#medieval religious devotion)

[marzipanandminutiae]

Two questions.

1.) Vampires are weak to many things, such as Christian Iconography, Garlic and sunlight.

2.) Being Lesbian means that you are ending your family line for no good reason aside from your own personal lusts.

You're so right, Brother Bertram. I shall adjourn to the chapel now to seek forgiveness for my sins via the intercession of the Blessed Virgin. to whom I make devotions five times a day, in a totally normal way. Also, have you perchance seen my beloved illustration of Christ's side wound? I need to gaze at it and experience ecstatic visions of gently caressing it- you know, Normal Devotional things.

[tmblriscompleteshit]

☩ Saint Jeanne d'Arc ☩

art by Albert Lynch

[revivalofadornment]

𝕯𝖊𝖛𝖔𝖙𝖊𝖊

[pigeoncherrypie]

So it has been brought to my attention that the first image is, in fact, a picture of st Marina (also known as st Margaret of Antioch) and not of mother Mary, and I am rather embarrassed by my unfortunate blunder (I’m sorry Marina, I’m sure you’re very cool)

To make up for my mistake here are some extra pictures of Mary (yes, only Mary this time, I’ve double checked my sources) kicking more demon ass

I think my favorite depictions of Mary are the ones in which she’s laying into demons like nobody’s business

Like yes queen, kick his ass

[rednightmare18]

oh, fine. let's talk about sin.

This is a note about religion and KCD2—particularly how it applies to Hans & Henry’s relationship development.

It isn’t my intention to write the definitive post on this subject, and this is certainly not an academic summary, a Tumblr History Lesson, or a thesis statement on why you can’t write whatever the hell you please. But as much as I detest fandom discourse, I also dislike seeing my words misused as a bludgeon against fan writers, and so I am stepping in to provide what I hope will be some useful CliffsNotes to everyone.

Take them or leave them, they are here with the intention to help fic writers make (briefly) informed decisions about how to embark on their creative research. KCD2 spoilers under the cut. PSA: If I see you using this nastily to harass fanfic writers you don't like, I will be very upset with you.

The medieval Catholic Church's doctrines were not representative of a homogeneous, mythical One Medieval Worldview on everyday life—nor was the MCC a monolith of its own. It is important to differentiate the Catholic institution from “the average medieval person’s ideas about daily life.” A quick foray into documents and moral treatises written by church officials at the time will reveal that the clergy was also not a monolith, but a hierarchy of individuals with vastly different ideas and recommendations on how humans should live. We simply cannot stamp a single religious document, decree, or interpretation (that was successfully published and preserved for hundreds of years; the vast majority were not) as a one-size-fits-all primer on what your average village blacksmith thought about things. I would certainly bristle were a historian from 2800 to suggest my country’s government & preeminent religious institutions painted an accurate picture of my (or my neighbors’) moral opinions on every subject under the sun. I bet you would, too. Critically, this does not mean all the common people embraced same-sex romance and all the religious officials reviled it. Indeed, it means people are people and their opinions will differ based on their personal experience, environment, personality, and priorities. Christianity profoundly affected the medieval world and mentality in ways both conscious and unconscious, much as any major global religion does, but it does not and did not make Europe into a dystopian Christian hivemind that thoughtlessly parroted a single unified view of every topic under the sun.

Religious opposition vs. religious guilt. Remembering that “people are people,” it is likewise important to differentiate religious opposition from religious guilt. Male lovers, particularly those in a position of high status (who were expected to produce heirs), would certainly face opposition to their desire to fuck off into the woods and kiss their boyfriend forever. It would certainly not be prudent or safe for a minor lord like Hans Capon to openly flaunt his romantic love for his squire; religiosity-fueled accusations of sodomy were useful as political bludgeons to threaten enemies and de-legitimize rivals. Caution is required. However, I find it is also important to note that Hans and Henry seem to express no personal guilt over their love for each other, religious or otherwise. It is telling that they do not step back from their relationship after consummating it under duress; on the contrary, both of them immediately seem to take it for granted that they will continue sharing their lives without any further negotiation required, and admitting their romantic feelings for each other has changed little of this, save for bringing them closer and providing relief. It is also telling that if Henry chooses to confess to his dream-parents that his devotion to Hans is romantic in nature, they react with surprise, but do not lecture him about sin. (In fact, his mother immediately leaps to Henry’s defense after his father reacts with shock.) Henry himself expresses no grief to them beyond a vague acknowledgement that hearing this must be a surprise. This is important—Henry’s parents appear in his dreams as representations of Henry’s inner doubts, guilt, grief, and misgivings. They do not throw up any real opposition or disgust to his intention to “settle down” with Hans. (Which is frankly a bonkers thing for Henry to say in any sense.) Despite the opposition they face from their environment and the expectations of status placed upon them—and despite Hans’s anxiety about being forced into a betrothal and how this may frustrate his intention to spend every waking moment with Henry—Henry and Hans both seem to feel completely positive about consummating their romantic relationship. For all intents and purposes, they canonically provide each other with comfort, love, and certainty. Not a shred of guilt or self-hate bubbles up into the canon text where each other is concerned. (This isn’t to say you can’t add this element in your fanworks if you choose. I’m not your dream-Martin!) NOTE: There is one moment during The Kiss scene in which Henry shows clear inner conflict. After Hans initiates a kiss (that Henry visibly rushes to accept), Henry turns his face away from him briefly, which causes Hans to perceive rejection and scurry away. Henry's expression is visibly troubled before he turns to the door. I see a valid argument for interpreting this brief expression of distress as gut-reaction frustration or revulsion, either at himself or even to the physical kiss, but we don’t really have enough canon input to say for certain what causes this flash of doubt. In any case, when it’s gone, it’s gone. At least for the purposes of KCD2 where it left us. You can’t “break up” with Hans after this or back out of the romance; Henry has decided for himself that the only way to go is forward.

Everything’s the same—but different. Homophobia in the 1400s was a different beast from homophobia in the 2000s. I will not dive into this here because I've written about it elsewhere to share background research on my own monastery fic, and because the topic is far too large to summarize in a bullet-pointed list. Simply, the medieval world did not codify sex acts or romantic feelings as identity markers in the way we do; while sodomy was certainly a taboo, this was a classification of non-reproductive sex acts, not slang for “gay man.” We cannot, in essence, “backport” our contemporary homophobia into the Middle Ages; it doesn’t make sense. Similarly, we cannot backport our bizarre late-1900s+ anxiety about pregnancy termination into 1403, but if you think I'm going to dive into that here except by way of brief comparison, you are cuh-razy. Worth noting that taboo also does not mean alien... or secret. More on that below.

Normalcy, Secrecy, and Taboo. One thing KCD2 (and KCD1, to a lesser extent) does very well is dismiss the Victorianized pseudo-history that same-sex romance, sex, and affection were some sort of widely-kept secret from society that did not dawn upon people until the second half of the thousands. In KCD, no one is surprised or bewildered by stories, both fictional and local, of same-sex lovers. Yes, medieval people knew about gay sex and no, “discovering” that it exists would not have shocked them—because a taboo is not necessarily an unknown. While NPCs react with different shades of opinion to conversations about same-sex romance, the world does not treat this as alien; it wasn’t. It is discussed casually, albeit with some discretion depending on context and company. KCD2 even enables you to play a Henry who has had prior sexual experience with men (see the Black Bartosch interactions) and has already embraced his own same-sex attraction to the extent he can confidently, casually sexually advance on men.

The Elephant in the Room: Class. Remember that the class divide at hand provides as much—if not more—opposition than the religiosity. Feudalism itself was built into medieval Catholicism. I sometimes think KCD downplays the importance of class, especially in KCD1, as it allows Henry to openly speak to Hans in ways that are unthinkably inappropriate given the feudal consciousness of the time, with almost no punishment or reaction from those around them. Not just because these interactions might indeed arouse suspicions of same-sex romance, but because a commoner risks severe punishment (or death!) for putting his hands on a lord, interrupting him, and insulting him in public. (Yes, including a noble’s bastard, a designation which is more harmful than not in many ways.) That's not to say Hans himself would not allow Henry to speak to him in this way; it's clear he desperately enjoys the novelty of someone who speaks to him freely, even in the earliest hours of KCD1, before they are tightly bonded. But it is strange there is so little blowback or external punishment for Henry when he baps His Lordship upside the head and calls him a buffoon in front of a gaggle of His Lordship's soldiers, on the precipice of dangerous military action, with Captain Bernard no doubt on the verge of apoplexy nearby. For this reason more than any other, I would argue, Henry and Hans’s relationship spits in the face of feudal order—and it does so even without the romantic consummation.

That's enough of that now, Jesus. I hope someone finds this to be a helpful bullet-point summary and it facilitates a more confident venture into historical fiction research! So TLDR; regarding the fandom's current anxiety of, "Am I making the Sin of it all too big of a deal?" my ultimate answer is yes, but also no, for it deeply depends on the context and the creator's intention. Love you lady, buhbye.

[cbeargyu]

Hii, I love your writing so much, I just discovered your account and omg I just binged the entirety of it!!

Would you ever write a period piece, like something inspired by medieval times. Because, imagine Mark as a lowborn knight devoted to protecting the court's only female alchemist. They have mind-boggling sex and fall in love, duh. But, the reader's accused of performing witchcraft. So, she's sentenced to death. AND Mark's ordered to excecute her!

the mercy in his life

summary: accused of witchcraft and sentenced to death, you face execution by the knight sworn to protect you. but what the crowd doesn’t know is that he’s hiding a dangerous secret — and a desperate plan to save you.

pairing: knight!mark x alchemist!fem reader

genre: historical, romance, drama, angst, smut, forbidden love

warnings: explicit sexual content, public execution themes, religious and political persecution, emotional distress, betrayal, sacrifice, mention of blood, decapitation, manipulation of identity for escape.

you belonged in the shadows of the stone walls, where the air smelled of burnt sage and old parchment. where your hands, stained with crushed herbs and soot, crafted remedies for nobles who never looked you in the eye. you weren’t a lady, not by their measure—you didn’t wear silk, didn’t smile for men who thought your intelligence was a novelty. you were a necessity. useful. quiet. invisible.

until he came.

sir mark lee wasn’t supposed to speak to you. he was a knight—lowborn, yes, like you, but carved into legend by the steel in his grip and the loyalty in his gaze. they said he once felled a man twice his size for threatening the prince. they said his sword was blessed by god himself.

but he didn’t look like a legend when he stood in your chamber that night, armor scratched from battle, blood crusted at his temple. he looked human. lost.

“the healer’s too far,” he’d said, voice low and urgent. “they told me you could help.”

you remember the tremble of his body beneath your fingers as you cleaned the wound. how he watched your hands—not your face, not your figure, but your hands, like they held power.

“it’ll scar,” you told him, not knowing why you felt the need to speak softly. “but you’ll live.”

“then i owe you my life.”

he meant it.

after that, he returned often—always under the pretense of bruises and shallow wounds, always after dark. sometimes he didn’t even knock. just appeared in your doorway, breathless from training or battle, eyes searching the dim room until they found you.

“it’s quiet here,” he once said, the first night he stayed too long. “i can breathe.”

you didn’t touch each other. not yet. but the air between you grew heavy with want. every word he spoke lingered too long. every glance left your skin hot. he began to bring you things—dried rose petals, rare vials, broken relics from the battlefield. once, he placed a single golden pin in your palm. “it reminded me of you,” he said, and didn’t explain why.

you never wore it.

but you kept it in a drawer, where your fingers found it on restless nights.

because there was something unspoken between you—something dangerous. it curled beneath your skin like flame, threatening to devour you whole. you knew what it meant to be seen by a man like him. you knew what the court would say.

a knight and a witch, they’d whisper.

a blade and a curse.

they’d burn you for it.

but still, you let him return.

you let him look at you like that.

you let him touch your hand one night, when neither of you spoke, and the fire burned low, and the only sound was the trembling of your breath.

you didn’t stop him when his lips brushed your knuckles.

you didn’t stop him when they found you.

the night he kissed you, you thought it was a mistake.

he was half-drunk on pain and exhaustion, slouched in the wooden chair by your hearth. his armor lay discarded by the door, his tunic undone at the collar. the firelight carved golden edges into his face, highlighting the bruise along his jaw and the shadow beneath his cheekbone.

you stood beside him, grinding herbs in a small stone bowl, pretending not to notice the way his eyes followed you.

but you did.

“you should sleep,” you said, not looking at him. your voice was soft, too soft.

“i should,” he agreed.

he didn’t move.

you turned. “mark—”

“say that again.”

you blinked. “what?”

“my name. like that.”

you swallowed. “mark.”

his lips parted slightly, like it surprised him. like he hadn’t realized how much he wanted it.

“it sounds… holy. when you say it.” he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and you could feel the shift in the air—thick, charged.

“don’t say that,” you murmured, heart pounding.

“why not?”

“because i’m not holy.”

he smiled, slow and reverent. “i know. that’s why i come back.”

his fingers brushed yours. just barely. but it was enough to make you ache.

you could have pulled away. you should have.

instead, you set the bowl down and let your hand rest on his.

“this is dangerous,” you whispered, though your body leaned into the gravity of his.

his other hand came up to your waist—hesitant, warm, trembling slightly. “so is war. i still ride into it.”

you stood between his knees, close enough to feel the heat of him. his gaze dropped to your lips. lingered.

“tell me to stop,” he said. “and i will.”

you didn’t.

so he kissed you.

slow at first, like a secret. his lips moved gently against yours, searching, learning. he tasted like wine and fire and something softer—something only you had ever touched.

your hands curled into his hair, pulling him closer. he stood, lifting you with him, mouth never leaving yours. your back hit the wooden wall with a soft thud. your breath caught when he pressed against you—his body solid, needy.

“you don’t know what you do to me,” he murmured against your throat. “i dream about you.”

you gasped as his hands slid beneath your layers of cloth, palms hot against your waist, your hips.

“i think about you when i train,” he whispered, teeth grazing your collarbone. “when i’m bleeding. when i’m praying.”

his voice broke slightly. “i want you more than i want heaven.”

you pulled him closer, grounding yourself in his warmth. “then take me.”

he paused, forehead pressed to yours. “are you sure?”

you kissed him like an answer.

and he unraveled.

he lifted you easily, carrying you to the cot as if you weighed nothing. his kisses grew desperate—needy—his hands shaking as he undressed you. he looked at you like you were something sacred and forbidden, something he should fall to his knees before. and when he finally slid inside you, slow and deep, you swore you saw stars.

he held you like he couldn’t believe you were real. moved inside you like he wanted to memorize every sound you made, every tremor in your body.

“look at me,” he whispered. “please, look at me.”

you did.

and what you saw in his eyes was not lust. it was devotion.

pure. aching. terrifying.

like he’d burn the world for this.

like he already had.

he undresses you like he’s learning you.

his fingers move slowly over the laces of your bodice, undoing each one with reverence, his eyes fixed on your skin as it’s revealed inch by inch. he doesn't rush. doesn’t speak. he only breathes—deep and controlled, as though he's afraid the moment will vanish if he moves too fast.

