continue to act as him even if it means to deceive you. But that won't ever happen again, he'll be careful— cautious— about everything he does around you. The past will never haunt him anymore. It will never touch you.

        You will never know. It was all a dream. A nightmare. But it's better not to mention anything of what happened that night, isn't it? It's the best and safest option. The world that should be smiling kindly to you and his friend reverted to his direction, taking their wishes that were never his from the beginning.

           There’s a place he yearns for but can never reach. The place he wants so much but can never grasp. He almost forgot to wish when he gazed in the distance.

           In his tightly clenched fist, his heartbeat is heating up again. Leaning down, he rested his head against your stomach and closed his eyes, breathing in the same pattern as yours in rhythm.

           “I love you,” he whispered, fluttering his lashes to where you lay and gazing at you oh so lovingly. His fingers trickled to your arm, clinging and clutching, before traveling to your bare neck. “You love me too, right, [Name]? You’ve always said you love me.”

           He crawled over you, his physique looming over your comatose state. His teal irises glittered as he peered closely at your sleeping face. His lips curved upwards in a smile before pressing a soft kiss on your forehead.

           That dreamless sleep, the veil between worlds will fall aside. His lingering touch, beaming with emotions he wasn’t aware of, glistening with affection, reverence, and lust all at once, creating a warm nimbus aura around his body. All while his unguarded words formed something like a prayer.

           “Oh love, you’re so pretty… so tender, and so beautiful.”

           His slender finger gently traced the contours of your face, tracing every outline of the contour of your nose, cheeks, and lastly lips. It lingered for more than a few seconds. He leaned in, slowly and carefully. He stared at you and let them blur as he stroked your cheeks.

           There was no response, not even an inkling of recognition or reaction.

           He exhaled shakily, taking off any remorse or guilt left in his conscience, and pressed his lips against yours. He savored the sweet taste that lingered on your dry lips.

           I love you, I love you, I love you…

           Despite their parched state, he paid no mind, lost in the intoxicating essence of your embrace. His kiss was light and soft, yet it held a fervent passion as if the dryness of your lips only intensified the craving for the delectable flavor he found there.

           I love you so much, [Name]. The things you do to me…

           With a happy sigh, he closed his eyes and relished every bit of your breath, wanting nothing more than to get drunk on its sweetness. Barbatos slowly pulled away, his lips tugging your bottom lip before it bounced back to its place. He panted, blinking for a few moments.

           A kiss with you has always been his favorite, and it didn’t take too long for him to know he wanted more because shortly he went back and connected his lips with yours again.

           A kiss here, and another kiss, and another, and another. It went on a cycle, an endless loop that he didn't even know how long he had been kissing you repeatedly. So sweet. So enticing. One short kiss after another, he wanted to engrave this in his mind.

           With every passionate lip-lock, he became more obsessed. In all honesty, he felt that he would die if he stopped, the taste still lingering in his mouth and permeating through his whole being. You’re the ethereal drug, a celestial intoxication that transports him to heavenly realms.

           Barbatos, feeling an unsettling shift in the air, abruptly sensed an intruder nearing the ancient ruins and broke the kiss. He gritted his teeth and summoned swift wind spirits to investigate the entrance. Their ethereal forms swirled with urgency as they darted towards the source of the disturbance.

           Whoever dared to step foot in here will not be spared. He already warned them if they wish to be spared from his wrath. The archon's eyes, usually serene, now flickered with an intensity born of both irritation and vigilance as he awaited the wind spirits' report.

           Upon checking, a lone maiden was standing near the wind barriers. She placed the bouquet of Cecilia flowers on the altar created by the Church for their offerings.

           "For Mondstadt, as always. For the verdant plains, for the hills, and for the forests of Mondstadt. May they continue to flourish, as always. For Mondstadt, as always. For the everlasting freedom of Mondstadt from the blizzard and the tyrant, whose coldness and oppression are one and the same.”

           What a peculiar girl letting herself drenched in rain. The rain was strong and despite the bad weather, she still offered her prayers to him.

           “Oh, Anemo Archon. I do not wish for anything but for the good health of my mother. I implore you to please guard her against illness and adversity,”

           Her prayers echoed in his ears. Barbatos crossed his arms and watched her from afar through the eyes of the spirit he cast. A lot of things have changed in Mondstadt. The city, the village, and even Stormterror’s Lair where he currently resides with you.

           He didn’t pay any particular attention to the changes outside of the ruins. But he did notice many of his people frequently visited this area to pray and ask for their blessings. Perhaps someone from the Church must have noticed him and thought this was his abode, and decided to create a shrine here, but also making sure it won’t ever disturb him.

           It’s been a while since Ludi Harpastum ended. He didn’t want to admit it but he’s been counting the days since you’ve been asleep. From minutes to hours, hours to days, and days to weeks, he never left your side. But he didn’t merely sulk in the corner, waiting for signs of you waking up. Unlike before, he decided to terraform the ruins to make it more to your liking.

           He remembers very well that you love the garden of the manor, so he made a special area for you. He remembers you love your library in the tower, so he prepared lots of books for you to read. He remembers the fountain you’d always whisper your wishes at, so he built it for you. All these things he had done, he did it for you while he waited for you to open your eyes.

           The very essence of his being intertwined with the elements, breathing life into the desolate ruins. As he lifted his hands, a harmonious dance of nature began.

           The once crumbling tower regained its majestic stature, rising from the ground as if it had never suffered the scars of time. Petals of vibrant flowers cascaded in a gentle descent, wrapping around the structure like a colorful embrace. An intricate tapestry of blossoms adorned the surroundings, replacing the debris and rubble with a carpet of nature's beauty.

           The Anemo Archon had woven a tapestry of renewal and growth, turning the dilapidated ruins into a sanctuary of life and vitality. The air was filled with the sweet fragrance of blossoms, and the ambiance echoed the melody of his power, a testament to the god's ability to shape the very fabric of the world.

           He made the once rubbled, stormy lair into a sanctuary haven for his dear. It’s his gift for you that once you’re awake, you’ll dance around with him and live the life with him you’ve always dreamed of.

           He must admit though, the shrine built by the Church of Favonius was exceptionally well made and further enhanced the beauty of this sanctuary. Barbatos sighed, contemplating if he should aid the young girl by sheltering her. He never meant to become a ruthless archon and that is far from his ideals.

           His drastic change was all because of Aether. Of course, it was him. He’s too smart for his own good and Barbatos hates how quick he is to catch on to his relationship with you. But he’s here to change everything. So if he wanted to make a good image as an archon to his people, then so be it. After all, he only wanted your perception of him and that’s all he cares about. Nothing more, nothing else.

           He’ll make everything right this time. If you see him as reliable and trustworthy, then he’ll be loved by you. Finally taking his decision, he ordered his little spirits to guide the girl to find shelter. As for her prayers…

           Barbatos is no genie. He couldn’t guarantee all of his followers’ prayers. He’s not like the Dendro Archon who could cure illnesses…

           He sighed, the weight of his responsibilities settling on his shoulders. Being an archon was not a walk in the park. The expectations of the people, the intricacies of diplomacy with other nations, the constant struggle to maintain balance—all of it took its toll. Barbatos couldn't afford to let his guard down.

           News about his rampage must have reached his neighboring countries and he doesn’t want another burden to be added to his already tumultuous situation. As he watched the wind spirits guide the girl to safety, he couldn't help but feel the isolation that came with his position.

           The tower, now restored, stood as a symbol of his power, but it also harbored the secrets he desperately wanted to keep hidden. Aether's presence had disrupted the delicate equilibrium he had crafted, forcing him to confront the challenges that came with being both a god and a man.

           His thoughts circled back to you. Would you ever understand the complexities of his existence? The burden he carried for Mondstadt and its people? As the archon, he had to maintain an image, but beneath the divine facade, there was a being struggling with the desire for love and understanding. He also wanted you to see him as Barbatos.

           Not the Anemo Archon, but simply Barbatos, a young man who loves you through Celestia and Teyvat. Who harbored feelings for you for millennia.

           He shook off his inner turmoil, his eyes focusing on the horizon beyond the borders of the sanctuary. The wind carried whispers of prayers, and he knew he couldn't fulfill them all. The duties of an archon were exceptionally hard, and the struggles were his to bear. The winds howled in response, a melancholic melody echoing the challenges he faced.

           He sighed for the nth time, exhaustion began to creep over him. He placed the back of his hand over to his head to ease the throbbing pain of a migraine. The constant internal conflict and the strain of maintaining appearances were taking their toll.

           As he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, he summoned a gentle breeze to soothe his troubled mind. The rustle of leaves and the familiar scent of the wind helped him find a moment of peace amidst the chaos. He turned his back and returned to where you were.

