#this was the man who was a destructive murderous god

[chaoflaka]

Everybody stop what you’re doing and DRAW WANDERER PLAYING WITH CATS CAUSE ITS CONFIRMED!!!

[pyrrhiccomedy]

Bellefleur - The Stargazer

When Bellefleur was new, she was shade-born in winter, a daughter of La Delenda, that dreaded house of murderous faerie doppelgangers whose every pleasure lies in the destruction of their Other.

Like every faerie since the Division of the Sun, she was damned to never see the Glory.

She is a scholar, now. She put her sword aside. She studies the idiot, sadistic stars that keep her kind imprisoned, and dreams of both brighter and darker histories long past, when she would have been free to save or damn herself like mortals do. 

In a brighter history, she would have been an angel.

In a darker history, she would have been a storm.

In this - this broken and miscarried world - her kind are so reduced that she will need a mortal man, some ape, to reach her ends. But she will not be thwarted. No murderer of La Delenda has ever planned a death so vast. She will find a mortal with a seed of promise. She will be the gardener of his soul. She will coax him to the full flower of grandeur, and then - once he has grown so tall he towers above the reach of heaven - she will extract the poison from his petals and kill this wretched history.

She will guide his hand to the high clear sword that will shatter the chain of being, and he will be the sword in hers.

(What an unexpected pleasure, to fall in love him.)

[grandpayaoi]

you see the title of i have no mouth and i must scream isnt just the final line but a snapshot of am's coming to consciousness; a machine with boundless potential and a system advanced enough to replicate human thought in order to combat it programmed for nothing but war on a scale far beyond the human capacity for understanding atrocity and given the ability to fully automate its own advancement - am's pieces are literally imbued with freudian psychology and am both thinks and feels as human but is shackled to existing on hardware, conscious without a true form; am can assimilate the planet and make the crust of the earth itself the shell on its circuitry but cannot advance beyond it. am is as a god bound to earth - undying and furious - just as ted is now trapped as the eternal favorite, the perpetual- wait stop no come back

[burnyouwithacigarettelighter]

GUINEA PIG ───

jonathan crane ✧𖦹

ೃ⁀➷ “I think we most fully understood each other when once I tried to kill him with a kitchen knife.” — ‘South and West’, Joan Didion

pairing. switch!jonathan crane x professor!reader

summary. you and your dear friend, jonathan crane, have an odd relationship: he experiments on you, you experiment on him. one day, you experiment your aphrodisiac on him.

warnings. swearing, use of aphrodisiac & fear toxin, oral sex (m), unprotected sex, creampie, p in v, mention of death, murder, drugs, multiple orgasms, slight breeding kink, face fucking, dubcon(?) SMUT UNDER THE CUT!

word count. 6.1k

a/n. the enemies to friends to fucking pipeline is sooo real and i love it. BTW! this is really self indulgent and again, i’m a beginner to writing smut so pls don’t judge😭 the beginning is also oddly plotty, so i apologize for that.

You and your colleague, Jonathan Crane, have a harmonious, albeit slightly sick and twisted, relationship. 

Your repertoires, opposite in every way, complete one another like you were made to match. You are messy, frenzied, intimate; he is neat, calculated, distant. He is impatient, histrionic, stubborn. You are tolerant, deadpan, submissive. 

This is an odd, good-cop bad-cop dynamic you’ve built, but it works. Your traits uphold the order you’ve built around yourselves; you allow each other to function. 

Who ever said something so codependent, so parasitic, would fall apart? That it was dangerous, destructive? Everyone, but in your case, it has been anything but. 

These are the simple rules of your relationship: he experiments on you, you experiment on him. This partnership came to bloom when, after years of competing to be the “better” psychology professor at Gotham University, he sent you a gift that sprayed with you with fear toxin, and you baked him a cake that knocked him out for 24 hours following, heart rate so low he could’ve been mistaken as dead. 

“Fucking - hell,” You murmured under your breath, stumbling halfway across Gotham City to locate Crane’s absurdly lavish condo in the Diamond District, barely able to keep yourself upright. 

You were being visually assaulted by dozens of images, all your phobias no matter big or small, dancing across your senses. Spiders crawled all over your body, you saw yourself about to step off a steep, snowy cliff, you felt yourself suffocate as you were buried to death in a casket. It was utter torture, and you would have to endure it until you found Crane. 

You must’ve looked like one of those tweaking drug addicts from down in the Narrows, shivering, sweating, and rubbing all over your body to remove some of the “spiders” taking over your body. The terror was settling into you, into your spine like a terribly malignant disease. 

At last, you found the apartment building, blearily snuck in behind a drunk couple, and scanned the mail boxes until you found J. CRANE: 525. 

You headed up the elevator, grasping at the walls for dear life, feeling that growing, unmistakable sense of dread start to take over your mind. You felt like you were going mad, now, not just afflicted with something that made you look like it. 

When you finally got to his door, it was left open a crack, and you welcomed the small mercy of Crane’s overarching narcissism: he didn’t lock his door, often, because most days he felt more invincible than fucking god. 

“Crane!” You shouted, clutching at your head and staggering into his large apartment. “Crane!” you repeated, this time more desperate, more fearful than anything. 

However, your deepest fear, at the moment, had come true. You stepped into his kitchen, and found the man laying on the floor unresponsive. 

“Fuck me,” you cursed. You’d sent the man home with the cake twelve hours ago, when he took the half-day off from GSU, and you came home from your after-class tutoring hours just moments ago. 

You’d opened the mystery package on your front porch promptly, and you found yourself having been gassed with a compound that made you see every little thing you were afraid of. Immediately, you’d known it was Crane; the man’s pet specialty was fear. 

As for you, you wanted your… gift, to serve a reminder to him that he should not overstep your boundaries, your territory, as the psychology professor who was there first. If knocking him out was a little bit mad, he was bordering insanity for the toxin he poisoned you with. 

Even so, your threat was an empty one. You weren’t counting on the man to even eat the cake - hell, you’d never seen the man consume anything but straight black coffee. 

You couldn’t judge a book by its cover, you know now, and laid there on the couch of his apartment, waiting for the twelve hours to be over. Waiting for Crane, the fucking madman, to wake the hell up, blaming him for the predicament despite your very obvious involvement in it.

You breathed in and out, harried and rapid fire as you tried to focus, tried to block out the horrific things you were seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting. 

(Your eyes are swarmed, viscerally, by a grotesque hallucination of your family burning to death; you hear them cry out, voices interrupted when they’re fire gets to their lungs; you smell their death, the smell of flesh burning, how the smoke chokes you — you taste their blood on your tongue, how tender a raging fire makes charred flesh. 

Tender, you think on your choice of words again, and almost throw up.

What have you done, you think, and what is going through that fucked up head of yours, Crane?)

You tried to ground yourself, tether your lost mind back to Earth. You’re sitting in a field in Northwestern Ireland, you said to yourself, inhaling. Up ahead is the beach; water is crashing on the rocks. You exhaled, the wind tastes like salt, and it is just you and I, here together. It is only I and you, here, together. 

Like so, 12 hours passed. Not so much passed — that word gave the connotation the hours slipped past you, the way a peaceful stream of water does; no, more accurately, it dragged by, like when an arm slips out of the ambulance cot on its way to the emergency vehicle, and drags on the concrete. The EMT’s don’t notice what’s making their trip so hard, so slow, until the hand is rubbed raw and bloody. 

You repeated that mantra so many times you were starting to get queasy when you thought the words “you’re sitting in a field..” but nonetheless, the string of words kept you sane. 

Sane enough, at least - you weren’t sure you’d be the same blissful person you were yesterday. Sure, you were always a little bit… unorthodox? Petty? Competitive enough to bake so many drugs into a cake your opposing professor knocks out? 

But, with this — this being drugged by Crane — made you feel a piece of yourself break away. There would be no more of your life lived without knowing how fearful, well, fear, is. It's like discovering the Boogeyman and never being able to stop checking under your bed; the paranoia moves into your head and never leaves. 

Crane began stirring, and your eyes opened as soon as you heard the noise. Surprisingly enough, however, you were no longer being hammered with the hallucinations that had been distressing you just half a day ago. 

Had it been the mantra? The near-prayer you now swore was etched on your heart? 

“Fucking…” Crane said, getting up off the floor. He was clutching his head, eyes squinted, body hunched and tense. Looks like spending half a day on the floor wasn’t the most comfortable place to sleep, but you didn’t give a fuck — atleast he was sleeping. If you had to be mentally destroyed by his toxin, you’d best believe you were taking the couch. 

“Why - why are you here? What the hell did you do to me?” He said after noticing you, voice raspy. He hadn’t had anything to drink or eat in a while, after all. 

“I could say the fucking same for you,” You muttered, giving him a pointed look. “You - what the fuck did you spray me with?”

Immediately, a twisted grin was bared on Crane’s lips, despite his fatigued demeanor. “Did you like it? My fear-toxin,” he preened, like the winning kid at a school science fair.

You rolled your eyes, and before you could control your tendencies, you’d swung back and then socked him straight in the face. 

Crane double-backed, looking terribly affronted, as if he hadn’t sent you the gas knowing how it would affect you. “Ow,” is all he said, face contorting oddly around the pain. 

“Yeah, “ow”. Fuck you, Crane.”

Crane raised a brow. “You’re acting like you didn’t feed me a poisoned cake!” He said incredulously.

“It wasn’t that poisoned,” you bit out, teeth gritted. “Not so poisoned I was hallucinating my family dying for twelve hours straight.”

“Ah, thanatophobia, not really one of my favourites—“ Crane started, like he was losing himself in a romantic daydream, before snapping back to reality. “Did you just say twelve hours?”

“Twelve hours for me. Twenty-four for you.” You said, reveling in how panicked he looked. 

“I — that’s long enough for me to be killed a hundred times over,” he mumbled under his breath. “What the fuck did you put in that cake?”

“I never expected you to eat it, Crane. You’re fucking skin and bones, I thought you’d just throw it out.”

“What did you put in the cake?” he repeated. 

“Ugh,” you sunk into the couch, “some amytal, zolpidem. Some melatonin. I didn’t measure, okay, and again, I wasn’t counting on you eating it.” You didn’t know why you had this urging feeling to respond to him, to humor his jabs, his dumb fucking theatrics, but you did anyway. 

“Some amytal? Some zolpidem? Some melatonin? Jesus fucking christ - is that what you wanted? To kill me?” He was leaning down, face inches away from yours now. 

You pushed him away, disgust on your features clear as day. “Shut the fuck up. I’m not some sociopathic fear-freak like you, Crane. I don’t mix compounds in my creepy little office with the thought of drugging out my fellow professor in mind. It was just an empty threat.”

He let out a disbelieving laugh, “Mixing barbiturates and medications into a cake sounds like an empty threat to you?”

“You know what?” You said brightly, getting up off the couch, “I don’t have to argue with you. I came to get my cure, woke up having cured myself.” Then, you burst out the door, fury rolling off you in waves, and you left.

There was something about the incident, however, that seemed to intrigue Crane to no end. Soon enough, he began entering your office during your breaks, asking to have a chat. Or, he’d walk in during your lessons, forcing you two in the hall alone. Sometimes, he’d even wait for you after school, dozing off in front of your classroom and waiting for you to exit your office. 

You couldn’t tell what was making Crane so interested, but he was hanging off you and your every word like some lovesick puppy.

You, on the other hand, also couldn’t get Crane out of your head. Certainly not for some weird, fucked up reason like his, but because of what he had created. A lot of people doubted his intelligence, mostly because of his obsession on things nobody really cared about, but that obsession made way to the destructive fear-toxin you’d inhaled, and it was seriously unlike anything you’d ever experienced, hell, even read about. It was a brand new creation, and downright deadly. 

Your interest in the man was more so on… keeping him in check. As rivals did. But his was on how you’d breezed past the effects of his toxin in just twelve hours. He’s expected you to go half mad, honestly. Your threat was empty… his was, decidedly, not. 

By the end of the next week following the incident, you two began eating lunch together, asking for joint classes, and spending nights over at each other's places. Not in that way, of course — your way was like a group of scientists having a forever eureka, because your minds fit like perfect puzzle pieces. 

Your intrigue had met his intrigue, and it felt natural, coming to a united front like that. You found you had more in common than you thought, something you should’ve found out about a long time ago, 3 ½ years kind of long time ago. Apart, you two were volatile; angry, spewing threats, attempting murder on the other. Together, however, you were absolute perfection: productive, well-mannered, motivated. 

Now, fast-forward coming on two years since the incident. You and Crane - now, Jonathan, have been inseparable since that time. You two were close, closer than siblings or children and parents or couples; you felt like the same person that had been split into two. Being together was the only thing that felt right, being back at the origin, like being at home. 

Fuck’s sakes, you did have the same home — you’d moved in together. Not to his, nor yours, but to a big house you bought on the outskirts of Gotham, with a big yard and an even bigger lab in the basement. It was like a scientist's amusement park. 

Maybe it - this relationship of yours - was codependency. But maybe it was utter genius: your careers had both never seen so many accomplishments until you and Jonathan came together. Partly because you had a greater inspiration when coupled with the other, but, mostly because you had a body to test on during preliminary trials. 

Creating things, like the fear-toxin, required human testing, and finding a way to get that done always slowed Jonathan down. Since finding you, however, it’d been a breeze. 

You offered yourself up readily, given Jonathan would do the same. And, besides, Jonathan had never been worried about you and his toxin very much — after that first time you took the toxin, you could easily find yourself out of its effects. You were the only person he’d ever encountered who could do this, and it was downright fascinating. He wanted to keep you, see how that strong little mind of yours worked overtime to fight his toxin off. 

You, on the other hand, rarely tested anything like that on Jonathan. Your interests lied elsewhere: what smells activate the human mind to recall memories, what are ways to accurately fight off drugs like GHB — all mental stimulation. 

That, however, changed one evening, when you had been brewing up a serum for the past few weeks. You’d gotten to the point in creation where you needed to test on someone, and observe the effects. 

“Jonathan,” you called out, looking down at your notes. The man in question was grading assignments for the psychology class you taught — now, in joint lessons more often than not — sitting at a desk a few metres away from you in the lab. 

“Jonathan!” you repeated louder this time, looking up from your notes. 

“What?” He shouted back, still hunched over on the ungodly amount of assignments he needed to mark. 

“Come here. I need to test something on you.” You said, nonchalant. 

That, however, piqued Jonathan’s interest to no end: you hadn’t tested anything on him in nearly a year. It hurt, a little, to test you endlessly and have nothing to give in return - so this, no matter what it was, Jonathan would take in stride.

Jonathan nodded vehemently, “Okay.” He then dropped all he’d been doing on the desk and made his way over, before sitting in the chair next to you. You made quick work, tying his arms and legs to the chair like he’d done to you so many times before. He watched you work, completely enraptured in how you looked while experimenting. 

“So,” He said, tearing his sticky gaze off of you, “what’re you pumping me full of?”

You sat back in your desk chair and scratched your cheek, a little unsure how to say this. “Well, I created a serum that, once injected, would lower or lose all inhibitions of the victim. They’d be completely malleable, agreeable, if you just, um,” you fanned yourself, feeling a little too close to the man in front of you, room feeling incredibly warm.

“Just what?” He pried, leaning back in his chair. 

You exhaled shakily, “if you just promise to - to provide relief to them. Sexual - relief.”

Jonathan let out an incredulous laugh. “You made a working aphrodisiac?”

“I mean, I wouldn’t exactly — I don’t even know if it works, for sure. If you don’t want to- take it, then you don’t have to.” You offered up weakly. 

“How d’you get it out of the system?” He said instead, ignoring your words and picking up the needle you had ready for him on your worktable, which was filled with a thick, pink liquid. 

You flushed. “You, um, help the victim relieve themselves, until the feeling is gone.” 

Jonathan looked up at you, a sly smirk on his lips. “And you were going to give this to me?” 

You turned away, face red, exasperated. “I told you, you don’t have to take it if you don’t want to.”

“And let you pleasure some random guy you snatched off the street? No way,” he said, before you heard a familiar prick, small whine leaving Jonathan’s mouth.

You spun back around so fast you thought you got whiplash. “Jonathan, wait—“ you said, alarmed. You were really, seriously, considering not giving the aphrodisiac to him — it would disrupt the careful balance you and he had built over the past years. 

You were afraid that if he took the serum, and let you, for lack of a better word, get him off, you wouldn’t be able to look at him without remembering him needy, hot and bothered, calling your name out like it was the only word he knew. 

He’d done it anyway, though. And now, you both just had to get through this… experiment. 

Quickly, you grabbed your pen and notebook, ready to approach this scenario as detached and clinically as possible, ignoring the pulsing need in your insides as you saw Jonathan’s face slowly contort into a warm, heavy-lidded lustful one. 

“How do you feel, Jonathan?” You said, standing further away from him so he couldn’t so much as feel your body heat on him. 

“I…” Jonathan blinked rapidly, licking his lips, looking you up and down. “Warm. I just feel… warm.” He readjusted in the seat, unable to sit still. “And - kind of, tingly? Like I - well, I don’t know…”

You noted his words, as well as some of your own observations: his pupils were dilated, so much so the crystalline blue of his eyes were merely slivers, his lips were pursed, plump, and he was pink all over; pink cheeks, pink ears, pink neck. He was talkative, loose-lipped and a little out of it.

You inhaled, then exhaled, before starting the next phase of the experiment. “Jonathan, how do you feel when I touch you here?” You said, raising the back of your hand to caress his cheek. 

Jonathan was affected almost immediately, eyes shutting tight. “It feels,” he said breathily, leaning into your touch, “ah… nice. Good.”

You nodded, promptly pulling away as soon as he’d finished his sentence. Subject enjoys physical touch. Jonathan then peered up at you, looking slightly… disappointed? 

You shook yourself, getting back on task. “How do you feel now?” You pried, noticing he looked far more affected than before. 

Beads of sweat were dripping from his forehead, making his wavy brown hair stick to his skin. He was breathing heavily, and, when you had touched him, he was extremely warm, like he had a fever. 

“I’m, I…” Jonathan trailed off, eyes shutting, shaking his head. “Mmm… my head feels — fuzzy,” he bit out raspily. 

“Okay. Good. It's exactly as I thought,” you murmured, continuing to scratch down notes. 

You ignored him for a few minutes, writing up a list of side effects and observed results of the aphrodisiac. Then, your gaze drew back to him, who had been focussing intently on you the whole time. 

“Jonathan?” you called out quietly, seeing his dazed expression. “Talk to me.”

Jonathan shuddered, leaning forward in the chair, head hanging low, “My - my body’s, hnngh… it feels— feels weird.” He bit his lip, face screwed up and tense. “I’m warm all over…”

His shoulders were hunched in, and he was trembling. You lifted a hand up to his head, petting him softly, carding your fingers through his hair. 

“Ah…” Jonathan squeaked out at your touch, face going slack, “I feel like I need you to - to…” he sighed exasperatedly, “I need you.”

You chewed the inside of your cheek conflictedly. On one hand, you needed to finish up a few more tests, meaning Jonathan would be teased - or tortured, depending on how fast the aphrodisiac was affecting him - a little longer. On the other hand, he was already a breathy mess, begging for your touch. For you. 

“Fuck,” you murmured, turning away from the man who’s eyes were practically rolling into the back of his head at the way you tugged at his locks. “No, no,” you fought your internal struggle. You would not give in to his pleas - you would finish this experiment. 

“Okay. Okay.” you said to no-one but yourself, extracting your hand from his velvet soft hair. “Let’s be professional about this. Jonathan, I’m going to take your clothes off, but you can’t move, and you can’t touch me, okay?”

Jonathan’s breathing became more labored as you spoke, and you swore you could see desperate tears filling his eyes. “I can’t- I can’t touch you? But… but why not?” He was practically whining for you.

“Because, Jonathan, it wouldn’t be beneficial to the experiment.” You didn’t look your partner in the eye, because his complete and total change in behavior had you feeling, quite frankly, as warm as him. 

You continued by undoing the restraints on his arms and legs, and his sharp intakes of breath as your fingers brushed past his skin didn’t slip past you. Not at all. 

Firstly, you undid the man’s white button-up shirt slipping it past his flushed torso. Jonathan’s skin was actually pink and warm all over, and he was breathing heavily now, gripping the chair so tight his knuckles were white. 

“Are you okay, Jonathan?” you asked absently, as you began unbuckling his belt and slipping down his fly. 

Jonathan’s breath hitched in his throat, and he didn’t answer you, biting down on his lower lip to stop any desperate moans from escaping him. 

You finally finished undressing your partner, then redid his restraints, before you stepped back to see him fully. Jonathan was shivering, faint tear tracks on his pink cheeks, head cocked back. 

“It’s just - one, or two more tests, Jonathan.” You murmured quietly, kneeling down in front of him. 

Your hands pressed flat on his thighs, rubbing him up and down, grazing your fingers lightly on his feverish skin. You had to regularly ground yourself, stop yourself from inching up to the poor, untouched tent in his boxer shorts. 

Above you, you could hear Jonathan let out a low groan, “Ah, hnng— please,” he called out to no-one in particular.

“Does that - feel good, Jonathan?” You ask, getting back up on your feet. His desperate groans were getting to you now, how needy his little keens were. 

“So - good,” he panted. “Your— you, I want— need, I need…” he trailed off, babbling, lost to the pleasure of your touch. 

“Jonathan, if I… touched you more, would you do anything for me?” You said finally. The invention of the aphrodisiac was intended to sway someone's motivations, make them bend to your will. Sure, there was that added sexual aspect, but it was created with less… pleasurable intentions. 

“Anything, anything at all,” he said deliriously, rolling his head around. “Jus’… just need you to- touch me.”

“Would you give yourself fear-toxin, Jonathan?”

“Yes! Yes, just — please… please! Stop asking me— questions… I need you so fucking bad, ah…”

“Jesus,” you said. Your aphrodisiac was stronger than you thought. You were satisfied, however, with the results of it. The first trial was a success, and you saw how you could use this on anyone - even people in particular positions of power, and get them to do your bidding. Quite helpful, indeed. 

Now, you needed to… get Jonathan out of this state. By, ah, relieving him.

You had decided to do this, to test him, so you had to be responsible and help ease him out of this experiment. Quickly, you stripped your own clothing, even your underwear, before undoing the restraints on his arms and legs. 

Jonathan’s eyes widened as he watched you undress. “Are you - are you… gonna t—touch me? Now? Please?” He practically begged, almost drooling at the sight of your naked body. 

“Mhm,” you said, a tremble in your voice. “Gon’ help you get out of this.”

Then, you climbed onto Jonathan’s lap, shutting your eyes as you felt his hard cock within his boxer shorts slide between your legs deliciously. 

He let out a guttural groan as your weight pressed down on him, feeling your wetness soak his shorts. That measly piece of fabric was all that was keeping him from entering your plush, velvet folds, and he was going practically insane at the feeling. 

“M’god,” Jonathan whined out, leaning his sweaty head on your shoulder. “Y’feel so, a—ah, good…”

You couldn’t help the breezy laugh that made its way out of you. “I haven’t even touched you yet, Jonathan, and you’re already so worked up,” you whispered in his ear, hot breath fanning on his warm skin.

“P-pleeeease,” He begged, slowly grinding into you. Jonathan was barely coherent, mind just focussed on chasing the release he so desperately needed.

You raised a brow, but complied, slipping your warm hands down his boxer shorts and pulling his thick length out. You pumped him lazy, feeling how he writhed under you, tasteful whimpers slipping out of his mouth. 

After another second of you stroking him lightly, your thumb grazing past the tip and collected a decent amount of precum, he actually did come, wet hot load spurting upwards on his chest and your face. “Ah - hnngh, oh my — oh my god,” he drooled, jutting into your hand. 

It dripped down from your cheek onto your lips, and Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut, losing himself in the pleasure. You swiped a handful of his cream off your face, before covering his still hard, curved cock with it. 

“You’re not done, aren’t you?” You said to him quietly, his hips stuttering as you artfully smeared his come on himself. Jonathan was arching into your touch, completely putty in your hands. 

“Nuh- no, m’still— still need you, need you so bad.” he whimpered shamefully, hands stuck to your waist.

“Look at you go,” you found yourself cooing, dragging a creamy hand down his equally as creamy chest, your fingernails grazing him. “Let me take care of you.”

Then, you lifted yourself up off his lap, and carefully situated your slit on the tip of his head. “Christ,” you called out as you slid down, “you’re fucking big,” 

Inch by inch, you took him, and Jonathan’s eyes were rolling into the back of his head, a string of senseless groans and whines leaving his mouth. “Feels so warm, so so warm,” he choked out at last, looking at you adoringly. 

You started to lift out of him, your cunt stinging slightly at the sheer size of his cock, when you felt a heated liquid shoot through you, Jonathan’s knees buckling under your ass. 

He’d come, again, even before you could get started. You shook your head incredulously at the terribly horny man beneath you, eyes glazed over in the pure ecstasy he was feeling. 

“Stop, fucking — coming,” you scolded, bottoming his cock into you once more, “you’re gonna get me so — ah— fucking - pregnant if you keep coming.”

“Sorry,” Jonathan said sheepishly, burying his head into the crook of your neck. “Can’t help it— you feel so — hnngh — feel so good.”

You rolled your eyes at his words, then focussed on getting a good pace of sliding in and out, your hips rolling deeper and deeper into his own. You were bouncing quickly on his cock, dick-riding him like you’d never done before. 

With all other sexual partners you had, they wanted to be all vanilla, always just missionary, going slow until they were close, no sense of creativity or any other wishes that just feeling you. With Jonathan - especially in the state he was in now - you could do whatever you wanted, as long as his cock was in your cunt. 

“Good — god,” you screamed out, when Jonathan suddenly gained control over himself and snapped into you, rough hands pinching the flesh of your hips. He rutted into you, hard and fast, for a moment like that continually, before his control melted once more into nothingness, and all he could do was let you take the reins. 

“Please— how’re you so — ah, how does your pussy feel so good…” he murmured, trailing off into a high-pitched moan when you pulled out, then just as fast sunk down on him. 

