#what about the fact that going to a church and jerking it to christ is something that absolutely happened numerous times

[francesderwent]

Just wondering how you think TTPD is a "win" for Christian Swifties when she blatantly derides them as judgy hypocrites who want to "cage" her throughout the album?! I'm curious how you spin this because it's objectively the most anti-religious people album she's ever made!

Taylor could not possibly hate conservative Christians more and her contempt comes out in every song! She especially hates the type of Christians who judge about sexual morality. If you think otherwise, you're honestly just deluding yourself and willfully misinterpreting her lyrics to suit you.

I honestly can't tell if this is two separate people or one person who got progressively more annoyed as they typed but:

I think any good art which is honest about human experience is a win for Christians.

Style, which puts a happy face on an on-again-off-again relationship, pretends everything is fun and breezy, is not a win for Christians. but!! Is It Over Now, despite being more explicit, is a win for Christians, because it admits: this left a mark on me. I cannot walk away from what we did together. I cannot pretend this didn't matter.

likewise, False God & Lavender Haze are not a win for Christians. but The Tortured Poets Department, taken as a whole and as the refutation of False God and Lavender Haze, is a win for Christians, because it is honest about what it really feels like to give all of yourself to someone who isn't willing to make a commitment to you.

and I think this principle still holds true when the experience you're being honest about is people being obnoxious little creeps to you--even people who claim to or are trying to follow Christ. because that's life sometimes! I was just saying a week or two ago that the Barbara Howard plot in the Breakup episode of Abbott is fantastic Christian representation, and part of that plot is women in her church choir being nasty and judgmental! honest storytelling is always going to account for the fact that some of the people you regard as on the team of the good guys are at best hopelessly annoying, and at worst horrible people. that fact doesn't threaten me.

and just as a side note: the people she's lashing out against in But Daddy I Love Him are just as much the liberal woke purity police as the Christian sexual morality police soooo we should all have had a look inward at our own capacity to be judgmental jerks. it's definitely not about establishing a hierarchy of who Taylor has more contempt for.

[runthepockets]

I kinda love what a weird horny sad freak MJK is on most A Perfect Circle shit. I know TOOL gets meme'd on a lot, but I do think the guy is really smart and occupies a really good space in Metal and Hard Rock.

The guy gives so much dignity to fucking everything he writes. You can tell he believes and feels everything he's saying. Unlike most guys in heavy music he doesn't really go for overdramatic metaphors or edgy lyricism for the sake of edge, he's genuinely just....a very sad and confused dude.

Take my favorite tracks on Mer De Noms, for example; Magdelena, which is simply a self indulgent anthem about a man who has a thing for a stripper, coupled with savory and grinding Nu / Industrial Metal guitars. Orestes, which is about being faced with the options of either pulling the plug on your mother, who's been in a coma since you were in 4th grade, and dealing with both the internal and external scrutiny of doing such a thing, or proceeding to let her suffer for the illusion of being the good son and pleasing the people in your life, which is probably the worst nightmare any child could undergo in the face of a sick parent. 3 Libras, which relays a passionate love that a man has for a woman through obvious and meaningful actions, only to have that love dashed or written off as a general altercation. Sleeping Beauty, which follows a man coming to the bitter realization that he can't "fix" someone who doesn't want to be helped. Thomas, which derives its name from a chapter in John 20:24-31; that is, Thomas questioning Jesus' return until he can put his fingers in Christ's wounds, the instrumental and lyrical delivery of which feels like a "wholesome", upstanding Christian man following all the rules for the majority of his life and still getting fucked over toward the end, losing everything and everyone important to him and holding his head in his hands in front of the church podium with nothing to say except "show me the way to forgive you, show me the way to let go", and Thinking of You, which grants so much dignity and earnestness to the concept of simply jerking off to your crush that I didn't even realize it was about masturbating, at first. This doesn't even delve into the facts that the majority of the tracks are named after either biblical characters or people in Keenan's real life, putting his interpersonal relationships and his relationship with god at the forefront of the album.

I also really love the Thirteenth Step; it's raw, it's striking, it's the perfect mix of angst and aggression. Every song is perfect, and though it generally follows the premise of a more experienced AA member falling for a newer one, the themes of all the songs are pretty relatable, at least for me. It's all as sombre and haunting and atmospheric as it is real, and as much as I love Metal, that's not really something I'm used to getting out of it. Pretty much the only thing stopping me from labeling APC one of my favorite bands is that they only have two good albums, lol, but damn if they're aren't good fucking albums.

[clairenatural]

destiel, some sort of au, 1.4k of pre-marriage stress turned to fluff that I wrote at 4am. enjoy!

There’s a knock on the bathroom door, and Dean jerks his head up towards it.

Don’t be Cas, don’t be Cas, don’t be—

“Dean?” Cas calls.

Fuck.

He debates telling him to go away. He debates not answering. Neither will work.

“Sam send you?” He settles for instead, and he hates how shaky his voice sounds.

“Yes.”

“I told him not to.”

“I know. We decided I should come anyway.”

Dean almost laughs at that—at that absurd response to this absurd situation. It comes out more like a cough. He stares down at his dress pants, his shoes. They’re new. It’s all new.

When he speaks again, his voice is soft, and he refuses to look at the door. “What are we doing here, man?”

There’s a sigh from the other side. “Theoretically, we’re getting married, but—” a soft thump, as Cas leans against the wood, “—I suppose that’s really up to you.”

Dean grimaces. There’s no anger in his fiancé’s voice. No malice. Concern, maybe, but he’s doing a good job wrangling it back into the same even tone he uses with his panicked undergrads. Dean hates it, being talked to like some scared kid, but he is hiding in a bathroom at his own wedding, so. He suspects he deserves it.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, so quietly he’s not sure if Cas will hear him. For a long minute, the only response he gets is the swish of fabric as the other man slides down the door, the telltale clacking of dress shoes as he situates himself on the hardwood. Then—

“I love you,” Cas starts, and it’s so much more than Dean deserves at the moment that he suddenly feels like he might cry. “You know that, right?”

Dean blinks. “I—yeah. Yeah, of course I do.” He shifts, and suddenly the toilet seat is digging uncomfortably into his thighs. “I love you, too.”

“Good,” there’s another soft thump as Cas leans his head back against the door, and Dean hates how relieved he sounds. “Okay. So—” his voice is less steady, now, and a pang of guilt shoots through Dean’s chest. What is he doing. “If you don’t want to do this, we won’t.”

Dean had already pushed himself off the toilet seat, but now he freezes. “What?”

“We can go home, right now. We won’t get the deposits back, but I’m sure our guests would enjoy the free party, and we—”

“Wait,” Dean has crossed the room, now. “You’d do that for me?” There’s a piece of Cas’ coat peeking under the door frame. Dean stares at it. “And we’d—”

“Order pizza, and pretend it’s a normal Saturday, and talk about this in the morning.” It’s not the we’d be fine he was hoping for, but it’s better than he expected.

Dean sighs and turns, mirroring Cas in sliding down his own side of the door to settle on the tile floor. “You deserve so much better than that, man.”

He knows Cas is tilting his head. “Is that what this is about? What I deserve?”

Dean pauses. “No,” he lies.

“Okay. Is it about what you deserve?”

“Don’t psychoanalyze me,” Dean snaps, and then immediately feels like the scum of the Earth.

Cas’ weary sigh will haunt him for the rest of his days. “I’m not. I’m just—I want to understand.”

I want to understand why you’re hiding in a bathroom on our wedding day. Why you’re doing this to me. To us.

Yeah, Dean does too.

Before he can respond there’s a flurry of footsteps, followed by a rushed whisper and what sounds like gesturing before the footsteps recede.

“Sam?” he hazards a guess.

“He’s just worried.”

“He always is.” Dean pauses. “Are guests getting worried, too?”

“…Yes,” Cas answers slowly, and then too quickly. “But they don’t matter. This isn’t about them.”

Dean groans, pulls his knees up to his chest, and buries his face in his hands. “’Course they matter,” he grumbles into his palms. “That’s why we’re here,” by here he means the fancy mansion estate Naomi had wanted them to rent.

“Dean, you know I would have married you in a courthouse.” He sounds puzzled, now, which is at least a nice departure from exhausted/crushed/dangerously calm.

Dean does not know. “What?”

Cas hums. “Or in a roadside chapel. Or in one of those Vegas Elvis churches.”

He feels incredibly dumb for not knowing this.

Cas is still talking. “And I would have waited 5, 10 years.” He pauses, thinking. “20, even.” 

Dean feels a little breathless. “You were serious, earlier? When you said…if I say no, we’ll go home. Just like that, everything’s cool?”

“Just like that,” Cas agrees. “Although ‘cool’ is a strong word.” At least he’s being honest. He takes a deep breath before continuing. “My point is, Dean, that I am already yours in every way that matters, and I will remain so for as long as you’ll have me. Wedding today or not.”

Dean groans and leans his head back against the door. “That simple, huh?” he grumbles, even as his brain is yelling yes, it is.

“I think that’s part of the point,” comes the reply, and there’s a smile in his voice for the first time in the conversation.

“...Me too,” Dean replies after a beat, and it’s as soft as his earlier apology but this time he knows Cas can hear him. “You gotta know that, Cas.”

“I do,” Cas confirms, and it’s less unsure than Dean was afraid it would be.

Dean starts to smile back but catches himself, instead dragging a hand across his face, because despite these warm fuzzies—“You’re still gonna regret this.” It’s a neutral remark. Like a fact.

He can almost hear the eye roll.

“You’ve been saying that for our entire relationship, and yet I am not the one hiding from our wedding in the bathroom,” Cas replies, and Dean would call him out for being a smartass if he didn’t have an irritatingly valid point.

“Yeah, but—” he starts a futile attempt to argue, but Cas cuts him off.

“I could sit here and list off all the reasons why I’m here—why I’m choosing to be here—but I have some very well thought-out vows on the subject—” Dean is suddenly acutely aware of the paper tucked into his own suit jacket “—and I’m prepared to spend the rest of our lives convincing you that you deserve me, and I deserve you, and we deserve us.”

And that…..that actually sounds pretty good.

Okay.

Okay, yeah.

He rolls this over in his head for a moment before nodding and preparing to stand, to apologize, to—something. But Cas obviously takes the silence as there being something (else) wrong, because after a few seconds of shuffling his fingers slide under the door.

He’s (awkwardly, as much as the tight space will allow) holding his engagement ring.

He took off his engagement ring, and now he’s giving it back, and Dean’s not sure what could have gone horribly wrong in those few seconds of silence but this is obviously the other shoe dropping, already¸ and—

“Will you marry me?” Cas asks, voice muffled from where his face is obviously pressed against the wood.

Dean freezes. He stares at the ring. He remembers buying it. He remembers giving it to Cas in the first place. And now he's hiding in the bathroom on their wedding day and his perfect dork of a fiancé, who he will never deserve but who loves him so much anyway, is...proposing back.

He picks it up and puts it on his own finger, and it looks out of place and it doesn’t fit right, but suddenly he’s grinning so much that he doesn’t care. He stands quickly and yanks the door open, then reaches down to pull his startled fiancé up off the floor and into his arms.

“Yes?” Cas asks, pushing back just enough to be able to breathe, and suddenly the whole weight of the situation hits Dean at once. His grin falters.

“Yes—yeah, of course. I’m giving you the ring back, obviously, but—Christ, Cas, I’m so sorry, I don’t—”

Cas puts a finger to his lips, cutting off the babbling. “Wedding first, apologies after.”

Dean nods. Cas lets his hand drop but Dean catches it, presses a kiss to his fingertips, and links it with his own. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. Cas reaches out for his face with his free hand and smooths his thumb over Dean’s cheekbone.

“I love you,” he says, very seriously.

“I know,” Dean smiles, and it’s only a bit nervous. He risks leaning down to press a kiss to Cas’ forehead. “Come on." When he steps away he also steps forward, tugging Cas by the hand down the upstairs hallway. “Let’s go get married.”

[eddiemetalheadmunson]

heeeeey, ya filthy animals. chapter two of The Dying of the Light: Electric Chapel is complete. no warnings for this chapter, things are pretty tame. for now. hehehe.

click here for chapter I, "she wanted storms".

follow me, don't be such a holy fool /

follow me, i need something sacred from you /

together we'll both find a way /

to make a pure love work in a dirty way

electric chapel - lady gaga. listen here for the vibes.

chapter II: electric chapel

The sharp rapping of a fist against the front door jerks Lilith out of a particularly pleasant nap and she groans, rubbing her hands down her face sleepily. It’s dark out already, hence the pitch blackness surrounding her, and she wonders absentmindedly just how long she’s been out. The little house had gotten considerably colder with the breeze coming from the open water and she shivers a bit, grabbing an oversized hoodie from the backpack next to her and yanking it over her head.

With her bones popping in protest, she pushes herself up off of the floor and stumbles ungracefully to flip the porch light on, swinging the front door open. There stands a tiny woman with a rather strict demeanor and a prim expression on her face.

“So sorry to intrude on, well…” the woman glances up at her, no doubt, extremely tangled long red hair, “…whatever it was you were doing, but I was informed of a new resident of the island and thought I’d stop by and introduce myself,” she says curtly, plastering a genial smile on her face that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Lily doesn’t miss the way she looks her up and down with mild distaste. To be fair, she probably does look like shit, but damn, she could at least pretend not to notice.

“Oh…yeah. Yep, that’s me. Um, I’m Lilith Rowan. I’m just here to help sell –”

The woman cuts her off abruptly. “Oh! You’re Frederick’s granddaughter! Yes, yes of course, I remember now. I’m so very sorry for your loss, dear. He was a nice man. Kept to himself, mostly…one of the few on the island who rarely attended mass, in fact,” she says, obviously oblivious to how rude she sounds.

“Oh. Well, church isn’t for everyone, I guess,” Lily shrugs, earning a piercing stare from the woman.

“I suppose not. Anyway, my name is Beverly Keane, I’m somewhat of a coordinator of things here on the island. I meant to greet you when you arrived but you must’ve snuck right past me,” she says, clasping her hands together and cocking her head to the side to study Lily in a way that makes her rather uncomfortable.

“I didn’t realize anyone even knew I was coming, honestly,” Lily chuckles. “I haven’t been here in what feels like forever. It looks like there’s a lot less people living here then what I remember,” she says, momentarily glancing around at the lack of the living surrounding them.

Beverly sighs, joining Lily in surveying the land. “Yes, we’ve had some…unfortunate events transpire over the years, but we march on. Not much else we can do. Most people here are admirably faithful, and we trust that Christ will see us through.”

Lily clenches her jaw and nods with a stiff smile. This lady was pushy as hell about the whole God thing. Great, she thought. I’m going to have her hounding me the entire time I’m here.

“Well, now that you’re here I suppose I’ll leave you to it. We do so hope to see you at the service tomorrow, dear. It would certainly make a good impression on the residents if you attend. An easy way to meet everyone, if nothing else,” she says, pursing her lips confidently and sticking her chin up in a way that makes Lily want to snort with laughter.

“Um, well, I don’t really do the whole “church” thing. Not anymore, at least. But I appreciate the invitation. I’ll…I’ll think about it,” Lily manages to grind out her response and barely suppresses a grin at how taken aback Beverly looks at her statement.

“Well…I suppose that’s the wonderful thing about God. You can choose to be saved at any time in life. Just make sure you do it before – well, I’m sure you know, dear.” She chuckles dryly at her own joke and brushes her dress off, smoothing the wrinkles. Before Lily can formulate an undoubtedly aggressive response to that, a low, gentle voice interrupts them.

“Who’s this, then? Have you been hiding her from us, Bev?”

Lily’s heart skips a beat when her eyes land on a tall, handsome man with a kind face making his way over to the porch. Thick and somewhat curly raven hair sits atop his head and his smile is the kind you can just tell is genuine. His hands are in his pockets, giving him a slightly boyish demeanor that is admittedly quite endearing, and he’s dressed in all dark colors: skinny jeans, a black cardigan and…

A white collar? He’s a priest?!

All at once, Lily realizes she’s basically just staring the poor man down. He grins and nods at her in a friendly greeting. She feels a blush creeping from her cheeks down her neck, but for the first and most likely only time, Beverly’s clipped tone saves her some pain.

“Monsignor! I didn’t expect to see you around this area of the island so late. This is Lilith, she’s here to take care of some real estate on the island for her Great Grandfather.”

Lily’s head snaps to Beverly in barely restrained offense.

“I mean, he’s dead, so…not really doing it for him, per se. Unless you’ve seen his ghost floating around town,” she quips with a raised eyebrow and a tiny smirk. She looks to the priest and doesn’t miss the way he inconspicuously chuckles, but then looks up into her eyes again with gentle concern.

“I’m very sorry for your loss, Lilith. Your Grandfather was a good man. He never had an unkind word to say about anyone, or so I’ve been told by Monsignor Pruitt. You most likely don’t remember him if you’ve been away as long as Frederick had said, but Father Pruitt is currently on the mainland on sick leave I’m afraid, so I’m just here stepping in for him while he’s resting up.”

Lily bites her lip and wracks her brain, trying to place the old man who’d led the church when she was little. A spark of a memory flits across her mind, and she can’t help but crack a smile and shake her head sheepishly at him.

“Oh god…yeah, I remember him. He was exceptionally…patient with me when I was little. I was kind of a holy terror as a kid. I remember one particular prank that may or may not have been my doing. He knew. He totally knew, there’s no way he couldn’t have,” she laughs genuinely now, leaning against the railing of the porch in thought. “He never ratted me out, though. Good guy,” she recalls warmly, hardly believing she’d completely forgotten about him until this moment.

“Yes, well – Lilith has informed me that, unfortunately, we won’t be seeing her at the church in the coming weeks. She doesn’t prefer it. To each their own, I suppose,” she nods at Lily in a gesture that is apparently supposed to be respectful but fails monumentally, and it sends a jolt of fire through Lily’s veins.

“I don’t feel like I need any help finding my moral compass, Ms. Keane. I mean, I could be a real psycho, y’know?” Lily quips. “I try to be as nice I can. I help old ladies across the street. I pay my taxes. Hell, I even recycle sometimes! I can’t have strayed too far from the flock, right?” She crosses her arms and tilts her head to the side to stare resolutely into Beverly’s eyes, which widen a fraction in surprise before she flares her nostrils and clears her throat.

“Well, I suppose the Monsignor and I have introduced ourselves, then. Best get to bed, Father, big day tomorrow. Oh, you probably don’t know, but tomorrow is Ash Wednesday. There’s a rather beloved event that follows the church service, the “Crock Pot Luck”. Welcome to all who worship our Lord and Savior, and…and of course, any newcomers,” she reluctantly informs Lily, nodding her head and turning on her heel to leave. She stops when she realizes the Monsignor isn’t following in her wake.

“Oh, I’d like to talk to our new friend for a moment longer. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow at service, Bev,” he replies with a kind smile, turning to look at Lily again when Beverly, resigned, huffs and continues her journey home. Lily snorts derisively and watches her depart, shaking her head at the balls on this woman.

“New heathen, more like.”

The Monsignor takes a few steps towards her and shakes his head good-naturedly. “You’re far from being a heathen. Bev is…well, she’s very devout in her faith. Try not to take it personally. None of us are spared of her strict morality lessons,” he laughs gently as he reaches the bottom step of the porch, smiling up at her in a way that warms her from the inside out. “I’m Father Paul. Hill. It’s very nice to meet you, Lilith.”

“Oh, you can just call me Lily. Most people do. I mean, you don’t have to, just throwing it out there, if you’d rather,” she rambles, instantly feeling mortified at how awkward she’s acting.

What the hell? He’s a priest, you fucking moron. Get over yourself.

“Well, Lily. I’m glad you’re here. I wish it was due to different circumstances, but you’re always welcome here in Crockett,” he says softly, reaching out a hand to shake hers. She grins down at him and reaches her hand out to take his, instantly feeling a tickle of electricity through every finger at his warm, comforting touch.

“Thanks, um – shit, I’m sorry, I don’t know really know what the protocol is for this kinda’ thing. Do I call you Father each time I address you? Or, Father Paul? Just Paul? O’ mighty one?” she shyly jokes, rubbing a hand behind her neck in mild embarrassment. He laughs out loud at this, smiling beautifully at her – all white teeth and sparkling brown eyes, and she’s taken aback at just how ridiculously attractive he is. She wonders if he even realizes.

“Call me whatever you feel comfortable with. Most just call me Father Paul, Father Hill, etcetera. Nothing too fancy,” he offers, crossing his arms and titling his head a bit to study her in a way that makes her feel like she’s being x-rayed, but not unpleasantly so. She blushes at the thought of calling him “Father”. She’d never addressed anyone as “Father” in her entire life. It always seemed like such a stiff, overly formal title for her own Dad, or anyone for that matter. But calling him Father? It feels rather…personal, almost bordering on intimacy, and she isn’t entirely sure why it makes her flush as she thinks about it. These thoughts are enough to rattle her nerves, but she mentally shakes herself off and pulls it together.

“Gotcha’. Right. Well, Father Paul,” she says in an overly dramatic manner, punctuated by a flamboyant, tiny bow, “It’s nice to meet you, too. Thanks for not shunning me off of your island.”

His eyebrows raise in amusement at her response, and she quickly finds it hard to maintain eye contact. She suddenly becomes very invested in the grain direction of the floorboards beneath her feet. She clears her throat and bounces on her feet a bit, trying to ease her own self-induced embarrassment.

Ugh. Why do I have to act like a five-year old boy every time I talk to a man?

“I’d invite you in for coffee and a chat but there’s no furniture. Like, literally none,” she says, changing the subject and laughing lightly. His brows pinch together at this, and he leans his head to the side to peer into the barren little house behind her.

“You don’t have anywhere to sleep, then?”

“I do! No, I do. It’s just not “company” ready is all I meant. I didn’t – I couldn’t face any personal items if I was going to sell the house,” she manages to stutter out, suddenly feeling rather childish by how flighty and unprepared she must seem.

“You do know there’s a fairly large storm coming, right? Sometime this week. You’re rather close to the shoreline, if not the closest on the island. I feel…deeply uncomfortable with you staying here during the thick of it,” his voice falls into a murmur as if he’s thinking out loud, studying the distance between the shoreline and the house. Genuine concern etches itself across his facial features while he rakes a hand through his unruly hair in deliberation. It causes her heart stutter like a fucking school girl, and she studies his face as he’s looking elsewhere. Dark brown eyes canopied by thick lashes, pretty white teeth, a constant expression of kindness, and damn, those lips…

Dude. He’s a PRIEST, she hisses at herself internally before that thought can evolve. He’s probably this nice to everyone. That’s literally in his job description. You’re not special.

