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coffee-in-veins · 2 years

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Day 7: Greatest fear

an entry for darkest prompts promptober 2022

previous days: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

now available on ao3 too

sorry i’m a little bit late - life happened

Fear ARCHAIC - a mixed feeling of dread and reverence.

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It was never promised to a devotee that his life would be easy, yet to Reynauld's understanding, it was supposed to be determined at the very least. The Light shone Its Divine mercy on them all, guiding them through the turmoils of their mortal coil, and it was upon devotees themselves to make the most out of it. If they upheld their obligations and followed the Sacred Flames without a fault, the Lights bestowed Its Grace upon Its loyal followers. It was the eternal Flame that gave them the prosperity of loot-laden sacks, peace of ambushless nights and glory of victory. Like any devotee, the crusaders won through the Light's will, protecting Its people - even if those were merely his mercurial comrades. And when they lost the battle and had to abandon their righteous quest, the knight knew it was because they failed The Light's Plan, and thus, it was only fair that many of the crusader's short-lived companions died in mud and misery. Dying, they cursed their luck or gods when in truth they should have known it was all their fault. Somewhere, somehow, they didn't do what the Holy Flame willed, and It couldn't help them in their perpetual fight.

At least, that was what Church had taught them.

Was it that surprising, then, that Reynauld devoted each conscious moment of his life to praising the Light and Its Glory and making sure he did so appropriately? Considering the alternative of eternity in the cold, empty void, could anyone even blame him for being god-fearing? Those who mocked his devotions were foolhardy blaggards, unable to see the danger of the excruciating afterlife they were setting themselves up to suffer through.

Well, it was their own undoing. Reynauld did what he could, pushing to show them the Light's divine Glory and trying his best to convey the fear it should instil in any sane mortal man. After all, as much as Reynauld loved the Light and Its warm Luster, he feared Its wrath, feared displeasing it with a simple mistake, feared losing everything he had and everything he was broken for to become what he was in one fell swoop. He endured so much abuse to be forged into the Light's weapon, he suffered through so much hurt and humiliation to be deemed worthy of Light's miracles, that a mere thought of losing Light's everlasting embrace made the crusader's soul tremble like an aspen leaf.

And it was proper. And it was right. And it made sense.

He wasn't sure when the shift happened. A good leader protected his team within the realm of reason, that much was true, and yet there was something different in wanting to protect one particular squadmate he had acquired on the Old Road.

Each time Dismas wasn't quick enough to dodge, the crusader flinched worse than when someone spoke the wrong words during prayer. When the rogue wouldn't leave the den of sin others called Tavern for weeks on end at times, Rey couldn't concentrate on his litanies to the point of mindlessly repeating the same verses. When the insufferable highwayman was locked in the Sanatorium for the first time, Reynauld ashamed himself by falling into distress so deep that only the righteous agony of mortifying his own flesh and offering the purity of pain to the Light returned him to his senses.

It was the same fear - all-encompassing, consuming, everlasting. But instead of being devoted to the almighty entity worth every bit of it, to the cosmic being that held the whole world together in Its tender Splendor, this fear shifted into being about a single mortal man. A horrible man, a well of sins, someone fully deserving the title of a lost cause.

A man Reynauld couldn't imagine his life without anymore.

Before, all he could fear was losing the Light.

Now, each time the highwayman couldn't get up after the wounds he sustained, the crusader abandoned his station and his reason, rushing to Dismas' side, begging the Light to aid him, to drag the sinner from the brink of death. Fearing losing him even more than eternal damnation.

And yet as soon as the crisis passed, the fear of Godly abandonment reared its ugly head, forcing Rey to break the contact, clam up, and step away despite the pleas to stay and the barely hidden hurt in the rogue's dark eyes. When he wasn't afraid to lose Dismas, he suddenly remembered that his greatest fear was to displease the Light and lose Its Radiance in his life. That what he did, what he felt and thought was definitely against the Holy scriptures. That he was slipping into sin most heinous and would be responsible for dooming them both.

So he backed away as any believer should have.

He shut any talks down as any devotee should have.

He got angry as any zealot should have.

Until more blood was spilled from the battered body of his closest friend.

Until Abbot bellowed of filth and sin.

Until the confessions most delectable.

Until his devotion was publically questioned.

Until he finally knew what those scarred lips tasted like.

Until the realization caught up with him.

Until he was offered to stay.

Until the Light wouldn't hear his pleas for forgiveness.

Until he was caught during those zealous promises to forfeit what they became.

Back and forth, forth and back, like a saw slicing through the last string that held the whole world together. Was it that surprising that eventually it snapped, and everything tumbled down, down, down...?

Truly, the Abyss wasn't the deepest pit he had been to.

...as he was kneeling before the red-shrouded gravestone, watching blindly how the intricately carved candles cried wax for what could have been, for the first time in decades, Reynauld felt hollowed out and cold despite bright daylight and the Grace of the Holy Light's manifestation shining above him - but not upon him.

For those who cannot choose between two frightening losses are always doomed by an all-too-late realization that their greatest fear should have been suffering through both.

#dd promptober 2022 #darkest dungeon #reynauld #dismas #Reymas #if a knight won it was thanks to God if he lost it was his fault #being a zelot isn't easy #don't be mindless zealots kids #fanfic #The bloodied journal page || my writing #The tapestries of words || my ao3 #dd highwayman #dd crusader

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moonlatias · 2 years

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Beloved Morningstar

Radiant God, who I, as of late, have also called Lucifer…

Your story, your reputation, your myths mean different things to different people. When I was still Christian, it was meant as a warning, a threat, as to what happens if I disobey. If I don’t accept everything I am told without question, if I try to seek out knowledge forbidden to me.

But I never thought much of the Devil, or demons. To me, Satan wasn’t the one causing people to do evil things. Humans do that on their own. The myth of Satan just gives people a convenient scapegoat to push their wrongdoing on, to avoid taking responsibility for the harms they inflict on others. And even early on, I knew of the sympathetic “fallen angel” story of Lucifer.

But I have since pulled away from that faith, for I have found a spiritual path that resonates with me and fulfills me far greater than the old one. I found comfort, love, and guidance in the God and Goddess, and I have been happy. I thought I had successfully rid myself of most of the old Christian doctrines, though I wasn’t foolish enough to think that I would cast off everything. It still was a big part of my life, and it still shaped me as a person. I don’t hate the good things it has taught me.

But I never expected to be called… by you.

You weren’t supposed to be a good thing. My old faith equated you with the Devil. But you somehow appeared, gave me light and courage where I had none. Maybe you were always there, and you were just waiting for an opportunity to show yourself when I was ready to receive your guidance.

You showed me a vision that would guide me best. A gnosis meant for me alone, that would help me understand you and be able to adapt you into my beliefs and practice thus far. You are another aspect of the God, representing rebellion, justice, power, truth. The church twisted your beautiful visage into that of a demon, and has used you as a tool of fear ever since. The magnificent ancient gods and goddesses were maligned and identified as you, the scapegoat of the selfish and close-minded.

Radiant Lucifer, Beloved Morningstar, he who heralds the Lady of the Moon and brings the light of dawn… you have taught me the value of my personal strength, of knowledge, and of fighting for what I love. You have taught me courage to rebel against those who oppress me or try to control me, even if the fight is painful. You hold me close when I feel broken, and your light shines as a constant reminder of hope. You inspire me because I know you have felt my pain and sadness, my defiance and my fury. Negative feelings are natural, not a sin. And you encourage me through it all, instead of condemning and abandoning me.

You are light itself. And I revere and love you.

Blessed be the Radiant God, forever faithful to the Goddess and her children. Blessed be the Morningstar who fell so that he could guide us back to where we all belong. Blessed be Lucifer, who does not mind the shadows and the ignorance of those who cannot see his light. We all return to the Divine in the end.

“Better to reign in Hell, then to serve in Heaven.”

#wicca #eclectic wicca #luciferianism #theistic luciferianism #paganism #book of shadows #sacred texts #god #deity worship #upg

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donnabroadway · 1 year

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Spiritually Uninterested

There is something to be said about the idea that certain black institutions were unable to survive the civil rights movement. One are HBCU's and the other is the black church, don't get me wrong, these institutions existed for a hundred years before the civil rights movement and there is a lot of intersectionality between the church, the civil rights movement, and HBCUs as many of the leaders were HBCU educated clergy and the major institutions will continue to exist while the smaller ones, will falter. The mainstay HBCU's or the Black Ivy League, which catered to many of the black isms, classism, colorism, and sexism will always exist and will not have a problem with funding, especially with a strong alumni network and a new mega church is born every day with the likes of Mike Todd, Robert Madu, Sarah Jakes Roberts, Stephen Furtick, Stephen Chandler, TD Jakes and many others getting millions of views per week on their sermons but the interest in these institutions peak and wave with every generation.

I recently heard someone describe themselves as spiritually uninterested. They didn't say agnostic or atheist but spiritually uninterested, which I guess is similar to agnostic. They don't care if there is a higher power or not because they don't see how it affects their life in this moment. They know one day they will die but they don't care about the after life.

Young people are spiritually uninterested because the church has failed to show it's value. There was a time when the church was the centerpiece of the black community. It was the only time where blacks could meet in peace, they educated the community, provided fellowship and created the family. It was the center piece of the community but recent generations, xillenials (early-mid 80s), millennials, Gen Z, and by some extension, Gen Alpha have not been sold the value of the local church. We can go where we want, live where we want, and do what we want, we don't need this safe haven anymore. Young people see church mothers as bitter, old, power hungry, judgmental and unable to move aside for the younger generation plus the church is seen as cliquish. For a generation worried about their earthly lives and not just their after life, this doesn't seem fun. We also have to deal with the Wizard of Oz effect. It is nearly impossible to revere what is supposed to be the gatekeeper of the afterlife and spiritual morality when they are more messed up than you and their tea is all over the internet and literal streets. It's more difficult to control the narrative when the source can be anyone. The reverence is gone and people have a sense of doom and they're questioning because life feels like it can snap away at any moment, so why wait for my blessings in the after life while I struggle in this life. A lot of people are not happy with the rebranded prosperity preaching. It goes, give your money to the church even if it's your light bill money and part of your rent , so the church can give it to someone else, usually another church leader while you wait for the Lord to bless you, even if you're facing eviction and praising in the dark. There is nothing wrong with faith but the problem is that we have watched generations of people sacrifice everything literally and figuratively with little to show for it in this life and we don't know if it was worth it in the next life because of all the ghosts haunting this earth, not one has told us anything about death except it's similar to falling asleep, there is a surge of energy towards the end, and sometimes deceased loved ones come back to help them on their journey, and that is from hospice nurses, family, and those who died but were revived. I guess the afterlife has a good NDA.

Truth be told, the church can still be valuable to the community but we need to figure out how to rebrand it, yes preachers wear jeans and sneakers instead of loafers and suits but the messaging is very similar so where do we go from here because older gen x has about a good 10-15 years before they step back, which means millennials not only need to step up, they need to raise the next generation because if we don't go to church, they don't go to church and without millennials, most small, family churches will die and we will only be left with mega churches with a large online presence.

Truth be told, while there are a lot of great people in church, church hurt is real and telling people to get over it because they get "hurt" at work but they still go is not the flex we think it is. There are a lot of people who are power tripping at church and will bully and demean anyone they see as below them.

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the-insomniac-emporium · 3 years

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Slumbering Hearts (Alcina Dimitrescu/Reader, Soulmate AU) Pt. 2

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T for language Warnings: None Summary: In a wicked twist of fate, you find out your soulmate is none other than your employer, Lady Dimitrescu. To your misery, she (at first) seems equally displeased, her heart already belonging to another. But in time, the two of you find yourselves wondering… could the universe be right, after all? Soulmate AU in which every person has a unique “soul mark”, which they share with their soulmate. Notes: Reader gets a bit of a backstory here, with just enough concrete details to serve the plot in future chapters. Hopefully enough is kept vague for people to enjoy it. Now... Time to meet your new kids-in-law/the gremlins :) Previous Chapters: 1: In The Shadow Of Giants

2: Uncertain Destinations

“You already know my name, as well as my fate, and I have neither threats nor demands to make of you. I am at your mercy, regrettably, with nothing more to say. Shall we consider ourselves ‘introduced’? Or is there more you wish to ask of me?” You wonder, eying ‘Alcina’ with a bored expression. It felt odd to refer to her that way, even within the confines of your mind. She had been ‘Lady Dimitrescu’ for as long as you could remember; starting with your years in the village, and continuing through your months here at the castle. One day, perhaps, you would grow used to calling her by her first name. For now, you simply hoped to focus on other matters.

“Tell me of yourself, your past. Who were you before you came here?” Alcina asks, surprising you. What did it matter, now that you were stuck here? At first you shrug, avoiding eye contact, not wanting to open yourself up to her. But before long she’s placed a hand on your shoulder, applying just enough pressure to encourage you to speak. You win this round, you think.

“Somehow I doubt you’ll find it terribly interesting. I was born in the outskirts of the village, on a small farm, just like any other. I had a pet dog, went to ‘school’ with my neighbors, and spent my weekends volunteering with the church. The only thing you might not expect is that I lived outside the village for about a decade. Traveled for a while, never really staying anywhere for terribly long. Eventually, I got tired, and so I came back to help my parents with what little property they had left,” you explain, quietly. Being vague had been intentional, considering the nature of a few details. Did she need to know why you had left? Or that you had once revered Mother Miranda?... No, because if she learned that, it would not be long before she learned that you had changed your mind years ago. Something told you that she wouldn’t appreciate your lack of faith in her mistress. “That was six months ago, roughly. Barely got to spend time with my parents before I was ‘donated’ to the staff here.”

“Not many ever leave the village. Those that do rarely, if ever, return. How particular,” Alcina replies, giving a soft hum. There’s something in her expression that tells you she’ll eventually ask you to elaborate. For now, however, she seems content to move on. Internally you sigh in relief. “I suppose this is sufficient to sate my curiosity, for the time being. Now come with me, I’d like to introduce you to my daughters, to ensure that they understand you are… off limits.” With that said she stands, once more reminding you just how small and fragile you are in comparison, before heading towards the exit. You’re nearly forced to jog in order to keep up with her long strides. As she leads you through hallways, down a flight of stairs, and past several nervous looking maidens, she slows down the slightest bit, having eventually noticed your struggle. Admittedly, that’s more kindness than you would have anticipated. Perhaps she was used to adjusting her pace for her daughters?

Whatever the reason, you do appreciate it. Still, by the time you arrive at your destination, the castle’s library, your legs are feeling the smallest bit sore. Brushing off the ache, you follow Alcina inside. Then you’re taking in the sights, having not been here before, admiring the impressive collection. Glad I’m not responsible for cleaning this place, you think as you pass by dozens of filled shelves. Before long you encounter the three daughters. They’re sitting in a semi-circle, each with their own book, though they’re quick to sit up once they spy their mother. One by one they’re smiling up at her, not even sparing you a moment’s glance. Admittedly you’re glad for that. What good could come from their attention, especially when they don’t yet know who you ‘truly’ are?

“I’m glad to see you’re all in one place, my darlings. There has been a… development, of sorts,” Alcina says, speaking in the same tone one might use to address a faculty meeting. In a less intimidating household, it would have been much harder to hold in a laugh. Was this always how she spoke to her children? For their sake, you hoped not (though the concept was amusing). Regardless, it is at this point that the daughters notice you, with one of them looking intrigued enough to send a shiver down your spine. You’re pretty sure her name is Daniela, being the only one you haven’t met before today. A toothy grin spreads on her lips, and once you make eye contact you swear that she winks at you. This literally could not be any worse, you think, unable to stop yourself from frowning.