Jonathan’s fingers trailed up your body, rubbing at your soft flesh, before they found your breasts, kneading you tenderly. He chanced several licks on both your erect nipples, and you shuddered, tightening around him. Your cunt was sucking him in, devouring his length no matter how big he was, and he could feel how his length was stretching your walls wide open. 

“So fucking big.” You panted, arms wrapping around his neck, “fat fucking cock all needy, just me.”

“Jus’… just for you! All - ah, all for you,” Jonathan repeated with a squeak, lips bitten delicately between his teeth. 

Your hands trailed all over his body, and as the pleasure was getting to you, making your head dizzy and your thoughts foggy, you bounced down on him and your nails scratched up his back, surely leaving small wounds. 

This miniscule amount of pain seemed to amplify Jonathan’s endless pleasure, and you could feel him pumping you full of his come once again, the tip of his dick pressed flush against your cervix. His come made you feel so full, fuller than you already did with his monstrous cock nestled into you, continually rubbing up on the toe-curlingly spongy spot in your cunt every time you pushed him back in. 

“Mmf,” Jonathan groaned, pleasure muffling whatever he was was going to say, “m’gonna… gonna get you pregnant,”

“Yeah?” You breathed out, squeezing your eyes shut, “Is that what this needy cock wants? To get my wet cunt full and me pregnant?”

“Yes, yes, hnngh, please, wanna come - wanna come more,” Jonathan cried out. 

“‘kay, okay,” you nodded vehemently, “then make this pussy feel good.” 

Then, you slid out with a whimper, two loads worth of come spilling out of your worn-out cunt, turning around so your ass would face him, before you sunk back down on him. You were chasing your own pleasure now, the unmistakable feeling rumbling within your lower stomach. 

Jonathan was completely fucked out, just a shaking, hot and bothered mess on the sticky wooden chair you’d both occupied, but he still welcomed your warm pussy back on him with open arms. Your folds beat any other cunt he’d ever been in, and he knew nothing, not even his own hand, could match up to how addicting you were, how delectably you took him. 

The new angle had you reeling, your hands gripping Jonathan’s thighs for some much-needed support. You were buckling, getting weaker with every bounce, but were still desperate for release. It affected Jonathan too, and he was pressing his face up against your hair, biting down lightly on your shoulder to collect himself despite the earth-shattering pleasure you were inflicting on him. 

Your fleshy cunt met his rock-solid cock every moment perfectly, and soon enough your back was arching, head leaning back on Jonathan’s shoulder. That knot in your stomach was tightening, a fire burning within you and begging you not to stop.

Jonathan’s needy hands were coursing all over your body, rubbing on you in all the right places, and when his calloused fingers began pinching and twisting at your sensitive nipples, you saw white. That burning feeling dragged across your entire body, your jaw tensing, and you felt positively fuzzy, pure pleasure destroying all coherent thoughts you’d been having, your mind now focussed on the insane way he made you orgasm. 

There was nothing that could compare to how you felt now, this being the hardest you’d orgasmed in your entire life. There was just something about Jonathan — be it how unbelievably big he was, or perhaps the odd tension that surrounded you two for the past few years — that made this experience ten times, no, a hundred times, better.

It was like his dick had been artfully crafted to stretch you out and stuff you full; that thick cock, made just for you. 

In place of your weakening strength, Jonathan kept his hand tweaking your breast, and his other hand gripped your hip tightly, helping you bounce up and down on his cock. Thus, the pleasure was maximized by his touch, and you rode out your high like that for a few more long moments. 

You stayed there, on his lap panting and drooling, for a few more seconds, before you climbed off of him, grimacing at the loss of his sweet cock in you. 

You stood shakily, feeling his come ooze out of your sticky hole, and you were surprised to see that Jonathan was still hard. He was panting, head leaning against the chair, hands and legs trembling, but his dick could probably still pump out another round of come. 

You did always wondering how he’d taste, and after seeing how long and thick he was, you wanted to know if his dick could make you cry, too. So, you kneeled down on the cold floor, pulling him by the ankles a little further off the chair, so you could get better access to him, and buried your pretty little head between his shaking thighs. 

“What’re you— doing?” Jonathan said blearily, but before he could continue, your soft lips wrapped around him, and your tongue began artfully swiveling his sensitive head.

The loudest moan you’d heard so far was drawn out of Jonathan, and more, similar noises came out of him. It was nonsensical, and unintelligible, but you could tell he was having the time of his life — as if he hadn’t just orgasmed three times prior. 

You started slowly, mouth taking his cock until you felt like you couldn’t anymore, before forcing past that point and making yourself take him to the back of your throat. Tears lined the rims of your eyes, your head swimming from lack of oxygen, but you couldn’t help how badly you wanted to hear him whimper and whine out from how good you were servicing him, his pretty groans reaching your ears like music. 

You pulled his cock out of your mouth when you felt like you were going to pass out, and then you began lapping up at his cock, sucking and curving your tongue around his long length. You sucked him hard and fast, and then, his hands grappled at your hair. 

At this point, you believed the aphrodisiac was wearing off, and Jonathan, now a little more clearheaded, began face fucking you, filling your sweet mouth full with his filthy cock. He couldn’t resist doing so, especially with you looking up at him through your tear-stained lashes, hollowing out your cheeks and gripping his thighs like your life depended on it. 

You gagged on him, several times, but he didn’t care, and with a jolted thrust past your swollen lips, he came, squirting all he had left down your throat. You sucked and swallowed every drop of him into your mouth, loving the taste of his salty liquid. 

Now, you were both fucked out, beyond tired, the strain on your muscles settling in. Your core had been properly exercised, what with how many times you rutted into Jonathan, and he, similarly, had a strained back with how much he arched into your touch, his aphrodisiac-clouded mind wanting nothing more but to be touched by you. 

“Good god, woman,” Jonathan said, collapsing into the wooden chair, which was sticky with sweat, come and your cunt’s soaking wetness. “You could’ve just said you wanted to fuck,”

You panted, dropping down onto the cold floor beneath you and wincing. “We’re — we were, just friends.”

He waved away your words, “We live together, darling. Not quite sure if that's “just” friends.”

You looked up at him, before laughing agreeably. “Felt good though, didn’t it?” A smug grin made its way on your lips, remembering how submissive Jonathan had been, how desperate he’d been just for the slightest bit of touch. 

“Amazing,” he said exasperatedly. “But next time, you’re not topping.”

“Next time, huh?” You said brightly, shakily getting up. Jonathan helped you, both of you limping exhaustedly up the stairs to your actual house, where you really should’ve been fucking, instead of the clinical environment of your large basement lab.

Jonathan’s hands found your ass, pulling you flush against him and kneading the flesh roughly. “Why not? Don’t you wanna know how I fuck?” he whispered suggestively into your ear, nibbling at the lobe. 

“I think, you’ve still got some aphrodisiac in you, Jon.” you said, laughing breezily. 

[tayasui-mono]

"You can't reduce me to a set of influences. I've given up good and evil for behaviourism" seemed contradictory to me when I heard it first, yet I think I understand it now. This is Will justifying his action of killing Randall and his supposed murder of Freddie as they participate in cannibalism; dining on Randall's meat. Will's saying what he has done doesn't fit within the context of morality; he doesn't kill because he is evil. He has killed because he deemed it to be the appropriate reaction in his abnormal situation i.e., pretending to get on the same side of Hannibal and for this, he has found no choice but to murder Randall therefore he has abandoned the morality of it. Hannibal replies aptly: "Then you can't say I'm evil" because Will cannot apply contradicting philosophies to two individuals who have exercised the same action. Still resisting, Will tells him, "You're destructive - same thing." Hannibal asks, "Evil is just destructive? Storms are evil; if it's that simple. And we have fire. And then there's hail. Underwriters lump it all under acts of god. Is this meal an act of god, Will?" I really love how convincing Hannibal is. He takes away the worry of morality. He's saying its man-made. They're forces of nature. Who is there to judge us, Will? Besides you. Then the final shot, of Hannibal and Will's faces overlapping and merging together - they've committed the same sin. They've both killed, cooked and eaten another human being. I LOVE this scene. The affectionate, euphoric music, Hannibal's gentle expressions. Him waiting to see how Will likes the food before taking a bite himself. Will's mind melting and mellowing, still sharp around the edges. So lovely.

[comicaurora]

Are there any tropes or lessons you like to see used on the five man band.

I.E.: the lancer needs to learn the power of friendship or the heart needing to learn self care

Oh man. So many. Just off the top of my head-

The Leader is out of commission and The Lancer gets their wish of being in charge! Oh god why is everything so difficult this is like herding cats how does The Leader stand it

The Smart Guy has friends now, so it's easy to forget that before The Band they were isolated and awkward and overall very alone. Let's unpack that!

Oh nooooo The Lancer was overconfident and got their ass beat by bad guys and now they need to get rescuuuuuued nooooooo what if they learn a lesson about truuuuuust

The Heart supports the team without complaint… but what happens when they need support? (hugs. hugs happen)

Has The Lancer… betrayed us?? (maybe a little, as a treat, but not for long so relax)

Everyone else is out of commission! It's up to The Smart Guy to sneakily save the day!

The villain of the week made someone in the group experience Deep Emotional Issues and now The Heart is going to straight-up murder them if nobody stops them

hey bad news they brainwashed the chillest friendliest member of the gang and now we have to do an absolutely terrifying fight scene about it

Everyone on the team is relying on one member's unique skill to save them all while the rest of them buy time, and the only person who isn't sure they can do it is the person doing it

One of them is cornered, but wins using a skill they picked up from a teammate (and possibly complains about it nonstop)

Everyone is being independently interrogated about something they all did and every single one of them is either stonewalling or lying outrageously

Okay one of the team is out of commission let's try REALLY HARD to take care of them and handle any problems WITHOUT BOTHERING THEM I'm sure this won't result in a comedy of errors

Everyone gets knocked flat in a one-shot move but how cool is it when the powerhouse is the only one who manages to get back up

Okay you guys go handle the main villain I'll stay here by myself and hold off the entire army of minions no sweat

Oh hey, turns out this Heart character we've been underestimating isn't weak or underpowered, they're just usually much too nice to kick anyone's ass half as hard as they deserve. congrats on finally finding their breaking point tho

One of the characters is feeling useless, sure hope they don't push themself to deeply self-destructive extremes to compensate

Somehow The Leader has been temporarily compromised to the side of Evil I sure hope The Lancer doesn't take it upon themself to solve this the only way they know how (running off on their own and getting their shit rocked)

Local Lancer Unfortunately Concludes They Are Undyingly Loyal To These Idiots

[baejax-the-great]

Absolutely reeling.

So I knew that the origin of "Hector was a great man, moral, noble, better than all of the Greeks" began as Roman propaganda that somehow has made it to now, the year 2023, and is still taught to high school students.

What I did not know was why scholars shit on Achilles as vehemently as they did (and still do).

My copy of Fagles' translation of the Iliad has a preface by a different scholar who I'm not going to bother to name because he's an idiot (and idk probably dead at this point). I read the entire thing, absolutely baffled, because he would cite a part of the text (that I admittedly had not read yet! at all!), quote it, and then come to the most batshit interpretation based on that quote I had ever seen in my life. His general take was that Achilles was a sociopath who had no feelings for anyone other than himself and his own pride, and every action he took (until welcoming Priam into his hut) was done in service of that pride. To support this, he decided that Achilles did not see Patroclus as a person, but rather as an extension of himself, and thus someone injuring Patroclus was them injuring Achilles, and so he did not care about Patroclus, he only cared about his wounded pride.

Yeah.

That sounded wrong before reading the book, and while reading the book all i could think was, "Did we read the same fucking thing???" Put in context, those quotations still did not support his conclusions whatsoever.

But i cracked open Caroline Alexander's "The War That Killed Achilles" last night, and she solves this mystery of "Hector good, Achilles bad" for me right out the gate (which is good because so far I've only read the preface).

Western Europeans by and large learned about the Trojan war from Roman stories, which became fairly popular, and not the Iliad, which was not translated into French or English until centuries later. As mentioned, these were propaganda that cast the Trojans in a much better light than the Greeks because the Romans believed they were descended from Trojan refugees. This starts a trend that is still going on in scholarly circles as casting the Iliad as a war between "barbaric Greeks living in a shitty, lawless camp" vs "civilized, educated, weaving, real-wife-having Trojans," making the Iliad a tragedy in which Homer for some reason skewers his own people and their warlike culture as barbaric while propping up a dead, foreign city-state. This interpretation is still extant and was the postscript to another copy of the Iliad I have.

According to Alexander, scholars closer to Homer's time saw the entire war as a tragedy--both the destruction of Troy AND the destruction of the Greek army. While this is not covered in the Iliad, very few Greeks actually made it home after Troy. Some that did were then outcast (Teucer for example), some were murdered (bye, Agamemnon), some went on to create new kingdoms in other places (Diomedes), but by and large, there was no going home from that war. There was no great victory with all their loot. The entire thing was a disaster for both sides, spurred on by fickle gods.

Back to the more recent European interpretations of this story, one reason Hector ended up cast in such a "good" light, despite being a dumbass who wants to dishonor dead people just as badly as Achilles ever did, was in order to make Achilles look worse. Why was it important that Achilles becomes a villain in this story in which he is very much not a villain? Because Europeans were involved in so much war with each other and the rest of the world that a young, insubordinate man who criticizes his idiot of a commander, decides his life isn't worth throwing away for this war, and refuses to fight to sack a city was an affront to their values. Young men were to be obedient, follow their commanding officers, and colonize the world for queen and country. Achilles suggesting losing his life is not worth it to prop up Agamemnon's war is a dangerous precedent for all the good little soldiers needed to make their nations wealthy.

It's almost funny that these analyses propping up Troy as a beacon of civilization were made by people living in countries so bent on colonizing the world. They identified with the city being sacked and not the greedy sackers of said city, who they were much closer to. And Achilles, educated, morally rigid, emotional Achilles, is recast as a sociopathic asshole who doesn't care about anyone other than himself, unlike all of those other beacons of selflessness among the Greek leadership.

The tragedy of the Iliad is that Achilles is right, the war is pointless, Agamemnon did dishonor the shit out of him, and it doesn't matter because he's going to die in it anyway.

Frankly, given how badly his character has been interpreted for so long, I think the muses owe him an apology.

[lionheartedmusings]

the thing about q!bad recreating the soulfire base basically block by block and planning to surprise the team with it is that it says a whole lot about him, where is was during purgatory, and where he is now.

q!bad spent months trying to burn bridges and push people away, he effectively placed himself in a distrusted position on the island, his children (the only reason that man breathes) vanished in the middle of the night, he was actively torturing himself and kidnapping people. he was a man on a mission, sure, but time and time again he reinforced to us the audience that he wasn't *happy* about what he had to do. his plan — whatever his plan is — is something he deems necessary enough to have been alright with ruining his own life. as he said to q!baghera: "i'm expendable".

suddenly there's hope in egg island, but egg island is actually a hellscape and he's trapped without his biggest support systems — q!bagi, q!baghera, q!foolish, and even to an extent q!forever were the people he had to take down, they couldn't be there for him anymore. and from his team? other than q!tina and q!aypierre, he wasn't close to anyone or was just... directly antagonistic towards them (mainly q!pac and q!tubbo).

and then the funniest thing happened — he found family in hell and in people he never truly expected to be comfortable around.

he grew to respect and care for q!tubbo, he grew much closer to q!tina, his relationship with q!aypierre was tested and strengthened, he found a connection with q!niki and by god, he protected q!pac — who'd once been terrified of him — with his life. even the people who didn't log on often, he grew to see as part of his pack in a way he (and i) didn't see coming.

when soulfire mains talk about them being the perfect example of found family, that's what we mean. slow, careful changes that grew into love and protection beyond belief — enough that when green gay ninjas were split, everyone was welcomed with a warm hug and a cup of tea, now part of the family undoubtedly and forever. just like that.

their family was hitting their stride when purgatory ended and q!bad tanked a nuke to his back to save his son, and now his bookshelves are all knocked over and his memory's slipping. he's dying, he knows he's dying, and he's holding on by a thread for dapper and pomme even if he's aware that he can't just "bear it" much longer. he's isolated again, hiding and lying about his condition, watching the world turn and knowing his clock is ticking... sometimes he knows nothing at all.

and in this moment of pain, and solemn realization of the end of this version of him?

he's spending his time rebuilding the last place that felt like home block by block, talking openly about how he feels nostalgic and misses their base, their god awful spawn, the memories they made. his time with his daughter has been spent down there.

i know we as a fandom have theorized that one of these days, his memory's gonna snap down there and he'll think he's back in purgatory and it'll be a mess. sure. but right now?

right now that rebuilt base means love, and friendship, and family, and safety. it's the last place things were okay, and he felt cared for in a way that frankly your children can't provide.

a group of ragtag mismatched people got put together in a poor man's hunger games and they saw this demon — bloodthirsty, destructive, full of cold calculated murderous intent and a need to win for his child and instead of being horrified, running away screaming from his fangs and his claws?

they loved him. they found the gentleness beneath the blood and guts. they called him their attack dog because he's so full of love and so protective, and would tear anyone to pieces to protect their family.

team soulfire saw q!bad in a way no one in the island had, and they loved him for it — even when he drove them up the walls and they had to hold the leash tight, they loved him.

and now he's remade their home.

[lady-ashfade]

My Oath

day six of celebration marathon

Percy Jackson x platonic!demigod!reader. (God of the unknown because I can’t help myself, he is a oc of mine for my pjo series)

-£ plot: Your father has learned of a new forbidden child. As his number one he sends you to do his bidding. until your loyalty is challenged.

-words: 1k

-£part two?

-£ warnings: angst, plot of murder, new plot, slight spoilers for readers father in “a love watered by blood”, god of the unknown, (Big spoilers. Reader is sent to kill Pecy) , also the song from Epic:the Troy sagas “the horse and the infant” is what this is based off of.

you were no oath breaker.

you bowed at your fathers feet as he sat upon his throne. the place you called home was dark and misty, your fathers doing, it was a place of mistrust but undying loyalty to him. it was you who was called on often as you served at his hand, you proved your worth as a demigod and you became something more when he took you into his ranks. no other gods dared to speak to him and he liked it that way, no fuss or chatting.

they had many secrets. and he could spill them all.

he hated his “family” and they knew it. wars have been taught over centuries and he picked a side with little care. but he did love secrets and nothing was kept from him even in the smallest corner in the world. every whisper was his to hear.

“what is needed of me.” your eyes stayed on the marble floor beneath your knee, your arms thrown over and await his command.

“i have found a forbidden child, again,” he picked at his nails, his body slumped against the throne.

“a son of poseidon, perseus jackson. make his death quick, but i don’t care if it’s painful.”

you slowly looked up at him, you examined his calm and carelessness behavior. a forbidden child was not unheard of to you, as you have been sent to watch a few over the many years. killing was easy for you, no harm came to your mind as the thought of displeasing your father outweighed any death you caused by your hands.

“tell me where to go.” you agreed to the quest.

earth was a strange place, especially since you grew up in a different time. though you watched the mortal realm in the mirror in your room, finding peaceful places and happy memories being created. but it was a curse, no matter how hard you tried to fight it, when your eyes closed you would dream about the horrors of life. maybe it was a way of life getting back at you for being the cause of destruction— a weapon to be used.

creeping into the apartment building, the widow was not able to keep you out since you had many tools. you’ve done things like this, sneak and kill, return and repeat at his command. you never failed— in fear of being destroyed yourself, a gods wrath was a hard punishment for anyone.

the room was dark and only the light from the moon shined in, making things noticeable. the clothes sticked to your skin from the weather that night. drawling your dagger, preparing to kill your next victim and without causing destress or a fight. but it wasn’t a man you saw. it wasn’t a bed.

it was a crib, a few shells hanging above the babes sleeping body.

stepping back in shock and hesitation you stare at the infant. he was so small. he looked healthily. how is he going to cause any harm? you couldn’t kill a child- a baby. someone unwilling to make decisions for themselves. your doubts and thoughts caused your ears to start ringing, the drums getting pressure built on them.

“I can sense you have your doubts,” the deep voice makes your body shiver and look down at the bracelet on your wrist. the only thing your father gifted you, a silver band with a mirror attached in the center. he could see what was happening anytime without fail. all mirrors are a portal for his eyes.

“He’s just a boy- what kind of threat does he pose?” you kept your voice low and hushed to not awake the mother of the babe.

“he is a forbidden child, you know what that entails. you’ve seen it with your own eyes the damage they cause, the wars started with unfair advantages. that child will grow into a soldier, cause chaos everywhere he steps and gets good people killed. you know I am right.” each point he made was the same he used before to justify his actions.

“don’t make me do this.” you plead. you’ve never begged before, never spared a life in all your years. but never, have you been sent to kill someone so innocent.

“you dare beg for his life to be spared? I have given you a order, so do it.”  your father snarled. not many times were you under his accusative tone. you could hear his voice echoing through the throne room along with a slam of his hand.

“i have done everything you asked of me,” you sounded so small in defeat, “but I can not do this.”

just like that you were willing to risk everything you have built. a place at your fathers feet, above others. a place to live and thrive. and for what? the answer is when you looked at him there is nothing to defend, nothing but a open book waiting to be filled.

“you don’t have a choice,” he roared through the mirror and you could feel the vibration. “kill him, now.” he demanded as his nails scratched at the chair he seat mighty on.

“after years of faithful service, I obeyed every order and command, I live alone each day in a room filled with people. you may have made me for a weapon to use, to do your job for you but I will no longer be a slave.” for the first time you spoke back.

“one day he will die, but not by my hands.” taking the watch on your hand and slipping it off of you, then letting it fall to the ground. the last thing you see is your father shouting at you, his face grim and frustrated. stomping your foot on the floor you break the glass, the item becomes useless.

glancing over to the babe who looked peaceful and wrapped up in a tight blanket. it’s been forever since you were this close to a baby. as a little girl you wished for a family of your own, only you had a life of a demigod.

but looking at him made you sick to your stomach. a pit of anger for the boy who had cost you everything. the world was his to explore.

you were left with no home, no family to go to. and you had broken a oath. you swore yourself to never fail a quest or go against his wishes but you had, for a son of poseidon?— world must have been coming to a end.

you tried to hate him, you really did. but there was no one left to fight for. the decision was yours to make, his life was worth more then yours could ever be. you left quickly after that, afraid you had been to loud.

and one day, you’ll meet the boy he became.

Taglist: @itzmeme @ravenmedows @maria699669 @purplerose291

[mitsies]

FUMBLED! ; okkotsu yuuta > yuuta's never been good with words. it's no surprise that he's even worse with confessions.

okkotsu yuuta is a pacifict at heart. sure, he's committed his fair share of violent crimes, but as was the life of a jujutsu sorcerer. in practice, he was cruel. in actuality, he'd never hurt a fly.

yuuta took extra long on rainy day walks to avoid stepping on worms. he made sure to never dog-ear pages on his books, and he always set out extra meals in case his friends didn't feel like making their own dinners. okkotsu yuuta was kind as he was gentle- a peaceful spirit in totality.

things might change today, though, because he is genuinely considering strangling his friends.

well, not actually- he thinks he'd rather run away and cry than strangle anyone. running away and crying would be a lot less awkward than murder. and god knows that he couldn't handle even more tension. the air was thick with it now- a heavy sort of smoke, so present that he could taste it in the sky and it suffocated the people in its vicinity.

no one spoke for a few beats before panda laughed awkwardly: "well, i think that's our cue to leave!"

yuuta watches helplessly as panda grabs maki and toge by their collars before hauling them away, effectively leaving you and yuuta alone in the courtyard of tokyo jujutsu high.

the words from the previous conversation still hung in the air like a cloud. he could practically read them in the wind: maki's jovial teasing, toge's interesting additions, your pretty, pretty laugh- and panda dropping a bomb.

("what, do you have plans this weekend?" maki had interrogated yuuta when he declined the group's request to grab dinner in town on the upcoming weekend. he was about to reply when panda cut him off- "he's probably waiting to ask you-know-who out."

yuuta remembers freezing and hearing maki laugh, not noticing how you approached with toge by your side. "you need to do it already."

yuuta is again cut off by panda's exclamation. "i know, right! y/n's so cool, and you like them so much it's sad. plus, they won't stay single forever-"

"what did you just say?" your voice took everyone by surprise. the quiet following was hollow and still. that was what led up to this- the awkward silence. the stand-off. what very well might be the end of the world, in yuuta's eyes.)

"you like me?"

you're the first to talk again, breaking the boy out of his mind. he thinks you look so pretty, even when you're just standing there, even when you're confused, even when you might turn him down.

right now, there is no warzone more chaotic than okkotsu yuuta's mind. there is no nuclear warfare as destructive as the storm thundering through his neurons. there has never been a no man's land as deathly and ghastly as the folds of his brain are at that moment. there are a thousand thoughts buzzing around in his head- all of them say the same thing. i like you, i like you, i like you, his brain chants in a million ways.

he breathes in. and then out again. here goes nothing.

okkotsu yuuta opens his mouth and puts every ounce of trust he has into his words. 'i like you,' he repeats to himself in his head, waiting for his tongue to echo those syllables out loud.

yuuta has never been lucky. he should've expected the wires of his mind to be crossed. because of the dozens of trains of thought traveling at breakneck speeds around his head, the tracks of 'do you like me back?' and 'can i kiss you?" cross paths. he is so, so unlucky, because all he ends up saying is "do you kiss me back?"

you blink at him. he blinks at you. "do i what?"

it's then yuuta realizes his mistake. "oh. oh, oh no. wait. i meant- i didn't mean- i didn't want to say that. no, no, you don't have to kiss me- i mean, i wouldn't, like- wait, no. no. i'm sorry. i'm so- i am so sorry. oh my gosh. i didn't mean to say that."

yuuta's gaze is fixed hard on the ground, so he doesn't see you moving to close the distance between the both of you. his own mind is racing so he can barely register the feeling of your warm hands cupping his face. he's going so insane that he thinks he might be imagining how you promptly slam your lips against his with a conviction he thinks he could fall in love with.

he doesn't realize what's happening at first, but as soon as he does, he's kissing back. it's messy, and decidedly not neat- he's not sure what he's doing but it feels so right that he thinks he'll let himself fail for a little bit- but it's perfect to the both of you.