She laughs lightly in attempt to ease the tension coiling inside of her, watching her hot breath swirl into smoky looking tendrils amongst the chilly air. “Seriously, Father, it’s – I’ll be fine. I love storms, actually. They stay awake and, well, keep watch over me while I’m sleeping. We’re on pretty good terms with each other,” she says, trying to ease his worries. His deep, dark eyes land on her face, scanning her from her neck to her lips to her freckled nose and finally, to her green eyes. His facial expression tells her he remains unconvinced.

“It’s apparently going to be a pretty bad one. We’ll all lose power most likely, they say that’s pretty much a given. Are you sure I can’t convince you to stay somewhere else?”

She couldn’t hold back a bashful smile at his insistence. “I don’t even know anyone here to stay with, and I’d really rather not inconvenience anyone. It would be kinda’ awkward,” she says, chuckling lightly and absentmindedly playing with a piece of her hair out of habit. He gently scoffs as if she’s said the silliest thing in the world, his expression full of sincerity that has her cheeks growing warm again.

You have got to get your shit together, woman.

“Well, you’re more than welcome to stay at Monsignor Pruitt’s house. It’s where I’m staying, myself, until he starts feeling better. It isn’t my home so technically we’d both be guests, not just yourself, and there’s a perfectly good bedroom with no occupant.”

Lily’s eyes widen in surprise and she studies his face, wondering if perhaps he’s joking. “Are – you’re serious? You just met me. I could be a murderer for all you know.”

He smiles up at her and chuckles, shaking his head. “Yes, I can see you’re very dangerous. A – holy terror, I believe it was? – but I’ll lean on faith that you won’t throttle me in my sleep.”

She bites her lip in an attempt to hide the giant, dorky smile trying to form on her lips. “Hey, I am dangerous, thank you very much. I like you though, so you’re in the clear. I’ll let you live. Out of the goodness of my heart,” she says as she places a hand across her chest above her heart, failing monumentally at suppressing said dorky smile.

His raises an eyebrow in amusement and mild surprise, his expression one of curiosity and something else she can’t quite put her finger on. She internally kicks herself and feels her face flush, hoping he didn’t read into her statement the wrong way. Growing up with so many male friends had done her a disservice in that way, as sometimes she would say things that could be considered not entirely platonic because she was so comfortable being herself around them. It made for a few awkward situations where someone would start having feelings for her, thinking she felt the same, and the friendship was just never the same after she set the record straight with them.

“Well, I must say, I’m quite flattered, Miss Rowan. Or is it Mrs. Rowan? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume.”

She snorts inelegantly, shaking her head and crossing her arms. “Ha! No, your assumption is quite correct.”

Something flashes within his eyes as he nods, lightly exhaling in a way that could almost, almost pass as…mild relief? No, that wouldn’t make any sense. She scolds herself again, wondering what it was about this skinny priest with kind eyes and a warm voice, and really nice hair, the kind you can run your fingers through…or tug on…

She snaps back to reality and when she does, she realizes he’s been staring at her. Studying her. “Just think about it at least? No pressure either way, of course. If you’d feel better giving something in return for my hospitality, coming to tomorrow’s service would be more than enough,” he says, crossing his arms and looking off into the distance, feigning indifference at her answer.

She laughs, really laughs at this, recognizing that he’s teasing her. He joins in on the laughter and faces her again, his eyes lightly drifting across her form before snapping back up to meet her eyes. She pushes herself off of the porch rail and shoves her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, rocking on her feet a bit in thought.

“I guess that would be the neighborly thing to do, wouldn’t it? I’ll…um – I’ll consider it.”

He claps his hands together, giving her a sweet smile that has her insides buzzing like a hive of bees and takes a few steps back. “Good! I really hope to see you there, then. It would make the day all the more special. I’ll get out of your hair now, I’m sure you’re still trying to get settled in,” he says, backing up a few more paces to take his leave.

“Yeah…yeah, you too. I’ll be seeing you around,” she replies and returns the smile, trying not to react to his previous comment about her presence at the service being special, but manages to make an ass out of herself all the same by her stiff reply. He smiles and departs, lifting a hand to say goodbye and Lily does the same. She quickly scurries back inside the house, closing the door a little too loudly, and slumps back against it once she’s in. Her stomach is still doing little flips from their conversation and her head feels fuzzy. She hadn’t felt this instant of a connection with anyone in…well, ever, if she’s being honest with herself. But this connection was between her and quite possibly the most unattainable person she could think of.

Well, fuck.

[wowbright]

How the hell did you make me like Cooper Anderson?  Also Laura his wife sounds awesome!

I don't know how I made *you* like Cooper Anderson, but I know how I made *me* like him.

And I bet you weren't expecting an essay in response to this, but you are getting one! Because I have so many thoughts about (post)Mormon!Cooper. So many, in fact, that they are going under a cut.

I dictated this. Please excuse typos.

(Oh, and from the timing, I feel it's safe to assume that your ask is in response to the mormon!Klaine vignette Don’t Be a Dumbass.

Canon Cooper is a divisive character. Great for comedic relief but, if he were an actual person in real life, not very likable by most standards. I remember when “Big Brother” came out. Now, memory is a tricky thing and very biased, but as I remember it, before the episode aired, people were headcanoning him as an awesome brother and writing fics about him being super supportive and helping Blaine through tough times in their youth. Because Matt Bomer! Who wants to hate Matt Bomer?

Well, that's not the character we got in the episode. I remember I ticked a lot of people off after that episode aired because their relationship dynamics reminded me of my own relationship with my older brother. I have written vaguely about that relationship elsewhere on Tumblr (probably in the #metabation and/or #gpoy tags), but the short version is that it was abusive and traumatizing (like, PTSD levels of traumatizing for me), and we are pretty much estranged. I brought that experience to “Big Brother” and was like, “oh, you know how we always assumed that Blaine was fucked up because of his parents? Maybe it's his brother!”

I have no interest in forcing that interpretation on anyone else, though. We all bring our own baggage to any text, and that is mine. So I can also see Cooper i as not actually a jerk, but instead somebody who is terribly vain and unaware of how he affects others.

However, that still makes him difficult to turn him into a supportive brother in fic. Some writers neglect or diminish those aspects of Cooper's personality to make him someone Blaine can rely on, and that's fine. It’s fic, and when canon throws us crap, we are free to ignore or change it.

But I am kind of ... unhealthily obsessed with canon characterization? So I wanted to take the vain, unaware Cooper we know from the show and see what a Mormon upbringing followed by a faith crisis might due to his personality. (And yes, I had the ulterior motive that I wanted Blaine to have at least one family member he knew he could rely on for support before he comes out—which is a very big ulterior motive, and can definitely lead me to making him nicer than canon or my universe actually justifies. Unlike mormon!kurt, I’m not perfect.)

I'm going to say something that hopefully nobody will find shocking at this point: Mormonism/The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints/faith is complex. It can be damaging, and it can also be a literal lifesaver for a lot of people. But I think, for someone like Cooper, growing up in the church could do a lot of good:

His vanity would be tempered in childhood be going to Sunday school every week and learning about being kind to each other. 

His self importance might swell a little too much when he got the priesthood, but in my headcanon, he has adults in his church who see that going on and try to counter it. (Some of them tell him off, and others take a gentler approach by showing him how to develop humility.)

His mission would throw him into an environment where he really knew nothing and would, with a modicum of self-awareness, start seeing his shortcomings.

I mean, really. If all he ever did was talk about himself and how great he was, every single one of his companions would hate him. And Cooper might be OK with that at first, but he also craves accolades and approval, so he’d start adapting.

Through his companionships, his mission would also expose Cooper to a lot of different ways of “being Mormon” and “being a family.” He would talk about his family with his companions and realize that not everybody has a completely distant dad, and that generosity and concern for others comes naturally to some people and is not a weakness or something to be feared.

And then comes his faith crisis, which I see as starting sometime in his mission but coming into full bloom at BYU (Brigham Young University, aka “the Lord’s university”). Here’s the thing about BYU: Never-Mormons can attend, but if you are a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and decide to leave, you are automatically expelled. It could be the day before graduation, and if the administration finds out you don’t believe the teachings anymore, you are out of there. Want a degree? Find another school that will accept most of your credits, then pay for one or two more years of college to finish somewhere else.

Under U.S. law as currently interpreted, this is entirely legal. It’s also entirely terrifying to anyone experience a crisis of faith while attending BYU.

Plus, Cooper loves the BYU drama department. (From everything I've heard about it, it's a good drama department.) He doesn't want to leave a place where he's actually getting better at acting and start over somewhere else.

Also, would his parents even continue paying for his college, paritcularly arts college, if he left the church? He honestly doesn't know.

So he hides his true colors.

Such an experience doesn't necessarily make someone develop sympathy for others in similar situations. But this is my fic, so it does. Cooper doesn't know what it's like to be gay, but he does know what it's like to hide. He knows how taxing it is on your soul. He understands the fear. He understands the very real possibility of rejection by people who profess to love you.

In short, he develops sympathy for people in all types of closets.

And then I gave him a healthy romantic relationship that brings out the best in him. That helps, too. (Laura is down-to-earth and has a solid head on her shoulders. Cooper loves that. She’s attracted to Cooper’s boundless energy and his penchant for dreaming. She finds his self-absorption both cute and irritating.)

Cooper is still self-centered a lot of the time. But he is aware of that aspect of himself. And while he can't completely get rid of it (and shouldn't—his career requires self-confidence), he has much more sympathy for others than he used to have. He uses his self-centeredness to understand others (being in situation x hurt me in y way; maybe it's the same for so-and-so and I can use my experience to help them through it). And when he feels his self-importance/self-centeredness getting in the way, or has it pointed out to him by people he trusts, he tries to do better. He leans on his arsenal of less developed personality traits and skills and tries to strengthen them.

So ... Is that how I made you love Cooper?

[medeafive]

The BW movie has made me get back into a few old writing projects and one of them is an early medieval AU (talked about it here) set on the border between Christian and pagan territories. It’s nowhere near done but I wanted to share some of it, so here’s the beginning! Enjoy :)

***********************************************

He's still not sure whether he drew the short straw or the long straw in this whole thing. She's pretty, that's for sure, red hair and fair skin, small and somehow very round. He hasn't spoken a word with her, however, since she doesn't know their language. All communication with her, her father and her tribe has flown through a blonde woman named Sharon, who has learned their language from a missionary (who was largely unsuccessful but at least not sacrificed to the pagan gods like some before him were rumored to have been).

It's very clear that this is a matter of utmost urgency to them, if the tribal leader is willing to marry off his only daughter and give up their ancestral stele to demonstrate their conversion to Christianity. Of course, it is very unfortunate to be a pagan tribe just at the border to the Christian territories. And then the hordes of soldiers traveling to reclaim the Holy Land and to spread Christianity. Must cause an existential nervousness about whether you are next. Which they eventually would be, no doubt. Better to surrender now mostly on their terms than to be annexed and forced into submission later.

And these are their terms: the daughter of their leader marries the brother of the king (which, fine, whatever Sam wants), they give up their idols and collectively convert to Christianity, and in return nobody comes and invades them. Seems fair. Their offspring will thus rule the eastern tribe while Sam's eventual offspring will succeed the throne. That's the plan at least.

The blonde woman, Sharon, keeps whispering in his bride's ear, probably explaining and translating what the minstrels are singing. Sam, walking next to him, looks very serious. Radomil, the father of the bride, is hard to read, as always, but seems kind of sad, or solemn at least, at selling their ancestral religion for their survival. The bride to be, honestly, he has no idea. She seems fine. A little shy, smiling politely and never ever saying a word. Well, he can't look over his shoulder for too long.

The priest is already waiting in front of the closed doors of the church with the usual questions. If there's one thing they're definitely not, it's related. Sam gives him a stern look, as if that would make him answer more directly. The dowry is read aloud by Sharon, consisting of some land, a substantial amount of silver and the heretic stele which will be destroyed the following day in another symbolic ceremony. He hands the bride a small bag of gold which she will distribute among the needy as soon as Sharon whispers in her ear to do so. The priest steps forward and baptizes her to the name of Natalia, referring to the birth of Christ. They then say their vows, Sharon for Natalia who merely nods. He places the ring on Natalia's right hand and she starts distributing the symbolic coins. Then the church doors finally open.

Sharon does not step with them under the canopy of cloth, because that would really be too much, and so Natalia does not understand a word of the mass and the prayers. She sort of moves her lips along, smiling at him nervously. She's really short, dressed in blue, symbolizing purity but also accentuating her burning red hair. It's probably going to be fine and they're not going to bother each other too much. It's not like they're going to talk a lot. And Sam gets the close relation to the eastern tribe as well as relief from the pressure of the church to spread the faith. In fact, christianizing a whole tribe will increase their standing among the Christian rulers. So they all do what they have to.

When that is all through, the priest gives him the kiss of peace and he turns to Natalia to kiss her rather awkwardly. She smiles at him encouragingly which makes it slightly less bad. The priest pronounces a blessing and then they're through.

Yeah. It's probably going to be fine.

****************

It's a lavish feast, of course, becoming of their standing. Natalia, as is now her name, does not speak a word, other than whispering to Sharon to her left. Sharon is going to stay, at least, as lady-in-waiting. Bucky drinks too much, despite Sam's stern looks. There's food and drink and gifts, all broiling together. It takes forever, especially the awkward silence to his left, but then it's over and they leave for the bedchambers. Which is a whole other disaster just waiting to happen.

Somebody tries to snatch Natalia's garter on the way out, which startles her enormously, but he steers her away from that and gives that person a warning look. Sharon ushers her out before he can and the two retreat to the bedchamber, shutting the door more or less in his face, and he is left to wait while they take care of the clothing situation. God. He drinks more wine.

Sam shows up, rather quietly, and takes the glass from him. "No need to panic. Just, whatever you do, don't be yourself."

Bucky snorts. "Gee, thanks. What do you even know?"

"Nothing," Sam admits. Which is a whole other story. "The festivities are not going to end for a while, but I'll go down and write a little. Her father already left. Just don't ruin it, then everything will be fine."

"That seems like circular logic," Bucky argues back, brushing his fingers through his hair. "Yeah, whatever. Go downstairs, if you so desire."

"You do know the dressing and undressing part takes forever," Sam points out, sipping on the stolen wine. "Yes, I will leave you to it. Don't trip on your nerves."

Very helpful indeed. He really dreads this door opening. But also, he just wants to get it over with. Consummate the union or whatever. Be done with it and then figure out an arrangement acceptable to them both. Let Sam deal with the political questions of their relations to the newly christianized tribe. He's done his part. Or almost so.

It still takes an eternity until the door opens and Sharon emerges with some clothes thrown over her arm. She smiles at him politely, as she always does, and disappears without a word. He takes a deep breath and goes inside.

The newly baptized Natalia is sitting on the bed in a white nightgown, loosely fitting, her hair down and curling like crazy. She actually looks comfortable, more so than he feels, that's for sure. She smiles at him invitingly and he remembers she won't understand a word he says. He takes another deep breath and closes the door behind him.

Natalia skirts to the foot of the bed, waiting until he approaches, then pulling him in by his hand to sit on the bed, back to her. Her hands run over his shoulders down his sides, up his chest while she starts nosing his neck, breathing against his skin. He can't help but get goosebumps. She seems so much more sure of this than he does, like she just intuitively knows what to do. Or maybe Sharon told her as well. Who knows, really. He already left the coat outside so she unbuttons his vest with nimble fingers until he is merely in a simple shirt. He virtually can't move, or see her, for that matter. Her hands wander down to his belt. She kisses his neck and down to his shoulder, giving him goosebumps again. All right, maybe this will go better than just not ruining it. He groans when her hand slips into his breeches. Didn't even notice she had already opened his belt. Oh God, this feels good. Oh God. He's already warm all over. Her hand moves very calmly, getting all remaining clothing out of the way. Holy Christ. He must be burning.

She makes a purring, guttural sound right next to his ear, giving him goose bumps again. Her hand keeps stroking his loins and beyond. He's never felt anything like this. Like he's going to boil over, to explode. She edges him on, very purposeful in her movements. He groans loudly, head dropping back, eyes falling closed. Surrendering. And that's when he feels something cold press into his inner thigh.

He jerks, automatically, held in place by her stubborn hand. "If you don't hold still," she hisses into his ear. "I'll cut you and you'll bleed to death."

He almost laughs, utterly delighted by this surreal turn of events. None of this makes any sense. Like a fever dream. "What the hell are you doing? You don't even know the language."

"Yeah, sure," she returns sarcastically, pressing a second knife to his throat. Oh, yeah, she's serious. "Now shut up and listen to me, unless you want to bleed out on the floor."

"What's this supposed to be?" he asks with amusement. Probably too drunk for any of this to be real. "A rebellion? A coup?"

The knife against his thigh presses in deeper and he remembers there's an artery there. Yeah, he'd bleed out fairly quickly. She knows what she's doing. None of which, unfortunately, turns him off. "Shut up. I'm going to get our balvan back, the balvan of my people that our ancestors have worshipped for generations, so that our ancestral god can return to his temple-"

"The stele?" he interrupts her. "Big wooden thingy? That's what you're talking about?"

She snorts. "You are not going to destroy the dwellings of our gods. I will not let that happen. My people will not lose their faith in the spirits of their land, the earth, the water, the stars, the-"

"So, what's your plan?" he asks. "I assume you thought this through at least somewhat."

"You will give me the balvan," she states. "Or I will kill you."

"Solid," he acknowledges. "But I don't have your stele."

She snorts again, knife pressing into his throat. "Then I will drag you to the one who has it. And if you get dumb ideas, I'll cut you."

*************************

They make it down the stairs rather awkwardly, considering also that he is halfway undressed and she is in a nightgown which is about the same as half-naked. She probably has more knives under that. Somewhere. There's not a single guard to be seen, all down at the feast. Excellent planning, really.

She makes him push open the door to Sam's study and he is either too drunk, too lovesick or too amused to do anything other than whatever she says. And so they stumble into the dimly lit room, in a state of undress, the knives clearly visible, and yeah, with his pants down. Sam looks utterly flabbergasted. "Hey," Bucky says like a total moron. "She wants the stele back."

"Or I'll cut him," Natalia adds, though he gets the feeling she probably wasn't serious about the name.

Sam blinks a few times in rapid succession, then rubs his eyes, clearly not believing them. "Look, I get it, I also feel like slitting his throat sometimes, but-"

"Thanks," Bucky interrupts sarcastically.

"You will give me the balvan," Natalia demands. "And you will let us leave. Or else."

"I thought you didn't even speak our language!" Sam complains, further rubbing his eyes.

She snorts. "Oh, sure. You think you can just come in and take our land and our gods and our families, and we're just going to stand by like sheep, no, you will give us back what is ours, you will not encroach on-"

"I think she has a bit of a temper," Bucky remarks.

"You idiot," Sam sighs, getting up slowly. "All right. I will give you the stele. The balvan."

The knives press in a bit more, probably smelling a rat. She has to peek around him to see anything. "And you will let us leave."

"Who is we?" Sam questions. "Fine. But don't think that makes your marriage void, you won't get rid of him that easily."

Another door opens and Sharon steps in with two bags. Sam snorts. "Oh, I see. Does your father know what you're doing?"

"None of your business," Natalia hisses. "Just give her the balvan."

Sam carefully takes an object from a counter, wrapped in cloth, about the length of an arm. "Give that to me," Sharon mutters, holding out her hands. "Yes."

"This is not going to work," Sam remarks. "You know that, right? You seem smart, you must know. This is not going to change anything."

Sharon carefully stuffs the stele into one of the bags, half of it sticking out on top. "Don't tell us what to do," Natalia returns. "Now let us go."

"Oh, come on," Sam sighs. "You're not going to drag him out into the court like that."

"I'll drag him wherever I need him," Natalia returns, pushing him forward. "We're taking the back exit."

Sharon watches her back. Sam rolls his eyes as Bucky is pushed down the halls into the court. The festivities are still ongoing - the festivity being his wedding night which has gone horribly wrong - but there are some guards at the gate who look seriously disturbed at the sight before their eyes. Sam gesticulates to get their attention. "Hey! Give them two horses. Better make it quick."

The guards stare. Bucky is too drunk to be embarrassed. Natalia does not give an inch. "Two horses!" Sam repeats. "Right now! That's an order."

One of them disappears into the stables. Natalia seems a little nervous, or at least twitchy. Which is bad, given that she's holding two knives that could wound him fatally with a flick of her wrist. "Not how I imagined this going," he mutters.

She snorts. "Yeah? Your problem."

It takes awfully long, again. At least nobody else comes into the court to witness his humiliation. A guard emerges with two horses who also seem fairly confused, just as everyone else. Natalia pushes him in that direction, towards the gate, Sharon hurrying along with the bags. "Open the gate!"

The guard stares at her in utter confusion. Sam sighs. "Do as she says. We don't want her to cut my dear brother, do we."

Thanks, really. The guards look at each other, an order is an order, then proceed to open the gate. Natalia pulls him toward the horse. Sharon climbs on the other without needing any help, securing the bags. The hangbridge is lowering slowly, as if it's not quite sure that's the right thing to do. Natalia waits anxiously, blades dipping in yet a bit more, grazing his skin. She's put him between her and the guards.

The hangbridge drops, crossing the moat. She pushes him forward suddenly, toward the guards, jumps on the horse and then they're already galloping away, her nightgown riding up to her knees. Sam looks away dutifully. The guards are still flabbergasted. And Bucky, finally, gets to pull up his pants.

"We could get them," a guard tentatively suggests. "If we rode after them - my king."

"No," Sam replies. "They'll be with their tribe very soon. I don't want an open confrontation."

The guards stare after the horses disappearing into the night. Bucky saunters back to the back entrance where Sam is standing, who snorts. "Yeah, you were very helpful, you idiot."

"I'm sorry," Bucky returns with amusement. "I'm pretty sure she would have cut my dick off."

Sam sighs. "Well. She'll either come back or she'll start a rebellion."

Bucky snorts. "Oh yeah. A coin toss, really."

[discordantwords]

Don’t know if you are still doing prompts but would love one where someone objected at John and Mary’s wedding. Maybe Sherlock or Harry showing up drunk in the middle? Or David, Mary’s ex? Sholto? Or anything where John kisses Sherlock and neither of them was expecting it. Cue Sherlock shock and John worried he ruin everything.

The Interruption

The music had been timed perfectly. The procession had… proceeded. The guests looked appropriately misty-eyed. Mary was resplendent in vintage lace.

 And John—

 Sherlock swallowed, looked away.

 He distanced himself. Not fully—he could not risk vanishing into his mind palace and losing track of time—but just enough that he could stop himself from flinching when Mary and John joined hands.

 It was, the best possible outcome. Somehow knowing that did not stop him from occasionally imagining a different outcome entirely.