“Does it have to do with this little thing?” Daniela purrs, taking a step towards you. Instantly both Alcina and yourself are tensing up. While your soulmate shifts in front of you, an incredibly faint rosy tint to her cheeks, all you can do is pinch the bridge of your nose between two fingers.

“This ‘little thing’ is not your newest playtoy, Daniela. Rather, they are my-” she hesitates, disliking the way the word feels in her mouth- “soulmate. I expect the three of you to behave, understood? At the very most, you are allowed to prevent them from leaving the premises, but even then I expect you to remain gentle. Have I made myself clear?” Alcina asks. Now she’s not the only one blushing, as Daniela looks so embarrassed that you wonder if she’ll pass out. Maybe now you’ll think twice about flirting with everyone you meet, you think, remembering the various rumors you’ve heard about her. For a moment, part of you imagines what your relationship with her would look like, were you to continue ‘courting’ her mother. Could this be a moment you could torment her with for life? Get some cheeky revenge for all the maidens who couldn’t risk it? A lovely thought, though one soon interrupted.

“Of course, mother. We will not lay a single finger on them, unless we have no other choice. Right, sisters?” Bela replies, turning to her siblings with an expectant look. Neither of them seem terribly pleased, but they nod, each giving their own verbal affirmations. All three spend a few moments glancing you over, reevaluating you now that they know who you are, appraising your worth. It’s not hard to imagine that they all find you lacking- at least in comparison to their mother. “Are introductions in order? We’ve met before, but I hardly know anything about them. It would be… nice to properly meet the newest edition to our family.” The way Bela says the words makes you nervous, and the way Cassandra grins only worsens the feeling.

“If you desire such, I see no reason to forgo such a thing. Perhaps the three of you could give them a tour? I must return to my duties, and I doubt they have seen much of the castle, given their… former occupation,” Alcina admits, softly. Was this a confirmation that you’d no longer have to spend every day working yourself to the bone? On one hand you were somewhat relieved, but you also regretted the possible loss of your preferred coping method. Worse, were you really going to spend who knows how long with the dreaded Dimitrescu daughters? They were going to rip you to shreds, at least verbally, you were sure of it. How could you ever meet their expectations? If they were anything like their mother, you would never be enough to satisfy them. Or at least that is what you assumed.

“I’ve seen a fair bit,” you interject, awkwardly, hating the way it brings everyone’s gaze back to you. Alcina’s lips twitch, as she fights back a frown. Evidently she didn’t appreciate you countering her suggestion.

“Please, we insist,” Bela fires back, a pleasant tone covering her thinly-veiled animosity. “I’m sure we’ll have a wonderful time getting to know each other. You do want to learn more about your soulmate’s children, don’t you?” Something about the way she speaks makes you want to laugh. When you smile back at her, it’s without a hint of any placating intentions, rather a dewdrop of mischief. Bold of her to assume that you wanted to make her mother happy. After all, it was clear from her phrasing that this was a ‘test’, a ruse to ‘reveal your true colors’ to Alcina. But you were as uneasy about your part in this as Bela was, neither of you finding yourself a suitable match for Alcina. Despite the way she narrows her eyes at you, her mother is smiling again, glad that she had a way to keep you occupied for the time being.

“It’s settled then,” she says, moving to give each of her daughters a kiss on top of their heads. They giggle at the affection, looking rather proud of themselves. Then she turns to you, hesitating, clearly having the instinct to give you a kiss as well. Half of you wants to stand on your tippy-toes, expectantly, wondering if she’d do it (and how flustered it would make her). Instead, you pretend not to notice, accepting the awkward shoulder pat she ends up giving you. “I will see you this evening, for dinner. Do try to enjoy yourself. But don’t forget-” she leans in until her mouth is right next to your ear, breath tickling your neck- “behave yourself. I will not tolerate any tomfoolery, understood?” Alcina does not pull away until you’ve nodded, and you do not relax until the library door has shut behind her.

Except now you’re alone with her daughters. Wonderful.

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Dealing with finances was not, to put it simply, Alcina’s ‘favorite’ activity. Although she employed someone to handle the majority of the paperwork, she made sure to go over it herself to ensure accuracy. There were many aspects to her business, being both legitimate and illegitimate, technically. One could never be too careful about their records. After all, failing to file tax returns had taken down Al Capone, of all people. Who was to say that such a mistake, or one in a similar vein, could not damage House Dimitrescu? Certainly it wouldn’t be enough to ruin them entirely, but it could lead to certain ‘nuisances’ bothering the village. At the end of the day, Alcina cared more about the impact it would have on Mother Miranda than anything else, even the possible decline of her household.

A nasty habit, really. Few knew the extent of her self-entitled devotion to the cult leader. The only bond that ran deeper was that she had with her daughters, who meant more to her than she could ever vocalize. Even then, she viewed them as a gift from Miranda, which in turn strengthened her love for the woman. Now that love leaked into everything she did. With a flourish of her pen, she signed away some of this month’s earnings. So what if she already ‘donated’ a large portion of her income to the village and its leader? Certainly this was a way to show the level of her devotion? Certainly Miranda would take notice, eventually? Praise her for it? Take Alcina’s hand in her own, thumb caressing her skin, eyes filled with a long-sought affection?...

The sound of passing footsteps brings her back into the moment, and Alcina stares down at the mountain of paperwork she’d yet to approve. With a deep sigh she readjusts her reading glasses, sets the finished document aside, then gets back to work. A part of her mind soon starts to drift to other subjects. To you, primarily. Would your affection be easier to gain? Steadier?... But could it, in any way, compare to Miranda’s? No matter how she tries to brush the thoughts away, they nip at her heels, circling her head like vultures. Only time would give her the relief she so desperately sought.

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“So, don’t tell me you really think you’re my mother’s soulmate, right?” Cassandra says, somewhat grumbling, as you trail behind Bela. It’s less than five minutes into the tour, with the siblings having behaved so far, focused on actually showing you around. At her words, both her sisters started walking slower. Their gazes were still locked ahead of themselves. The way they positioned themselves, however, made it clear that they were listening. “Is it some elaborate scheme, hmm? Did you spend a dozen hours with the other servants, noting every last detail about her soul mark, before copying it? Do you really think that you’ll get away with this?” Well, ‘twas good to know who the most paranoid of the three were.

“Ah, yes, it’s all a great, horrible ruse. You’ve caught me red-handed, I’m afraid,” you chime, sarcastically. A hand goes to your forehead as you fake faintness. “I’m just so desperate to be scrutinized by yourself and your mother, to have my every movement watched, to somehow be less free than I already was. I simply… cannot… believe… that you saw through my bluff.” With that you give a dramatic sigh, pausing in the hallway to give Cassandra a judgemental look. If not for Alcina’s instructions to keep you safe, you’re certain she would have beheaded you on the spot. “I’m not claiming to understand the universe’s decision. But I’m also not giving up immediately, no matter how much the three of you scare me.” At that, Bela stops in her tracks, slowly turning to you. Instinctively you go to take a step backwards, only for Cassandra to catch you, holding you in place. Next thing you know, the oldest daughter is grabbing your head, staring you right in the eyes.

“Answer one question, and maybe I’ll make sure you don’t fall victim to some tragic, unfortunate accident. Can you see yourself loving my mother?” Bela asks, more intense than you’ve ever seen her before. Despite that, you don’t tremble, swallowing your fear long enough to reply.

“Honestly? I don’t know. She’s terrifying… and beautiful. Cruel to some of the maidens I’ve met… and loving to you three. I… I don’t know if I can love her,” you admit, gulping. “But isn’t that part of the point of trying? To find out? I am going to try, for both my sake and hers, to love her. To cherish her. What more would you ask of me? I cannot tell you how the days to come will go, whether or not your mother will enjoy them, or even whether she could love me. This is not a situation you can threaten into resolving the way you want it to. So let me go, finish the tour, and give me a chance. You owe your mother that much, do you not?” Soon enough the hands keeping you in place loosen their grip, and Bela turns away with a scoff. Honestly, you can hardly believe that your little speech worked. You aren’t given much time to celebrate, however, as the sisters quickly resume their walking. Before long, Daniela is speaking up between giggles.

“I like this one already.”

#alcina dimitrescu x reader #lady dimitrescu x reader #alcina dimitrescu #lady dimitrescu #resident evil: village #re8 village #gremlin trio is protective #they're like #you're not cool enough for our mom #hey tumb please stop fucking up the order of my tags #this is the second time you've messed up my attempt at being funny

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butterfly-winx · 3 years

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Things about each other’s cultures that the girls find most difficult to understand/cope with (pt2)

Zenith

Musa and Stella: National gene bank

Being mixed children, Musa and Stella find it very difficult to reconcile the existence of one unified central library of genes that all babies are born from on Zenith. For one there are people in both of their cultures who would have objected to either of them being born (the Rai/Selenite conflict on Solaria and Musa being human/elf mixed) they find the gene bank to be a huge risk for cultural feud and eugenics driven bad intentions. Zenith claims not to filter for disabilities aside from congenitally lethal ones, but with little independent control of their proceedings, the purity of their actions is often hard to control

Layla: Religion

Everyone believes Zenith to be such a proponent of science over everything else, it is often forgotten that the majority of the planet’s countries are religious monotheists. But monotheists of different singular gods! Layla coming from a culture based on natural religion finds the concept of a “one man show” strange to begin with, but when you tell her they all have a different one true guy whose precepts they follow she is out.

Bloom and Flora: Public information channels

In theory, whole dedicated channels or airtime slots filled with facts and scientific information rather than mindless ads is an excellent idea. It aids the education of the population and reduces the amount of populist or fearmongering misinformation taking root. Flora and Bloom are just a bit apprehensive about how easy it is to slip half-truths into a stream of factual truth, seeing as the information stream is ever so slightly different between the Zenithian countries, each finding some other aspect of a scientific discovery important, or advocating the involvement of their countrymen in a project over everyone else’s.

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Andros

Bloom and Tecna: High mortality

It is not that mortality rates are very high, it’s just that the proportion of /water/ related deaths among them is high. Technically this is not that unusual, seeing as 90% of the planet is water, but maybe exactly because of this, Bloom and Tecna would expect people to be more careful around the elements. Androsians, like any regular god fearing nation, respect the Sea over everything else. Their hubris mainly comes from an overall acceptance that the Sea can claim about anybody if it wants. People don’t tend to struggle against it when they think their times has come. (See King Teredor and Niobe just huddling in the flooding castle instead of escaping) What adds to it is also that the royal family are of course not the only ones with mer cousins, and especially young people will overestimate the capacity of their lungs while playing in the waters.

Stella: Animism

In Androsian cultures objects made from natural resources retain their soul stemming from having been living things once, even after they are shaped into an object for human use. To Stella this is difficult to comprehend. Like sure wood is wood, it has been a plant once and its origin should be respected, but for her once wood becomes a bowl it becomes a thing, with no spirituality attached.

Musa and Flora: Blood feuds

No one is a stranger to historical conflicts, sure. Androsian blood feuds however have morphed into conflicts that are still “honoured” in modern days. Local kingdoms can claim feud rights to claim land and people from neighbouring regions, functionally enslaving residents. On a personal level people still get ostracised from communities for marrying wrong, upsetting elders or for the ever effusive reason of doing gender wrong. (Neither of them really understands this part of Androsian culture.) Musa is solidly in camp “you owe your parents piety” while Flora is a general opponent of the sentiment, they both feel that this goes a little bit too far. People need a community that won’t self-destruct over to their eyes minor infractions.

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Domino

Layla and Tecna: Horse culture

Dominians love their horses and elks they keep for riding, select animals are kept as revered pets even. Coming from an island world, Layla never really saw a purpose in those animals. What does weird her out about this is that a good 40% of Domino’s population are centauri, who are - no matter how you look at it- half horse essentially. So how can Dominians be that enamoured with their equines while their neighbour could be equally hooved?

Musa and Stella: Cultural homogeneity

It goes without saying that all girls, including Bloom, stagger at the thought that the Dominian Empire enforces unity through extreme measures, not having shied away from extermination wars in their past. Once one dares to descend planetside despite that, the most staggering thing is that Domino truly... is like that. You get the same language, same customs and same products from one coast to another. It is staggering for Musa and Stella, whose homes have also at some point been empires encompassing several planets even, but the former members

Flora and Bloom: Military culture

Domino operates on a dual leadership structure in which has legal head of the state and the leader of the military reigning beside each other with equal power. Complicating the situation, the Vazul, head of the armies is also the spiritual leader of the Church of the Dragonspirit, melding religion and military culture into a dangerous mix. Flora has never encountered anything like this before, while to Bloom this reeks like the worst parts of her adoptive home. It doesn’t feel like a good combination, less so seeing as in the current generation both positions are filled by Bloom’s parents, which isn’t really supposed to happen and is a rightfully criticised controversy.

Special mention: Earth

So many countries!

That is probably what all the visiting girls were hung up about. Earth is unique even within the wide breadth of the Magic Universe, having an enormous habitable zone that spans almost the whole planet. The only other place that comes even near that title is Lynphea, but Lynphea is several times the size of Earth and houses slightly fewer inhabitants. The girls loved spending time visiting different parts of the planet and learning about the different cultures and languages spoken, (tho if you asked them, neither could name more than 5 countries from the top of their head. This also made assimilation and staying under cover in Gardenia difficult, bc Bloom, conscious of the girl’s home cultures and habits has given them different fake home countries. The other five of course got immediately confused, which resulted in situations like Tecna proudly claiming they were Chinese and Stella inexplicably saying she was Roman)

#winx club #butterfly fic #worldbuilding #zenith #andros #domino

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queerprayers · 3 years

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Advice for someone who's only a Christian because they know what's supposed to happen to people who aren't Christian? Like I got baptized again in my late twenties after going through a breakup and then a subsequent religion-induced freakout, and when the nice pastor asked me why I was there I just lied (I know you're super not supposed to do that in a church but panicked) and said "Just uh--felt right!" But in reality I was just like "Do--do you not know what happens to people who don't do this?" There are a million rules here, I feel resentful and burdened and terrified constantly, but at the same time, I want God to be closer to me as validation He wasn't given up on me and maybe won't set me on fire when I die. (And also because despite the fact that I am scared of God more than ANYTHING, He also brings comfort that nobody else can.) My faith is my life's biggest stressor. I don't think it's supposed to be like this. Or does God want me to be meek and quiet and so scared of Him that I don't do anything, because hey, I'm not sinning then, which is what He wants. Like He gets His way regardless so maybe my motives don't matter, if the end result is the same, which is Him getting His way, because that's most important.

Hello, beloved!

I have no doubt that you're not alone in this—so many Christians preach fear as a tactic of conversion, and the obvious result of this is that people end up Christians out of fear. This preaching is extremely unhealthy, but it exists, and so Christians need to welcome people who convert for these reasons, while helping find healthier ways to be religious! So I'll start by saying welcome, I'm glad you're here, but I'm so sorry that you're here out of fear, and hopefully something I say here or another resource can help you follow God in a healthier way, one fueled by passion instead of stress.

The Bible and many writers over the years have used phrases like "the fear of God," and this can make us think that we're supposed to sit around and be terrified of God and Their wrath. And "fear" as in a healthy knowledge of our place in the universe and remembering that God is greater than anything we could ever imagine? Yeah, I'm down with that. But so many people turn that healthy awareness into being scared, and I think that's something completely different. Proverbs 1:7 states, "The fear of the LORD is the beginning of knowledge." Fear is not a place we should live, scared and alone. Fear is a beginning, a place to start, a place to meditate on. Another way to look at it: "John Mallon writes that the 'fear' in 'fear of the LORD' is often misinterpreted as 'servile fear' (the fear of getting in trouble) when it should be understood as 'filial fear' (the fear of offending someone whom one loves)." (x)

Two asks that might be of interest to you: this one from last week about only being religious because of fear of death, and this one from ages ago about whether only Christians will be saved.