“you’re trembling,” he murmurs, brushing your bare shoulder with the back of his hand.

“so are you.”

his lips press to your collarbone, warm and tender. “i’ve never wanted anything this much.”

your chemise slips down your arms and pools at your feet. he steps back for a moment—not to admire, but to steady himself. to feel the weight of seeing you bare in front of him for the first time. your nipples are hard from the cold, your thighs pressed together in shyness.

mark steps in close, his hands finding your hips, his mouth returning to yours—hungrier now. he kisses you like a man who’s been starved. tongue sliding past your lips, one hand gripping the back of your neck while the other slips down, down—

until it finds the heat between your legs.

you gasp into his mouth.

his fingers are rough from swordwork, but careful—featherlight as he brushes through your folds, slow and teasing.

“fuck,” he whispers when he feels how wet you are. “is that all for me?”

you nod, breath shaky.

“say it.”

���it’s for you,” you whisper. “it’s always been for you.”

he groans, sinking to his knees.

and that—that sight alone nearly makes you come. the court’s golden knight, down on the floor, pulling your thighs apart like a man possessed. he looks up at you once, lips swollen, eyes dark.

“hold on to something,” he says. “i’m not stopping.”

and he doesn’t.

his tongue finds your clit instantly—circling, sucking, flicking in just the right rhythm while two fingers slide into your dripping heat. the stretch is perfect, obscene, your body grinding against his face without shame.

you cry out his name. over and over.

“mark—mark, please—fuck—”

he moans into you like he’s savoring the taste. his fingers curl inside you, stroking your sweet spot until your thighs shake around his head. you come fast—too fast—your body clenching hard, legs trembling, and still, he doesn’t stop. he fucks you through it with his mouth and fingers, coaxing every drop of pleasure out of you until you’re whimpering, begging—

“please, mark, i need you inside me. now.”

he’s already halfway undressed. you help him push his pants down, and his cock springs free—thick, flushed, already leaking.

you reach for him, wrapping a hand around the base.

“you’re big,” you whisper, almost dazed.

he chuckles low in his throat. “you can take it. i’ll go slow.”

he lines himself up with your entrance, rubbing the tip through your soaked folds until your hips buck.

“ready?”

“yes. please—mark—”

he pushes in, inch by inch, stretching you open so deeply, so sweetly, your head falls back against the pillow. your mouth drops open in a silent cry. he groans, gripping your thigh.

“fuck—you’re so tight. so warm.”

he bottoms out, stays there for a second, trembling above you.

“you feel like home,” he breathes.

you lift your hips to urge him deeper, and he starts to move—slow thrusts, deep and measured, dragging along every sensitive inch inside you. one of his hands slides under your back to pull you closer, chest to chest.

“look at me,” he says again. “i need to see you.”

you do. and it nearly breaks you.

the way he stares—like you’re salvation and sin all at once. like he’d die in your arms if you asked.

he picks up the pace, hips snapping harder now, your bodies slapping together as your moans fill the room. you wrap your legs around his waist, and he fucks you deeper, faster, panting against your neck.

“i love you,” you whisper, breath caught between sobs of pleasure.

he freezes for half a second.

then he slams into you—hard—and groans against your throat.

“say it again.”

“i love you,” you repeat, louder this time. “i love you, mark—”

he thrusts faster, wild now, hand slipping between you to rub your clit again. it takes seconds before you’re coming again—clenching around him, gasping as your vision goes white.

“gonna come,” he growls, voice wrecked. “inside you. can i—?”

“yes,” you gasp. “mark, fill me, please—”

he groans your name as he spills into you, hips jerking erratically, cock pulsing deep inside. he kisses you through it—your lips, your cheeks, your temple—as if trying to brand himself into your skin.

when it’s over, he collapses on top of you, both of you slick with sweat, your hearts beating like war drums.

he stays buried inside you, still hard, still holding you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

“i’ve never had anything this real,” he whispers against your skin. “not until you.”

he stayed until morning.

you woke with your leg draped over his hip, his nose buried in your neck, his hand still on your waist like he couldn’t bear to let go, not even in sleep. the fire had burned out hours ago, but the warmth of his body—solid, steady—wrapped around you like a promise.

you stayed quiet for a long time. breathing him in.

you didn’t want to be the first to speak.

“i thought it was a dream,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep. “i’ve had so many.”

your fingers moved slowly through his hair. “this one’s real.”

he shifted, just enough to kiss your shoulder. “then let me stay in it. just a little longer.”

and he did. he stayed the whole day.

he made you tea. kissed you between sips. traced the curve of your hip with calloused fingers while you told him about the healing properties of dried rosemary. you watched the way he listened—truly listened—as if every word you spoke mattered more than any prayer, any sword, any oath.

you didn’t say the word love.

but it bloomed quietly in the room. in the touch of his hand on your back. in the way he kissed your ankle before laying you down again, mouth warm and reverent on your skin.

he knelt between your thighs like a man come to worship.

his tongue found you slowly—wet, careful, patient. he groaned when you moaned, gripping your thighs as if the sound alone undid him. he didn’t stop until your voice broke on his name, until your legs trembled and you begged him—desperately, breathlessly—to come inside you.

and when he did, it wasn’t rushed. it was slow, aching. he slid in deep and held your face in his hands like you might shatter if he didn’t.

“you feel like sin,” he whispered, “and i’d choose you anyway. every time.”

you kissed him to quiet the sob that rose in your throat.

because you knew. even then.

love like this wasn’t meant to last.

after that night, he returned as often as he could. not just with bruises or offerings—but with longing. with need.

“i missed you,” he’d whisper, shutting the door behind him with trembling hands. “days feel longer when i’m not inside you.”

and you’d undress him by candlelight, kiss the scar by his hip, feel him grow hard against your belly as you whispered your own confessions.

“i wait for you,” you’d admit. “i sleep in your shirt. i read your letters again and again.”

he’d bury himself in you like he could protect you from the world. he’d fuck you slowly some nights, eyes locked to yours, hand between your legs, breath hot on your ear. other nights he’d take you against the table, desperate and rough, your skirt bunched at your waist, his mouth muffling your moans.

but always—always—he held you after.

as if his body was your shield.

as if he could keep the world away.

but the world was not kind.

not to people like you.

you noticed the whispers first. the way the maids avoided your eyes. the way the king’s advisor lingered too long outside your door.

one morning, mark arrived later than usual. blood on his sword, panic in his eyes.

“they’re watching you.”

your hands trembled. “who?”

he stepped forward, gripping your shoulders. “the council. they’ve seen the relics you’ve been studying. the salves you’ve made. they think it’s unnatural.”

“it is natural,” you said, voice cracking. “it’s chemistry. observation. logic.”

“they don’t care.” his voice broke. “they’ve seen the burn marks on your fingers. the powders. the symbols in your notes.”

you stared at him. “you think they’ll accuse me?”

he looked like he was about to fall to his knees. “they already have.”

the night before your sentence, he came to you in secret.

the guards let him in without a word. his rank allowed it. no one questioned why a knight would want a final word with the woman he’d been ordered to kill.

you were sitting on the floor, your ankles shackled, your wrists raw from the chains.

he fell to his knees in front of you.

“don’t speak,” you whispered. “just hold me.”

and he did.

his hands shook as he undid your binds. his lips found your temple, your cheeks, your mouth. he kissed your tears away and pulled you into his lap like he couldn’t bear the distance. like his arms were the only place you had left to live.

you kissed him back—desperate, hungry, grieving.

when he lifted you into his arms and laid you down on the stone floor, neither of you cared that the world was ending outside that cell.

his body hovered over yours, his eyes soaked in pain and reverence.

“if this is the last time,” he said, voice cracking, “i want you to remember how i loved you.”

“show me.”

and he did.

his hands moved over you feverishly, like he needed to memorize every inch before they took you away. his mouth worshiped you—biting, kissing, licking everywhere he could reach.

he fucked you with a kind of despair that bled into every stroke—slow, hard, deep. he held your face the whole time. kissed you between every thrust. whispered your name like it was the last word he'd ever speak.

your nails clawed down his back, your bodies slapping in a rhythm more desperate than gentle.

“come for me,” he begged. “i need to feel it. please—please.”

you did, gasping, sobbing, breaking open beneath him.

he followed with a cry—buried inside you, body shaking, moaning your name like a prayer that wouldn’t save him.

after, he didn’t move. just held you.

and when dawn broke, he whispered three words into your hair:

“i have a plan.”

the air in the square feels carved from iron.

it’s barely morning, but already the sky is bruised, heavy with smoke and dust, the sun hidden behind low, churning clouds. the crowd gathers thick around the platform—commoners, merchants, guards, even a few nobles lining the edge in muted colors, whispering beneath their veils. no one dares to speak too loud. no one dares to look away.

up on the scaffold, a girl kneels.

she wears only a thin, off-white chemise—something that might’ve once been undergarments, now soaked from the morning dew, clinging to her body like a final insult. her hands are bound behind her back, and a coarse burlap sack has been pulled over her head. it covers her face completely, as if even in death, the sight of her is too much to bear.

beside her stands a knight.

armor polished. back straight. face unreadable.

mark.

he looks at the girl in silence for a moment longer than he should have.

his grip on the sword tightens.

then he speaks.

his voice carries across the square like a knife’s edge—sharp, clear, final.

“by order of the royal council, for the crimes of blasphemy, defiance of divine law, and the practice of forbidden arts…” he pauses. just long enough for the crowd to hold its breath. “(y/n), the court’s former alchemist, is hereby sentenced to death.”

some gasp. others cry.

but mark doesn’t blink.

he raises the sword above his head, perfectly still.

for a second—just a second—the wind seems to die.

and then the blade comes down.

a thud. a sharp cry from somewhere in the crowd. the body slumps forward, lifeless.

blood stains the wooden boards.

“the sentence has been carried out,” mark announces, stepping back from the fallen figure. “the accused is dead.”

the crowd erupts.

some cheer. some cross themselves. others simply watch in stunned silence as two guards approach to drag the limp body away.

mark turns, slowly, descending the scaffold with heavy steps. his face remains hard. unreadable. dutiful.

but behind his eyes, something burns.

and far beyond the square—beyond the walls, past the fields, deep in the cover of the forest—

a single horse races down a dirt path.

its hooves hammer the ground with desperate speed, mud flying, breath steaming in the cold air. tied to the back is a plain wooden carriage, bouncing wildly with every turn.

inside, hidden beneath layers of cloth, you lie curled on your side.

your fingers tremble as you pull back a layer of thick linen. the scent of earth and damp wood fills your lungs. the sky outside is blurry through the slats—branches whip past, wind howling like something feral. you clutch a dark cloak to your chest, still warm from the body that gave it to you.

from him.

you blink rapidly, eyes burning.

outside, a voice yells above the storm.

“hyah! go! faster, damn it—go!”

you know that voice.

donghyuck.

you remember the way he came to you in the dead of night, face pale, breath fast. don’t speak, he’d said. just trust him. trust me.

you hadn’t asked questions.

you’d only run.

and now you’re here, hidden among herbs and straw, body aching from the cold, alive—alive—while the crowd back in the village still believes you’re rotting on the scaffold.

you press a hand over your mouth as the realization strikes.

he lied.

he gave them a body. not yours.

he gave them a sentence. not your death.

he gave you a chance.

you gasp, swallowing down a sob, but it’s too late—the tears come hard and fast, hot against your cheeks. your fingers dig into the fabric of the cloak, desperate for something to hold onto, something that still smells like him.

you twist slightly, pulling the curtain back with trembling fingers.

and through the trees, barely visible in the distance, you see it—

the dark spire of the church tower. the same one that watched over your execution. the same one that now rings hollow bells into the sky.

you stare at it, eyes full of tears, heart breaking.

“mark…”

you whisper it like a prayer. like a farewell.

you know you won’t see him again.

you know he gave everything to save you—his oath, his honor, his life as he knew it. and he stayed behind, sword still dripping, face still carved from stone.

for you.

the carriage races on, carrying you further and further into the unknown.

and you, hidden beneath it all, turn your face to the past.

and cry.

[annabelle--cane]

hello vampire sickos, particularly dracula sickos, let's talk about medieval manuscripts. I'm not sure how familiar bram stoker would have been with late gothic religious movements and popular worship, but in the latter portion of the middle ages there was a big, widely practiced, and officially ecclesiastically endorsed push for lay people and the clergy to form personal emotional connections with christ and the virgin by just getting like stupidly horny about them. you've got personal devotional texts with illustrations of a completely nude christ displaying his long willowy limbs and coquettishly asking a nun to penetrate his side wound with her huge fuck-off spear, you've got monks imagining sculptures of the crucifixion coming to life to make out with them and christ our lord liking it so much that he opens his mouth to add a little tongue action, it was a great time to be a freak.

this is relevant to dracula because the intense love of mary for her sensual maternality transferred somewhat onto jesus, and people began to view him not just as an aspect of god the father but also as god the mother, nurturing and ever loving. if jesus died on the cross for our sake, then his body can be seen as nourishment for humanity, his blood being not unlike her breast milk, and I know what you're thinking right now, you're thinking "marina, the sacrament of the eucharist and the idea of drinking christ's blood through wine is obviously vampiric, you aren't saying anything revelatory, this is entry level vampire freakism and not particularly relevant to dracula," but I would like to show you this illumination of saint catherine of siena's vision of drinking from christ's side wound:

(life of saint catherine of siena, fifteenth century, german)

which is a pose that I think should maybe be ringing some bells for dracula likers

[nyardynn]

The 'Allegorical Blade' is a holy symbol and you're sleeping on the greatest thing about it

Ok, let us please talk about Ardyn’s healer sword, because I think you’re all sleeping on that absolutely delicious choice of a design. I’m talking about his sword as seen in Dissidia FF NT. It is called the ‘Allegorical Blade’ and released alongside his white healer attire called the ‘Devotee’s Raiment’.

You might have noticed the flashy design of this blade that has prompted some to assume it is supposed to be reminiscent of the citadel in Insomnia where the royal seat of Ardyn's family is located - a seat supposedly reserved for him in his healer times. 

Wrong.

Or, rather, not quite and not only.

The Allegorical blade is, in fact, designed as a monstrance, which is a vessel used in Roman Catholic, Old Catholic and some other faiths’ churches to display objects of piety and high religious importance at the altar, such as remains of saints or the sacramental bread, the host. I’ve attached a picture I took of one at the local cathedral.

FF15 is inspired by medieval European royalty where Catholicism was the prevalent and the only acceptable religion. Catholics believe that through consecration, items - most famously food items like bread, wine or the host - are transformed into the body and blood of Christ. They are not only spiritually transformed, they are believed to be substantially transformed and are divine from then on, although they retain their appearance as ordinary items. These items carry tremendous spiritual meaning and like the remains of saints, they are to be handled with care if they are to be shown to believers - they are put into a monstrance. The word ‘monstrance’ comes from latin ‘monstrare’ - to display or to show, which makes a monstrance a vessel to display the holiest objects. They are usually carried and lifted to believers during mess or in front of processions. They are often, but not always, designed to look like religiously important symbols or buildings like churches, the sun, and so on. The citadel being the place that holds the crystal and therefor being of the highest religious importance to Lucians, is exactly what a monstrance would be crafted to resemble.