           Barbatos kissed you on the lips and it calmed him, more effective than the breeze he used to himself. You’re always his cure, the one constant that brought tranquility to his turbulent existence. The soft touch of your lips against his was a momentary escape from the weight of his responsibilities. As he pulled away, a faint smile played on his lips, grateful for the solace you unknowingly provided him.

           “I promise you, I’ll make this our sanctuary.”

           At the end of his lonely world, maybe he’ll arrive at his true world with no regrets or remorse.

taglist: @trust-the-oxygen @so-uncute

sorry for the delay on the update. i announced on my tumblr that i would be posting this chapter in late august or early september but a lot of things happened and i self-sabotaged this sob

[ashthewaterghoul]

Bound By Our Sins - A Dewther One Shot

    “Go kneel.” Aether said, nodding his head at the prayer candles and the plush, red velvet kneeler in front of them. Dew’s tail swished in curiosity as he followed Aether’s command, lighting a candle with the tip of his finger and clasping his hands together. He could feel Aether standing behind him, soon crouching as Dew thickly swallowed. “Pray.” Aether said, his breath tickling the back of Dew’s pointed ear. Dew took a deep breath, clearing his throat and willing his voice not to crack. “Our father who art in HeeEELLLL!” Dew cried out as Aether unceremoniously shoved one thick finger into his hole. Or, Aether notices Dewdrop hasn't been praying as much as he should. So, like any good mate, he fucks Dew over the altar :)

Words: 2.7k

Relationships: Dew/Aether

Tags: Smut, anal sex, knotting, blasphemy, restraints and collars, kind of ritual sex?, Aether gets called daddy but it's only once for a joke, a smidge of aftercare.