God's way is the most important, for sure! But God's way isn't fear and inaction, I promise. I talked in the first ask above about how Christianity isn't just something you think; it's something you do. There is action involved in truly serving God and loving your neighbor.

You mention not doing anything just so you won't sin. And I get where you're coming from, but I think going out and trying your best to serve God and your neighbor, and then making a mistake, is infinitely better than never trying it at all. There is risk in action, yes. And it takes bravery and passion to do the things God asks of us. But They do ask us to do things, not just sit around and theoretically believe, or point to a baptism/conversion as proof that we're a "real Christian." I firmly believe that some of the people who follow God most reverently have never stepped foot in a church. (And there are also those who go to church every Sunday and have never truly followed God.)

You're right—it's not supposed to be like this. Faith shouldn't be our life's biggest stressor. There are other ways to exist as a person of faith, and I pray that you find one. I'm glad that you've found comfort and validation in God as well, and I hope you can let those parts of your faith grow.

I don't know what your church/local community situation is, but if you're feeling like there's a million rules and you don't have the space to explore faith healthily and question things, then I would suggest thinking about whether that has something to do with it. Your denomination/church may not be right for you, and there may be another place where you don't feel like you have to lie or just follow rules all the time! Everyone deserves a denomination/house of worship where they feel welcomed just as they are/where they are in their faith journey. (Check out this ask about choosing a denomination.)

Resources/Further Reading:

"We must fear God from love, not love God from fear," Carl E. Olson, Catholic World Report

"Loving and Fearing God," Rabbi Louis Jacobs, My Jewish Learning

"How to Follow Jesus," Jesus Without Baggage

"More than by fear of going astray, my hope is that we will be moved by the fear of remaining shut up within structures which give us a false sense of security, within rules which make us harsh judges, within habits which make us feel safe, while at our door people are starving and Jesus does not tire of saying to us, 'Give them something to eat.' —Pope Francis." —Rachel Held Evans, Searching for Sunday: Loving, Leaving, and Finding the Church

I pray that you find the strength and passion to follow Jesus without all the baggage. May you find a place to put your burdens down and find peace.

<3 Johanna

#asks

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damn-stark · 4 years

Text

Forever

Damon Salvatore x Fem!reader

Requested by anon “May I request a Damon x Reader where the reader is dying and Damon tries to save them with his blood, but he's too late.”

A/N- :(

Warning- mentions of blood, some fluff, pure sadness

Episodes- 6x21, 6x22

———

“Isn’t a bridesmaid dress supposed to make you look like a freak of nature?”

You chuckle and walk to meet Damon halfway, “Jo went easy on me.”

Damon grinned smugly, “regardless I’d think you’ll look hot even if you wore a trash bag.” You scoff and roll your eyes in a lighthearted manner at his comment before a smirk tugs at the corner of your lips as your eyes study him in his tux.

“You know I think I'm preferring you in a tux instead of shirtless.”

Damon smirks, “sure you do, y’know you can’t resist me without a shirt on.” His smirk falls and his face turns serious except for the softness his eyes contain as he asks, “do you finally have an answer for my question?”

You sigh, “it's a hard choice, Damon. Choosing to be a vampire after seeing what our friends have gone through. It scares me to think what might happen if I do become one.”

“What scares you exactly?” He asks unsuringly. “That you might not—”

“No,” you cut him off, knowing exactly what he was going to say without him having to finish his sentence. You loved him and have for a long time, nothing will ever change that, not turning into a vampire or anything, so no the fear wasn’t because of that; “I know how Stefan suffers with controls and I saw how Caroline and Elena suffered without their humanity. I’m scared of that.”

“If you do, I’ll be there every step of the way, you know that.” Damon tries to assure you with an added assuring smirk, “plus I’m the master of control and make a pretty hot teacher. And if you don’t want me to teach you, then there's also Caroline I guess.” He shrugs, making you laugh.

Your laugh however doesn’t last as you remind yourself of the choice you still have to take, of your question you had that has been invading your mind all night and day. “What if,” you pause and swallow thickly, letting your eyes fall to the elegant rolled out carpet, “I don’t choose to become a vampire?” You look up to meet his gaze and see that the softness behind his eyes has totally dropped and turned assuring instead, choosing to take the couple steps left to cup your cheek.

“Then I guess I’ll have to live with that even if I do want to be selfish and just turn you. I love you and I’ll support whatever choice you make, even if it means that one day I'll have to lose you because you're too old and wrinkly and your heart chose to stop beating.”

Tears roll down your cheeks and you smile softly, “you'll love me even then?”

His lips break into a smile before he pulls you in for a sweet and slow kiss in the middle of the church, breaking away only far enough where you could still see how much bluer his eyes were as the sun peeked through the window and gently kissed his face. “even then.”

——

“Welcome family and friends on this magical evening to the wedding of Alaric Saltzman and Josette Laughlin. Josette and Alaric have prepared their own vows.”

Jo turns and hands you her bouquet as the reverent finishes her greeting, letting you offer Jo an small assuring smile before she turns around to face a very nervous Alaric so he could start his own speech. A sweet one that makes you like many others in the crowd begin to feel tears roll out.

“Neither one of us should be here right now. We’ve spent our lives dodging fate, beating the odds but because we did I got to meet you, the most beautiful, hilarious and intimidatingly brilliant woman I have ever known. You inspire me…”

Your attention wavers mid sentence as you realize with this speech, with this setting of Jo and Alaric getting married, minutes before they’re to become husband and wife, before they’re to share the rest of their lives together that you want this too. That you want to share your life with Damon forever or however long forever last. And the idea of not being to have control still scared you, but it’s like he said, he’d be with you every step of the way. And that thought didn’t scare you. Being with him forever didn’t scare you.

Because you’d rather be with him for however long forever last, instead of losing him when you’re too old to be without him.

“...you’ve shown me that happiness,” you hear Alaric continue saying as your mind wanders back to his vow, “is actually something that I can have in my life.” Albeit your full attention on the vow doesn’t last long as you catch Damon’s gaze, notice the smile on his lips as your eyes meet and the smug way he lifted his eyebrows. The gesture making you smile whilst the attention he had on you made you whisper your answer to his question very softly, but in a way he would hear regardless.

“I’ll do it. I’ll become a vampire.”

His smile widened like yours, sharing a sweet and short intimate moment before the both of you had to pull your attention back to the couple in front of you, hearing as Alaric finished the rest of his vows and slid the ring on Jo’s finger. “And so, I promise to be with you and I love you and to dodge fate with you for the rest of our lives.”

Emotion smiles collectively break through the crowd at the end of Alaric’s speech, all preparing to still hear the vow Jo had to give. “Oh, god.” She wipes the tears off her eyes and giggles nervously, her words making the crowd laugh as well, “that’s a tough act to follow. Here it goes. Alaric Saltzman. You are—” she suddenly and abruptly cut herself off.

“Jo? What is it? Jo, oh my god. Jo?”

She groans out in pain and her hands move to her stomach, making Damon move towards her and Alaric grab her as she tumbles over and screams out in pain. At first you don’t know what caused her to stop and scream out, but your eyes then catch the sight of blood bleeding through her white dress before out of nowhere her brother Kai appears behind her with a bloody knife in hand. You gasp and step back, feeling your lips part as you hear Alaric begin to cry for Jo and Kai talk in front of you.

“I was gonna wait til the “death do us part” bit, but it seemed a little on the nose. Am I right?” Your eyes meet Damon’s to share a concerned look, a tragic gesture that would be the last one ever—you want to move towards him, but you’re left speechless and frozen in your spot before Kai does a spell that makes a sharp ringing break through your ears and a painful headache pound in your head. Making a deafening and painful scream escape your lips and your hands to fly up to grab your head.

Living a short and painful moment that seemed like it lasted hours when it was only minutes. Short minutes of blinding pain before everything turned for the worst and every window in the church broke and every shard of glass went flying inwards; and you were thrown out of your spot and felt a new sharp pain stab your neck. Leaving you only seconds to witness every memory of your life flash through your eyes before you hit the floor with a nasty thud. Being left with only pain and a warm feeling spilling down your neck, onto the ground beneath you and onto your arm where you recognized it was blood. You gasped and let your eyes drift to the ceiling, trying to focus on the tragic sounds around you that slowly began to tune out, only because you tried to hear if Damon was calling to you so could assure him that you were there, alive but in pain.

But as you were trying, every feeling in your body, every pain, all the worry began to drift; just like the lights above you began to dim and the pain in your body which was once immense was now nothing but a dull feeling that began to numb. Letting you realize that forever wasn’t going to be an option, that the life you now chose to live with Damon, the love of your life, was going to be nothing but a last dream. A happy dream though, one you chose to cling onto as your life slowly came to an end and darkness overtook everything forever…

Leaving you to miss the way Damon came to you as soon as he could, desperately trying to hear the sound of your heart beat but missing it as there was no rhythm. A fact however that he could accept as he took you in his arm and cradled your body, using one hand to cup your cheek to try and begin to talk to you so he could hear you respond.

“Come on baby, come on. Please, you’re okay. You’re fine, baby. Come on. Come on!” He cried, again trying to focus on finding the sound of your heart, ultimately finding nothing again. “Baby.” He breathed, moving his hand from your cheek and biting his wrist to break through his skin and have blood spill from his wrist, moving it to your mouth so you could drink and healed. But as he tried, nothing happened, your eyes remained lifeless and your body stiff.

Damon kept trying however, desperately trying to press his wrist onto your lips to have you drink the blood, but nothing happened, the blood just stained your lips and didn’t move down your body. Letting him realize only heartbreaking moments later that it was too late. That he had reached you too late and that you were gone forever, after you had accepted to become a vampire to be with him forever.

He cried and rested his forehead on yours as he began to rock your body back and forth, forgetting about the horrifying scene around him.

#the vampire diaries fancfiction #the vampire diaries imagines #the vampire diaries imagine #the vampire diaries #damon salvatore #damon salvatore x reader #damon salvatore imagine #Damon Salvatore imagines #damon salvatore fanfiction #damon imagine #tvd #tvd imagines #tvd imagine #jo #alaric saltzman #kai parker

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let-the-dream-begin · 3 years

Text

A Place to Belong Chapter 44: Suddenly I’m Holding the World in My Arms

Chapter 43

Read on AO3

One week later

Jamie was sweating like a sinner in church. Claire watched him get dressed, the fabric of his clothing rippling with how his hands trembled. She didn’t think he knew she was awake, so she watched him silently, her heart aching.

He was nervous.

Brianna had boldly declared at supper last night that she was going to ride her horse with her Da, the very next day. He’d completely lit up, his deep blue irises glowing, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“Whatever ye wish, a leannan.”

He could deny her nothing.

But now, when actually faced with the prospect of truly being alone with her, of doing something so conventional as father and daughter, he was scared. Terrified.

He turned back to the bed, presumably to kiss her good morning and tell her he was going to be off soon, but was instead met with her open eyes, watching him intently.

“Good morning, Sassenach,” he said quietly, hiding the wee jump he’d had at seeing her awake. He did indeed move to the bed and kiss her, sitting beside her and letting his fingertips rest on her hairline.

“Good morning,” she answered, reaching up to take his hand, closing her fingers around his and resting them there on her head.

He then brought her hand to his lips, kissing it reverently. Claire sighed in ecstasy. “I dinna think I shall ever tire of this…of simply…waking up wi’ ye beside me. Surely I couldna, before…but now…it’s…”

“I know,” Claire finished. “It’s exactly the same for me. After years of blindly reaching for you and feeling…nothing…to actually feel you, see you when I wake, it’s…”

He leaned down to kiss the tears that escaped her eyes and lingered on her cheeks. “It’s alright, now, Claire. I’m here, mo nighean donn, now and forever.”

She gratefully kissed him again, breathing him in, savoring him. She’d never stop thanking God; Father, Son, and Holy Ghost alike for bringing him back to her. When they pulled away, the apprehension was back in his features.

“Jamie…” she said gently, sitting up and caressing his face. “What are you so afraid of?”

“Afraid?” he said, a bit too quickly. “Dinna ken what ye mean.”

“I thought you were going to collapse while you were getting dressed just now.” She was teasing, but not lying altogether. “What is so frightening about an eight-year-old girl?”

She caressed the stubble of his chin as was ingrained in the marrow of her bone to do, gently coaxing it out of him.

“You can tell me anything. You know that.”

“Aye, I ken…” But he couldn’t meet her eyes. “It’s…it’s foolish, is all.”

“No, it isn’t.” She gripped his chin now, forcing her to look at her. “Talk to me, Jamie.”

He cleared his throat and gently removed her hand from his chin, holding it between both of his and, stroking it, rubbing it, molding it as if it were clay. His hands were always restless when he was uncertain.

“I’ve, ah…I’ve been wi’ bairns before, ye ken,” he began, nodding as if to assure himself rather than her. “I ken how to make them smile, and laugh; I ken the wee games they play. I love that look in their eye right before they ask something of ye that perhaps they shouldn’t; I love the way their wee teeth are always crooked. I love the…the feel of their wee bodies against my chest. It felt…right to cradle Jenny’s bairns.” Claire’s eyes became misty, and Jamie cleared his throat again. “It made me feel like I was meant to cradle my own someday. Jenny always said I looked braw wi’ a bairn in my arms, ye ken.” He sniffled, and Claire added her other hand to the mix of his and hers, covering the fidgeting hands and rubbing circles over them.

“When I sent ye home from Culloden wi’ wee Fergus,” (It stung, calling him wee, something he most certainly was not anymore.) “I’d made my peace wi’ never holding my own. I thought I was meant to die. And then, again, at Ardsmuir, I…I tried to fill my mind wi’ images of you wi’ Fergus, kissing that curly mop and nagging him to death. And images of ye cradling wee Kitty, swinging around wee Jamie, Maggie. It made me ache to think of ye never to bear a child of yer own. I kent how badly ye wanted to, Claire. Especially after…after Faith.” His eyes averted hers, but she still nodded, understanding, urging him to continue.

“There were nights when I…I just wept. Because I couldna give ye the life ye wanted, the life ye deserved. Because I…I’d never look at a bairn and see you in her, I’d never look at those wee crooked teeth and know that you and I made them.” He shook his head, his breath trembling. “But now…to suddenly just…just have that…to know that…that all these years there was a lass wi’ my eyes and my hair, and yer nose and yer smile…I…I thought I’d die in that prison, or at least be there ’til my old age. And even if I’d gotten out I’d convinced myself that ye’d remarried, ye had bairns of yer own, or even that…perhaps ye’d gone back to yer own time, to Frank. I just…I knew that we’d never have a family. Even when I came back to ye I thought it…it just couldna be meant to be. Wi’ everything that happened…wi’ Faith, the war…everything.

“But I look at that lass, and I…” His voice finally broke, his resolve crumbling, unbidden tears trickling down his cheeks.

“Jamie…” Claire whispered, moving her hands to caress his face, smooth his hair, wipe his tears. “It’s alright, love…”

“I…I canna bear how much I love her, Claire…”

“I know.”

“I would lay the world at her feet, I’d tear out my heart and give it to her if I could.”

“I know, Jamie.”

“But she…she doesna even know me. And I ken, she will,” he said quickly, before Claire could interject with her endless platitudes. “I ken she knows I’m her Da and she’ll learn to…to love me. I ken that.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “But I…I canna disappoint her, Claire. I canna lose her because I’m no’ the man she wants me to be. I’m as much a stranger to her as she is to me. I’ve seen ye wi’ her, Claire. Yer like two sides of the same coin.” He smiled wistfully despite himself, remembering the images of Claire holding up a doll, unabashed, coaxing giggles from the wee thing.