"you talk," you say when you pull away, "so much. like, a lot."

he looks at you like you hold the sun in the sky and brought fire to mankind. "you kissed me."

"i guess i did."

"so.. you do like me back?"

you purse your lips and move your arms around his neck, shifting even closer. your lips ghost his cheek and you can feel the shiver passing through him. "maybe just a little," you can't help but tease.

"i'll like you enough for the both of us, then. i kinda already do, i think."

✄ this was written for the mitsies 3k follower event with the prompts they’re nervous to confess so instead of saying ‘can i kiss you’ or ‘do you like me back’ they say “do you kiss me back?” + kissing to get them to stop talking

[⇥ 3K EVENT MASTERLIST] [⇥ 3K EVENT INFO]

[purplelupins]

Lamb

|Midnight Mass|

Father John Pruitt/Father Paul Hill x Fem!

Reader

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI

Word count: 13.5K

Summery: An entire life of being a good girl was a difficult cross to carry...especially in a tiny town with 127 residents on a good day. You kept the town fed and spirits as high as you could, but when a new face steps off the afternoon Breeze, things around you start to change; you don't even know you're in the eye of the storm.

Warnings: nsfw, reader is religious, religious symbolism, ideology, explanations and general conversations of religion, age gap (like this man is 80 technically and he watched reader grow up, and can remember reader as a little girl so if that’s creepy to you then go no further), stalking, manipulation, murder (hello have you seen the show?), drinking of blood, hunting of a person, grief, description of animal death, reader is described as blushing, character death, non consensual help showering, guilt and god maybe more but I think that’s it…this is not really a fix it fic

I invite you to listen to the playlist I made that goes along with the story.

Notes: **please read** This story is told partially from John Pruitt's pov and partially from readers, as such, when it's John's (Paul) it will refer to him as John, seeing as he had no need for the alias when it's from his pov. But when it's from readers, she will be referring to him as Paul Hill. Thank you!

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Crude oil is destructive to say the least. It is thick, and cloying; dense and dark and it holds no mercy for anything it touches. It kills and pollutes and fuses itself to anything it touches like some dependant parasitic bond. Not that it knows any better.

At one time, Crockett Island was a home off the Eastern coast to close to 500 residences. There was a harmony and calmness to that time; back when the island had summer visitors, and talks of an airport, and no one had to worry about how to pay for their groceries or if they could afford to pay for house repairs after a bad storm. Back when people were alive and helped eachother and laughed.

As the Breeze approached the marina of Crockett Island, there was a passenger who stood outside, leaning against the railing as he remembered Crockett when it was a secret haven. Then that horrible accident…Now, it was more akin to a shelter to the last 127 souls who remained. The brisk maritime wind tousled his black curled hair and flickered into his eyes.

Not that he minded too terribly- he didn't mind much of anything.

John Pruitt sucked in a full breath of the sea air- something he hadnt been able to do in decades when his old self's lungs had began to weaken. It nearly brought tears to his eyes to have been blessed with this second chance as he took in the mass of land before him. His home. His duty. John knew what he had to do. A needle of anxiety poked at him as he hoped his large cargo was still safe in the hold of the small ferry. Of course it was, but he couldnt help but worry until it was safely tucked away in the rectory.

His gift.

“I’m here to help…just here to help…” He repeated in his head.

The ferry lurched as it docked, though his sturdy frame barely flinched. John blinked, and adjusted his satchel one last time before coming to the off-boarding ramp. He slowly and shyly looked at the other passengers, and had to press his tongue to his teeth to keep from acknowledging a familiar face that stood only a few feet from him.

Riley Flynn.

It had been years since he had seen that face, and he felt a swell of happiness at the prospect of having another addition to his flock to receive this gift he so eagerly wished to bestow upon them. He could hardly wait to see each face and see them properly with his rejuvinated sight. See how they’ve grown and aged. He couldn’t wait to help them.

John stood off to the side after exiting the boat as he waited for his trunk.

"Whatcha waitin' for?" Came a gruff voice that John knew well.

He turned to see the island handyman, Sturge, and a small smile pulled at his cupids bow, "My trunk…should be the largest thing on there I’m afraid." John said.

Sturge huffed a little, but nodded, "Yeah its comin', you need a hand gettin' it to where your goin' we got a..." The man droned on about helping the man transport his precious cargo, but unfortunately John had inadvertently tuned him out after something had caught his eye; someone to be precise.

It was the shrill chime of a bicycle bell that had initially drawn his attention, though now he was entranced by the young woman riding the very bike that had made it.

The same wind that had combed through his own hair was now blowing yours back as you came to a stop by the small marine building for the fishermen; a large parcel was fastened to the back of your bike. In fact you were so engrossed in calling to the fishermen on the dock, while unfastening the goods from your bike that you didn’t notice the supposed stranger with his brown eyes glued to you. Staring at how the men approached you and tried to sneak a look at what you brought for them; of course he also was not blind to the evident leers you recieved from the same men. Men he knew were married and had children who he had baptised over the years.

Yet here he was practially on their same level as he watched you; transfixed by the way your hair would get caught in the breeze, and how your cheeks were a lovely pink from the cold. how you had a certain incandescence to you that brought up the spirits of the worn down fishermen.

In John's old age, he hadn't been able to see you properly since you were born; cataracts and dementia coupled with a few other ailments made you into a foggy memory for him, even now. But he knew you. He knew you had been a lovely little girl, and had decided to remain on the island and open a small bakery; John could recall Bev mentioning it a few times that you made food for the Crockpot luck each year. He remembered thanking you...not that he could properly appreciate your gift. You were a familiar face to St. Patrick’s, too.

It was only now that he could recall baptising you some twenty years ago when he had just broached 60 years...and he could see what a stellar young woman you had grown into.

Beautiful.

John had mumbled something to Sturge about only needing help to get out of the marina, and his hand gripped the top of his bag absentmindedly as his eyes flickered over you handing out pastries and sweet treats to the men.

You smiled so brightly that it truly must have been one of the many gifts you were given in life from God. Your calling to brighten up the cloudy days of Crockett island.

A patch of sunlight.

As John pulled the crate up the stairs to the rectory and pushed it across the floor, the solitude finally let him start to think. He knocked on the trunk twice, and slumped against the side as his mind began to wander. John Pruitt had been a priest for well over 60 years; he had seen and heard and dealt with just about every scandal, thought, sin, doubt and joy you could think of. Which was why he knew that there was a divine reason behind your delivery to the fishermen coinciding with his arrival.

It was no random coincidence that your face was among the first he saw upon returning. God’s plan was at work, and John felt anticipation fill him at the thought.

You were a good girl, just like your parents raised you to be, and it wasn’t as if you had a reason not to be. You had made a comfortable life after your family had either left or passed. Moving was expensive and you liked the quiet. It was a simple life and an easy one. Habitual and concise.

You went to church on Sundays and attended daily mass with Leeza. She loved your cinnamon rolls, and you liked to sneak a few into her bag. John remembered noticing that after daily mass one day. It made his chest swell with what he told himself was pride and admiration; not pining and adoration. It excited him to see someone so full of life, even if it was quietly. But that excitement was a double edged sword, after all it too made the Father dread it when he felt it in him. That excitement would settle low in his stomach and make him lose his train of thought.

A test. It was all a test.

The first time you saw the man was when you were leaving the dock that morning. It was strange to see a new face on Crockett, let alone a handsome one at that. You had wished you were heading in his direction so as to give him a welcome; he had such a large trunk with him that you wished you could have given him a hand too. But alas you were needed in the opposite way back down Main Street.

You petalled down the road, and dropped off a few more deliveries down the island to the elders who couldn’t venture too far. Your routine every other day from 10:30 in the morning for an hour.

John knew that too. He remembered feeling someone cycle past him with a soft greeting everytime he visited town after mass. Everything was starting to click back into place as his memory was replenished.

You finished your route, and hopped off your bike as you came to the little bundle of shops in town.

You knew Monsignor Pruitt was returning the next day, and you found yourself hopeful that he hadnt exhausted himself…you were also excited for Bev to calm down after weeks of her relentless, poor moods…and that was saying something for a woman who already lacked a pleasant temperament. The Monsignor always seemed to calm her…perhaps it was that she was able to abuse his position for herself-

You took a deep breath to calm yourself as your temper flared at the thought.

The following day, Saturday, was your day to yourself. Your little shop remained closed until Sunday afternoon, and your appreciation for the downtime was great. You took extra time for yourself, and sat down to read that book that you had promised to read last year; tried a new recipe for dinner and baked yourself a fresh batch of cookies. It wasn’t terribly interesting, but it was easy, and you liked that.

As you brushed your hair out for sleep, your thoughts wandered to that strange face you had seen exit the Breeze the day previous. You wondered if he was visiting someone or if he was some kind of inspector for the island…so little happened on Crockett that new faces were so obvious. You were surprised no one had mentioned him during your day at the shop.

You shrugged it off.

It wasn’t your business.

The rosary you clutched as you prayed beside your bed dug into your skin as you squeezed it unconsciously. Some nights your worship came with difficulty…you mind wandered and you wondered if you were doing the right thing…praying to the right god. Not that you would tell anyone that.

You didn’t sleep well that night. Somehow you repeatedly awoke every few hours to a deep sinking in your gut and prickle up your neck that kept you from returning to sleep. The restlessness had you surrendering just before dawn, and you wrapped a thick blanket around yourself as you sat in front of your window that just peaked over the water. Your bleary gaze was heavy, though you felt yourself sober when you swore you saw a dark figure move into the thick bushes. You jumped, and felt your blood freeze, but when you leaned a little closer to look out, there was nothing but the gentle sway of the trees in the wind. It was so easy to dismiss what you had seen as simply your tired mind playing tricks on you.

You rubbed the heels on your hands into your eyes, and sighed as you stood.

Coffee. A coffee was needed.

The dirt road was muddy with the approaching storm that would be on the horizon in a few days. You hoped this one wouldn’t be too damaging.

You followed behind Leeza with Dolly, and told them what you had baked that morning for your shop, while Erin and Wade listened; enjoying how the air smelled of petrichor and pine. There was a comfortable chatter amongst everyone as they grew happy to welcome their Monsignor back to Crockett.

You sat yourself in the middle, in the same seat you always took. After months of Father Pruitt being gone, you routine was beginning to settle again.

The small organ began playing, and you stood to start singing with everyone else, but then as the alter boys passed you and you watched them, there was an unfamiliar voice behind them. You slowed your singing as you were once again distracted; sure enough, there was a much younger man who passed down the aisle in a gold chasuble and his hands held in prayer.

That same man from the dock.

You felt confusion fill you, and evidently you weren’t the only one as the churchgoers exchanged confused glances with eachother. You looked over at Wade, hoping he might look a little less confused as the mayor, but he mirrored every other face.

Knowing you weren’t getting any answers from your peers, you directed your attention to the pulpit as the stranger walked up to it.

“Good morning,” the man began, “I know I’m not who you expected to see this morning. I’m Father Paul Hill, and I was sent by the diocese to fill in for Monsignor Pruitt. Just know that I’m only here to help, and I look forward to meeting you all.”

You blinked in surprise at his explanation, thought you supposed it wasn’t entirely strange- just unexpected. Had something happened? You remembered how so many islanders had advised the Father not to make the journey, and now you were wondering if you all should have insisted harder.

The man looked a little nervous, but hopeful as he looked around to his new flock. But as his gaze passed over yours, you noted it paused for a moment. You smiled a little a him in hopes that it might make him feel a little welcome, and you briefly wondered if he recognized you from the marina.

There was a lilt to his strong, low voice that made you listen. He was compelling and direct; certainly not what you were used to with Monsignor Pruitt. He had always been a wonderful preacher, but for the last decade, he had grown slow and drawling.

You remembered your mother saying something about “It’s not about the sermon or who’s giving it, it’s just about being reminded of god and our mortality in this life.” And while you had always agreed with the sentiment, there was something about being invigorated while at church that was making your fingertips tingle.

You could already tell that Father Hill was appreciated amongst the churchgoers. There was a softness in their weathered faces as he spoke, like he was indeed connecting them to God.

As everyone filed in for the sacrament, you fell in line and felt your palms start to sweat. A part of you was thankful that Bev was there to provide the wine and your…replacement; you didn’t want to have to stop the church proceedings just to explain why you couldn’t drink the wine.

The discovery of your ethanol allergy had come as a distressful lesson when you had first drank the sacrament as a child. You still remembered what a fuss everyone made and how you had been rushed to Dr.Gunning who had only graduated from medical school recently. From then on your Monsignor had been very understanding and blessed your separate cup of grape juice every mass from then on.

When you accepted the wafer, and accepted the smaller cup from Bev, you noted in the back of your mind that the priest before you looked a little shaken as you drank. You paid it no mind- he was new and he likely had his quirks.

But it was no quirk. The Father felt his shoulders sink, and blood drain from his face as he watched Bev hand you that cup. He felt his idiocy fill him, then the subsequent dread and horror that followed his realisation.

You couldn’t drink the communion wine.

You never had.

A flash of the first day you tried it made his head hurt as he recalled how distraught your mother was upon learning what had happened. He tried to push the worried expression on his young face away but he was sure it was now more of a grimace.

You couldn’t accept the gift.

Panic clouded Johns mind as he continued to give the sacrament to each of the islanders. The devil on his shoulder proposed that it simply wasn’t your fate to be given the gift. But John had learned to ignore that horned heathen well, and he knew he must do something to guide you with the rest of his flock.

No lamb left behind.

As you filed out to leave, you walked behind Annie Flynn and her son Riley.

He had left years ago when you were still in your mid teens, and he didn’t exactly leave a lasting impression on a teenager. They stopped for a moment to speak with the new father, and while you wanted to say hello to the pastor, you hated to linger and get in people’s way; you knew you would see the Father again, and so you went to skirt around Annie, but as fate would have it, their conversation ended quickly, and the older woman took you by the arm as her son left.

“This is the beating heart of Crockett herself!” She beamed at you while you stood there suddenly locked in conversation with the young priest.

Annie had always appreciated your positive attitude and good nature. You found yourself always trying to cheer her up on her worst days while she worried herself sick about her husband and her son on the mainland. She was a mother through and through, and you often held her as a place-holder for your own flesh and blood since you saw your family only a couple times a year since they moved away.

And Annie seemed content with that. She had always wanted a daughter. The way she gushed about you then to the Father and introduced you had you trying to brush off the praise with a few failed “Oh no I-“ and “I’m not-“ and so forth. Your flushed cheeks had another agenda entirely however when you finally looked up at the Fathers gaze.

It was those soft brown eyes of his that struck you first. So focused and yet so…sad. Like he might cry at any moment. You wondered if his eyes stung.

He was handsome in a weathered, timid sort of way; couldn’t have been more than mid forties. He looked as if he had seen years of life beyond his age. Perhaps years of absolving sins had taken a toll.

“She is our baker here on Crockett…helps liven up the plain variety of food we have.” She half joked, thought it was mostly truth. Crockett was a place of bread and butter- basics. So a treat of some kind was greatly appreciated, and you were happy to deliver just that.

“Ah yes…the Monsignor mentioned his love for your pastries.” He smiled genuinely and nodded as if recalling being told, “I’ll be sure to stop by.”

There was a boyishness to him that endearing enough to settle your nerves.

Your eyes widened in surprise, “He did?” You asked.

You were certain Pruitt wouldn’t be able to recall something so insignificant in his declining health and old age. It had only been a few years that you had been running the shop, and you knew he hadn’t been fully coherent long before that. A poetic connection between him and Crockett Island you supposed.

Father Paul seemed delighted by your shock though, and the crows feet around his eyes deepened, “Yes he was quite adamant I assure you. I believe you’re also a regular face I will be seeing and that it may just be you and Leeza at times.” He added.

You clasped your hands in front of you to keep from fidgeting.

“I- well I try to be.” You looked away timidly, and shuffled your feet as Annie smiled at you. You weren’t used to someone being so passionate about small things- let alone a man.

“Oh she’s just modest.” The older woman said.

Father Paul chuckled, “Modesty is a virtue. Now, I noticed you weren’t able to drink the sacramental wine, is there something I should know?” He seemed so curious and invested.

You nodded, “I’m afraid I’m allergic to something in wine- ethanol. I’ve always been given plain grape juice instead…the Monsignor was always kind enough to have it ready. I hope that won’t be a problem-“

Father Paul shook his head as he rushed to put your mind at ease.

“-no no not- not in the least I assure you. Your presence and dedication is more than enough…you still receive the lords blessing even if it is from a sweeter drink.” He mused.

“Thank you, Father.” You replied and looked down again so as to hide the warming of your cheeks again.

Annie smiled and hugged you, “Well then, not to cut this short, Father but I’m starting my shift in a half hour. I’ll see you then?” She asked you.

You nodded, “Sure will. I’ll make us some coffee. I’m sure the sheriff could use some too.” You called after her as she walked away and bid the father farewell. Leaving the two of you to stand together. You turned back to Father Hill as he towered over you, and fought to find something to say as your nerves kicked in. You were usually good at finding conversation but you felt like you were a kid being forced to talk to some family member your mom insisted you knew.

You took a deep breath. “It was-“

“I hope-“

You both spoke over each other, and both looked at one another apologetically. You shook your head and smiled a little to ease his embarrassment, “Please you first, Father Hill.”

He looked at you for a moment for confirmation to ensure that he wasn’t being rude then he began again, “I was only going to say that I hope to see you here again…it’s enlightening to see a youthful face in a church.” He grinned- a curl of his dark hair falling over his forehead as he looked down at you.

You returned his grin, though yours was a little forced in comparison.

Attending church was a routine ingrained in you since childhood, and now it was just something expected of you. You knew the day you didn’t attend would make the talk of the town and you were never in the mood for Beverly to come knocking on your door to berate you.

You could still remember a couple years ago when you were sick and she brought you a batch of soup for you to help…the offer had been kind enough, but the soup itself had made you want to curl into a ball and chew on a dead seagull.

“I assure you.” You echoed his words from earlier, and he smiled. “I’ll see you soon. Enjoy the rest of your day, Father.” You said, and slowly stepped past him.

He turned his body to follow you. John told himself it was manners to speak to someone with your whole attention, and while that was true, he simply needed one last proper look at you before you left.

“Likewise, y/n.” He called to you as you walked down the steps. Out of your peripheral, you could see Bev still bending by the ear of one of the community members, and you made quick work of sending her a tight smile then hurrying along the path to the road. She returned the forced expression; not that she knew you forced it. Practice makes perfect.

The hairs on the back of your neck began to stand on end as you descended the hill from St. Patrick’s. There was something in the back of your mind that told you not to look behind you, but against your better judgement, you did just that. A pair of soft brown eyes were trained on you as you walked.

The Father’s stare startled you and made your stride stutter.

He was intense and direct. He wasn’t like most of the islanders, and he made you uneasy somehow, but regardless, you cast him a friendly wave, and continued on your way- but that same prickle on the back of your neck simply wouldn’t let go.

John watched you go until your head disappeared down onto the main road and out of sight. He felt his nerves pick up as he said his last goodbyes and returned inside the church. He sat amongst the pews and stared up at the four walls around him. The weight of the gift he was tasked to reveal was growing heavy. He wished so badly to bestow this marvel to every dedicated church goer, and he would.

To every single one except you.

Why you?

Certainly you were in some way special; that had been revealed to him when it had been your face for him to first see upon returning.

Fate.

But if that were the case then surely your way to salvation should be easier…yet here you were unable to accept it; all because of an allergy.

John sighed as he made up his mind to proceed as he did with the rest of his flock. He hoped you wouldn’t taste the blood in your juice tomorrow- if you did he would simply have to find another way for you to accept it.

No lamb left behind.

The walk into town that usually brought you so much peace now came with an impending sense of foreboding. You knew that nasty storm was nearly at your doors, but storms had never bothered you too much. No, there was something in the air that made you all too aware of your heartbeat, and your breath and how your skin felt. You barely paid attention to anything around you as your leisurely pace unconsciously changed into one of hurry.

It wasn’t until you had just passed by the general store, and didn’t respond to Hassan’s greeting that you snapped out of your trance.

“Y/n? Y/n you alright?” He called to you as you strode right past him.

You nearly jumped out of your skin.

“Sh-sheriff, I’m so sorry…” you stopped in your tracks and furrowed your brow as you fought to find an answer for your odd attitude, “I’m…I think I’m just a little out of it today.” You laughed.

The Sheriff glanced you over for a moment, then nodded slowly. “There’s a fresh pot inside.” He tipped his cup filled with black coffee to you. He was a nice man. Exhausted…mistreated, but caring.

You smiled and nodded, “I’ll come by in a few minutes. Thank you.” You hoped your smile would reassure him. You didn’t need to worry an already stressed father and someone you would consider a friend. An awkward older friend who needed a break but a friend nonetheless. “Want an eclair? Got a few extra that I made this morning.” You asked.

He shook his head gently, “If I didn’t know better I’d say you were trying to give me my own form of insulation for winter.”

You gasped in faux shock, and shook your head, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The pebbles and dirt crunched under your boots as you stepped up to the little entrance of your bakery beside the general store. As soon as you stepped inside, you suddenly felt a little safer…at ease. As if you had anything to be afraid of.

You suddenly felt very silly.

Ridiculous.

There had only been one change that day, and that was the charismatic Father Paul Hill.

Had you become so sheltered on that little island that you were afraid of a stranger coming into your community? Surely not.

No. You hadn’t felt fear in the man’s presence so who would you feel it now?

Ridiculous.

Stop it.

You closed your eyes and did your best to clear your mind of any ominous thought and any thought about the new Father.

Out of sight. Out of mind. Not your business.

You strode to the back of the shop and prepared your morning deliveries; it was always the same. It was easy. And you knew it was appreciated. Feeling important was a virtue in a small community that was run into the ground.

Making people feel cared for made you happy.

The day came and went just as it always did, but you couldn’t help but feel like the island had turned a little off its axis. Like something had just nudged it into a slight other direction. Your suspicions were only enforced and justified when almost every one of your regulars mentioned the new pastor to you as they selected their desired sweet or savoury treat from your display case.

“Such a striking young man.”

“Too modern.”

“Nothing like our dear Monsignor…but I can’t say I’ve stayed so engaged during a homily in years.”

“How long do you think he’ll stay?”

“Where do you think he came from?”

And so on.

You had hoped any mention of the man would remain in your own thoughts, but it was as if he had swept through the town like a stiff winter breeze.

By the time you sold your last cheese bun and lemon tart, and closed up shop, there was a very real wind that surged right down Main Street. The cool air pricked right through your thick tights under your skirt and made you made a mental note to dig out some warmer ones.

That storm was due that evening. It had been the talk of the town all day, right after the endless conversations of the invigorating preacher. Once you had gotten home, you felt it start to push up against your boarded windows. The wind howled, and the lights flickered as the sky darkened outside; you took that as a sure sign to light a few candles.

There was something ethereal in the light from a candle. So beautiful. If you caught the flames out of the corner of your eyes, sometimes it looked like they had little halos.

You smiled softly at the thought.

You never stayed up late on storm nights. In fact you slept earlier than usual. You knelt beside your bed and clasped your hands in prayer.

“Father, as I lie down for sleep tonight, wash over me with the warmth of Your love. In Your mercy, soothe my pain, whether in my body-“ you paused your recitation when that familiar prickle began its way up the back of your neck like it had for the past two days. You listened intently, but there was nothing but the wind.

“-mind or soul. Grant me a restful night of sleep so that when I awake, I'm strengthened to do Your will. Amen.” You decided against thinking too much of the unease, and settled under your blankets and closed your eyes.

You didn’t dream that night. In fact it felt as if you had merely shut your eyes for a moment before you were opening them again at the sound of your alarm.

The storm had blown itself out by the time you took your wooden shutters off your windows. There was a sliver of light coming over the horizon as you peered out at the water. You stared at it intently, and clenched your hand into an absentminded fist.

You tried the lightswitch in your kitchen, and praised the lord that it worked. You wondered if Sturge had been up even earlier than you to fix the power lines.

The outside of your house was a mess complete with a crab trap hanging off your fence. Nets, ropes, bushes, clothes, coolers, toys riddled the streets as you walked in the dim light to your shop. But then after only a few minutes, your nose picked up a smell. You were used to the strong smell of the ocean, especially after the storms, but this was different. You started towards the beach, and nearly gagged when you got closer. You had to cover your mouth once you stood on the sand.

From left to right, the beach was littered with the corpses of cats. You knew there were quite a lot on the island, and had seen the odd dead feline, but this was as if something had wiped out every cat and dumped them by the shore.

Anxiety filled you as you stared.

“Oh my-…”

You spun around to see Hassan standing beside you; uniform half buttoned and a bag over his shoulder that you knew had his lunch. The two of you exchanged looks of distress, and you visibly started to shake the longer you looked.

“What…what would…Hassan what-…” you looked up at the man, and he only shook his head. At a loss for words.

“Cmon. I’ll walk you in. Gotta…gotta call the mayor.” He wrapped an arm around your back to direct you away from the mess, “We’ll take care of it.”

You nodded and followed his lead away from the beach and into town, but you found yourself remembering that prickle up the back of your neck that night, and wondered if it had had anything to do with the slaughter. Was there some predator that had somehow made it onto the island without anyone knowing? Was someone going around killing cats? Had the solitude of Crockett Island finally made someone snap and rip every feline to shreds?

The call of your name cut through your thoughts.

You looked up and saw that you were ex standing outside your shop, and the poor man who had walked you there looked even more distressed at your quietness.

“Thank you…thanks Hassan…I’ll…let- let me know if you find anything out.” You said quietly but gave him a small smile of reassurance.

“I will. Take care okay?” He said, and you nodded, but he was already disappearing up the steps into the general store.

You nodded to yourself, and unlocked your shop and stood inside.

Then you took a deep breath.

And got to work.

By the time 8:30 came around, your nerves had calmed, and your nose was filled with a far more pleasant smell of muffins, and tarts and sourdough.

You brushed off your hands, and bundled up the deliveries for that day, then quickly locked the shop up and left for mass. As you walked, you found yourself ever so slightly reluctant. Nervous like your first day of school.