A/n: This is the restraint that gets used >:)

~~~

    “Aeth? What are we doing in here?” Dew called into the Chapel as he pushed open the ornately carved door.

    When Dew came back from his work in the music room, there was a note on the nest to meet in here and was signed by his mate with no elaboration.

    As Dew let the Chapel’s door shut behind him the door to the confessional booth opened with impeccable timing.

    “Really?” Dew said, hands on hips. Aether had always been a little weirdly eager with fucking in the confessional booth.

    Silence was his answer and he rolled his eyes with a huff as he walked up the pews and sat himself in the box. The wooden mesh separating him from the from the other side was dimly lit, but enough was there to see the outline of his mate’s side profile.

    “Forgive me, Daddy, for I have sinned.” Dew grinned.

    A gruff laugh followed.

    “Words I like to hear, Little One.” Aether’s smirk could be heard in his voice.

    “Why are we here?” Dew asked, a bit of annoyance heard in his. He wasn’t exactly expecting any sort of playtime tonight.

    “You said it yourself. You’ve sinned. It’s been an awful while since you confessed, Dewdrop.”

Read below the cut or on ao3

    “You’re not much better! We sin together a lot of the time.” Dew chuckled.

    “Humour me.” Aether said, “Why do you think I’ve called you here this evening?”

    Dew thought about why Aether usually likes to play out these little scenes and came up blank. He hadn’t been too messy recently, or too sassy, or testing Aether’s patience - nothing like that…

    Aether sighed when Dew said nothing.

    “I think you’ve been too distracted recently. From your worship and prayers. I think you’re getting too vain with all the popularity you’ve gotten from touring.” Aether grinned although it couldn’t be seen.

    Dew blinked as he realised that it had indeed been a while since he prayed or even came to mass. He was usually the most devout of the Ghouls and came to pray at least every night and usually every morning too.

    Aether also realised that since Dew came home from the last tour – the first one they weren’t together for – his little mate had been walking with a certain air about him that Aether didn’t appreciate too much. He wouldn’t call it outright cockiness but it was getting too close for the former guitarist’s comfort.

    “Nothing to say for yourself?” Aether said when Dew had, uncharacteristically, stayed quiet.

    “Well, I… I was jetlagged, the first few days.” Dew said, swallowing loudly.

    “Oh? Well, what about all the other days?” Aether asked.

    Dew didn’t have an answer and hung his head in shame.

    Through the partition, Dew could hear the rustle of clothes as Aether reached for something, and a clink of metal as he retrieved whatever he was looking for. Dew had no clue which of their toys Aether might have brought with him. Maybe it was something new? That anticipation made his belly clench and a shaky breath left him as his jeans seemed to become a little tighter.

    “You have a lot of prayers to make up for, Dewdrop.” Aether said, popping the p on his mate’s name.

    “Yes, I do. Is that my penance?” Dew asked.

    Another gruff chuckle rang through.

    “Something like that.” Aether said and stood up, leaving his side of the box and coming round to Dew’s side, opening the door and dangling the new toy on two outstretched fingers.

    Dew watched as the gold reflected the candle flames in the low light, swallowing hard as his eyes traced the collar and the contraption that hung off it – a thick rod with a few shorter bars running across with small gaps between. This was definitely new.

    “Wh- what is it?” Dew asked.

    “We’re going to honour our Lord, give him a little offering, and you’re going to keep praying.” Aether said simply. “Strip.”

    Dew shivered at the command in his voice but stood up and did so, folding his clothes neatly on the wooden bench in the confessional and tucking his shoes underneath the bench in the way he knows Aether appreciates. He didn’t really feel like being a brat today.

    Aether only moved out the way when he was satisfied, detaching the extra part to the collar.

    “We’ll see if we need this.” The larger Ghoul said, pocketing the additional contraption and clasping the metal band shut around the base of Dew’s slender neck.

    The Fire Ghoul’s skin broke out into goosebumps as the cold metal hit his naturally heated flesh. The sensation, the command from Aether and the fact that his mate was still fully clothed made his chubbed little cock gave an interested kick.

    Aether smirked as he saw it and traced a claw down Dew’s chest, making sure to flick at one of his nipple rings, making the Fire Ghoul moan.

    “Go kneel.” Aether said, nodding his head at the prayer candles and the plush, red velvet kneeler in front of them.

    Dew’s tail swished in curiosity as he followed Aether’s command, lighting a candle with the tip of his finger and clasping his hands together. He could feel Aether standing behind him, soon crouching as Dew thickly swallowed.

    “Pray.” Aether said, his breath tickling the back of Dew’s pointed ear.

    Dew took a deep breath, clearing his throat and willing his voice not to crack.

    “Our father who art in HeeEELLLL!” Dew cried out as Aether unceremoniously shoved one thick finger into his hole.

    “Keep going.” Aether said as if nothing was amiss, lazily thrusting his finger in and out of Dew’s naturally slicked hole – an old remnant of his Water Ghoul days that was conveniently left behind after the transition.

    Dew panted before managing to find his words again.

    “Unhallowed by thy na- ah -ame. Cursed be the sons and daughters of… of thine nemesis whom are to blame. Thy kingdom come, nem- Ah!” Dew moaned out as Aether inserted a second digit.

    The little Ghoul couldn’t help but push back onto his mates thick fingers until his ass was resting in his hand, moans echoing through the empty Chapel and not caring one bit if anyone outside could hear. They should be used to it by now anyway.

    “Keep going.” Aether said, working Dew’s walls apart and opening him to the point they both loved; enough for Aether to easily slide in but just tight enough to feel the stretch of it.

    Dew bit his bottom lip and started a second prayer.

    “L- Lord Lucifer, I apologise for my laxity in worship as of- mmh! As of late. I ask for your- Aeth!” Dew moaned out as his mate petted against his prostate, hands falling to grab where they could as his body sparked with pleasure.

   “Pray!” Aether snarled into his ear.

    Dew lifted his hands back up and shakily pressed his palms together.

   “I ask for your m- most unholy guidance and to… fuck… to cast your black light to show me the way to unri- righteousness.” Dew couldn’t help but roll his hips against the fingers in his ass.

    “Focus.” Aether said, his other hand grabbing Dew’s bony pelvis and pinched the skin with his claws.

    Dew finished his prayer, calling out his nemA with loud moans again as Aether inserted yet another finger. The Fire Ghoul’s hands again flew to grab what they could, one going backwards to the Quint’s stocky thigh.

    “You are meant to pray. Can you not even do that?” Aether asked in a teasing voice, ripping his three digits from his mate’s body in one go, Dew’s hole winking at him and his hips pushing back to chase them and satiate the sudden emptiness.

    “Stand up.” Aether ordered and Dew held back a sob as he obeyed, his cock hard and standing straight out from between his legs.

    Aether fished the extra part to the collar back out and grabbed one of Dew’s wrists, slotting one finger into each of the small gaps between the short bars and repeating on the other side. He clipped the restraint back onto the collar and tightened it until Dew’s fingers were thoroughly squeezed into the toy, the slight discomfort and lick of pain only making Dew more aroused and made a drop of pre leak from his tip, falling onto the marble floor with a small splat that made Aether chuckle.

    With Dew’s hands now bound to be clasped in prayer and up by his face, Aether pushed his shoulder and bullied him over to the altar. They’d done similar things enough times by now for Dew to know to rest his elbows on the cloth that covered the stone altar and bend over it, presenting his rear to his mate, tail raised up out of the way and in a perfect arch above his back.

   “There we go. You look so much better here.” Aether said as he let his hands wander and grope and squeeze wherever he pleased.

    The little Ghoul shivered again as he heard Aether’s fly unzip and moaned loudly when he felt the tip of his mate’s cock against his hole, fighting every instinct to push back onto it.

    “Pray.” Aether commanded again and Dew didn’t hesitate.

    “Our dark Lord, I give myself – my body and my lust – as an offering for your most unholy conquests. My time spent here tonight is a testament to my loyalty and I hope you will see fit to reward me one day when I have made up for my vanity in not properly worshipping for some time.”

    Dew rattled it off in rapid speed - a show of complete and utter word vomit. Aether laughed at the desperation. He did follow his instructions though and Aether rewarded him with the tip of his cock, a lewd squelch filling the Chapel as his girth displaced the slick that was running in abundance.

    “Ah! Aeth!” Dew called out, widening his stance and pressing his hips back, feeling the collar dig into the back of his neck and the restraint pull on his fingers and wrists.

    “Keep praying.” Aether ordered, his voice low and gravelly in his throat.

    As Dew went on to pray for the prosperity of the Ministry and success in spreading His word, Aether spread open Dew’s cheeks and watched as his hole eagerly swallowed his cock.

    As soon as Dew felt Aether bottom out inside him, he ached to wrap a hand around his own cock. Managing to look down, he could see it hard-beyond-hard and the tip flushed purple. He tried to free a hand from the metal that bound him but it was of no use. He whimpered too as his tail was wrapped around Aether’s forearm, holding the base so Dew couldn’t even the slender appendage around himself for some relief.

    “We should give our Lord an offering while we’re at this altar, shouldn’t we?” Aether said, his voice casual as if he isn’t balls deep in his mate where anyone could walk in and see them.

    Dew nodded, feeling the metal of the collar glide up and down his sweat-slicked nape.

    Aether smirked as he slowly pulled back, almost all the way out, before sliding back in, drawing a long and soft moan from Dew. Still, he tried to press his hips back against his mate but the Quint used the hold on his tail to press him against the edge of the altar, the cold stone pressing into his upper thighs and his cock laid atop the cloth, no doubt leaving a dark patch in the fabric from all the pre he can feel leaking from his tip in a similar cascade to the slick his hole is producing.

    “Oh, Aeth… Please!” Dew cried as his mate continued, the torturously slow pace starting to be more frustrating than enjoyable although that was probably intentional.

    “Pray.” Aether commanded again, his voice louder and bouncing off the Chapel’s walls along with the slap of their skin as he gave one harsh thrust to punctuate his word.

    “Our… Our Lord, take our b- bodies as y- your… fuck… your unholy vessels. We give you our lust a- as an offering of sin.” Dew’s worship was rewarded with Aether’s hips slowly gaining speed, rolling back and forth at an even and leisurely pace that Dew found a little more satisfaction in. Especially when Aether’s mushroom tip nudged at his prostate, send jolts of pleasure through his body and more moans through the Chapel.