Foolish. He did not have time to waste on impossibilities.

 Mary was clever. She made no effort to dissuade John from the work he did with Sherlock, she at times even seemed to relish joining in. He preferred her to all of the other women that John had wasted time with over the years.

 So this was—fine. It was good.

 The vicar was speaking. Sherlock filtered out the words, let his gaze wander around the crowded church. No one was looking at him strangely, which meant he’d not missed any important cues.

 John was speaking. And Mary. Exchanging sentimental words, no doubt.

 Sherlock shut his eyes, then forced them open. He kept his face blank, impassive. He stared at the back of John’s head and thought about sliding his fingers through the short coarse hairs there.

 Someone gasped. A murmur ran through the crowd. It was not a happy sound, and Sherlock’s blood ran cold. He’d let his guard down. He’d let his mind wander, had let himself imagine impossible things, and now—

 He snapped back to full awareness, fresh data flooding in.

 No one was looking at him. Whatever the problem, he hadn’t caused it.

 There was a man standing up near the back of the church.

 Sherlock looked at him.

(sat near the back to facilitate hasty exit, ex-military, dress uniform, scarred face, all of which pointed to only one possibility: Major James Sholto)

 He’d done extensive research, of course, after Mary’s comment. He knew a good deal about the man (It was only prudent, after all—as Best Man he should be familiar with John’s guests). But none of his research would explain why the man seemed dead set on making a scene.

 No matter. The man was clearly deranged and would need to be escorted out of the church immediately before he dealt additional damage. He stepped forward to do just that, glancing towards John as he did so, and what he saw brought him up short.

 John looked shocked. No, more than shocked. Worse than shocked. He looked anguished. All of the blood had left his face. He’d withdrawn his hand from Mary’s, had clenched it into a tight fist.

 Sherlock hesitated, because he’d stood beside John on the brink of death more than once, and he could not recall ever seeing him make a face like that. The only thing that came close was—

 He shied away from the memory.

 The look on John’s face was not simply the expression of a man irritated at an interruption. It was the stricken look of a man suddenly faced with a ghost from the past, someone significant, possibly a lover.  

 But that was impossible. That would mean—

 The world tilted sideways. Sherlock breathed in, shut his eyes, let the facts rearrange themselves in his mind.

 Posh restaurant. Someone else’s bowtie around his neck, a fake moustache drawn crudely over his lip. Clean white shirt dragging stiff against the fresh dressings on his back. John, looking up from a table to finally meet his eyes. And his face—

 His face.

 He’d missed it. How had he missed it? He’d noted the effect his reappearance had had, of course, he wasn’t blind, and he’d gone ahead and classified that expression as hurt, but hurt was too simple, not nearly enough to cover the breadth of what John’s incredibly expressive face had conveyed with that look.

 And now—

 He snapped back to himself amidst the frantic muttering and humming of the crowd. John was gone from his side. Mary was gone too.

 He was alone at the altar.

 He scanned the crowd, but Sholto had disappeared. That told him nothing. Stupid. Stupid. He had no idea if Sholto had left or been escorted out or had disappeared somewhere with John. He’d wasted valuable time thinking about things he could not change and now—

 He darted up the aisle towards the doors, tried to deduce the most likely path John would have taken.

 The back rooms, of course. Where John put on his suit jacket and donned his hat, where he’d stood staring at himself in the mirror and carefully avoiding meeting Sherlock’s eye.

 And—oh—Sherlock had noticed, of course he’d noticed. But he’d thought: nerves, and he’d been preoccupied thinking about all of the ways his life would change and all of the ways that it wouldn’t.

 Alone. Always, always alone. And that was how he preferred it.

Wasn’t it?

 The door was shut. He opened it, perhaps a bit vigorously—it rebounded against the wall and swung back, almost striking him in the face.

 John and Sholto—not Mary, Sholto—snapped their heads up to look at him. They were standing close, very close, clearly they’d been deep in the midst of some serious discussion.

 John cleared his throat. His eyes were red-rimmed and a little wild.

 "Is everything all right?“ Sherlock asked, his voice flat, level. He shot a pointed look in Sholto’s direction.

 "Is everything—” John breathed, and then laughed. It was not a happy sound. “No. Everything is not bloody all right. Not by a mile.”

 "I am sorry,“ Sholto said, and to his credit he did look convincingly contrite. "I don’t know what came over me. I never should have come.”

 John laughed again, turned away from both of them. His hand clenched and unclenched rhythmically.

 "I think it’s best if I go,“ Sholto said to John’s rigid back. He glanced at Sherlock, then away. Then he nodded, a sharp little jerk of his chin (and there was enough of John in that motion that it nearly brought Sherlock to his knees), and left the room.

 Sherlock swallowed, waited for John to speak.

 Silence fell between them.

 "Shall I—tell the vicar you need a few moments?” he tried.

 John whirled around, his face contorted. “A few moments. You want to tell the vicar—Sherlock, what the hell is wrong with you?”

 That seemed to be a rhetorical question. Sherlock remained silent.

 "Where is Mary?“ John asked, finally.

 "I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted. He looked down at the ground, then rallied. “Would you like me to find her?”

 "No,“ John said, and the anger had bled out of his voice. "Not yet. Just—oh, fuck.”

 Sherlock watched him warily.

 "This is the sort of thing that happens in films,“ John said. There was a weary humour in his voice now. "Last minute declarations, and all that. It’s not nearly as romantic as they’d have you believe.”

 Romantic.

 Sherlock swallowed, nodded, though he had absolutely no idea what John was talking about.

 "Surely you’ve worked it out by now,“ John said. Bitterness had crept into his voice.

 "Your ex commander,” Sherlock said, speaking slowly. “And your… ex.”

 "Smartest man in the room, right here,“ John said. His mouth tightened.

 "And he was—hoping you still felt the same?”

 "He swears he didn’t meant to,“ John said. He looked up at the ceiling, shut his eyes. "That he’d fully intended to come and wish me well, but then he just—”

 Sherlock swallowed again. His face was hot. He very much wanted to flee. “I’ll go get Mary.”

 "Christ,“ John said. "No. Didn’t you hear me? I can't—not right now.”

 "She’ll be wondering what’s going on.“

 "It’s pretty obvious what’s going on.”

 "No,“ Sherlock said, feeling slow and helpless and stupid. "It’s very much not.”

 John looked at him. “What do you mean?”

 "Well,“ Sherlock said. "It’s your wedding day. An—old flame—” he nearly choked on the words, “—interrupted the ceremony in order to attempt to win back your favour.”

 John blinked, shook his head. He looked more amused than horrified, which seemed a step in the right direction.

 "As he’s left—" Sherlock said, and he offered an exaggerated glance around the empty little room, “I can only assume that you don’t return his affections. That whatever there was between you has—um—cooled. Naturally what should follow is a reaffirmation of the affections you do feel, for—um—the person you feel them for. In this case, Mary.”

 John smiled at him. It was a sad smile, which made very little sense.

 "Yeah,“ John said, finally, after far too much time had passed. He held Sherlock’s gaze. "Mary.”

 "Then I’ll just—" Sherlock turned towards the door, his heart in his throat.

 "Wait,“ John said.

 Sherlock stopped. He was trembling. He did not know why. He wished it would stop.

 "Did you know?”

 "Probably,“ Sherlock said, and then relented. "Did I know what?”

 "About him.“

 Sherlock’s mouth went dry. "No,” he admitted.

 "We were very close,“ John said. "For a while. And it was—yeah—it was wartime, you know? So everything was a bit—erm—”

 "Good,“ Sherlock said. He clapped his hands together. "Excellent. There’s no need for additional detail.”

 "But it’s over,“ John said. "Has been for—Christ, I haven’t even spoken to him in years. I don’t know why I invited him, seems a bit cruel now in retrospect, but I guess I just wanted to—I just wanted—”

 Sherlock waited.

 "Look, after things ended—um—I’m not good at this, yeah? You know that. I don't—I don’t talk about this stuff.“

 "With good reason.”

 John huffed a laugh, shook his head. “After—him. There’s only one person in my life that I’ve ever felt that strongly about,” John said. “And that’s not even—there’s no comparison, really.”

 "Mary Morstan,“ Sherlock said, and wasn’t this all getting a bit tedious? John was all set to marry the woman, obviously his feelings for her were stronger than whatever he’d shared with Sholto.

 "No,” John said, his voice so soft that it might have been a whisper. “Not exactly.”

 Sherlock’s hands shook. He folded them behind him, bounced on the balls of his feet. Frowned. “You’re not making sense. Have you been drugged?”

 "What? No,“ John said. He took a step forward, his face terribly earnest.

 Sherlock could smell him; cologne and flowers and nervous sweat.

 "Look,” John said. He licked his lips, looked away. “I’m not—if I'm—if this is. Um. Not something you want to hear, then I swear I’ll never mention it again. But this wedding is fucked anyway, and I just—”

 Sherlock tilted his head, watched him curiously.

 "Just—" John said. He clenched his fists, breathed out through his nose. “You,” he said.

 "Sorry?“

 ”You. It’s bloody you, all right? It’s always been you. From the first moment I saw you in that lab, and you just—you were just so—" John made a frustrated sound, looked away. “You were the most amazing thing I’d ever seen. Still are.”

 "John,“ Sherlock said, his voice emerging much too thin and shaky. "What, exactly, are you trying to say?”

 “Can’t you deduce it?“ John asked. "Do you really have to make me say it?”

 "I—"

 "Oh for—" John took another deep breath. “Look, I just have to know. Before I—before I do anything else. Do you think—did you ever think—that something might—that we might—”

 Sherlock blinked. Blinked again.

 John couldn’t be saying what it sounded like he was saying. He couldn’t be—

 The look on his face, that night at the Landmark.

 Sherlock shut his eyes, sucked in a shuddering breath. “I find the thought occupies a terrifying amount of my mind.”

 "Yeah?“ John’s voice had gone soft again. He sounded very close.

 Sherlock nodded. He did not open his eyes. "Yes.”

 "Okay,“ John said. His breath ghosted over Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock shivered. "Okay. Um. What are we—what, exactly, do you want to do about that?”

 Sherlock opened his eyes and froze. John’s face was only a few inches away.

 He had no idea what to do. What to say.

“I—” he said. He swallowed, tried again. “I—”

 "I’m going to call off the wedding,“ John said. He lifted his hand, pressed his palm against Sherlock’s cheek, just for a moment. His fingers were cool against Sherlock’s heated skin. "All right? And then we’ll talk.”

 "Are you sure?“

 "Yeah,” John said. There was a smile curving at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I'm—I’m sure.”

 "Oh,“ Sherlock said. He felt a bit breathless. "All right.”

 "All right,“ John echoed. He dropped his hand from Sherlock’s cheek, smiled. It was a bright smile, unfettered, joyful. It lifted years from his face. "All right, good.”

 "Should I—um—" Sherlock hesitated, looked around the room. His brain had not come back online and he felt sluggish, helpless.

 "Go home,“ John said. "This is going to take a while, I think, and, um. I’m going to want—” he paused, shook his head. He was still smiling. “I’ll see you there. At Baker Street.”

 "Home,“ Sherlock said.

 "Yeah,” John said. “Home.”

[calumcest]

you and i were fireworks that went off too soon - chapter two

[ao3]

yes i finished my essay and was like writing another 6k of fic vs doing all the other work thats due within the next 10 days...Hmm...so here we are

A week passes, and Luke almost succeeds in putting Ashton to the back of his mind. 

He’s preoccupied with other things - the fact that he’s suddenly got three times as much work to do, because Chris has taken a week off to reunite with his soulmate; the fact that his boiler’s broken, and nobody’s around to come and fix it because everyone’s taking a break to try and find their soulmate; the fact that he’s having to stay at Calum’s, because his apartment is doing a great impression of a fridge right now, and that means listening to Michael and Calum’s hushed conversations about him when they think he’s asleep. They’re clearly worried about him, which is kind of sweet, but also makes Luke feel a little pathetic, throwing him back to the days after Ashton left where Michael and Calum would tiptoe around him, frowning at him but saying nothing, as though any words would be the wrong ones. 

Luke goes home from time to time to pick up post and new clothes, and on Sunday, he notices a note has been stuck through his letterbox. It’s stuck to the soggy newspaper that’s been forced through, so the ink’s run and Luke can’t read it anymore. He shrugs and chucks it out with the newspaper, thinking that if it were someone he knew they would have texted him, so it was probably some kind of advertising.

The only topic of conversation in society now is the soulmate tattoos. More and more research is being done, families are being torn apart, brought together, and churches are booked for weddings for the next eighteen months straight. Luke had finally brought himself to ask his parents what their situation was, and they’d smiled, and that was all he’d needed to know. 

Luke had thought it would take him a while to wrap his head around the idea of soulmates, but somehow, it hadn’t. Somehow, seeing the people he knows interact - seeing Michael and Calum interact - it seems like it’s the only logical answer, like there was never anything else they could have been. It sits uncomfortably in Luke’s stomach, because he knows it’s not like that for him and Ashton. Something went wrong with Luke’s tattoo - it wasn’t supposed to be Ashton, he’s sure of that. Or if it was, then maybe it was a sign from the universe that Luke should take a vow of celibacy.

Luke shrugs when he’s asked at work if he knows who his soulmate is. It’s not like he’s lying - he knows who his soulmate was, two years ago, but Ashton’s a stranger to him now. The thought makes Luke feel a little better, if only because it means Luke’s a stranger to Ashton too. Ashton no longer knows him, no longer has power over him, no longer has a grip on Luke’s lungs and heart and mind. 

It’s not until Wednesday evening that Ashton forces himself back to the forefront of Luke’s mind yet again. 

He’s sat on Calum’s sofa, destroying him at MarioKart, when his phone starts buzzing. At first, he ignores it, because getting this win is definitely more important than whatever bullshit Michael’s texting him (last time he paused a game to read a text from Michael it had just been a picture of an orange captioned ‘juicy’), but the buzzing continues, distracting him and making him slip on a banana Calum had thrown in front of him. 

“Fuck’s sake!” Luke yells, when Calum whoops joyfully as he makes it over the finish line a microsecond before Luke. “Fuck you. That wasn’t my fault.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Calum says, turning to him with a smug grin. “What, someone take control of your hands? You got that rat from Ratatouille up in those curls?”

“Remy,” Luke says, without thinking. 

“Huh?”

“The rat,” Luke says. 

“I can’t believe you know that,” Calum says, sounding very much like he can believe Luke knows that. 

“Fuck you,” Luke says again, scowling. “I bet you fucking told Michael to text me just so you could finally win a game.” 

“Michael’s napping, dude,” Calum says, looking somewhat amused. Luke frowns. Nobody texts him except Calum and Michael, and Calum’s right here. So if Michael’s asleep- 

His stomach drops. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he says, fishing his phone out of his pocket and watching the screen light up with the one name he doesn’t want to see. 

Ashton Irwin I’m outside

Ashton Irwin There’s no way you can’t hear this doorbell 

Ashton Irwin Have you moved? 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Luke says, and shoves his phone at Calum. Calum’s eyes widen as he reads, and he huffs out a laugh of disbelief. 

“What the fuck?” he says, sounding as incredulous as Luke feels. “He’s just fucking turned up at your apartment?” Luke nods, suddenly incredibly glad that his boiler’s broken. Ashton just fucking turning up at his place makes his skin crawl, makes him feel incredibly unsafe. 

“How many different ways do I need to tell him to fuck off before he gets the message?” Luke says, and there’s an edge of desperation to his tone that even he can hear. Calum’s expression softens slightly. 

“You can just block him,” he suggests. 

“Well, he’ll just turn up at my fucking apartment again, then, won’t he?” Luke says. 

“You can stay here until it blows over,” Calum offers. Luke loves him. 

“Thanks, Cal,” he says, and he means it with every fibre of his being. “I just- I just want him to go away.” He hopes Calum understands what he means - not just go away from his apartment, but leave Luke’s life again, because it had taken so much of Luke to get over him and rewrite himself after Ashton had broken almost all of him, and every interaction with him is a sickening reminder of how things used to be, who he used to be. He can’t fucking stand it. 

“Want me to talk to him?” Calum says. Luke hesitates, then shakes his head. 

“I don’t want him to think I can’t handle it,” he says. I don’t want him to think he broke me remains unspoken, but hangs between them uncomfortably. 

“Okay,” Calum says, because he understands. He always understands. “Want me to help you draft a reply, then?” Luke nods. 

“Can you call Mikey, too?” he says, and it comes out a little unsure, a little small. Calum’s face softens into a smile. 

“‘Course,” he says, reaching for his phone and unplugging it from where it’s been charging to call Michael. 

Michael picks up after two rings, because it’s Calum, and Luke can see the outline of him in the dark, lying in bed. 

“Hey, love,” Calum says softly, and Luke is suddenly jerked into discomfort, like he’s intruding on a private moment. Calum and Michael haven’t said anything to Luke about their newfound soulmate status, and Luke hasn’t asked, all of them dancing around the topic like talking about it is going to irrevocably change their group dynamic somehow. Luke’s never heard Calum call anyone love, and the names he’s got for Michael are usually more along the lines of dickhead, arsehole, fucker, and it makes Luke realise just how left out he is now, all because of two fucking tattoos. He has to swallow back the jealousy rising in his throat, press down the spike of anger flaring in his stomach. 

“This better be fucking good,” Michael mumbles, muffled by his duvet. 

“Ashton’s outside Luke’s house,” Calum says, and there’s a sudden sound of rustling, and then the light is turned on, Michael squinting and looking somewhere between furious and concerned. 

“That bastard,” he says, which seems to be a bit of a mantra where Ashton’s concerned. “What the fuck? Has Luke called the police?” 

“No,” Luke puts in, although now that Michael mentions it, he thinks he probably should. “He might be gone by now, anyway.” 

“Oh, I forgot you were at Calum’s,” Michael says, even though he’s been complaining about it for, like, four days straight.

“We’re going to draft a response,” Calum tells Michael, who nods. 

“I’ve got one,” he says. “‘Fuck off, you fucking bastard, and also, I’m calling the police on you. Arsehole. Fuck you.’” Calum rolls his eyes, and Luke laughs, letting the warmth of it flood his veins. It helps to know he’s not alone, both in his anger at Ashton and in dealing with the situation. 

“I already told him not to contact me anymore,” he says.

“And he somehow thinks that turning up at your house doesn’t count as contact?” Michael says, in disbelief. 

“Well, either way, he texted you,” Calum points out. 

“So he just doesn’t give a shit,” Michael says. “Right. Got it.” 

“What should I say?” Luke says, with an only-slightly-melodramatic sigh. 

“Tell him to fuck off,” Michael says. 

“Politely,” Calum adds. 

“How do I do that?” Luke says, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Kindly fuck off? Please fuck off?” 

“Keep it business,” Calum suggests. “Keep him at arm’s length, don’t let it get emotional. Talk to him like you’d talk to a client that’s pissing you off.” 

“As per my last communication,” Michael says sarcastically, and Calum and Luke both laugh. 

“I think you’re right,” Luke says. “Keep emotion out of it.” 

“Yeah,” Michael agrees. “Don’t let him think you still care.”

“I don’t.” 

“Yeah, but you know what Ashton’s like,” Michael says. “You could come at him with an axe and he’d interpret it as ‘Luke cares about my existence’.” Luke snorts, feeling a little spiteful and not regretting it at all. 

“How about ‘I don’t feel comfortable with you turning up at my house unannounced’?” Calum says. 

“And ‘I’ve already told you I’m not interested in speaking to you, please stop contacting me’?” Michael adds. Luke nods, typing it out. 

Me I don’t feel comfortable with you turning up at my house unannounced. I’ve already told you I’m not interested in speaking to you, please stop contacting me. 

He reads it out again, and both Michael and Calum nod. 

“Add a ‘you bastard’ at the end,” Michael suggests, and Luke rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning, a wave of love and appreciation for Michael and Calum suddenly washing over him. 

He would never have made it through Ashton without them, and he doesn’t think he’d be able to handle Ashton 2.0 without them either. They’re always there, never questioning, never judging, fiercely supportive, and Luke doesn’t know what he did to deserve two such unwaveringly loyal best friends. 

“Thanks, guys,” Luke says, as he presses send, immediately locking his phone and trying to push down the anxiety that bubbles in his stomach as soon as he sees the words turn blue. “For everything.”

“Of course,” Michael says gently. 

“Always, Luke,” Calum says sincerely. 

Luke thinks that just maybe, with Michael and Calum at his side, he can get through this. 

 -------

 It turns out Ashton and Luke have wildly differing definitions of please stop contacting me. Luke thinks it means ‘don’t speak to me anymore’, and Ashton thinks it means ‘wait a day before trying again’. 

Luke’s on his lunch break when his phone buzzes. Knowing better than to just assume it’s Michael or Calum now, he fishes it out of his pocket with trepidation. It’s Ashton, his name white against the black of the screen with the green swipe to answer button staring back at Luke. 

If he doesn’t answer, Ashton will just try again. If he answers and shouts at Ashton to fuck off, Ashton will know that Luke’s not capable of being cordial with him, that Ashton had hurt him so much that it still stings two years later. So, sighing, Luke swipes on the answer button, and lifts the phone to his ear with a resigned, and slightly pissed off, “What?”

“Hi,” Ashton says, and it still makes Luke feel a little sick. There’s something jarring about hearing the same voice that used to call him baby, sweetheart, gorgeous, now miles away on the other end of a staticky phone line, strange and unknown. 

“I told you not to contact me anymore,” Luke says, and it comes out a little weary. 

“I know,” Ashton says, and he has the grace to sound guilty. 

“Right. So you’re just choosing to ignore that?” 

“No, I-” Ashton cuts himself off, and there’s a moment of silence before he takes a deep breath. “I really think we should talk.” 

“I’ve told you,” Luke says, for what must be the thirtieth time, “I don’t want to talk. I have nothing to say to you.” 

“I do, though,” Ashton says. 

“I don’t want to hear it.” 

“Then why did you pick up?” 

“Because you’d just fucking turn up at my house again, or something,” Luke says. “Which, by the way, is really fucking creepy. Like, it made me feel really unsafe. Michael wanted me to call the police.”  

“I know,” Ashton says, and he actually sounds sincere. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” Luke does a double take. Ashton, apologising? 

“Right,” Luke says, a little nonplussed, because he was expecting a justification, an excuse, not an apology. That’s not really Ashton’s style. “Well. Don’t do it again. I won’t hesitate to get a restraining order.” 

“Okay,” Ashton says, and then, without missing a beat: “Can I take you out for dinner?” Luke’s mouth falls open. 

“Are you fucking insane?” Luke says, too incredulous to be angry. “How many different ways do I have to say ‘I want nothing to do with you’ until you get the message?” 