“She’s…she’s no’ a babe, no’ really. I canna just pick her up and tell her I’m her Da and have her accept it as truth fer the rest of her life. Eight years old…when I was eight years old I’d already had and lost my mother. Eight years was an entire lifetime to me.”

“Jamie…she knows who you are…”

“Aye, she knows who I am. She doesna know me. And I dinna ken her.”

“She will. You will.”

“But what if I can’t?” He finally looked into her eyes again. “What if I canna be what she needs? She’s…accustomed to no’ having a father. She got along just fine wi’out me.”

“That is not true — ”

“But it is, Claire. Ye dinna have to spare my feelings. I ken how you grieved and mourned and ached…but to her I never existed. All she had to go on was yer word. She was none the wiser to what she was missing. But fer me to drop out o’ the sky and suddenly be a father to her…what if it’s no’ what she needs?”

“Is that what this is about…?” Claire said gently. “You’re afraid she doesn’t need you?”

He sighed. “It sounds selfish to say it that way…but I suppose that’s part of it. Jenny’s bairns loved me, before, but they didna need me. They had their own parents. Fergus…I ken he was a son to me and he loved me as his father. But he’s a man now, a man that I didna help to raise. A bairn, a truly newborn babe is…so full of need, ye ken. When I pictured our children, I…I pictured their being so wee, and helpless, depending on us… on me.”

“She’s still a little girl, Jamie,” Claire assured him. “You haven’t missed everything.” She kneaded a hand through his hair, gently massaging his scalp. “And, you know…I need you Jamie. I lived for twenty-seven years not knowing that you even existed. I spent a whole lifetime not knowing that I needed you. But we met, we married, we fell in love…and now I know that all those years were leading me to you. Because I needed you. I was, am, a grown woman that is in desperate need of someone.” Her hands trailed down the length of his face, cupping his chin. “I grew to love you, and quickly realized what I’d been missing. And so will Brianna. Yes, it’s true. She could have grown up and thrived without…without a father. She was surrounded by love, always, I had all the help raising her that I ever could have asked for. But now that you’re here, her life will be all the richer for it.”

Claire gently kissed him, and he gratefully kissed her back. She nuzzled her nose into his, her warm breath tickling his lip.

“Are…are ye sure?”

“What?” She pulled away a little so she could look into his eyes again.

“Are ye sure that I can…can make her life richer?”

“Of course, Jamie. What do you mean?”

“I’m a broken man, Claire,” he said despondently. Claire’s brow furrowed in concern. “Prison was…dehumanizing.” Her eyes misted again. “I dinna ken if I…if I have it in me to make the bairns laugh…to make my own child smile.”

“You do, Jamie,” Claire insisted. “You’ve survived so much, and you are still the man I fell in love with. I know it might not feel that way to you, but you’re still…you. To me.”

“And to Brianna?”

“She will love whoever you are, because you love her. Prison can take away a lot of things, but it did not destroy your ability to love. I know that, and your daughter knows that.”

“I just…I canna fail her, Claire.”

“You won’t.” Claire kissed his jawline. “And besides, all you’re doing today is holding the reins of her horse and guiding her around the corral. You can manage that can’t you?”

“Aye, I can.” He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“One step at a time, Jamie. You’ve met her, you’ve held her for the first time. Now she just wants to ride her horse with you. Just listen when she talks, smile at her, tell her she’s doing a good job.”

“I…I can do that.”

“She is only eight, after all. Easy to please, and eager to please, at that.”

He nodded. “What if she…asks me questions I canna answer?”

“She knows not to ask about the war or the prison. I’ve talked to her about that.”

“Aye but…what about…anything else?”

Claire chuckled. “Like you said, you’ve conversed with plenty of children. I think you’ll be able to come up with an answer about how a horse gets its color. Or something along those lines.” He finally genuinely smiled, chuckling softly. “And besides, I’ll be right there with you.”

“Will ye?”

“Of course. I hardly ever take my eyes off of her, God forbid I miss a seizure. Fergus knows what to do, just in case I’m not around for whatever reason, but I’d really rather be there. Especially when she’s on a horse, so far off the ground. If she falls I have to check for head trauma, and I know Fergus would catch her of course but…just in case.” Jamie’s panic was growing the more she talked, and she didn’t realize until she stopped rambling. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to worry you about all that.” Claire nuzzled his nose again. “It isn't as serious as I’m making it sound. I’m just…a worrier. You know.”

“Aye,” he said uneasily.

“I do of course enjoy watching her ride and play aside from just hovering and worrying.” She smiled weakly. “The epilepsy gives me an excuse to watch her all the time, I suppose. Two birds one stone.”

He smiled again. Then sobered, leaning back to properly look at her. “Ye say that Fergus knows what to do if there is a…a seizure.”

“Yes.”

“And Jenny, and Ian, they know?”

Claire nodded. “Ian isn’t around to help as much as Jenny, but he has helped enough to know what to look for, what to do.”

“Can ye…can ye teach me?” His brow was knitted together, yet his eyes were wide. “How to…to help our daughter?”

“Right now?”

“Aye.” He nodded solemnly. “I want to know before I spend time wi’ her. I dinna want to fail her before we even begin.”

“Alright.” Claire nodded. “Come here.”

She took his hands and led him off the bed, bringing him to the open space on the floor. She retrieved a blanket from the armoire, then knelt in the center of the room, gently pulling him down with her.

“Alright. So. You remember what I said about her eyes, and her arm? And the shaking?” He nodded. “Good. Now, she’s old enough now to know when one is coming on, so we always sit her on the floor until it starts. We also put a blanket down for her to lay on, because she always vomits at the end.” Jamie didn't say anything, but she could practically hear him saying Christ, in that way she’d grown accustomed to hearing.

“Always loosen her collar and untie any bonnets she might be wearing before it starts. Her neck needs to be free so she doesn’t choke.” He exhaled heavily, and she swore she actually heard the Christ that time.

“She goes stiff, her arm goes into that position, and she falls flat on the floor.” Claire demonstrated slowly, laying down. “Her head must be protected, which is what the blanket is for. Come here.” She handed him the blanket. “She needs to be on her side so she doesn’t choke on her saliva or her vomit.” Claire turned on her side. “Like this. Now take the blanket and surround my head with it without restraining me. She cannot be restrained.”

“Aye…dinna restrain her.” Jamie bit his lip in concentration as he arranged the blanket around her head. “How is that?”

“That’s good,” Claire assured. “Now, I’m holding myself up because I’m conscious, but she’ll have no control over her body. So you’ll have to keep your hand on her back so she stays on her side. It is critical that she stays on her side.”

“Aye.” Jamie nodded, moving his hand to the small of her back. “Here?”

Claire let herself go limp to demonstrate the reality, and he immediately readjusted, a bit higher, actually keeping her propped up.

“There,” Claire said. “Good. Keep your hand there, but don’t touch her anywhere else — ”

“Dinna restrain her,” Jame finished for her.

“Good.” Claire sat up to look at him. “When she’s under, it’s unclear whether or not she’s aware of what’s happening around her, whether or not she can hear anything. And then after she doesn’t remember. But just in case, I always talk to her, comfort her. I think it helps.” He nodded. “Which is another thing, you have to be calm. You have to keep her calm. Any distress could make it worse. It took a while to get used to, of course, but these seizures are normal now. She’s had them her whole life, she knows what to expect. They are normal, for her at least. But it is still scary for her, and as long as you’re calm and ready, she will be too.”

He nodded.

“Afterwards, once she stops seizing and after she vomits, you can move her. I always hold her and remind her that she’s safe. She’s very lethargic afterwards. She doesn’t talk, she can’t stand or move very much. But that’s normal. We give her chamomile tea afterwards to calm her muscles. When she was a baby I used to shovel droplets of it into her little mouth with my finger while she was seizing. I still don’t know if it made any difference. But the herb does relax muscles, so it makes her feel calmer after she’s had a seizure. She’s out of it for a few days after. I have to monitor her pulse and her breathing afterwards to make sure there wasn’t any internal damage done. But she’s always been just fine, just very sleepy for two or three days. Depending on how long it was.”

“How long are they usually?”

“Typically between thirty and fifty seconds. Her worst one was a minute and a half when she was a baby, the next worst one was around seventy seconds.”

“Christ, all that fuss for thirty seconds…” He shook his head in disbelief.

“I know, it’s hard to believe, but those thirty seconds can be incredibly dangerous if not handled properly.”

“Aye. I ken.”

Claire took his hand sympathetically. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but I promise it’s not as much of an ordeal as it sounds. You just have to be prepared. Do you have any questions?”

He cleared his throat and wet his lips. “How, ah…tell me again…how many ways were there…for her to choke?”

“Jamie…” She stroked his cheek. “She won’t choke. That only happens to people that aren't cared for properly. As long as there isn’t anything tied around her neck and she’s on her side, she will not choke.”

He nodded, his jaw hard.

“I’ll be there when it happens to guide you. Or you can just watch. You don’t have to help until you feel ready.”

“No,” he said firmly. “I’ll help.”

Claire smiled warmly and kissed him briefly. “Good.”

“When is…the last time it happened?”

“February was the last one, so it’s been about a month and a half,” Claire said confidently. She kept very close track. “She typically has one every couple of months, anywhere between four to eight times a year.”

“Christ…”

“It could be a lot worse, Jamie,” she assured him. “She is a very healthy little girl aside from all this. And right now,” she caressed his chin. “She is waiting for her Da to accompany her to the corral.”

He smiled again. “Aye…she is.”

“Your little girl, Jamie.”

“Aye…” His eyes misted over. “My wean…our wean.”

She kissed him gently, sweetly, reverently. “Ours.”

----

Hello all! In case you didn't notice, I've given this chapter a hard stopping chapter; the final chapter will be 45, so one more after this! BUT, dinna fash, I've always had in mind that this story would go all the way into Brianna's adulthood, and it will -- just in a sequel! I decided that I want to leave this story as is, keeping it mainly about Claire's grief and bond with Jenny and finding her place at Lallybroch, and then explore all the ideas and pre-written new plots I have in a separate story! So yeah! This isn't the end of the APTB babies, it's really only just beginning! So stay tuned for one more chapter, and then stay tuned for the sequel -- already in the works, to be posted in 2021! So much love to y'all!<3

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barbasbodaciousbeard · 3 years

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Back Before You Lost the One Real Thing You've Ever Known

Summary: Rebecca spent over a year trying to coax feelings back out of Rafael Barba, only to have it all end abruptly when he lashed out. The attorney wasn’t able to fight the urge to fire first. When he needed comfort, she tried to reach out to no avail, but she’s been able to steel herself now. After all, creating a life changes you.

Pairings: Rafael Barba x OC

First Part

A/N: A few more ideas came up.

Oh, your sweet disposition And my wide-eyed gaze We're singing in the car, getting lost upstate

Rebecca should have known better than to try and be there for Rafael Barba. She’d met him when she’d had to testify to what she’d walked in on in another Kindergarten classroom, the one eventually taken over by Al. He’d prepped her, and conversation came easily between the pair. After he’d gotten his guilty verdict, he’d asked her to get celebratory drinks now that the ordeal was over. They’d met several times throughout the investigation and trial, and Rebecca saw a determination to put abusers away and a quick wit that led her to accept his invitation eagerly. What she didn’t realize was that while her infatuation with the handsome prosecutor grew, so would the issues they ran into. It wasn’t easy for him to express anything but the cocksuredness he portrayed in the courtroom. Once he relaxed, he’d sing along to the radio or tell her stories from his childhood, but she sensed a careful wall.

At first, she’d assumed the wall was a sign of maturity; he was significantly older, though she hadn’t guessed it at first. As thirty came closer for her, fifty was coming closer for him. Maybe that was why he was so hesitant to tell her what was going through his head. He was always fine, but he’d had longer to learn to be fine. Meanwhile, she’d come home and cry because she couldn’t fix the fact that her student’s dog had died or they couldn’t afford lunch. Often, he’d stare at her, and she was certain he was thinking how ridiculous she was. Each time she gave him a defense, telling him that she prayed she’d never be numb to these feelings like some of her colleagues. To her, it was a sign she was feeling, and she strived to love without expectation. And each time, he’d hold her close and tell her that her extreme empathy was what he liked so much.

And despite his hesitance to share, he was sweet overall. When he learned how much she’d been wanting to sneak away to the mountains, he rented them a cabin. She’d watched the trees go by, in awe as she watched paths wind through the woods. On occasion, her hand would fly to his arm, and she would squeal as she pointed out an animal in the woods. She could remember the soft smile he’d affixed her with, the first time she was sure he did love her. It had been six months, and she’d been assuring him she loved him for three. It was hard for her not to hear it back, and anytime she felt jealous of the points her friends were at in their relationships, she’d remind herself he wasn’t as open as their partners. Being significantly older didn’t make him immune from hang ups. He’d sung her the sappy songs that came up with his phone on shuffle, and Rebecca couldn’t have predicted the way this would all sour a short year later. When she closed her eyes, she could still see him with a crooked smile and her hand in his, serenading her with a Frank Sinatra song.

After wishing and praying for him to come home, he was standing there, still with devastatingly gorgeous eyes and now with a sprinkling of gray in his hair and new beard. His dress wasn’t as meticulous as it used to be, and part of her wondered if he had intended to come here at all. Dark jeans and a tucked in button down shirt? In the city? The snow clung to his hair and beard and lashes, but she could suddenly feel everything all too well. The way she felt about him, the way his hands felt on her skin, his lips on hers, the insecurity when he couldn’t share, the overwhelming relief when he did. And now he was standing there, saying he loved her and she didn’t have to believe him. Tha last part was the hardest because it did let her start to consider that he’d never been so okay with uncertainty. He’d always been the one to say you know how I feel, or once he’d said it, you know I love you. She was always supposed to take what he said as fact, and now he wasn’t expecting it.

Time won't fly, it's like I'm paralyzed by it I'd like to be my old self again But I'm still trying to find it

When he’d said he loved her, it was late at night, and she wasn’t positive he knew she was awake. He’s said it with such sincerity, however, that she wrapped her arm tighter around him, hearing his sharp intake of breath. It would be a year the following week, and relief washed over her to have something she knew to be true so easily confirmed. I love you, he’d repeated so easily, nuzzling into the crook of her neck as his fingers trailed up her sides. For Rafael, touch was what he used to say what he couldn’t with words. If he couldn’t tell her, he could show her, and that had worked for her. But now? As he laid over her, they moved together, and she could hear his whispered, reverent I love yous? There were no words. But in the weeks afterwards, things began to deteriorate, and she focused on the fact he was probably grappling with the shift and the fear she’d do to him what Yelina had. That said, she wasn’t going to bend her life to his trauma. He was old enough to know he needed help but too stubborn to get it. She’d been so excited to share her plans with Al. They were the two kindergarten teachers at the small school they taught at, and the last partner she’d had was stand offish and now in prison, thanks to Rafael.

Just get a fuckin’ room already.

Raf, he’s my coworker. We’re friends.

You know exactly what he wants from you, and you want it too.

What are you saying? I’m a slut or something? You know you’re it for me.

A spade’s a spade.

Crushed was an understatement. She’d gone home, spent weeks working through things at least enough to leave him a letter. He wasn’t a bad guy, and the guilt she felt for slapping him was overwhelming. He’d opened up to her recently, told her his dad had been abusive. And she slapped him? It was different, she knew, but still, Rebecca was incapable of not apologizing to him for any negative response he could have.