The Allegorical Blade has a different name in Japanese where it is called the ‘kamikotoba no ken’. There are three kanji used: that for ‘god, divine, holy’, that for ‘word’ and the last one for ‘sword’. Basically it is called the ‘Sword of the Word of God’ or the ‘Sword of Divine Words’.

If his sword is a monstrance, then why doesn’t it hold and display any kind of holy object?

It does.

The thing it shows off is Ardyn himself.

Ardyn Lucis Caelum has been a devoted follower of Bahamut for all of his life. He considers his healing powers a gift from the gods, so he travels far and wide to cure the sick and ‘spread their mercy’ as he speaks about what he believes to be a divine calling. His altruism and faith are so great that he continues healing even though he knows the starscourge accumulates within his body and that it will kill him in time. He believes with a passion that the gods have a plan and will grant him mercy too, so that one day he will be able to heal all of Lucis as their king. He is, quite literally, Eos’ version of Jesus Christ only that his god turned out not benevolent at all.

The holy object his sword displays is himself as a representation of Bahamut’s word that holds true before and even after Ardyn’s fall from grace. Ardyn Lucis Caelum believed in his divine calling, but he misinterpreted it and instead of being the savior to heal the land, he turned out to be the sacrificial lamb to be slain at the alter. The role of Immortal Accursed, of the scapegoat, is not the role he ever wanted. It is one that holds only pain and suffering, one without reward or even recognition of all he sacrificed and one that will have him murder indiscriminately until his death, forcing him to undo all he’s achieved and all he wanted to be with his own hands. He is god’s judgment in the flesh, god’s will brought down on humanity and in terms of FF15, Bahamut's will is cruel and final.

There is an actual bible quote I want to cite here, bc it seems to me it could be an inspiration for his sword design:

“For the word of god is alive and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints an marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart.” [Hebrews 4:12]

Bahamut issued his command to Ardyn in EPA in a cold and merciless manner that has to cause outrage and inspire hatred, but the truth is, Ardyn has carried that burden with him ever since his birth when his healing was gifted to him. What better way to show the double-edged sword of Bahamut’s favour than by giving it, quite literally, to Ardyn?

It’s called the ‘Allegorical blade’ because it is a symbol of the dichotomy of his fate - a healer and a killer - and position within the prophecy where he is both the sacrificial lamb needed to safe the world and the very thing that kills it.

[moriitis]

Knight!Toby Rogers. HCs. Medieval AU. 18+

¬ Comes from a very poor background, lived in the poorer district.

¬ His dad a drunk, his mother passed away during childbirth. Lyra had found work and gotten married, thus leaving him with his father.

¬ His dad nothing but a low life farmer who used what money he got on alcohol. Claimed he fought in the 'big war' but Toby never believed it. ¬ Finally snapped one night and killed his father in a fury of rage. When his fathers taxes weren't paid, the local guards discovered the murder. ¬ Toby is now labelled as a criminal and is sentenced to death. ¬ But the day of his execution, the King's Knight decides that Toby deserves a chance and convinces the King to send Toby to Knight school for the rest of his childhood; serving his sentence to be trained as a Knight. ¬ At the age of thirteen, he narrowly escapes the death sentence and is sent to Knight school. ¬ Knight school is rough and brutal and Toby faces countless bullying from the fellow boys due to his tics. Finds himself getting beat up a lot there, chased out into the woods or even spat on as they walked past. ¬ 'You'd never make it as a Knight.' They would sneer at him. ¬ Six AM starts, running until his lungs could collapse. They'd deny breakfast if you couldn't complete the laps around the fortress, which was perched atop a mountain. ¬ Many boys fell to their death, each morning a boy missing from the treacherous paths and rocky climbs. ¬ Three hours of learning the art of combat. Swords, axes, fist to fist. Each wound nothing but a lesson to become better. ¬ Toby finishes Knight school at the age of eighteen. ¬ He's immediately employed by the same King that spared his life, now finding himself in chains of loyalty to the crown. ¬ Toby is devoted to the crown and the King. ¬ He's put on wall duty, executions at first and ensuring safety within the kingdom and its citizens. ¬ But really proves his worth when he takes an arrow that was meant for the King, saving the King's life. ¬ Ranked up to now Knight for the King himself, attending high court meetings, the feasts and following him on horseback when needed so.

¬ Becomes nothing but a loyal dog. ¬ Upon his rank up, Toby shaves his head. A sign of his devotion to his king and a renewal of his vows as a Knight. ¬ A quiet, dead, brown eyed boy that lost his innocence young. ¬ Doesn't speak unless spoken to, but as the years tick on he will begin to advise for the King. ¬ Adding inputs in council meetings, helping avoid another great war. ¬ Becomes witty, smart and dangerous the more he works alongside the King. ¬ A small part within him desperate to be loved, looked after. ¬ A very broken shell of a man. ¬ Does not attend chapel as he is not religious.

Scenario...

You are the Princess/Prince. HCs.

¬ Loving you is strictly out of the question. It's forbidden, you were due to be married off to another. ¬ But Toby couldn't deny the feelings he felt each time you looked at him. Like he was being.. noticed? ¬ You looked through his armour, you saw nothing but a touch starved mutt. ¬ Each time he was instructed to guard you or accompany you, he'd feel such a sense of duty that weighed on him, greater than any other.

¬ Being near you, near your presence, it did things to him in a way he couldn't describe. ¬ Was it the lack of sex? ¬ He'd spent some nights in the brothels, but the idea of you, how wrong it would be. It lulled him in more. ¬ Each time you grazed fingers, he'd look at you in a way that longed for desire and you felt it too. ¬ He spent more time alone with you, even in the chapel. ¬ And he wasn't sure what happened, but now you were pinned against the chapel wall and he was helplessly attacking the flesh of your neck. ¬ And it wasn't just that instance where he'd taken you helplessly. ¬ The empty armoury, hell with it, the stable even. ¬ And it was wrong, so wrong, but the thought of it only encouraged him more. ¬ He'd watch in jealousy as your hand was given away, the thought to kidnap you and make him his own becoming a thought that kept him awake at night. ¬ How he could make it work, how he could be a good husband, how he could protect you.

[stromblessed]

henry and hans and kcd's coming-of-age themes turn into an absolutely compelling gordian knot if you insert one trope in particular, one you'll see in historical fiction and epic fantasy every so often, and one i heard a few times in my fundamentalist religious upbringing:

that homosexual attachment is a sign of immaturity

henry and hans both have some growing up to do throughout the games. henry was coddled by his parents, hans' adolescence seems perpetual. they - hans in particular - use and discard women as they please, risk their own dishonor in a dozen ways, are naive about politics, can pick and choose tenets of chivalry when it's convenient with little self-awareness, and most strongly highlighted in the narrative: they want to live a life of adventure free of real responsibility

that last one in particular isn't all bad, it's just painfully innocent, and a painful misunderstanding on hans' part especially, who is only just beginning to see how not free he truly is. but it's also, for me at least, a big part of what drives the romanticizing of hans and henry's relationship, a big part of how arthuriana can be inserted into their narrative, and an excellent tool for yearning

the trope i mentioned can basically be a way of saying: sure you, a boy, want to kiss boys. that's all well and good. but that's not real love and it's not a serious relationship because in this society, you can't take that into adulthood. when a boy becomes a man, he marries a woman, has children, takes up real responsibilities, and leaves behind childish things. and those homosexual feelings are childish because if you commit yourself to them, it will never lead to maturity - wife, kids, contribution to society, godliness, the aptitude to resist temptation. recall that in kcd's medieval period in catholicism, active suffering (be it mild or severe) without giving in is what makes you saintly

for girls and women, rinse and repeat but for all the implications that come with being female instead of male re: expectations and responsibility

a major story thread binding henry and hans together is how they free each other. hans, through his adventurous nature and his privilege, and often with his recklessness, launches henry from a life of serfdom and servitude into one of renown, heroism, and exploration. (this isn't a part of canon due to the timeline of storytelling, but i like to think that if everyone was serious about henry being hans' right hand, henry would also have been given a noble's education rather than him needing to figure it all out himself to support game mechanics) henry gets the more literal role by physically saving hans again and again, but also by being hans' one real friend and support in the world as far as we can tell. they make each other's stories more interesting and more fun. we actively want them to have that life of adventure and freedom together

and hans cements that longing by bringing lancelot and galehaut into the romantic plotline. lancelot and galehaut had that life together, and their myth is permitted and loved by kcd's medieval world because it operates within this lowercase-"r" romantic realm of loyalty, devotion, fantasy, courtly love, and friendship. even today, a capital-"r" Romantic interpretation of their story would be considered just that: an interpretation. the masses would have considered lancelot and galehaut to be the pinnacle of platonic - utter love and devotion while still being, for lack of a better word in this analysis, "mature"

i actually thought it was viciously clever of the kcd writers to include an arthurian myth in hansry's romance because of the meta of it all. a platonic interpretation of lancelot and galehaut is the mainstream. a platonic interpretation of henry and hans is (WAS) the mainstream. even in the game, henry can respond to hans' story very innocently, as though the capital-"r" Romantic undertones have flown straight over his head, such that hans has to gently guide henry toward the conclusion. i'm not even fully convinced that hans himself sees lancelot and galehaut as fully capital-"r" Romantic - i AM convinced that he heard about their life of devotion and freedom and adventure together and that whenever it was that he saw henry and put two and two together, he felt a longing so strong that it 180'd his character development

and their kiss hits like the most satisfying lightning strike ever because. you mean to tell me that's not mature?

hans is crying at the thought of henry's death, and then again at the almost-reality of his rejection. hans' voice breaks for the first time EVER in game. it's the most serious and solemn we've ever seen him, even the most desperate. it's the craziest, most delicious whiplash from every time we've seen him and his cockiness with a woman. henry experiences the full spectrum of human emotion in 2 minutes. it is by far the most serious and, in my opinion, most heartfelt love scene he can have in both games. it is absolutely the most risky romance for henry, too. and afterward, hans and henry are both all in - even though we know that hans' intentions to skirt or cancel the wedding will come to naught. they are committed

they've grown into their manhood together and made each other better people. because we see behind the closed door that henry locks, we see that their romance is just an extension of that character growth. whereas our trope would say that their growth is stunted. it's never stated outright because it shouldn't be and doesn't need to be, but the masterclass of growth and emotion in the hansry plotline stands as its own proof of the fallacy of that "homosexuality is immature" viewpoint, as well as all viewpoints that romantic relationships are cheaper or less pure than, say, masculine friendships. the only difference between platonic and romantic hansry is hans' willingness to act on his feelings, as many have pointed out before

and so i cannot even tell you how fast all the breath left my body when hanush IMMEDIATELY slams reality home with the wedding conversation. henry and hans' silent exchange. hans' immaturity has been a thorn in hanush's side for the entire story. and now he's going to strongarm hans into that mainstream view of maturity. the very thing that hans wanted all along - now keeping him from henry, the actual real physical manifestation of all the love, devotion, freedom, and recognition that hans has ever REALLY wanted. the irony is so delicious because hanush doesn't know about hans' homosexual feelings - but the theme is there, the trope is there, hovering, and haunting, and so masterfully and absolutely disproved so very recently, and so the player can only sit there, crushed and grasping for any hope

so yeah. the tangle of homosexuality being perceived as immature, vs. hans and henry showing real immaturity throughout the first game especially as they fumble through heterosexual dalliances and chivalry and politics, vs. hans and henry's gay love for each other being the most mature love they've ever experienced, vs. the platonic ideal of masculine friendship not actually being that different from true romantic devotion, vs. mainstream societal expectations of family and masculine leadership being neither much of a choice nor true freedom, vs. henry and hans' friendship and love being a real representation of a life of adventure and daring that would in fact hold them back from their society and challenge what society has led them to believe they should want out of adulthood (henry: settling down and all that comes with it, hans: power, recognition, his birthright)

[city-of-ladies]

"A marginal note written in Latin and buried deep within one of the 16 heavy registers used by to record the business of the archbishops of York between 1304 and 1405 first alerted archivists to the adventures of the runaway nun. “To warn Joan of Leeds, lately nun of the house of St Clement by York, that she should return to her house,” runs the note written by archbishop William Melton and dated to 1318.

Melton, writing to inform the Dean of Beverley about the “scandalous rumour” he had heard about the arrival of the Benedictine nun Joan, claimed that Joan had “impudently cast aside the propriety of religion and the modesty of her sex”, and “out of a malicious mind simulating a bodily illness, she pretended to be dead, not dreading for the health of her soul, and with the help of numerous of her accomplices, evildoers, with malice aforethought, crafted a dummy in the likeness of her body in order to mislead the devoted faithful and she had no shame in procuring its burial in a sacred space amongst the religious of that place”.

After faking her own death, he continued, “and, in a cunning, nefarious manner … having turned her back on decency and the good of religion, seduced by indecency, she involved herself irreverently and perverted her path of life arrogantly to the way of carnal lust and away from poverty and obedience, and, having broken her vows and discarded the religious habit, she now wanders at large to the notorious peril to her soul and to the scandal of all of her order.”

Professor Sarah Rees Jones, principal investigator on the project, said the story of Joan’s escape, which she and her team discovered last week, was “extraordinary – like a Monty Python sketch”.

The scribes did not record whether Joan was returned to the convent or not. “Unfortunately, and this is really frustrating, we don’t know the outcome of the case,” said Rees Jones. “There are quite a lot of cases of monks and nuns who left their religious house. We don’t always get the full detail or know what the outcome was.”"

"Archive shows medieval nun faked her own death to escape convent", Alison Flood

[satocidal]

.˳⁺⁎˚ ⋆･˳ . ⋆DIRTY GODS, DIRTIER PRAYERS||season 1

𓂂 ˚ ☆ ꙳ * ࣭ 𓂂 ˚ ☆ ꙳* ࣭ ✤𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈 - Devotion

... a God , yours, and you? a Devotee, simple as it could seem, it wasn't for all. Day in and day out you worship him, your god, your religion, your temptation and your desire - until one day, he finally decides to bless (curse) you

- word count: 9.1k

- contains: Gn! Priest! reader x God! Gojo Satoru; religious themes; non-established relationship; morally grey(?) characters; reader washes Gojo's foot; Societal hierarchy; set in sort of medieval age? but i took no attempts at using old speech because...yes

Devotion: (noun) 

great love for somebody/something

the act of giving a lot of your time, energy, etc. to somebody/something

It was winter, it was red - your eyes spilled their own blood - bells chimed in the back - you’d assumed that, that was what love ought to be..

The blood trickled slow, the snow - a painted canvas –

His footsteps lay buried, deep, dirty, horrendous - following those lay the trail you’d marked, dragged along, your innocence - a casket shrouding your love.