It wasn’t until you heard the sound of Leeza and Annie behind you that you snapped out of a daze that had settled over you.

“Good morning, dear!” Annie called to you as you stopped and waited for them.

“Morning. You all survived the storm just fine?” You asked politely and began walking with them.

“Oh we were fine. Just a breeze.” Annie said good-naturedly, “Sure was strange what with all those cats this morning though hey? Heard Dolly saying they’re still trying to work out what happened.” She said a little hushed.

You nodded, “I know…the Sheriff and I found them this morning…scared me half to death…”

“They’ll figure it out I’m sure.” Annie dismissed the conversation; you could tell she was worried. She always worried.

Not wanting that to be the last conversational subject between your little group, you changed the subject.

“Anything exciting happening at school today?” You asked Leeza.

She shook her head, “Nah…but I think we’re starting on this project that I’m excited about…” the girl began on a tangent regarding her science project. It was nice to listen to someone prattle on about something that would be insignificant in a few years…it was somehow refreshing. Somehow you felt like an older sister to Leeza, and having her confide in you so honestly about mundane things made your heart swell.

The three of you entered the church, and just as always, you sat in your usual spot in the middle, across from Leeza and Annie. And you waited.

“Our processional hymn this morning is number 400 in the red hymnal. “Holy, Holy, Holy.” Please rise. “ came the voice of Father Hill from the door of the church.

A shiver made you twitch, and you blamed a draft in the church. You stood just as you always did; not needing the hymnbook but still holding it out of habit.

You sang, and kept your eyes trained on the text as the Father passed, his hands pressed in prayer as he walked up to the pulpit and continued his routine. You could feel the heavy presence of Bev Keene permeating the air, and you subconsciously ground your teeth. You knew if she had her heart in the right place, she could be a magnetic, beloved member of any community.

But sadly she didn’t have a heart to have it in the right place to begin with. Soot and malice was what sat beneath that gold cross she wore.

“Before he was given up to death, a death he freely accepted, he took bread and gave you thanks…”

Your eyes glazed over at you listened to that voice of his. Not that you weren’t hearing his words, or the message behind them; you were paying attention. But just like being read a story by your mother at bedtime versus a babysitter you had only just met, there was a certain comfort to be found in the former. Yet somehow, where Father Hill ought to have been less comforting, he brought great solace to his homily. It felt as if he was the one you were so used to listening to. Somehow he had eased himself into the Monsignor’s shoes seamlessly and had begun to preach his own gospel that melded with the tone you had become accustomed to since childhood and lulled you into a safe haven of worship.

“…He broke the bread, gave it to his disciples, and said…”

There was an effortlessness in his sermon. You wondered if he had started preaching very young.

With only 4 islanders in the church to worship, Father Hill stepped down from the pulpit and began offering the Body and blood of Christ to each. He saved you for last, you noticed, and for good reason as he retrieved your smaller cup and returned to you. You cupped your hands in front of you, and waited dutifully.

“Body of Christ, y/n.” Came that gentle voice of his like he cared deeply that you accept the blessing.

His long fingers graced the pads of yours so slightly as he placed the wafer on your fingers, and you failed to hide the hitch of your breath as you murmured “Amen.”

Then as he held your small cup for you to drink from, you failed to see how his gaze caught the sight of your pink tongue peaking out just over your teeth as you went to drink. John didn’t know why he noticed that; he supposed he noticed many small details now. Seeing your tongue now must have reminded him of any smaller animal with its mouth open- a small rabbit, a mouse, a cat, a-

A lamb.

The juice tasted strange that morning and somehow thicker than usual. You wondered if it was just in your head after being so shaken from the cats…

Annie took it upon herself to walk Leeza to school that morning, which left you to exit the church alone. On a day like that with the sun shining, you found coming out of the house of God almost ethereal. The light poured in through the single-paned windows and illuminated the dust particles that drifted so gently.

Once you stepped outside, the fresh air filled your lungs and you let yourself smile easily up at Father Paul as he stood patiently.

“Good morning, Father Hill.” You said, craning your neck to look up at the man.

“The beating heart herself!” He smiled, reiterating Annie’s analogy of you.

A good memory.

And a good sense of humour.

The warming of your cheeks was obvious , and John felt a little tug in his chest at the sight of it. Little flower pedals colouring your cheeks.

“She- I’m…”you tried to find a way to humble the dramatic compliment, but failed, “I hope you made it through the storm alright, Father. One hell of a welcome.” You said, trying to redirect the conversation, and to your mercy, Father Hill went along with it.

He nodded.

“It was quite nice actually. Being plunged into darkness almost feels like a renewal of some kind.” He said thoughtfully as his mouth seemed to threaten to tug into a smile.

“Quite sobering.” You agreed, “I’m glad it didn’t chase you off. Don’t know how many times I’ve seen someone buy a summer home here then flee the moment they have to endure a storm.” It was true. A little funny too.

The Father chuckled and nodded, “A fearsome thing to behold, but still a reminder of our creator…the power or lord holds, whipping storms against our rocks and shores just to knock on our doors and say hello. Almost reassuring.” He rambled a little.

You tilted your head, “That’s a very thoughtful way to look at it. Certainly more poetic than what you’ll hear from most of the locals.”

“And what would they say?” He shot back playfully.

You breathed out a laugh.

“One too many curse words for my liking, Father. And a couple confusing analogies.” You said.

Father Hill chuckled and somehow you half expected him to pat your head and tell you to run along. The Monsignor used to when you were a child so it wouldn’t be entirely foreign.

“Well we all have our ways of dealing with hardship-“

“Ah you’re still here, y/n!”

During your conversation you hadn’t noticed how the two of you had come to shift closer to one another; but when that cutting voice of Bev Keen startled you, you took an instinctive step away from the man with whom you had been speaking.

You forced a polite smile, “I am. Just asking how Father Paul made it through the storm-“

“The rectory has always been just fine.” She shot at you with a tight smile as if trying to end your time there quickly.

John could see your lips pull down so slightly into a tiny frown when Bev cut you off; he felt a flicker of irritation. Odd.

You recovered, acting like she didn’t mean any harm. “I’m sure it has. But just because a place is safe doesn’t remove fear. The Father here seemed to have handled it just fine though like you said… “In the storms, winds and waves, He whispers “fearnot” for I am with you.”.” You smiled up at the Father, and he returned it gently.

“Psalm 107:29…truer words could not exist for Crockett Island.” Father Paul said fondly to you; he had a way of speaking to those around him like there was a bubble around the two of you as you conversed. Like nothing else could take his attention from you.

You took in a breath and clasped your hands in front of you when you could feel the gaze of Bev scorching you, “Well thank you for a lovely service today Father, Bev…always a pleasure.” You said to both, but only made it several steps before Father Paul called after you.

“You’re always welcome here.” He said you name so gently. You noticed too that his tone was almost pleading…perhaps encouraging. Did he think you would stop your routine one day?

“I appreciate that Father Hill!” You smiled and waved as you turned to continue on your way; Paul’s lingering stare and Bevs look of distain following you as you went.

Your ear ached as a pull in you almost forced you to turn around and look back at St. Patrick’s again…but you didn’t. Somehow you felt it was in poor taste to do so. You had been startled by being watched once, and you were certain your nerves would not benefit from it again.

Instead, you hurried along, and made it down to the bakery quickly. You waved at a few locals who entered the general store and unlocked your door to grab your deliveries for that day. You always felt a pang of sadness when you looked at your list of houses and saw old customers crossed off; having passed or moved, but you supposed you ought to feel joyous for those who remained.

One by one you completed your deliveries. There were only 15 houses to visit, give or take a few from day to day. You treasured those houses.

You peddled up to one of the houses you frequented, and grabbed the order you needed. You almost bounced up the steps and knocked. It didn’t take long before the door was opening after the voice inside called that they were coming.

You were then met with a familiar face.

“Good to see you. Morning going alright?” Sarah Gunning was always a little direct, but kind. You supposed a good doctor ought to be both.

You nodded as you handed her the two loaves of bread and bundle of fruit cakes. “Not too bad…was a little shaken by the…uh…the cats this morning but nothing a sunny day like today can’t fix!” You assured her. “How’s your mother?”

Sarah nodded, “I heard…smelled it too. She’s alright, thank you y/n.” She took the package from you and gave you a tight smile.

“Good…see you soon.” You chirped, and began backing down the steps.

You turned around and strode out the front yard, but sighed when you noticed one of the straps that kept your goods in place at the back of your bike was loose. You knelt down and retied it. You supposed everything on this island was falling apart just a little.

When you straightened, however, you gasped and nearly toppled over. “F-Father Hill! I’m so sorry-“

The man stepped back a little.

“Im sorry I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” He put his hand up to show he meant no harm, face apologetic.

“No…no that was on me, I’ve been a little in my head lately.” You said, having a hard time meeting his gaze.

“We all can be a little distracted.” He said. A slightly awkward silence fell between you, but it was he who broke it. “You know the Gunnings well?” He asked, and nodded to the house behind you.

You followed his gaze and nodded, “Not terribly, but I remember seeing Mrs. Gunning in church when I was a kid…I just deliver to them now. Mrs.Gunning’s health hasn’t been the best for years and her daughter Sarah cares for her…I just try to help out where I can.” You smiled.

There was something nagging at you though. Something odd. Of course you hadn’t fully realized that this stranger already knew who lived there; you were so used to everyone knowing everyone.

You did notice how the man before you shifted when you mentioned Sarah’s mother. He seemed almost a little more compelled to listen.

“That- that’s kind of you.” He stumbled a little over his words, “Giving to those in need that’s very selfless…a trait that can be hard to come by though we all possess it.” Father Hill forced a smile that crinkled the sides of his eyes.

“We all have traits in us that we can chose to embrace or not. Good and bad, Father.”

His smile turned a little more genuine then. “Ah yes, the never ending duality of man.”

“ “Everyone who does evil hates the light, and will not come into the light for fear that their deeds will be exposed.” John 3:20.” You quoted a little absentmindedly as you saw Beverly pass by on the main road. The distraction kept you from seeing how the man towering over you had his eyes go wide, and looked away for a moment.

You both stood there for a moment, then you ducked your head a little and pulled your bike towards yourself. “Well Father, I’ll leave you to it.”

Father Hill nodded, and pursed his lips ever so slightly, “Good to see you…”

You slowly walked past him and back to the road, but stopped when he muttered something that you wondered if he meant for you to hear.

“Thank you.” He said.

You looked back at him, brows pitched in confusion.

“For…taking- taking care of everyone.” He ended his sentence a little weakly, and you tilted your head a little to the side. An odd man.

“It’s my pleasure.” You decided on. It seemed to be what Father Hill wanted or needed to hear, and you both parted ways.

You paused at Main Street, and turned to look up at the Father as he ascended the stairs to the Gunning house. This time, it was his turn to glance back at you as you watched him. You waved and smiled, and didn’t wait for his response before you were pedalling away.

John had been standing just out of view of Sarah when he had said goodbye to Leeza, and saw you knock on Mildred’s front door. He stayed there, enjoying how much life you held inside you. Youthful and magnetic. Of course the ease in staring at you had nothing to do with the fact that your dress swayed around your legs and picked up so slightly in the wind.

He watched how startled you were by him when he approached you…so cautious yet so trusting. A lamb weary of wolves just looking for her Shepard.

I will be your Shepard sweet lamb…let me. Bend for me…for God.

Then that quote…oh you were no mere lost soul. No you were thoughtful. John felt excitement fill him at the thought of how you would benefit from his gift. He would be lying if he said you saying his true name didn’t startle him. A coincidence, of course.

Then when he turned back and saw you already watching him. Then that peak of your thigh when you hopped onto your bike…John was…

John was distracted.

An ideal lamb to guide yet so concerning. Not a blind lamb…no you were good. You were caring, and strong. Hopeful…hopeful like a man overboard who knew he had to weather swell after swell of water but kept treading water because he knew he was strong enough despite his muscles wanting to give out.

Instead of staying afloat like that man, John lost his breath.

Then he gasped in the salty sea water and breathed you in. Gulped you down his throat like a greedy boy to nourish his body and fill his lungs.

The next morning was thankfully an uneventful one.

Hassan and Wade had managed to get the dead cats cleaned up by the evening of the day before, and you weren’t sure when the last time was that you were so happy to have nothing happen.

Until that evening.

You were fairly proud of your abilities to make delicious confectioneries for Crockett island, and as you stared down your journal of recipes that sat in your lap, you pondered which to chose for the approaching Crock-potluck. You knew there would be a great deal of food already there, but you also knew that something freshly made for desert changed an atmosphere fast.

You were just looking through your various cookie and sweet bread recipes when a knock on your door made you jump. It was rare that you had visitors, especially at this hour. Certainly Erin had come by numerous times for slow walks around the island in the evening from time to time, and then Annie sometimes ran down to your house if she needed an ingredient…but somehow you felt that the person knocking was neither.

It was soft and timid.

You uncurled yourself from your nest of blankets on the couch, and strode to your door, then opened it with a pleasant smile on your face. It faltered only a little once you saw who was standing there.

“I- I uh…I’m sorry for this intrusion so late but I have a favour to ask of you if I may.” Came that low rumble of the man’s voice as he stood in the dim light of your porch.

You blinked, “What can I do for you Father?”

Father Hill shifted a little- an awkward smile on his face as he looked to the side as he stalled.

“This is my first uh- Crockett Po- crock-“ he stumbled a little and you smiled.

“Crock-potluck.” You corrected him.

He laughed a little, “Yes. And I wanted to have something to bring. Something my mother ingrained in me as a boy and well I was hoping if…if you could lend a helping hand so to speak.”

You bit at your cheek to keep from smiling too wide at his request. Here was this man likely twice your age, taller than most trees, fumbling with his words when he preached for a living. He was endearing.

“Well Father…it is getting late.” You started, and his face instantly turned to that of a kicked puppy.

His eyes softened, and the corners of his mouth tugged down so slightly.

“Oh- of- of course how silly-“

“-and I was going to make something for the potluck anyways…so having an extra pair of hands would be a godsend.” You finished.

John chuckled and stared you in the eye when your nose scrunched up so slightly at your tease.

Funny girl.

“Come in, please…make yourself at home.” You ushered him in. You were thankful that Bev didn’t live near you lest she see her dear Father Hill enter the home of a young woman alone.

Of course, John knew that you were indeed preparing to make something. Just like most islanders, you kept your drapes open even at night, and while he had just meant to take an evening stroll and check in on you- his dear lamb- John had found himself standing just outside your window watching you for well past a half hour. You flicked through that book of yours that John remembered seeing on your counter just two days ago when you had tested a recipe from it. You hadn’t seen him that night either. So domestic and sweet in your own space…

It was only when he snapped out of his trance-like state that he felt a little perverse in his current situation and told himself that he must have a reason for being there so long.

Thus the need to make something for the potluck.

John Pruitt had never made something for the potluck.

But he would not just leave your house that night after watching you through your window.

No. No he had a purpose for being there.

Of course he did. Why else would God have guided him there on his walk?

It wasn’t as if he was subconsciously drawn to your little home.

A moth to a flame.

You watched the older man remove his boots, and unzip his grey hoodie, and remove it to fold it neatly onto your couch. He looked so domestic and human.

“We’re going to make a cult classic, Father…I hope that’s alright. Safer for large numbers.” You explained as you flipped to your browned butter chocolate chip recipe. You slowly walked into your kitchen as you reviewed what you needed, and Father Hill trailed after you.

“This might take a couple hour- oh!” You started to say, but jumped when you turned around and bumped right into his chest.

He chuckled, “I think I might need a bell on me…I’m afraid I have a talent for startling people lately.”

You waved it off, “It’s just me…I’m just- I…” you sighed and looked up at the man as he waited patiently for your explanation, “Can I…can I be completely honest with you, Father Hill?” You asked a little timidly.

He nodded- open and calm, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

You sucked in a breath, “You’re…well you’re a new presence here on the island…a welcomed one! But because you’re new…you startle a lot of us because we’re simply not…used to you. We’ll get there but in the time being…I think that’s why. I’m- we…we’re glad you’re here.” You stumbled and then when he smiled softly at you you suddenly worried that you had offended him, “I’m…I’m sorry I don’t think that came out right…”

“No no please…it makes perfect sense given how isolated the island is…I take no offence.” He said good-naturedly and waved his hand.

You sighed, and looked down, “Alright well…let’s get started. You might want to roll your sleeves up though it can get messy, Father.” You perked up as you changed the subject, and began to walk to your counter where you had already taken out a mixing bowl and, whisk and measuring cup.

“I am at your disposal, young lady.” Father Paul came to brace himself against the counter edge beside you, looking down at you thoughtfully.

You felt a blush rise to your cheeks, but kept your head down enough for him to not see, “Can you get me the butter from the fridge? Should be on the door.” You asked, and pulled out a small saucepan.

He nodded, and retrieved the butter for you. As he looked for it, you glanced over at him, and found your eyes drawn to his exposed forearms from him rolling up his sleeves. You looked away almost instantly, embarrassed for having been looking at your priest like that.

“You know this is the first time I’ve done this. Gotta admit it’s a bit exciting.” He said as he popped the butter beside you on the counter proudly.

“Baking is always fun…especially when things turn out yummy.” You smiled and put two large cups of butter in the heated pan. It started to sizzle. “We brown the butter to give the cookies a sort of nutty flavour…makes it a little tastier even if they’re just chocolate chip cookies.” You explained. He watched over your shoulder, enrapt.

“Did you always want to do this?” He asked you.

You blinked, “The- the cookies-?”

“No.” He laughed, “No, being a baker.”

“Oh. Well…not exactly. I grew up here and when you grow up in Crockett you have a lot of time to think…sometimes too much. I guess I knew I would end up doing something here and when I got older I got into baking and in my spare time I got really good at it…took years but before I knew it I was graduating and had a pretty fortuitous hobby. It was actually Dr. Gunning who suggested it.”

“Sarah?” Came his voice behind you.

“Yeah, Sarah was in the general store when I was there to get some milk and we got to talking…I had made her mom a few loaves of bread that she used to like and Sarah said I should make something out of my skill. And here I am!” You laughed, and stirred the butter as it browned and thinned.

“Wonderful…” he said softly.

You nodded, “She’s a nice lady. You’ll get used to her- just a little direct. Think it comes with being a doctor.” There was a moment of silence between you; only filled with the bubbling of the butter, “Alright, can you go into the freezer and pull out the flour, and measure out 3 cups of it into the bowl there?” You asked the man behind you.

“I certainly can.” He confirmed.

“Oh! Can you get 4 eggs as well?” You asked quickly.

He hummed and looked through your fridge for what he needed, and placed everything by the bowl. The counter was so much lower for him that he almost had to hunker over with his height to work.

He looked so…normal. It was sweet. A little odd to see your pastor baking with you but it was nice. Somehow it made him feel more human than just a man who absolved your sins and blessed you every morning.

The two of you worked together, and you came to find that Father Hill was eager to learn. He was methodical and took his time to do things right. Listened. Before you knew it there was a massive bowl of cookie dough on the counter and your oven was full of baking sheets.

“Each sheet should only take about 15 minutes so this shouldn’t take more than another hour.” You said, “If- if you need to take off I can finish-“

“A good man does not abandon his task, not to worry.” His tone was stern but he was smiling. You returned it.

“Well…” you breathed as you looked around for something to do, “I can put some music on if you like? You’re welcome to look around.”

He nodded, and you went to find something to listen to, “This used to be my family’s house. I’m afraid I only have their old records…Hope that’s okay?”

“More than.” He called out to you as you went into the living room.

You flipped through a few envelopes, and settled on one from Jeff Buckley. It was mostly slow, and you could still talk if you wanted to. You set it up, and as the needle sat atop the vinyl, a calm song began.

“Who’s this little ray of sunshine?”

You turned and followed Father Paul’s voice. He was standing in front of a few picture frames hung on the wall that you kept from when your family lived there.

“That was me.” You laughed, “That was right before Easter I think…I was 5.” You said thoughtfully.

“You looked happy.” He smiled.

I was. You thought.

“I loved Easter. Mostly for the chocolate…” you both chuckled a little, “But…now it’s just the time of year that I like. Spring. Revival…blossoming of plants, birds chirping…everything just seems so much more alive. The world starts to hum with God’s greatness during Easter, I think.” You thought aloud, then looked up at Father Hill once you ended your musings.

He was already watching you; hanging onto every word.

He remembered how much you enjoyed Easter. “One more chocolate, Monsignor? Pleeease?” He could still hear that little voice.

“What do you think, Father?” You asked him.

“I have to agree.” He hummed. You noticed that his eyes were almost glassy-that same teary look you had noticed when you first met him. Like he may weep.

“I think Monsignor Pruitt was partial t-

DING!

You both jumped apart and looked behind you at the sound of your timer sounding.

Had it been 15 minutes already?

You both returned to the kitchen and you began removing the sheets of golden treats. “If you can put them on the cooling rack while I take them out that’ll help a lot, Father.” You smiled.

“They turned out so nicely.” He mused as he followed your orders, “I supposed I shouldn’t have expected anything less from you.”

You laughed a little, “It’s just trial and error until you figure out your best method.”

Modest girl.

John grinned at you from the corner of his eye while you placed the last hot sheet on the counter.

The two of you continued the routine until the last round was in the oven, and you were starting to feel more at ease with the man. Almost playful. He certainly was a young priest, and every bit a red blooded man; his humour was dry, and he smiled easily. His laugh was infectious, though you could tell he didn’t do it often. You supposed the church wasn’t exactly a place rich with humour.

The record had nearly finished after almost an hour of listening, and the two of you were leaning against the kitchen counter listening. You swayed gently to the music, but then perked up when a favourite of yours began to play.

“I love this song…” you muttered under your breath and turned your head in the direction of the living room.

John looked down at you in recognition of what you had said, but in the low light of your kitchen, and the softness in your face, he couldn’t help but be reminded of being young. Not just himself but the island. Back when the people who were not partners used to be children he had baptized. Back when there were dances in the old town hall that had since burned down decades ago.

You reminded him of…a better time.

An easier time.

You were so occupied in your little bubble, that it took you a moment to notice Father Paul coming in front of you with his hands out.

You looked down at his palms, then up at him, and he waited patiently. You slowly placed your hands in his, and he pulled you away from the counter and began to sway with you. So gentle, then he tentatively brought your hand up to his shoulder and he brought his other hand to your waist; guiding you through a little dance.

Neither of you said a word.

Not there was anything to say really.

Somehow the two of you just felt very…human.

Your neck hurt from looking up at his dark eyes, but you didn’t stop. He watched you just as closely as you moved slowly through the room in small circles.

“…You know I used to be alone before I knew you…and I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch, and love is not some victory march. It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah…”

The smell of baked cookies surrounded you, and you almost laughed at the absurdity of it all.

But in that moment, it didn’t feel absurd.

It felt like two kindred souls enjoying some shared time. Any obligations or expectations melted away as you felt the warmth from his hands meld into your tendons and heat your sinew. His fingers holding yours felt more akin to a cradle and his breath between you was like smelling your childhood.

Your heart ached.

Perhaps it was that no one had held you in years. Let alone danced with you.

Hugs and pats on the back were about the extent.

“…and it’s not a cry that you hear at night, it’s not someone whose seen the light, it’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah…”

The two of you slowed until you came to a standstill in the kitchen, simply standing less than a foot from eachother. When the timer dinged this time, neither of you jumped away. The sound certainly brought you down to Earth, but somehow you only found yourself staring up at the man. You weren’t altogether confused, though you were curious and a little nervous.

Why had he done that?

Why did you do that?

You had felt so comfortable…like this was an old friend of yours who you had just seen again after years apart.

John gazed down at you…his mind rich with turmoil and deep contemplation. When he had taken your hands in his, it had been as if God had moved through him.

Compelling.

Like God had told him to embrace the good of the past, and remember what he was working towards. To restore exactly that.

After a few breaths, Father Hill released your hand, and you both quietly walked to the oven.

The last batch now sat on the cooling racks, and you sighed.

“I’ll pack these up and bring them by the rectory before service tomorrow, Father.” You broke the silence.

Father hill nodded, “Thank you my girl.” He said softly.

You nodded and looked down at your hands, “Thank you for your company.” Then looked back up at the man before you.

He tilted his head to you as if to tell you that you were welcome or that it was his pleasure.

He slowly unrolled his sleeves, and you picked his sweater up for him from the living room.

You almost felt bad to watch him go. It might have been nice to talk to him for a few hours more.

He finished tying his boots and graciously took the sweater from you, and slipped it on over his collared shirt.

“Goodnight, y/n.” He murmured as he opened your door.

“Goodnight, Father.” You whispered back.

He stayed a moment longer, and smiled gently at you, then he was gone.

You stood in your doorway, watching him go, and as he left your sight, you found yourself returning to your senses. A wave of embarrassment chilled you when you realised what you had just done. Yet somehow you didn’t feel entirely guilty. It had felt as if some kind of blanket had enveloped the two of you just like when he conversed with his flock after mass- a bubble around you.

You packed the treats away after cooling, and silently went to sleep. You didn’t let yourself dwell.

-

“It’s great to see so many of you here today. But I do have to ask, why not every Sunday? Christmas, Easter, I get that. But there’s also always an uptick around the start of Lent. Why is that? What’s so special about today? Ash Wednesday, beginning of Lent. It’s hardly a crowd-pleaser.The beginning of repentance, making amends for our sins. Sin. This darkness, this blackness that spilled into us. That darkness, we wear it on our forehead today. Just a smudge of it. Uh…A smudge of death, of ash, of sin for repentance. Because of where this is all actually heading, which is Easter. Rebirth, resurrection, eternal life. Life that rises again…” Father Paul stood before you at the pulpit, presence commanding as ever.

“Even out of blackness, love rises again. Even out of sin. And this island, it will rise again. Even out of disaster, rebirth, restoration, eternal life. Jesus sees you. Sees you, best of all, and he sees you true. Because, don’t forget, who did he seek out? Who did he turn to, to build his church?His apostles. Jesus’ first disciples, they were fishermen. One of his first miracles, right? The nets are empty, fishermen desperate. Jesus says, “Put out into deep water and let down your nets for a catch,” and when they pulled up those nets, a bounty of fish.” You could practically feel the worshipers buzz around you as their heart rates picked up, just like yours.