“We really should talk about what this means,” Ashton presses. “Like. We’re soulmates, now.” The words twist deep in Luke’s gut, and he swallows back the queasy feeling rising in his throat. 

“What if we always were?” he bites out, and he can’t help the bitterness that drips out with the words. They’re met with an uncomfortable silence, and Luke feels a stab of spiteful glee. 

“I want to talk about it,” Ashton says finally, which doesn’t answer Luke’s question. “Please. Just one dinner. And then I promise I’ll leave you alone.” 

Luke tips his head back against the wall, letting his eyes flutter shut. 

On the one hand, he wants Ashton to fuck off and leave him alone, indefinitely. He wants to go back to forgetting Ashton, to living a life without him and to uncomfortable first dates and fumbling hookups. He wants to pretend his tattoo doesn’t exist, to be able to choose who he loves rather than be assigned someone to love, someone he already tried to love and worked hard to stop loving. 

On the other hand, he knows that Ashton won’t leave him alone until he gives him what he wants. Sure, he might relent for a few months, but Luke will always have that knot of anxiety in his stomach every time he gets a text, every time the doorbell rings, and one dinner might be worth giving himself peace of mind. 

“I’ll think about it,” Luke says eventually. “But just for the record, the fact I have to do what you want before you respect my wishes is doing you absolutely no favours.” 

“I know,” Ashton says heavily, like he’s fucking sad about it, or something. Luke doesn’t think Ashton has it in him to consider Luke’s feelings. “Thank you.” 

“I didn’t say yes.” 

“I know,” Ashton says again. Luke grits his teeth and bites back the fuck you that’s on the tip of his tongue, chanting Calum’s words to himself: keep him at arm’s length, don’t let it get emotional. I’ll think about it isn’t a yes, whatever Ashton wants to tell himself. 

“Fine,” Luke says, after he’s taken a moment to collect himself, cool, calm, professional. “I’ll get back to you when I’ve had time to think. Don’t contact me in the meantime.” 

“Okay,” Ashton says. 

“Good,” Luke says, and hangs up before Ashton has a chance to respond. 

Jesus fucking Christ, he thinks, exhaling heavily and staring at the grey clouds gathering above him and throwing a silent curse out at the universe, just in case it can suddenly read thoughts, for saddling him with this fucking situation. Ashton Irwin might very well be the death of him, for a second time. 

 ------- 

 Luke completely forgets that he’d told Ashton he’d consider going to dinner with him until Calum tentatively brings him up the following Tuesday. 

“Did Ashton ever say anything to your message?” he asks, scratching behind Duke’s ears, and Luke blinks at him. 

“Did I not tell you?” he says, surprised. He’s not sure how the entire conversation with Ashton slipped his mind for almost an entire week, but he supposes that’s what happens when he doesn’t care about someone. 

“No?” Calum says, equally surprised, as though he hadn’t expected Luke to have heard anything. Luke fucking wishes. 

“He rang me the next day,” Luke says, and Calum frowns, hand stilling on Duke’s back. Duke turns and gives Calum a reproachful look, and Calum starts petting him again absent-mindedly. “Asked me to meet him for dinner.” Calum gapes at him. 

“Are you serious?” he says, in disbelief. 

“I know,” Luke agrees. 

“Jesus,” Calum says, sounding almost in awe of Ashton’s shamelessness. “Was he this delusional when you were together?” Luke laughs, and shrugs. “What’d he say when you said no?” Luke hesitates, biting his lip. 

“I told him I’d think about it,” Luke says after a moment, and Calum’s eyes widen. 

“Luke,” he says, and it’s careful, worried, and Luke hates it. 

“Look, I know,” he says, before Calum can say something like Ashton nearly killed you last time, are you sure this is a good idea? “I know, Cal, okay? I just- I need him to leave me alone.” Calum frowns again. 

“What, and he’s trying to force your hand by making him leaving you alone conditional on you going out to dinner with him?” he says. Luke nods. “What a cunt.” 

“I know,” Luke says. “I think he’d leave me alone if I said no, but I think I’d be jumping every time I got a text. I’d rather just have one dinner with him and know that’s it.” Calum’s frown doesn’t leave his face, but he nods slowly. 

“Okay,” he says. “If it’s for your own peace of mind.” 

“It is,” Luke says, exhaling heavily and slumping back on Calum’s sofa. 

“So you’re going?” 

“I don’t know,” Luke says. “I haven’t thought about it.” 

“You don’t have to,” Calum says, and it’s gentle, supportive. “We can go to the police, say he’s harassing you. We can get a restraining order.” 

“I don’t want to go through that,” Luke says, carding a hand through his hair, a little stressed at the idea. It sounds a little extreme, and a lot expensive.

“Okay,” Calum says easily. “Whatever you want to do, Luke. You know I’ll support whatever decision you make.” Luke smiles, small and genuine.

“Thanks, Cal,” he says. 

“I can’t promise Michael will, though,” Calum adds, and Luke snorts. 

“No, probably not,” he says. 

 -------

 “You said what?” Michael sounds absolutely outraged at the very idea. 

“I said I’d think about it,” Luke repeats. Michael folds his arms. 

“And you’ve thought about it, and you’re going to say no, right?” Luke hesitates, and that’s enough for Michael to make a noise of exasperation and roll his eyes. “Jesus Christ, Luke. You’re not going for dinner with fucking Ashton.” 

“Who are you, my fucking mum?” Luke says, a little irritably. Michael’s expression softens a little at the barbs hidden in Luke’s words. 

“I just don’t want-” he starts, but Luke cuts him off with a shake of his head. 

“I know, Mike,” he says, because he does, he knows, and he doesn’t need to hear it. “I’m twenty-fucking-six, mate. I can make my own decisions.” Michael looks torn, like he half-wants to yell at Luke (which, frankly, he probably does), but then he sighs. 

“Fine,” he says, sounding very much like it’s not fine. “Are you going to go?” Luke shrugs. 

“I haven’t thought about it yet,” he says. Michael gives him a hard look, and looks like he wants to say something else, but then Calum comes back from the kitchen, Duke in his wake, and sets himself down between the two of them. 

“Play nice, you two,” he says warningly, but he’s only looking at Michael. Luke feels a touch smug about that. 

“Fuck you,” Michael says, reaching for one of the bags of popcorn Calum’s brought through from the kitchen. Duke gets on his hind legs and paws at the sofa, gazing at Michael beseechingly, and Michael almost absent-mindedly reaches down to pick him up and put him in his lap. Duke settles down comfortably, resting his head on Michael’s thigh and blinking at Calum and Luke calmly. Something about the familiarity of the interaction makes Luke’s heart ache a little bit.

“Whose turn is it to pick a movie tonight?” Calum asks, reaching for the other two bags of popcorn and tossing one at Luke. 

“Mine,” Michael says. 

“No it’s not,” Luke says. “It’s mine.”

“Yeah, but your taste in movies is so shit that I’m vetoing your turn,” Michael says. Luke squawks indignantly. 

“What?” he says, incensed. “My taste is fucking fine, thank you very much.” 

“He kind of has a point,” Calum says, nodding solemnly at Luke. Luke scowls. 

“Fuck you,” he says, ripping open his popcorn. “Just because you’re fucking soulmates now doesn’t mean you get to gang up on me.” As soon as he’s said it, the atmosphere changes; Calum and Michael exchange a glance, before looking back at Luke. 

“We should probably talk about that,” Michael says carefully, and Luke groans, pinching the bridge of his nose with salty, buttery fingers. Gross. 

“Can we not?” he says, wiping his nose with his sleeve to avoid looking at either of them. “Please, just for one fucking night, let me forget the whole soulmate thing exists.” Calum and Michael both hesitate, and then Calum shoots Michael another quick look and nods at Luke. 

“Okay,” he says. “But your taste in movies is still shitty.” 

Luke throws a cushion at him.

 ------- 

 On Sunday night, at two in the morning, Luke types out a single word. 

Me Ok. 

He presses send, turns airplane mode on, and goes to sleep. 

 -------

 Luke completely forgets that he’d turned airplane mode on on Monday morning until he gets on the train and tries to load Twitter. When he turns it off, messages start popping in, so fast that he can’t read them before the next one arrives. Most of them are from the group chat with Michael and Calum, some argument about whether twenty-four hour time is better or worse than twelve-hour, and he’s got one from his dad asking how he’s doing, and - the reason he’d turned airplane mode on in the first place - one from Ashton. 

Ashton Irwin Thank you. 8pm tonight, Zahli?

Luke bites his lip, staring out of the window as he thinks for a moment.  

Me Ok. 

 ------- 

 He doesn’t tell Calum until after lunch. 

“I said yes,” he says, as casually as possible, staring at his nails like they’re the most interesting thing in the world. They’re kind of disgusting, actually. “Hey, do you have a nail file at home?” 

“When are you seeing him?” Calum asks. “And yeah, in the cupboard under the sink in the upstairs bathroom. Have you tried calling about the boiler again?” Luke nods, picking at his thumbnail with his index finger. 

“Yeah, they said they wouldn’t be back for another week,” he says. Calum pulls a face. 

“You’re paying my water bill this month,” he says. “You take as long in one shower as I do in ten.” 

“Why should I pay for your lack of hygiene?” Luke says. 

“Fuck you, I’m hygienic,” Calum says. “And at least I know how to pick up towels.” 

“Hey, I’m getting better,” Luke says. “I hang them up now.” Calum rolls his eyes. 

“Stuffing them into the towel warmer is not hanging them up,” he says. 

“It’s better than leaving them on the floor, though,” Luke points out, ripping a bit of his thumbnail off. 

“Oh, what, so I should praise you for doing less than the bare minimum because it could be worse?” 

“I mean, a little thanks wouldn’t go amiss,” Luke says, grinning at Calum. Calum scoffs, and rolls his eyes again. 

“You’re the worst housemate I’ve ever had,” he tells Luke. 

“You’ve never had a housemate.” 

“I have now,” Calum says, pointing at him, “and you’re the worst one.” 

“Well, then by definition I’m also the best,” Luke says, biting at the edge of his thumbanil. Calum scowls, and flips him off. 

“When are you seeing Ashton?” Calum asks, which Luke’s kind of torn on, because on the one hand, Calum changing the subject means Luke’s won, but on the other hand, the subject he’s gone for is Ashton. 

“Tonight,” Luke mumbles, around a mouthful of thumb. 

“Tonight?” Calum repeats, and Luke nods. “Okay. Where?” 

“Zahli.” Calum raises his eyebrows. 

“He’ll try to pay,” he says. “Don’t let him.” Luke rolls his eyes. 

“Obviously not,” he says, because he’s not an idiot. 

“What are you going to wear?” Luke stops. He hadn’t even thought about that. 

“I don’t know,” he says, with a shrug. “Probably just my work clothes.” Calum looks him up and down, nodding thoughtfully. 

“Good choice,” he says. “You look good, so you’ll be showing him you’re alright without him, but not so good that he’ll think you’ve put in effort to impress him.” 

“True,” Luke says, because he’s well beyond pretending that he’s not analysing the situation this deeply himself. 

“I wonder what he wants to talk about,” Calum muses, tapping a pen against his chin. 

“Probably, like, how successful his band is, how many guys he’s fucked since me, how happy he’s been,” Luke says, a little spiteful and a little bitter. 

“You’ve been successful,” Calum points out. “You’ve fucked guys since him. You’ve been happy.” 

“I know,” Luke says, but there’s a little twisting in his stomach, because he’s always felt so fucking inferior to Ashton. It feels like he has something to prove since the breakup, like he has to show both Ashton and himself that he’s better now than the iteration of Luke Ashton knew had been. 

“You don’t have to do it,” Calum says, clearly seeing the uncertainty written all over Luke’s face. “You can still back out.” Luke shakes his head. 

“Not now that I’ve said yes,” he says. “He’ll read into it.” 

“So let him,” Calum says, with a shrug. He doesn’t get it - he never cares what other people think, especially not people he doesn’t care about. Luke can’t stop caring what people think about him, especially people he used to care about. 

“I can’t,” Luke says. “It’ll be fine. It’ll be, like, an hour, tops. And then I never have to speak to or see him again.” A weight of relief settles in his stomach at the mere thought, that in six hours everything will be over and his life can return to how it was six months ago. 

“Thank fuck for that,” Calum says, and Luke can’t help but heartily agree. 

 -------

 Luke’s at Zahli at eight on the dot, and, because they hadn’t talked about whether they’d wait outside or go in, decides to head inside on his own. His stomach is a bundle of nerves, tension and anxiety settled into every cell of his body, because this will be the first time he’s seen Ashton in two years. The last time he’d seen Ashton, Ashton had been his, and Luke had been a wreck. It’s embarrassing to think back to, that someone he barely even knows now has seen him like that, at his most vulnerable, so Luke orders a glass of red wine to try and take his mind off it. 

He’s forcing himself to be engrossed in the food menu when Ashton sits down. 

“Hi,” Ashton says, voice clear and low, and Luke looks over his food menu at him. 

It feels like déjà-vu, if déjà-vu involved feeling suddenly sick and defenceless and pathetic. Ashton looks almost the same as the last time Luke had seen him, minus the stressed expression on his face, and maybe with a few more crow’s feet. His golden curls have been dyed black, tucked behind his ear besides the one strand he never could control, and Luke hates that he remembers that. 

“Hi,” Luke says, proud of how steady and cool it comes out. 

“You look good,” Ashton comments, after an awkward moment. 

“This isn’t a date,” Luke says. 

“I know.” 

“Good.” Luke turns back to his menu, palms sweating, heart racing, and tries to focus on the words on the page. 

“Have you ordered?” 

“Obviously not,” Luke says, because he’s got the fucking menu in his hand. 

“Oh, right.” Luke rolls his eyes privately, but says nothing, and then the waiter’s coming over and Luke’s just pointing to the first thing he sees on the page and smiling politely. The waiter, however, then takes the menus away from both of them, and Luke’s left with nothing to hide behind, and has to look at Ashton. 

He’s dressed nicely, in a long-sleeved black lace shirt, and he’s got a few more rings on his fingers than the last time Luke had seen him. He’s still just as muscular - maybe even a little more - and his hazel eyes look a little older, blinking at Luke from behind dark lashes. Luke feels so queasy at the sight of him, almost exactly the same but somehow so fucking different, feels the echoes of the worthlessness and emptiness he’d felt in Ashton’s wake squeezing at his lungs, and wills himself not to throw up. 

“So,” Ashton says, after a long, uncomfortable silence. Luke’s not sure whether he wants to yell at Ashton, cry, leave, or die. Dying currently sounds like the most enticing option of the lot.

“Talk,” Luke says curtly. Ashton blinks. 

“Can you at least be cordial with me?” he says. Luke stares at him. What the fuck makes Ashton think he’s deserved that?

“Talk,” he repeats, because he doesn’t trust himself not to fly off the handle if he says anything non-monosyllabic. Ashton sighs, and looks down at his hands. 

“Okay,” he says, taking a deep breath. “I want to apologise.” 

“Right.” 

“Can I- can I just say this without you interrupting?” 

Luke hesitates, then nods. Biting remarks aren’t part of the ‘keep him at arm’s length, don’t let it get emotional’ routine, anyway. It won’t hurt to let Ashton say his piece.

“Thank you.” Ashton takes another deep breath. “I want to apologise. I know how I left-” he winces “-was pretty cold, pretty brutal. I’m sorry for that. I’ve given it a lot of thought over the last two years, and I regret it. Like. A lot. I missed you. A lot. I wanted to get back in contact with you, but I knew- I knew you wouldn’t want to hear from me. And then the tattoo came, and I- I didn’t look at it, for a few days, because when I looked at what everyone was saying online, I knew it would be you.” He pauses, eyes flicking back to Luke, like he’s gauging his reaction. Luke, though, is sitting still, emotionless, face blank. He’s not giving Ashton any satisfaction. “And then I looked, and it was. And I knew I had to be yours, but you didn’t say anything.” The pause is longer this time, an invitation for Luke to speak.

“Okay,” Luke says, because he doesn’t really have anything else to say. 

“I- it’s not just the tattoo, Luke,” Ashton says, and Luke never wants to hear his name coming from Ashton’s lips again. “It’s you. I regretted it the minute I left, but I couldn’t go back to you, not knowing what I did. How I did it. I- When I heard about the tattoos, I knew it was going to be you. It’s always been you.” 

Luke kind of wants to laugh. Two years ago, these are the exact words he wanted to hear from Ashton. It was a mistake, I’m sorry, I love you, it’s only you - those words bounced around his head in different fantasies for months on end. Now, though, he feels nothing, and that’s the biggest success Luke thinks he’s ever had in his life. He’s sitting across from the person that took him the closest to the edge, and he feels nothing. It makes him feel powerful, feel in control, and he relaxes a little. Ashton’s apologising to him, opening up to him. Luke’s not giving anything away.

“You fell out of love with me,” Luke says, and it’s not accusing, it’s not emotional. It’s calm, rational, matter-of-fact. 

“I thought I did,” Ashton says, and he opens his mouth to speak but then the waiter comes, handing them their dishes with a smile. Luke throws a smile at him, but Ashton barely glances at him. There’s an awkward silence as the waiter asks if they want any pepper, and Luke says yes please, and they have to wait for the waiter to bring it over and then for Luke to say stop. Luke lets it go on a little longer than maybe strictly necessary, childishly enjoying the way Ashton’s squirming in his seat, and then thanks the waiter with a brilliant smile, just to drive home the point of how friendly he can be with people that aren’t Ashton. 

“I thought I did,” Ashton repeats, when the waiter’s finally gone and Luke’s tucking into his potatoes. “That’s why I left. I thought I didn’t love you anymore, and then I actually had to live without you, and I realised it was just because we were settling into a familiar love. I just couldn’t handle the commitment, and it made me block you out.” Luke raises an eyebrow, but keeps eating, and Ashton sighs. 

“Look,” he says. “I- I know I fucked up. Badly. But I didn’t need a tattoo to tell me that. I already knew what the tattoo confirmed. I’d-” he swallows. “I’d really like the opportunity to have a second chance.” Luke sets his fork down at that, and sits back in his chair. 

“Do you know what you did to me?” he says, calm and even. Ashton just stares at him, which Luke takes as a no, so he goes on. “You left me feeling like I was worthless. I spent months in therapy, and even longer crying on Calum and Michael’s shoulders every night. I couldn’t be alone. I couldn’t think, I couldn’t breathe because everything was you.” He pauses, weighing up his next words. “You left, and I was left behind. I had to work hard to fall out of love with you. That was your choice, not mine. I would probably never have stopped loving you if you’d let me. But you moved on, and so I had to as well. And the consequence of your choice, your actions, is that I don’t love you anymore. I don’t feel anything for you anymore. I’m only here to get you to leave me alone.” Ashton looks a little sick when Luke finishes. 

“And the fact we’re soulmates doesn’t mean anything to you?” he says, his voice cracking slightly on the word ‘soulmates’. Luke shrugs. 

“No,” he says. “I don’t want to be with you. I don’t care who else you fuck. I don’t care who else you love. I don’t care about you anymore, Ashton.” Ashton swallows, and nods. 

“I guess I deserve that,” he says, and Luke can’t help but huff out a laugh. 

“You kind of do,” he says, but it’s not unkind. Ashton sighs, and rakes a hand through his hair. 

“I thought you’d be more open to the idea,” he admits, taking Luke aback a little with his honesty. 

“You don’t know me anymore,” Luke says. “Don’t kid yourself that you do. I’m not the same person you left behind.” 

“Doesn’t it bother you, though? That we’re supposed to be together?”

“I guess sometimes the universe gets it wrong,” Luke says, with a shrug. “We tried, and it didn’t work.” 

“It might work now that I know how to love you properly,” Ashton says. 

“I’m not going to give you a second chance based on a ‘maybe’,” Luke says. Ashton stares at him for a moment, and then nods, tight-lipped and unhappy. For the first time, Luke feels a little sorry for him. He’s not even touched his food. 

“Can I see it?” Ashton asks, after a moment. 

“It’s on my back,” Luke says. “It’s your bird tattoo, carrying a drumstick in its mouth with one of your moons in the background.” Ashton nods again, but it’s absent-minded, almost numb.

“That sounds beautiful,” he says. 

“It is,” Luke says. 

“Mine’s a daisy chain wrapped around a microphone,” Ashton says. 

“That’s my favourite flower,” Luke says, without thinking, and Ashton nods. Of course, Ashton already knew that. Luke remembers the conversation; Ashton laughing at him (“Daisies can’t be your favourite flower, Luke, that’s fucking stupid.”), his defensiveness (“Fuck you, they’re cute.”), chucking a cushion at a giggling Ashton’s head. 

“It’s on my tricep,” Ashton says, even though Luke hadn’t asked. 

“Mine’s on my shoulderblade.” Ashton nods, and they lapse into silence. Luke’s finished his food, and Ashton’s not even glanced at his, which is stopping the waiter from coming back to clear their plates away. 

“We should probably pay,” Luke says, when the silence stretches on for so long that he thinks it might be Tuesday already. 

“Okay,” Ashton says, and he sounds kind of sad. Luke flags down the waiter, who asks Ashton if there was a problem with the food, and an awkward conversation ensues in which Ashton smiles at the waiter and tells him no, he just doesn’t feel well, but his friend had really enjoyed the food, and Luke watches as the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. The waiter asks if they want to split the bill or pay as one, and Luke jumps in and says they want to split it before Ashton can make one final grand romantic gesture, or whatever. The waiter nods, coming back (much to Luke’s relief) in record time with the card machine and two bills. Luke and Ashton pay, thank the waiter, and then fumble with their coats as they get up and head out into the temperate November night. 

“So,” Ashton says, when they get out of the restaurant. “I guess this is it.” Luke nods. 

“This is it,” he says. 

“I had a nice evening,” Ashton says, and Luke can’t help but laugh. 

“No, you didn’t,” he says. Ashton half-smiles. 

“Okay, no I didn’t,” he admits. “But I did enjoy seeing you again.” Luke nods, not really sure how to take that. 

“Good luck with everything,” he says. 

“You too,” Ashton says. Luke smiles at him, and it’s a real smile, partially fuelled by relief, and partially by something he can’t quite put his finger on. 

“Get home safe,” Luke says, because he can’t say ‘see you’, since he’s sincerely hoping not to. 

“You too,” Ashton says again. Luke nods, offers him one last smile, and then turns on his heel and walks away. 