And as time went on, she couldn’t go back to who she was before. Things had been irrevocably shifted by Rafael, and she began to be more hesitant with new people. She’d loved Rafael in a way she hadn’t before, felt she understood him as she hadn’t before. And she thought he’d understood her. The implication she’d cheat so easily and make him feel like she knew Yelina had was enough to give her a wall she hadn’t before.

After all, creating life changes you.

Al had been the first one to comment on it. After weeks on the phone with him in hysterics, she’d started just saying she was fine. There had been dozens of phone calls to Rafael between Christmas and the new year, and he’d ignored each. She felt weak for how badly he’d managed to hurt her and how unable she was to find the beauty in it. Each night, she’d try to sleep and see every moment they’d spent together running through her mind like an old projector, flickering as it moved from the reel of Rafael in the three piece suit balancing coffee as he came to visit her while she prepped in July to the one of him begrudgingly joining her on a hike in the mountains.

You’re not okay, Bec. Me and Rodney are worried about you.

It’s nothing.

It’s not nothing, okay?

It’s nothing.

It took until Rafael’s trial for Rebecca to drop the black and white image on Al’s desk, her name and six weeks, four days in small letters at the top and a fetal ultrasound visible. Al stared at it, finding the date and doing the math, the realization she was ten weeks along. He looked up at her with wide eyes, pulling her into a hug. As Al cooed she’d be okay against her temple, promised to support whatever she did and murder Rafael if need be, she cried into his jacket. She didn’t go back to her apartment for three days, instead staying in Al and Rodney’s spare bed and avoiding the news. After Al’s encouragement, she emailed Rafael finally, calling the matter time sensitive, but she never heard back.

'Cause there we are again when I loved you so, back before you lost the one real thing you've ever known. It was rare. I was there. I remember it all too well.

It was easy, even three years after the last time she saw him, to transport herself to the seat beside his, and as she looked into his eyes where he stood on her stoop, the snow clinging to his beard and hair and the deep gray jacket, she wanted to cry because things weren’t as easy as they were four and a half years before. Their daughter was born the August after he left, and Rebecca didn’t know how to tell Rafael that what had changed was so cosmic. God had given her this little girl, now two and a half, eagerly waiting on Christmas eve the next night. The little girl who Rebecca had felt she was supposed to let know who her father was. She could recognize Rafael, though without the suits and with the beard, Rebecca thought there was a chance the little girl wouldn’t know. It suddenly struck her how easily Catalina could get out of the toddler bed she’d moved to, and the real possibility she’d call down for water or a story at any moment.

She’d taken her to the same church she attended with Rafael, sat in the same pew. After giving birth, Rebecca had tried going by his apartment, finding it rented out and receiving the news he was in Iowa. She’d never met his mother, and Rebecca didn’t want to approach anyone in case he wanted nothing to do with them. Al and Rodney had been a blessing, always eager to step in to babysit or give her the adult company she needed. Their daughter looked almost infuriatingly like her father, with expressive green eyes and thick dark hair. She’d also make the same faces as him from time to time. One of the pictures framed in the living room showed her with her mouth set in the same frustrated line as she rolled her eyes in a huff. Every reminder rubbed the wound open again, but she’d gotten tougher.

Creating a life changes you.

“Rafael, no one had ever hurt me like that.” He had the decency to look ashamed, maybe even more than he needed to, and shift his weight from foot to foot.

“I know. I was so afraid, Becca. I thought I loved Yelina. I didn’t. I was forty-six, falling really, actually in love for the first time. I felt stupid and afraid, and I lost the only good thing I had. The only person who loved the fucked up, broken parts.”

“I was there, Rafael. I was calling. I even emailed.”

“You emailed?”

“After the trial. About two weeks later.”

“Dios mio,” he ran his hand over his face, letting out a low groan. “You emailed my work email, didn’t you?”

“It’s the only one you use.”

“I resigned the day I was found not guilty. Mi corazón, I lost access that day.”

“You never got my email?”

“No. I ignored your calls, and that was stupid. But I’d have taken any communication then.”

“We’re going to need to talk about something then.”

“Who is he?” The way Rafael had resigned himself to the idea she moved on was something she’d expected to feel hurt by. Instead, she saw his face free of anger. “Becca, I want you to be happy. If someone else could make you happy, I’m glad.”

“Raf-” she could hear the slightest movement. It was ten o’clock and every night around this time, she’d give Catalina a cup of water or lay with her until she slept again.

“Oh god, you’re with someone else and he’s here? I can go. I just- I had to try.”

“No. There’s no one else. It’s just-”

“Mama!” she heard echo down the stairs, and Rafael’s eyes snapped to hers.

“Mama?” he asked, and she opened the door to him finally.

“I have to get her back to sleep. Go sit at the dining table.”

#rafael barba #rafael barba x oc #rafael Barba x reader #law and order special victims unit #law and order svu #writing

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dwellordream · 3 years

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“…sex was not, in fact “treated with the utmost reverence” by “our ancestors” in the Christian West. Sex was, instead treated in a highly ambivalent way. To be sure, from a Christian theological standpoint there was an ideal way to approach sex. That was not to have it. The ideal individual would devote their life to God as a member of the clergy and simply opt out of the whole sex thing. This is because sex, and the attendant pleasure that individuals experienced as a part of it, was a direct result of the Fall of Man. Had Eve never eaten that damn apple, it would have been possible, according to St Augustine, to have sex without experiencing pleasure.

…So ideal individuals were those who were wary of any sort of sexual contact, eschewed it, and devoted their lives to worshipping God in the clergy. On the other hand, new humans had to be made, so some people were going to have to have sex. The way to control for the sinful and lustful nature of sex, according to the clergy, was for those individuals to get married and have sex specifically and only with each other whilst also attempting to procreate. Any sex that couldn’t lead to children was sodomy. Sodomy was always forbidden. Sex should always theoretically result in more children. Any other type of sex, whether extramarital or sodomitical should be confessed and repented for.

So this is all well and good and very cute of the Catholic Church to state. Trouble is, that you can’t actually dictate that this happen because it turns out people really really like sex. Like, a lot. For a start, while the clergy were meant to be acting as arbiters of sexual impurity as well as celibate examples for ordinary people, they pretty famously were not always great on that one.

Indeed before the Gregorian Reforms of the eleventh century there were plenty of clergy members who were married themselves and having plenty of sex. So much so that the moral authority of the clergy was under question to the point that the Gregorian Reforms were, you know, required. Pope Gregory VII (c. 1015-1085) thus duly made one of the most successful pushes for clerical celibacy and from that point onward clergy members were supposed to keep it in their pants.

This did not work. Clergy members kept on having sex. Sometimes they had sex with each other and wrote sweet little love notes about it. Sometimes they had sex with women living alongside them as their concubines. Sometimes they had sex with the sex workers who were considered absolutely necessary by Church authorities to the ordering of society.

…Obviously, then even clergy members were never totally celibate. Sure, they wished to be, and sometimes even strove to be, but the lascivious clergy member was common enough that it is a trope in medieval literature. There is a reason that we see nuns harvesting the penises from the tree in BNF Roman de la Rose manuscript is what I am saying.

Of course there is also all of the non-clergy members to consider. Spoiler: they were also not great at the whole only having sex within marriage and specifically in order to get pregnant thing. The thing is that although sex within marriage was allowed, it was just considered fundamentally not that sexy.

Indeed, while marriage was very much considered a religious state, so too was it seen as a specific contract between families. Marriages, especially among the upper classes were frequently conducted for business or dynastic reasons and it was entirely normal for people to end up married to individuals that were not necessarily their first choices.

It is for this reason that the entire genre of courtly love literature sprang up. You know, the entire corpus of medieval works about having sex with women who were married to someone else? Yes. That. Because sex with one’s husband was a duty that one participated in. Sex with one’s lover was about, well, love. Also hot sex. Indeed the anticipation of extramarital sex was such that it was generally agreed that women groomed themselves not for their husbands, but their lovers.

…For the average person (i.e., peasants) this was, of course, not the case. Peasants and other commoners had much more freedom about who to marry, given that they weren’t busy starting wars over dynastic spats. Even there, we know that many marriages in the Early Modern period between common people, as many as one in five were conducted when the bride was already pregnant, which we assume pretty safely holds true of the medieval period. The flip side of this is that plenty of women also found themselves pregnant with men who would not end up becoming their husbands.

Sex, then, wasn’t something that was treated as a sacred covenant by everyone. Did the Church want you to? Yes obviously they did. Could they even live up to that standard themselves? No. Jesus are you joking? Sex was had where sex was had by the people who wanted to have it. Then as now.

Of course there was pushback against, you know, all the extramarital non-procreative sex. One need only to look at the penance that was meted out for women who used dildos to see that there were those in the Church who very much considered themselves engaged in a war against sex.

Thing of it is, by the very existence of such penitentials we see that there was never a point when unacceptable sex was ever totally curtailed. People were threatened with burning in hell for their lust in church frescoes because they were having unacceptable sex.

They were given penance by their priests because they were having unacceptable sex. They were lectured from the pulpit by their clergy members because they were having unacceptable sex. The very existence of correctors shows us that they were necessary because people kept violating the rules.

To ignore the nuanced and varied history of sex in order call sex now a result of the “triumph of the merchant” is to completely ignore the fact that the traditional medieval and early modern conceptions of sex within marriage were almost entirely transactional in nature. Sex, as I have argued repeatedly was very much conceptualised as an object and a debt that one person owed another within marriage. This sex was exchanged in order to secure heirs.

Moreover the promise of access to this sex was very much the means by which marriages were negotiated. Sex was a commodity traded between families and marriage the contract by which it was secured. Indeed, by saying that sex must necessarily only take place inside of a married context for the getting of heirs the very conception becomes immediately commodified and brokered between interested parties.

Equally laughable is the idea that sex was always “revered” by our Christian ancestors, belied as it is by the utter glee that they quite obviously took in profane images. Whether we are talking about obscene pilgrim badges commemorating all the sex that you may have had while away, (or the pregnancy you were hoping to secure through pilgrimage, we aren’t sure!), the marginalia of couples going down on each other, the endless parade of dicks that pop up everywhere from dragons’ hats to standing in for manicules, it is abundantly clear that medieval people also just thought sex was pretty funny. Doesn’t matter if you were a cloistered monk decorating the pages of books for the glory of god, odds are you were gonna draw a dick in there. Cuz it’s funny.

So anyway, yes clearly the idea that there is some sort of pure holy Christian past that we are straying away from is absolute nonsense and a exists only as a construct in this sad little white supremacist’s head. Indeed, if anything I would argue that we are probably more monogamous now than medieval people were. After all, the way that we currently relate to marriage is that it is a relationship wherein we are supposed to receive everything from the other person.

Our spouses are supposed to be our hottest lovers, our best friends, our family members, and if we are religious our spiritual equals. That is … way more than medieval people expected from one relationship. We are therefore becoming increasingly monogamous, asking that one relationship do more and more work for us, and edging out older traditional relationship models which include an extended family as well as the larger community. Also maybe banging that cute guy over there on the sly. Who knows!”

- Eleanor Janega, “On treating sex with the utmost reverence”.

#medieval #sexuality #religion #history #eleanor janega #marriage

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politicalmamaduck · 3 years

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old gods still walk in these thickets

Written for midwinterspring! Their prompts were: "an intricate ritual", "old gods still walk in these thickets" (based on this Dappermouth art piece) and/or "incunabula" (the beginning of something).

Read it on AO3 here.

Alina walked, and walked. How far she walked, she could not say. Nothing around her changed; the sky was grey, and mist and fog trailed her steps. She saw and heard no one or nothing besides herself.

Still, she continued to walk, her long black cloak brushing against the ground. She would not allow herself to become nervous.

She had come so far, farther than she ever would have dared not so long ago. Or perhaps it was so long ago. Time seemed to move differently for her, now.

She rubbed her palm as she walked, as if the scar he now bore were her own. The wounds they bore each other were now nothing more than that--scars they both shared, between body, mind, and soul.

Old gods still walk in these thickets, he told her. Alina possessed no conception of those who were worshipped before the Saints. They too were before Aleksander’s time, but there were still echoes of them resonating from the Making at the Heart of the World.

Their world was still broken and needed to be healed. It would be an intricate ritual, ancient and incomprehensible, but it was a price Alina was willing to pay.

No more innocents would die for their Grisha blood.

She felt Morozova’s stag glowing within her, as if encouraging her onward, guiding her true north, even though she walked south, deep into the Sikurzoi.

Finally, the scenery changed, and the mountains loomed ahead. She continued to climb higher still, despite the temperature falling. She was grateful for her heavy cloak and its fur collar. Despite walking for what must have been hours past Dva Stolba, past Keramzin, Alina felt neither tired nor hungry. She was sustained by something else, a primeval power living inside her.

She would not allow herself to wish that Aleksander walked beside her. She could not betray her own heart by thinking the sentiment. This, she would do alone. She would not sacrifice him or his love, though she knew he would see it as a betrayal when she left him alone in Os Alta.

Better to betray him once again than to betray her own heart.

She would not think about the way his body entwined with hers the night prior, the way the sheets tangled around their legs in the night, the warmth of him curled around her.

She pressed a gentle kiss to his head this morning, then pulled the blankets up, memorizing the way his chest rose and fell with his breathing. He looked so peaceful asleep, at ease. She would not break the spell of the moment by saying goodbye.

The Darkling kept the best horses in Ravka, but even they would not have been enough to catch her by the time he learned what she had done.

Alina approached the firebird, that most ancient and majestic of beings. The firebird reared before her, spreading her wings for flight, and nearly knocked Alina off her feet. Despite the grey mist in the mountains, her wings reflected gold in their red feathers, a striking contrast to the dull earth tones surrounding them.

Unlike the first time they met, this time the firebird knew Alina was not there to claim her as an amplifier, and soon quieted. Alina knelt before her majesty, bowed her head, displaying the reverence she should have as a younger woman.

“I need your help,” she said, knowing somehow that the firebird would understand her.

…

The thickets burned so easily. The blaze of the sacred flames was hotter than anything Alina had ever experienced, but she did not dare remove her cloak. It protected her skin, still so vulnerable despite her power.

Ancient magic, she thought. Not merzost. Not the Small Science.

She circled the fire and recited words in a language no longer spoken, uncertain if she were pronouncing them correctly, but feeling them sit right on her tongue.

She would not allow herself to be distracted by thinking of her tongue in Aleksander’s mouth, his tongue inside her the night before.

The firebird flapped her wings and blew the flames even hotter. Alina knelt and waited.

Eventually, the firebird approached her and brushed a wing over her back. Alina removed a feather from her hair, the firebird’s gift for the ritual. Removing a piece of thorn wood from her pocket, she pressed into her palm, smeared her blood on the thorn and the feather. She cast them into the flames, wondering if it would become her own funeral pyre.

She waited.

Eventually, a shape emerged from the mist in the mountains and stepped through the flames. Alina knew better than to meet its eyes without permission.

“You have come a long way, Alina Starkov,” the old god said. The voice was ancient, powerful, terrible, somehow sounding like all people and none at all. She supposed such human concerns as gender did not matter to a being behind the Making at the Heart of the World.

“I come to bargain,” she said. “If you will listen.” She kept her eyes trained on the ground. Next to her, the firebird shrieked.

“What could you possibly have to offer me, Alina Starkov?”

Alina knew the being would ask the question. She spoke with practiced words.

“I have much to offer,” she replied. “I have to offer myself, a living Saint, a holy sacrifice at your altar.” She gestured to the fire. “You may claim my life or use my body for your own, should you wish to walk among mortals once again. I have to offer worship, a remembrance of who and what you once were, altars throughout Ravka, eternal flames dedicated to your memory. I have to offer treasure, riches, the fruit of the earth and the product of human ingenuity. I have to offer my immortal soul,” she added, the most precious thing she had to offer according to the church. Though the words hurt her, she continued. “You may claim my Grisha power or the immortality it grants me, should you find those useful.” She swallowed. Before she could continue, the being--god--spoke once more.