    “Good boy.” Aether rewarded when Dew finished his prayer, a grin forming when Dew started praying again with no prompt.

    By the third unprompted prayer, Dew could barely get out his “nemA” and Aether’s knot had inflated, begging for entry in the warm and wet hole it always perfectly locked into.

    Dew’s never been able to hold back any noise and certainly doesn’t put any effort in now, letting all his moans and cries echo throughout the unhallowed hall of their worship.

    “Please… Aeth…” Dew slurred, his head only held up because Aether was holding the back of the collar and Dew’s hands fought against the restraints around his fingers, wanting to slump into bonelessness.

    The metal had been heated up by Dew’s element as a result of how worked up he’d become, and Aether had to use his own Quintessence to make sure his hand didn’t get burned as he held onto it, using it as leverage to fuck his mate.

    “Nngh! One last prayer, and you can cum.” Aether panted, his own limit approaching as his thighs burned against the exertion of their carnal activities.

    Dew’s whine could probably be heard on the other end of the Ministry with how loud it was. But, with his hands bound in worship, he gathered up enough of the few braincells he currently had available and strung a few words together.

    “D- Dark Father, I- oh… I beg your forgiveness, and hope my b- body and lust have- mmhhh! Have spoken as an offering t- to my dedication to your darkest word… n- nemA!”

    Each word was a battle but Dew was, once again, rewarded for his reverence.

    As the prayer concluded, Aether gave one last thrust of his hips, slapping their thighs together and locking his knot deep inside Dew’s body.

   “Oh, fuck! Dewy!” Aether called as he came deep inside his mate’s slick channel.

    Dew came untouched as soon as the fattest part of the Quint’s knot had pushed past his rim. Thick and hot spurts of his spend painting the cloth on the altar in an obscene artwork of sin.

    “Nnngghh, fuck!” He strained out against the pleasure coursing through his entire body.

    Aether grinded his knot as deep as he could to work them both through the aftershocks to their highs, feeling when both of them were truly spent. He reached a hand around to loosen the restraints on Dew’s fingers and then released the clasp to the collar, letting it clatter atop the altar and into the mess of cum and slick and sweat but he’ll worry about cleaning that up later. For now, he focused on Dew.

    “Give me your hands, love.” Aether said softly and took Dew’s bony digits, flexing each one gently before moving to his wrist, his elbow then shoulder, making sure everything is nicely stretched and not too stiff from the time spent bound. He repeated the procedure on the other side too and placed a Quintessence-laced kiss on the back of Dew’s neck to help anywhere the collar may have uncomfortably dug into his skin.

    All the while, Dew laid boneless on the altar, purring up a storm and trusting Aether to take care of him. He always took care of him so he knew there was nothing to worry about.

    Both Ghouls shivered as potent dark energy washed over the Chapel and where they were still stuck together at the altar. The prayer candles burned extra bright and the mess on the cloth disappeared with the energy too.

    Aether smirked as he realised what it all meant.

    “I think He accepted your apology.”

One shot master post can be found here

[felagund-the-valiant]

Your Father's Son - Curufin x maia!reader

For the first time ever, Curufin wishes he wouldn’t resemble his father so much.

Words: 1.3k

Tags: Curufin has a bit of an identity crisis, fluff, reader is a Maia of Aulë

A/N: I genuinely never thought the day would come where I write a fic for this guy. Honestly don’t care that this is probably not really canon compliant, this version simply speaks to me so much more. Since it’s pre-oath, I imagine the daddy issues just hadn’t taken on their final form yet. Guess I can still sneak this into @doodle-pops underrated character event 👀

Whenever Curufinwë and his family visited the Halls of Aulë, his father really lived up to his name. The fire of his fëa glowed in his eyes and filled his voice with an insurmountable passion, captivating all who listened, as he described new projects and techniques he had come up with. His mother always stood next to his father, beaming with pride at her husband’s accomplishments and occasionally chiming in with remarks about her own craft.

Today was a truly remarkable occasion. His father stood at the centre of the hall, holding an intricately crafted box in his hands.

“Thank you for so graciously receiving me and my family, Lord Aulë,” his deep voice boomed across the room. “Today, I am here to reveal my greatest creations yet. Behold.” He opened the box and produced three brightly gleaming gems. A collective gasp went through the hall and excited whispers broke out amongst the present Maiar and Elves.

“The Silmarils,” his father continued, “imbued with the light of the Two Trees themselves.” Curufinwë watched with pride, as his father was immediately swarmed by curious onlookers, hoping to gain a closer look at the Silmarils and ask him all manner of questions about the creative process.

He spotted a familiar face in the crowd and a pleasant tingle spread through his body. You wore an expression of pure awe, eyes glued to his father’s spectacular creations. How he wished you would look at him like that. He would gladly rip the Silmarils from his father’s hands to offer them to you if that’s what it took.

Sometimes he wondered if his feelings could ever be reciprocated. The Valar and Maiar seemed so close and yet so far away and to his knowledge, Maia and Elf couples weren’t exactly common.

Your eyes met and you offered him a happy smile, making your way over to him. “It is lovely to see you here, my lord,” you said with a polite bow.

“The pleasure is all mine,” he replied, taking your hand to ghost his lips across the back of it, delighting in the surprised blush on your face.

“What your father created … breathtaking. We’re all honoured to be in the presence of such a master craftsman,” you gushed.

Curufinwë’s smile almost bordered on smugness. How else could anyone feel in the presence of the greatest of the Eldar? He knew how much work his father had put into creating the Silmarils. How much of his fiery fëa had flown into them. All the sleepless hours slaving away in the smouldering forges had more than paid off.

“Oh, I almost forgot! Your mother showed me one of the new hair brooches you made for her. It was stunning, you truly are your father’s son. With all the talent you inherited from him, surely there are creations rivalling the Silmarils in your future.”

Curufinwë felt an unexpected pull in his chest. You truly are your father’s son. Words he had heard more times than he could count and that he normally perceived as the greatest of compliments, but somehow it felt different when they came from you. Was that all you thought about when you looked at him? How much he took after his father?

He should be honoured, like he always was. Who else but him could even dream of holding a candle to his father’s genius? And yet …  I’m more than just my father’s son, his mind told him, but he immediately suppressed that ridiculous complaint. He clenched his jaw and gave you a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I pray you are right.” His façade could never hope to deceive the perceptive Maiar.

“Are you all right, my lord? Did I say something to upset you?” you questioned but he only shook his head silently and took his leave with a grumbled Please excuse me.

He didn’t know how many corners he had turned when he just so happened to find himself in front of a mirror in an empty hallway. He recognised the frame’s design immediately – it was one of the first crafts for Aulë he had helped his father with. He could still vividly remember the pride he felt when his father had praised his diligent work and how he had begun to chase that high ever since. For as long as he could remember, nothing had mattered as much to him as gaining his father’s approval.

Curufinwë stared into the mirror, watching his father’s piercing gaze stare back at him. His face contorted into a scowl, just like his father’s did, when in the presence of his blasted half-brothers.

He tentatively reached up to loosen the pins that held his hair in place, watching it cascade across his shoulders and back like liquid midnight. No matter how much he wrecked his mind, he couldn’t think of a single hairstyle that his father did not favour as well.

“There you are,” your voice suddenly appeared next to him. He tried to hide how startled he was as he turned to face you.

“You followed me?”

“I wanted to make sure you’re all right,” you said timidly, as if debating whether or not to regret your action. He couldn’t give you an honest answer, so he remained silent.

After a while of uncomfortable silence, he spoke up. “Is he all you think about when you see me?”

“He?”

“My father.”

“What? Of course not-“

“I have talent of my own, you know. Everyone always says how alike we are. How grateful I should be, to have inherited his skills. But-“ His breath quickened, and he turned his back to you, running his hands across his face in frustration. I’m more than just my father’s son. “I don’t want you to think of me like that. Not you, of all people.”

You moved to stand in front of him and took his hands away from his face, holding them in your own instead. For a moment, Curufinwë thought he saw something akin to genuine affection in your eyes, but surely his mind was deceiving him.

“Who says that’s what I do?” you said tenderly. “I adore you for who you are. Your father-“

“You adore me?” he interrupted you in disbelief. A sudden realisation seemed to dawn on you, as if you hadn’t meant to use those words.

“Well, yes, of course I do,” you floundered, “A great deal. You are an amazing craftsman in your own right and the passion you show for your works is most certainly your own. I love when you come to me to show me new ideas, I … could listen to you for hours.” You bit your lower lip and looked away, your statement hanging heavy in the air for a moment.

Curufinwë swallowed strongly and then took hold of your chin to turn your face towards him slowly. “I … adore you, too,” he confessed and felt his heart swell as your eyes lit up with joy and your lips curved into a smile. “There’s only one opinion I value more than my father’s when it comes to my craft. Yours. Sharing my ideas with you is one of my greatest joys.”

“I don’t really know what to say,” you replied, but the smile on your face never faded.

“You don’t need to say anything. For now, let’s just … I don’t know. Come to terms with these feelings. And forget about my embarrassing insecurities,” he mumbled the last part and felt his cheeks heat up, hoping it wasn’t too noticeable.

You laughed and nodded. “I’d like that.”

A small part of him wondered if this is how his father had felt, when he discovered his mother’s mutual feelings, but he silenced that part immediately. Not now, idiot.

He shook his head, and a  relieved smile graced his features. Maybe the Maiar weren’t so far away after all. Maybe – just maybe – he didn’t mirror his father as much as everyone told him.

Coming from you, he chose to believe it for now.

[temple-of-hermes]

Celebration of the Fourth Ritual

Happy Wednesday to you all! Welcome to the first Celebration of the Fourth ritual! There will be a closeted-friendly option at the bottom of the post for those who can't be open about their practice.

The Ritual