His shoulderblade tingles as he goes, and there’s an odd edge of sadness to his relief, but he doesn’t stop or look back.

taglist: @glitterlukey @hey-its-grey 

chapter three

[grimweaver]

My thoughts as a non-denominational Christian about church and faith-based organizations today:

After all the stupid that is coming from groups that claim to be Christian (anti-maskers, people that are set to hate the democratic party as a whole and blindly embrace everything republican, who preach hatred and intolerance towards individuals of different lifestyles and beliefs, scoff at our duty as God’s stewards to take better care of our environment and all living things, think He only loves Americans, so on and so forth) I am still a Christian. Why? Because the foundation of my faith is not built upon people. I look to Christ alone as the one and only source of divine inspiration. It’s nice to hear other people who actually sound like they’re TRYING to be good Christians and encourage other people to try, instead of wanting to please themselves or a particular group they belong to.  I’m somewhat of a group-conscious person, but only to a small degree. I often consider the audience I’m writing for and wonder what they think about the direction I’m taking stories and how I’m treating characters. Yet, at the end of it all, I’m still just going to do what feels comfortable.  Anyway, but when it comes to what I do and say as a self-proclaimed Christian, I have to ask myself: “Is what I say/do in alignment with the nature of a loving God?” (And if you’re inclined to judge me because I wrote a love scene, obviously you’ve never read ‘Song of Solomon and I encourage you to do just that. Wooo it’s a hot tater! Also, it takes place in a fictional universe and the conditions are very different. I can go on about it but that takes more time than I care to invest in writing about it right now) And not “What would (political party) have to say?” I haven’t asked that question in over ten years because I’m sure to be moderate all the rest of my life. The way people act and what they say have no influence on the fact that remains true no matter what (yes, I’m sure a lot of you disagree with me--sure, go ahead. I won’t argue with you, but I’ve enough phenomenal experiences to never have any doubt) God is real and He loves everyone. No matter who they are, they are His children and there’s not a single individual that is more or less deserving of love and respect. It’s like when I became a Supernatural fan, and then developed an innocent, FRIENDLY spirit crush on a lot of the cast members, then found out there was a very disturbing number of “fans” that are such hardcore shippers, that they even fantasize about the pairings of CAST MEMBERS and talk about ways to get them to divorce their spouses so that their fantasies can become realities, and be absolute jerks to them at the conventions during Q&A (which is also, by the way, extremely rude towards ACTUAL fans because within the time that the self-absorbed, argumentative, horrible “fan” antagonizes/insults the cast members, they could’ve answered more kind/relative questions from others).  But with all that considered, do I stop being a Supernatural fan? Of course not! What “fans” say/do does not (and SHOULD not) have any influence on the reality of the series being awesome.  That’s how I view my Christian faith. A lot of God’s fangroups are toxic and annoying, but I still love Him because groups don’t change the reality of who He is and what He’s done.  Whew. Okay. I’m done with that. Good day! 

[prairiesongserial]

12.5

Val was beginning to get the sense that they had been in Kill Devil Hills longer than Johannes had planned. Johannes still seemed almost supernaturally relaxed, but he was fidgeting in largely the same ways he had on his way to the beach, sometimes lacing his fingers together at the nape of his neck, sometimes shoving them into his pockets, sometimes toying with and twisting the rings on his fingers. Val had been watching him, mostly. Weep-Not and her people bustled around the two of them, getting ready for Communion, but Val hadn’t so much as offered to help.

“You want to get back to the camp,” he posited to Johannes, bluntly.

“What?” Johannes asked, looking genuinely puzzled for a moment. He glanced down at his hands, briefly, then clasped them behind his back. “Well, I mean, we’re not exactly on schedule, but if it means we get paid at the end of the day, I can deal with a little mishegoss.”

Val frowned. “What is that?”

“What is what?” Johannes asked, jerking his neck to look over his shoulder, then touching his face as though to make sure nothing unsightly was on it. “Don’t look at me like that, preacher, you make me feel like I’m growing a second head.”

“That...what you just said.”

“Which thing?” Johannes asked, then seemed to realize before Val could elaborate. “Mishegoss? It’s Yiddish. It means...I don’t know, a fuss. Some craziness. This kind of thing.”

He waved an arm broadly to indicate the people of Kill Devil Hills moving about the beach around them. They were all young in the way that Weep-Not was, none of them looking any older than Val himself, and all dressed in loose, light-colored clothes that would keep them from sweating in the sun. Either Weep-Not or Fear-Not - Val wasn’t sure which - was overseeing the construction of a makeshift altar that was really just a folding card table with some candles placed on it. Val’s frown deepened.

“I don’t think it’s crazy,” he said. Maybe it wasn’t being done in a church, like it should have been, but he resented the idea that it didn’t mean anything. Clearly it meant something, given how excited everyone on the beach seemed to be. Even if Val didn’t feel quite right about it himself.

“Hey, the only Christian stuff I grew up with was the stuff the circus did for money,” Johannes shot back. He had dropped the southern accent, and didn’t seem to care that he could still be heard by more people besides just Val. “It all looks crazy to me.” He paused, then began to fidget with his rings again. “Communion is the one where you drink wine, right?”

“Communion is the one with wine, yes,” Val agreed, the phrase “annoyed aura” once again ringing in his ears as he regarded Johannes. “The bread and the wine symbolize the body and blood of Christ.”

Johannes grinned. “You know, Jews pray over bread and wine, too.”

“I am aware,” Val said. He fought the urge to massage his temples.

“Though we’re not morbid about it,” Johannes mused, lacing his fingers at the back of his neck again, and turning to look out at the ocean. “None of that body and blood stuff. Just ‘thanks for the bread’, ‘thanks for the wine’. Chalk it up to the fact that we’ve got plenty of other things to be morbid about, I suppose, but it’s good to be grateful for the little things, if you ask me. Mame always said -”

“Preacher!” Weep-Not - Val thought it was Weep-Not, anyway - called from farther down the beach, cutting Johannes off. She was waving him over. “We’re ready!”

Val waved back to her to show he’d heard, then turned back towards Johannes.

“Don’t get in the way,” he said, with a tone that he hoped communicated how serious he was, and took off at a jog towards the makeshift altar.

The confidence he’d felt while talking to Johannes had, mercifully, lasted throughout the blessing of the bread and wine. They were better quality than Val had initially assumed - the bread a loaf that had been shaped by expert hands, the wine a blackish purple that reflected and distorted his face as he stared down into the chalice Weep-Not had set out for him. The bread, so far as Val could tell, was not enough to feed the entire congregation with. He wondered if that was a test, if the people of Kill Devil Hills expected him to make something out of nothing for them, like Jesus had fed a multitude with only five fish and two loaves. Or maybe this was all the bread they had to offer.

It was easier to look down at his own reflection, than to look at the people of Kill Devil Hills who had crowded around the altar, eagerly awaiting the first Communion they’d had in God knew how long. Val still didn’t feel right about it. He had no business giving Communion, not as a defrocked priest, but this community had been without a priest for so long, that they might not have cared even if he had explained himself. Judging by how excited Weep-Not had been about the Eucharist, any Communion was better than none at all.

Val performed the ritual one step removed from himself, running through motions and prayers without thinking. It was the same state he’d found himself in on the motorbike sometimes, when he’d been traveling with Friday. He would drive and drive for hours, not really conscious of where he was going or which roads he was taking, until he came back to himself an hour later and realized they were in a completely different state from when they’d started. Maybe it was a kind of hypnosis, or a wall of defense thrown up by his mind to keep him from stumbling and forgetting how to do a task he’d done hundreds of times before. God knew he couldn’t afford to stumble here, not with how expectant this congregation looked.

He washed his hands from a clay jug that Fear-Not had set in the sand by the altar, and said the prayer quietly to himself. Then, he steeled himself, and stretched his arms out towards the congregation.

“Pray, brethren,” he said, joining his hands, “that my sacrifice and yours may be acceptable to God, the almighty Father.”

“May the Lord accept your sacrifice, for the praise and glory of his name, for the good of the Church,” the congregation said back, in a voice so unified that Val found it hard to believe they hadn’t been doing Communion every week for years.

The words sounded wrong to him - something about them rang hollow, and they weren’t the response he’d been taught to the invitation to prayer. But different churches taught different variations of the same. Almost everyone in Val’s congregation in Vegas had known different versions of each ritual, some adding a word here or dropping a phrase there. It took time to get Catholics on the same page these days, when priests could just go off into the world and teach whatever they liked.

Val pressed on through the Eucharistic Prayer. He could feel the eyes of the congregation boring into him, though they were silent unless they were required to respond. Not a one of them had moved since the ritual began, and Val felt at times as though they were collectively holding their breath. The only sound besides his voice, for the majority of the ritual, was the sound of the waves crashing steadily against the sand behind him. It took a lot of self control to keep himself from looking back, to make sure the ocean wasn’t right on his heels.

Johannes had hung back aways from the altar, though Val could sense him looking sometimes, too. He caught Val’s gaze with his own just as Val was showing the chalice full of wine to the congregation, and smirked. Val felt heat creep up the nape of his neck and across his face, and his collar suddenly felt tighter than ever. He mumbled his way through the rest of the prayer, wishing desperately to be done with it, to be anywhere else. His chest felt tight with guilt, and the bandages on his stomach had started to squirm again.

Communion had always seemed short, when he’d done it at his church in Vegas. Now it seemed to stretch on forever. Val reached the end of the Eucharistic Prayer and allowed himself a moment to breathe, as the congregation got up from where they had been kneeling in the sand. He took the loaf of bread and began tearing it into pieces, knowing it wouldn’t be enough for the entire congregation. The crust was soft, and came apart easily in his hands, entirely unyielding.

“Will you lead the Lord’s Prayer?” he asked Weep-Not, who looked excited by the prospect of it. Val had learned that, up close, the way to tell her apart from Fear-Not was that Fear-Not had a small, half-moon scar carved into one cheek.

“Of course,” Weep-Not said, clasping her hands together in front of her. She turned to the congregation, and they began immediately, in unison, as though they had been waiting to do exactly this.

“Our Father, on earth and in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on sea as it is on shore. Give us this day our sacrifice, and forgive us our tresspasses, as you punish those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.”

The feeling of pervasive wrongness, that skin-crawling warning, crept over Val again, and he froze with his hands on the bread. He had never heard this version of the Lord’s Prayer before. He had never heard any other version of the Lord’s Prayer before - he’d heard some people interchange evil with sin, but nothing like this. He looked to Johannes, searching the other man’s face for some acknowledgement that this was not right, and was met with only arched eyebrows and another smirk.

“Deliver us, Lord, we pray, from every evil,” Val began by rote, somehow managing not to stumble over the words as he did so. 

He let muscle memory lead him through the rest of the prayers, feeling sweat bead on his forehead and drip down his face. The congregation knelt again. Val showed them the host, told them to behold the Lamb of God, and moved to step out from behind the altar.

“Preacher,” Fear-Not spoke up suddenly, shocking Val back to the present moment. “You should take Communion first.”

There was a murmur of agreement from the rest of the congregation. Val stared at them in bemusement for a long moment, unsure if this was a long-held custom of theirs, or some sort of test. Maybe they were aiming to thank him for bothering to perform the Eucharist at all. Still, if it brought him one step closer to ending this, he would do it.

He took a small bite of bread in his mouth, and washed it down with a slightly-too-big sip of wine, wincing at the unexpected bitterness that filled his mouth. It was not good wine. Val swallowed it anyway, and kept the chalice in one hand as he made his way toward the kneeling congregation.

“The Body of Christ,” he said to Weep-Not, holding up a piece of bread for her to see.

“Amen,” she said, just as he placed it on her tongue. 

He gave her a sip of wine from the chalice, and moved on to Fear-Not, then to the young man sitting just next to Fear-Not. Slowly, Val moved around the congregation, working from the outer circle inwards, until every member had received a bite of bread and a mouthful of wine - or simply a mouthful of wine, when he had finally run out of bread. He ended sweatier than he had begun, his hair plastered to his forehead, his dark shirt feeling soaked. It was warmer out than he had anticipated. He squinted towards the sun to gauge how long he had been out here on the beach, and had to look away as it flooded his vision with light, his eyes watering.

Val had been dissociating before, he knew, to keep himself going through the motions. Now he was going through the motions to keep something worse from happening to his body. His head swam, and he could feel blood rushing to his cheeks, his pulse heavy in his ears. He wondered if he had heatstroke, from standing here for so long. He’d had it before, as a teenager, but trying to remember what his symptoms had been back then was too arduous a task just now. His mind had slowed to a crawl.

His feet had placed him back behind the altar again, though Val didn’t remember consciously making the choice to walk there. He set the chalice down. The sun felt as though it had taken up his entire field of vision, and he had to squint to see the congregation in front of him.

“What has passed our lips as food,” he began, and found he could not call up the rest of the prayer.

“What…” he began again, and trailed off. “What has passed our lips as food, O Lord -”

The congregation was bleeding. Val’s pulse hammered in his ears as he saw it - blackish-red blood dripping from their mouths in ribbons, rivulets that ran from the corners of lips and dripped off of chins. Weep-Not and Fear-Not’s pale faces were stained with it, their dresses splattered with droplets.

“What?” Val asked, unable to articulate much else. He looked to Johannes again, and found that Johannes wasn’t there.

Weep-Not rose to her feet and approached the altar, smiling through the film of blood on her face.

“Thank you for your sacrifice, preacher,” she said.

She cupped his face in her hands. Val felt hands elsewhere on his body - on his arms, in his hair, tugging at his shirt. There were fingers crawling over the nape of his neck, tugging at his collar and pressing it up against his Adam’s apple. He looked into the sun again, and lost consciousness.

12.4 || 12.6

[starlightswitch]

Kiss the Frog

(for Writer’s Month prompt 24, true love’s kiss)

They slid into the diner booth. Mandy grabbed for the menu. Taylor unwrapped her silverware. Kacey propped her chin on her hand, leaned across the table, and asked Tasha, “So how was the guy of the night?”

Taylor’s head jerked up. This was only the second night she’d been out with them.

“She just kisses them,” Kacey told her.

“But she could do more if she wanted to,” said Mandy, dropping the menu so it slapped onto the table. “We are in college. Jesus.”

Tasha looked from her to Taylor, who they all knew by now had gone to Catholic schools all her life and who’d be up tomorrow morning for church at ten despite the fact that it was past midnight. “Let’s just all do what we want to do, and be okay with what each other does,” she said.

“I’m okay with whatever you did,” said Kacey with a little sway of her hips. “I want to know what it was. And how it was.”

“It’s just kissing. You know that.”

“If you find the right one, maybe it won’t be.”

Tasha gave a tiny snort. “I have to find the right one first. Which I’m starting to doubt.”

“You could try not looking at frat houses,” said Taylor. Before Mandy could say anything, or do much more than look at her, she looked sharply up at Mandy. “I’m not saying she can’t do what she wants. I’m just saying if she’s looking for a guy and she hasn’t found him at a frat party maybe she should look somewhere else.”

“I’m not looking for a guy–” Tasha started, and then a waitress came over to take their orders. As usual, Mandy held everything up by being indecisive, the only one to get something different every week and always something substantial. Once she’d finally made up her mind and the waitress had gone to get their water, Tasha’s energy had faded and she was leaning back against the back of the booth. She’d almost forgotten what they’d been talking about and that anyone had asked her anything. She jumped when Taylor spoke.

“You’re not looking for a guy? You just said you were looking for a guy.”

“No, I didn’t,” Tasha muttered, looking to Mandy and Kacey for confirmation.

“She’s not looking for a guy,” Kacey explained. She grabbed a glass of water when the waitress set them down and took a big drink, not bothering with the straw. “She’s just trying out guys to see if one of them wants to be found.”

“Not everybody thinks that you have to wait for the perfect guy,” said Mandy, banging a straw end-down on the table to break the wrapper.

“I know that,” said Taylor, sliding a glass over to the edge of her placemat. “I just asked because I thought she said she was looking for a guy and also said she wasn’t. I was confused.”

“Once upon a time, there was a guy.” Tasha reached for the last glass and folded her hands around it. “He was hot, and nice, and… I don’t know what else there is to say about him. He was amazing, and I loved him. He could play Photograph on the guitar.”

Mandy and Kacey tilted their heads to the side, mirroring her, and mouthed that sentence along with her. Tasha didn’t notice.

“And I never told him how I felt about him, I actually never actually talked to him except like ‘hi’ and stuff like that, but in my mind, he was perfect.”

Taylor nodded.

“So the problem is,” said Tasha, rubbing the ends of her hair between her fingers, still looking at the ceiling, “in my mind is this amazing guy who’s an amazing kisser–”

“Which is totally in her mind,” Mandy pointed out.

“I mean, the whole thing was totally in my mind, which is part of the problem. I think part of the reason I didn’t try to talk to him was that he was never going to be as amazing as he was in my mind. Like, I thought the reason was I didn’t want to be embarrassed if he didn’t like me, because he was super popular– real-life popular, where he was really nice and lots of people liked him, not like movie popular where he’s kind of a celebrity but also a jerk–”

“But you wanted to keep imagining that he was…”

“He was nice. At least that was real.”

Taylor opened her straw and dropped it into her glass, upside down because she hadn’t noticed it had a bendy section. “But what’s that have to do with kissing guys at parties?”

Mandy lifted her chin and declaimed, “It will break the spell that Evan placed upon her.”

“Mandy,” said Kacey.

“Wasn’t that what she said?”

“She didn’t say it like that.”

Mandy shrugged, crossed one arm over her stomach, propped the other elbow on it, and drank some water.

“So you think you’ll kiss someone and get over him? I’m asking,” Taylor said quickly, glancing at Mandy. “Is that what you think?”

Tasha shrugged too, but her shoulders stayed up. “Nothing else has worked. I haven’t had a crush on a guy since then.”

“You could be into girls,” said Mandy, with a come-at-me look at Taylor.

Tasha caught Mandy’s eye back with a bland look. “I think I’d know if I was into girls because then I’d have crushes on girls. Which I haven’t, either. Also have you seen me kissing any girls?”

“So, I still don’t get it,” said Taylor. “You think if you kiss the right guy, you’re going to get over… Evan?”

“I’m… trying to believe in it.” Tasha studied the surface of the water in her glass. “Mandy’s the one who sorta gave me the idea at the beginning of the year. She said she was tired of me moping over a guy she’d never even met, and I was wasting my time in college. Which was a good point. There are a lot of hot guys I wouldn’t have kissed if– So the idea was, I pick a different guy every week, unless I really can’t find one, and see if any of them takes over Evan’s place in my mind. Maybe right then, I feel like it would be right then, but Mandy made it sound more like I’d notice it the next day. So I guess tonight’s guy still has a chance.” She directed this last part at Mandy. “But I don’t think so.”

“Why’d you make fun of it if it was your idea?” Taylor asked Mandy.

“I’m not making fun of it. Jesus Christ.” Mandy tossed her hair back, ignoring Kacey saying her name again. “I’m trying to help her believe it in. I’d think you’d know about believing in things.”

Taylor’s eyes darkened. “What’s that mean?”

“The point is–” Tasha had been taking a drink. She set down her glass. “We all have our beliefs, and we all have our reasons. And sometimes you have to believe in something.”

“Amen,” Mandy said absently.

After studying her eyes for a moment, Taylor tilted her head in acknowledgement and raised her glass a bit. Kacey added hers, raising it higher. Tasha lifted hers to join theirs, and finally Mandy added hers and they clicked and drank.

[morningsound15]

Bechloe and Salem witch trials for the au game please. Thanks!

I had one idea for this but then completely switched it after like 3 parts so here’s that second version:

(please excuse my exaggerations about how the Salem witch trials went down it’s for narrative not factual purposes i know it’s not right)

(also please excuse the fact that this is approximately 1 year late!! i’ve been, how shall we say, Going Through It)

1.)

Chloe Beale is the daughter of the most famous and well-respected Deacon in Salem, Massachusetts. Her father’s status means that she is held accountable for her actions in a way few other women of her time are. Ever since she tottered her first stumbling steps, she has had a list of duties — not chores so much as necessities. There are certain responsibilities she must complete, certain behaviors from which she must demur, certain reputable people she is expected to socialize with, and certain disreputable people she is expected to avoid as if they carry certain death on their person, ready to infect should she happen to wander just a step too close. “Pray remember, daughter,” her father would whisper with his hand vice-like digging into her shoulder, “do not allow womanish fribbles to lead you to distraction. Your actions reveal my judgment, and the sanctity of the Congregation. You will not be an embarrassment.”

And she has not been an embarrassment. Though she is a girl just shy of twenty, her moral fortitude — her piousness — is unmatched, nearly unparalleled. She spent so many hours of her girlhood kneeling on the floor of their house that her knees were oft rubbed raw, red and smarting like she had been punished. But it was not earthly punishment, rather penance. “Christ knows how many Devils there are in his Church, and where they walk.” Her father’s eyes would glint, sharp steel. “Corruptio optimi est pessima.”

“Corruptio optimi est pessima,” Chloe would repeat with solemnity, head bowed low towards the ground. She could barely feel the stinging in her joints anymore. The blessing of God’s love was more than enough to evacuate the worst of her ailments.

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2.)

Chloe has run into only 2 problems with her father and the Church since her childhood. The first is her lack of marital prospects. Being a woman of nearly twenty and still unmarried is not ideal, and she can expect a near daily barrage from both of her parents to accept the offer of one of nearly a half dozen men who have already asked for her hand. Luckily, as none of the prospects have been irrefutable (Barnabas Allen was odious — and Catholic on top of it; Benajah Applebaum’s family was both too poor and too Jewish to be a viable option; and rumor had it that Jesse Swanson had asked 3 girls to marry him within the same year, which did not bode well for his faithfulness), Chloe has managed to dodge answering any of them. She knows her situation cannot last much longer, however. It’s only a matter of time before her father brings her a husband she cannot refuse.

The second problem involves her choice of companionship. Chloe does not have many close friendships — she never had the desire — and until very recently, has spent most of her free time (those hours when she is not in prayer nor doing her household duties nor delivering alms to the poor) in the company of one young lady: Aubrey Posen, the daughter of respected Captain Jeremiah Posen and Chloe’s closest confidant since infancy. Their parents happily approve of their continued association. The Beales are a family of status and power and influence, the Posens of money and respectability and ties to England. Chloe knows that her father hopes, through the Posens, Chloe may meet a suitably pious husband (perhaps even an English Lord, or a businessman with a respectable if not excessive fortune).

Aubrey is a reputable, respectable companion.

Rebecca Mitchell, suspected practitioner of dark magics and the wicked pagan arts, is not.

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3.)

Rebeca Mitchell is not a witch. Chloe knows that she isn’t. Or at least, she believes that she cannot be. Rebecca — or Beca, as she insists Chloe call her — is a quiet, thoughtful woman. She has no family, no station, nothing to speak of except a small homestead she operates alone. She tends a small garden in the back of her property — right at the boundary of the dense wooded forest that surrounds their small town — where she grows her own herbs and food. She is prone to night-time walks, particularly under bright skies and full moons. It is for this reason that some of the residents of the town of Salem suspect that she is a witch. A woman residing alone, without the livelihood of a husband or father sustaining her, who is sometimes seen walking about on her own on bright, cloudless nights, is not a woman to be trusted.