“Do you think you are the first to offer me such things?”

“No,” she replied. “If I was, there would not have been a way to find you, a way for me to conduct this ritual.”

She still did not look fully up, but she could see that the being leaned the shape of its head back and laughed.

“Why do you care to bargain, Alina Starkov? Why not live your immortal life with all that power flowing through your veins? Why disturb the Making at the Heart of the World?”

“Because I can’t save them all,” she replied, her voice breaking, her eyes filling with tears. “I cannot live for eternity knowing I could have done more to protect my people.”

Too many Grisha, dead at the Fjerdan border. Too many Ravkan children, dead in their beds.

Aleksander tried for centuries, and still failed. The Fold was healed, Ravka became whole once more, but still, their people suffered. If the Fold were born of his anger and pain, using merzost, and her love allowed it to be healed, perhaps whatever Alina did here would be born of love and sacrifice, instead.

She had to try.

The old god laughed once more.

“Incunabula,” they said. “Let this be the beginning of something, Alina Starkov. Do you believe that you were born into this world to suffer and die, as the Apparat teaches?”

“No,” she replied. “If I did, would I be here?”

“Indeed,” the being said. “As I thought. Pain will still be a part of life, and the world may be cruel, but the Making at the Heart of the World was never intended to be so.”

Alina nodded, still not looking up.

“I will take a shape more comfortable for you,” the god said.

Before her eyes, the shadowy outline of a human body against the flames became a great boar, like Morozova’s stag. It pawed the ground, and she looked up into its depthless eyes, white and unblinking against the blackest of night fur.

Next to her, the firebird cawed and flapped her wings once more.

“I cannot control the free will of humans. None of us can. Your pain, devastation, endless war result from these.”

“I know,” Alina replied. “But is there nothing you can do to help? Can you not sway the heart of the Fjerdan king or the Shu queen?”

“You are stubborn, Alina Starkov,” the old god said. “Did you consider that perhaps I would be unable to help, rather than unwilling to bargain?”

She had not allowed herself to consider that possibility. She swallowed and tried a different tactic.

“If you cannot help me save my people from needless death and destruction, what can you do? What did you do when you were worshipped?”

The old god paused: considering, remembering. The flames crackled behind it. Its boar form pawed the ground once more.

“Perhaps there is something I can do for you, Alina Starkov. I will do this. I will grant you a boon.”

“You will?” she dared ask. Still wary, before the old god could answer or change its mind, she continued “And what form shall your boon take?”

Still in its boar form, it snorted, which Alina took for a laugh. “Wise and wary beyond your years as well as stubborn, I see. Very well, Alina Starkov. While I cannot change humanity’s hearts, or protect them unto a natural death, I can do this. I can grant you the strength and bravery of my boar form, that you may face your eternity knowing that you can and will survive it and all its losses. You will have this strength for all the days ahead, the courage to continue fighting, the bravery to look death in its face and know that you are not alone, that you will mark your losses on your heart but survive them.”

Alina nodded, and stood. She steeled her spine, ready to face whatever laid ahead for her. The boar’s strength would bear her alongside her own inner strength. “I thank you,” she replied. “I am grateful for your boon. I release you back into the Making at the Heart of the World, Boar God.” She was uncertain what else to call it.

“Use my strength well, Alina Starkov,” it said. “May we meet again, at the Making at the Heart of the World.” The boar shape dissipated into shadows and stars and spun back into the fire, trailing smoke and shadow.

The firebird flew into the flames, soaking them up as if an ordinary bird in a bath outside a wealthy merchant’s home.

“Thank you,” she said to the firebird, who squawked her agreement.

Alina turned and began her descent down the mountain.

…

Alina was unsurprised to find that she did not, in fact, have to obtain horses in Dva Stolba to ride all the way back to Os Alta. She was uncertain if days or hours had passed while she bargained with the old god, but regardless, her husband had followed her.

She found him in the market, her body stiff from the heat, kneeling, walking.

“Alina,” he said, the desperation and relief evident in his voice and the way he swept her into his arms despite the fact that there were others around to witness.

“I thought--” he started, and she shook her head.

“It didn’t work,” she said. “We have to try something else.”

He nodded, put his arm around her back, and led her to the finest room the inns in the valley had to offer.

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” he said, after kissing her as if his life depended upon it.

“I had to try,” she answered, his fingers tracing her lips.

“We will find a way,” he replied, his eyes darkening. “Together.” Even if Alina wanted to discuss it further, she could not, for he claimed her mouth with his own and her thoughts were claimed by the feeling of his body against hers, the sensations he was creating as he kissed her, caressed her, undressed her.

She was cold without her clothing, still adjusting from facing a sacred blaze for so long, but her husband made her warm once more. She became the blaze, her wet center radiating heat outwards. He worked his way down from her lips, kissing every inch of her, letting his fingers trail his lips, causing breathy sighs and moans to escape her lips.

She found herself guided backwards to the bed, their clothes scattered all over the floor, her fingers in his hair.

Once she was settled amongst the pillows, he murmured, “I love you, Alina,” before his hands gripped her hips and his tongue delved inside her, leaving her unable to properly respond save a heady moan.

She supposed he took it as response enough as he drank his fill of her, leaving her breathless and tingling all over until he added a finger and she cried out, desperate for more, desperate for release, desperate for him.

He continued to caress her with his tongue until she was trembling with pleasure and his beard was soaked. Only then did he scoop her into his arms, holding her to him as if he would never let her go, and then entered her.

She was filled with him, simultaneously sated with pleasure and dying for more.

“I love you, Aleksander,” she managed to breathe, moving her hips in sync with his. She traced a finger down his cheek and smiled, meeting his dark eyes and falling in love with him all over again as he smiled too.

They kissed and caressed and held each other all night. In the darkness, before the haze of early morning light, Alina listened to her husband’s breathing, his heartbeat, and thought that perhaps the old god’s blessing had been for them both.

#darklinafics #darklina #alina x darkling #alina starkov #the darkling #shadow and bone #grishaverse #fan fiction #my writing #midwinterspring #fandom friends

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ill-skillsgard · 4 years

Note

Okay, I love a little angst, and I could see Faust visiting Faith at work and some prick keeps flirting with her and she’s very oblivious and doesn’t realize it. Or she has a tutor for college, and Faust walks in on him teaching her something, but the guys clearly flirting with her. Or lastly, her father setting her up with a family friends son who’s picture perfect and Stan making Faith go out with him for the night. But all these scenarios lead to a good banging lol.

Warning: 18+ anti-religious/anti-Christian themes/angst etc. **jealousy, angst and possessiveness in this part**

Faust x Faith Masterpost [x]

Faith awoke with a sharp intake of air. She glanced at the digital clock on Faust’s desk through misty eyes and paled when the late morning hour came into focus. She was due to meet her father in twenty-five minutes, and he expected her at the campus—not a half-hour bus ride from her dorm in an area of town known for its street crime. Even if Faust borrowed his roommate’s car to drive her, she wouldn’t have time to shower and dress before her father arrived.

A text from her dad warned of his impending arrival. She should have known better than to spend an entire Saturday evening humping her boyfriend, or at least set an alarm to wake up with ample time to get back to her dorm. In her panic, Faust woke up, looking ruefully unconcerned while she rushed to get dressed.

“What’s your deal?” Faust grumbled as Faith slipped on her black tights and lilac blouse, a worried expression on her face.

“We slept too late! My dad’s supposed to pick me up at school in like twenty minutes!”

Faust rolled onto his side, propping his head on his elbow as a dreamy smirk snagged his lips. Faith clicked her tongue. When it came to disappointing her father, Faust had nothing but encouragement to give, but his playful stare could not snuff her genuine panic.

“You won’t make it to school on time. Why don’t you just ask him to pick you up here?” Faust suggested.

“Hell no!” Faith exclaimed. “You don’t realize the amount of shit I’ll be in if he finds out I spent the night with you. Premarital sex is... No, I just can’t.”

Faust rolled his eyes. “It’s not like he’ll kill his own daughter.”

She rolled on one sock, then the other, grimacing when she noticed one was on inside-out. “You still don’t realize that he can and will pack up everything and move us away. Or he’ll make me go to a different school next semester. Trust me. You don’t get how strict my parents are. They’ve already made me read several pamphlets from church about the sin of fornication.”

“Well, clearly, you’ve learned nothing. We fornicated all night, babe. I fornicated all over that shirt, too,” he snickered.

“Faust! I’m serious. Now is not a time to joke. Wait... What?” Faith stopped in the middle of the room and stared down at her top, gasping. “Oh my god! There’s cum all over me! I’m so screwed.”

He got out of bed and went to the low-boy, pulling open the third drawer while Faith panicked.

“I am literally covered in your jizz! Why did you have to blow on my shirt?” Faith groaned.

Faust stifled a laugh as he pulled out a black t-shirt from the drawer. “Babe, you’re the one who wanted to suck my dick first thing after you got here. I can’t be responsible for where my unborn children go to die. Maybe you need to catch my loads a little better.”

She scoffed then scoffed again when he held up a faded t-shirt with a macabre design on the front and an illegible logo cresting the imagery.

“Wear this,” Faust offered.

“I can’t wear that in front of my dad. What does that even say?” Faith asked.

“Obituary.”

Faith shook her head. Faust shrugged and stuffed the shirt back into the drawer before grabbing a different one. “How about this? No pictures on it or anything.”

She grimaced again. “It just says Death. I’m going to church, Faust.”

“All right, all right. Give me a minute,” Faust said, rifling through another drawer.

The phone buzzed in Faith’s hand, warning her that time was running out for her to make herself presentable and come up with an excuse as to why she was nowhere near campus grounds. Faust pulled out a plain black t-shirt, offering it to her with round, sympathetic eyes.

“Will this work?”

She took the shirt and gulped. “It will have to do. It’s still all black, and my parents won’t be happy.”

Faust nodded, seeming to understand her predicament. “Why don’t you say you’re sick?”

“The only time I ever got away with missing church was when I had Chicken Pox,” Faith said.

“Say you have too much work.”

She frowned. “There’s never an excuse large enough to appease them. I appreciate the suggestions, but I’d rather you just help me with a plan.”

The man towering over her nodded, turning to select his outfit for the day. “I’ll take you to the diner down the block. You can say I picked you up for breakfast.”

“I’d rather not tell them I was with you at all,” Faith said as she gathered her purse and stuffed her soiled blouse inside.

“Ouch,” Faust flinched.

“I’m sorry... That was rude,” Faith replied, covering her mouth for a moment, eyes wide. “You’re right. We should do that just to make it look like I didn’t spend the night.”

Faust ducked into a dark long-sleeve shirt, pulling his black hair out to fall over his shoulders. “Might want to wipe the dried cum off your chin then.”

When Faith slid her fingers through Faust’s as they walked down the street, his grip fell limp. He stared ahead and didn’t take any casual glances at her. In fact, Faust had been silent since they left. Worry piled on top of anxiety over what she would tell her dad, and she dropped her gaze to the sidewalk, counting the cracks as they walked. She doubled her steps to keep up with Faust’s until they reached the front doors of the quaint diner he and his buddies went to after nights of partying and hungover mornings. He let go of her hand and stepped away from her.

“See you later,” he said, spinning on the heel of his boot.

She reached out and grabbed his arm. “Wait! You’re not even going to kiss me goodbye?”

Faust shrugged, his leather jacket bemoaning the gesture. “Wouldn’t want your dad to catch you kissing your boyfriend.”

“Faust... Please. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

He snorted, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and his lighter. “If that’s what you think.”

His pointed response stung, but Faith wouldn’t let him walk away without addressing the tension. “Seriously... I’m sorry. I wish you understood how hard it is for me to navigate this. You think I’m exaggerating when I say my father will stop paying my tuition and make me go to a different school, but I’m not.”

“No one can make you do anything you don’t want to do,” said Faust, inhaling a cloud of cigarette smoke. “You just let them run your life.”

Heat built up behind her eyes. She took in a deep breath and sighed hopelessly. “I don’t have the income to be independent. It’s not as easy as you think. Not for me.”

Stan’s car pulled up at the curb, and Faith’s heart dropped. Faust glanced at the vehicle, then back at Faith fidgeting with the hem of the black t-shirt he gave her. He nodded toward the street.

“I should go before your dad gets the wrong idea about us.”

“Faust—” she whimpered.

“We’ll talk later.”

Faith hurried to get into the backseat of her father’s car, staring out the window as they drove off and passed Faust on the street. Her mother sighed and shook her head.

“Smoking is a disgusting habit,” she muttered.

Faith’s sisters stared at her from their seats, then looked away when she met their eyes.

“What?” Faith asked.

“You’re in trouble,” one of them sang.

Stan glared at his oldest daughter in the rear-view mirror. He didn’t keep his indignation quiet for long. “Since when is it okay to wear all black in the house of Christ? We’re not attending a funeral, Faith. We’re going for worship.”

“I know,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It was the only clean outfit I had. I haven’t done laundry because I’ve had too much schoolwork.”

“Maybe if you didn’t spend so much time with that man, you’d have a proper outfit to wear on Sunday.”

“That man is my boyfriend. Am I not allowed to ever fall in love? It’s not like you and mom didn’t date before you got married.”

Reneta continued shaking her head. “Your father was a respectable man. He didn’t smoke and listen to evil music.”

Faith scoffed as her sisters listened with wide eyes and mischievous smirks. “What are you talking about, mom? You had nothing but nice things to say about him when he came over for dinner!”

“He was our guest, and a lady is always a kind host.”

“So, you don’t like him either?” Faith asked.

“Sweetheart, that’s not what I said. I just wish you would find yourself a nice boy. One who knows the importance of God—”

“If I smell smoke on you or catch you making a mockery of His word, I promise on His good name, I will make sure you never see that boy again,” Stan vowed.

Faith clammed up. Though she had plenty to say, she knew better than to push her luck. Her sisters whispered next to her, but Faith ignored them too. She fished her phone out of her purse and sent a text message to Faust.

You’re right. These people are fucked. I have to get away.

The service dragged for what seemed like hours, and when it ended, Faith was eager to leave. But instead of piling into the car to go home after the last prayer, Faith waited as her family mingled with others. As a revered minister of the church, Stan often welcomed conversation from those who sought his guidance and blessings. She sat in an empty pew, sighing with impatience as the churchgoers waited their turn for a private conversation with her father.

Faith peeked at her phone to see if Faust had replied, but the message remained unopened.

Though he hadn’t said much that morning, she feared her err had caused Faust to reevaluate his interest in her. A troublesome mass weighed in her stomach. Texting him again might result in him dubbing her “clingy,” Faith decided, so she turned off her phone until it was time to leave.

They piled into the family car and turned down the road in the opposite direction of the school campus. When Faith noticed, she perked up in her seat.

“Where are we going?” She asked.

“We’re having the Esders family over for dinner this evening,” said Stan.

Faith tried not to voice her displeasure, but nothing prevented the furrowing of her brow. “Well, that’s very nice, but I have to go home to work on my paper.”

Stan glanced back at his oldest daughter. “Your home is under our roof. And you can spare a few hours for your family.”

“Dad, I can’t spend the entire day doing nothing. It’s due tomorrow!” Faith whined.

“I won’t hear anymore, Faith. Bobby is your age, and you’ll be kind and cordial.”

“Oh, so that’s what this is about? You want me to spend time with another boy?”

“Faith, you’re helping host the Esders’, and you will be on your best behaviour.”