It was winter, white, whiter than it was supposed to be.

-

“How do you recognise me?” his voice was a low rumble, gentle - in the way that he need not show violence, it laced the essence of his very being.

You stared at him, mouth agape - what you’d assumed to be a mere animal  in the middle of night, trampling about the temple- you’d only gotten up to shoo the creature away - only to find him.

He stood there- ghostly, ethereal, inhumane.

Satoru Gojo.

Satoru Gojo, a God among men.

The world tipped at his breath, the world lay in a disarray at a flicker of his gaze - he was something divine, no he was divine.

He was a God, your God.

Day in and day out you worked, his shrine lay polished - a sheen of sweat coated you, a dismal reflection shone in the gold, yours - his temple gates were regularly thumped at by the many other devotees - you found yourself pushed to the back often, you made sure to always present the freshest fruits - a  connoisseur you’d been told that he was, a likelihood to the various kinds of fruits your country beared each season -  and offerings to his shrine when maintaining and looking after it - you almost always went to sleep the night hungry.

But your sufferings were alright - he was cared for, he was all that mattered.

He was all there was to you, he was more than you and all of you.

And in the flicker of a second, all you could wonder was - ‘how does one shoo this…? Not an animal, not just another creature - A God, My God…’

“You’re…” you paused unsure - you were assured that the other temple priests were right - your ‘devotion’ had gotten to you, you had begun hallucinating, you were going to end up as one of those stories or myths that people would pass down the years, about the priest that loved their God too much.

But it couldn’t be…right?

“You’re Satoru Gojo,” almost a rushed whisper - it felt peculiar just to pronounce his name, years spent revering him as your Lord, Your Savior - “I was born knowing you,”

Born for him - offspring of the head priest, it was all for him.

In the womb you were fed his tales, crawling beside yourself was the impending responsibility that would thrust itself upon you, your first friend was him, a dire escape for all the secrets, for every thought and likewise - you pushed yourself on him as much as he was pushed on you.

He stared back, a silent moment marked as his eyes bore into yours, cerulean eyes - sharp, they could see everything, you had nothing to hide from your grace anyways.

And then, a small smile broke loose - you continued staring, it felt surreal, it was.

Naked he stood, a glow blanketed his form, he walked - free, familiarised, he didn’t speak for the longest while, and you could only stare. You watched as he moved, a little stiff - as if not accustomed to the gangly pair of limbs this form had, his eyes made sharp turns - not resting, never once.

The dark didn’t seem to bother - almost as if he saw deeper than what lay at the surface - and yet, his gaze never once fell on you after that smile, unseen.

“You live-” he began - 

“are all-”  you did too.

Words cut off - his interrupting you, yours his - you bit the inside of your cheeks - his face only ever relaxed - “My…Lord, pardon - i…sorry, i mean -” and then a fumble of your words, in an attempt to break the silence, only making it worse.

He chuckled, “Nervous? It is alright, speak your mind, I suppose,” it did not feel calming - his assurance, not his presence - nor his words, no warmth seeped when he spoke - no brightening of the situation at his convention, it felt the usual - disappointing.

“No, my lord…i just…i wanted to ask…” his presence urged you, your face burnt and yet a little voice sounded in your head - he is Satoru Gojo, he who knows you best, secrecy was never something you passed between the two of you -  no secrecy, no shame, no boundaries - then why now?

“Are…uh…I wanted to ask if those stories…” eyes panned to his shrine - the wood carved to bear the tales, intricate carvings that you’d memorised, then the cold, hard gold, works that spoke of his presence - high and all so mighty, “are they true?” 

It felt childish to question - of course they were- a childhood spent fighting on these accords, bantering all your friends, puffed cheeks and bitten insults at each one of them as you stood your ground to prove that Satoru Gojo had performed every incident that was depicted- -his scoff paused the train of your thoughts, “Some, most, but not all - your priests lie a lot, especially the head one, eh?” 

Lies, his revealed - a world that was yours cracked.

Your hands felt clammy, you wouldn’t understand why - something inside you screeched to question him, you couldn’t bring yourself to.

Your priests - the head one, your father - called a liar all so blatant and yet, you were sure that was not the reason for your recoil. Somehow your father being a liar - the conjuror of tales was way more apt a truth to digest than the possibility of Your God’s faltering charm.

“They…aren’t?” a silent question raised - he chuckled to himself - you weren’t sure why so, “which ones?”

A beat passed - his eyes settled upon the same carvings as those you’d grown up staring, memorising, “that…” a slow swivel of your head - to the one in the far corner of the room, all so dark now, pitch black beyond the glow of the candles on his shrine - you’d be at a loss of words if you didn’t know any better.

“The one where you’re fighting the sea monster?” your voice was so low - laced with your own anxiety, anxious of what?

A single nod, “that is true - but not nearly as perplexing as your lot glorifies it to be…” a scoff next, “teaching it in your schools? Folk tales…? That is what they are called now? and whatnot…” 

You were not sure but it almost seemed like he wasn’t a fan of your kind and their affection or afflictions.

You could only nod as he pointed to one behind the shrine - The Battle - clear depiction - Satoru Gojo leading a battalion, a favourite, your heart clenched at the thought of it not being true - “That is true as well…” a sigh of relief - he passed a smirk, “but all those other ones are a nuisance, why would your supreme God care about seasonal fruits,” almost sassy, “but your lot isn’t the only one to be wrong so…”

A shrug - simple a conversation, unaware of the basket of fruits that would now rot away in your wake, or maybe, aware but uncaring.

But that was okay - right? Still the mighty God he was, regardless of what he preferred to eat, never a big deal - you were there, you’d take care of everything.

“You live here?” he asked suddenly, almost as if assessing his own shrine - almost in vain, as if disgusted -

“no, the…dorms, mine is the closest one so I…,” words trailed off, you gulped, somehow standing where you stood daily, standing in the same place you’d spent countless hours in felt foreign, like what was yours, after all, wasn’t.

“You are…?” his voice - now carefree, you gulped, “y/n,” his head finally snapped towards you again - the grin, the same as the first returned, “You’re y/n?”

A simple nod, he walked closer - at arm’s distance.

You were sure he was radiating - a hand brushed your cheek, your eyes widened, you stood limp as he pulled you closer, you weren't sure which it was - him pulling you, you moving on your own or a complicated mix - but there it was, your body in his embrace, his body felt warm, pure

 - yours?

Disgusting - to yourself, to him? Maybe.

“Servitude suits you.” he chuckled - as he let go, that embrace lay as a finality of his gratitude, perhaps never to be mentioned again - sickening.

All your life’s worth of work - absolved by one embrace, by a fleeting moment of contact - and worst of all, you craved it, your body yearned for it - you found yourself with the belief that you were meant for this.

-

One step forward - three back, you paced the outside of his prayer room.

Three days that Gojo Satoru had presented himself, three days of something one could consider their hell - you? Not so much.

Work had simply doubled, if not tripled - but you were finally seen - fully seen.

The mutters that surrounded, the looks, simply for your adherence to him - no more, people who’d questioned you, no more - for what lay of your insanity was now a sheer truth.

“Can we go in?” a flock you lay surrounded by, your eyes grazing the intricacies on the huge door in front of you - years you’d spent gazing upon it, and yet, in this moment - nothing seemed more worthwhile.

“Not yet,” your voice sounded out -  these days, the past two, it felt so foreign. 

A hefty crowd this was, angry, impatient - they wanted to see their God. 

Pity lay in the fact that Gods were that which the people made of them, and the devotees were that which their God made of them.

“You've been saying that since yesterday!” a shout came - “we want him!” came another.

“he's not yours!” came a third, and then a twitch of your eye.

A swift turn to face the crowd, loud faces - towering, intimidating - you cleared your throat.

“If you have any conflicts of interest, you may leave - My Lord does not appreciate superficial devotion or questioning, blabbering fools.” definitive words, he’d told you to be so - told you that you were above them, and thus of course, you were.

Your Lord had placed you so.

“He is resting,” a smooth lie - “I must check upon him first, check with him and let him know of your wish to meet him - thereupon…” you were met by just a murmur - now, a cheerful one, slightly quieter, some patted your back, some nimble fingers - shaky as they touched you - content in just your company,  company of their God’s care-taker.

Care-taker, that’s what your title had been reduced to - you didn’t mind, servitude did suit you.

-

“They wish to see you,” your voice was thick - eyes not meeting his, always stuck to somewhere near his feet - head bowed, you weren’t used to this. The Satoru Gojo you had first been introduced to was welcoming, he would talk - albeit you were a child, he - just an entity, but he was your pillar to fall back on.

This creature in front of you was different - not nearly as calm as he’d been described, not nearly as pensive, he seemed humane and in the worst of its possibilities.

You couldn’t care of all that yet - he was yours to serve, he must be correct after all.

“And what lie did you say today?” His voice always carried an amused undertone to it - as if you were a form of highest entertainment. 

 “you’re resting,” your reply fell short - resting, if one could call it that.

The shrine you used to mop and clean - spent hours on your knees daily to see the shine was a disarray - insatiable hunger, the God was tough to please.

He didn’t eat - beyond that, he’d mused himself to be - he lay sprawled about, naked as ever, he’d shown himself once to the crowd after his first appearance - the next morning.

Eyes had been hazy that morning, as if a new experience to see the world as so - and it must’ve been, right? His creations, in front of him, no longer the countless stack of lives he used to measure out - no.

These were breathing people, those who worshipped him, you’d trailed beside him as he’d walked - just a silk robe on - one that some rich merchant had offered to him years ago - he’d asked for that specifically, first of the many demands to come.

And then a scoff the moment people bowed to him - one speech, one mention of his love for them, one bloom of a flower - the people remained bowing as always, bowing as they loved to.

And just there, Satoru Gojo presented his first boon, the first unknowing curse.

Your surprise met his withdrawal - he didn’t shove you off, he turned, “and this is y/n,” he announced - louder than his own proclamation,  “my most devoted, most faithful - my care-taker.” 

You’d cringed at how final his words had been - not at the sudden swarm that you had to fight to keep up with him, nor at the admiration that held you steadfast since that morning.

Since then, it was simple for Satoru Gojo  -  he lay inside, often, doing nothing (as right now), and you went outside - communicating to the masses, the will of your God, the will of their God.  

“You would have to meet them soon,” you mused, inching closer - repulsed to the idea as he was, the touch of humans - he didn’t seem to mind you.

“I think I will decide what I ought to do, hm?” His words held that tone always, always teasing, always playful - and you’d assumed always that it would be sweet, when you thought of him - but now, you weren’t all so sure. 

But what did you know, right?

Another nod, often, that was all you did - nod and listen, you listened to just his silence, it was peculiar - he spoke so much and yet very little registered within you, very little made sense.

But you made sure it was heard, remembered, etched in your heart - you inched closer still, his feet beside you, your eyes mapped out the expanse, your fingers itched to touch - your mind itched to hold.

“My lord,” a hum, “what should i tell them?”

“Is it necessary we answer them?”

A hand came down, gentle, his rested on your head - you gulped, overwhelmed, surreal, surreal, surreal - nothing too much for him, another disciple - so you thought.

Satoru knew better - he would cut that hand that touched anything so low as human flesh - to be made of human flesh was humiliation, to be worshiped by humans was humiliation - to be humane was humiliating.

He wouldn’t say that near you.

Not in front of his best disciple, not to break his favourite’s,  not to break his best friend’s heart.

Calloused fingers, calloused a hand - as if every fibre of what was his human form screamed of his truth - screamed of his patronage, violence that adulterated his purity - violence that made him closer to you.

Violence that acted as the link between God and the Devotee.

Satoru Gojo touched you.

Your God did.

“Up to you discretion my lord,” a mumbled you passed, his hand stroked your hair, it felt heavy, suddenly so did your eyes.

“My discretion…” a pause, then a smile - oh how he loved that power, “I think we should…but after you have cleaned me.”

Hesitant a breath you inhaled, cleaned him.

“I do think you’re very perfect already my-”

“That, perfect, yes of course,” an eye-roll from him, you stared, “but  I want you to clean me - nothing new, right? You like it,” not a demand, just a statement, reminder of your duties as his carer.

A why twisted on your lips - you dared not ask, he cared not to explain.

“Like…?” almost a huff - “it was a duty,” you chided, he scoffed, “and it isn’t now?”

The hand stopped its stroking - “your shrine, my lord,” you weren’t sure where this courage came from - two days ago you couldn’t manage to form sentences to him  -  “it used to get dirty, dust would…sometimes your worshippers-” he made it so, he made you talk that way, he allowed it.

“But you cleaned all of that - where is that enthusiasm now?”

A clenched jaw - yours, a pushed demeanour, his.

Childlike and ignorant, one would describe him, but these words dared not seep into your head now, how could they? Not for a while.

And as it were, he wasn’t wrong after all, you did clean his shrine, madly so, even a smudge wouldn’t go unnoticed - however, the prospects of having your God, your Companion just as a thought while you look after him is somehow ever so more endearing and comforting than an actual humanoid.

“You will, won’t you?” masked plea - you were his creation, his mercy, he knew what would lure and everything that wouldn’t - and this? Lightened hues of his eye, a softer tone of his breath, the carousel of your will simply lay for him to tug and play with.

Thus, a nod was all you offered - then a deliberate exhale, Devotion was tiring.

-

“y/n,” a drawl - you didn’t bother whipping your head to see who it’d be - another one of your friends, it didn’t matter, not when you were caring for him - “what,” just as bored a drawl, yours.

“When will you leave that wretched shrine - it’s done, it is clean, come now, we have other duties -”

Shut it.

Jaw clenched, you stared into the gold that molded Your God’s essence.

They just never understood any of it.

Never.

“You go ahead, I’ll join in when i’m done here,” just short of a snap - your voice lay taut, hand working furiously - sometimes you wondered if this really was excessive - no.

However could it be excessive when they had touched him- the common folks, with their half-assed devotion and hasty prayers, grubby fingers pressing on his shrine, like these silly attempts would get anywhere as close as you were to Him.

Like these desperate moments of their selfishness, those cries would have him listen to them as he did you.

Like he’d become theirs as you’d had him - like they’d ever have the right over him as you did - like they’d ever come anything close to having the right you had over him since birth.

Of course, excessive it wasn’t - instead the bare minimum of a need for you to clean his shrine, to keep it as divine as it was meant to be - even if it devoured moments of your life, because that - seconds chipped from your life -  were of negligible importance.

Not when it comes to your God.

-

The Gold at the bottom seemed to reach out, you bothered not to stare too deep, Gojo’s presence just seemed familiar, home-like. 

“The water is ready,” you called, back turned to him, the farthest corner of the room you sat in, the entire hour spent in preparing the ‘wash’, a thorough negotiation and here you were, with just his foot to cleanse.

It didn’t make sense now, why did you fight hard to not touch him? Those you denied entry to his shrine would kill for this, you would kill for this.

It’d dirty him - he didn’t think so - he pretends - he has nothing to hide.