Beca, curiously, seems oblivious to how she is perceived. Chloe finds this facet of her personality fascinating. Her entire personality is fascinating. For their friendship only exists because Beca has so little regard for conventions — the only young woman Chloe has ever met who exhibits such blatant disregard for what the Church considers upright. Beca is the one who initiated their meeting, their ensuing conversation, and the numerous occasions they have had to casually, ‘accidentally’ run into each other since. In the street, when Chloe is on her way to the market; in the fields through the first thicket of woods where they retreat on warm Saturday mornings in the spring, dew staining the hems of their skirts as they trek through unruly terrain; in the strawberry patch behind Old Man Elias’ cattle field every Tuesday in the summer, picking side-by-side and sneaking plump fruit swollen with juice that stains fingers and lips and chins alike. Beca has not been to Chloe’s home and Chloe has not been to hers. They forgo all talk of family, obligations, and the several dozen reasons they have that should mandate they immediately and unequivocally cease all further interactions.

(Of course, they do not cease their interactions. If anything, they only grow in both frequency and length.)

So you see, Chloe knows Beca cannot be a witch, because witches have no friends, no love; they work in darkness, and madness, magic and manipulation. Chloe has not been cursed, she has not suffered fainting spells, witnessed ghostly apparitions, or been forced to do the Devil’s bidding. She has not been sent into fits of convulsion or hysteria.

Beca cannot be a witch because Chloe is unaffected, and witches do not allow their acquaintances to go unaffected. Though they continue to see each other and Beca continues to have ample opportunity to bewitch her, corrupt her, she does nothing — nothing except smile when she says Chloe’s name, her head tipped low in deference. Nothing except pluck wild flowers from the field on the days they can manage to sneak away together; ties them into a bouquet with blades of long, cutting grass. Nothing except press her lips to Chloe’s cheek, close to her ear, breathless and warm as she whispers her farewells.

Beca cannot be a witch, because witches are evil, and vile, and inhuman. They are beasts, creatures of malice, followers of Satan himself. They cannot love, and they are unloveable.

(Beca cannot be a witch, because Chloe loves her, and she cannot bear the thought that it may not be reciprocated.)

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4.)

The first words Chloe says upon entering Beca’s homestead are: “This does not look like a witch’s home.” She winces, already regretting the tactlessness of her conversation.

Beca merely scoffs. “Witches,” she sneers. “You spend too much of your time listening to your father. He is filling your head with lies and frivolities.”

The house is small, just one room. A table with a single chair in the center, a small fireplace built into the wall furthest from the door, a small cot tucked in the corner. Beca perches herself on the single chair, leaving Chloe no other choice but to stand or sit upon the bed.

She sits, and says, “I do not think witches are frivolous.”

“They are not real. If not frivolity, what else could they be?”

Chloe picks at the thin bedspread beneath her fingers. She does not answer. Beca had not been looking for an answer anyway. Instead, Chloe lifts her head, and asks the question that has been at the forefront of her mind for the past several months, as long as their acquaintance has been growing.

“Why did you approach me?” Chloe asks the still room.

“Pardon?”

“We did not grow up together. I never knew of you, except the things whispered by others.”

Beca laughs. “You mean gossip.”

“Gossip, yes. But worrying gossip all the same.” A pause, then. Chloe tips her head. Beca’s attention is on her hands folded in her lap, and she sits very still. “We never had reason to meet. Yet you crafted a reason.”

“And you believe that was… suspicious.”

It is not quite a question. Still, Chloe evades. “My father thinks your interest in me is corrupt.”

Beca’s head jerks up. Her eyes seem to blaze. “Corrupt?”

“He does not trust you.”

Beca’s spine is stiff in her chair. “I have been accused of nothing.”

“He is suspicious of everyone,” Chloe attempts to demur, worried she’s said something inappropriate, something shocking and distressing, worried she’s shattered the tenuous serenity they’ve managed to found together over the past half-year. “It is nothing serious.”

But Beca is unswayed. “It is serious if it’s stopping us from seeing each other.”

“I’m here now, am I not? He has not stopped us.”

“You’re twitching like a newborn pup, you can hardly sit still.” Chloe flushes bright and stills her hands. Beca continues to stare at her, expression unreadable. “Why are you here, Chloe?”

It’s a question to which she does not have an answer. The simple truth — that Beca had invited her, and Chloe had been curious enough to accept her invitation — is far too mundane. She knows if she were to propose it to Beca now, she would be caught immediately in her fabrication. But she cannot explain the reasoning behind her actions. She seems to have so little reason, these days.

She stands from the bed and walks to the other side of the house. Beca watches her and does not move to follow. Chloe gazes out the front window with unseeing eyes, her hands twisting themselves into the fabric of her dress, her jaw working over unspoken words. Finally, she says, “I cannot seem to help it.” She turns back around, feeling miles away. “It’s as if… wherever you go, I feel compelled to follow.”

Chloe hears Beca swallow loudly. She takes a breath, as if stealing herself, and looks up to the ceiling. “I heard you singing.” Chloe frowns, not understanding. Beca glances at her and then glances away. “That is why I approached you.”

Chloe cannot help but laugh, but Beca does not laugh with her. The smile slips from Chloe’s face, and she frowns. “Is that true?”

“I used to hear you sing in services. When my parents died I stopped going to church, and I couldn’t hear you anymore. But then you started cutting through the woods, on your way home from schooling, and… The first few times it was merely an accident, but… your voice is so beautiful. I’ve never heard anything like it. And you sing when you walk alone. I thought… I thought your songs were kind, and I wondered if you were, too.”

“You followed me?”

Beca turns a lovely, delicate pink. “I know it is strange of me to admit this to you now, to have spied on you without your knowledge. I apologize, it was not my intention. It’s as if… something came over me. A possession, a madness. I… I felt I had to know you. I was gripped by a force I cannot comprehend, and I was powerless but to obey.” Beca’s blush darkens, and she turns her head. Her hands are fisted in the front of her skirts, and she tugs on the coarse fabric restlessly. “I sound foolish.”

“You do not sound foolish,” Chloe whispers, her own eyes bright. “I… I know the feeling.” She takes a tentative step forward and raises trembling hand to Beca’s cheek. Her thumb brushes, Beca’s eyelids flutter, and something tugs in Chloe’s stomach. “It’s like a bewitching.”

Beca’s eyes snap open. “I have not bewitched you,” she says quickly.

Chloe laughs. “Nor I, you. I could not even if I wanted.”

“Chloe,” Beca’s voice remains serious, “listen to me: I have not bewitched you.” There’s something to the weight of Beca’s gaze, something that makes Chloe pause. She does not move. There is an electricity between them; the air crackles, charged like the sky before a summer storm.

“Okay,” Chloe whispers, her eyes locked to Beca’s. She cannot look away.

The kiss Beca presses to her lips is soft and unexpected. Chloe has never been kissed, has never even desired the feeling. She always imagined an unpleasant, wet, uncomfortable experience, trembling against the stiff body of some faceless man with rough hands and rougher skin.

But Beca’s skin is soft; her body yields when Chloe falls into it. Her hands are sure and focused as they trace her neck, wind into her hair, push her dress off her shoulders, but they are not rough and incessant; they guide her gently onto the cot. Her lips leave fire in their wake as they skirt Chloe’s cheek and down her chest. Her tongue traces Chloe’s breasts, sneaks a sinful path up bare thighs.

Beca’s fingers slip inside of her. Her breath is hot on Chloe’s lips and her eyes seem to burn straight through her. Chloe gasps like the breath has been stolen from her chest and trembles like she’s going to shake apart.

“Convulsions,” Chloe say breathlessly, her chest heaving. She is entirely exposed to the world in front of another person — another woman, no less — and has just committed a cardinal, lustful, adulterous sin. She feels nothing but rapture. “Is this how it feels to be cursed by a witch?”

“You think too much of witches.”

“I cannot help it. What we just did… it was supernatural.”

Beca laughs and rolls onto her stomach. She throws an arm over Chloe’s hips, presses kisses to Chloe’s bare shoulder, and Chloe shivers from the pleasure of it. “You believe it was dark magic?” Beca murmurs teasingly into her skin, her fingers tickling Chloe’s ribs.

“M-magic, perhaps,” Chloe, flushed and panting and skin slick, is nearly gasping, “but not dark. Nothing that feels like this can be evil.”

“I think I’ve fallen in love with you.” Chloe swears her heart stutters to a stop and hangs, still in the moment before painfully restarting. “Is that even possible? Is it… am I too bold in my pronouncement?”

“No,” Chloe whispers back at her. “Not too bold. I think I have fallen in love with you, too.”

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5.)

She leaves Beca the next morning with a swift kiss and flushing cheeks. Beca beams at her as Chloe slips away from her, sneaking off through the woods and towards her own homestead.

She holds her breath as she sneaks inside and tries to make as little noise as possible. The ground beneath her feet is solid but smooth, and her shoes glide over it nearly soundless. Her mother and sister might still be asleep — she is unsure of the precise hour — or else they’ve already gone to market. Father must surely be in service already. If he was in a hurry he might have even left without noticing her glaring absence. Chloe sends up a short prayer to the Almighty that that is the case.

But of course, she is not so lucky. She never has been.

“Where have you been?”

Chloe freezes mid-step, her heart already turning to ice. She swallows thickly and turns slowly. Her father is seated in the kitchen, his hat upon his knee and his face empty save for a few dark shadows. “F-father,” Chloe straightens her spine, does her best not to tug at the skirt of her dress. “I was just… calling on Mrs. Hawthorne. You know she has two little ones both ill with diphtheria.” Her father stands and makes his way slowly towards her. Chloe holds her ground and continues speaking, as calmly as possible. “They haven’t been resting, so I went to see what little relief I could provi—”

Smack. The back of his hand connects with her cheek and Chloe stumbles, nearly crashing to the ground. She grips at her smarting cheek and turns her fearful gaze up at her father. He stands over her, fully glowering, now. “You lie,” he snarls at her, and it’s all Chloe can do to shake her head.

“I… no. I’m not lying. I haven’t been—”

“You did not come home last night. Tell me, harlot — in which young man’s bed did you spend your wicked night?”

“There is no man, father, I promise—”

“Captain Posen spotted you with Rebecca Mitchell yesterday.” Chloe falls silent, and curses her fair complexion and the way it so easily draws a blush. “Is that who you were with?” His words sound near-murderous.

Chloe shakes her head again, but he only seems to grow larger in front of her. He towers above her, a fire gleaming in his eyes. “You spent your night cavorting with that witch?”

“She is not a witch, Father! She is kind, and generous, and she loves me.”

He looks down at her with unbridled disgust and spits at the ground by her feet. “No one can love you.”

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By the time she makes it to Beca’s home, she’s already too late. The door stands ajar, creaking on its hinges in the early-afternoon breeze. Chloe doesn’t even bother trudging through the gate to peer inside; she knows with a certain inevitable heaviness that there is nothing there for her to find.

She follows the sounds of revelry all the way through the outskirts of the village, picking her way in some sort of daze through empty streets and past dark cabins. The sounds grow louder and Chloe stumbles towards them like a moth to a flame.

When she gets to the center of town she feels the world crash back into consciousness. What looks to be the entire town has gathered near the steps of the church. Parents with small children perched upon their shoulders, housewives and mothers still with aprons tied around their waists from working in the kitchen. Chloe pushes her way through them all, ignoring the looks and hissed words tossed her way.

Her father’s voice trickles through the crowd towards her, and Chloe hones in on it and stumbles, breathless. “The Devil is using this woman to lead astray the youths of our village with her little sorceries. With her black magic she has controlled the mind and possessed the body of many young women from our good Congregation, forcing them to submit to her vile evilness. She threatens the sanctity, the chastity of our daughters! For her crimes she has been arrested, and now will face the Judgment of the Vengeful and Almighty Lord.”

“No! Father, no, please, you can’t—”

“I can and I will!” He grabs Chloe’s face in his hands, squeezing her tight. His eyes are wild, mad and unseeing. Chloe wants to recoil from him, pull herself from his grasp, but his grip is too strong. His fingers leave bruises along her neck, her jaw, and she bites her tongue hard enough to taste blood to stop from whimpering from the pain. “We are God’s chosen people,” he whispers, his words meant only for her, “but we have fallen from His grace. He sends us these witches as a temptation, a scourge on our town. In order to return to His favor we must eradicate the disease.”

“No.”

He shoves her away from him, turning back to the swarming masses. “For her crimes, she has been arrested. And for her crimes, she will burn!”

There’s a roar of agreement from the crowd. Chloe fights back a wail. She can see Aubrey off to the side of the frenzied mass, her face pale and her jaw trembling. She meets Chloe’s gaze with eyes full of tears and turns away almost at once, like she can’t bear to watch.

Chloe fumbles upright, her feet and hands scrabbling in the mud. Her dress must be a hideous sight now but she hardly cares, can barely spare a thought for the ruined fabric. Beca is tied to a pyre in front of her, her head tipped back, her eyes closed to the sky. Chloe feels tar in her stomach. Her feet sink into the ground like the earth itself is grabbing hold of her, refusing to let her go.

She cries out, “No. NO!” But her screams are drowned out by the roaring of the crowd. Her father lowers his torch towards the pyre, and Chloe rips her head away, already ill, unable to look. The wood catches with a sickening crackle, and the jeers only grow louder. Chloe barrels away from the scene like she’s the one at risk of being burnt. She stumbles from the town square on legs that cannot support her, crashing blind through unfriendly bodies until she finally breaks free. The pathways are dark and twisting, and she allows her feet to carry her without thought to her destination.

She crashes through the door to the empty house. It is dark inside, and cold; there should be a fire burning in the hearth but there is no one left to tend it. A wooden plate sits on the table with a half-eaten loaf still perched upon it. Chloe thinks they must have grabbed her while she was unawares.

She feels next to nothing. She would cry, she thinks, were there any breath left inside of her. Instead she stumbles forward, tripping over her own feet, and falls face-first into the hard cot. She shivers violently but does not move to pull the quilt over her trembling body. She wraps her arms around her stomach and does not move and hopes, hopes that she’ll stop breathing.

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+1.)

She awakens in Beca’s bed many hours later. The sun has long set; the world is in darkness now, and will remain as such likely for a few hours longer.

Beca’s house is dark. Of course it is. She was the only inhabitant, and now she’s—

The door is unlocked. It always is. Beca once told her she had nothing to fear from the outside world. If only she had known…

The moon outside is full. It illuminates the world, casting long and twisting shadows upon the ground. Chloe shivers as she peers out at them, for reasons she can’t quite explain.

The shadows are moving. Chloe blinks and rubs at her eyes, sure she must be seeing things, but— There. Right by the forest, where the path meets the trees, there’s… a figure, shrouded in black. And it seems to be creeping this way.

Chloe fumbles, her back slamming against the wall behind her. She clutches Beca’s bedroll to her heaving chest, her mouth frozen open in a silent scream. A demon is approaching, or perhaps a dark spirit; there is something wicked out in the woods, something haunting. It claimed Beca’s life earlier today and now it is here to claim hers. She’s set up residence in a dead woman’s home and the Devil is not pleased with her for it. He’s come to take her, to pull her soul from her body, to bewitch and entangle her in the dark magics.

She fumbles, her hands trembling so badly they can barely hold the flint and steel. She strikes once, twice, thrice, each movement more desperate than the one before. Finally, on her fifth attempt, a spark flies onto the candle by the bed. It catches fire, and Chloe can see inside once more.

She whips her attention back to the window, her eyes searching, her heart pounding heavy and pressing in her chest. She’s breathing hard, already in a panic, and she feels light-headed. But there is movement neither outside nor in. Chloe rubs at her eyes but it does little to calm her nerves.

“A trick of the light,” she mutters to herself. “A trick of the light and the illusion of a dream. That is all it was. No specter or ghoul, just… just my imagination.”

A shadow passes over the door, and finally, Chloe screams.

The door crashes open with a loud bang, and Chloe screams again, higher this time and louder, a wrenching shrill that tears at her throat and burns at her lungs and the figure races into the house, its taloned claws reaching for her face, and Chloe twists away from the horror and kicks out as hard as she can.

Her heel connects with something soft and pliant, and the demon buckles with a soft “Ooph,” like the breath has been torn from its lungs. It collapses onto the ground wheezing, and its hood falls from atop its gruesome head, and

“Beca?”

“You struck me.”

“I… I thought you were a demon.”

“No demon, just a foolish woman hoping to silence your screams before they drew the whole village to us.”

Chloe stares down at her, her mouth wide open. “I thought you had died.”

Beca shakes her head, clambering slowly to her feet. “I seem to have dodged death twice today.” She rubs at her middle, still wincing. “Was your father part-donkey? You kick like a mule.”

Chloe can’t believe this is happening. She can’t believe it. She saw Beca die this afternoon. Or… well, she saw her father light the woman on fire. That’s not exactly something you can just walk away from. The only explanation could be— “You… you are a witch,” Chloe says, breathless.

Beca winces like she’s been struck again. “Please, Chloe, hold your tongue,” she hisses. “And put that light out. If any of the nearby homesteads discover—”

“H-how did you survive? I… I saw… They lit a fire under you.” Beca ignores her, turning to a large trunk at the foot of the bed. Chloe frowns. “What are you doing?”

Beca is rummaging through her belongings, throwing together everything she can carry into one canvass sack. “I cannot stay, Chloe. You know that as well as I. They’ll have my head, next. The fact I escaped today was luck; nothing more than that.”

“I… But I saw you.”

“You saw nothing.”

“They set you aflame, yet you did not burn.”

“A trick of the light, that’s all.”

Chloe grabs her by the arm and wrenches her around. “Do not imply that I am mad, Beca. I am not my father; I am not the men of this village — I am not prone to wild, feverish bouts of anger and accusation. I do not mean to accuse you, only to confirm what I already know.”

Beca stares at her, eyes cold and expression unreadable. “And what is it you think you know?”

“You’re a witch. There is no other way you could have survived that fire were it not for—”

“For what?” Beca snaps. “God’s intervention? A pact with the Devil, with goblins and ghouls?”

“For magic.” Chloe breathes the word like a prayer, and it pauses Beca.

She swallows. “Would it matter? If I was a witch?”

“Are you working on behalf of the Devil?”

Beca scoffs. “No. How ridiculous.”

“If you were one of Satan’s minions would you be inclined to tell me?”

“If I were one of Satan’s minions I would already have your soul in hand, would I not? It matters little which power I serve.”

Chloe takes a moment to think. She quirks her head. “Can you guarantee that you will not get caught? That the next town you find yourself in will not chase you from its borders with pitchforks and flames?”

Beca swallows again and says, quieter and more seriously, “No. That is not a guarantee I can provide. When I leave here tonight, there is a very good chance I will be dead in months. We will not see each other again.”

Chloe takes a deep breath. “Can you teach me to be a witch, too?”

Beca’s eyes grow impossibly wide. “You—”

“If I wish to learn magics, are you able to teach me?”

“I… yes. Yes, I can teach you.”

Chloe finally takes Beca’s hand in hers. “Then let us go, quickly; before they think to search for you.”

They dash off together into the night, Chloe’s dress flapping behind her in the wind and Beca’s dress, a little singed ‘round the edges, catches on twigs and branches and the debris of the forest floor.

The moon is full in the sky, the air is crisp and clear, and their feet move so swiftly across the ground that Chloe swears they must be flying.

[rcris123]

“Did you see that kid Kieran?” Arthur asks Dutch next day; asked the others too, no one knew a damn thing, but all of ‘em said something of Kieran being scared the O’Driscolls been stalking him.

And there’s an idea already forming...

“No.” Dutch replies, then, letting his book down: “Why do you care?”

Kieran van Der Linde is what that boy said once when the three of ‘em went fishing, but there’s more than just mere sympathy:

“If the O’Driscolls took ‘im then they know we’re here and they’re gonna blast us all to hell.”

“You really believe he ain’t just run off?”

“If he ain’t run off ‘till now, why’d he do it?” A pace away. He’s trying to convince Dutch go let them have a look – or maybe he ain’t needing no permission; him and Sebastian are enough to take down the lot of ‘em. “Besides he was still a prisoner.”

Dutch laughed: “Where you even getting these ideas from, my friend?”

Arthur shakes his head, scoffs: “Well... thanks anyway...”

“I need you to stay strong, Arthur.”

More and more those words feel somehow empty, like he’s bringing them up just so he has the last word. But Dutch’s always been like this, why is he only now taking notice of it? Was it Blackwater? Was it Isaac? Was it Sebastian and Isaac? Who the hell knows... But this doubt’s starting to itch inside him and more and more he’s feeling like he’s tearing this place apart and the reasoning behind it is as vague as a pang inside his chest and a ‘It ain’t right’ dangling inside his skull. It feels like it’s all become a chore, suffocating like this goddamn swamp and how goddamn good it felt to get out and do fishing with the kid, Sebastian. What fun they had catching that monster o’a sturgeon.

A sigh, ‘cause he’s still wanting to find out what the hell happened to that Kieran boy. He loves these people, Dutch, Hosea, John, Charles, Lenny, Sean, the women, everyone. He always did it all for them. Why stop now?... And he’d mount up, but instead just ends up giving scratches to Ghost. The bullet wound doesn’t seem to bother her all that much anymore.

If he were to go, Isaac’ll have to come with him.

“You know I saw a couple of them O’Driscoll Boys runnin’ around.” That’s Sadie’s voice.

“Oh, really?” Arthur turns around

“Yeah.” She even climbs in the saddle. “No one seems to care when I get out of camp so I followed them around a bit. Seems they’re holed up in some abandoned town in Lemoyne.”

His face lights up.

“Can you tells us-”

“I’m riding with you, Arthur. I can’t forgive them, you know that.”

“And Kieran?”

“Boy’s harmless. A bit whiny, but harmless.”

“Okay.” Arthur rubs his chin. “ ‘kay. You wait here, I’m gonna get some people.”

“The two of us is all we need.”

“I know, but my heart ain’t letting me.”

Sadie snorts: “You’re one sappy old man.”

“Very funny.” Arthur beckons as he gets back upstairs; Sadie’s got her charm about her, never once sounding truly mean spirited.

Inside Sebastian was still asleep; man barely got any rest last night, tossing and turning, breaking into cold sweat. He even managed somehow to scratch a scab away. It bled. Isaac found himself something to read, legs to chest, on the floor against the dresser by the bedside.

“Mornin’.”

“Mornin’.” His son greets back with a thin smile.

“Got any breakfast?”

Isaac shakes his head and places the book on the dresser behind him.