Faith kept to herself during dinner, helping set and clear the table, answering questions with curt replies, and after dessert, she stepped onto the veranda to call Faust. The line rang and rang until it cut off. Faust didn’t have voicemail, and he still hadn’t replied to her message from earlier. Dejected, Faith sighed as she looked out over the suburban street, the stained glass crosses hanging in bay windows and wind chimes tinkling in the cool breeze. The sound of footsteps rounded the corner, and she turned to find Bobby Esders approaching.

“Hey, Faith. What’re you doing out here all by yourself?” The flaxen-haired boy asked.

She forced a brief grin and leaned against the handrail. “Being by myself.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have interrupted. I was getting sick of all the church-talk in there.”

Faith nodded. “Same.”

Bobby tucked his hands into the pockets of his beige chinos. “I noticed you haven’t been to group in a while.”

“I have a lot of schoolwork. It’s a little more important than making arts and crafts and babysitting kids while they cry over which Veggie Tales movie to watch.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Bobby snorted with amusement, stepping up to the handrail beside her. “So... What did you do all Summer?”

The only voice Faith wanted to hear was Faust’s whispering in her ear, gently poking fun at her, calling her babe and stating interesting yet useless facts about his favourite bands and horror movies. Though she was polite, she turned to Bobby with a tight smile and sighed impatiently.

“I don’t know... Stuff? What everyone else does during the Summer.”

The boy accepted her response with a solemn nod. Bobby Esders was not oblivious. He sensed her discomfort and unspoken need for solitude the moment dinner began. With a nod, he backed away.

“Well, I hope you have a good night, and good luck with your schoolwork.”

Faith frowned. “I’m sorry, Bobby. I shouldn’t be so short with you. My parents have been treating me like a child lately, and it’s getting on my nerves. I should be studying, but instead, I’m here—”

“Pretending like you give a shit about church?” Bobby said with a secretive smirk.

“Um... Well, yeah,” she replied, blushing.

Bobby chuckled, maintaining his distance but relaxing his shoulders. He was tall like Faust, with zero body fat, bony arms, and a mop of blond curls. Faith hadn’t spoken more than a few sentences to Bobby since joining the church, but she always smiled at him when they passed in the corridors. He was pleasant and had one of the best singing voices in the congregation. His parents were wealthy business owners who donated large sums to the church and took a liking to Stan the moment he commanded the podium for his first service. Since then, Faith’s parents cultivated a friendship with the Esders family. Faith even heard them discussing how perfect it was that the two respective families had a daughter and a son of the same age, as though it was some kind of miracle. She dreaded the day Stan might suggest she try spending time with Bobby. And perhaps if she had never met Faust, she might entertain the idea of Bobby courting her, but that chance was long gone.

“Don’t worry, Faith. I might look like a goody-two-shoes, but it’s just the clothes my parents make me wear for church. I don’t really buy into any of this bullshit either.”

Stunned by his admission, Faith tilted her head as Bobby’s expression turned sly.

He continued. "And I know what our parents are trying to do with us. They’re trying to play matchmaker like it’s the eighteenth century or something. Trust me; I wouldn’t be out here bothering you if your dad hadn’t encouraged me. I can tell you want to be somewhere else, and I don’t blame you."

Faith looked up at him with a growing appreciation for his honesty. His bluntness still took her back, but she smiled with relief.

“Well, I appreciate your observation. My dad doesn’t seem to realize that I’m a person capable of making my own decisions.”

“I’m in the same boat. Do you think I want to spend all my free time doing church stuff? Right now, my friends are at home playing Call of Duty together, and I’m here, pretending like I give a shit about this stupid religion and all its oppressive rules.”

“Wow. I never pictured you as anything but...” Faith trailed off, flushing pink.

“But a Bible-toting nerd? Yeah, I get that a lot.”

Reneta called for Faith from the side door. She sighed, smiled at Bobby again, and smoothed her hands over the black T-shirt that still smelled like Faust’s bedroom. Bobby stepped aside, motioning for Faith to go first before he followed.

Faith turned on her phone after she collapsed in her bed in the corner of her dorm room. To her shock, Faust still hadn’t answered her message from earlier. She called him, but the line rang until the call dropped. Fighting back an onslaught of burning tears, she rolled over, stuffing her face under her pillow to absorb the sounds of her whimpers.

She worked an evening shift at the bookstore the next day. It was the last thing she wanted to do, but she decided that morning if Faust didn’t want to answer her, she wouldn’t press. If he couldn’t accept her apology and saw silence as an acceptable form of punishment, then she would return the favour.

However, by the time Faith made it halfway through her shift, her heart had grown twice as heavy, and she longed to hear Faust’s gravelly voice more than ever. She ducked away for a minute here and there to stifle her tears, returning to the floor with watery eyes and a sagging expression. Even her boss noticed her sunny disposition trampled upon by something she refused to disclose.

The only relief she found was when Bobby Esders strolled into the bookstore, surprised to see her working behind the counter, sorting discarded books to return to their proper shelves.

“Faith! I didn’t know you worked here,” Bobby said with a broad smile.

“Yeah, I started here in the Summer,” she replied, returning the grin.

“This is my favourite bookstore. I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other before.”

Faith forgot her melancholy for a time. With twenty minutes until close, she focused her time on helping him locate a copy of a novel he’d had no luck in tracking down. He purchased the book and offered to wait until Faith punched out to walk her to the bus stop. Her first impulse was to decline, but Bobby was too kind to allow her refusal, claiming he was going to the same stop, and he might as well accompany her there.

The last thing Faith expected to see was Faust parked outside of the mall’s entrance, leaning against the side door of his friend’s car, waiting. She flashed a concerned look at Bobby, who stared at the leather-clad man with a touch of disdain.

“Oh, that’s um... That’s my boyfriend,” Faith pointed out as Faust glared ahead.

“That’s your boyfriend? That mean, scary-looking dude with the hair?” Bobby scoffed.

By the time Bobby took another breath, Faust had launched forth with long strides, clearing the cobblestones in a second. His glare burned hotter as he approached them.

“Who are you?” Faust asked Bobby with an air of mocking disinterest.

“Uh—”

“This is my friend from church,” Faith stepped in. “His name’s Bobby.”

Faust narrowed his eyes on the man who was only an inch shorter than himself. “Your friend, huh?” He asked.

“Faust, don’t start. He was just walking me to the bus stop.”

Bobby took a step back, relinquishing the closeness with Faith he had enjoyed for the last half an hour. He’d heard stories of Faust and his buddies, as they had beaten up and antagonized his friends throughout high school. Anyone associated with the church was subject to the circle’s cruelty, and despite Bobby’s size, he was no exception.

“I don’t want to see you sniffing around my girl ever again, you got it, bible-beater?”

Faith frowned as Bobby cowered from Faust’s smouldering contempt. She pushed on his leathered arm and stepped between the two men, glaring up at Faust with her own scorn lighting her features.

“Stop it, Faust! He didn’t do anything. We were going to the same stop, anyway. Stop being such an asshole!”

Faust pushed his jaw forward, swiping his tongue over his teeth as she challenged him. He’d never seen Faith look so angry, and though she was laughably small in comparison, her scowl was enough to make him take a step back.

“Let’s go, Faith,” he muttered.

“No. I’m not going with you. I’m going home,” Faith refused.

“Fine, I’ll drive you,” he insisted.

“No! I’m taking the bus. You can’t return my messages or answer your phone when I call? Then I don’t need your help getting home.”

The city bus pulled around the corner, rumbling to a stop at the depot to pick up the people leaving the mall. Bobby watched, frowning, then looked back at Faith.

“Sorry, Faith. I have to go,” Bobby said.

Faust sneered. “Yeah, get lost. She’s fine.”

“I’m leaving too,” Faith said, turning, shouldering the strap on her purse before stepping away.

Before she crossed the road, Faust stepped in front of her. His expression softened when he noticed hers hadn’t. Faith was angrier than he thought. When he showed up to intercept her, Faust assumed she would drop everything and run into his arms, happy to see him despite the tension he’d allowed to rise. But her disgust was potent. She wasn’t about to be pushed over by his feeble attempt at soothing the situation.

“Don’t,” Faust punctured his firm stance as Bobby crossed without her. “Please.”

“Why would I go with you? You’re not even nice to me. I tried texting and calling you, but I guess you were too busy doing your own thing to care.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you pissed me off!” Faust hammered. “That whole ‘I don’t want my dad to see us together’ was a real dick thing to say.”

Before Faith launched another complaint, she closed her mouth and looked to the ground, then back up, glaring harder. “I said I was sorry. It’s not like you haven’t said awful things before. The only difference is you never apologize for them. I’m just expected to accept your unsolicited opinions about my life and my family.”

Faust offered no rebuttal. The couple stood staring at each other until Faust relented, scooping his hand into her hair to kiss her firmly. He hated that she was right, and he refused to admit it out loud, but the kiss acted as his justification.

It wasn’t good enough for Faith. She pushed him away.

“You can’t just act like a total asshole, then kiss me and expect it all to be okay.”

Faust rolled his eyes to the darkening sky. “What do you expect me to do?”

“Oh, I don’t know. An apology might be a good start.”

“Why would I apologize for you pissing me off?”

“Apologize for making a scene in front of my friend. Apologize for not answering me. Not accepting my apology when I had the maturity to realize I was wrong.”

“All right, well, I’m sorry. Happy? Now, let’s go.”

“No, Faust. I don’t think we should hang out tonight.”

Her refusal hit him hard. Faith always jumped at the chance to spend time together, so her steadfastness came as a shock. His shoulders slumped as he sighed.

“Please,” Faust said.

“Why? You seemed happy ignoring me yesterday.”

“I wasn’t happy. I was upset. What you said really fucked with me. Now, I’m over it, and I want you to spend the night.”

A flicker of sympathy sparked in Faith’s chest. She noticed his green eyes reflecting something she had never seen in him before: sadness. Faust reached out for her hand, and she stared at his outstretched palm, heart aching. Maybe what she said had hurt him more than she realized. She always figured Faust was above such emotions, that the only passion that lived inside of him was menacing anger that only came out when somebody threatened him or his territory. The regret tugging at his mouth proved her theory wrong.

She took his hand and he pulled her close. Streetlights illuminated as the parking lot emptied. Stars poked through the violet sky in clusters. They stood wrapped in each other’s arms for a minute before he held her out before him, staring into her eyes beseechingly.

“If you really don’t want to come over, I’ll take you back to your dorm.”

Faith shivered. When Faust noticed the goosebumps on her arms, he let her go and shrugged out of his jacket. Underneath, he wore a black t-shirt with a severed head spewing forth a waterfall of blood and entrails. The carnage spelled out the name of a band whose logo was utterly unintelligible. She smiled as he swung the heavy leather jacket around her so she could push her arms through the sleeves. The hem ended at her thighs, and only the tips of her middle fingers poked out from the armholes, but it was comfortable despite being several sizes too large for her body.

“Fine. I’ll come over. But I wanna have sex, and I don’t want you to hold back.”

“Faith—”

“Those are my terms. I don’t want you to treat me like a little flower. I want to fuck... hard.”

Faust snorted, biting his bottom lip as he rolled his eyes again. He placed his hand on the leather at her back, guiding her toward the car. “You might regret that request, you know.”

Faith smirked. “We’ll worry about that in the morning.”

#faust x faith #faust stuff #valter skarsgard fanfiction #Valter Skarsgard imagine

67 notes · View notes

the-darklings · 4 years

Note

yooo!!!! that 2nd part to the vampire au was soooo good, i think you should at least make one more, just saying. also, loved how you included more of john in this one!

𝙑𝘼𝙈𝙋𝙄𝙍𝙀!𝘼𝙐: 【01】| 【02】| 【2.5】| 【03】| 【3.5】|

wc: 4.1k 🤡

“The situation in the East keeps escalating,” the man beside you speaks and you listen silently, not letting any emotion show at his reproachful tone. “Camorra’s power keeps growing. The more treaties they establish, the more creatures they recruit into their ranks, the more their power peaks. You and Johnathan must stay focused. The High Priest says that this war is just beginning.”

“We are focused, Winston,” you say and wince when a jolt rushes through your body. Walking is painful and even with the mild warmth of the sun and gentle breeze brushing against your skin, a bead of sweat still trails down the back of your neck. Your back feels raw and inflamed but you fight not to let your discomfort show. “John has been away for two weeks dealing with the werewolves and—”

“And your little incident was deemed as a failure,” the older man cuts you off, glancing your way as his hands fold in front of him. “The Camorra Devil…honestly. What were you thinking? You’ve been told not to use the Holy Text. You’re lucky it was Charon that found you and not one of the many foul things prowling those streets.”

You huff a breath, clenching your jaw. “I'm aware. What was I supposed to do? Let the Devil drain that girl?”

“One human life is not worth your life,” Winston says sharply, his eyes narrowing. “You and Johnathan are the only Holy Hunters of your generation. You fail to realise your own importance.”

Hardly.

Stronger, faster, smarter, and with prolonged lifespans. You are not supernatural but you are hardly human either.

You are neither. You are both.

Your and Jardani’s names are known wide and far and being considered a legend before your death comes with a certain amount of scrutiny. Expectation.

Something the High Priest, The Adjudicator, nor Winston ever fail to remind you of.

“I thought the Holy Church protects all. Cares for all life equally.”

Winston’s head slants, the look in those old eyes knowing. “The Holy Church cares for the bigger picture. Which, at this time, is winning this war.”

He steps ahead of you and you watch his dark robes in the sunlight as his fingers brush over the rose petals.

The Prayer Garden is in full bloom. It’s a site of reflection, of prayer, of hope and atonement.

But the sickly sweet scent of flowers makes you dizzy so you try to slow your breaths, focusing on the man before you instead.

“You will track down the necromancer again and remove him,” Winston states after few minutes of tranquil silence between you. “And once that is done you will return to the church for your Remaking.”

“Why?“

It slips out before you can stop it and your mouth snaps shut, a sting of regret following right after. Winston twists to face you, his eyes narrowed, and he pointedly glances around the garden, making sure that no one heard your slip up.

At the church, there are no questions, only obedience. The will of the twelve priests and especially the High Priest himself is to be followed without questions or doubts.

And their will is that you are not ready to use the Holy Text. That you need to undergo Remaking often—at least twice a year, if not more—and do so without question. Despite the agony of having to lay down on that cold slab of stone and feel the Holy Text being recarved into your skin anew.

You’ve learned long ago how to stop the tears and the screaming. Not when you know that the High Priest’s hands will not be gentler for it. If anything, the blades always cut harder, more intently, and whether it’s to encourage or quell the anguish has always been beyond you. But the way the man always traces his work as if in reverence after never fails to leave you feeling dirty and used.

It’s unfair that you have to go through it over and over again when Jardani hasn’t visited the catacombs in years.

They say it’s because your power is less stable than his. That the Remaking simply keeps that potent holy power in your veins flowing freely so it never fails you.

Yet it always makes you feel the opposite. Usually, you’re left feeling heavy and aching with pain for days after. Muffled somehow.

Winston gazes at you for a long moment before nodding his head. “Come with me.”

You, as always, follow him without question and the priest is mute as you approach a more secluded area of the garden. Few wander here, and if they do it’s for reflection only.

“You have a fierce heart,” Winston begins and you blink, trying to focus on his words. “It burns right out of you. And while it makes you special, it’s also your greatest enemy. You feel too much. Want too much.”

His brief glance at you is telling enough.

Jardani.

Winston has never spoken his suspicions out loud but you know he’s always suspected that the nature of your relationship has long since changed.

“I—”

“Don’t bother. The less I know the better.”

His words are hard as the look in his eyes and your gaze lowers.

He knows that if anyone found out the punishment that would befall you would be terrible. Brutal. So he doesn’t ask. He won’t risk it.