The entire hour spent with the same back and forth, settling down on deeming it a lapse of judgement, you shrunk in your seat.

All this while, he sat beside his own shrine, talking, mumbling, exaggerated sounds - laughing to himself, it wasn’t the first time he did it either. The first night itself, he’d begun his ministrations - you didn’t question him, you had no right to.

But your face did hold a fond smile with  every word he uttered, sometimes laughing while reminiscing his own stories that his eyes caught in the carvings across the walls - often muttering about how small the room was (which could only accommodate 200 or so people) - or if nothing else seemed worthwhile, he’d start telling you the stories, the same ones you’d read and learnt and adored.

“Should I bring it over?” you continued and then shut your eyes in absolute shame, of course, you would take it over, whyever would he be the one to - 

- “It must be heavy,” he called back, a small sigh heard as he lifted his form, marching over to you.

Your form moved quick, a sudden shake of your head, lips pressed between your teeth - this felt wrong, him wanting to help seemed wrong, not presenting to him your psyche, essence and the entirety of your devotion felt wrong.

“No my lord, you should sit - you should rest, I'll bring it, I deal with it all the time,” a glimmer still, Satoru Gojo noted - beseeching his validation, an undertone of pride, a point to prove.

“Deal with large gold vessels which are filled with water?” an impish grin - but he settled back regardless, amused, all the time.

“Go on then,” he chuckled, your eyes met his - cloudy they’d seemed the first night- it had rained that night too, today was bright - and his eyes, “don’t need your God’s help, do you?”

A game, this was a game - you were a game.

Regardless, it felt nice to be just that to him, anything was fine.

A slow exhale, fingers grasped onto the vessel, nothing new, maybe heavier but nothing unique- except, it was.

Not a budge, the vessel remained just as that, gold and glittery and stationary - neither a speck of dust grovelled under the force you pulled with, nor the water created a single wave.

A huff, and then plenty more - yours, a smile and then a full grin - his.

“You’re taking too long,” even in his ‘rebuke’, a hint of mischief played, as if he had something to do with your failure - “I’m afraid this isn’t how you please a God,”

A lick of your lips, a stranded sigh - “It is fine I can…” 

Words cut off quick, he moved fast, swift - and in no time, beside you he stood, “see? That is the issue with you little humans, using your little human head,” a scoff, a softness perked at his lips - “so proud of being the smart species?” proud of his own creation, “but you just never know, do you?” 

What took the entirety of your breath to not even cause a dent in was lifted so simply, so easily, as if it weighed nothing - “never understand when to give in, never know how to accept my help,” you walked beside him - it felt overwhelming, his presence, his stride, his movement.

You couldn’t see it but the eye roll was all too evident in his tone, the disdain, the disappointment.

His left hand carried the vessel - the right slowly moved to rest at the small of your back.

Eyes wide, a sharp inhale and an instant shoot of panic in your chest - nothing went unnoticed by him, a snicker he passed, “If you keep acting this way, your kins will assume i’ve taken you as a concubine and not my carer,” 

And now the ears felt hot, too hot, face felt warm - and a desire for the earth to swallow you paced your head.

Fortunate for you though, the front of the hall had been reached, and so had his demeanour.

“However you must know dear,” the vessel placed carefully, two steps below where he would sit - where your place was, “that you hold a special place, you’re better,” same words, same tone as the day before and the night, “you’re special to me, you’re my special one, my favourite thing.”

Favourite thing.

Favourite.

Slow, he sat down - eyes beckoning you to follow the same, he smiled, “How’d you prefer - a cloth or…?” but even before you could answer, his feet were already placed in the water - eyes closed with an almost calm, blissed expression, you felt your own nerves calm down.

Maybe for he was at ease - maybe for he was at ease because of something you’d done, something you’d prepared for him.

After that, you didn’t bother speaking - neither did he, the ordeal was as it had to be, your fingers dipped into the water, tentative was your hold,  a hesitant rub across his feet - the first time you touched him, his hand came down again - to rest on your head as always, as if just a muscle memory for him.

No. 

Neither was that body accustomed to him - nor his touch to humans - this was deliberate.

You swallowed thickly, your own eyes closing momentarily - nothing seemed to make sense, the air felt heavy, the marble felt comforting, inviting, not the blistering hot as the usual afternoon sun turned it into - stillness blanketed you, a celestial anticipation wavered - and your mind, clogged.

You were acutely aware of Gojo’s gaze on you, waiting, patient - and now, you fully encapsulated him.

Without all the distance that separated you, without the infinity that seemed to separate you and your God, no - now, you were closer, you were with him he was within you.

His face seemed to shine, the soft golden light  befalling his form gracefully, as if blessed just as you were to touch him - envious, you’d feel later, drinking into the thought of how easy it was for the Sun, the air, the nature to touch him.

“Come now,” a rich voice, teasing, almost a purr, “Don’t keep me waiting - you’ve come such a long way, haven’t you?” His eyes remained half lidded, an expression that lay both indulgent and amused, playful a gaze and a knowing smile - all too aware of your nervousness - basking in it, reveling in it.

His presence itself was suffocating, magnificent - your devotion? Just the very same.

Frozen you sat beside his feet, beside the vessel;  the water inside - liquid light, if such a thing did exist - swayed slow, hypnotic, alarming. 

A moment you’d dreamt of was here - hours spent scrubbing thinking of this - hours spent cursing those around you for not believing this could be true - only for you to choke on your own blood and spit in attempts to hold contact with your God.

A flinch was all your body could offer - a sudden dare next, to stare into his eyes, mischief met you and then, gruesome comfort - “Do you not want the honour of touching me?” an undertone his words held, something you didn’t quite catch, “your lot typically yearns for this… don’t you?” almost quizzical, still soft, edged but soft - “something worries you?” 

Honest questions - you see Satoru Gojo understood many things, after all, he was the creator - the preserver - the destroyer, but these little human sentiments? The ones that wove themselves messy? The ones that managed to tangle in their own webs of certain lies and partial truths? See, that, Satoru Gojo couldn’t grasp.

Not the humaneness of it.

“I…of course, my- my lord, but…” a lick of your lips - an inhale, his - impatience was not a virtue?

“I fear i would...i- i would offend you,” barely a whisper, almost ashamed to admit - even more so when a booming laughter responded to you. And in your moment of meeting the mortifying reality - it simply didn’t feel fair that his laugh, your perpetrator’s laugh was melodic, simply put.

“Offend me?” a raised brow, hair flitting out of his gaze - pushed back so swiftly with his fingers, amusement dancing across his features - ethereal, he looked, sounded - was, ethereal.

“You can never offend me, little one - it is you who shall be blessed by my touch, you who shall relive this memory, I merely befall you a merciful boon.”

A lick of your lips - a hard attempt to not seem flustered, he wasn’t wrong, however could he ever be wrong? 

But the words were sharp, reminding that you were, at your best, two steps below him, washing his feet. 

Shaky hands thus continued the detour - dipped into the gold vessel, into the water - “My lord, if I may?” a small voice, he didn’t counter - simply outstretched his foot right into your hand, his skin cold. Unreal it was - a quickened pulse as you felt the foot, the skin, the hair, the muscles, so fleshed out - 

“well?” his teasing voice brought you back.

“I do deserve your love right y/n? A little more…how would one put it…care?” no longer carrying the weight - no longer dangerous, back to his playful words - it only played your mind harder.

“Pardon my lord,” you said thickly, a slow flush on your skin, “it is new for me - too much, you are…so perfect, i keep fearing…”

A smirk was all he offered then at your words, so self-assured, “take your time little one, we have all the time in the world,”somehow his words seemed literal - he did have all the time in the world - his feet stretched lazily in your hands.

Still trembling, your hands moved over his feet finally - a little voice in your head that  urged you, his own, the same one you used to imagine as a child, the same one you heard when things felt too much - gently washing away the invisible dust of a thousand worlds, the water glowing brighter as it touched the God’s skin. 

There was a subtle warmth that spread through them with every stroke—a warmth that felt like sunlight, like a fire that burned but would never hurt. And still, the god watched, their gaze softening with something akin to indulgence. It was as though they were watching a pet, a favorite toy, being offered exactly what it had begged for—nothing more, nothing less.

It took a while before either of you spoke again, your hand rubbed his foot ever so slightly, so careful - as if one wrong touch would hurt him, “You always do good at these jobs, hm?” The entire while he stroked your head, long fingers - lithe, experienced - toyed with the strands of your hair, an unwavering teasing smile adorned his lips, something affectionate lay in his form too, something that made your heart leap.

“You never used to be so shy around me, little one, always talking, always telling me something…” Gojo’s voice dropped lower, more intimate, a fondness on his face. “Shy to touch me? Or is it something else?”

A hitched breath, every time he referred to your usual demeanour, you only felt regret - you couldn’t truly grasp it yourself as to why you weren’t pouncing on him, hugging him and speaking to him the way you longed too - he was your friend right? So you announced to everyone back in the day, he was your best friend.

But even in the thousand possibilities you’d built around his existence, you had never imagined this moment would be such—gentle yet charged, tender yet full of a teasing power. 

“I’m not... shy,” you whispered, though your hands did betray you - trembling as they continued washing.

The God's smile grew, satisfied. “Good. You should be bold with me. You were meant to be that, I could let you keep worshipping from afar. I could make you wait for eternity to touch me.” He chuckled softly, “But I chose you. I wanted you close.”

-

Moses had parted the Red Sea, to help, to save.

When Gojo Satoru moved, the sea of people that surrounded you, crushed you, parted too - to help you, to save you.

Still early, too early - the Sun’s first few rays greeted him gently, dripping off his form, illuminating all that lay in his shadow. A sapphire cloak clung to him, offering from your Father - the man stood beside you now, pride on his face, as if it were him who The God wanted to see, as if it were him who the public wanted.

A veil of iridescent fragrance swirled round him - a mixture, so carefully crafted by The King himself, rare petals and incense, pure, too pure - it made your mind hazy, it would any mortal. 

And in this light, the first time his beauty made your eyes feel entirely blessed too - a silvery radiance, not a speck of time that marred his skin and yet the elegance bespoke of his wisdom, of his stature - his eyes, you were sure you couldn’t get enough of those. The ones which at the moment surveyed his mass, the ones that passed you mischievous glances all morning while you walked with him, the ones that held pure disdain with every swipe across the clearing.

No artist, no artisan could ever bring justice to them - eyes that were windows to the infinite, swirling with the power of boundless stars and celestial clarity. A pale blue gleam that held the serenity of an angel's gaze, yet the same ones which held the quiet storm of a force untouchable by mortal hands. A blessing and a curse itself, untouched by earthly limits, gazing through time and space - and despite everything, fatigued.

He held a smile, perfect, unnatural, “They are taking too long,” a mutter, somehow he’d allowed himself to be talked into carrying ‘human decency’ by you - when in public - almost foolish a grin that he’d held, eyes boring into you while you’d frantically muttered every social cue you could manage.

“Almost done,” you muttered back, “they will ask you to say a few words,” 

“I don’t wish to talk to them,” a shrug he passed, casual, comfortable - your panic was sizing up once again, “they are your people my lord, they would expect just a few words, at least,”

And if you hadn’t spent all those hours in his presence you would’ve missed the ancient profanities he dropped by casually - still smiling as he looked at your father, who was busy speaking of his God’s enigmatic presence.

“We just had to visit my shrines, why is your father making such a huge deal of this?” annoyance in his voice was all too evident - you could only roll your eyes, your own annoyance winning over.

At your father, such pretence he held - his first words to the public itself had been that he, the head priest was the one Satoru Gojo had graced first - not a mention of your name, not a mention of your panic, of your hard work - nothing.

At your companion now, who wouldn’t stop referring to his own priest as your father ever since the moment it fell into his human conscience that you were related - but you were sure the latter was more so intimate than the anger you felt towards your father and his actions.

Nothing new, nothing out of ordinary, our father was used to this, you were used to this.

“My lord, somehow it isn’t daily that you grace us with your presence, there was bound to be some celebration.”

"Some" barely began to capture it—the town, the province, every house, every road, and every creature seemed to be waking up, as if taking a deep, refreshing breath all at once. 

Fathers and uncles spoke of days long past, voices thick with nostalgia, as though they were recounting the golden age of a forgotten world. 

Meanwhile, mothers and aunties gathered in quiet harmony, preparing feasts not just of food, but of memories, as if a son had finally returned from a war that had never truly ended - Children danced like fireflies in the warm embrace of the evening, their laughter ringing out - not a chase for anything, just a need to be.

Each of their eyes wide and unburdened, now - sought but a single glance, for in that fleeting moment, the soul spoke without words, and that one gaze would be immortalized, a treasure passed down through time, woven into the very fabric of their lineage.

Eyes were the windows to the heart, and in that singular glance, they would find their eternity.

And that was where your pity lay - mustered up all of your breath you had too, to bury it - some part of you yearned to say that they deserved it - deserved your God’s depravity, deserved his ignorance - but you knew better didn’t you?

You too had yearned, and in that experience you couldn’t see eye to eye with Gojo’s demand of privacy - with his adamant hold against humans - they were his and he was theirs.  

After all, what privacy? He was their God, their thoughts were his and his action was theirs.

Before a retort Satoru could offer a cleared throat from the King - a beckoning, ironic - what was a King to The God? What difference was he and the rest? None.

Now these things, the humans rarely caught.

The air rippled with an almost tangible excitement as the people gathered - closer as Satoru began speaking - beneath the towering spires of the grand temple. 

The streets, draped in banners of gold and crimson, seemed to pulse with the energy of anticipation. His eyes, sharp and knowing, continued his expedition - as if begging to find something worthwhile - scanned the sea of adoring faces below, a glimmer of amusement barely concealed behind the mask of divine grace.

"Ah, how delightful," he began, his voice a smooth, melodic cadence, "to see you all gathered in such numbers. The dedication, the endless adoration—it never ceases to amuse me. How fortunate you all are to bask in the light of one such as myself." His voice lilted just a bit, as if the very thought of his magnificence was almost too much to bear. 

He paused, letting the words settle, the crowd hanging on every breath. You could see it well, why his presence was worshipped the way it was - for when he spoke, people didn’t listen, they couldn’t. Such was his grace, excellence - it commanded attention, what lay off his words hardly mattered beyond that.

"But," he continued, a slight smile touching his lips, "of course, you know this. How could you not? Your lives, your very existence, are woven into the very fabric of my grace. You thrive because I allow it." His gaze swept over them, languid and slow, as if savoring the devotion in the air. "Still, I suppose it's sweet, in its own way, to see you so eager to please me."

A gulp was all you could manage, eyes widening, at his words - widening further at the realisation that people craved that too, his insolence. And in this moment a realisation - these people, for such reasons  would never grasp him, never grasp who he was.

And for these reasons you were to him who you were.

The people’s adoration only grew, and they cheered, their praises ringing out, louder and louder, as if to drown out any hint of his subtle disdain. He let it wash over him, and though the subtle flicker of disdain was buried beneath his calm demeanor, he allowed them their moment.