Set up the ritual altar. You will need imagery of Hermes/his symbols, flowers, a cup, an offering, and incense. For the imagery, use whatever works best for you. His symbols, his sacred animals, whatever you're able to use. Place down the flowers, then the imagery, then the cup in front of them, then the incense. Place down the offering. Pour a libation into the cup. Preferably water, wine, or mead. Surround it and the offering with coins, all heads up (Either surround them together or separately. Whichever you prefer). Light the incense. Then it's time to pray. You can pray your own prayer or use the example prayer below.

Khaire Lord Hermes Ericydes, splendid and glorious one!

Thank you for your presence in my life.

I give this offering to you.

May it be pleasing in your eyes.

To you, my Great Lord!

Then move around. Do whatever movement you're capable of. Whether it's just sitting up in a bed or taking a long drive (if you leave the house be careful with the incense). You can walk, run, dance, exercise, etc. As long as you're up and moving you're good. Once finished, return to the altar for the closing prayer.

Again, you may use your own prayer or follow the example one below.

Khaire Hermes Cratus, strong and mighty one! I give this offering to you.

I praise and honor you, glorious one.

May my steps be swift and strong.

May my path be clear and bright.

May my words be clever and powerful.

And may this offering be honoring to you.

To the Great Lord Hermes!

Feel free to leave the altar up or take it down. Make sure to properly dispose of the offerings in the best way that you can realistically manage if they can go bad.

Please feel free to share your altars either by tagging the temple account in your post or by submitting them through asks or submissions here!

Closet-Friendly Version

Find some sort of imagery to represent Lord Hermes. Whatever you're capable of finding. Anything will do, just make sure to put some thought into it. Find a flower outside and bring it in. Place it on or in front of the item you're using to represent Lord Hermes. Light incense or a candle if possible. If you're able to, leave an offering. If not, it's alright. The flower can be the main offering. Say the first prayer (out loud or in your head, either works). After that, get up and move around as much as possible. Sit up, walk, dance, exercise, drive, whatever you can do. Then come back and recite the closing prayer. Feel free to either leave up the altar or take it down immediately. Return the flower outside. If you have other offerings, dispose of those in any way that you safely can if they can go bad.

Feel free to share pictures if you're able to!!

[nardo-headcanons]

National Holidays in the Ninja Villages + Bonus

I've had this idea in mind for a while, and now I finally got to write it down. Feel free to use these for your own works. Please tag me so I can read em all! <33

Iwagakure: The Lunar Lights of Gratitude The moon has a special place in the heart of every Iwa citizen. To them, it is a part of the earth, now observing its mother body from space. So naturally, the spectacle of a blue/super moon is a special occasion in Iwagakure. To honor and greet the moon, which is actually called "daughter" in the earth country's language, large fireworks are organized every new moon after a blue moon. As previously established, the earth country's firework industry is the largest, which Iwa shinobi are very proud of. Lighting the sky on fire and turning night into daytime is the Iwa way of giving back some of the light that the moon gives us at night.

Kirigakure: The Moonshine Sea Festival Despite the rivalry between the land of earth and the land of water, there is one thing they have in common, which is their spiritual connection to the moon and space. To water country citizens, especially the fishermen, the moon is a protector and guardian of the night, along with the stars. They strengthen the their connection to their biggest source of both faith and fear: the sea. The special climate in the water country, combined with its great biodiversity give a great habitat for biolumescent plankton, turning the sea itself into a starry night sky. It is one of the only pieces of culture that has been preserved, since the celebration itself was founded by the water country's union of fishermen, who don't belong to a particular clan with a kekkei genkai; most of the kekkei genkai wielders in Kiri have been wiped out, along with their culture, traditions and religions.

Sunagakure: Winter's Return The wind country is often ravaged by agonozingly hot summers, sand storms and heat waves are not a rarity in this country. While foreigners might groan and roll their eyes at the thought of the return to cold, foggy winter days, in Sunagakure it is a day for celebration. On the day where the sun stays for the longest, in the middle of the year, a large celebration is held across the nation. The way it is celebrated is different from family to family, and every Suna family is convinced that their way is the right one. Typically, markets are closed the whole day, and any missions rank B or below are halted for the day.

Kumogakure: Whale Festival of Generosity During winter, whales can be found emigrating along the lightning country's coast line, towards the land of iron. This holiday once came to be to celebrate the whales emigration towards a more prosperous habitat to mate and provide enough food for their young - a truly generous gesture. Over the years, many kumo shinobi have forgotten the old tale behind this festival, and it has turned into more of a mere gift giving occasion. And yet, it is widely popular and celebrated throughout the whole country.

Konoha: Cherry and Plum Blossom Viewing In Konoha, Hanami is annually celebrated. It is a custom celebrating the transitionary nature of cherry and plum blossoms blooming in spring.

BONUS: Uchiha Clan Honoring one's ancestors and traditions is of high importance to the Uchiha. Every year, on a clear fall night, the whole clan gathers together to light up little candles using their katon. The tealights are arranged in the Uchiha crest and left to light up the night and the clan share the evening together eating dinner, drinking hot tea and praying at the nakano shrine.

That's all, folks!

[caffeinatedmunchkin]

WIP Word Game !

Thank you for the tag @ollypopwrites ! I think this is such a neat little idea, thank you for including me! 💜 the excerpts from yours were très magnifique and I encourage everyone to check them out!

Rules:

You will be given a word. Then you share one sentence/excerpt from your WIP(s) that start with each letter of your word.

My key word is DEMON

I'm gonna do all the letters from my one WIP Actus Contritionis that I've teased already. I really want to see it through, so I'll hold myself accountable by giving it all my attention from hereon lol *insert obligatory rough draft warning here*

Do you like my dress, Father?" A question that crucifies, every breathy syllable driving the nail. Deeper, messier. He almost chokes aloud, knowing he'd spit thick crimson if he did. You look up at him with the shadow of the cross in your pupils. Fluttering lashes brandished like floggers, merciless and stinging. Whispered to him as if there's someone other than just him in the room. Maybe to keep God from hearing. Good faith discretion for a little of his honesty. Even tamed to but a murmur, the presence of his voice in your ear throbs penetrative, each pause an emptiness that aches for more. A gravel you’d rest on with bare knees just to rid yourself of the itch. The chapel, hollowed as it is, quivers to the sound of him, bends and ripples like black-top baked in sun. Towards the middle back in an empty pew, rubbing arms and elbows, he leads you in prayer, then consultation. He hides from your slip of leg behind the advice, offered like fingers forming a cross outstretched to ward off any sudden moves, any advances. Your fidgeting latches to a bracelet, a link of delicate chain, in hypnotic motion as you work it round and round, flicking your grip with your wrist pinched between. A wriggle in his stomach, the louder it growls the louder he prays. The Sarum Primer a mantra at the fore of his mind; God be in my head and in my understanding; God be in my eyes and in my looking-

My period." He runs so hot it's burns him frigid. A cough swallowed to a grunt, eyes sent upward his closed lids. Drawing the curtain. Shrouding what is surely to be a punishing conversation. He grasps at tact to navigate such foreign soil, steadies to keep fumbling to a minimum. He governs the spirituality of young women at an all girls school. He has for years. They've all had the social graces to not deign his listening ear with such impropriety. Another mold you shirk, vehement, rebellious. Confinement's a shackle, one to which you're ill-suited. Other times you're in the rectory, and he sits across from you and feels so bold as to grasp your hands and keep them. Soft palms and warm fingers swallowed by his mitts, wide and meaty with knuckles sharp and veins dark. He holds you without force in his grip, lame and lax as you clutch at him for guidance, for understanding. Crazed by righteousness he thinks of anointing you. Callouses and greed slick with oil he paints over your flushed face, your nakedness. A false modesty that blushes and burns under his trail, candle light caught in the glisten. Lubrication for his annexing, forbearance that dismantles you piece by piece. Each limb, each plane, each pore singled and sanctified for consecration, catalogued for future adoration. Scrupulous passes down the bridge of your nose, along the ridge of cheekbone. Tracing your lips curve, dragging a stripe down your chin.

Not in the shower, not anymore. Showers cleanse and rid the evidence. The water washes away his filth even as it splutters, vicious and final. His room is suffocating, sterile with his smell, his heat. A miserable bed for a miserable man that catches it all and holds it displayed. A shame that stains. Purged lechery, not in full, but a slow, painful trickle. A blood-letting. Sopped bedding that awaits his atonement, a reek of adolescence outgrown. Stretched tight, a nooses weight and shape. A Rorschach in the cotton as it dries and solidifies his ailment. And do you abstain, Father Brennan? Sinks back in through the post-exorcism haze. The hairs at his nape on end, scraped by a demon. His trembling stroked still by an angel. He wished he knew which one he could label you. A pendulum in swing, it never glances either side long enough that one might stick.

No pressure tags! : @emmg @jainydoe @aldisobey @xxnashiraxx @bardic-inspo @thepatronsaintoffilth @verbenaa @inkymoonbunny @nerdallwritey @pinkberrytea

Your key word, should you choose to accept, it is: Satin

[blissfulip]

—Legion

On AO3

 

Priest!Viktor x F!demon!reader

Rating: Explicit

Tags: Priest Kink, Blasphemy, Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self-Flagellation, Demon Sex, Demon Summoning, Demon/Human Relationships, demon reader, AU - Canon Divergence, Post medieval era, Dubious Science, Church Sex, Roman Catholicism, Catholic Guilt, Improper Use of Catholic Rituals, Shameless Smut, Masturbation, No use of Y/N, third person.

Cw: mentions of child abuse, masturbation. (separately, not related to one another)

Words: 2.4k

[A/N: we are so back yall, i think... (let me know if you want to be tagged or removed in future fic updates!)]

Tags: @ihopeinevergetsoberr @chemical-killjoy @jinxed-jk @bobobomao @queen-of-elves @thedustybunny @syren201 @thayfass @thehistoriangirl @hypocritic-trash-baby @zaunitearchives

Previous Next

V. (NSFW)

Preach, pray, consume, forgive, kneel, repent, repeat.