Silence follows again and you swallow heavily, blinking at the heat of sun against your face. Gods above, even with your lightest clothes, you can’t help but feel like you’re cooking in your skin.

Your back is twinging with dull pain and you silently curse the vampire prince for the thousandth time.

Every since your encounter with the Camorra’s Devil, the prince has been appearing in your sleep every night.

It’s been two weeks of him haunting every second of your slumber.

Every night you escape by breaking out of his grip and every night he makes it harder to do so. He’s testing you, you know that. Seeing just how far that power in your veins can be pushed.

He drives you near insane with his silky whispers and promises of joy and pleasure and power. With every sly suggestion and accidental caress. He never oversteps and that, perhaps, makes it even worse. You want to hate those green eyes.

But he’s found a way to burrow himself deep under your skin. He marvels at your abilities, always eager to see more—as infuriatingly alluring as he is arrogant.

Every night you awaken from your feverish dreams with your skin slick with sweat and your back aching. The Holy Text seems to itch for hours after, and the only way to suppress the raging fire in your veins is to submerge yourself in a tub of freezing water for at least half an hour.

It’s gotten so bad that you see him in every dark corner now. Catch glimpses of his green eyes everywhere you look and hear a whisper of his voice in your ear wherever you go. However hard you look, however, he’s never actually there and you know that he can’t be. He is breathtakingly powerful but even he would never risk coming into the beating heart that is the Holy Church itself.

“Are you listening to me?”

“What?”

You blink, snapping out of your thoughts and find Winston frowning at you, his lips twisted into a dismayed line.

“What’s gotten into you lately?” he questions briskly, the heavy furrow of his brows telling a tale of his subtle worry. “You haven’t been the same since—”

“Your Holiness.”

Your address interrupts Winston’s shrewd words and you bow to your waist, gritting your teeth at the flare of agony through your back muscles. The High Priest, or The Elder as some still refer to him, expects nothing less. As one of his Holy Hunter’s you only have to bow your head, others have to get on their knees before the man.

Something deep down in your chest scratches and snarls as you stare at the ground, your head ringing.

Do not bow to him—

A hand touches your chin, raising your head and effectively banishing the distant voice that sounds too much like the green-eyed prince from your head.

“My child,” the man utters, his voice soft. You keep your eyes lowered respectfully but he raises your chin higher and you focus on him only, overlooking the familiar raven-haired man behind him. Even if your heart yearns to look at him. It’s been two long weeks without him after all. “It pleases me to see you out and about once again.”

“I apologise for any worry caused.”

The High Priest brushes his thumb against your jaw and something in your gut twists.

Winston and your Jardani are quiet and you don’t dare to look away from the man before you. His white robes billow in the faint breeze, adding to the sounds of nature and trees.

The man inspects you for a long, solemn moment, unblinking.

“I hope this can be a valuable lesson to you, my child,” he says, and there is just enough ice lacing his voice that it feels like one of your blades scraping against your throat. “My words are to be heeded. Always.”

Your heart hammering in your chest, you only manage to dip your head in small a nod. “Yes, Your Holiness.“

The man finally releases your face and you try to mask you relief.

“Good,” he mutters, his dark eyes piercing. “I assume Winston has informed you of your next course of action?”

He doesn’t wait for your reply, his voice stern but tempered, “You will hurry with your task and then return for your Remaking,” he continues, pausing on the last word and something shifts in those dark depths just for a second as he scrutinises you. “I need my Holy Hunters strong and pure. This war will get worse before it will get better.”

Pure.

A manic laugh almost bubbled out of you there and then.

Pure. What a joke. If only he knew about the wicked, sinful things you and Jardani do in the folds of the shadows. If only he knew how your bodies tangle together till you can’t separate your edges from his as you drive each other to ecstasy. Smothering every whimper and moan and sigh, stealing and hoarding every moment between you out of fear that it might be your last.

There is nothing holy about what you two do in the dark. Or perhaps you’re wrong. Perhaps the holiest thing about either of you is how you share each other.

Because there is divinity to be found in the feeling of his mouth on you.

“Come, Winston,” the High Priest calls out, his gaze finally moving away from you and towards the older man. “Johnathan has returned with some interesting information regarding the werewolves. The Table must hold council.”

Winston dips his head graciously and the High Priest glances at you again before looking behind him where your Jardani stands clad in black. He’s like a storm could, an ink stain, marring a perfectly happy scene.

“Do not disappoint me, my children.”

A warning if you’ve ever heard one, even if his voice remains amiable.

You know better than to doubt its sincerity though.

You both bow as one, and force yourself to speak the monotonous oath out loud, “I have served. I will be of service.“

You don’t look at each other the entire way back to the Northern Building.

The Holy Church has massive, sprawling grounds with several buildings all blessed to withstand attacks from the darkest creatures lurking throughout the land. You doubt even Giovanni D'Antonio with all his endless, monstrous power could break through the wards etched into the very air here.

You and Jardani keep easy, meaningless conversation as you pass other members of the Holy Church. Nuns and priests and healers. Forgers of weapons. Other hunters. Just human. Ordinary apart from being trained.

You and Jardani are a different breed. Standing apart from everyone else here.

You’ve managed to keep your relationship a secret by never giving anyone any room for suspicion. Except for Winston, clearly, but that man always had a gift of reading you both like an open book.

The Northern Building is special for one reason. That reason being that the entire structure belongs to the Holy Hunters and no one else.

Of which there are only two in this generation.

You keep several feet distance between you, partake in dull, meaningless conversation that won’t catch anyone’s attention the entire way there.

But the moment the doors close you slam into each other eagerly, your hands greedy and desperate as you tangle in each other.

Your back hits the door and you hold back a wince of pain as he kisses you with enough passion to stall your breathing. His warm sigh tickles your lips and you moan into his kiss, tangling your fingers in his raven strands. The heat between you, the tingle of pleasure that comes from simply kissing him, manages to dull the pain a little and you melt into his embrace.

Your dark shadow.

Gods above you’ve missed him. So very much.

“I heard about what happened,” he whispers against your mouth when you part for breath and his thumb strokes down your cheek. There is a brief second in which his touch gets replaced by a man with cold eyes and eerily calm voice but you shake it immediately. “I worried. Are you injured?”

His other hand rests against your lower back and you ignore the pain that touch brings, focusing only on him. You lean forward, pressing a kiss against the corner of his mouth.

“I’m fine,” you reassure him and tug on his hair, delighting in the familiar gleam in those dark pools. A desire for you. A flame that never stops burning no matter how much he insists that you shouldn’t do this—shouldn’t touch or kiss or fuck like the world is seconds away from ending. But he can’t deny you. He can never deny you. “Missed you,” you add because it’s true.

His expression softens, the impassive man fading for your eyes alone. “I missed you more,” he tells you softly and lays a careful peck against your lips; fleeting and tender.

But you don’t want fleeting and tender.

Your nails drag against his neck and his expression strains under your deliberate coaxing.

“Jardani,” you hum quietly and kiss his jaw, pressing into him. “My Jardani. My umbra mortis.“

“You’re upset.”

You still. “I’m not.”

“The Remaking—”

“Don’t.”

Your voice is an icy, shaky exhale. Jardani just looks sad but a shadow lingers across his expression, too. He hates seeing you suffering. But this isn’t the outside world, he can’t kill those that would harm you. All he can do is wait for when you are brought back from the ceremony, swaying and delirious, and too weak and drained to do anything for the next three days. All he can do is hold you as you sob into his chest after, begging him to never let them touch you again even though you both know that there is no other choice. He doesn’t bother making you promises he can’t keep.

He touches your face then, your foreheads almost touching. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s agony, Jardani. I can’t—”

His fingers smooth over your hair, his expression dark, distant. “If there was another way…”

Your smile is bitter. “But there isn’t. I must obey or they will force me. And if they ever find out about us they will kill me or banish me—”

“No,” he cuts you off and this time his voice is lower, harsher; practically a growl that rumbles from deep within. “I would never let them hurt you. I would kill them all.”

You cup his face, desperate to have him closer. “I hate it here, Jardani,” you confess in a wet whisper. “This place is a prison. I feel like I'm suffocating here. Have been for years.”

He kisses your cheek and then again, trailing up. Your brow, forehead, nose; a handful of caresses at the time. Lastly, he kisses your lips, dragging you to him carefully and you hold onto him. Your shadow and sanctuary and home.

“I will find a way,” he vows quietly against your quivering mouth, his voice a deep rumble. “I will find a way, moy svet.”

My light.

His mother tongue rolls off his tongue effortlessly and you shudder at the dark, reassuring blanket those words wrap around you.

You kiss him again—all teeth and hunger and fingertips seeking his heat—and with his strength he picks you up easily, your legs wrapping around him soundlessly.

You don’t make it to the bedroom.

You awaken in silk.

You’re so used to it by now that for a handful of seconds you don’t stir, simply lying there.

He isn’t beside you.

A surprise.

He seems to delight in watching your expression when you wake up with him hovering near or trailing his fingertips down your arm. Once you woke up with his arm partially curled around you, holding you close, practically against his chest.

You punched him right in his smug face.

A downside of this being the dream world is that no real damage could be done. It still didn’t stop the swell of satisfaction you felt at the way his head snapped to the side, clearly haven’t had expected an attack even with his finely honed predator instincts.

Or perhaps he simply didn’t see you as a threat.

Or trusted you enough to lower his guard which was a thought you had banished the second it came because it was absurd.

You had felt self-satisfied until he laughed, grinning widely, his cheeks dimpling.

“You’re a delight,” he had purred and his lack of wrath had been as surprising as realising how appealing his smile is. “Now imagine what you could do with an immortal’s strength, hm?”

But he is not beside you this time.

Your head slants and you find him sitting a little further away from the bed, bathed in the beam of light coming from a window overhead.

It takes you a moment to realise what he’s doing.

He's painting.

A brush between those long, graceful fingers moves lovingly like he’s taking all the care in the world to make sure that whatever he’s trying to capture is done so to perfection. As if not one mistake could be afforded.

At least this time he’s not naked.

It took you a few visits to realise that you come to the dream world dressed in whatever you had fallen asleep in.

Though the realisation that the vampire prince sleeps naked between his silken sheets had warmed something in your blood.

“My mother was a great lover of art,” he begins conversationally, still focusing on his work. You sit up deliberately, watching the ripple of his back muscles as he shifts in his seat, facing away from you. “Personally, I never saw much appeal in it. Just a bit of paint on canvas, you understand? That changed after she met Eternal Death. There is indeed something, hm, extraordinary about creation in such a form.”

Your bare feet touch the floor and your fingers grip the edges of the bed as you observe him silently.

From this angle, you finally get a glimpse of what he’s working on.

It's you.

But not.

The woman depicted on canvas has your features. Your lips and nose and hair and colouring but—

But your eyes are something else. They look like they’re raging from within even though your expression is captured as calm and composed—almost empyreal. Your gaze is strong, consuming, sensual and fierce. It demands to be looked at. Respected. Admired.

He’s painted you as you could be, you realise numbly, an immortal like him.

His head turns towards you when you stand shakily on your feet, your fingers gripping the side of your nightgown tightly between your fingers.

The vampire prince eyes you with a slight twitch of his lips as light plays across his tanned skin and wild curls.

He’s dangerous.

For the first time, you feel that understanding settle deep in your bones but—

“Do you not like it, amore?”

“I want to leave.”

If you didn’t know any better you would say that he looks disappointed at that. But it’s gone in a blink, whatever it is, so you can’t be sure.

“You are free to leave whenever you please, bella,” he tells you dismissively, raising the brush back between his fingers. “Don’t let me stop you.”

Brushing past him, you let your fingers clench, trying to pull on the power in your veins.

“I don’t want to come here anymore,” you bite out, glancing at him over your shoulder before turning to face him fully. “I'm done playing your games.”

Santino’s head tilts, humming in consideration, and it’s hard to think of him as a vampire—the enemy—when he looks so breathtaking in this blinding, warm light. When he looks so approachable, almost normal.

“Hm. You are exceedingly attractive when angry,” he notes with a sliver of a smirk, peering at you curiously and the green of his eyes is piercing. “What other angry words are you going to bestow upon me, hm? I do so admire a sharp tongue.“

His attention transfers to your mouth and you scowl at him.

”Enough, Santino.“

Shit.

It slipped out.

You’ve always addressed him as “D'Antonio” or “vampire” but never by his given name.

His smirk disappears instantly, something stuttering across his expression; a flicker of emotion you don’t quite understand passing over his features.

“Say it again.”

You don’t think you have seen him sound or look quite so serious.

“What?”

“My name,” he utters, his gaze burning. “Say it again.”

Forcing oxygen into your lungs, you breathe a deliberate, vicious, “Santino.”

He’s in front of you in a blink and fear is not the reason why you step away. He stalks closer, his lips parted and you see his fingers form loose fists.

“Again.”

It’s an order and your lips press together when your back kisses the cold stone of his room.

This isn’t real, you try to remind yourself, it’s just a dream. But one’s mind has the power to make things real. The Dream Realm is just as powerful as any other reality.

His hand braces next to your head and you stare at each other for a halted breath.

His body is tense, coiled, his attention focused solely on you. With the light falling from behind him, it looks like a halo is caressing the crown of his head. He resembles an angel even if you know the devil lurks beneath.

“San-ti-no.”

He leans closer and you exhale forcefully, your lips parting.

“You,” he murmurs softly and you feel his fingertips brush up your bare arm, making goosebumps explode across your skin. “Are more dangerous than sunlight."

You force your suddenly dry tongue to work. "I thought… that the sun doesn’t affect a pureblooded vampire like you?”

He’s close enough that you can feel his breath against your lips.

Not real. Not real. Not real—

“No, it doesn’t,” he agrees lightly under his breath, the velvety promise of his lips brushing against the edge of your jaw. “Ah, but it’s very good at something else, bella. Can you guess what that is, hm?”

His lips part against the curve of your jaw, a puff of air tickling your skin, and your head tips to the side, his large hand coming to grip your hip. You’re not sure which one of you he’s trying to steady.

“No.”

His nose slips down, dragging against your skin and he freezes, inhaling deeply. A low snarl erupts from deep in his chest and he nuzzles against your neck intently.

Through the dizzying haze, there blooms confusion, but then you remember the fact he can no doubt smell Jardani on you. Maybe even scent you earlier lovemaking. You would be surprised if the intensity of it didn’t leave a mark.

“It’s very good,” he hisses against your ear, his breath prickling against your skin and his fingers flex against your hip. “At making us weak.”

Choking down a gasp, you try to pull back but he ducks his head against your neck again, his lips pressing a featherlight kiss against your fluttering pulse.

“They’re lying to you,” he reveals in a hoarse whisper when his head lifts and your eyes clash. He looks ravenous, wild. His eyes are more black than green. “You are so much more than they’re trying to convince you, amore. Let me show you. Let me."

His grip on you constricts.

You blink; once, twice, and bare your teeth at him before promptly snapping the tether between you in half.

There is a glimpse of fury before you are dragged back to wakefulness.

You fly up into a sitting position, your skin damp and throat dry.

Every inch of you tingles made only worse by an acute ache between you thighs.

”Fuck.“

…

an: hahaha…….i’m in trouble :) also apologies for any mistakes. one edit only and done at 2:30am ayyyy. hope you enjoyed jfghfdg please don’t try and ask me why i’m actually trying to build a world/lore/plot because “i’m stupid” will always be the answer jhdfg. also I just really dig the feral/dark vibe of this AU so *shrugs*

#john wick x reader #santino d'antonio x reader #john wick #john wick fic #vampire au #supernatural au #we love clownery!!!! goodnight!!!#s: no one could be him #s: i can wait

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