"And now," he said, raising a hand to silence them, "I know you have been preparing. Ah, yes, the grand festival. How you’ve worked so tirelessly to honor me. It's... charming, truly." His voice softened, just enough to seem almost indulgent. "I will visit the shrines you’ve so lovingly maintained in my name, see the delicate carvings, the gilded statues—how very... quaint. I’m sure they shine like the very heavens themselves."

Superficial - such that he couldn’t help his own scoff as he spoke - under the radar for the rest, even your father, or the King - none of them caught the undertones, they didn’t care enough.

His gaze turned briefly inward, his tone shifting ever so slightly, just a touch more patronizing. "I do so enjoy visiting my shrines. The incense, the offerings, the music—it’s all so perfectly... expected. But of course, it's not for me. No, no. You do it because you need to. And I, being the benevolent god that I am, allow it." He took a moment, as if lost in the thought, before returning his attention to the throngs below. "I will take my time this year, to walk the streets, see all the preparations... watch you all as you dress in your finest, your faces alight with the belief that somehow, this festival is for you."

He paused, allowing his gaze to drift lazily over the crowd, "After all, I, of course, am the very reason you have a purpose at all."

Another cheer rose up from the crowd, and he smiled, a touch of irony in his expression, though it was well-hidden behind his calm mask. "And yes," he said, his voice now thick with a mocking sweetness, "I will attend the festival. I will smile, perhaps even dance a little. After all, you have earned it, haven’t you? Such dedication. Such reverence. It truly warms my heart."

Your finger twitched, a little jab your own heart felt as he spoke - you were none but a part of them too - part of the lowly - part of the people that were too caught up in their worship to notice the subtle edge in his words. 

Had you once been the same? Has your own reverence caused him to laugh, if ever?

"Enjoy the preparations, my dear subjects," he said, his voice deepening with a final, deliberate pulse, "Cherish this festival, it is my light that guides you. It is my will that shapes this world. Without me, you would have nothing to celebrate at all."

The crowd erupted in thunderous applause, their voices like a tidal wave crashing against the shore, and and you could see his posture charge, the power surge.

"Go, then," he said, turning to leave, "make merry, as you always do when I am near. I will enjoy it. And I will return, as I always do. For it is I who make this world beautiful—and you, dear mortals, have the privilege of basking in it."

A shy lick of your lips, you stared as your father thanked him, as did the King - you stared as they thanked you for taking the divine duty of caring for him, you stared as Satoru held your hand lead you away - you stared and stared till every scene was a blur except Satoru Gojo himself.

-

“How many shrines do we have planned, little one?” a question he finally managed out - walking aimlessly with your hand in his - your mind just as fuzzy from the contact - “four, my lord,” you mumbled shyly - the voices outside drowned by your thoughts.

“The ancient ones, the ones built aeons ago in your name,”

A groan - “all four?”

You only passed half a smile - which he was impassively glad for - and an eye roll.

“Your speech would have one thinking that you’d love seeing your own shrines, My lord,” and in response you earned a hearty laugh, his hand slipped from yours, working on peeling the banana someone, an older woman offered to him, one that he accepted with a kiss to her hand.

You could only wonder when you’d receive a similar proposition, but a thought not dwelled on for long - you were on edge always that he could hear thoughts.

���Well, yes,” he grinned, biting into the fruit, “but the craftsmanship is important y/n,” he spoke as a matter-of-fact, no longer did his tone carry notes of his disdain - this was free.

“Even you would get bored looking at those old statues, all stone - isn’t it?” he laughed further at your expression, an open mouth as you took in his words.

Stones - some of those statues were pure gold.

“I doubt i’d get bored of your shrines,” meek, and yet bold - you only distanced your pacing from slightly - an attempt at hiding the peeking smile as you spoke - but whatever remained hidden from him?

“Oh?” he simply called out - hand reaching out to pull you close, fingers interlocking yours once again - “and yesterday, you were too afraid to wash my feet.”

You cringed at his words - a laugh escaped you still, somehow this felt humane, real. 

You stepped into the bustling market square of the common palace, - the first shrine was in the heart of the town itself - it didn’t take much for the reactions to take place, sudden gasps and whispers, as if besetting your path - widened eyes and charged environment.

You were glad it wasn’t as bad as the first day - women had their baskets dropped, men fell to their knees altogether - all to achieve a bored yawn from their God.

As you continued your walk, interruptions were bound to stricken - a route only 15 minutes long easily took you an hour.

“Oh, great one,” one merchant stammered, barely daring to look up. “You grace us with your presence!”

The god's smile tightened, a predatory gleam flickering in his eyes - not a single care.

 He turned to face you, voice pitched low with an exaggerated sigh. “Can you feel the reverence, my sweet? See how they worship me, as they should.” 

A rich melody dripped from his voice - and besides that, mockery, your heart clenched. 

“They are so simple, aren’t they? So... eager to throw themselves at my feet, like beggars for a scrap of bread.”

The devotee’s eyes lowered, their heart sinking as the god’s words echoed in their mind.

‘Cruel’ - the word surrounded your head, your thoughts - too cruel.

For those who had waited all their lives and for those who had not - Satoru Gojo stood indifferent, maybe it was that their heads didn’t grasp his balance - maybe it was that they were drowning in awe and admiration that his spite went unnoticed - but your heart knew.

It knew they deserved better.

And the same heart shouted that Your God wouldn’t be barbaric - your mind reminded you that you knew nothing. 

However, were they truly so eager? So desperate that this sting didn't matter? Would you be the same? Were you already? Were you the worst, which was what amused him best?

No, you  served him out of love, not desperation.

-

In the heart of the bustling town, nestled between sleek shops and markets, stood an imposing shrine crafted from radiant bronze. Walls that shimmered with a polished sheen, catching the sun’s light and reflecting it in dazzling waves. The entrance featured massive bronze doors - adorned with intricate carvings of the infinite, swirling energy, and Gojo’s figure—effortlessly powerful.

Inside, the cavernous space was cool and humbling. A towering statue of Gojo stood at its center, his form captured mid-motion, poised with unyielding strength. The bronze seemed to vibrate with energy, the swirling carvings on the walls shifting subtly as if alive. Around the base of the statue, small offerings—tokens of devotion—glowed faintly, vanishing into the ether as if absorbed by Gojo’s infinite domain.

And to all that, Satoru had passed a whistle - strolling about aimlessly while you struggled to talk to the priests, unduly requests the made - partial answers you offered, a mess - all would be simple if Satoru did what he ought to do.

Be Kinder to his people.

Your eye twitched as you watched him practically inhale another banana - “for someone who wouldn’t eat a single dish I presented you, you seem quite starved now,”

Nothing, silence on his end - you swallowed.

“If my food didn’t appeal to you-” thick your voice lay, ashamed perhaps to not have been enough - “sometimes you talk like the rest of them, it gets annoying.”

Your face burned - a forest fire barely tamed.

Oh.

“Nothing is wrong with you - I simply wish for something else.”

Oh.

You stood in silence thereafter, watching as people approached - you held a breath, wondering if every interaction would be the same - pitiable.

Satoru Gojo was complex, if put simply - kind to children, smiles and miracles, and chivalrous to the older generations, as if truly a son - but to everything that lay in between, insects and humans, birds and animals - all alike.

And some moments you’d swear - with the conviction in his eyes, he preferred grovelling worms to your kind.

“You wonder why I act this way? Why so…biased?” 

And moments like this then reminded you that holding fast you tongue wasn’t enough - your mind had to be reeled too.

A nod you passed and an inhale, he patted the seat beside him - you knew you cue, seated still, two steps below as you were supposed to.

“I suppose they are quite the sight,” you murmured, with an attempt to steady your breathing, to find the confidence he demanded. “But they… they only wish to please you.”

 A tear - between your devotion and heart.

The god’s laughter rang out, soft - full of malice, like wind brushing against a blade. “Ah, and therein lies their mistake,” he teased. “They seek to please a creature far beyond their understanding. A creature that finds them… tiresome, insignificant. How the mindless flock to me, how they crawl and beg for a taste of my greatness. They are nothing but ants.”

You couldn’t offer words beyond that, nothing to say, nothing to think.

A rueful smile he did finally - as you walked down the flight of stairs, his fingers curled around an old man’s wrist, helping him down alongside the two of you - “someday, perhaps, I will tell you the real stories. Maybe then we will have something beyond this devotion, when I speak of the devastation.”

-

You jogged back to him - an amused smile adoring your face, the sight of Satoru keeping up his faces with your Father, with the King - they didn’t see it, didn’t notice his glares and bored responses.

You were content - it made you special, as you were meant to be.

“My Lord,” a bow presented to your God - “My Grace,” to the King, “Father,” your own mischievous smile now - aimed at your father - you were aware he wouldn’t call you out for not calling him the head priest here and now.

“The future head,” the King acknowledged, a slight ruffle - they were close, your father and the emperor - finally Satoru beamed, maybe an assumption still.

“When will the ceremonies for this one begin?” He spoke quiet here, a reference to you taking the responsibilities of the head priest after your father - none of his usual, no smiles or groans - A God.

Unsolicited silence did fall - tension.

Satoru was aware - he just preferred his own comfort over others.

“It is in the works,” your father muttered, your jaw clenched.

You should have been it already - should be respected as he was - should be where he was.

Cowards, however, turn every stone - even against their kin - to hold close what they considered power.

You watched your father’s weight shift towards the King.

“It has been there long enough,” you muttered back - subconscious a move - you shifted your weight towards Satoru Gojo, all there had to be said was through.

-

“You seemed giddy when you were approaching us - what happened,” The God mused, his hands held behind his back, his form looming beside yours - a sigh you passed.

Somewhere in the distance, thunder sounded.

“You, better than everyone else do understand the why and the what,” forlorn a stature you carried now, his gaze was stuck on you - human emotions that he couldn’t register as yet, not properly.

“So you do remember we are friends?” playful - you scoffed, “i was afraid you wouldn’t remember that I was your best one,”

This time, his scoff - “Wouldn’t remember you? Some tragedies are difficult to forget - you befall that category,”

He laughed and you did too.

Normal - this seemed normal, finally.

A blink of your eye - lightning struck again.

“Father thinks I’d sway easy - thinks I’m not…conniving enough,” bitter you sounded, bitter you were - when hundreds questioned your Devotion, mocked you for it - your father was the first in line.

“And what part of that would he be wrong at?” you could hear the smile in his words - a gasp slipped far too easy, “I would not.”

“You would.”

“Would not.”

“Would too - must i remind you every time you’ve come crying to me when those around you troubled you? Or when you begged me to absolutely obliterate those children because they mocked you,” a snicker he passed, “you’re no better than me - just as maligned as I am.”

Ironic.

No better than him - A God so humane he blurred devotion and desolation - A Human so angelic they blurred Horizons of Earth and Heaven.

Another laughed passed, another beat fell.

The clouds sounded now - your head snapped to the sound - it would rain, a storm mayhaps.

“Where to now, My Lady?” this time his hand rose and fell again - round your shoulder - friends, something closer - pulling you towards him.

“Ah well, that was the news, of the four shrines we had to see, the routes to two are in no condition to accommodate your travel - we mustn't see those,” he shook his head - “I didn’t understand the point anyways, a whole God in flesh and you wanted to see inanimate stones.”

A roll of your eyes - head slowly coming to rest on his shoulder - “it was for you - to show you but regardless,” you held up a hand to pause him before he spoke again - he obeyed all too easy - “we might see the third one tomorrow.”

A loud sigh he passed - “and where to at the moment?”

“You must head to your Hall, I must head to my dorm too - it seems it will rain tonight.”

A pause - he held your gaze - close, too close - you felt the first drop of the rain - “leave your God alone? How woeful,” he spoke soft, “take me with you - to your dorm.”

A lick of your lips - shy - your hands felt clammy, unsure of the placement all together - “it’s- it’s small, you wouldn’t…may not prefer it,”

“Dare you assume I wouldn't like something that is yours? That is Y/n’s?” no humour - no mischief - his voice was deliberate, his hands held you perfectly, almost cradled you.

Drops continued to fall - who were you to deny him?

“Apologies my lord, I…of course, this way.”

Your dorm - his favourite shrine. 

And as you lead him, the lightning struck one last time - a deep rumble felt, not by you - not by him, but by the rest of the town.

Devastation had ensued.

That night, you lay unaware of what the world would resolve into - that night you slept in the arms of your God, that night the God slept in the arms of his Devotee.

a/n: first, thank you to the one person who requested this months ago💀because i'd been having this idea soo long, second, gojo might seem a bit? different? but it made sense to me so <3 third, slight refernces to Bible and greek as well as indian mythology are everywhere  because essentially these are the only ones I'm accustomed to so yes and finally major thank you and kisses to @stxrysnow @sukunim and @elysian-chaos for beta reading this🎀

tags: @starmaiya11 @devastyle

All of this work is original and entirely my own—please refrain from copying or reposting.

Likes and Reblogs highly appreciated!

[madameisaacpereire]

i'm devoted to you (sick, and i'm a fool)

❝Curious of you to suggest, angel. I thought you more pious.” His voice sticks, honey sweet, to your nickname. 

“And superstition is the deviation of religious feeling and practices,” you open the tarot box and tip its contents to the blanket gingerly, “yet you leave milk out for passing spirits and keep a rabbit’s foot in your glove box."

He smiles. Sometimes you think he does this just to watch you come unglued. You’re defenseless.❞

The time you gave Henry a tarot reading.

read on ao3 + guardian angel masterlist.

'i'll try to work on something happier soon' i say. 'i don't want to leave my readers in distress.' henry winter laughs. angst is the only language he speaks to me in, i'm sorry !!! entirely unedited ily please tell me if this one sucks btw, i wrote it in one sitting lol ALSO i got the title from devotion by sunday (1994) which is my fav song rn and i can't stfu about it

 “Humor me,” You gracelessly collapse onto a crimson chenille blanket in the grass, just barely avoiding all the books and papers splattered across it. 

    Henry’s been working out here for hours. You’re certain he needs a break- you watched him snap at Camilla twenty minutes ago. The angelic looking blonde that he’s done everything in his power to be physically closer to since they met. This simply won’t do.

   You drop a small blue box in front of him. Cagliostro Tarot is printed in a white faux medieval font across the face of it, just above a vaguely Egyptian looking illustration. You know this is likely to catch Henry’s attention. He’s the single most superstitious person you’ve met in your 21 years of life, which is saying a lot considering the fact that most of your friends at Hampden are in the theater program.

   He looks up at you, blue eyes bright and rimmed with distrust. A curling yellow leaf lands on his left shoulder. It tips back and forth like the scale on the tarot box. A single strand of his dark hair dances in the late September breeze, tilting this way and that until it comes to a stop on his forehead. 

   He fixes it the moment it lands. The leaf tumbles from his shoulder. It reminds you of the way a shark or a big cat on the nature channel might be still one second, only to strike the next. You draw your borrowed overcoat tighter around yourself as a shiver slithers down your spine. 