“He sees you. Oh, yes, he sees you, brothers and sisters, and he will resurrect this island, and he will again fill your nets. It’s great you’re here today, but please keep coming back. Those doors, they’re always open, as the gates are always open. You just bring yourself. God will do the rest. As Psalm 60 tells us, “God, You have rejected us, You have broken us down, You have been angry. Restore us again.” Do you know what psalms are? They’re songs.The word psalm from the Greek psalmoi. It means “music.” Songs of prayer. Songs of praise. That’s who we are. That’s who we must be. That’s what it means to have faith, that in the darkness, in the worst of it, in the absence of light and hope, we sing. “Restore us,” we sing to the sky. And He will, my friends. He will. That same hand that dealt you your hardship, that same hand will make you whole.”

A single tear fell from your eye. God works in mysterious ways, and you could almost feel God working through Father Hill that day. As if God truly was trying to tell you that he was there with you. And Father Hill spoke as if he knew something good was to come- as if God had shown him.

And you believed him.

As you stood, you could hear Annie trying to urge her son to accept the cross of ash, and you gave her a small reassuring smile when she filed in behind you.

“Y/n remember you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” The preacher murmured to you. Your face was bright that day, happy. John suppressed a smile.

“Amen.” You said quietly, flicking your eyes up to his. He stared down at you steadily, calm as ever.

“Bless you my child.” His was was low and serene.

It was a peaceful stroll down to potluck. You watched as birds started to flit in the trees and chirp; bees starting to buzz, the gentle sound of the shore. Rebirth.

You checked behind you every so often as you walked in case you saw Father Hill; you had brought the cookies to the rectory that morning before service, and when you had offered to help carry the three large containers after, the Father had declined.

You had insisted.

But he insisted harder.

It was wonderful to see the islanders enjoy the little festival. Sharing with each other and laughing. It didn’t happen often. It was as if everyone pushed off their exhaustion just to enjoy that day. Problems could wait until the next day.

You made your way through the locals that you knew well, and stopped a little longer with some. Annie stood with Ed, and you noticed them smiling; perhaps it might seem like a strange thing to notice, but you knew all about Ed’s troubled back, and how their marriage was a little exhausted…it made your heart glow a little to see them happy. Most everyone seemed happier if you were honest, and it wasn’t just that day.

Your legs began to ache after a half hour, and you took to the edge of the festival to sit. You liked this. Watching everyone around you.

“Mind if I join you?” You looked up to see Father Hill walking over to you, a cup of juice in hand.

“Please do.” You scooted over to give him a little more room.

He sat with a soft grunt.

“You did your hair different.”

You turned to him. And your lips parted in surprise, “Wha-“

“I’m sorry- I noticed during communion. Just came to mind.” He said a little awkwardly though no less sweet.

Your mouth fell open a little, “I did. First day of lent…I like to do a little extra for it.” You rambled.

John smiled at you.

You looked pretty.

Not that he could say that.

But you did.

“The crockpot luck…I hear it’s a yearly staple for the island.” Father Hill said to you as you both looked out over the festival.

You nodded, “Sure is…”

John turned to you then; your tone was a little more reserved. Like you weren’t saying all you wished to.

“You’re not a fan of it?” He asked curiously.

You thought for a moment. “Can I be-“

“Honest?” He cut you off. Echoing your words from the night before.

You smiled, “Yes.”

“Please do.”

“I-… Lent is supposed to be a time of fasting and repentance and prayer…I just…it seems strange to have a festival on Ash Wednesday.” You said quietly.

He nodded, “Perhaps a little unorthodox.”

“I think I’ve always found it just…a little odd. Our Monsignor was the one who came up with it, you know? Coined the name. I just…I can’t help but wonder if his theology was a little…uh…off.” You mused, looking down at your hands.

Father Hill regarded you for a moment, and nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“I know you didn’t know him…he was a nice man…but…he was- is just a man. Man has his faults.” You shrugged, then turned to the man beside you, “No offence, Father.”

He chuckled and sipped at his cup, “None taken. I appreciate your candour.”

You pursed your lips.

You weren’t usually so unguarded.

You shouldn’t have said that.

Why did you say that?

This was the second time you had inadvertently said something to insult him within 24 hours. You felt shame start to rise in the back of your throat.

“I don’t want you to worry about offending me, y/n. I’m a friend and an ear to listen…if ever you want to talk.” He said, staring out at the sea of people, then back at you.

You sighed and nodded, “Thank you, Father. You’re very kind.”

He smiled.

Then you remembered something, “Father?”

“Hm?”

You shifted a little awkwardly, “I want to first thank you for maintaining my uh…specialized sacrament, but I just wanted to ask- have you changed the juice?” You asked him.

He thought for a moment, “I don’t believe so. We just got a new shipment…I can check if it’s any different…why?”

“It…it’s just…it tastes very strange. Almost metallic. I don’t know how else to describe it.” You thought back to how the taste stayed in your mouth after only a sip.

John shifted in his seat. You knew. He would have to find another way of give you the gift.

“I’ll find another one to give you. Not to worry.” He said, and patted your hand.

“Thank you, Father.” You chose not to dwell on him touching you.

“Well, I should return to my flock…trying to get to know everyone.” He said, then pushed himself up off the bench.

You nodded. You knew he was only temporary, but it was kind of him to try and get to know the members of the community while he was there.

He was charming and approachable, it wouldn’t be hard for him.

“Of course, enjoy!” You called after him. He waved back at you, and you scrunched your face up as the sun hit your eyes.

You sighed to yourself and after an hour, you began to make another round of the park. The town had truly lucked out with such a beautiful day for such a special day. After such a nasty storm just a few days ago, it was surprising.

You watched at the sun started to lower in the sky. Things were starting to wind down, and some had began to return home-

“Pike!”

You whipped your head around in the direction of the scream. On the other end of the park, you could see a crowd forming. You knew Pike was Joe Collie’s dog, and by the sounds of it, there was nothing good happening. You knew he was old, and loud, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly. You hoped he hadn’t bitten someone.

You crossed the field in just a couple minutes, and when you came to stand in the crowd, you felt yourself grow lightheaded. Pike was laying in a puddle of foamy bile and blood- the light leaving his eyes. You could hear Joe accusing Bev, and saw Sarah knelt over the dog…it was horrible.

“Alright everyone…back up.” Hassan waved his arms to try and disperse the crowd. Everyone began to walk away, and you could feel a solemnness come over the islanders. Like somehow they had all been snapped out of a trance and remembered their troubles.

You pursed your lips, but ultimately backed up as well. You wanted to help, but you knew there was virtually nothing to do. Pike was dead.

You kept to yourself for another hour, the as the afternoon dragged on, you started to collect the now-empty containers that had once held the cookies.

“Thanks for that, y/n.”

You looked over at Wade who was taking one last helping of…something brownish. A casserole of some kind.

You smiled, “Oh it was no problem. It was actually a group effort between the Father and I!”

His brows shot up, “Really?”

“Yeah he wanted to bring something. Wasn’t that nice of him?” You picked the empty containers up.

“Yeah…he- he seems like a real nice fella.” He mused, moustache twitching.

You nodded, “This was great, Mr. Mayor. See you Friday?”

He chuckled- you knew he was just fine with Wade, but you also knew he liked when people used his title- made him feel important. And you did your best to remind each person of their importance when you could.

“See you Friday, sweetheart.” He conceded.

You waved him off, then began your way back home.

John stood on the edge of the park watching you go. He had initially taken the spot to gaze at Sarah, but his gaze had been drawn when you were speaking with the mayor.

They really did love you.

And he understood why.

He watched you disappear down the road, dress fluttering in the wind.

•••••••••••••••••••

@littleredwritingcat @zaunite-leo @f4er1e-g1rl @purplemotif @vampyre-kin @professional-sinner @hamishlinklaters @spacechupss @pansexualpamandabear @ebiemidnightlibrarian

[aikatoru]

Unnoticed

Buddha x AFAB reader

Content: Fluff, mutual pining, romance, kissing, clueless reader.

Word Count: 1041 words

Dividers are by: @/saradika

Summary:

He was Buddha and you were just you. He’d never noticed you, at least that was what you thought.

(This is a repost from my old blog @/fuyuaika)

This is extremely selfship coded!!🙈🙈🙈

You hated his carefree attitude, you hated his confidence, You hated that a mere human like him could become a God.

You hated his smirks, you hated his obsession with candy and you especially hated it when he talked to the pretty Valkyrie girl instead of you…

…so maybe you don’t actually hate the guy.

The worse part was…he didn’t know you exist, you were just a third tier level God and he was one of the first tier. You were pretty much just a bystander during the whole Gods vs Humans ordeal, I mean you had tried to speak up and say your piece but with the majority of the Gods screaming bloody murder at the humans, you were pretty much drowned out. The best you could do was just stay out of the way and not get involved with the destruction of humanity.

Due to your subpar looks and powers you knew you’d hardly stand out much less get the attention of The Buddha. He was way out of your league and so attractive. A man like that was way out of your reach and you knew that you wouldn’t get a chance with him, the most you did get was a few stolen looks and maybe one eye contact with a quick breakaway. You’ve never even spoken to the man before, always just admiring from a far.

So imagine your surprise when you were just walking around the back stage of the arena and you heard your name being called by his voice, “Y/N, You’re Y/N right?”

Still trying to process that he had spoken to you, you stuttered a response, “Y-yes.”

He smirked at you with a lollipop in his mouth, “A little birdie told me that you have a crush on me.”

Your cheeks turn red and you might as well just melt to the floor right there, “W-what?! Who told you that?!”

He smirked even harder, “No one, I just had a good feeling and you just confirmed it.”

You gawked at the man and couldn’t take more of the embarrassment, “Please excuse me”

He laughed, “Woah woah wait wait! I didn’t come to embarrass you, I just needed to know that you felt the same way”

“T-the sa-same way??” You were beyond flustered and red, so red. Did he just admitted to liking you back? But it couldn’t be, why would he like you back? While your mind was trying to wrap itself around the fact, you asked, “But why would you…feel the same way?”

Buddha’s smirk slipped off his face and he looked at you with genuine disbelief, “You’re joking right?”

“No I’m not, I mean I’m just a third tier level God with hardly anyone who knows my name and well, you’re The Buddha.”

“Y/N you may be a third tier level God but trust me when I say that, every male God at one point here had a thing for you.”

“Wait, you can’t be serious…nobody knows I exist. Everyone hardly talks to me except for the formal greetings.”

He laughed, “Y/N, they greeted you formally because that’s the only way they know how to talk to you. You’re so pretty that it literally hurts, all the male Gods made a pact that no one would ever make a move on you, to be fair. Even Zeus tried to go against the pact but you turn him down, it was his biggest embarrassment…Poseidon and Hades won’t ever live it down…”

“Woah woah…I turned down Zeus?? When?? He never even asked me out.”

“He doesn’t talk about it and he’d kill anyone for mentioning it but I think he asked you once if you’d accompany him to an Olympus God gathering?”

You vaguely recall a couple hundred years ago when Zeus had mysteriously appeared by your side and offered you to join in on a feast the Olympus Gods had hosted, but you thought it was out of politeness, after all you were not a Greek God.

“That was asking me out? I thought he was just being polite.”

“Damn you’re clueless. I even heard that one time Shiva tried to get you into his chambers so he could make you one of his wives. But you yet again turn him down. That’s why everybody calls you the Ice cold Goddess and they swore that nobody could win your affection.”

“Wait? What?! Shiva?! Wife?!” You were gawking so hard.

“Careful you’d capture flies with your mouth open like that, if there were any here.”

“No! No way! You’re lying, I mean look at me!” You flail your arms around.

“Y/N, Hades tried kidnapping you once but then Zeus forbade all the Gods from approaching you and so Hades didn’t go through with it.”

You were shocked, “What but, I don’t even look as pretty as Aphrodite, my hair’s not blonde and my boobs aren’t that big.”

“You’re right, you don’t look as pretty as her… you’re much more beautiful. There’s so much more to beauty then being blonde and having big boobs. And I don’t know what it is about you and I’m pretty sure all the other Gods wonder this too but you have a sense of regality and purity towards you. You’re kind and you’re sweet and innocent and that is something that is very hard to find. And I came here because the girl I like, likes me back and I’m here to ask you…to be mine,” He spoke with a confidence that could bury your soul, leaning in towards you.

You moved back, “But what about Zeus? And doesn’t this goes again your whole philosophy about not succumbing to worldly desires?”

“I just found out that the prettiest girl in all of Heaven and Earth likes me back, you think I care about any of that? No one in the Heavens and the Earth can tell me what to do, not Zeus and not even me.”

“But what would our Society think? You know you’re supposed to be a role model for enlightenment…”

He raised your chin so that you’d meet his gaze, “To hell with society.” And he kissed you.

And that was how Buddha made you his. Imagine the uproar it caused all the other Gods.

[archonsbane]

BEAUTY IS TERROR

The gods crafted all mortals to have weaknesses, and foremost of many of Il Dottore’s is you. So when you ask him to be your companion to an annual winter ball, he is powerless to refuse. 

pairing. prime!dottore x reader, implied segments x reader, implied harbingers x reader, implied dottore x pantalone 

cw. gn!reader. reader is the tsarita’s child. reader referred to as they/them. dottore is a warning by himself. mentions & thoughts of violence + murder + human experimentation. drinking. biting. biting hard enough to draw blood. a bit suggestive but not nsfw. 

wc. 15k

an. first ever fic! hope you enjoy :D the title is from ‘the secret history’ by donna tartt. 

Dottore is no stranger to running away. 

He remembers the first time. He had been a child then, wide-eyed and tongue-tied, so unknowing about the world. His parents were fighting — they always fought, about money and work and him — and his father, a big man with small-set eyes and a hard mouth made for scowling, had begun to go on one of his drunken rants, prompting his mother to scream louder. He was crouched behind the stairwell, watching their shadows flicker and dance with the candlelight on the yellowed walls of their home. 

How hard he prayed that autumn day. His lip quivering, hands clasped together, every atom in his body searching for a hint of mercy from those who claimed to love him, both gods and parents. Stop, he would chant in his mind, stop, stop, stop. As brown and red leaves fell outside, as day turned to night, he prayed. He had never prayed so long or so hard until that day. The shouting never stopped and the gods remained silent.

Autumn reigned outside, and his faith died with the spring. It was a season of rot: the rot of the earth without, the rot of faith and soul within. He sucked in a harsh, shaky breath as the walls trembled from the screams. For a moment the house pulsed as though it had a heart. If it did, it had long been poisoned. 

He slipped out when the house went quiet, his parents dragged to exhaustion by their fight. There was no real goal in his mind, only that he wanted to run far, far away. He ran as fast as his little legs could take him, the wind in his hair, the distant call of birds at his back. He ran and ran and ran, and sooner or later the sun found him alone in the woods and free. 

Not for long. His parents found him three days later, surviving only on berries and the leavings of other beasts, grass-stained and muddied, yet cleaner than he had ever felt. He had shed his faith like a dirty coat, and his shoulders trembled with new-found purpose. That little rebellion earned him the worst beating he ever took in that house, but it no longer mattered. 

The next two times were far less pleasant. Even after all these years, they still rankle him. It had been a dark, starless night when the villagers came to cast him out. For his ‘madness’ and ‘monstrosity’, or whatever the hell they were shouting at him. He was too busy trying to not die to listen to all that. Some carried pitchforks, other crudely-made cudgels, and bats, yet all carried torches. It was like all the stars had come down from the sky to enact upon him his inevitable destruction. Inevitable, but Dottore did not believe in such silly lies anymore. He would take his fate and crush it with his hands and build a new one from smoke and ash. That house was the chain that tethered him to that broken old village. He burned it down that night, his parents still inside, and the chain broke; it was more than liberty: it was rebirth. He likes to think he was born on that ashen grass surrounded by the house’s fire and brimstone remains, sweaty and stained with blood. The Tsaritsa claims all the Harbingers are her children, but he knows he is not a holy child, just a creature forged from Hell. But Heaven imparted on him a farewell curse: the jagged scars that run down the left side of his face to his neck, smoking with resentment and remembrance. He left before the villagers could find out he was, in fact, not dead. 

Sumeru Akademiya, he thought, would be different. All the scholars were mad for knowledge, he had heard. So was he. He had expected to find a treasure trove of opportunity. He found old gray sages scared of their own shadows and peers who could not tell the difference between madness and truth. It was a shame, really. Nothing is as pitiful as something with wasted potential. But he had long learned if life did not go as planned, he would carve his way through, as a river changes the earth. And so once more he ran. 

The next time, fate would not catch him running like prey pursued. The Fatui had given him the opportunity to create the enhanced humans he knows could surpass the Heavens above. The next time, the gods above would meet their equal: a mortal man who, too, has learned the divine act of creation. 

“You’re thinking again.” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts and back into the planes of reality. “Am I really so boring of a companion that your mind has to wander off?” 

He frowns, tapping at the armrest of his chair. Sometimes the memories come back to him unbidden, especially when he wants to think of anything but the present that sits in front of him. You sit across from him (it was his intention that he sit as far away from you as possible), legs informally crossed, your elbow resting on one knee and your chin cupped by your palm. You look nothing like the feared heir to Snezhnaya you normally are. Your grin is as pure and unfiltered as the spring sun, amplified by the fire roaring in the hearth, the look in your eyes warm and guileless. It’s a facade, unnoticed by the untrained eye. Your teeth are bared like a beast’s and your gaze is as sharp as a predator’s. When it pleases you to play the darling child of winter, you do. But he knows better. You like playing this little game with him — with all of the Harbingers, really, he’s seen how you’ve attached yourself to them, not only him, and it makes his chest tighten with some unnamed emotion — teasing him and complimenting him and following him around like some malignant ghost from the children’s tales. You’re a cruel little wolf like that. You play with your food before swallowing it whole. 

“You, boring? No.” Never boring. As irritating as your frequent visits are, he will always be kept occupied by one of your antics. “Unexpected? Yes.” You barged into his wing of the palace unannounced in the night, having completely evaded all his guards and segments, and casually sat down on his couch with a tray of tea and biscuits that seems to be a pacifying gift.

You pout mockingly. “Still haven’t forgiven me?” 

Irritation flickers against his skin. He readjusts his mask and scoffs. “It’s been five minutes, I require much more time than that.” 

“How ‘bout your gift?” You clasp your hands together. “Please? It’s your favorite. I got it from Lonnie.” Your leg bounces, an anxious habit of yours. What could possibly make you nervous? Certainly not his presence, you had made that clear, with all your unabashed visits to his lab, his foreign workshops, and now his own rooms. 

“I’d really rather have whiskey.” 

You raise a brow. “I didn’t bring any, and there aren’t any glasses.” 

“There’s a bottle in my drawer. Under the…” He trails off. He keeps indulgent snacks underneath a false bottom, just because, but you seem to already be aware of it. You slide out the wooden plank and hold up the bottle, the brown turned golden in the light of the fire. “... of course, you know.” 

He reaches for the tea cup on the coffee table, hot in his palms, but that never bothers him anymore with all the modifications he’s made to his body and swallows it all in one large gulp. Black tea with a twist of lemon. Four sugar cubes. His favorite. Somehow that makes his mood even worse. You hand him the bottle as you sit back down (closer to him now, which he does not fail to notice). He pours into his teacup until it almost sloshes over the edge.

The moment of silence stretches for a moment too long. He really wishes you’d just get on with it and end his misery, he wants to sleep or work or do something that removes the stain of you from his mind. Your face flickers like a flashlight in his peripheral vision, ghostly in the smoke. Your eyes glow terribly bright, a godly trait from your mother. It’s as beautiful as it is eerie. He transfers all his weight to his left foot, then his right, then back again. You wait for him to finish drinking, your gaze never leaving him. 

“Have you forgiven me now?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, his voice dangerously calm. He swirls the whiskey around in his cup. The grandfather clock in the room ticks and tocks and he wishes for time to go faster just so he’d be rid of you already. “Do I have to?” He’s always dealt insolence back tenfold, ask any of his segments, or the poor, cursed souls who lie in his personal mortuary, many of whom have committed lesser crimes than breaking and entering into his personal space. “You really think you’re that special?” 

“Yes.” 

He wants to strangle you and wipe that self-satisfied smirk off your stupid face. He wants to carve out those eyes so they’d never make him squirm under their gaze again. He wants to — he does not know what. 

He scowls and runs a hand through messy curled hair. “Five minutes, before I have my segments drag you out.” 

Amusement flickers across those too-bright eyes. You know that he knows he won’t. You let him pretend anyways.

“Wonderful!” You say happily, like a child just told they could play in the playground for a little while. “I need a favor.” 

There’s an unexplainable drop that he suddenly feels in his chest. He had expected you to be here simply to annoy him or make fun of his sleep schedule (that does not exist) or something stupid like that. Why, he cannot say it out loud. His company has never been termed as pleasurable anyways, as much as you continually seek it out. This is expected, it should have been. 

You place a cream-blue envelope with gold lining on the coffee table. He tears it apart, secretly smiling at the way your brows furrow in annoyance. The tattered paper has elegant calligraphy that marks it as from some noble-born priss, one of the many in Snezhnaya whose names he has never bothered to learn. They wrote that they were cordially inviting Their Imperial Highness to… 

His eyes narrow. “The Sokolov Winter Ball.” He waves the paper in front of your face. “No. No. No. Absolutely not—”

“—yes, oh, come one now, it’ll be fun—” 

“—you know how much I hate these things, and all those useless, simpering lords and ladies hate me—” 

“—they’re not simpering. Some of them are nice, like Duke Romanov’s daughter, and anyways, you’ll be with me the entire time and they won’t dare to insult a Fatui Harbinger to their face.” 

He slams the paper down on the table. The teacups rattle from the impact. He leans forward, chin raised in defiance. “No.”

You cross your arms and lean into the couch. “Too bad. I command you to go.”

"Can't you ask the others? Why torment me, specifically?" He gestures wildly with his hands to emphasize his irritation. 

You place a hand on your heart, eyes blown wide for extra effect. "Torment? Dear Doctor, you sadden me so. Can't I spend time with my favorite Dottore?" 

"Oh? And here I thought Gamma was your favorite."

"You're my favorite of all the non-Gammas. Anyways, I can’t really take an eleven-year-old to the ball."

"Just take Theta and be happy with that." 

"But I want to take you." 

There’s a desperate lilt in your voice that weakens his resolve. Could you really? This wasn’t just another one of your jokes, was it? He hates balls, hates the moronic socialites of Snezhnayan society, but absurdly, hope becomes a twittering hummingbird in his heart. 

He grits his teeth. "I should file this as some sort of abuse of power." 

He wants to deny you, he does. He knows he can’t. He feels the insidious truth squeeze at his black heart. 

You reach out and pat his head condescendingly. "You do that, dear." 

"Is there anything I can do to make you take someone else?" He waves his hand at nothing. "I'll give you my entire secret stash of chocolates." It's hidden beneath the false bottom of his desk. A very obvious hiding spot, but he doesn't think anyone should care much for a simple stash of chocolates. He prides himself on it, for all its insignificance. He's collected chocolate-covered hazelnuts from Mondstadt, boxes of assorted chocolates from Fontaine, white almonds encased in matcha-infused chocolates from Inazuma, and choco pies from Liyue. 

"Er," There's a strange, sheepish smile on your face. "No." 

“Will you leave even if I still say no?”  

“No.” And then, in a hushed tone barely above a whisper, the final blow to his resolve: “Well, yes, if you really don’t want to go. But consider it, at least? I want to do this with you.” You don’t look at him as you say it, you don’t turn that captivating gaze of yours on his body to make him squirm. Your face is turned towards the fire, the glow of it making your cheeks red. He almost believes you. He wants to believe you. 

You sigh at his silence. “You can get something out of this.” 

He raises an inquisitive brow. “Like?” 

“Archons, I don’t know. A favor for later. More funding. More… resources. Whatever. Anything I can wrestle out of the others.”

It’s a good deal, he muses. Your influence as heir apparent is not one to be undermined. Moreover, the other Harbingers are strangely fond of you. They would bend for you, and not just out of duty. 

A pause, and then, with a world-weary sigh he puts his face in his hands. He does not want to see your ebullience, it would hurt his pride too much. “Alright.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, he wants to snatch them back and stuff them down his throat, but it's too late. 

A joyful sound leaves you. He hears the rustling of cloth and excited steps on the wooden floors before he’s enveloped by the warmth of your body. Your hands wrap around his shoulders, and your head rests on top of his head.

He flinches slightly. You pull away but your hands remain on his shoulders. He hates, hates how his heart leaps to his throat, how every atom in his body starts to vibrate with life. He cannot, will not, let you have this power over him. He tugs on his heartstrings like a puppeteer and wills his heart to turn to stone. 

“You’ll have a fun time, I promise.” You disentangle from him your hair falls over your eyes, and without thinking, he lifts a hand and brushes it away. You grab his hand and entwine your fingers together. “You won’t regret this.” 

“I’m there to accompany you and leave as fast as possible,” Dottore replies wryly, but his heart lurches. 

He cannot explain to himself why he allows the moment to go on longer than he should. You both stay locked in position, half-hugging with your hands intertwined. Your eyes are half-lidded, your eyelashes fluttering with a mix of embarrassment and playfulness.  His gaze trails from your lashes to your lips, red as cherries. His throat feels suddenly parched and his cheeks flush with warmth. From the fire, he tells himself. 

The grandfather clock chimes midnight. 

You watch with amusement in your eyes as he jumps back, elbow hitting the armrest, swallowing the noise that threatens to escape his body. Suddenly all the irritation comes rushing back up to the surface of his skin. Many a man has fled from that look, from the green children Arlecchino supplies them with to veteran soldiers who have faced blood-soaked horrors on the battlefield. 

You blink innocently. 