Viktor’s  worn fingers traced the grooves of the heavy missal as the morning light filtered through stained glass, casting lazy hues upon the cold stone floor. The scent of incense, mingling with the earthy aroma of old wood and dust, rose in spirals as thoughts meandered like the smoke. He recited every prayer, absent from the materiality needed but without a misstep. Not a single one of the faithful that had congregated on that Sunday morning noticed something was amiss, which in retrospect made it seem like he had been doing this for a while, unbeknownst to him.

Their eyes, some pious, others wearied by life's burdens, stared back in expectation, and in their collective gaze, he intoned the familiar prayers, his voice a low murmur resonating through the vaulted space. No part of his body registered the passage of time; only the ashen-colored light that now bathed the right-most side of the altar accused the hours he had lost to the liturgy. A soft voice calling out to him gently nudged him out of his stupor. 

“Father” The altar boy whispered with an outstretched hand that held the washed communion plates. 

“Thank you, Tobias.” Viktor said as he reached out to grab the plates, “I’m sorry, I’ve been a bit distracted as of late.” 

The boy nodded animatedly and skipped his way down to the altar again. Tobias was a lad of scarcely ten summers. Like many others—including Viktor himself—he had been ‘donated’ to the church. To everyone else, this was seen as a foolproof way to skip purgatory, a show of mercy from his parents that proved their love for him and their devotion to god. To Viktor—who was there on the day he arrived and was charged with paying his parents an appropriate amount for him—it was a desperate plea to guarantee his five other siblings did not starve to death.

Viktor looked down again, and the boy was still walking around, clad in a robe slightly too large for him, its hem brushing the floor. His small hands worked with care, putting out the candles with a long, brass taper. Viktor watched as the boy handled the sacred objects with a reverence that belied his tender age, so full of potential and untainted by cynicism. When he was done with his duties, he walked back over to where Viktor sat and stood there in silence, waiting for more orders. 

“What do you wish to be when you grow up?” Viktor asked casually.

He spoke quickly, like he had rehearsed it. “A priest, like you.”

Viktor let out a small, good-humored chuckle in response and raised an incredulous eyebrow. Tobias looked on both sides like he was afraid someone would be there to hear him before speaking again. 

“A stonemason, like my father.”

“Do you miss him?”

His glossy eyes didn’t escape Viktor’s, but he didn’t wish to pry for answers any further, afraid the boy’s feelings would end up triggering memories of his own. And even though Tobias quickly left after Viktor nodded in understanding, the memories he was trying to repress came flooding down. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The day his parents took him away was etched in Viktor’s memory with painful vagueness. Cold hands pried him from his mother’s skirt, her eyes wet and empty, filled with a sorrow too deep for words. He barely remembered her face, and now and then, when he tried to latch onto her ghost, she escaped him like smoke. His father’s voice, gruff and resigned as he muttered it was ‘for the best’, was the only thing he managed to recall clearly. He was never able to tell if he felt sad; although his tone seemed tired, it always had, this time seeming nothing more than a feeble attempt at justification. 

The heavy monastery door closed behind him with a finality that echoed through his young heart, and despite the fact that they lived nearby, he never saw them again. Stone walls towered over him, pressing in, their cold embrace devoid of the warmth and comfort he had known. Father Isidore's face, nothing more than a priest back then, loomed hard and unyielding, offering no solace.

Lonely nights were spent in a narrow cot. This was, for all intents and purposes, a better sleeping arrangement than what he previously had, but he longed for home, for the familiar sounds of his mother’s cooking and his father’s laughter as he woke up before sunrise, which had been replaced by an oppressive silence and whispered prayers. Days blurred into weeks, and the unfamiliar routine and stern discipline pressed down on his spirit as curiosity, once a joyful pursuit, became a dangerous trait to have.

He remembered the sting of Father Isidore’s cane against his skin, the punishment for asking questions deemed too freethinking. The pain on his back that burned with each strike, shame and pain mingling as his stern gaze bore into him, and the sickly feeling in his stomach when he smiled at him with the slimy insincerity of someone who believes he’s doing you a favor.

Back then, he bit his lip to stifle his cries, the taste of blood trickling down his throat that for so long he associated with fear, and now it had mutated into a morbid parade of all the wrong sentiments: pleasure, anger, and defiance. If only little Viktor the altar boy knew that the joy of discovery that was crushed under the weight of dogma and the vibrant world of his imagination that was stifled by the constant threat of retribution were once again enkindled, and by the spine-chilling yet exciting presence of a demonic creature nonetheless, he would not believe it. 

The university days provided a brief respite from the oppressive confines of the monastery. The city, alive with possibilities, offered a tantalizing glimpse of freedom. The rush of independence was exhilarating, a stark contrast to the rigid discipline he had known. Yet, even as the world beyond the monastery beckoned, he found himself bound by an inexplicable sense of duty. The decision to return was made—a choice that haunted him. The familiar chains of the clergy tightened around him, the opportunity for escape slipping away.

And although each passing year brought a deeper sense of regret and the burden of faith grew heavier, the ache of what could have been was, at this very moment, no longer a constant. His path led him to where he stood now, an experience so formidably unique that it felt tailor-made for him. Did he deserve such a test from god? It depended on how you saw it. If this was a punishment, then it was fit for all the sin that blackened his soul, and he would endure it in silent penitence. But if this was a reward for being a pious servant and having endured the temptation of unbridled knowledge before, a bigger and more difficult challenge for Viktor to prove his worth, then he did not feel deserving of it. 

Either way, no matter how he sliced it, he was failing. Whether this test had been put before him to teach him restraint or not, it was doing quite the opposite. She had given him a new set of eyes, and now he found a fresh and bitter perspective for every aspect of his practice that he had accepted and embraced before.

Confession was no longer a way for him to provide the people in his community with relief and forgiveness; it was a dirty show of egos for people who are disgustingly contaminated by greed and gluttony to flaunt their superiority in the eyes of a corrupt institution. Their opulent vestments were nothing more than a vainglorious boast of wealth, unfit for a group of men who made a vow of poverty to mirror the temperance of their god. The altar boys were only an unfortunate bunch of children stripped of their choices due to their inescapable place in society, a society where the poor, the vulnerable, and the young were exploited with the promise of salvation if they paid tithe and served their godly emissaries. 

And then there was the liturgy. Granted, he was never too entranced by any of the rites he had to perform; they had always felt like a distant repetition of nonsensical words that he felt no real connection to, as he always felt closer to god in silent and private prayer, but now, with his unintentional new perspective, it was the aspect that felt the most different to him. 

For decades, he had been taught to be passive, to repress, and to contain. To escape anything that was even remotely tempting and to be satisfied and held in contempt by the only nude body he’d ever be allowed to see, the one nailed to a cross. Why is it then that the art scattered around the church puts such an intent focus on the immaculate figures of naked men? Why is it that he is thought to rub, to whisper, and to consume in that context but is forced to repress such acts once he steps down the altar?

Viktor took a deep breath. His long fingers twirled the beads of his rosary absentmindedly as he pondered, and before realizing what he was doing, he brought it up to his nose, taking in the faint smell of roses that still lingered from when it was made. While he did that, images ran through his mind—of himself kissing the crucifix during Holy Week, the defined torsos carefully painted in the sacred images of saints, the almost ecstatic feeling brought by communion. Flashes that appeared in quick succession fused with the intense pleasure of flagellation and the still vibrant recollection of what She had made him feel. 

___________________________________________________________________

He knew those thoughts would lead to these, and not only did he purposefully not repress them, but he was hoping as much. There was that distinct tension, that heightened awareness of his body, that sense of electricity that seemed to hum just beneath his skin. Something that was no longer new to him and also no longer unwelcome. 

He stood from the chair he had spent the afternoon rotting away in deep thought on and lethargically walked back to his quarters. Once there and with the door tightly shut behind him, he fell on his back against the stubborn mattress, not waiting even a moment before pulling up the fabric of his cassock to reveal the tight clasp of his trousers. 

His fingers trembled as they moved to untie the sash with deliberate slowness, the anticipation heightening his senses. He hesitated for a moment, as if seeking some final absolution, before he grasped his swelling desire. An almost cynical laugh escaped his lips as he began to stroke himself, the motion tentative at first, then more assured as he slowly understood the intensity of his own touch. The sensation was electric, his body responding with a fervor that he had only experienced deep in prayer. 

His free hand, with his rosary entangled between his fingers, gripped the edge of the cot, knuckles white with tension as the wooden frame creaked under the strain and the beads etched small marks into his skin. As the feeling of that distracted him from the pressing heat gathering with each pump, another unusual feeling took him out of the moment. 

The same bone-chilling breeze he had felt for the past few days, every time she came around. There was no fear inside of him this time and no guilt either, so when her figure became clear and visible, he didn’t flinch, freeze, or even stop what he was doing. A silent acknowledgement was given in the form of a lingering look, before the pleasure building to an almost unbearable intensity urged him to start moving his hand once again. 

She looked at him with pleased eyes, contemptuous but not gloating. She recognized that her role had been simply one of a catalyst for something that had been inside of Viktor all along. Did she want to participate? Of course, but there would be a time for that; this was his victory to enjoy. 

He continued stroking with a rhythm characteristic of someone who was slowly trying to connect with his own body, not rushed by guilt or fear. In the midst of one of the pauses he took to prevent himself from coming to his release too early, he took notice of her again, still standing opposite him near the door. 