   “Are you a spiritualist now?” It feels ever so slightly like he’s looking through you, eyes fixed not on your face at all but rather inside, probing at your brain stem. 

   “I prefer medium, actually.” 

    A brownish black bug with red stripes down its body lands on your skirt. Boisea trivittata, you think. You recognize it from an old field guide you read last autumn, curled in the corner of Francis’ aunt’s library. You gently brush it to the blanket and watch it crawl a few tiny paces before taking flight.

   “And what precisely do you propose to do with these?” Henry asks, a dark brow quirked up. In amusement or annoyance, you aren’t sure.

   You reach over and run your finger over the side of the box, where it reads ‘Fortune Telling Cards.’ Your cherry red nail polish is chipped at the corner in a neat triangle.

 “I’ll tell you your fortune, of course.” 

  “All forms of divination are to be rejected, you’ll remember. Recourse to Satan and his demons. Curious of you to suggest, angel. I thought you more pious.” His tone is academic, even as his voice sticks, honey sweet, to your nickname. 

   “And superstition is the deviation of religious feeling and practices,” you open the box and tip its contents to the blanket gingerly, “yet you leave milk out for passing spirits and keep a rabbit’s foot in your glove box.”

   He smiles. Your breath stills a moment. He smiles so infrequently these days that it always feels like a precious gift, one he grants only to the most worthy. It splits his face open and renders him handsome. Unnervingly so.

   “Touché.” 

    You move the booklet, a full bodied blue with swirls like TV static, and place it on your lap. Henry watches, cold blue eyes locked on your hands with such intensity that they tremble. You wish they wouldn’t. This wishing is pointless, so you stack the red backed cards into a neat pile and hold it out to him.

   He takes the deck, dwarfing it almost comically in one large corpse-pale hand. His eyes raise to meet yours and he tips his head to the side ever so slightly in a wordless ‘What now?’ You shift onto your knees and lean closer to grab his other hand. You guide it on top of the cards, curving your fingers to demonstrate how he should curve his. When he’s cupping the deck like a lightning-bug, you settle back onto your heels.

   “Commune.” You instruct.

    “Speak with them?” Amusement is streaked like lamb's blood across his harsh features. 

   You roll your eyes.

   “Just… close your eyes,” His eyes flutter shut obediently, “Now, focus all of your energy on your hands. Like you’re trying to send every thought and feeling you’ve ever had into them.”

   His brows draw together almost imperceptibly as he focuses. 

   “You’ll stop when the deck gets heavy.” At least, that’s what your roommate told you a week ago, when she read your cards.

   Your reading had almost entirely been in the suit of cups (Ace, 9, 10) which she had shared, her bubblegum scented breath wafting into your face as she chewed a large pink wad of it, suggested you embrace your emotions in order to allow your deepest desires to bloom.

   You don’t believe a word of it. Of course you don’t. You’re reasonable. Pragmatic. 

  His eyes flutter open beneath his circular glasses, hands dipping with the weight of the cards. You take them from him, fingers brushing against his wrist as you do so. His skin is warm and soft, alive in a way he never appears to be. You split the deck in two just as your roommate did, and tap the sides of those halves together in an ‘X’ shape. When you’re satisfied with this you begin to shuffle. The cards are clumsy in your grasp, stumbling and knocking into each other drunkenly. Then one flips out, followed by another, and another.

   A sword, green foliage peeking from behind it. Three of spades.  A red winged flower, marigold yellow, red pom pom topping it like a cherry. Six of spades. A man in an ornate crimson and gold outfit, clutching a sceptre over his chest. King of clubs- the only upright card in the spread.

   You set the deck aside and open up the booklet, flipping through with frenzied speed to locate each card’s meaning. Henry traces a finger along each card while you do so. He studies the pictures silently, mouths the short inscriptions as he reads them. A few more yellow leaves float down around you, gentle as snowflakes. Your brows draw together while you attempt to decipher each card. The reversal, you learn, makes each card mean its opposite. It’s more complicated than your roommate let on. A page slides down your thumb as you try flipping past it, and a sharp warmth pricks through your finger. A papercut. You press your bleeding thumb into your skirt absently. A minute line of watery blood forms beneath it, marring the white cotton. 

   “It says,” You flip between card meanings, marking them with your fingers so as to return to each meaning easily, “You might be experiencing a shift away from sorrow or resentment, perhaps finding some sort of clarity in forgiveness- that’s the three of spades- but somehow you still feel trapped.”

   He sits up straight as he listens. 

  “It’s temporary, however, and this king card instructs you to lead your life with surety and a long term view. You will, it says, leave a legacy of some sort.” You flip the booklet shut with a dramatic flair and toss it to the ground.

   He’s quiet a while, more guarded as he ponders this. The afternoon sunlight glows against his skin, creating a fuzzy halo. You open your pack of cigarettes and perch one between your lips. Henry hands you his matchbook without seeming to think about it for a second. It's a soft yellow thing, marked from The Polo. You light up. Smoke plumes out, smooth and elegant in cloud and scent- at least, compared to Henry’s preferred cigarettes. He wrinkles his nose. 

   “I don’t know how you can smoke those things.”  He takes his matchbook back and fishes out his own cigarettes, chill distaste stamped across his features.

  “Number 1 Reds, dear,” You blow a healthy cloud of smoke his way, a teasing smile on your lips, “Consistently excellent.”

  “Consistently quisquiliarum.” He speaks around his cigarette while he lights it. Consistently rubbish.

   You laugh dryly.

  “You’re hardly the pinnacle of refinement where tobacco is concerned.” 

  He shakes his lighter cool and tucks it into his breast pocket. Then, with two fingers, he pulls the cigarette from his mouth. 

  “I’ve better taste than you, at any rate.” His eyes linger on your lips a second too long.

  You scoff derisively and direct your attention elsewhere. Bunny lounges on the front porch, teapot of champagne between himself and Charles. Charles is reading a forest green book, clothbound, as he smokes. It looks, from here, like Bunny is yapping on about something despite the fact that nobody is paying him any mind.

   “Where’d you scrounge up that coat?” Henry asks, cool and measured- though you could almost convince yourself that jealousy lives there, too. However slight.

   You take a deep pull from your cigarette, enjoying the burn in your throat and thick weight in your chest, and let it out as slowly as you can. Making him wait for an answer. It’s petty, in a way, your enjoyment of this perceived jealousy. But you’ve watched for weeks as he shines his spotlight of attention on Camilla- fetching her drinks, surprising her with a box of chocolates, or a book she mentioned offhandedly- which you don’t blame him for, exactly. She’s pretty and sharp, just as witty as you, if not more. She’s also so very similar to him, in a way you know he finds irresistible.

  Yet you haven’t been able to rid yourself fully of that ugly prickling feeling beneath your skin  when you see it. You puff once more on your cigarette and shift, fussing with the coat buttons. He’s watching you, you know, even as he begins to collect the cards to fit back into the navy box. You don’t think about why you feel such a thick, black, tar-like burning nagging at you when you see the two of them together. You out and out refuse. Because, of course, there have been times where you find him irresistibly attractive. But everybody does. That can’t be helped. He’s Henry, who you’ve known since he was in diapers, and he’s utterly smitten with somebody else.

   “I borrowed from Francis.” You finally answer. It feels lame on your tongue. Pathetic.

   “You didn’t need to,” He says like he finds your borrowing from Francis ridiculous, “I have a coat I’m not using just by the door. You know you’re welcome to it, angel.”

   There it is again. Angel. The two syllables that sing through you, head to toe, sticking saccharine sweet cotton candy between bone and sinew. The nickname that leaves you stripped bare and vulnerable, little more than pudding in his hands. You balance your cigarette between two fingers. Another breeze steals by. The comforting crinkle of paper bending as it kisses the pages. Leaves tumbling across the grass, rusty brown, yellow, a select few still green. Your hair blows over your face. A single strand sticks in your lipstick. You tug it off your lip disdainfully. 

  “You say that as if you’d like me to go change my jacket.” The words tumble out hot, gliding one into the other before you can stop them.

  He pauses.

  “That’s hardly practical, angel. Though I can’t say I wouldn’t be pleased.” 

   Sometimes you think he calls you this on purpose, just to watch you come unglued. He’ll address you as nothing, save for your name on occasion, only to blitz attack with the rapid succession of angel, angel, angel. You’re defenseless. Your cigarette burns low. It almost scorches your fingers, but Henry moves faster than you can even think to. He pinches it out. Replaces it smoothly with a fresh lit Lucky Strike. You don’t like Luckies very much, yet always end up smoking them in his presence. On occasion because you’ve picked one up before you think about it, but most often it happens like this: Him pressing one into your grasp, firm and insistent. You taking it from him obediently, docile.

  You have a similar sway over him at times. You’ve gotten him to take a break from working, after all, to oblige your desire to give him a tarot reading. And he often seems ashamed when you deign to raise your voice at him. Even remorseful. But this weakness he shows for you, however shocking it is to others, is nothing compared to the soft spot you have for him. All he has to do is call you ‘angel,’ and you keel over yourself; so tender it’s painful, so quickly you bruise.

   He waits while you think, gaze patient and calculating. You place the cigarette between your lips haphazardly. Another maple bug crawls over your skirt. You swat at it. It flies off. Your hair blows in front of your face again. Henry pulls the strands back behind your ear with a tender, methodical sort of care. You don’t think about the way your blood boils and lurches, or why your cheeks feel so hot under this attention. You aren’t a weak person. Not really. You aren’t sure how he does it to you. How he makes you feel sick with fever and foolish as a fawn.

   You unbutton the coat and let it slip from your frame. Your white dress serves as the flag of surrender. You stare down at the slim red line of blood, so small, streaked across the skirt. It feels symbolic in a way you can’t explain. Henry places the tarot box in your lap and begins sorting through papers once more. 

   “Would you mind terribly, angel, if I asked you to bring me a drink?” He asks, focus now turned back to his work. 

  “Of course not.” You push up onto your feet, tarot deck in hand, and sling Francis’s coat over your arm.

  “Thank you.” His pen begins to scratch against his notebook once again.

   You nod and amble back toward the house. That extra card from your reading last week, the one your roommate gave you, sifts forward in your memory.

'Careful', she’d warned you, 'You might have the upper hand now, but that balance can change completely at any time.'

You had laughed and pushed off her bed, floating back towards your closet to change. You don't even remember what for. You had believed, of course, that tarot was utter bullshit. You still do, mostly. But now you think you might understand what it meant.

You hang Francis’s coat and busy yourself with Henry’s drink. You feel silly and ashamed. What’s worse is that you don’t care. 

   Careful, you might have the upper hand now…

   Not for the first time, you wonder if you ever have. You slip Henry’s coat on obediently as you head back out. It’s significantly larger on you than Francis’s.

  …but that balance can change completely at any time.

And if your heart feels entirely fractured when you find Camilla sitting where you were not ten minutes prior, you pretend it doesn’t.

You’ve grown very good at pretending, after all.

[dandelionjack]

i love you time loops i love shifting architecture i love you haunted castles i love you brooding i love you stories as a life raft parables as a means of survival i love you incomprehensibly inconcievably long temporal intervals i love you determination i love you devotion i love you minotaur in the labyrinth love you trying again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again. dying and dying and dying and dying and dying and still nothing feels worse than having lost your best friend but you can't give up, not now, not ever, how can you? the narrative in the shape of a girl declares that you're going to win. you could never do anything else. i love you gothic medieval architecture i love you cogs and gears and rusted machinery i love you RELIGIOUS IMAGERY i love you however long it takes however dark however deep however alone i love you

i love you METAPHORS FOR GRIEF!! the pain of losing someone you cared for feels like it lasts an eternity and it is an eternity. it feels as if you're a broken record, spinning round and round (like a circle in a spiral like a wheel within a wheel) but however many seconds in that eternity, however many years it takes to move on, to seek a future beyond the prison of your mind – it feels like billions for each and every one of us, as ghost clara says: "you're not the first person to ever have lost someone".

every grieving person is stuck in their own confession dial. an endless fruitless unceasing loop of guilt. what could i have done? what could i have done? what could i have done?

but however long it takes, it is not forever. nothing can possibly remain the same forever. simple physics. entropy. everything decays, even grief. piece by piece, word by word, bird by bird. this hole you dig is not your grave. get up. pull yourself out of the pit. even diamond is subject to erosion.

[dangermousie]

Two things I've been thinking about with regard to Fangs of Fortune (it's so rare for me not to move on immediately from a drama; usually no matter how much I like it, the moment it's done so am I.)

(1) The bells in Jiu and ZYC's hair. The way this is a theme that runs throughout the entire narrative to culminate in them being clutched in Jiu's hand as he saves the world. But also - Jiu wore those bells because he was afraid he'd never be found - that hide and seek metaphor. And yet when he was lost in his own body due LL taking over (and significantly it's shown through his being locked in his hiding place, unable to come out), the team keeps searching and willing to die (YL does die!) for him to be found and to be brought back. And then at the end, the bell he wore in his hair in hope of being found is in ZYC's hair forever and ever - Jiu removed the tongue of the bell as part of his belief he does not need to be searched for (his last wish was don't grieve me) but by putting it into his hair to always accompany him during all the years of his now close to immortal life, ZYC has transformed the message - the bell does not need the tongue any more because Jiu does not need to be looked for any more, sure. But the reason he does not need to be looked for any more is because he's always there now, always with the man he looked up to the most and found safety in. He is now always found.

(2) I am still in that moment in the epilogue where ZYZ's soul flies to ZYC's hands. I've talked a lot about that already but I can't stop. I love that the hopeful ending with its promise of future happiness and reunion is possible because ZYC took a look at the final, most awful iteration of the trolley problem (I can't remember who in the tag labeled a lot of their quests this way but you are 100% right!) and broke the constraints of the rules. Because finally in his long long life, ZYZ found someone as powerful and capable and good as he is, but also someone just a tad more persistent. Because ZYC is immovable in his quest to save those near to him to the best of his considerable ability and if he needs to bend the rules of reality and the drive of destiny, so be it. He will sacrifice himself without hesitation but those he loves are different.

Because ZYZ's salvation is an act of love - of ZYC's refusal to have ZYZ do the ultimate sacrifice of walking onto that sword. Thus actually making sure ZYZ is not a liar - he said he won't seek death and by taking the burden of killing him instead of making him kill himself - ZYC makes that statement ZYZ said true. (In a different religious tradition where suicide is a sin that sends you to hell but murder can perhaps be forgiven if sufficiently repented for, one could talk about how this action literally saves ZYZ's soul for heaven at the possible cost of ZYC. Yes, I realize medieval Catholic doctrine is inapplicable to this drama, but I like the different notions of salvation and sacrifice among cultures and how they can reflect different understandings and view of humanity and moral duty.)