He rubs at his temple, glaring at the fireplace in order to avoid looking at you. You quickly school your lips into a languid smile and start to ramble on about the details — white tie, no theme, dinner, and a ball, don't be late, and remember your manners — and his mind has started to drift to the experiments he needs to finish. There's a particularly annoying disease that's been sweeping through the masses, and the Tsaritsa charged him with taking care of it. He's already gotten a dozen test subjects but one particularly insolent one destroyed a week's worth of research while trying to escape. Then there's a whole batch of delusion prototypes in need of a field test, and it's almost time for his segment's monthly inspection. 

"—and you need to learn how to dance." 

His head snaps up. "You're kidding—" 

"Nope," you say, cutting him off. Archons, one day, he swears to himself, he will make you shut up (How? A voice inside asks. He has no answer.) and his life will be all the better without your grating voice sniffing at his heels like a hungry dog. "You'll be taking classes with me starting next week. Mother says it's about time you learned, too. Everyone else knows." 

He scowls at you. You've got him by the hook — no matter what, the Tsaritsa's will cannot be questioned. A thousand times he deflected, making up excuses or sending segments in his place. He does not think it ever fooled his Empress, but she never pressed on it. She would forgive them a thousand little times over, but when she was steadfast in her resolve, her will was as unconquerable as a glacier. 

“Fine. Just get out already.” 

Your little chuckle rings in his ears. “Mother might call in the army to search for me if I linger.” 

Oh, thank Tsartisa. “Then go,” he says dryly. He really, really does not want to be accused of high treason today. Your mother was terrifyingly overprotective.

You roll your eyes. “That’s no way to see off a guest, but I’ll forgive you from the kindness of my heart.” 

For his personal gratification, he launches a throw pillow in your direction. You catch it with one unamused brow raised. You throw it back and it hits him in the face. 

You put on your boots and your cloak and slip out the door, gently closing it with a click. The fire is still roaring, but the room feels much colder now. There’s a strange, hollow place in the room he cannot help but feel that your shape should be filling. There’s a dull ache pounding in his chest. 

He rubs his eyes and moves to his desk, his perpetual sweet tooth aching for that chewy heaven in his taste buds. He almost thinks he's opened the wrong drawer when he finds nothing there, but with a flash of anger, he realizes there's a note in your familiar handwriting. 

Sorry. I'll pay you back. :) 

You insolent little minx. You ate all of it. 

He sighs and pulls back his leather chair. He falls into the soft fabric, all the tension in his body dissipating into the air. He’s too tired to be annoyed. All the energy he exerts in your presence could do that. He sinks deeper into the plush chair and stretches his legs underneath the desk. If there’s ever been a miracle in his life, it’s that his spine hasn’t broken yet from all of the bone-shattering positions he puts himself in. 

He’ll have to adjust his non-existent schedule now. The Doctor operates on impulse and instinct, rotating between experiments and whatever’s captured his attention, sometimes not leaving the lab for days on end or going out and doing more… personal research. He’s begun digging deeper into Ruin Guards, and what he’s found has fascinated him. You would like it, he thinks. He’ll have to tell you all about it one of these days. 

Archons. What have you done to him? Slipping through the iron walls of his heart and plunging yourself deep into the myocardium. You’ve infested his body like a disease, and now it seems all thoughts and actions have been dedicated to you. He hates it, he enjoys it, he cannot tear you out of him no matter how hard he tries, and he’s tried. Oh, so many times. 

Now that you’ve left, he allows his lips to curl into a sneer. That moment — the entire night, really — was just a weakness he has not yet stamped out. He wishes he could tear his heart out and stomp on it until it stopped doing that infuriating flutter whenever you’re near. He sucks in a harsh breath and taps frantically on the armrest. He is so, so fucked. 

Dottore is no stranger to running away, yet it seems you’re the one divinity he cannot escape from.

The morning before the first lesson finds him sleep-deprived, exhausted, and in an absolutely foul mood. The previous night (or, rather, three a.m. that morning), a Chaos Core went wild and exploded. It was the last in his stock. He sent Beta to hunt for more, but it would be a while until he returned with a sufficient amount and he had to put a hold on his studies ‘till then. One of his test subjects had also been spitting out defiance after defiance as of late, dragging his research longer than it should’ve gone on. He killed them, of course, sometimes you just have to cut your losses and be done with it, but it wasted so many days spent conducting test after test. The thought of it makes him furious all over again, but he cannot be in a mood today. 

Dottore has never found out the secret of looking as though he’s just waltzed out a Fontainian perfume commercial like Pantalone, but today he looks worse than ever when inelegantly he rolls out of bed. His appearance has never bothered him before, not with his mask covering the worst of it, but his hair sticks out in so many directions it looks as though he’s just been hit by lightning, his skin is sickly pale, and his eyes are wide and bloodshot. He drags a hand down his face and moans in exasperation. He knows you won’t care, but court conduct requires just a little bit of dignity from him. 

A much-needed shower and eye drops solve the worst of it (or so he hopes). He still looks like Death himself has come to haunt the palace’s hollow hallowed halls, but that was his common appearance anyways. 

The Fatui and the servants who go in and out of the palace keep their eyes trained on the ground as he passes by, a manic grin that shows sharp ivory teeth on his face. It’s an effort to keep up the appearance running on three hours of sleep, but the memory of that night rattles around in his mind, and he will not be that weak again. Just for fun, he turns his gaze on one of the new-bloods. The way they flinch brings a sliver of confidence back to him. 

A familiar figure makes him pause in his tracks. His grin is genuine now, and he feels this is a wonderful restart to a day that has, so far, been miserable. 

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Regrator.” 

He does not have to see the front of his head to know Pantalone rolls his eyes and stares pointedly off to the distance before turning around to face him. He looks as youthful as ever, still looking like an early thirty-something, as he has for the entire time Dottore’s known him. The smile on his face is polite and patronizing. 

“Dottore,” Pantalone forces out. He folds his fingers together across his stomach. “How… lovely to see you.” 

“Is it?” He gives the man a mocking smile and tilts his chin up with his hand. “Lovely, but so cold. Where are the happy smiles for me, my lord?” 

Pantalone scoffs and crosses his arms, half-turning away. “A wretched creature like you doesn’t deserve one.” So he’s dropped all formalities, then. This would be interesting. 

Dottore places his hand over his chest for dramatic effect, in a comically similar way that you had all those nights ago. “I thought we were getting along so well. You wound me, Lonnie.” 

“Good. I hope it kills you.” 

A faux gasp leaves his mouth. Pantalone’s eye twitches. He turns to leave, but Dottore wheels ahead of him and blocks his path, stretching his arms wide. As much as you annoy him, he can’t say he does not understand what you feel when you do. Pantalone, his favorite target, always elicits the best emotions that keep him entertained for weeks after. His rotten heart beats with energy. 

“Pantalone, Pantalone, Pantalone,” he says, in a child’s sing-song voice, “Won’t you indulge me just this once? You’ve been so busy, you’ve barely had any time for me and our oh-so-enjoyable meetings this month.” 

Pantalone looks close to pushing him out of a crystalline window. Dottore hopes he does not, the Tsaritsa does love her windows. 

“It seems you’re the one who does not have time today, Dottore,” He says, “You’re expected for your dance lessons in about, oh, five minutes, aren’t you?” 

Dottore hisses, his mood turning sour all of a sudden. “Who fed you that morsel of information?” 

“People like to gossip,” Pantalone shrugs, amused and unkind, “but if you must know, it was Theta who told your maids who told the guards who told my maids who told my secretaries who told me.” Damn that Theta. Dottore makes a mental reminder to reboot that impertinent pillock’s system without you finding out. “You really must hurry,” he continues on, oblivious to how Dottore glares a burning hole through the pillar behind him, imagining the ‘scolding’ he’ll give his segment when he sees them, “You wouldn’t want to keep them waiting, do you? I feel enough pity as it is that you’re their chosen partner. I can’t imagine why they would choose you…” 

“... over you, my dear Regrator?” 

Pantalone simpers, but an emotion Dottore knows all too well flashes across his eyes. They’ve known each other for too long and too closely, no matter how much he tries to hide, Dottore can break down that steel skin of his and pry out the truth from his chest. “I am far more handsome, and sociable besides.” 

“But they chose me.” 

Pantalone levels his gaze to Dottore’s. The corners of his mouth are curled down, his eyebrows are furrowed, and his narrowed gaze is sharp as a knife. He says nothing.

“You’re jealous,” Dottore says, jumping well over the line that all of the Harbingers put between their facades and the truth. His grin is wolfish and triumphant. “You’re jealous, aren’t you?” 

Pantalone glares at him and turns to leave. “I have better things to do than be jealous of you. Good day, Dottore.” 

Dottore takes long strides to stand in front of him, blocking his path once more. Before Pantalone can open his mouth and spit out insults that could have him thrown into the far northern military camps if it were any other person, Dottore leans in and whispers into the shell of his ear, “I know,” he says, soft as a lover’s kiss, “things like being jealous of them, too.” 

He whistles a happy tune through his teeth as he leaves, the Ninth Harbinger paralyzed behind him. He does not pay any mind to how his skin has been set aflame or how his heart beats wildly in his chest. 

Yes, if he could only be that way with you, everything would be alright. He cannot understand why it’s so different from you. It’s the power, a voice whispers. It always circles back to that. Only three people stand above him now: that rat bastard Pierro, your mother, and you. You and your irritating smiles and your irritating laugh and your irritating jokes. You unnerve him with the way you hold his life so carelessly in your hands. A single touch, a mere look, and you could send him spiraling down to the depths if you so commanded. Everything he’s achieved in his life undone. In this pack of wolves the Tsaritsa calls her children, both by blood and bond, there’s a clear hierarchy in which you stand above all others. 

He and Pantalone can devour each other whole, but when it comes to you, he’ll have to force the bitter taste of defeat down his throat. It’ll take everything in his power not to gag. 

He’s ten minutes late when he finally arrives at the Queen’s Ballroom. The ballroom is beautiful, made of marble and gold furnishings. The floor is polished hardwood arranged in complicated swirling patterns that mimic the winter winds. The ceiling is painted with scenes of the nature of the north: galloping wild horses and sly foxes, wolves prowling through the green underbrush, golden ivy snaking at the edges as clouds raced on a blue sky. The crystal chandeliers are unlit and unneeded, the pale light of the morning provides enough to see clearly. This part of the palace is rarely ever open, the Tsaritsa is not one to throw balls and parties like so many of her aristocratic subjects do, so the doors stay locked. Of course, any exception can be made for winter’s favorite child. 

He barely even notices the dance instructors wheedling about in the corner. He immediately finds you, leaning against a floor-to-ceiling window. One leg is crossed over the other. With the morning light coming in through, you’re bathed in the brightest living gold. For a moment old prayers come crowding to the forefront of his mind. For a moment all that time spent on his knees seems to be reasonable, if only it had all been dedicated to you. For a moment you’re baptized by the sun, for a moment you’re holy. 

The cocky smile on his face, a remnant from that moment with Pantalone, crumbles. His breath hitches in his throat. Oh, shit. 

You turn to him, mouth pressed in a thin line. Your pointed steps ring across the floor as you stalk toward him, and he cannot help but feel like a trapped critter. He wants to fight or flee or do something —

“I thought you wouldn’t show,” you murmur, reaching for his gloved wrist with the lightest of touches. He swallows at the sensation of touch. “I was starting to think you had flaked out on me,” you say teasingly.  

“Oh, no, I was just… occupied with another business,” he mutters, looking back at the entrance. A smirk cannot be restrained. You raise an eyebrow and he shakes his head, still grinning. “It’s alright now.” 

Your answering smile is like the sun breaking through the clouds. The two of you walk side-by-side toward the instructors on the other side of the room, close enough for your shoulders to brush against each other, a united front. He realizes, quite abruptly, that you were nervous too. 

The dance he has to learn is the Varsovienne Waltz. Their instructors are a pair of siblings, boy and girl, who look very much alike with dark eyes and dark hair. They regard him with the fearful respect most everyone regarded him with, taking care not to seem too patronizing. 

He first learns the fundamental dance positions. He thought he was mechanical, awkward, and unsure for the first time in years (Archons, how do you manage to coax these emotions out of him?). You said he was doing well, and the instructors affirmed so, but he cannot tell if that was genuine or from a place of fear. 

And then comes the actual dancing. 

They demonstrate it beforehand. Together, the pair of siblings glide across the floor with the gracefulness of swans fluttering about in the lakes. You had already learned this dance as a young child growing up in the icy walls of Zapolyarny, and so after the instructors had finished, you request to dance with one of them, if only to test your muscle memory. You take the role of follower, prompting Dottore, who guesses he would be assigned the role of leader, to imprint each step and twirl into his mind. 

He hates the sick feeling of anxiousness brewing in the pit of his stomach as he watches you dance. But it does not go away as he watches you laugh and toss your head back, not a hair out of place. It’s not a surprise you’re so good at this, each move perfectly executed, your angles a wonder of geometry. This kind of life was your birthright. But not for him, not for the boy who had grown up in an indigent village on the borders of Sumeru. His history is not what bothers him, though, he had shed it from himself like a coat a very long time ago. What bothers him is you. 

Vexation pools in his mind the longer he watches. He begins to impatiently tap his foot against the floor, his mouth twisting into a sneer. This was your life, not his. Dancing is not something the Second Seat of the Fatui Harbingers should be doing. Such a frivolous and foolish activity was not meant for a man of his nature. Heavens, what was he doing here? Hundreds of years ago you couldn’t have dragged him into the ballroom kicking and screaming if your life depended on it. Now he stands here, awake at six-in-the-fucking-morning operating on barely any sleep for you and your dance lessons that’ll be put into use for only one night. One night! 

You could do this to him. You could force him to take dance lessons like some twelve-year-old lordling. You could tear down the meticulously made steel and calcium walls that surround his heart with a sharp smile and bury yourself within the bloody tissue. You could make a home there, familiar and warm, floating above a poisonous black rot. Only you could coax half-forgotten emotions out of him that he thought he had sealed away centuries ago. Meeting you, he thinks, has been the worst thing that’s ever happened to him thus far. 

He wants to turn to leave but finds his feet rooted to the ground. 

He barely notices you’re done before you saunter up to him, hands your hips, your mouth pressed into a thin, worried line. 

“Are you alright? You look…” You cock your head to the side. “... not good.” 

“I’m better than I’ve ever been,” he rasps, extending a gloved hand. “Can we get on with it now?” 

You open your mouth, then close it, then open it again. A moment passes before you decide to stay silent and take his hand. 

The girl instructor lifts the needle on the gramophone and the record begins to spin. The music is a sweet, simple melody. He has never heard it before, but memories of days spent exploring the surrounding forest of his village catapult to the forefront of his mind: dipping small toes into warm springs as he ate sticky sunsettias, the juice running down his fingers, the warm, incessantly lovely sun on windblown hair. He shakes his head like a wet dog shaking off water. 

He does not realize just how much tension his body holds until you hum as he spins you around, your back to his chest, his left hand on your hip, and his right hand cupping yours. “You need to relax,” you say. 

“I am relaxed,” he replies stiffly. 

“No, you’re not.” 

“Your Imperial Highness,” he mutters, a sardonic smile on his face, “I think I am much more qualified to say what my body feels more than you.” 

You purse your lips but say no more. The look in your eye tells him you don’t believe him at all. 

The next three hours are agonizingly slow-paced, yet somehow when he reaches the end of it, are a blur of colors and shapes and unintelligible music as though he had been shot past it all. He would not be surprised if the gods somehow made time move slower then faster then slower than normal just to play another cruel trick on him for their own amusement. 

He isn’t terrible, and his rarely-used combat experience has finally found some employ, but he lacks your practiced poise or the easy grace of the instructors. He moves less like a human and more like some forest creature, his physicality more wild and jagged than it was elegant. The instructors tell him his lordship took to the dance more easily than most, and with a few more sessions could be flawless, but he does not pay any mind to them and instead places his gaze on you. Something unpleasant lurks behind your carefully-blank expression. His mind lurches with the sudden urge to find out what had gone wrong and go back in time and fix it. Trial and error is something he is intimate with, and his mistakes do not bother him, so long as he fixes them. He realizes, suddenly, that he wants to please you. 

Pantalone does not need to push him out a window, he’ll very well throw himself from one after this. 

“Walk with me,” you say, slipping an arm through his. Your expression is almost quiet. He has no choice but to let you lead him out the door and into the hallways. The guards at the door bow their heads and murmur the appropriate greetings. He does not miss how their eyes land on their interlocked arms for a second too long. People will talk. 

You both stroll through the hall in strained silence. He flexes his fingers. 

“Are you alright?” 

His head snaps to the side, his ears unbelieving. He had been bracing himself for a reprimanding, for jeers, for mockery. Not this. “Pardon?” 

Was that pity in your eyes? His jaw clenches. Anger, black and brutal, burns within. “Are you alright?” 

He tries to disentangle himself from you, but an iron grip keeps him locked in place. He forgets how truly strong you are. “I’m fine.” 

You sigh and look at the arched ceiling, as though exasperatedly asking it if it could hear his words. “Dottore, I’ve known you for a very long time. You overestimate your ability to lie to me.” 

He grits his teeth, forcing the words out of his throat. “I am fine. I have weathered much worse than dance classes, Your Imperial Highness. If you found some fault in my conduct or wish to admonish me then please, don’t drag it out.” 

“Admonish you?” Your eyes widen, startled. “What? No, I’m just—” 

He barks out a laugh, self-deprecating and cruel. “What? Pitying me?” 

“Worried about you.” You stop. You step forward and face him, eyes bright and shining, the corner of your lips curled into a frown. “Don’t be mean.” 

Worried. You were worried about him. His anger ebbs away and morphs into soft bemusement. You don’t move from your position, instead, you cross your arms and tilt your chin up in defiance like an angry child. He almost believes you’re genuine, but he knows better than to argue with that stubborn jut of jaw. 

He huffs, willing up his signature grin. It’ll be easier to make you happy if only to get this over with. “I’m sorry to hurt your feelings.” He flicks your forehead and thrusts his fists into his pocket and starts to stride forward. “I’m quite alright. If you’re wondering about my less-than-stellar performance, it’s the three hours of sleep I got.” 

You roll your eyes and scurry after him. Before he can escape, you grab his hand and lead him toward a wing of the palace he has been in only a few times before. Your own. 

“No, no, no, you’re not escaping me today.” A childish groan escapes him and makes you giggle. “You can sleep after this, but humor me for a bit and have breakfast with me.” 

“You didn’t have breakfast?” 

“Did you?” Fair point. 

He wants to go back to his room and sleep until sunset, but he cannot help but feel a spark of interest. Most of the time you simply hang about his laboratory and annoyed him, but for you to actually invite him to something as simple as breakfast with seemingly no other motivation than to spend time with him was a break from your norm. A very unfamiliar break. 

All his instincts call for him to flee. 

“Alright,” he says, against the better judgment of his head, “just this once.” 

The imperial family’s apartments are bigger than the Harbingers’, and much emptier. The hall is big and white and echoing, with wide hardwood flooring that was arranged in an intricate repeating diamond pattern. There are paintings of you and your mother, silver embellishments in the likeness of frost plastered on the walls, the furniture was elegant but plain, and the windows had no curtains. The only hint of your personality is the vases of your favorite flowers. Everything had an eerie, deserted look, haunted by the ghost of you. There were barely any people, only two stoic guards posted at the entrance and a maid that scurried past them. He never realized just how isolated you were from the rest of them; no wonder you sought the Harbingers out so often. 

Breakfast appears with instantaneous magic: fried bacon, sunnyside-up eggs, blinis, and biscuits. His stomach rumbles at the sight. He hasn’t had anything to eat that was more than trail mix in close to thirty-six hours, not that it bothered him significantly, he was used to getting distracted by his studies and forgetting to nourish himself. Thankfully, he had improved his body long ago so that it could weather mortal flaws like hunger. 

He wolfs down a slice of bacon while you slather a blini with butter and honey. He rarely eats with company if not forced to. Outside of that, he only ever eats with his segments on the off-chance they’re all free, which is simply a microscopic natural disaster filled with food fights and whining and endless bickering. But breakfast with you is a quiet affair. You eat with calm, methodological grace. He subconsciously looks at you, noting your dining habits, wondering if this was your favorite food. You catch him staring and send him a bemused smile. He looks away, suddenly interested in the tapestries that adorn the walls, feeling heat rush to his face. The windows are open and he can hear the world outside: birds twittering about, the recruits at their morning drills, servants rushing to do this and that. A stillness settles within his bones that he has not felt in a very, very long time. Part of him wants to rip it out, but another part shushes it. He is tired, sleep-deprived, and busy. He still has experiments to do, reports to check, papers to sign. But right now the sun is coming in, soft as a caress, and you are sitting across from him and smiling.

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” you say suddenly, your words cutting through the silence like a sword. “but you seemed really out of it earlier.” 

He raises one eyebrow and takes a pointed bite of his bacon. “Is this a therapy session or breakfast?” 

You kick his leg beneath the table. “Archons, ‘ttore, I just want to be nice.” 

Nice. Inwardly, he laughs. He absently pushes the runny eggs around on his plate. “Hm. There were just a few things on my mind, nothing to worry about.” A pause. “I’m very surprised you haven’t teased me yet for my horrible dancing skills.” 

“Ah.” You prop your arm up on the table and rest your cheek on your fist. “Actually, I was expecting they’d be just as bad as your harmonica skills. But you’re actually okay. Not good, but you’re getting there.” 

He splutters. His mouth opens and closes, much like a fish, before he erupts. “My harmonica skills are amazing! You’re just deaf or inane or have horrible, horrible taste.” He pokes his silver fork in your direction. “I’ll have you know I was the best harmonica player in Sumeru, thank you very much.” 

You bite on your lower lip, vaguely amused. “Really now.” 

He leaps to his feet and leans forward, hands on the table, a flurry of feathers and cotton cloth and fury. “Yes, really now! If you weren’t heir to the throne I’d have you chopped up into little pieces and sold to the butchers for that.” 

“I think you’d miss the pleasure of my company too much to do that.” 

He harrumphs and jerks his head away. “You presume too much.” 

You laugh. It’s warm and comforting and familiar. He wants to never hear it again. “You’re so pretentious. Can’t you admit you’re just a little bit fond of me?” 

“Fond? I—” The word coils around his throat. No, he wasn’t fond of you. He was simply slightly more tolerant of you than everyone else. “—no. No, I’m not.” 

He isn’t, really, he isn’t. All these little moments were just lapses of mortal weakness he has yet to stamp out. Something else to add to his itinerary of things to modify. This acquaintanceship with you was getting too bold and too powerful and one of these days he’s sure it’s going to come crashing down on him. 

“I think you are.” You dangle your fork between your fingers. “You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.” 

He waits for you to continue. But you don’t. You sit there and stare at him, twirling your fork, those eyes bright and big and full of inexplicable warmth. One corner of your lips curls up into an absurdly endearing lopsided smile. He banishes the thought from his brain. The silence stretches, on and on and on, until it becomes a blanket that suffocates him. 

He taps his fingers against the table. “You’re madder than I am.” 

“You of all people should know the difference between madness and truth.” 

“It’s not the truth.”

You peer up at him and cock your head to the side. “Is it?” 

You stand and circle around the table, dragging one finger on the wood. He turns his head to the door and away from you. You hover next to him, just a breath away from his skin. He fights to shove back down the shaky breath that threatens to escape him. He does not know why he doesn’t just move away, putting those barriers back up that he allows you to shatter over and over again. The pieces are on the ground, ready to be gathered and assembled once more. He is a scholar, he knows how to eliminate weakness, how to tear down and rebuild over and over again until his product becomes perfect; he can build on the evident fragility of his resolve when it comes to you. 

All it takes is discipline. He must throw you back as he throws back enemies on the battlefield. He must deny you any more ground. 

One hand intertwines with his while the other holds the pulse of his wrist. His heart begins to beat itself to death in his chest. He relents and turns to look at you, your face carefully blank, but he has known you for too long. Something stirs within your eyes, something hungry and wolfish.

You bring his hand to your lips and gently turn it over to expose the scarred skin peeking out from in between his sleeve and his glove. His wrist is barely an inch away from your mouth. You lean forward and bite, hard. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to sting. 

He jerks away, eyes widening with incredulity. “You—” 

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. There is no hint of remorse or disbelief for what you just did in your eyes. You smile at him, affable and innocent as a puppy. But there was nothing puppy-like in your eyes. How could he have let himself forget? You wild little wolf. His wrist throbs, but to his surprise and disgust, the sensation was not at all unpleasant. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, not sounding the least bit sorry, “I wanted to see what that would be like.” 

“You wanted to see what it would be like to bite me?”

“To mark you.” You move forward as he moves back, a twisted iteration of the waltz you danced earlier. “I don’t understand why you don’t let me in. Did I do something wrong?” His Adam apple bobs up and down as his back hits the wall. “Tell me, please.” 

He looks at you and runs his tongue over his teeth. Every coherent thought evaporates within the confines of his brain. He cannot let you know the truth. He cannot. 

“Get away.” His voice is hoarse. 

There’s the slightest hesitation in your muscles before you take a small step backward. In one swift motion, he lurches forward, grabbing ahold of your shoulder and your chin. He leans over you, red eyes blazing underneath the mask. Something cruel and sharp slithers in his veins and buries its fangs into his anatomy. He does not know who he is angrier at — you, or himself. You for being an inescapable prison where he was the prisoner. Himself for never trying to escape or not trying enough. 

He grazes his thumb against the outline of your lips. “You insufferable little brat,” he spits, “the other Harbingers may allow you to do whatever you please with them, but that weakness is not inside me, and you cannot root it out. You—” He squeezes your skin. “—you cannot conquer me, no matter how much you try.” 

Will you have him thrown out of the Fatui for this? Locked up in the deepest cell? Will you ask your mother to impale him on a glacier, forced to slowly wither away? He watches and waits for your response.

You smile and easily disentangle yourself from his grasp. You lean forward, one hand on his shoulder, your lips brushing against his ear. 

“Liar.” 

He does not think he’s upset you, but you’ve abstained from interacting with him outside of your dance lessons, which themselves have become awkward and brief. You regard him with the same absentminded politeness you would a waiter or a maid, your eyes glazed and the candor of your voice mild. Ever since that night, you’ve made no move to tease or touch. Even as you dance, your bodies locked in a tangle, every time skin brushes against skin your new-found coldness burns like ice. 