“Will you be in hell to welcome me when I die?”

“Hell is now, this, and here.”

“So there is no realm of eternal punishment?” Viktor chuckled bitterly. 

“If there was, it wouldn’t be for people like you.” 

“Eh, I don’t believe that.”

“Can you confidently say...” She started as she walked over and kneeled near the edge of the bed where Viktor sat, gently placing one of her cold hands over the one that gripped his cock. “...that something that feels like this is undoubtedly immoral?”

She slowly guided him up and down once again, increasing the pressure of his grip with her own as Viktor looked into her obscured eyes, mouth agape. 

“Perhaps, though I’m prepared to pay the price.” He said, almost in a whisper. 

They both continued moving, aided by her firm touch over his hand, and the pressure building became almost unbearable. In those final moments, his thoughts became a blur, a cacophony of want, desire, and need, with part of him wanting to touch her and another part wanting to completely lean back and let her finish him off. Instead, his body tensed right where he was, every muscle tightening as he reached his climax with a shuddering release that left him gasping for breath.

The crucifix dangled on his neck as he started to lean over. 

[keeksandgigz]

in the wind and in the water

eddie munson x reader

a/n: This came from my headcanon that Eddie is a Sagittarius close to Christmas and hates his birthday so uhh enjoy (can be read as being in the same universe of one breath in, three breaths out) for context, you and Eddie have moved out of Hawkins and are now going back for the holidays.

cw: 3.2k words, sad language, mention of parental death, mention of alcoholism, mention of PTSD, some fluffy bits, mention of younger Eddie being sad (that deserved a tw), just overall angst with a happy ending, no y/n, no physical description of reader

baby taglist: @kellyxo1, @cryingglightningg, @tlclick73 (do let me know if you wanna be tagged in any future works!)

inspired by chemtrails over the country club by lana del rey

please like, comment and reblog! feedback is always appreciated and my ask box is always open <3

December 21st, 1990

The snow is unforgiving. Much like the passage of time. He turns 24 today.

He's alone in his bed. The heating in the trailer hasn't been working properly for years, he shudders in the layers he wore to sleep, in the mountains of blankets Wayne had given him once he'd decided to retire for the night. His uncle had even offered to give him his heater, Eddie declined.

You'd arrived in Hawkins early in the afternoon, Eddie's van once again withstanding the drive to your parents' house, where he'd dropped you off.

He'd been offered to stay, but the thought of Wayne being alone even if he was in the same town made his heart shrivel like the gray leaves in your pretty front yard decorated for Christmas.

You'd asked if he needed you to stay with him, in case of any night terrors, but he'd refused. He didn't want to put you through the arctic temperatures of his room in the winter. Once he'd dropped you off with your family he drove off towards Forest Hills.

That place felt haunting during Christmastime. Not that it was any less creepy all- year round, but there was an eerie feeling in the dirty, grey snow, the holiday spirit that attempted to come alive over their side of town felt more like the last dying breath of Father Christmas.

The flickering colorful lights, empty, barren Christmas trees. He saw a bunch of kids playing in the dirty snow.

He prayed there weren't any glass shards from the bottle of some drunken father, coming home to screams and cries. He still remembers the feeling.

He'd eaten crappy TV dinners, missing your warm stews and soups you'd make around this time. Wayne had insisted he took the armchair. He sank into it with guilt overtaking him.

The only part of Hawkins he'd never wanted to leave behind.

He gets out of bed, carrying a makeshift cape made out of a blanket. He smiles to himself, his mom would've called him Superman, and he would've started running around the house with his fist straight in the air.

But today there's just him. Him and a fancy cupcake with a candle stabbed in it Wayne must have spent at least $30 on. A sticky note reads 'In the next town over for a job, will be home by 6. Happy Birthday, kid'

He exhales, he's tempted to drive over to you, but it's still too early and you, ever the late bird, are still asleep.

He pictures you in your small twin bed in some silly pajamas you found in your drawers, happily snoring in the warmth of your home. He misses you in the kitchen making coffee, dancing around to some jazz record you found in his pile.

He runs in his room, grabbing a lighter from his old weed stash, which now contains a dirty bong and a broken glass pipe and a yellow lighter with barely any fluid in it. He grabs it and goes back into the kitchen, lighting the candle on the small chocolate cupcake.

Make a wish! his mom would have said. Make a wish, Eddie!

His mind scrambles to find something. A do- over. To do his life again. Choose a better dad. Let his mom live. Be able to see his mom's smile again.

The wax falls over the white frosting while he ruminates. What good is a wish if it never comes true?

He blows the candle. "Happy Birthday to me" he's sarcastic about it. There's nothing happy with the way the Christmas tree in the corner seems to be staring back at him, as barren and as empty as his mind.

The white smoke from the candle envelops the kitchen as he sets it back down on a plate. He'll share it with you later.

Then he goes back into his room and lays on the floor, enveloped by three quilted blankets, and just stares at the ceiling.

Nobody ever remembered Eddie’s birthday. Except his mom. 

When he turned six she took him to get pancakes. She made sure they were extra special for him, a smiley face made out of chocolate chips adorned his breakfast as he drowned it in maple syrup. December 1972, there’s a polaroid of the two of them from that day he’d kept in an old run- down copy of The Hobbit. The one she’d gotten him that same day. 

When his mom died and he went to live with his dad, December 21st, 1973 was the year his birthday began to cease existing. “What do you need a birthday for, Junior? Christmas is right around the corner” his dad bellowed over a cup of spiked hot chocolate that was more whiskey than milk. 

Christmas 1973, Eddie's dad taught him to pick locks as a gift.

Sometimes, his dad wasn’t even around for his birthday. He spent his day cooped up in his home, scrounging for whatever he could eat. He’d learned to hate Christmas. And his birthday. 

One December, after being left at home for a week, on Christmas day, Wayne came to visit. He came to wish Al and Eddie Merry Christmas, bringing some socks for the kid.

When he opened the door, Wayne found Eddie on the couch eating stale cereal dust.

“Where’s your dad, kid?” Wayne had asked. Eddie just shrugged.

“He’ll be back.” Christmas 1975.

Wayne looked around the house. Eddie had learned to use a stove, but not to wash the dishes. A pile of them sat precariously in the sink, the odor emanating from there made the man assume Eddie had grown nose blind to it.

He’d also not been taught to shower regularly, as he found a ball of matted hair in the back of Eddie’s skull. Grown nose blind to his own smell, too. He sighed.

“My mommy would brush my hair for me” the kid protested.

After many wails and I hate yous, Eddie was brought back to Wayne’s trailer, where they spent the rest of Christmas day trying to get rid of the matted hair.

After a couple hours, Wayne had grown tired, seeing little to no progress. As a man of not really much patience and resources, he’d grabbed his razor and some kitchen scissors and shaved Eddie’s head.

Christmas 1975, the year Eddie got a buzz cut as a present.

He'd kept that same buzz cut all through the end of elementary until seventh grade. "Good for lice," Wayne explained.

Eddie had mentioned in passing that his dad always forgot his birthday. Wayne’s ears perked up.

“When’s your birthday, kid?” he’d asked, leaning forward on the armchair while Eddie was playing with some sort of action figures he’d drawn on paper.

“Oh, December 21st” then he went back to his game.

Wayne ran to the calendar he kept hanging on the kitchen wall and scrolled through the pages. He grabbed a pen and wrote Eddie’s Birthday in bold red letters. He never forgot another one.

So when you came around, after everything that had happened in Hawkins, his birthday was the last of his problems. You'd met in one of the makeshift infirmaries spread throughout the town. He called you his 'cot buddy.' After the summer, you both were able to move back into your houses.

You hung out pretty much almost every day, not really bothering to put a label on whatever it was that was happening between the both of you. Enjoying and reveling in each other's company, healing. Also kissing.

Unprompted you’d asked him “So… what are we doing next week?”

The hairs on his neck stood straight, in fear he’d forgotten a date. 

“Sorry, sweetheart, I don’t mean to be stupid, but what’s next week?” he’d asked, sheepish, scared you were gonna get mad at him. 

“Your birthday, silly. I asked around. Tell me why Dustin had to hack into your old student files to get that information. Nobody knew when your birthday was” you laughed “I literally asked everyone. It’s like you’ve never been born” you said. 

He thought it was irrelevant. All his friends would go on winter vacation after final exams, there was no one to celebrate his birthday with but Uncle Wayne. He’d take him to see a movie, use his savings to treat him to something that wasn’t TV dinners or Spaghettios.   

After that conversation you two had, you’d made it a tradition to bake him a cake. Chocolate with cream cheese frosting. You’d put together a party for him at your house. Invited all his friends. You’d get him two presents. One for his birthday, one for Christmas. 

On Christmas day you’d handed him a box, he looked at you confused. 

“What’s all this about? I already got my gift, hon. Literally four days ago, that new vest was really cool, see I’m wearing it right now” he said, pointing at his new denim battle  vest. 

“That was your birthday gift, Ed. This is Christmas” you smiled at him. 

He’d never felt more loved before. His friends pitched in and had gotten him a new record player as both a birthday and Christmas present. You’d gotten him a bunch of new records. Megadeth, Anthrax, Slayer.

His eyes did light up like a kid on Christmas day.

Christmas 1986, the year Eddie got a girlfriend. And some sick presents.

A knocking startles him. He’d fallen asleep on the floor, wrapped up in blankets.

He looks at his watch. 2:00 pm.

Groggy, he stands up and slides his hands in the pockets of his sweater and goes to see who it is.

“Ed!! Ed, c’mon open up! I'm freezing out here” it’s you.

He opens the door and you run in, seeking refuge from the snow. You’re holding a small box. You look so pretty, face bitten by the cold, making the tips of your ears and nose a pretty blushy shade.

"Took you long enough" you huff "I was about to get hypothermia"

“Why’d you drive all the way here, hun? That snow looks pretty bad” he says, rubbing your coat to get the snowflakes off of you.

“Well, yeah, but it’s your birthday! I made a cake” you gesture towards the white box in your hands.

“Sweetheart, you didn’t have to” he smiles, and pressed a kiss to your cold forehead, riddled with snow. You never have to. The fact that you want to do such nice things to him is still something he struggles to wrap his head around. He helps you out of your puffy coat, grabbing you a warm blanket from his room.