“Get downstairs and eat somethin’, Isaac. Pack some for the road too.”

Boy gets up: “Where we headed?”

“Getting that kid Kieran back.”

Isaac’s eyes grew wide: “Ain’t that official business?”

A look at him, a sigh: “No.”

It’s a bit too much o’a request for a boy like Isaac but his childhood’s fast coming to an end and no matter how much he tried keeping him clean from outlawing and gunslinging, the noose’s getting tighter by the day and he’s much rather know his son can fight than lose him ‘cause he ain’t been enough a man to teach him.

Maybe he ain’t ever been much of a man to begin with, all queer like he is – he heard Tilly insulting Bill like that once. She knew, they all knew, and now Arthur ain’t no different.

“Okay.” But his son still trusts him; and that’s enough.

Arthur sits on the edge of the bed, compelled to run a hand through the rough hair on the side of Sebastian’s head, lean in, whisper something for good morning.

“Good mornin’, you stubborn ol’ buck.” He did just that in the end.

“I’m middle-aged.” Sebastian muses, a smile drawing on thin lips.

“And I’m a grandparent.”

A snort. A flutter of brown doe eyes, then an inhale as Sebastian tries to turn on the other side:

“Good morning to you too.” A stretch, then a grunt and the man rolls back to face Arthur: “What you up to?”

“Finding that boy Kieran. I want you to ride with me.”

“Always.” It’s soft the way he says that and once more Arthur finds himself running fingers through the rough hair on the side of the man’s head.

“Managed to catch some sleep?”

As hand threatens to let go Sebastian catches it into his own; holds it.

“Not really...”

“What kept you up?” A sigh; he looks away and Arthur squeezes his hand. “Talk to me, would you...”

A huff, a tug of the arm closer: “I’m afraid... That they gonna take it all- and then I remember I have nothing left anyway...”

“That ain’t it, Sebastian.”

“If this counts-“ another tug of the arm. “If this is me having something how do I know it ain’t gonna end up the same. You. The kid. Why are these fucking things up again-” He growls, suppresses a sob, the closes his eyes and exhales with difficulty.

“Sebastian...” And the man draws him closer in. “You gotta trust ye’rself. And you gotta trust this poor ol’ fool’s luck, ‘cause he ain’t died just yet.” It’s absent minded again how he touches the medallion, ‘cause it dangles heavy from the neck, and Sebastian catches that.

Looping an arm around Arthur’s back the man props himself up with yet another groan.

“I ain’t seen anyone more stubborn than you.” Arthur speaks up again.

“Yeah. Me either...”

He liked that: looking at him. He’s handsome and not deserving the shit this world gave him.

“Now let’s get that kid Kieran.”

“Yeah.” Determination grows on Sebastian’s features.

 Downstairs they couldn’t help running into Sean; boy’s been frantic trying his best to keep up with camp chores and whatnot, but somehow still ended up sleeping somewhere in some uncomfortable pose. He ain’t gonna question that. And maybe that was for the worst ‘cause now Sean tagged along with them and the moment he saw Isaac there lad knit his eyebrows and felt like he swore on Christ and the Virgin Mary not to let any harm come to the boy. And that’s just hoping trouble ain’t finding Sean first.

But Sadie ain’t protested so it’s the 4 of them and the kid that set out and for now he ain’t as scared as he could be.

The road takes them past Caliga Hall, towards the Kamassa River, they follow the water’s bend, until he recognizes the Eris Fields to their left, and further up ahead he remembers that bridge: took towards the Marshes, Bluewater were they called? Sadie rode hard the entire time. Sean tried talking, maybe ‘cause he ain’t doing good in the silence, but silence’s what he got.

“If we’re lookin’ for a spooky place that one’s pretty much fittin’ the description.” Sean spoke again.

It looked like an abandoned town. He’s passed here before, he remembers that collapsed church, the graves. Isaac read them all –all died 1893, just a month after it was all built. And at that moment Isaac looked at him:

“Ain’t this?-”

Sadie jumped down from saddle: “We take it from foot here.” She took her gun.

“We sure there’s O’Driscoll’s there?” Sean wasn’t all convinced. “It’s lookin’ pretty quiet for the lot of ‘em if you ask me.”

“There still looks to be guards out.” Sebastian intervened. “Look. There.”

A man in the characteristic green, slumped over with what looked like a riffle for support. He ain’t looking at all lively. Something felt off.

“Me and Sadie go up ahead.” Arthur said. “Sean, Sebastian, you hang back for support in case there’s more o’em coming from behind-” Sean almost protested. “Don’t want a word of it, Sean. Isaac, you too, go with ‘em.”

His son picked out the riffle that was now stored on Big Sir – it previously belonged on Ghost.

No turning back now; Sadie already went up ahead. It’s with big steps that Arthur follows behind, one pat on the revolver’s bed, synching his movement for a quick draw. Hands quickly return to holding the Repeater.

It’s Sadie that shoots first; there was no opposition from that guard except one panicked jerk up. Body falls. She rushes inside. Arthur takes one more glance back at the other three before heading in himself. There’s already gunshots. A scream from Sadie. Guns blazing, there’s already 2 dead inside. Arthur adds another to the count.

“There’s more in the other room!” Sadie shouts, and indeed O’Driscolls pour out.

One’s shot right in the doorframe; the one behind stumbles over it. He meets the same crude fate with a bullet to the head. Arthur took care of the 2 other left in that main room.

There’s gunshots outside now too. And a muffled scream for below the floorboards. Kieran? Sadie caught that too: her gaze darts downwards.

“Guess he’s in the cellar-” Arthur speaks but he ain’t getting to finish that.

Sadie rushes by him joining the gunfight outside. A peak out: there’s at least 13 of them. But he ain’t sure about the rest of ‘em.

They gotta hold out.

“Com’on.” Arthur psyches himself up while darting past the battlefield.

There’s a few stray bullets that try to get a hold of him. Better luck next time. He searches for the entrance to the cellar- Another O’Driscoll jumps out, knife in hand. Arthur darts back; the tip of the blade cut his vest. Arthur ducks and tackles the other with force to the ground. Man swats the knife, before dropping it on impact. Fists come raining and the O’Driscoll ain’t moving soon, face a pool of blood.

It’s only now he notices the rashes on the man’s skin. The fact that he had a gun he ain’t used... Heart sinks. He turns the downed O’Driscoll’s face with the tip of his boot as he stood up, the sin looked like that of a carcass and that can’t all be his doing...

He gotta find that Kieran soon, that if these bastards ain’t eaten him alive, or worse yet, left the job half finished.

There’s the cellar. He blasts the lock open with the sawed-off shotgun and dashes inside. There ain’t no light down there and Arthur’s feelin’ like it takes too goddamn long until he fumbles the lantern alight. There’s growling around him.

And when he shines light into the room he sees no less than three O’Driscolls drooling and clattering their teeth, hogtied with rope, as if they belonged in an insane asylum. And then there’s Kieran, bound and gagged with an arm bleeding. When seeing Arthur boy struggles against the restraints.

“I gotchu now, stay calm.” Kieran relaxes onto the chair as he goes to cut off the rope and take the gag out.

One glance is spared for that wounded arm: someone gnawed at it. Jesus Christ! Poor bastard... And as soon as he’s free Kieran clutches that arm against his chest with his other one. A hand on the back to guide him out. The gunshots stopped.

“Th-thank you, Arthur.” Kieran mutters on the stairs.

“Don’t you worry ‘bout it.”

“Y-you saved my life...”

“You saved mine once before, it’s the least I could do.”

“I... Thank you.”

Arthur pats the boy on the back: “It’s okay, kid.”

“Arthur!” That’s Sean calling, he came running. “Sebastian’s calling for ya’.”

Arthur strides forward, letting go of Kieran, then before he forgot turns to them: “Sean, help him up on Big Sir, would you.”

“Sure.”

When he reaches around the house, Sebastian was buzzing from place to place like an angry hornet while Sadie stared at the barn doors. They were sealed shut and it read: STAY OUT PLAGUE. A hand rushes up to cover his mouth and rub his beard. Christ. So a plague is what caused them undead.

He goes to meet Sebastian, whose head was in the ground, deep in thought; man wanted to shake Arthur off when he put his hands on his shoulders.

“Look at me.” Arthur tells him quietly. “Sebastian-”

“That Cajun was right.” Sebastian growls, muscles releasing the tension they were holding before. “If only I was here back then-” Arthur holds him firmer. “Joseph might still be-”

“Shshsh...” Hand switch from cupping the man’s shoulders to cupping his face, but Sebastian grits his teeth and grips Arthur’s collar between his fists.

“You don’t get it. I let this happen. It’s my fault-”

“You ain’t lettin’ it happen again.” His voice raises only to meet Sebastian’s volume.

“PA!” Isaac shouts from somewhere, and his attention’s fully focused on that now; and so’s Sebastian. “Com’ere a moment!”

They both rush to do so.

There’s more writing on the walls of that home: BEWARE RUVIC, though he ain’t sure if that’s an C or a K ‘cause half of it is missing’, the other smudged off at the corner. He also ain’t sure if RUVIC’s two words or one. Arthur takes out his journal and the engraved pen from his satchel to start drawing it. The blue lines hold out better.

“You think that’s a name?” Isaac asks.

“Could be.” Sebastian muses. “Or some abreviation.”

“From what?”

“Don’t know.”

“We gonna find that out.” Arthur scratches his beard again, “But first we gotta take Kieran back. Those undead took a bite outta him.”

Isaac’s mouth hangs open, while Sebastian’s scrunches shut.

“He’s on your horse, Isaac, you can go on ahead.”

Boy nods, springs up and sprints away.

Sadie hands back and so does Sean:

“So what the hell’s this all about?” Sean speaks up.

“It’s some disease.” Sebastian says, mounting up. “It turns people idiots and deranged.”

Isaac’s off already, Kieran holding onto the boy for dear life ‘cause Big Sir sprung straight to a swift gallop.

“So they lose the ability to speak and go wild like animals?” Sadie asks.

“Pretty much.” Arthur chimes in. “Saw a couple of ‘em chained up in the basement next to Kieran.”

“And they gain a taste for human flesh.” Sebastian elaborate further.

“Jesus!” Sean and Sadie alike.

“Ain’t sounding like it’s anythin’ natural.” Sean throws out his opinion.

“Are people even capable of doing that?” Sadie ain’t fully convinced.

“If RUVIC’s anything to go by,” Sebastian starts. “I’d say it’s a human. Or a bunch o’em.”

Sadie sighed: “Then it’s a good thing we got rid of ‘em, I say.”

“Yeah.” Sean chimed in.

 The road back feels faster, mind’s a’gallop, runnin’ to catch some coherence before it goes entirely insane. It ain’t no wonder such things are making Sebastian toss at night. They tortured him once before and now came for seconds. And for that man’s sanity and the hope that the world ain’t entirely gone to shit they gotta find some reason to this – the man, or men, behind it all.

And for that they gotta set out again.

Only their welcome back ain’t one reserved for victors.

“What you done now, Morgan...” Micah cackles from where he was leaned on a tree, sharpening something with a knife.

He ain’t replied, but Dutch glared at him as if he just murdered a gang member. He can’t stand it, and soon neither can Dutch:

“Did I tell you you can go fetch him, Arthur?” Tone’s low and scolding.

“I told you why.”

“Not that you were actually going through with it?” Dutch stepped forward, eyebrows drawn together. Arthur squared his shoulders. “What the hell happened to you, Arthur?...”

“Could ask the same of you, Dutch...” They’re measuring each other up with glances. “What happened to taking care of folk?”

“And what happened to loyalty, son?...”

“Been loyal, Dutch. Always.”

Dutch slowly backs away as if he’s letting Arthur have this, but no, now he spoke louder: “Then don’t you trust my judgment!?”

“Well, me and Sadie felt different.” Arthur retorts.

“Then what next!? You gonna feel different and put a gun to my head, Arthur?”

“Now that ain’t true.” Sean butts in. “Ain’t you heard him, he cares for folk. It’s why we all went to get that other Irish bastard. Can’t stand the focker but I ain’t standing Micah either ‘n Arthur busted that walkin’ shite outta prison anyway.”

Dutch’s scowl could have murdered on its own. Arthur holds Sean back before either of ‘em draw or throw a punch.

And in all o’ this Hosea was quiet. But Sadie wasn’t:

“Unless you wanted to fight diseased, half dead, feral O’Driscolls I’d say we did you a favor.”

“The what?...” Now Hosea spoke up.

“Yeah.” Sadie continued. “The bastards that came and took Kieran were more dead than alive.”

“Found 3 of ‘em chained up in the basement growling and drooling like animals.” Isaac chimes in.

Dutch’s eyes grow wide.

“Ain’t you seen the bastards bit chunks of that boy’s arm off?” Sadie continues.

“... I guess in that case... thank you.” Hosea at least had the dignity to accept defeat. Dutch didn’t, just stood quiet where he was. “Arthur... Maybe you should keep an eye out for that.”

“Already on it, me an’ Sebastian. Found this person, RUVIC, his name on the walls where Kieran was held.”

“Okay...” Hosea sounded half terrified. “I’ll see if I can poke my nose into it too.”

“Thank you, Hosea.”

[flannelpunkcalum]

The Devil Wears Kevlar - Part 7

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

it’s crazy how i’ve been doing this for almost two months huh? the next week the chapter is a little short so to celebrate the real two month-aversary I was thinking about updating twice? let me know what you think but I’d just feel bad with the shorter chapter and hopefully I’ll have more time this summer so I won’t need chapters in the bank. but the suspense is a big draw for you guys, right? anyway content warning for violence again

She comes back to consciousness slowly, achingly. One thought after the other.

Ow.

Aspen’s mouth feels like foam.

The chair she's in is really uncomfortable.

Sound really echoes in this place.

Ow.

She's cold.

Ow.

Something is digging into her ankles.

Ow.

Ow.

Ow.

Aspen drags her head up and blinks her eyes open. Shapes and colours blur together for a long moment - she huffs out a breath and squints. Things sharpen.

The walls around her are concrete - it's all unfinished, wherever this is. It’s breezy. She can't see any door, and the only light is from some industrial floodlight pointed into a corner. There are dropcloths all over - in fact, there's one under the chair she's sitting in.

Well. Shit.

Now that she's looking around with her stiff neck - her ankles are chained to the legs of the chair she's in. Not delicately, either, the chain’s wound around each of her ankles a couple of times and tight. Her arms - she wiggles experimentally - they're chained too, to something behind her. At least, that's sure as hell what they feel like. She's no expert. She's never been kidnapped before.

Fuck. Aspen forces herself to take a deep breath, and then another, but it doesn't work. She's panicking. And you know what, fucking goddamn right, she doesn't know where she is or how she got here or what’s going on-

A door slams open behind her and she jumps. The chains click a little. It’s a metal foldout, the kind you’d find in a church basement. Any information feels essential, in this state - even turning her head, she can’t see who’s come in. The tears in her eyes make everything blurry again.

“Aspen? Oh, you’re awake, I’m - glad.” Liam comes into her field of vision.

Liam. It all rush through her mind again; the elevator, the garage. There’s a deep ache in her bicep that starts to throb as she remembers it all.

“Here, have some water.”

Aspen is parched, but as Liam holds out a water bottle she doesn’t lean forwards to try and drink. “What the fuck is this?” She says, trying to ignore the way her voice cracks. She looks around again, sees city lights out between the scaffolding. This must be a construction site. Fuck, she’s up so high.

That wasn’t what Liam was looking for, apparently, because he draws the water bottle back and looks wounded. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and sweatpants, and that alone his almost as eerie as this whole damn thing; she’s never seen him in anything but a suit before. There are dark stains on the pants that she’s praying are motor oil. “I just want to get you home, Aspen, I- this wasn’t supposed to happen. You’ll be fine as long as you listen to me, I promise.”

That’s what does it - Aspen makes her hands into fists behind her back, but it doesn’t help, the tears are already falling hot on her cheeks. She doesn’t want him to see her cry, goddamn it. She turns her head away, into her shoulder. She’s still wearing her cardigan. Thank god. She doesn’t know what she’d do if she was stuck in just a slip and her bruises in this- in this-

“Oh, no, I- please don’t cry. It’s- there, there.”

She feels Liam’s hand on her other shoulder and instinctively jerks away, as much as her bonds will let her. “Don’t touch me.” She hisses, even though it sounds pitiful. She can’t look at him, she’ll implode.

After a long moment, she feels him draw away and move around her. She hears his footsteps drag over the concrete. A door behind her closes. She is alone.

She weeps.

This was never supposed to happen. If she was at the mercy of some desperate person in an alley or one of the nightmare supervillains in this town it wouldn’t be so bad, but this is Liam. He let her borrow his stapler and now he’s got a sheet out so her blood won’t stain the floor. Aspen isn’t sensitive, but now she weeps, like she’s a fucking princess in a tower. Only now, she’s an office worker in a a half-constructed skyscraper and she’s going to die here.

She cries her throat raw.

Eventually, she gets her bearings back. She forces herself to take breaths so deep her lungs hurt until she calms down. Wipes her face as best she can on the shoulders of her cardigan. She’ll survive this. She’ll survive this. She has to.

She doesn’t know how long it is until she hears voices outside and she tenses up again, drawing her shoulders back and down like her shoulder blades are plates of armour. She doesn’t know how long she’s been left alone down here. She can’t make out what the people out there are saying, but the voices are low and angry until the door flies open and crashes against the wall, enough to make her gasp.

“-isn’t gonna be happy about this, you know he wanted-”

“Didn’t I say I’d take care of it? Back off, or I’ll tell him exactly how you tried to get in my way.” That’s Liam. The door slams behind her again and she sucks in a breath, in case what comes next hurts, but it’s Liam again, striding over to her. His body is drawn tight - his hands are in fists, too. “How are you doing? You ready to answer some questions for me?” He says, in a voice meant to be gentle. It almost works.

Aspen makes herself take another deep breath. She’s not gonna get out of here if she can’t keep from crying. “Is that why I’m here? Liam, I don’t know anything, I don’t know anything that justifies this, I don’t-”

“Don’t scare yourself, sweetheart, I’m sure we can take care of this.” Liam says, reaching for the same uncapped bottle of water he first offered her. “Here, you want some water now?”

Aspen almost nods. Her mouth tastes like the rest of her feels, and she’s lost a lot of water, but there could be something in that bottle meant to make her fall apart again. “You drink first.” She says.

Liam’s brow creases, and he looks at the water in his hand for a moment until - Liam isn’t easy to read, but she sees something come clear behind his eyes. He understands. He almost looks hurt that she thinks he’d do such a thing, which - dick. “If that’s what you want,” he says, and takes a long sip, wiping his mouth as if to accentuate how safe this is. “It’s fine. I swear.”

Aspen doesn’t need any more than that. “Please,” she says, but before she has to beg anymore Liam is kneeling beside her and tilting the water into her mouth gently. She still nearly chokes on it, but the water is sweet and glorious and she almost feels human by the time he draws back.

“Better?” He asks, and she tries not to be too eager when she nods. “Good. I’m glad. Think you can help me out now?”

That, she isn’t so sure about. “I don’t know what you think I know, Liam. I really don’t.” She says slowly. She doesn’t want to be stupid, she wants to survive this, but - fuck.

Liam’s still kneeling beside her. “Falcone just wants to know a little about Mr. Hood’s plans in the next few days, and you’re smart, I know you-”

“Wait, Don Falcone? Tell him to make a fucking appointment.” If she is chained up in this fucking construction site because one of her boss’ parters doesn’t want to wait to see Calum, Jesus Christ, she’s gonna throw a fit.

Liam looks like her response personally agonized him. “Aspen, please. I shouldn’t have - look, let’s start with something easy, what time does Hood usually get to work in the mornings?”

Aspen doesn't answer. Why would Don Falcone have her kidnapped and tied up to ask about his schedule? Why would he- what does he want with Calum that would make him do this? “Liam, what's going on?” She asks, after a long moment.

“I'm asking the questions, Aspen,” but Liam hesitates even in the cliché and it is not reassuring.

“Please.”

Liam puts the water down and stands up, running a hand through his hair. He turns away from her and looks over Gotham’s skyline, a silhouette against light pollution. To think, probably. All this silence feels worse than if he just told her outright he was going to kill her, which- he wouldn't. Liam wouldn’t.

Of course, Aspen had been pretty sure he wouldn't kidnap her, too.

“...I've already said more than you should know.” Liam mumbles. He's still not looking at her. “All you need to know is that even if it doesn't feel like it, I'm on your side. Okay? I know I've been terrible to you, I know I was a prick at work and all, but this is serious. It’s real. And I- I really don't want to have to hurt you.

“Aspen. God, that's the last thing I want.” Liam turns back to her with wide and desperate eyes, so much so that she almost believes him. “If you trust me, I promise you that I'll make sure you're safe. Just for once in your fucking life cooperate and we’ll both come out fine.”

This is probably meant to make her feel better, feel safe. It doesn't. What is Liam Payne - twice her size Liam, legs like tree trunks Liam, held her down with one hand Liam - what is he so afraid of? Aspen knows it's in her best interest not to find out.

But he's asking her about Calum.

She kissed Calum.

Aspen doesn't know how she would feel about giving up her boss’s schedule if they hadn't- she doesn't know. She’ll never know. All she's certain of is that right now, she's not telling Liam a fucking thing.

She just looks through him. Fixes her eyes on the wall behind him, on the pits she can see in the concrete. If he wanted her cooperation, he shouldn't have chained her up.

He made the wrong fucking choice.

The silence isn't completely lost on Liam, and Aspen can see him shuffle nervously. “...I know you’re mad at me. And once this is done you can be as furious as you like, you can scream at me, anything. Just right now, I need you to play along. Please.”

Liam sounds scared, but Aspen doesn't look at him.

“Hey, I know you must be uncomfortable, I know you must be sore. I can help get you home in twenty minutes if you tell me about Mr. Hood’s plans on Monday. I promise.

“Aspen, I've never broke a promise to you.”

The light in the corner buzzes faintly.

“Look at me.”

She doesn't.

“Hey. Hey. Look at me. I need you to tell me what you know or we’re both going to get- Aspen, this is serious. You know what Don Falcone can do.” He grabs her chin, twisting her head so she has to look at him. She doesn't meet his eyes. She can't. She's not going to. This is all she has control over and she's not going to lose it so soon. “Talk to me. Monday morning. What. Time?”

Liam is getting angry. She can feel it in his grip - he’s not hurting her yet, but his fingers positively thrum with anger like a note through piano wire.  Her stomach seizes up, but she keeps her eyes fixed over his left shoulder. He's not going to break her. He's not.