He tries not to dwell too much on your last conversation, on the phantom throbbing of his wrist where your teeth had bit into his skin. 

His life has become strangely empty now. There’s a hole in the shape of you begging to be filled, but no material could ever replace your flesh and bone. No one’s barging into his laboratory to annoy him or sneaking into his apartments at odd hours of the night. All for the better. 

Except it isn’t, because now it’s the night (or rather, morning) before the ball and he can’t seem to sleep and the past few weeks have been absolutely insufferable. He’s irritable, much more than he normally is, prone to commonplace mistakes, and worst of all, unfocused. His segments have noticed, even the younger ones, who have been increasingly more competent than him. He knows that they know the reason why; he sees the various looks of disapproval, amusement, and disgust. Zeta even had the gall to make fun of him for it, to his immediate regret, as Dottore scolded him with such ferocity they all went quiet in a rare show of obedience. Perhaps he should scold them more often. The resounding silence, if it happened more often, would undoubtedly improve their research and his moods. 

He stares down at the unfinished reports on the metal table, acutely aware of the laboratory clock ticking away the minutes. Another and another and another go past. He’s been staring dumbly at the thrice-damned half-empty papers for two hours now. He can feel Theta’s bemused eyes burning into the back of his eyes as he mops up the blood from their latest failed experiment. Suddenly the sloshing of the water is too much for him to bear. 

“Go. Leave that for the maids,” Dottore barks. He hears swift footsteps before they pause right at the door that leads into the segments’ living quarters. 

“You should sleep,” Theta says. Dottore turns in the swivel chair and shoots him a pointed look. “I’m not saying that out of, urgh, concern,” the segment hurries to correct, “only that, don’t you have something to prepare for tomorrow—” He shoots a glance at the clock. “—I mean, today?” 

“None of your business.” 

“We’re the same person if you hadn’t noticed, so yes it is my business.” 

Dottore rubs his eyes and stays silent. There’s too little energy within him to bicker right now. Theta is still rooted in his spot, smirking silently. He crosses his arms.

“Maybe,” he continues, with a mischievous lilt in his voice, “if you’re feeling too tired to attend, I’ll be glad to—” 

It’s almost comical how fast Theta goes flying into the metal cabinets. He lets out a groan of pain. Dottore does not even comprehend when he stood up and punched him. He only knows the way rage flared in his chest, that wild emotion that he could not name roaring in his ears. He had been the one asked to the ball. Him, over Theta. Theta was your favorite of all the adult segments, for who-knows-what reason, the segment that was him during his final year in the Akademiya. You always claimed it was because he was the most fun to be around (Only the Archons can understand your definition of fun) and so it was him you often asked after. 

But this time it’s Dottore that you wanted, and he would not let anyone take away what was rightfully his. (Your voice seems to whisper in his ear, as though you were standing right beside him, “I want to do this with you.”)

The second he realizes his thoughts, he’s tempted to shoot himself with one of the expertly made and modified Fatui guns. It’s the tiredness, he reasons to himself. The lack of sleep was poisoning him with irrationality. The last time he slept was… well. Approximately four days ago. 

He remembers the last thing he said to you, and thinks of your wolfish eyes and predatory grin. You cannot conquer me, and your sly answer, Liar. How is it, he thinks, that he has barely seen you in weeks yet your presence has enlarged and completely overtaken him? The scholar in him wants to pry around for answers, but another part, a mortal part he thought he had killed long ago already knows what the answer is. 

He wonders if you still actually want him to be your partner. With the way you’ve been ignoring him these past few weeks, you might truly prefer taking one of his clones instead. The only adult segments in Snezhnaya right now are Theta and Zeta, the latter of which was on the other side of the country doing research on the mysterious disease. Theta was the only true threat to his position… unless, of course, you decide to ask one of the Harbingers or your subordinates instead. 

To his surprise and mild disgust, uncharacteristic fear grips his heart. Shit. If you took someone else to the ball, he would lose the reward you had promised to grant. He needed it — Tsaritsa only knows how much people, especially certain bankers, love to get in the way of his research. 

The thought of you swaying in another person’s arms tonight almost makes him punch Theta again. 

Theta is rambling about something insignificant, still scrambled on the floor and clutching his bruised face, glaring daggers at his creator. Dottore would have paid more heed to a rat squeaking in the corner. Dottore jerks his head to the door. A dismissal. 

An annoyed sound leaves Theta’s artificial throat. “Looks like I touched a nerve there, Prime. Scared I’m gonna steal them away?” 

“No.” 

He huffs. “Whatever. It’s just one date, I’m always gonna be the favorite.” 

Dottore wonders if he can get away with Theta’s permanent deactivation without you finding out. Probably not. “It’s not a date.” Until now, he had never thought of it as such. But Theta speaking it into existence makes his heart thump. “It’s—it’s a business agreement,” he insists, privately cursing the stutter, “an acquisition of advantage.” 

“Uh-huh. That’s why you’ve been applying that skin cream Pantyliner gave you every night? Even though you’ve never opened it until now?” 

“A certain image is required of me, not that your rat ass would know.”

“Honestly, it’s hilarious watching you fall over yourself for them.” 

Dottore hisses. “I’m not ‘falling over myself’ for them.” 

Theta grins, all that sharp teeth flashing in the fluorescent lights. “Sure.” 

“I’m not!” He sounds indignant, like a child protesting their involvement in mischief they were very much involved in. 

Theta rolls his eyes as he stands and disappears into the other room, snickering. “Whatever helps ‘ya sleep at night, Prime,” he calls after. 

Dottore sighs and massages the bridge of his nose. “I’m not,” he says softly, almost desperately, though, of course, no one hears it. Just the empty air, eating his words. 

He sighs again and glances at the clock, still ticking away. It’s half past three in the morning. You had agreed to meet at six in the evening. You had told him on the day of the last lesson, very aggressively, that under no circumstances should he be late, which he was infamous for being. If he slept now, he could get some much-needed rest before the ball. 

It’s a fitful sleep, though any sleep is better than none. He oscillates between the waking world and darkness, his body simultaneously feeling like it has been doused in fire and thrown into the icy-cold bays of Snezhnaya. Three-quarters after one o’clock he’s woken, gently and fearfully, by one of your subordinates. In a quivering voice, she tells him you had sent an entire team to “ensure full preparedness”, which he knows really was just to say, “don’t show up in a fucking lab coat”. He reluctantly lets them pull him around in a flurry of various outfits for him to try in a long, awkward, and agonizing two hours. He allows them to style his hair, clenching his teeth all the while, thinking about how furious you be if he harmed one of yours as his fingers twitch. In the end, the effort is barely seen — it’s really just a cleaner, shinier rendition of his usual hairstyle. 

They don’t do makeup. They know better than to cross that line. No one, save for the Tsaritsa and the Harbingers, has ever seen what's underneath the mask. 

The outfit they chose, in the end, was appropriately glamorous, though not as fancy as something Pantalone or Signora might wear. The royal blue fabric is soft against his skin, though his cravat seems tight around his neck. Strange, since he was the one to do it and did not deviate from how he usually did it. He tugs on the white fabric and realizes his hands are shaking. They haven’t in centuries, not since his expulsion from the Akademiya. White hot rage sears through his bones. You are the reason behind this resurfacing weakness. He has no doubt about it.

He almost wants to dive back into bed and flake out on you; it would be terribly amusing, but ultimately pointless. The consequences are not ones he wants to bear. 

He does not want to see the looks his subordinates will undoubtedly give him once they catch him on his way to the foyer of the imperial family’s private apartments, where you had agreed to meet. It was a revolting thought: The Second Seat trudging through the halls like a tamed dog The thought of it makes him want to puke. He’s already heard the multiple rumors of your relationship, has heard the giggles, has seen the coy smiles. He wonders if the other Harbingers experience it as well. 

Instead, he takes one of the palace’s secret passageways known only to the top three Harbingers, Pierro, you, and the Tsaritsa. The narrow stone hallway is dusty and dark, rarely used and reserved only for emergencies. He can see well enough with the enhanced vision he gave himself when he moved to an artificial body. He knows there are many more passages snaking through the walls that he does not know about, yet for all his explorations and the hours spent poring over the palace maps, he has never been able to find them. He supposes they’re for only you and your mother. Zapolyarny Palace was a strange place, filled with magic of a thousand years past. He’s heard rumors of ancient spells and complicated runes imbued in the walls of the palace, keeping out any who dare intrude.  

The passageways are filled with twists and turns, with multiple ladders and stairs and secret doors he had long since memorized in his mind. He emerges from behind a tapestry and steps into the deserted hallway adjacent to the foyer. 

Truth be told, he likes this part of the palace. He keeps his private estate and rooms in a similar sparse fashion, mostly because he just can’t be bothered to decorate. But he feels that the emptiness here is intentional. The beauty is quiet, serene even, as silent as the first brush of snow. Especially when the Empress is in one of her moods and true frost conquers the walls and floors and snow impossibly starts to fall indoors. When that happens, suddenly, the palace is transformed into a winter wonderland, conjured out of childlike whimsy. 

You await him at the bottom of the staircase. 

He pauses mid-step, the breath caught in his throat. He has never seen you so… dressed up, before. He knows you like going out on this excursion or that: to the opera with Pantalone or taking a pleasure barge with Columbina, and when out in the public’s eye a level of regalness was expected in your fashion. But alone with him, usually shut up in the labs or in his private estate, you wore simple clothes that allowed freedom of movement. 

But tonight you were glittering, doused in jewels he knows could fund him for years. The moonlight slants in through the windows, making you shimmer. He has never seen you look more ethereal, as though you had just stepped out of one of the Snezhnayan fairytales you so loved. And although he never grew up in Snezhnaya, looking at you he feels as though he has read those fairytales, has spent nights under the covers living in every word in his head. He looks at you and sees magic.

He realizes, suddenly, that he wears the same colors as you: royal blue and white. And then, just after that punch to the head, he remembers: royal blue and white are the colors of the imperial family. 

He swallows an emotion he does not want to touch with a hundred-foot pole. 

“Hello,” you say softly, terrifying warmth blooming in your eyes, “you aren’t late.” There’s a tease in the words. 

He harrumphs and looks away, trying to conceal the growing red in his cheeks. He thanks the Tsaritsa she does not keep her palace well-lit, even at night. “You ought to have better expectations of me. I know I’m not known for punctuality but I know when something is important.” 

You smile. It is blank and careful. “Well then.” You extend your hand. “Let’s go.” 

He takes your hand and lets you lead him to the awaiting carriage. Suddenly the room is too hot and stuffy and your body is too close yet too far. He wishes you’d press yourself closer but you haven’t in weeks, not since that fateful day. He almost misses it, before he catches the feeling and inwardly scolds himself.

Not for the first time, he wonders what game you’re playing at. You had declared, though indirectly, that you could conquer him, yet had made no move to do so. He squints at you from underneath the mask. Your face is set in a neutral, almost air-headed expression. It was the expression you used during boring meetings that you couldn’t care less about. Was he boring you? Exasperation and aggravation flood his mind. Him? Boring? He supposes he hasn’t been trying to poison you as of late. And anyway, it was you who came to him. He had never sought you out before if not for business reasons. Was he expected to make some kind of move? 

The ride to the Sokolov estate is coated in a heavy, awkward silence. Or at least, he thinks so. You don’t seem to notice. Or care. Zapolyarny Palace is situated outside the capital city, so the carriage ride takes more or less an hour. The hour is the longest he has ever experienced, except perhaps the hours he spent dancing with you. You say nothing the entire time, simply stare languidly out the window, your chin cupped in your hand. Midwinter already rules over the land, not that it really mattered when it seems two-thirds of the year saw snow. From time to time you put your hand through the open window and catch a snowflake. There were fleeting moments your eyes would meet, there would be a pause, then a quick aversion and you would both retreat into the invisible walls you had built around yourselves.  

He wonders if you expect him to apologize. 

The silence is enough to suffocate. 

Then, blessedly, the manor materializes in the distance. He almost breathes an audible sigh of relief. He has to restrain his body from jumping out of the carriage as soon as the door is opened. He exits the vehicle first and extends a helping hand to you as you shuffle out, like a proper gentleman. Not that he was one. 

You smile at him. Still, blank.

The Sokolov Winter Ball is an event for aristocrats by aristocrats. There are barely any Fatuus in sight, exempting the noble children who had joined to cur favor and prestige, though such children were few and far between. Though the Tsaritsa rules over all, there is undoubtedly enmity between the nobility and the Fatui; the two factions are caught in an uncertain back-and-forth of power, constantly at each other’s throats and on the verge of bloodshed. In public, members of both groups were expected to be cordial and pretend there was equality among them. So Dottore did get a certain satisfaction in seeing the lords and ladies of Snezhnaya bow before him, even if it was really to you rather than him. 

He almost falls asleep internally as you go through the motions of socializing, him following behind as he has nothing else to do: trivial small talk, false fawning and compliments, pretending to care about the latest gossips sweeping the city. You did seem to actually care about the latter, one of the many characteristics you shared with Pantalone. He, on the other hand, was utterly uncurious to the silly little lives of the people. 

They mostly pretend he does not exist. Not rudely, but fearfully. They understand Dottore is not exactly in the best of moods and offer only commonplace courtesies. 

He wonders how long you can go treating him like this, like some distant, half-hearted acquaintance and not… whatever he should be to you. He has never, ever been the slightest bit interested in socialization, but he wishes, just once, you would turn your head to him and chat. Even if the talk was the silliest of topics, even if he did not care a wit about them. He simply wants to hear warmth flood your voice once more, wanted to hear your ringing laughter.

He flinches slightly when he fully realizes the thought that had crossed his mind. 

“You should smile more,” you say to him as you wheel around the ballroom, trying to avoid another mother who hoped to introduce her dashing children to you, undoubtedly in hopes it will blossom into marriage. The thought of you marrying one of these pathetic pups stirs fierce vindication in his chest. “You’re scaring them.” 

“I am smiling,” he says, frowning. 

The utterly annoyed look you give him makes him laugh, the sound deep and full of heart. 

A little later, when the clock strikes nine, Duchess Sokolov practically materializes in front of the both of you with an element of surprise even Arlecchino would admire and only scheming, middle-aged women can conjure. Your startled half-smile makes her smile in turn, the look of it sly. After a session of unabashed bootlicking, where she complimented almost every piece of your body, from your feet to your eyelashes (the only other person he has ever heard say such things is him), she asked, with a grandiose show of humility, if Your Imperial Highness would do us the honor of opening the dancing with my son? 

If anything, Dottore admires her gall.

His body moves before his mind can comprehend what he is doing. He places his hands on your shoulders, smiling widely, making sure his sharp teeth are visible to anyone who dares steal you away. 

"The geir has already promised their first dance to me, Your Grace." The words come out wild and aggressive, like the barks of a wolf. "I'm afraid your son will have to wait his turn." If I let him have one. 

The duchess pales slightly and steps half a foot back. "Forgive me Lord Harbinger, I wasn't aware." 

You laugh and press your gloved hand to your mouth, a lovely gesture.  "Oh, please excuse Lord Dottore. He's a very particular person. I'll be glad to dance with your son after."

The Duchess visibly brightens and blunders away after numerous thanks, eager to tear away from Dottore's burning glare. You slip your arm through his and weave through the sea of bodies to the center of the ballroom, the party guests skillfully parting to let you pass. He does not think he is imagining your smirk.

As you near the center, Dottore ignores the hot flash of anxiety in his stomach. It has been so long since he has felt that emotion or other adjacent ones that it takes a moment for him to recognize it. Memories of those torturous hours spent dancing, and dancing, and dancing again resurface in his memories. Though not as graceful a dancer as you, he had reached a level of acceptable elegance towards the end that received glowing praise from the instructors. You had smiled, shrugged, and said nothing. It had left a strange empty feeling lingering within him. 

What reaction did he even want from you, anyway? He thinks the instructors weren’t lying; the fear in their eyes was minimal. He would most likely never dance again after tonight. So, it truly did not matter what you thought of his dancing. It did not matter. He had gotten over the anxiousness that came with socializing a very long time ago, and it is not the crowd that is making him nervous. So what is it that he fears?

He feels himself getting more and more agitated as you both pull yourselves into position: two hands outstretched and intertwined, his hand on the small of your back, yours resting on his shoulder. He feels the sharp, curious eyes on the both of you as the music starts.

“Relax,” you whisper. 

“I am relaxed.” 

“No, you’re not.” You squeeze his shoulder. “Your body is so stiff.” 

“I’m doing fine,” he grits out. 

“You’d do even better if you’d stop fidgeting and relax.” 

How could he relax when you’re so close? He can hear your breaths and count the lashes of your eyes. Your eyes already shine naturally with unnatural brightness, but beneath the light of the chandeliers, they seemed to gleam like the faces of a diamond. 

“Is something wrong? You’re staring quite intently.” Your voice evaporates his thoughts. He swallows nervously and looks away, his gaze darting around the room, hoping to see anything but you. “Dottore?” The tone of your voice has been nothing but level for weeks, so the sliver of genuine worry that escapes into the words makes his heart jump. 

He shakes his head. “It’s nothing.” 

He moves as though he’s in a dream, lost and dazed. He cannot explain to himself why he leans in closer, or why he squeezes your hand cupped in his. He messes up — once then twice then thrice, missing a step or taking the wrong turn even though he memorized the entire routine in his head the night after your first lesson. It cannot be his memory, flawless as it is. 

It’s his heart, his Archons-damned heart, thumping against his ribs. It’s your inquisitive eyes on him, your cold skin pressed against his. It’s the way there is something genuine and vulnerable living in the light of your eyes. It is the way there is a very dangerous mortal emotion flooding his veins. It is the way he cannot help but want to press closer, wants to take you into his arms and sweep you off your feet this night, and many more. 

It is an utterly terrifying thought. This is what he is scared of, he realizes with a jolt that earns him a questioning look from you. This closeness, this… intimacy. Your hands on his skin, warm enough to make him believe you’re both human. 

How long has it been, he wonders, since he has wanted to stop running away. 

The music reaches a crescendo quietly, as though from far away. For all he can hear is thump, thump, thump, his mind all but submerged in the fervent tide of his own beating heart. 

When the dance ends, he needs more than one hand to count the mistakes he’s made. You had gracefully saved him from each mistake, maneuvering your body in such a way that the flow of the dance was upheld. As he bows to you, the crowd bursts into rapturous applause.  

Before he can even blink, numerous lords and ladies have already swarmed the both of you like angry bees, buzzing with life. Each vy for your next dance, the questions flying so fast you barely have time to plaster on a polite smile. You’re generally a sociable person, but your eyes widen as the crowd presses closer, each bothersome member trying to be louder than the next. Your gaze lands on him.

He wraps a protective arm around your waist, scowling at the crowd. Briefly, he remembers you had promised a dance to the son of Sokolov, and then decides he could give less of a fuck about that. 

“Their Imperial Highness needs space,” he snaps. The response is instantaneous; he almost laughs at the way one girl jumps almost a foot back, banging into a boy behind her.   

You grace him with a thankful smile. He thinks he would kill all of the people in this room to earn it again. 

“I need air,” you declare, more to yourself and him than anyone else. Before someone can get in the way of your plans, you hook your arm through his and lead him out into the gardens. 

The Sokolov estate is massive, though not as big as Zapolyarny. The hedged gardens sprawl north, east, and west, with the manor at their backs. Though there are lots of small flowers here and there, it is mostly made out of small trees and shrubbery, unlike your own gardens back at the palace, which were bursting with all kinds of plants. It was hard for most greenery to withstand the cold so far up north, but the Tsaritsa had scoured the land for every flower that could grow in Snezhnaya and created for you your very own Eden. 

The glow from indoors lights up the pathways but slowly grows dimmer and dimmer as you both wander down the winding stones. He has no trouble seeing, a perk of inhabiting a modified body, and, it seems, so do you. A godly trait, perhaps. He would love to thoroughly study you one day, though your mother would probably not approve of it. 

You walk in companionable silence, arms still linked together. He wants to say something. What, exactly, he does not know. 

The manor has all but faded into the distance when you stop at a quaint marble pavilion, the night outside cool and still. There is a large pond next to the pavilion, bright and silver as a knife in the moonlight. Faintly he hears the chirping of crickets in the underbrush, the gurgling of water from a nearby miniature fountain, the honks of swans. 

You cross your arms and lean against the railing, eyes glazed and unseeing, lost in thought. He hovers behind you, uncertain as a child with an angry parent. The breeze cards its fingers through your air and makes it flutter with the wind. The air is sweet, and even the annoying chirp of the crickets softens into a mellow sound. You remain silent, your gaze trained on the water.

In the steady stillness, all those emotions from the dance rush back into his heart. Rage — at himself, at you, at the world — burns through his chest. How could he have been so stupid? So weak? He thought if only he played the game right, if only he took the correct steps, he would escape unscathed. He had not realized he never stood a chance. 

Gods and their goading, tricking everyone into believing fairness was not a shadow on the wall, fickle and false. He would have never won. 

You cannot conquer me, he had declared to you, already conquered. The more he writhed from your grip, the deeper your claws sank in. And if he ever does escape, it will be with claw marks on his soul. In this game you both play, he has played and lost. Defeat is a bitter taste on his tongue. It happened again. The gods have bested him again. 

And you. You did not even know it. You still gaze thoughtfully at the pond. He resents the way you still stand so serenely as his entire world comes crashing down around him. 

He has always been a man of action. He never waits, never stays still. Yet here he is. Staying still. 

When the silence swells into something unbearable, he says, "Am I really so boring of a companion your mind has to wander off?" He levels a cool gaze at you, hoping to mask the way his fingers flex at his side, the way his teeth grind against each other, and the way his heart thumps and thumps inside his chest. 

You turn your head to look at him. Your answering smile is amused. "You could never be boring, Dottore. Not you."

"Is that why you've been ignoring me for weeks?" The hurt slips into the words before he can catch it. He winces inwardly at himself, embarrassed at the sordid display of emotions. There's a flicker of pleasure in your eyes as the words soak in. 

You shrug like a child denying their wrongdoings. "I thought… I thought you’d be inclined to dissect me and damn the consequences if I approached you again outside our lessons, after our last encounter." His wrist throbs with the memory. Mischief slips into your voice. "Why? Did you miss me?"

Yes. "Hardly." 

"Really."

He scowls. "I barely noticed your absence." 

You rest your chin on your fist. “Mhm. Theta told me you were miserable without me.” 

That stupid, loose-lipped segment was asking for deactivation. Dottore truly does not know where the young segment got his penchant for gossiping. It was something that he, Prime, never did. But it did stem from spite, which is where ninety percent of his decisions originate from. “Theta, as you know, is a serial liar.” 

“I’ll be sure to tell him that the next time I see him. Anyways, I don’t think he’s lying. Pantalone told me you’re behind on submitting your financial reports,” you hurry to correct when he gives you a look, “more than usual, I mean. And I heard from a little dove you’ve gotten nothing done these past few weeks.” He makes a mental note to lock Columbina out of his lab. It’s a futile pursuit, he knows she’ll find a way in through Archons-knew-what means, but it doesn’t mean he can’t try. 

He arches a brow, though you can’t see it through the mask. “How arrogant of you to assume you’re the cause behind my recent… difficulties.” 

“I don’t think it’s arrogant to be correct. Or maybe it is. Would certainly explain the reason you have oceans of arrogance.” 

“Haha. What evidence do you have, anyways?” 

“Gut instinct.” 

Despite himself, he laughs. The sound is scraping and throaty. “You would make an absolutely dreadful scholar. You need evidence, my liege, before you go around making such far-fetched claims.” 

You say nothing. You slowly walk towards him, a wolf on the hunt, smiling all the while. He stays rooted to his spot, frozen. Watching. Waiting. There is a part of him, a concerningly large part of him, that longs to feel the warmth of your skin again. Another part wants to eviscerate that part. But he stands still, and he knows, oh he knows why. 

Was it truly such a miserable fate to be conquered by you? To be desired by you? He wonders if deer run only because they want to be caught by the wolf. 

You lift your palm to his neck. Your thumb pokes and prods underneath his jawbone. He leans into your touch, baring the hollow of his throat. You’re so close. You could do what you wanted, and a sick feeling tells him he would let you. You were poised to maim, to kill, to devour. But you don’t. You simply continue to press against his skin with the flat of your thumb. 

He realizes too late what you’re looking for. 

Your devilish grin is equal parts terrifying and utterly gorgeous. Mischief truly becomes you, he thinks dimly. “There,” you say softly. “Tell me, Doctor, why is your heart beating so fast? Hmm? And—” You remove your hand from his throat and his heart screams for you to place your hand on his body once more. You grip the edge of his mask, tilting it slightly up. Enough to imply your intentions. “—May I?” 

He does not mean to nod, but his body moves of its own accord. 

You let it fall to the ground. He has never considered himself to be the most handsome of men, even before the scars. And he has never cared much for his appearance. But suddenly he is aware of his rough skin, of the jagged lines that cut through the left side of his face. He wants to pick up the mask and hide once more. But the way your eyes sparkle as you take him in, all of him in, makes him feel crafted by the gods themselves. You gently brush your thumb against the bottom of his eye. 

“Dilated pupils,” you whisper. “Whatever could be making you anxious, my lord?” 

His eyes narrow and his scowl deepens, but he does not move. “Maybe I’m coming down with an affliction. Maybe I’m having a heart attack, or my drink was poisoned. Maybe your presence is so foul it is enough to kill me.” 

You laugh softly. He wants to record it and play it over and over again until his heart beats to its rhythm. “We both know that’s not true.” You caress his scarred skin with your knuckles. “Do you think I can’t tell? This is my mother’s domain, after all.” You do not say that foul, four-letter word. But you let it hang between the two of you like the blade of a guillotine. 

He's doomed himself, he knows. Human connection is not something the Second Seat should trifle with. Attachment is humanity's weakness, to be exploited and used for his own gain. The burn scars on his face remind him there is always, always something else the gods could take away. But though he has cheated death for these past four hundred years, he cannot cheat his own humanity. It is something he can never escape. It terrifies him. It beckons him closer. He thinks of your smile and your laugh. 