"Why'd you bring it here? I thought we were gonna go to your house?" he said as you shed the layers you'd wrapped yourself in.

"Too much family at my house, we have my aunt from Virginia staying with us, and my grandparents. You don't wanna meet 'em, trust me" you laugh.

"You told everyone to meet here? You could've told me, baby, the trailer's a mess" he scrambles to pick up some dirty mugs from the coffee table.

"It's okay, Ed, I'll help you. Come here for now" you circle the counter to put the cake down.

He huffs, giving you a kiss on top of your head.

“So, what have you been doing here, birthday boy?” you nudge him, opening the cake box.

“You know, the usual. Despair about the passage of time, be sad about my mom, be sad about my dad, blow a candle and make a wish” he smiles half-heartedly. It makes you sad that he’s never able to fully enjoy his birthday.

“I’m sorry, Ed. I know your birthday is never an ideal date for you. Anything I can do to help?” you quip, smiling at him from the counter.

“The cake you made looks like it could be a good contender,” he smiles. You open the box, a simple chocolate cake with frosting says “Happy Birthday Eddie!” in bold chocolate letters. His heart feels like it's doubled in size since he woke up.

He gives you a kiss on the crown of your head as you reach into your purse, a packet of candles in your hand.

“Do you have a lighter?” you ask, kicking yourself for forgetting it. He tosses the almost- dead yellow lighter at you.

You stab the cake with the candles. You’d bought 24. He smiles, no one had ever done something like that for him before you.

You sing to him. The lights of the candles hitting your cold bitten face, making your eyes look shiny, like you had the sun from within.

Happy birthday to you,

Happy birthday to you,

Happy birthday dear Eddie.

Happy birthday to you!

He breathes in, then blows out the candles while you clap contentedly, the white smoke of the candles dissolving into the air between the two of you. Setting the cake down, he gives you a kiss.

It's a soft kiss, full of gratefulness. Full of the thank yous he'll never get to tell you, just because you'll jokingly roll your eyes with the amount of times he'll say it. It's a sad kiss, a kiss that makes you remind him of his mom, the softness and gentleness with which she'd hold him. The kindness she'd show him, the same kindness you gave and continue to give him.

The kindness he wasn't allowed to have throughout his life, with the names and the threats and the beatings.

A whole town turning on a twenty year- old kid.

The kindness his dad had never given him, coming back whenever he needed money, or a place to hide. His rainy day funds raided, with no trace of Al Munson in sight.

Your kisses taste like summer, summer of '86, when he kissed you for the first time. High and clumsy in the back of his van, being too much of a pussy to ask you if you wanted to be with him.

His eyes become watery, almost like his thoughts materialize in the reflection of your eyes, where he can see himself. Tall, sad, Eddie the freak. Eddie the freak who just wanted to be loved, who wanted to be accepted.

He isn't a religious guy by any means, but your kisses feel like a baptism. Everything has been washed away by your love, forgiven for things he's never done. Sins he'd never committed, absolved by the taste of your lips, the feeling of his hands holding your waist, as if to never let you go.

The way you hold his face, cold, shivering hands against the feel of the slight stubble of his jaw. He'd manipulate the weather so you'd never feel cold, he'd bring down the heavens and hell to not make you feel any pain.

A tear falls down his cheek, too many emotions, too many thoughts. It collides with your thumb, you break away from the kiss.

"You okay, Ed?" you press your lips to his cheek, kissing the lone tear away.

He's okay, he just gets overwhelmed by all the love you have for him. He nods.

"Just miss my mom, 's all" he sniffles, then smiles.

"I'm sure she would've been so happy to see her baby turn twenty- four" you reach for a knife to cut the cake.

"No, split this with me" he says, showing you the small cupcake "Save the cake for when everyone gets here, Wayne probably spent a fortune for this one single cupcake" he chuckles.

You cut the cupcake in half, clinking the two halves together as one would two overflowing cups of champagne.

"They'll be coming in a couple hours. I already took care of food and everything, but I came here 'cause I wanted to give you my gift" you say, it never gets easy, getting him gifts. He's so tight lipped about needing things sometimes you just don't know what to get him.

"You didn't have to do that. The cake and the party are enough, sweetheart" he whispers, giving you a soft kiss between chocolate crumbs.

You reach for your bag on the counter, extracting a small black box from it.

"Happy Birthday, Ed" you say, nervous he might not like it.

Words become hard to fabricate, so he gives you a tight smile, almost embarrassed, guilty, you did this for him.

He opens the small, square box. He's not really sure what it is at first, but the nylon and cotton feeling feels familiar. The leather ends, with a loop in between. The red stitching. It's a guitar strap.

He gingerly takes it out of the box, bated breath, holding it horizontally.

The red stitching on the strap says Corroded Coffin, with a red border. But his favorite thing is his initials and yours on the end of the strap, right above the leather bit. He smiles. A smile so wide that you could have been blinded by it.

"I didn't know what to get you, just everything felt so, like, obvious and cliche. I had my mom help me" you rambled timidly.

"It's perfect, honey, thank you" he goes to hold you, guitar strap still in hand. As if it held the fabric of time and space itself, he refused to let it go.

Once he lets go of you, muttering thank you, baby's and i love it, it's so perfect's he grabs his guitar, crackled red and black paint chipped by the passage of time. He changes the straps and plays a few riffs, deft fingers moving across the fretboard, the sadness of the twenty minutes before seems to have vanished, as he spends the rest of his afternoon playing around with his guitar.

You clean up, and at around 6, Wayne comes back with the food you'd requested him to go pick up. All of Eddie's favorites from the diner he'd used to go with his mom. The smiley pancakes, the spaghetti and meatballs, the little sausage and eggs and pizza pockets. His smile is as wide as you've ever seen it, thoroughly shocked that you'd remembered everything he'd told you.

At 7, all his friends start to arrive, bringing him baskets of sweets, cookies, presents. The parties the years before had never been this large- scale. Or maybe the trailer is just small.

Everyone goes outside, wrapped up in their winter clothes that quickly become too hot as they play with the dirty snow, checking for glass shards in every one. In the lights of the shitty street lamps, Eddie is throwing a snow ball at Steve, and Robin throws one back at Eddie. You have a video camera in your hand, documenting every single moment of Eddie's night. His night.

He's frost bitten, his nose and the tips of his ears sticking out from the knitted hat Nancy had gotten him. His smile infectious as he hides behind a car after having thrown a ball at Steve's team. Everyone's on a sugar high, giggly and happy, reveling in the snow, the looming holidays making everything feel a bit lighter.

He opens up birthday presents and eats pancakes until he feels sick. But he's never felt better.

Everyone leaves at the late hours of the night. You decide to stay over, albeit the bite of the cold that forces the both of you to huddle close for warmth. Neither of you complain. Your house is too crowded anyway.

December 21st, 1990. Eddie Munson has had the best birthday of his life.

[menacenearby]

SNOWGRAVE / WEIRD ROUTE CANDLE SCENE

CHARACTERS: Susie, Kris

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Burn marks, intentional self-burn

DESCRIPTION: Short prompt inspired by the candle scene and its choices you can make during it. Written from the perspective of Kris who's controlled by the Soul (Player) and their reaction to the choice of praying for Noelle.

OTHER TAGS: Snowgrave, Weird route, Sudden feeling(s) related to anxiety, Unhealthy coping mechanism, Description(s) of anxiety, Genderfluid Kris, Any pronouns for Kris, Kris uses he/they (in this prompt)

“Kris?”

The teen in question turned around, noting Susie’s hand pointing at something.

Ah. “Candles.” She hummed, nodding at the answer.

Touching nothing, she inspected the objects from afar. Every single one of them was lightened, only some were on the verge of going out.

“And they’re here for what… Decoration, aesthetics?”

“Hm,” Kris' hand wandered closer to one of the flames. It was warm, unpleasant. “Prayer.”

“Oh.” Susie looked at the candles anew.

There were names written on the plastic-like dishes the wax was burning in. One for Kris, his brother, his mother…

“There’s,” Susie blinked. Her face full of disbelief, made Kris silently chuckle. “There’s one for me…?” Nervously licking her lower lip she brought her arm up with hesitation.

Uncertainly, Kris observed as her palm wavered over the flame, accepting it and not backing down from the warmth it emanated.

For her, the flame must’ve been comforting.

“Do you think we should… Dunno, pray or some shit?”

Kris nodded.

And then as his hands joined, he could feel the pulsating feeling of weakness coming right from his chest.

He looked down, biting the inside of their mouth.

Who were they going to pray for, their brother? No, as easily as this thought came as quickly it left.

Susie? Kris could already see her reaction, full of jokes and reflection, telling him she didn’t need a prayer.

The tension in their shoulders rose when he realized what the ache required of them to say.

They kicked the shelf.

“Wh– Woah, Kris!” His hand burned without touching anything that should warrant such a reaction, their mind becoming devoid of any thought, blank.

“You– Geez, dude,” Susie took a step closer to him, her height and shadow she was casting bringing a strange feeling of being hidden. “You alright? You didn’t burn yourself, right?”

Kris said nothing, ignoring the pesky muttering of something commanding his body to interact with the shelf again.

Closing their hands into fists, he let his body slide down onto the ground and rest.

Gulping, they shook their head.

“I know you have… A lot of accumulated anger,” she started, crouching down right next to him while still giving them much-needed space. “And I also like destroying things, believe me.” Humorlessly, she laughed. “But maybe we shouldn’t take our anger on candles, your mom’s going to be sad, y’know and she’s a nice lady.”

Closing their eyes Kris let out a heavy breath.

“And… Your name’s here too, idiot.” Opening them Kris looked up at Susie.

And smiled.

“We should,” they coughed, their voice suddenly hoarse. “Light, some of them.”

Susie jerked back, baffled at their immediate change.

But still smiled back at him.

“...Yeah.” She nodded. “Yeah, of course. You aren’t able to fix the mess you left on your own after all, have to bring me into it for help.” She joked while making a psh sound with her mouth.

They stood up and found a lone box of matches. Taking one each they get to work, picking up some candles that fell.

The dread building up couldn’t leave Kris alone after noticing their candle was one of the few that went out.

They blew out the match, throwing the used piece back into the box. Kris still could feel the fire, burning their hands.