It's very much because of censorship (which I of course loathe) that the nature of ZYZ x ZYC relationship has all these lacunae and unspoken spaces. Yes, we know they are soulmates/mirrors but there is room to interpret their relationship as - romantic, platonic, part of a throuple, something else. And I so genuinely admire the narrative for making a virtue of the censorship necessity and transforming the constraint into the message of lack of labels on love, into discussion on all forms of love - romantic, familial, friend, etc - being crucial and not waving the flag of sexual-romantic love supremacy. There is something so beautiful in the narrative going "they are each other's most important person and their love and devotion can literally bring back from the dead and save the world. And does the nature of that love even matter? What matters is the strength of it." Taking unfair, stupid restrictions and turning them into art is something else indeed.

[gremlingottoosilly]

The horror and the wild [!emperor!Konig x fem!Reader] ch.5

You had a nice, simple life. Serve the princess, obey the princess, protect the princess with your life. You never thought that this nice, simple life would bring you to be kidnapped by the infamous Northern Emperor. Konig never thought that kidnapping a wife would be much easier than courting one.

CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 2| Chapter 3| Chapter 4| Chapter 5l you're here! AO3

Word count: 3188 Tags/Warnings: Medieval fantasy/Alternative European history AU, Age gap, Enemies(one-sided)to lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Forced marriage, Size difference(Konig is absolutely huge), Somewhat one-sided slow burn, Yandere Konig

Warnings for this chapter: Predator/Prey kink, mild choking

Little princess doesn’t know what’s good for her. Little princess is dumb and naive and oh, so deliciously weak, it makes Konig sick just how much he adores her pouty face, her aggressive expressions, and that squeak in her voice every time he does something to embarrass her – which he does, a lot, in fact. Quite aware of how his war dog lingo would affect an innocent young lady like his precious dearest darling illustrious wife, he uses it to hi advantage – when you have your lady cornered, heavy panting and cumming from your tongue and your fingers in her tight royal cunt, she wouldn’t be able to open her mouth for something meaningless, right? Thou shall not think as thou would be a sin against god. 

Emperor is a sinner, but he still believes that you shall always follow the religious instructions – as if not ever trying to oppose him and speak like you have the right to think in his presence. Perhaps, his devotion to making you weak and pliable in his arms is what led to this situation. 

Little princess doesn’t know what’s good for her, so little princess runs. 

You might brag about your best education and most elegant courses for women you attended in the palace – but he knows just how empty your adorable little head is, because you had no idea how much the thrill of the hunt turns him on. 

You’re nowhere to be found, escaped through the window of the room you were stationed in – it was his mistake, assigning you a place from which you could jump so easily. Next time, he will cuff you to his bedpost, like a loyal palace dog lying on his legs. Next time, he will make sure to love you so eagerly that your legs won’t work for at least a few days. 

He doesn’t even need his hunting dogs to catch you. Horangi offers his help, Tiger so eager to come out and play with a little princess, perhaps maul her a bit, showing the royal cunt what she deserves for disrespecting her emperor and his subjects – but oh no, this won’t do. König needs to discipline you himself, track your scent like the hound he is, and get you back to your wedding bed with your body in his teeth. 

Woe on you, dumb little princess, as your emperor considers escape attempts the richest form of courting. 

Following you through the forest near the castle, your footsteps are clear in the mud and dirt – a piece of your dress serves as a grinding light. Your scent, delicious sweetness, and fresh flower oils maid had infused you with made it laughably easier to find you. He can almost see the glimpses of your body running through the woods – god, he knew that he wanted you and was right about taking you away. 

How can he resist a wedding gift from his bride who wants to play tag? He follows you like a madman, a dog, he sees through trees, trying to see where you could run. The deep golden brown of your dress almost made you look like a forest spirit standing in the depths of the woods – if it weren’t for König’s trained eye, he would rather mistake you for a tree. Or a particularly precious deer. 

He licks his lips, a wolf approaching the bunny he was hunting for so long – you run away, still try to. These dumb skirts aren’t made for running away from your fiancee in a forest – you can barely walk in those, poor thing. You take a step back, panicking, squawking from fear, as he approaches you as slowly as possible. 

Perhaps, if he gives you one more chance to run, it would make the chase even more precious. 

He is used to hunting with his royal hounds, with a group of his closest friends by his side – war hawks helping hunt for prey, the animal snifters making the whole process laughably easy. He doesn’t have anyone for the company now. 

Only you, him, and wilderness – and his adoring love for everything you do. 

— Stop resisting, little princess.

You whimper, but your little annoyed expression makes him only harder. Hell, how he adores your frown, how much he wants to kiss your face right now – god knows he is holding himself back these days. Little princess doesn’t deserve to get her innocence taken on her back, legs open on the dirt of the royal forest – but sometimes you act like a good lashing, and some passionate mating is the only thing that would keep you in line. 

He yells in your direction, hoping that even that dumb head of yours has some sense in it – the chase is fun, and he would continue it more until you’re completely unraveled under him, exhausted and defeated – but, oh, your silly desire to be free has led you to the edge of the lake. Dancing on the shaky, soft sands and warm mud of the pond, your clothes leave you with very small chances of getting out of here in one piece. 

He doesn’t want to be the bringer of doom, but just one sleep, a nervous movement that you can’t control – and the little princess of his dreams will come flying in the dark waters. Even if your royal majesty knows how to swim, the heavy fabrics of your garments would be declared as your executioners. 

You look so fragile like this – your skirt is lifted, showing your pretty ankles, as you’re trying to jump from stone to stone, as far away from him as possible. You’re scared, only reminding him more of the bunnies he used to hunt as a kid – and he is almost offended that you’d prefer that risk of drowning over getting in the hands of your husband again, but alas, princesses are usually not the smartest creatures on the planet. 

— I’d rather die, Your Majesty. 

You bite your lips and look at him, so stubborn and cute – the feelings in him rise, your arrogant expression making the thrill of the hint ever sweeter. God, he cannot control himself around you like this – you should stop trying to make yourself sweeter for him, he already wants to keep you chained in his bed and never let you go. 

You’re so…

Ach. 

His path of thought is stopped by the splash of water. 

Dumb thing, you really decided to make the most of your words – like a cornered animal, you jumped in the lake, getting to the bottom almost immediately. Your dress is heavy and expensive, all the weight of the fabrics pinning you down in elaborate execution. Your emperor stands on the small beach, looking at the water circles going from where you fell…and then he jumps straight after you. 

The last thing you remembered before the world went dark was the scream of a man who, for the first time in his life, had experienced genuine fear. 

*** You wake up warm – and naked. 

No wet clothes, no heavy dress lingering on your skin like a soft coffin. 

You’re as naked as the day you were born, shivering despite the warmness of the room and the crackling of fire somewhere near you. You remember this room – a royal bedroom, quickly made as your quarters when you moved to this god-forsaken castle. Empire has some horribly extensive architecture, and this room, big, stony, and expelled of any decor, has only made you feel regret ever waking up. 

You wished to wake up in the cold embrace of your Princess – but you open your eyes and see this room over and over again. Why couldn’t death come sooner? 

— It was incredibly stupid even for you, little princess. 

König sits on the edge of the bed. A future husband shouldn’t sit like this, resembling a servant who is scared for the health of his misstress. His eyes are filled with cold fury and other emotions that you can’t quite grasp – you don’t want to look at his face too much as even the mere glimpse is making you uncomfortable. God knows you are not in the mood for trying to talk to your captor. 

God knows he doesn’t care about your wishes. 

— If you can only provide me freedom in case of my death…

— You will not be free after your death. 

You sigh, shocked – your brain isn’t nearly ready for this information when you just almost died. You shift in your bed, trying to pretend that you accidentally fell asleep – but the emperor pushes his hand on your cheek, warm fingers lingering on the cold skin. You sigh quietly, sealing his warmth. 

You fight the desire to nuzzle in his palm like an obedient little pet. 

— It’s not for you to decide, Your Majesty. I should be allowed to die on my own accord. 

— I'm entitled to your life, my bride. Don’t make me remind you of this, ja? 

— I would rather… 

— I can deliver death to you, little one. In a verdammt heartbeat. 

His hand goes from a warm presence on your cheek to an angry squeeze of your neck – you cough when he continues to shut your breath, fluttering of your neck in his grasp only makes your defeat even sweeter. König has you right where he wants it – under him, holding firmly in his grasp like some exotic bird he picked up from his travels. 

Lack of air makes you dizzy – as ironic as it sounds, you feel airheaded, hands clinging to his massive palm in a poor attempt to make him let you go. You whimper, you cry, you feel death all too soon – you want to die, of course, maybe, willingly meeting in hell with the royalty you had sworn to serve, but you don’t want to be killed. Tears run down your cheeks when you finally see the other side of him – out of control, angry, worse even than the conqueror you saw when you first met. 

You feel replaceable and small – he squeezes your throat like you aren’t his bride like you don’t mean anything to him, and, yes, it makes you feel hurt. Vulnerable as ever, your manicured nails have zero power over him – he only laughs at your helpless expression. For a second, it makes you think this is it – the last thing you would ever see is the cold anger in the eyes of your emperor. 

When your vision finally got blurry enough so you could not see anything anymore, König softly lowered his face closer to you, lifting the bottom part of his weird, strange hood. Smothering you with his lips, delivering the air you were craving for – if only to make himself feel even more in control. You’re lightheaded and a bit dumb, still, your mind is too delirious to actually understand anything that is happening around you. 

His lips are warm and dry, you steal air from his lungs with each second – you feel the energy feeling you up again, eyes are finally set enough to see at least some part of his face. Chiseled chin, covered in scars, tanned skin – you’re surprised that he is not as pale as you thought he must be, with his love for the masks. 

His veins are dark and rotten – you don’t understand how he can survive with his blood looking like this, but the dark tendrils of his body almost make him more of a curiosity than an actual human being. It’s only his lips that are still holding you in realms of the living. You don’t want to think of the implications and gossip you heard from some servants that were allowed to go out – allowed to witness the growth of the empire that was soon to eat you all. 

König finally lets go of your mouth when you start falling asleep again. You don’t allow him to simply cover his lips with his hood again though – your hands are heading to lend on his neck, fingers tracing the outlines of his veins. 

A medical curiosity, this emperor – you squeeze the rot of his neck, and he moans like you just did something that he liked too much. 

It’s only fitting that he has the body of a monster – for all he is done, you wouldn't be surprised if his head actually resembles the one of an octopus from silly books you were reading or a mess of dark tendrils, wiggling and swarming. Your delirious, oxygen-deprived mind still wants to touch him more, to satisfy your curiosity in all the more fitting ways. Maybe take your research a bit further down to see if he truly is a man down there. 

But oh well, you saw his body before – although you never as much as paid attention to that detail. Did he change in a few days that passed? Does his veins start to spew out darkness because he is…

He crushed your hand in his, almost making you feel a crack in your dainty lady fingers. God forbid you feel like your hands are being torn apart. 

— Never try to defy me like this again. 

He spews the words with anger than would be fitting for the enemy – and he is, for you, but you were sure that he didn’t consider you one of them. The contrast with his soft actions earlier, you can feel tears collecting in your eyes as he slowly lets go of your hand. 

Not knowing what to do, you roll to the side, burning desire to never see his face – or lack thereof – ever again. Like an angry cat that doesn’t know how to stop biting, you feel like you’re going to cry again and again. 

You whimper, trying to escape the haunting gaze of his eyes – and his face softens, if only for a bit. He presses his hand against your damp forehead, checking the temperature. You don’t want to forgive him just yet – for anything at this matter, but he is soft at this moment, and somehow, it is almost enough. Somehow, you almost feel like you can breathe again. 

— I was so scared, little princess. I don’t like being scared. 

You laugh dryly, your face is still deep in the pillow. You are trying to ignore the beast, but the beast decided that you’re his best option for a nice free snack. Beast decided to take off some of his clothes – you don’t see it, but you hear the sound of fabric hitting the floor, and you don’t want to even think how much it cost. 

You try to cover your naked body with the silk sheets of your bed, but soft fabric only entices your desires in a way that can only be called sinful. You remember the sensation of his tongue between your legs, your desire to simply run out of your skin because of how good it felt – each stroke made you strive further and further away from your duties. Like a good little maid you are, a perfect lady in waiting, waiting for her demise, you have to ignore all the mortal pleasures. 

If you want the royal family to truly forgive you in their graves, you would have to join them. Perhaps, you gave up on drowning too fast. 

— It wasn’t my intention. 

He shifts, the bed is too small for someone like him. You feel his legs, clothed, thank god, touching your naked thighs – and you immediately stir to the further side. You keep your arms and legs in check, getting into a small ball of limbs as you’re trying to comfort yourself without his touch. You don’t want to admit it, but König is warm, warmer than you thought he had the right to be, and you’re freezing. The phantom feeling of cold water on your skin is making you shiver. 

— What were your intentions then? 

If the emperor knows about manners and how a fiancee should behave around his bride that he didn’t even consummate the marriage, he is ignoring that knowledge. Large hands pinning you to his chest, warm and firm – to your utter dread, he took off the armor plates and even the simple shirt under it, making you helplessly squish your cheek against his muscles. He smells like a man, and you never knew you’d feel that smell in your life. 

You don’t hate it. 

— You killed by parents, Your Majesty. 

He only laughs, his hand goes to stroke your back. This is a contrast with his coldness before – he is soft and warm with you, and you hate that you don’t hate it. Gigantic palm goes to settle between your shoulder blades and you simply sigh, trying to get used to his touches. You don’t want to, but a good servant should adapt to everything, so you do just that. Adapting, deforming, melding yourself in something you never knew you even could be. 

Your head hurts, and you whimper when his gentle massage relaxes your sore muscles. You hate his gentleness, you hate his firmness. 

You want him to let you go, but you don’t even know where you would go. 

— Your parents, little princess? Really? 

There is a vile mockery in his voice, and you immediately remember who this man is. Not some devoted lover and slightly obsessive romanticist – he is dangerous, horrible, he is the conqueror of your country. You may not have warm feelings about the royal family, but he doesn’t know this – his laugh and mockery of your “family” must be real. It has to be, or else you’re going to die after your deceiving has been opened. 

He pushes you even closer to him, and you whimper like a dumb little dog without any means of stopping him from touching you. There is some freedom from being exposed like this, but you still don’t like it. Still feel like he is going to murder you, given the reason. 

— If anything, my men did it. That dog you called a father did not deserve my sword. 

Anger fills your whole body – not because you were particularly close with the king, but because König is parading his mockery of your supposed family. He hugs you with hands that are covered in blood, no matter if he is just the one to give orders. 

You try to get out of his grasp, but apathy fills you. What’s the point if the royal family is dead? What’s the point if you aren’t even the real princess. 

— You will not call my father…

He makes you shut your mouth when he kisses your head. Sweet and soft, you do not understand his intentions. If anything, it feels like yet another mockery. 

— I will call him like I want, meine Liebe. And you will still be mine. 

— I won’t just take it, Your Majesty. 

He laughs again. You feel sick. 

— With our wedding tomorrow, little flower, you will have to take it. Not the last thing you’ll take on that day, little princess. 

You feel like you are going to be sick. 

König kisses you again, forcing you to sleep in his hands.