They stay like that, for a long time. Really, probably fifteen seconds, but for every one of those seconds Aspen is drawn tight, waiting for the inevitable blow. Watching his shoulders carefully for anything that could warn her. Forcing herself not to squeeze her eyes shut. This is an interrogation, he’s gonna hurt her eventually, and at least she knows it’s coming. She’s going to be brave for as long as she can.

He lets her go.

Aspen lets out a breath, shoulders sagging, and then he hits her.

It doesn't hurt, not at first. There was a flicker of movement above her, and then her head snaps to the side from Liam’s backhand. She doesn't move as feeling creeps back into her face, and with it pain, pain like sparks.

Liam clears his throat. “Please don't make me do that again.”

Aspen forces herself to turn to look at him.

He’s got his fists clenched, but not like weapons; he looks shaken, too. She doesn't sympathize.

It's not that she doubted he would hit her. He held her down on concrete and stuck a needle into the meat of her bicep, of course he’d slap her. It's just all so appallingly wrong.

“Fuck you.” She hisses, turning her eyes back on him.

Liam rubs his forehead and looks away. He seems exhausted, all of a sudden. Aspen’s so sorry if the emotional burden of slapping her around was too much. “At least you're talking.” He murmurs. She thinks she wasn't meant to hear it.

“Fuck you.” She says again, louder this time. “Don't try to pretend you're on my fucking side, don't act like you're trying to protect me when the whole reason I'm here is because you attacked me. I don't trust you and I'm not gonna tell you shit.”

Liam doesn't even look that hurt, which pisses Aspen off more. He just looks stressed out, like this is one of his sales things gone wrong and not her fucking life. “You will, though. One way or another. Don't you get it? Don Falcone is coming here in less than an hour and if you haven't told me about Calum’s plans there's gonna be people with him who can make you say anything. I know you think you're strong but they will break you in ten minutes if you don’t- don't make this difficult, please. If you want to keep both your, your pretty fuckin’ eyes in your head, you'll tell me what I want right now.”

Liam’s not lying. Aspen knows he's been lucky, that he's gone easy on her for a mobster.

She knows she can't be brave forever. They will hurt her and bleed her until they get what they want from her, and if she's lucky that will be all. Maybe Liam will save her, then, if there's anything left to be saved. Maybe he won't.

But she can be brave for now.

For now, she's not going to answer Liam’s questions. When he hurts her enough to wear her thin, she will lie. And if he realizes, if it comes to that, she'll bite her tongue until she can't anymore. Until they force it out of her. They'll make her talk, she knows that. It's just a question of when.

Not fucking now, that’s when.

“Great,” Liam sighs as he realizes she's clammed up again. “Do I need to hit you again? I will. If that's what it takes.” Aspen flinches as he raises his hand, but he drops it back down after a long second and takes a step back, running a hand through his hair again. “You ever seen someone get their teeth yanked out? ‘S not pretty. You should talk to me before it gets to that point.”

Aspen still doesn't relax, not until he kneels down beside her again. At least if he attacks her from there he won't have a height advantage. “I know you don't want to believe me, but I've been looking out for you this whole time.” He says.

Liar.

“You want to know why I tried to keep you from taking this job?” He continues quietly. “To avoid this. To keep you safe. I knew if things didn't go right, I would have to, um, talk to Hood's assistant. You're- well, you were my friend. I didn't want to see you hurt. I still don't. I tried to get his plans other ways, but- you got in the way.”

Liar, Aspen thinks at him, but her mind is whirring. She knows this is probably just a ruse to make her trust him, but it’s not going to work, even when… I mean, what else would make Liam so desperate to kick her out that he’d try to tell her boss she wasn’t interested after the job interview? He had liked her before all this mess started, she was sure of it, they’d been friends- there’s not much else that can poison their relationship but this kind of fear. Him trying to get the schedule, Don Falcone’s visit - it all made too much sense.

It’s a lot to take in; Aspen had been sure Liam hated her for weeks and now this, and the tenderness, and - like, he did hit her, and that’s damn near unforgivable, but he does just want to help, she thinks. He’s just gonna get her killed doing it.

“I know I don't deserve your trust.” Liam continues, still in his softest voice. “But I need you to give it to me. Just for now. Let me take care of this and I promise you you'll be safe. Aspen. Please. Let me do this for you.”

He doesn’t have to grab her chin this time to make her look at him. Maybe Liam knows it, maybe he’s done this before, but either way he’s saying exactly what she wants to hear.

Aspen might have courage, but she is terrified. Determined or not, she is still so very human and she doesn’t want to get hurt, she doesn’t want to die. She anticipated getting the information dragged out of her with pliers and pain, but in Liam’s big, worried eyes she’s thisclose to telling him every fucking thing.

“Calum Hood can’t possibly be paying you enough to stay quiet.” Continues Liam, like he’s egged on by her silence. “No fucking promotion is worth this.”

Aspen doesn’t want Liam to talk any more about what makes Calum worth this. She breaks her meager silence. “Why are you even after him? He’s like the best-protected guy in Gotham.”

“Don’t worry about that.”

Aspen immediately worries about that.

Don Falcone is Calum’s family friend. There’s no reason for this, even by mafia standards. Kidnapping her in the parking garage - that wasn’t subtle. It’s a high-risk move by whoever’s pulling the strings. This can’t be some weird way of securing a business deal, or blackmail material - somehow she thinks there’s got to be better way to get incriminating information than tying up some poor secretary in here.

It’s got to be something bigger.

What the fuck does that leave? Why can’t Liam’s boss just make a fucking lunch appointment? What does he want with one of the richest CEOs in Gotham that he can’t get without-

Oh.

“Aspen? Hey. Look at me.” Aspen’s lungs feel tight as Liam reaches for her face again. She’d been staring into middle distance trying to figure this thing out - and it’s big, shit. She turns her head before Liam touches her, but when their eyes meet-

She sees him raise his hand again, turns her head before he can hit her, but he grabs her hair and hauls her head in close to his. She squirms in his grip, but his eyes are boring into hers and she knows he sees her eureka moment written all over her face.

They’re frozen in tableau for a long moment. Aspen can only hear her heartbeat in her ears and traffic on the streets below.

This is what Aspen knows.

Aspen knows she is trapped in a strange half-constructed room with the man who chained her there. She knows that he is trying to convince her to trust him. She knows that he is not on her side, whatever side that may be.

She doesn’t know if anyone has noticed she’s gone.

She doesn’t know if anyone is gonna find her. Or her body.

She knows that she kissed her boss and that now he is in danger and she knows she is very stupid for this but she’s going to try to hold out.

And now, she knows this; there is a killer in Gotham who is hunting the rich and powerful. She knows Don Falcone is strange and sinister, and she knows Liam is working for him. She knows they’ve been trying to trap her rich and powerful boss. She knows that it would be all too easy for the Don to “kidnap” himself, remove himself from suspicion. She knows the reports said he got beat up, but she also knows he kept a lunch appointment with Calum the day after, so how bad could it be?

She knows Don Falcone is the villain the police have been looking for and he’s going to be here in a few minutes to watch her bleed until he has the information he wants.

This is what Liam knows; Aspen knows too much.

[ariadnelives]

Chapter 21 -- The Dossier

[Missed earlier chapters? Go catch up here! Otherwise, welcome back! Oh, and make sure to join our discord server! Chapter can also be found @ ao3”]

“So, before we start, what did we end up doing with the, uh,” Ariadne asked as the crew filed into the briefing room, “gift from our new friend?”

“The what?” Sweettalk asked.

“The head,” Sasha replied.

“Ah,” Sweettalk said, “don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to, boss.”

“Noted,” Ariadne conceded, “Spacebreather, would you care to catch the crew up on what we learned from Prescott’s dossier?”

Spacebreather nodded. “Our target is The Zealot, and we now know his true name to be Dr. C. Alexander Simon. Archival photos of him match up with the photo we received from La Pesadilla, and our friend ViLaz.” Spacebreather jerked her head in the general direction of a visibly distraught ViLaz. “Much of this information concerns ViLaz directly, so for the sake of her privacy, we will only be sharing details which she has agreed to disclose publicly. Everything else will be kept absolutely need-to-know.”

ViLaz seemed barely able to hold herself together. Tears were welling up in her eyes, which would have come as a surprise to anyone who was paying close attention to her eyes, since one of them was synthetic and no longer should have had the ability to produce tears.

Spacebreather continued, “ViLaz has been raised to believe that Dr. Simon is her biological father. Technically this is true, but not in the sense you’d expect. He is, in fact, her sole biological donor. According to Prescott’s dossier, ViLaz is one of three genetic identicals produced from Dr. Simon’s DNA.”

“So, she’s a clone?” Taryn called out.

Spacebreather wiggled her hand noncommittally. “See, that’s what I said too, I don’t really understand it, but… Ariadne?”

“Well, yes and no,” Ariadne explained. “For lack of a better term, the process used to create them could be described as ‘cloning,’ but it’s important to note that she while her DNA was taken from Dr. Simon, she does not seem to be genetically identical to Dr. Simon himself.”

ViLaz flinched at this.

Ariadne continued, “Prescott’s intel tells us that Dr. Simon’s area of expertise before his theories were discredited and the controversy surrounding his experiment forced him to retire in disgrace was the search for a way to induce biological immortality in humans or, failing that, maintain continuity of consciousness.”

Spacebreather restrained herself from smiling. “And when you finally get her to translate that from nerd, what you basically get is that he wanted to either find a way to make you live forever, or to put your brain in a new body.”

Sweettalk’s hand shot up.

Spacebreather pointed at her. “Not a classroom, ask your question.”

“That doesn’t sound all that controversial, I mean,” she said, “That just sounds like basic medical stuff. Sasha’s whole shtick is cheating death, right?”

“The concept is not what was controversial. The methods, on the other hand…” Ariadne began, glancing over to ViLaz, who was silently crying and hoped no one would notice. Everyone collectively decided to pretend they didn’t, and Ariadne continued, “he was spearheading a project that would allow a dying person to save their consciousness and memories to computer, and then, using the indoctrination tech we learned about from La Pesadilla, eventually download that mind into a new body. In order for the transplant to take, the body would have to be a close blood relative, and it wouldn’t do any good to have the new body die from the same thing as the old one, so the goal of the experiment was to create a genetically engineered clone designed to withstand whatever killed them the last time.”

“Rumor has it, Dr. Simon is not well,” Spacebreather said flatly, “some kind of terminal genetic condition that killed his father, and grandfather, and great-grandfather, and all of his relatives born with a Y-chromosome, in their 40s. Based on ViLaz’s recollection, that’s about how old our Zealot would be right around now. Our belief is that he continued his experiments after he was forced to retire, hoping to create a new host body that wouldn’t fall ill like his original body.”

“Hoping to create, as our Dossier calls it,” Ariadne paused, “a Viable Lazarus.”

The crowd murmured in shock and, again, collectively pretended to not notice ViLaz crying.

“Dear lord,” Sasha whispered, “ViLaz, I’m so—”

“Don’t call me that!” She spat back.

“I’m sorry,” Sasha said quietly, and backed off.

“My visions of the Red God always told me that I was to be his vessel in the material world,” ViLaz explained, wiping her tears off on her sleeve, “he said that my father’s body was too weak and infirm, and that he needed a strong healthy vessel to carry his word to the people.”

“Jesus Christ,” Ariadne said, “the whole time you knew you were being used as an… an organ farm?!”

“The Red God told me I was to be his prophet,” ViLaz replied. “It just all seems a little too coincidental, if the Red God spent all those years telling me to give up control of my body, and now I find out my father created me as a host for himself. It’s… blasphemous that he would use an ancient and beautiful religion just to manipulate people like this.”

There was a fairly stunned silence through the entire hall, which is more or less to be expected whenever someone’s religious beliefs, or lack thereof, suddenly become a central fixture in a conversation where they were not expected. Of course, in most situations, it would simply be a matter of opinion, and most people would simply let it slide rather than get into a theological debate that no one could ever possibly definitively win.

Ariadne had two reasons for not letting this particular statement slide. The first was that she was a very passionate Atheist, and unfortunately had a rather nasty habit of being somewhat condescending when discussing it, especially towards those who still subscribed to the religion she practiced as a young girl. The second, and the much more important reason was that ViLaz’ statement about her religious beliefs was objectively, factually incorrect.

“V— Sugar …” Ariadne caught herself before using the name that would remind ViLaz of her father’s machinations, and knelt down to meet her gaze, “first of all, people have been using religion to manipulate people since the first caveman found a rock to worship. Second, I hate to break this to you, but the Red God cul— church— is not an ancient religion.”

ViLaz looked confused and upset. “What?”

“The earliest written references to it are in the last few years,” Ariadne said, “most of the scripture we’ve gathered just seems like watered down Christian Dogma, we think that’s why he had all those Church documents and artifacts. He was studying the growth of an effective religion so that he could pervert it to his own ends. His servants just told you it was an ancient religion to put the pressure on to do what he wants.”

Something dropped within ViLaz, as though she’d just looked at her entire world from a distance only to realize it was nothing more than a rubber balloon floating five feet in front of her face.

“The Red God really was just him all along, wasn’t he?”

Ariadne sensed that she had perhaps been too blunt, and quickly tried to turn the conversation around. “Come on, let’s get you to the library. Fastwing?”

“Yeah boss?” Alicia asked from somewhere near the end of the crowd.

“Take… our young friend to the library, find her a really good book, read it with her, and help her pick out a new name. I think there’s a lot more to her than just a Viable Lazarus, and I think she deserves a name that captures that.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Alicia said, and walked up to ViLaz. “Come on, babe, let’s get you a nice cocoa too.”

“Cocoa?” She asked as she was ushered out the door.

“Oh man,” Alicia said, “your day is about to get so much better.”

Once they were out of the room, Spacebreather continued the briefing. “The cult, the whole religious aspect, was just a front to get more test subjects. From what ViLaz has been telling us, right now he can only permanently take over one of the clones’ bodies if they consent to the transfer. But, there’s a reason why everybody who goes into the Life Centers seems to come out a suddenly devout missionary.”

Ariadne picked up here, sensing that Pilar didn’t like describing the more technical aspects of the dossier. “With the data Prescott gave us, our best guess is that the Suffering Test they administer at their life center uses the same tech from the Immersion Pods. It overwrites people’s personalities entirely and turns them into mindless zombies who live only to serve the cult. He shows them some horrible vision of the hell they’re going to, and they’re so scared they sign up for the conditioning. I’m assuming that’s how he got the Acolytes to raise ViLaz the way they did, so during our assault on their compound, let’s try to remember that it’s generally unethical to kill the mind-controlled.”

“We think he probably appropriated the name Ariadne for his prophet character in order to capitalize on our legend,” Spacebreather explained, “he probably figured there was no real Ariadne and that it was just some name punk kids gave when they were arrested, and decided that claiming to have the Real Ariadne would bring in lots of new curious people that he could subject to his brainwashing.”

Sweettalk, having taken her earlier admonishment to heart for the first time ever, spoke without raising her hand. “This is all really nice to know, but Prescott promised a Silver Bullet. How does any of this help us take him down?”

“The implants in the clones’ heads are linked to a master unit directly controlled by Dr. Simon. It’s how he was able to make ViLaz see the Red God and—” Ariadne paused for a moment and considered the ramifications of telling a partial truth, then decided to give only the information her crew absolutely needed to know, “It’s how we’re going to find him. All we have to do is reactivate the implant and with a little clever hacking thanks to yours truly, we should be able to pinpoint the other implants it’s linked to and reveal the true location of their compound. We’re going to need time to prepare, and a much larger strike force than we had at the casino. Deathsbane, I’d feel safer if you picked out an apprentice and started showing her the ropes, we’re going to need a medic on the ground and another on call in the ship with Fastwing.”

“Sasha will remain in the ship, her apprentice can join us in the assault.” Pilar said flatly.

“I thought we were past this,” Ariadne sighed, “we got kidnapped and she got arrested last time you—”

“And last time we let her go planetside with us, someone died.”

Sasha turned bright red, which Sweettalk noticed and felt a near-compulsive urge to defend her. “Nobody that mattered! And besides, you can’t possibly blame her for—”

“Do me a favor and shut your goddamn mouth, Sweettalk,” Spacebreather said.

Sweettalk was taken aback, but stood up and tried to stretch to Pilar’s height. “What did you just say to me?”

Sasha was somewhat stressed. Her sister was wrong, but she still didn’t want to see her get punched, especially not when she already held such a grudge against Sweettalk as it was.

Ariadne desperately wanted to keep the peace, so she attempted reason again. “Remember what Beam said—”

Pilar swung around to face Ariadne and held up her index finger to cut her off. “I… Said… No… End of discussion.”

Spacebreather then stormed out of the room, leaving everyone too stunned to respond.

Sasha stood up. “Thank you for standing up for me,” she said to Sweettalk and started walking toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Sweettalk asked.

“I’m finally standing up for myself.”

[smokeyloki]

An Introduction - OC and Nightcrawler (Catholic Superheroes)

        Sister Mary had more than enough words for the young priest when he entered the rectory to find it one occupant short.

         “What did I say, Father Bartholomew?”  She always used his full name when he was in trouble.  “What did I say about that boy…if he even is that?  I said not to leave him, and here he is, gone without a trace!”

         As Sister Mary continued to lecture, Fr. Barry took the time to place the plastic bags of groceries onto the countertop, trying not to rustle them too loudly over the sound of Sister’s complaints.  Then he removed his glasses and began polishing them in a methodical, circular motion against a fold of his cassock.  Sister Mary carried on for another moment without pause for breath; long enough for Fr. Barry to replace his glasses and step back into the conversation.

         “Are you sure he’s gone?”

         Sister jolted to a halt, not quite expecting the interruption.  Then she crossed her arms and jerked her head towards the guest room.

         “It’s empty, Father.  We’ve checked from top to bottom, even under the bed and in the closet.  He’s nowhere near the rectory, either.”

         “He’s in no fit condition to be moving about!” Fr. Barry retorted, as if that fact alone would be enough to deliver their patient back into his bed.  

         “Do you think I don’t know that?” rejoined Sister Mary.  She might’ve delivered another harsh statement, but one look at Fr. Barry’s tense posture and wild eyes told her that she had done enough scolding.  With a sigh, she let her arms fall to her sides.

         “Father, he’s disappeared.  We don’t know where he went.  I even sent Sister Theotokos to check the Church, but she didn’t find anything.”

         Fr. Barry crossed the floor to the rectory door, but paused to turn back. “Everywhere in the Church?” he asked.

         “I think so,” Sister nodded.  Fr. Barry pondered this statement, then slammed the door.  His footsteps faded as he set off in the direction of the Church.

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         At this time of day, the Church was a chilly, quiet place.  If it wasn’t for the ever-flickering flame of the Sanctuary Lamp, nor the knowledge of the Eternal Presence of Christ in the Eucharist, Fr. Barry might have seen the building as a place to be avoided.  Now he unlocked the wooden doors and crept inside, closing them behind him as quietly as possible.  Even with his attempts to mute all sound, the audible “click” of the shutting doors rang through the empty building, ringing off the high vaulted roof and losing itself in the shadows which the statues of saints and angels threw against the walls.  He stepped down the middle aisle, his footsteps covered by the worn red carpeting under his shoes.  Rows of pews, rich brown in color, pointed him towards the altar, which floated on an island of white stone.  Above the altar itself hung a crucifix, upon which a bleeding Christ surveyed the empty pews with a half-lidded gaze.  Fr. Barry stood before the figure, taking a moment to whisper a prayer to St. Anthony, whose patronage of Lost Things was invoked often for matters such as misplaced keys or glasses.  Now it was for the skinny boy with blue skin and a tail.

         “Watch over him…” Barry murmured, letting his gaze sweep the empty sanctuary, “Let him be-”

         Some movement caught the priest’s eye, pulling him from prayer and to the framed portrait of Mary which hung to the right of the altar.  The image itself was a glorious one; Mary was arrayed in splendid robes, surrounded by a halo of sunlight, with a golden crown atop her head. But her eyes were gentle and motherly, and her little painted smile was one which offered comfort.  In her arms was the baby Jesus, who looked out with as much compassion as his mother.  A few candles flickered before the image, but it was not the flames which attracted Fr. Barry’s attention.

         The boy was at the kneeler; Barry knew him immediately by the tail, which twitched periodically, though he remained quite still otherwise.

         “We didn’t know where you went,” Fr. Barry said, quietly.  The tail jerked, tensed, then drooped.  The boy lifted his head and fixed his eyes on Fr. Barry, who could see for the first time that they were a brilliant yellow, and seemed to glow in the dim lighting.  He took in Fr. Barry from top to bottom, noting the cassock, the priest’s raised hands, and the gentle smile, before turning back to the painting.  His hands were wrapped together.  As Fr. Barry drew near, he could hear a soft murmur.

         Could it be that this…boy…was praying?

         “Do you mind…?” Without waiting for a response, Fr. Barry settled himself on the kneeler beside the boy.  Again the yellow eyes tracked his movements.  He seemed to be waiting, as a lizard might if a person passes too closely by it on the sidewalk, tense, ready to spring if someone spoke too loudly or moved without warning.  As a general rule, Fr. Barry avoided doing these on a daily basis.  So they knelt in a silence that wasn’t unfriendly, broken only by the boy’s labored breathing (a testament that he was not well, and certainly in no condition to be in the church much longer).  Fr. Barry was finally tempted to engage in a conversation that was more than one-sided.

         “Are you Catholic?” he asked.  As the words left his mouth, it occurred to him that he didn’t know if the boy understood English.  Based on appearance alone, one would think him an alien from a distant planet!  Perhaps he spoke a dialect all his own.  But the response he received dispelled those fears:

         “Ja. I am.”

         His voice was a husky stage-whisper, and his words were wrapped in a thick accent which Fr. Barry couldn’t place.  Yet, they were English words, and it seemed that the priest and the boy had more in common than what appearances would suggest.  Fr. Barry had to marvel, even if only a moment, in this realization. The blue skin…the devil’s tail…the animalistic fingers and toes…and yet they both bowed before the figure on the Cross over the altar.  

         Fr. Barry tentatively brought one hand to rest on the boy’s shoulder.  He tensed; the tail twitched madly.  

         “I’m Fr. Barry,” the priest began softly, “I found you last night and brought you back to the rectory.  I’m happy to keep you here as long as you need, until you’re well enough to go back…well…excuse me, but I’m not sure where you come from, or even your name, for that matter.”

         He’d hoped to ease into a more amicable mood, to learn one or two things about their new guest, perhaps lay down the foundation for some trust and openness. However, based on the way the boy’s face twisted into a grimace, the hitch in his breath, and the way his tail lashed furiously to-and-fro, he had made a disastrous attempt.  He might have apologized, and was opening his mouth to do so, when the boy beat him with a few broken words that plunged their exchange into abrupt silence:

         “I don’t know it, either.”

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@supesofherown