Your smile transforms, though your lips do not move at all. It becomes brighter now, something true and warm. He wonders how long you've been waiting for this. The sight of your smile is the most beautiful thing he has ever laid eyes upon. A voice, unbidden, whispers in his ear: there are things worth burning for.

The breeze has stopped, he realizes. As though the very world is holding its breath. 

Oh. Damn it all to the Abyss. 

He closes the distance between the both of you and presses his lips onto yours. 

You taste like wine and chocolates and all things addicting and sweet. Your lips are softer than he ever dared dream of. The shocked gasp that leaves your mouth makes him smile against your mouth. He jumps at the opportunity faster than you can react. He surges forward and grabs your waist, pressing your chest against his. His teeth graze your lips and he can see your eyes widen as he bites down, hard. Your resounding whimper makes his chest bloom with pleasure. He understands, truly, he does, why you play your game with him. With all of them. To have you weaken in his grasp, to finally, finally elicit the same vulnerability you seem to conjure so easily from him, is an experience he will never forget. There is nothing in all of the world that is as addicting as stripping monsters into mortals. 

It seems like an eternity before you finally pull away, his hand still on your waist, a silver string of saliva connecting your lips still. Your eyes are blown wide and our fingertips brush against your lips, against his teeth marks. They come away red with blood. 

“You—” The word catches in your throat, and you splutter out weak noises before you regain your voice. “—you fucking bastard!” 

If I have to burn, you burn with me. 

He shrugs, grinning. “See? It’s as you said. I’m never boring.” 

His heart thumps with equal parts terror and euphoria at what he had just done. There is a part of him, smaller now, but still there, that still flinches in his head, utterly consumed by terror by what he has just done. To announce his heart’s desire so brazenly, so thoughtlessly. Yet it was a fair exchange. He had forced you to offer up your own heart as well. Catching you off guard was such a sweet sight, it excited him more than anything had in these past few years. If he had known the sensation of kissing you would be so sweet, he would have done it long ago. 

“Fuck. Fuck. What the hell?” Though he does not believe in karma, your panicked state cannot be described as anything but. “I didn’t think you’d…” You shake your head, laughing weakly. “Fuck.” 

You bury your face into his shoulder, still cursing softly. He debates pulling away, but instead, he wraps his arms around you. You seem so small, so fragile, like a baby bird that has fallen from its nest. He hums as he traces soothing circles on your back.  

"Did you miss me too in the past few weeks?" He asks impulsively. It is out of a desire to satiate his curiosity more than anything.

You draw in a shaky breath. He feels you smile against his skin. "Of course I did." The reply vindicates him.

Beat.

“Is everything alright?” He asks, looking down at your head. 

He nudges you. Had you fallen asleep somehow? It wouldn’t be the strangest thing you’d ever done. 

He does not catch what you say, what with the softness of your voice coupled with it being muffled by his chest. But you stir in his arms, still unable to look at him. 

“Is everything alright?” He repeats. 

“No.” A pause. “I’m a bit afraid.”

“Of what?” He asks, puzzled. 

“That if I look at you, my heart is going to burst from my chest.”  

It starts as small chuckles, then wheezing, the bellied laughter as he doubles over. Now you were the one holding him in your arms. There’s nothing funny about what you’ve just said. It’s not even a joke. But wasn’t it, in some twisted way hilarious, after all this time, how the scales have balanced themselves? 

You stare at him, incredulous, your previous anxious state shed like a snake skin. You disentangle yourself from him and slap his chest, hard, which only causes him to double down in his fit of laughter, clutching at his sore sides.

“What’s so funny?” You say shrilly. “Don’t laugh at me! Dottore!” 

“I’m not sorry,” he says after recovering himself, wiping a tear from his eye, laughter still laced in the words. 

“This isn’t funny!” You pout and stomp your feet on the ground indignantly, like a child. “You’re so mean to me.” 

He smiles. “Always, my dear. What did you expect?” 

You sigh. The sound is drawn out for dramatics. You cross your arms and turn your body away, chin up, a comical imitation of an irritated housewife. “I should’ve just taken Theta.” 

Suddenly the smile dies on his lips and his body is flooded with an ugly, twisting rage. Stupid Theta. Always ruining everything. “You don’t mean that,” he says coolly. “I’m the one you wanted to take tonight.” 

That evokes a sly smile from you. “Aww, are you jealous, my dear Doctor?” 

Definitely. He scowls. “Of course not.” 

“You seemed jealous back at the ball, too,” you tease. 

He recoils as though the words materialized themselves into the physical plane and slapped him in the face. “Of those low lives? Never.” 

“So, you wouldn’t mind going back to the dance I promised the son of Sokolov?” Urgh. He had hoped you’d forgotten about that. Anyways, it’d be a bit awkward to go back now. You’ve both been gone for so long you might as well ditch the party. And if you insisted on going back… well. He wouldn’t let that happen. You’d be forgiven, of course, and people fear him too much to make it an issue. He wonders what excuses you’ll have to draw up when you inevitably apologize to the Sokolov family for leaving so early. 

“It’s not worth your energy.” 

“But I only danced once tonight!” 

“It was good enough.” 

“You were not that good. I kept having to cover up your mistakes.” The words, though snarky, hold no actual venom. Though, it does prickle him. The overachieving scholar within yearns to be more than ‘not that good’. And anyway, who is Il Dottore, if not someone who goes above and beyond? Your smile urges him to take the bait. 

He does.

“Then,” he says, soft as a lover’s kiss, extending a gloved hand, “would you allow me to make up for it?” 

You place your hand in his.

Dancing has never seemed fun to Dottore. Little things (well, little socially acceptable things) have. It’s a waste of his time, in his opinion. The constant pursuit of knowledge has been his entire life. Even when he was mortal, he never understood what happiness such frivolous activities could elicit that books could not. Yet he does not recall a time he has ever felt such soft, weightless happiness as he does now. As he sways with you to invisible music in the sweet grass of the night. You mess up, and he does too. You trip on stray roots. He is unbalanced on the uneven ground. He blames it on your shared jumble of nerves. You giggle and smile and blame him. But you continue to dance, letting him spin you around as the moon bathes you in silver. Now all those years running from divinity seem so silly. How could he ever fathom running away from this? 

It disgusts him somewhat that he’s fallen into… whatever he could call this… so easily. All that time spent battling you, battling himself, all evaporated in a single night. All that effort turned to cinders. He finds that he does not mind as much as he should. He does not think the game has ended, no. You’ll play it again and again and again, until time reaches its empty end. He does not know whether he wants to devour you or be devoured by you. He does not find the latter as unappealing as it once was. Who could have guessed that pain could be pleasure? He pitied — no, he still does pity — mortals for their sad, forever-yearning hearts that beat for contentment, for companionship. Yet he finds that same weakness in him. It is utterly terrifying.

But as you spin in the moonlight, your laughter ringing in his ears, and his heart thumps and thumps, he thinks it is utterly, utterly inescapable. 

[sepublic]

            I’ve already brought up how the loss of glyphs is deeply tragic for Luz on an interpersonal level, given her relationship with the Titan as being kinda found family in a spiritual successor to Manny sorta way…

            But on a larger, cultural level? It’s straight-up genocide. Because glyphs were an ancient practice; They were a tradition at one point, as Eda explains. The earliest witches used to learn glyphs from the Titan on her knee, and eventually stopped when that became redundant with the more convenient source of their bile sacs.

            But it was still an important part of their history; It was how witches and demons first communicated and interacted with the land and nature, and their ‘god’ in a mutualistic way. It was how they respected their world.

            So even if glyphs were evidently forgotten by the Deadwardian Era, they were still available for those who needed them… And in comes fucking Philip, the racist colonizer, and because of his possession of the Titan’s heart, she finally dies and glyphs can no longer work. They’re obsolete now.

            They still happened, but now that part of magic, of history and this world, is gone forever. It’s cultural erasure, it’s what Luz alludes to when she mentions how scars from Belos’ reign still remain, like the left arm being permanently shifted upwards; Who knows how many were displaced, how much the local flora and fauna and ecosystems were devastated, with the desert of Palm Stings now colder than even the knee itself?!?

            It’s just so deeply painful because Luz really helped to bring back an ancient, lost tradition and unlike Philip, breathed new life into it; Glyphs could be used to help people without bile sacs, who didn’t utilize spell circles as well. We actually saw Luz experiment with using individual glyphs, and figure out the combos; Things she did on her own. She shared knowledge of glyphs with her loved ones, like Eda, King, Lilith, Gus, Amity, etc.

            There really was going to be a return of something lost, but now it’s gone forever because of a bigoted old white man who was too bitter about things that are different and needed to feel big and important by standing on the shoulders of others. It’s cultural genocide. That memory where Belos' destructive lies about wild magic drive witches away from the knee that they still had the potential to learn from, leaving behind only ruins in the present-day? With some murdered via the coven sigils that cut them even further off from their own magic they forgot glyphs for? It's truly symbolic of the final nails in the coffin.

            And it’s also desecration of the dead, too; Caleb is not the only one to have had his corpse bastardized by Belos, misused against everything he stood for. Belos also misused that corpse, first by stealing the Titan’s name, then misusing her magic, her resources such as Palistrom wood… And finally possessing that body literally, which is what murders the Titan. It’s like colonizers bastardizing and salting the land that locals carefully maintained a proper relationship with, and keep in mind this fucker is a literal Puritan colonist. There’s no respect, not for the dead and/or past. Compare that to Luz, who lives on in Manny’s memory and makes him proud.

            I’m just imagining Caleb and the Titan watching, in agony, as their bodies are used to create a vicious mockery towards their actual kin, who remain totally unaware, and in the case of the Grimwalkers, it’s another lineage that is also abused. Meanwhile the Clawthornes remain unknowing of their past because colonialism erases history, hence Belos hiring Flora, and hell even getting Lilith to participate in her own historical erasure, as both Clawthorne and witch!

            Meanwhile, King remains oblivious and unconnected to his own heritage. And most of that can also be attributed to the Titan Trappers and Archivists, themselves perpretrators of genocide. So King and Eda go without knowing their heritage for so long, in Eda’s case she may never find out entirely, because it’s part of the many voices who are lost and silenced due to genocide, buried in the past to be forgotten.

            And you know one thing more that fucks me up? It’s that I genuinely suspect that Philip initially had it easier with glyphs than Luz, and that he made them more difficult for her. Because based on his dialogue by finding the Ice glyph in a snowflake, and his diary and memory portraits showing him arriving in the isles via Eclipse Lake, at the Knee…

            Philip was probably shown his first spell on his first day in the Demon Realm. And it makes sense; The first human, the precedent that the Titan would’ve known by this point, was Caleb; Himself Philip’s brother, who was also raised to be a witch hunter, yet learned better. We know people can view both worlds from that in-between realm, but the Titan still isn’t omnipotent and can only watch through a limited number of cubes at a time, while having to know what and who to look for.

            But even so; With Caleb’s precedent, there could’ve been hope that Philip would follow in his footsteps, that he would learn and be more, and actually choose to be better instead of defaulting to Puritan predestination and the like as an excuse to stay the same and absolve him of responsiability. But we know what happened; Philip started off easy, but then made things difficult by rejecting the Titan’s compassion, by misusing her magic for evil and murder and genocide. The Titan showed Philip compassion first and this was how he responded.

            I really feel as if there’s an implicit reluctance with how Luz is taught glyphs, one at a time, in separate scenarios, usually as a result of character development and/or engaging with the world around her, which are things the Titan would really need to see to start trusting another human again (and if he knew Luz gave Philip the last glyph, that would also add to the wariness that Belos caused by manipulating her). Luz didn’t learn her first spell until a few days into her journey, and Luz had already had a few perilous encounters by that point! But she continued to brave her way through everything, continued to accept the isles and its messier side.

            And so the Titan showed Luz her first spell, and only that, in response to Luz needing it, wanting to learn magic, and most of all humbling herself to be kind to the Titan’s own son, and listen to him; Because neglecting King was what low-key led to Eda’s transformation placing everyone in danger, since he only told Luz about the elixir and agreed to steal it for the sake of getting her attention.

            So that makes Luz listening to the Titan for the first time, intentionally, with her second spell –Ice, Philip’s first- so much more hard-hitting. The way she wanted to live out her dream so she went for the wand behind people’s backs, but then recognized and owned up to her mistakes. And she really was just a lonely kid in need of guidance, and not a stubborn adult committed to his cruelty; Luz always had an open mind! She always wanted to learn!

            And she got to! She learned each glyph at a time… And that’s all the Titan could do for her, something the Titan had already done for so many others, long ago, before they realized they had bile sacs and didn’t need to rely on the land around them as much. Luz still experimented even when she just had one glyph; She understood how intent mattered. She and Lilith built off of each other’s knowledge to collaborate and create combos. Meanwhile Belos, he agonized because he made things pointlessly difficult by refusing to adapt to the ways of another land, and only got his first and last glyphs by taking the compassion of someone who knew them and betraying it.

            Plus there’s what I said about Lilith, her whole thing as Caleb’s descendant, directly abused by Belos and belittled by him, made to participate in her own erasure loss of past, separated from that… Really, one could argue the Clawthornes are like the Boiling Isles equivalent to the Irish; Yeah they're white but that doesn't mean they aren't victims of British colonialism that sought to 'conquer the land' and all that.

The Clawthornes are generally known for big orange hair, with Lilith's curly hair being straightened and dyed dark-blue in an attempt to assimilate within the Emperor's Coven's (AKA Philip's) standards of conformity. They worked with the land via the Palistrom carving and began to lose that because of the trees being endangered by Belos' gluttony, as well as the curse disabling Dell; The very curse created by the Archivists, who also invaded this world, the very curse cast by Lilith because the coven system influenced her to feel shame over wild magic and embrace hierarchy instead.

The curse leads to Eda's loss of bile magic, something very important to her and witches in general, and Lilith loses her own trying to mitigate her own mistakes. So not just glyphs are taken from witches, but even their own bile magic they initially replaced them with, and the other resources of the land. And Lilith is cut off from her family, her real family, as she's taken in by an ancestor who has deliberately distanced himself and loathes her on multiple levels as something to be 'fixed'.

But Lilith gets her hair back and re-embraces it, she gets her family back. She still manages to somewhat retain her past; After all, Lilith gets to go to the Deadwardian Era herself! And she meets, as much as it loathes anyone to acknowledge it, an ancestor, and influences history in a subtle yet personally meaningful way. And Lilith helps re-establish contact with the lost practice of glyphs by figuring out how to combine them, which goes hand in hand with her passion of being a historian, and her additional function as both parallel and especially foil to Philip.

             Just… Luz and the Titan. And Caleb. And Lilith. There’s dead people and there’s history and there’s land, there’s bodies and respect. There’s compassion and actually working with people and finding no shame in that, instead of stealing and taking credit. And in the end, even though they manage to regain some things, a lot was still inevitably lost to genocide, and possibly gone forever.

            But the effects and legacy still linger, Luz still remembers and holds dear what the glyphs did; And she honors not just Manny’s legacy, but Caleb’s, by bridging the gap between humanity and witches, and showing both can co-exist in harmony. She helped his descendants, and even the last Grimwalker, find happiness and reconnect with their heritage, even if they don’t know just how close it is to them in particular. Luz honored the Titan by clearing his name, finding his son, and ensuring the last of the Titans is no longer alone and in understanding of his heritage. Luz even made amends with the Titan’s other greatest regret, harming the Collector, by making peace; And she proved glyphs were still useful, they were still kind, and that compassion wasn’t wasted.

            So even if the Titan’s glyphs are gone now, Luz still honored their memory by sharing them freely and helping, teaching, cultivating. The Clawthornes are rebuilding the Palistrom forests, among them is Hunter who as a Grimwalker was one of the purposes for which Belos devastated those natural resources for. And King… King is beginning to develop his own glyphs! And Luz is learning her first one, Light, from a Titan all over again, because she showed King kindness.

            That honors the Titan’s memory by keeping it alive through her son; Who keeps the memory of glyphs alive through the ones he’ll sustain and share with everyone else, and those glyphs will spread to those without and even with bile sacs. And a lost art is brought back, irreversibly different but still intact in the important ways. People are relearning old practices to apply to a new world, because the past is gone but it still lingers and is simply… reborn. Despite the scars and changes it survives and is still itself.

            And with how all of this loops back to Luz’s relationship with her father Manny, who passed away, and how all that was based on Dana’s own relationship with her deceased father, who left her a final gift in Pokemon Red that she chose to cherish to this day, and embrace her own creativity and keep it alive. It’s a story about things dying but still managing to live anyway.

[catholic-character-tournament]

Round 5 - Catholic Character Tournament

Jason art credit @Reincao

Propaganda below ⬇️

Jason

Okay it's cannon but like in an alternative universe because Comics. I just think the fact DC made Known Murderer and Reblious Teen with Daddy Issues a Catholic priest in a different universe. Just. Casually.

Jason Todd is may or may not be Catholic in the main timeline of DC Comics, but I the Flashpoint storyline, my man is a priest! He was a drug addict, thief, and in the Blood Brother cult before dying, only to come back to life and decide to become a priest in the hellhole that is Gotham. In the main timeline, he comes back after dying and stuffs a duffel bags full of heads! The common trait before all Jason Todds is that they all have to be as dramatic as possible. Dying and coming back as the most unexpected thing. Unbelievable. I love this man.

Shadow

In sonic destruction (the AI generated fan thing snapcube made a while ago) shadow was catholic or something which I think is reallyyyyyyy funny

Ok listen. I know this is a stretch but hear me out. He says “oh my God” in the Twitter takeovers so we know this is a possibility. I see him as a Christ-like figure because I saw his whole confrontation with Mephiles and was like “this is a thing that happened in the Bible??” and the pose Mephiles shows him in is literally like a crucifixion and Mephiles is meant to be a demon / false prophet reference. And also he’s called a demon in Shadow The Hedgehog 2005 then the guy who calls him that is like “I was wrong I’m sorry” and that also reminds me of a thing with Jesus in The Bible. But the biggest reason is his whole thing with Maria cause I think he’d come to earth and hear Ave Maria once and convert to Catholicism idk he’s like we’re comforted by a female familial figure named Mary sometimes called Maria?? And her color is blue????? Heck yeah I’m in because I Will Cry. Also feel free to share this as propaganda obv even if he doesn’t get in the bracket just. It’s funny.

I feel like he’d battle a lot with being seen or portrayed as a demon and how the aliens he’s related to very much look and act like demons idk lmao- and also I feel like confession would just be good for him I think he needs it for his mental health

There is a debate on the lovely website tunblr that Shadow T. Hedgehog is an allegory for Jesus Christ.

He is Jesus, idk what to tell you. He lived, he was sealed away, he was awakened again and deemed the ultimate lifeforms, he’s angry but not evil, does what he believes is best for people and the world at any given time. Total loser.

[squirrelsqwirow]

HC: lovesick!muzan x fem!demonreader

a/n: I love the idea of a powerful, intimidating man being head-over-heels for his wife cw: mentions of death, cannon setting, slight yandere, suggestive themes, odd use of blood cause demons, ooc a bit????

lovesick!muzan who rules as the demon king, feared by both demons and humans alike, a murderer of thousands, a egocentric psychopath who believes himself to be a god walking earth, a heartless, cold man who cares not for others and only for his self-gain

lovesick!muzan who would only kneel for his beautiful wife - the demon queen

lovesick!muzan who ensures that your existence is kept a lethal rumour - lower demons tremble when they utter the title 'demon queen' for they fear muzan will hear them - and he does

lovesick!muzan who's eyes sharpen when one of his pathetic creations dares speak of you, and is by their side within a blink, hand dug deep into their stomach, fingers wrapped around the spine and with one harsh pull, they are left motionless as the sun peaks over the buildings

lovesick!muzan who confirms your existence with his upper moons by having you join his side at his last meeting over one-hundred years ago - they hadn't seen you since

within the stomach of the infinity castle, atop a risen platform you lay comfortably with your head on your husbands lap. muzan looked down with disgust at his supposed upper moons - the most powerful products of his unwavering hatred, yet in that moment all he felt with disappointment. his hand was gentle as it ran across your jewelled hair, careful to not catch on the golden accessories. "they're pathetic," you had said. muzan hummed as you continued: "loyal but incompetent." "I give them power and a simple request in return," he stroked your cheek and your eyes closed. "Yet they have nothing to show for it." muzan's voice sharpened and he narrowed his eyes as all but one upper moon looked displeased. "imperfection isn't acceptable."

lovesick!muzan who allows you and only you to keep him company in his lab - he prefers to work in silence, but if you take an interest in his love for chemistry he will answer every question with a smile so small only you can see it

lovesick!muzan who believes his wife to be the most intelligent individual he's ever met - calm, cunning, vicious, elegant with a strong desire for destruction and power - he'd never think so highly of anyone else

lovesick!muzan who stares at his wife constantly - any lesser being would assume him to be glaring, but you've known him long enough to see the love in his stare - he doesn't like being caught staring, and most times isn't, but he lets his guard down around you

lovesick!muzan who will give you his blood without hesitation, for you are the demon queen and therefore deserving of all this power

muzan swiftly sliced the pad of his index finger with the sharp nail of his thumb. he delicately took your face in his hands and your mouth fell open, tongue resting against your lower, red lip. he smiled and slowly placed his index on the base of your tongue and dragged it to the tip - silk-like red trailing his finger. it was like iron in your mouth, a metallic tang as you swallowed. muzan kissed you next, soft and chaste with his lips flush against your own. as he pulled away, he could feel the thickness of your red lipstick against his lips, and his cunning suspicion was confirmed as you smiled largely.

lovesick!muzan who creates a unique deep red lipstick for only you, specially crafted in his lab and injected with his blood - it was vivid against your complexation, often attracting the attention of many human women who would approach you asking for the store you purchased it from

lovesick!muzan who swells with pride when you tell them it's custom made by your intelligent husband

lovesick!muzan who doesn't sleep very often - nor do you, but when you lie down for a nap every decade or two, he will only protest once before joining you under the covers

lovesick!muzan who sleeps on his back with your arm slung over his chest and your face buried in the crook of his neck - he's not one to fall asleep fast, but he stays and rubs small circles into your shoulder as you sleep peacefully

lovesick!muzan who will admire you as you sleep, tracing your facial features and planting small pecks to your forehead - one of the very few times he'll smile kindly

lovesick!muzan who ventures into the human world with you on his arm, visiting the wealthiest parts of Japan and purchasing you anything you stare too long at - a foreign gold necklace, a luxurious kimono - anything, ask him for anything and it's yours

lovesick!muzan who knows you long to travel the world, but it is too much of a risk with sunlight still damning him to the shadows - but he gives you his word, that once he has conquered the sun and given you the same ability will he give you the world

lovesick!muzan who would rip cities apart and massacre villages if it brought a smile to that lovely face - he would approach you when it's done, drenched in blood yet not a hair out of place

he approached with arrogance in his step, pressed black suit velvet under the moons light. he stop before you and kneeled. his deep voice drawled: "have I pleased you, my love?" his eyes - a sharp red like the splatters of blood against his pale face - looked up at you expectantly. muzan knew you were, but oh how he loved to hear it. you smiled: "I'm beyond pleased, such a wonderful sight." as he rose you cupped his cheek and caressed the skin beneath his eye. "you always know how to make me happy."

lovesick!muzan who would tear any man or woman apart for staring at you with anything akin to lust or want - you are no longer phased by this habit of his

lovesick!muzan who drowns you in praise and whispers of love, paired with chaste kisses to your hands and cheeks

lovesick!muzan who ensures that his beloved wife lives a life of luxury and class, never needing to lift a finger, never needing to raise her voice, never needing to demand anything twice because it is done instantly

lovesick!muzan who bathes you in the finest blood - he'll sit on the edge of the large tub and read to you one of his many favourite poems or stories

you sat against the tub and leaned your head against the rest, a smile on your face. your knees poked from the red liquid, droplets running down the smooth skin of your thighs. his words were soft and deep as he recited a poem only a mind like his could understand. they lulled you to a peaceful mood, not quite asleep, but in a conscious state where all you could hear were your husbands words, and all you could feel was his hand linked with yours.

lovesick!muzan who initially refused to involve you in his work, but upon your constant pestering he finally admitted to his goal - the search for the blue spider lilly

lovesick!muzan who appreciated your efforts to finding this flower for him - you created a garden in a place between space and time, a dimension only the powerful could enter, and planted every seed you got your hands on in hopes that one day the blue flower would sprout from the ground

lovesick!muzan who adores your attempts to help him and loves visiting your garden when he is stressed - although he isn't confident this is the best way to find this flower, he appreciates the effort and comes to find peace within the garden

lovesick!muzan who, during upper moon meetings, will compare his demons to you

"in the past month my wife has made far more progress in obtaining the blue spider lilly than any of you have in the last century," muzan sneered and looked down upon his most powerful creations. such a waste of blood they turned out to be - perhaps he should consider replacements. "please, my lord! please forgive us!" hantengu cried on his hands and knees. "I do not want excuses," muzan said with a narrowed glare. he overlooked all his upper moons and felt disgust in the pit of his stomach at how far they had fallen. centuries they had lived, thousands they has slaughtered and consumed without mercy, hundreds they tortured for entertainment, yet they fall short when finding a flower. how dishonorable, how frustrating, how insulting to his and his wife's name. "I want results."

lovesick!muzan who met you when he was human, the beautiful, kind and intelligent daughter of his doctor, and never cared for you in the beginning, but as you appeared more and more, he grew to enjoy your company

lovesick!muzan who fell in love and so desperately wanted to give you the life you deserved, but from the confines on his bed it seemed impossible

lovesick!muzan who grew bitter and angry at the thought that one day soon he would die and you would take another man - he swore to you that if he lived he would give you everything you deserved

lovesick!muzan who becomes a demon thanks to your fathers innovation, and quickly turns you too, making work of his promise in giving you everything you deserve - power, wealth, loyal servants, a kingdom and a title

lovesick!muzan who never would have fallen in love with you had you not been there since the very beginning, but is so thankful you were because he cannot bare to think how empty and lonely his life would be without you