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seedofjoseph · 5 months

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hellbent (WIP)

Author's Note: After posting homebound (link), I immediately began working on a ficlet featuring the overprotective love interest trope starring John Seed. However, I've only picked it up again this week, so I'm posting this early on WIP Wednesday.

The whole of Holland Valley knew John Seed as a madman. You? All you knew was that he was mad. Wrath he called you, though it sounded like it suited him better. Especially during his last radio call.

“Wrath,” he screamed through the static. “Goddamit, Wrath! Where are you?”

“Language, Seed,” you shot back, not being able to see if you’ve hit your target, but hearing the words had wounded him instead. “Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”

“I’ll find you, girl,” his words were muffled, his mouth probably planted close enough to kiss the microphone. “Even if I have to burn down every dive bar and liquor store in this valley to draw you out, I’ll find you.”

“Thought you let me break curfew so that I could go bar hopping,” you smirked. And, while he couldn’t have seen you do so, he sure as shit heard it in your tone. “I thought you let me out so that I could indulge in my sins.”

“I did and you have,” he answered, the coolness of it making him out to be as inhuman as the receiver his voice was coming out of. “And now I’m coming to save you from yourself.” Before you could press the button to press his buttons, John Seed went completely cold as the receiver went silent.

Feeling only a little bit frustrated by his lack of fire on this chilly night, you finally dismount your bike and let it recline on the stand instead of your legs. After, you unfasten your leather jacket on your short walk to the rest stop entrance, feeling only a little bit heated. Then, taking in the neon-lit shelves and the yellow-stained floors, you cool off with the thought of a cold Coke.

The truth is that you didn’t set out to indulge in anything else besides caffeine tonight. And the lie is that you bask in the fire your wrath left in its wake. That is the lie you fed to John Seed through your shared frequency, the target you put on your back as you drove away from Holland Valley, from everyone you wouldn’t want to be in his crosshairs. And the truth was that businesses that you were a patron of were going up in flames.

So you sigh in sweet relief as the taste of the sugary drink elevated some weight off of your heavy shoulders. “Needed that,” you paid for the half-emptied bottled as soon as you made it to the counter. “Keep the change.” And you exit before the kid on the other side of it can lift his head and recognize you.

All you knew was that John Seed was mad and you wouldn’t bet a poor boy’s life on him not blowing a gasket along with the rest stop.

“That you, Deputy?”

The door slammed loudly behind you, but it’s a shouting human voice that startled you.

You shake your head frantically and walk back to your bike briskly. “Not tonight I’m not.”

The man is indignant and you can tell from the sound that comes out of his throat. Because you weren’t facing him. You couldn’t face him. Not after what happened the last time you did.

“It’s me,” you hear him hop out of the pick-up and bounce back on his boots like he’d lost his footing. “It’s Jean. But you called me Jaaawn,” he slurs like he’d forgotten how you speak. “Yes, Jaaawn. Fuck yes,” he spits your own drunken words back to you.

It’s like he’s getting the both of you shitfaced again. It’s like he’s in your face and up your shirt and in your pants again. Like you never shoved him off of you and locked him in the bathroom stall. Like the bar is still up and running and not in ruins after some Peggie recognised you stumbling out of it and gave John Seed the excuse to indulge in his wrath.

“I’d buy you a drink, buuut,” he stumbles between you and your bike. “But John made them all go BOOM.”

Jean didn’t look much like John Seed tonight, so that drink he’d bought you was strong enough to make him shape-shift before your very inebriated eyes. Though he stands at the same height and combs back the same dark hair with fingers covered in just as much ink, his eyes are more murky green than clear blue. And though he stands before you untouched by the collateral damage your indulgence has caused, you don’t hesitate to lay your hands on him and shove him to the side.

“I’m going sober,” you decline, determined to quit drinking Coke, too, and drive off.

“Least you could do is moan my name,” he spits. “My real name. While I'm fingerin’ your pussy. That was me, bitch, not John fuckin’ Seed.”

The whole of Holland Valley knew John Seed had eyes and ears everywhere. All you knew was that Jean’s slurred speech had summoned him and the empty rest stop you’d pulled into is now crawling by his cavalry.

“Oh, my God,” Jean tries and fails to find his footing and stumbles backwards into your bike. “Oh, my fuckin’ God,” he turns around and takes you in, eyes filled with fear. “Don’t let him kill me, deputy. Please don’t let him kill me.”

Your voice is steady as you instruct him to get inside, even as your heart is rattling the cage that is your chest. And your body shields the entrance, even if your soul threatens to make its escape. But you won’t let it or yourself get away. And you won’t leave another trail of fire in your wake.

“Wrath,” he calls you, but this sin burns brighter in his words than they ever did in yours. And he hops out of the van in a hurry, already heaving like he’d been chasing you on foot through the Valley. “How many more lives have to go up in flames before you’re satiated?”

“None,” you raise your hands in front of you, adding more distance between the Reaper and the two lives. “Not a single one. I’m done.” Then, you stretch your arms above your head. “I’m done, okay?”

You were far from done, far from having your eyelids ripped open, the furthest you can be from amazing grace. And his big brother would’ve called you blind still, but you needed him to see you as enlightened right now.

What your blind eyes do see is something strange in John Seeds eyes, something which resembled a comforting warmth and not a punishing fire.

“It’s suffocating, isn’t it?” His voice is horse like he’s been shouting, and your throat dries like he is right. You are suffocating. “Your wrath has set the world on fire and you’re the only one left to breathe in the ashes.”

The little air left between the two of you is enough for you to exhale: “Yes.”

TO BE CONTINUED

#far cry 5 #john seed #john seed x deputy #john seed x reader #john seed x female deputy #deputy rook #the deputy #WIP #fanfic #my fanfic

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fanby-fckry · 22 days

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It’s not Wednesday, but UH3 brainrot has once again consumed me.

I’m supposed to be catching up on Ace Alastor Week, and instead I’m writing ahead in the Season 1 fic.

Sneak peek below, heed the tags.

Content Warning: self harm*, blood, references to canon-typical violence, implied/referenced child abuse, inconsistent terminology regarding sex and gender**

*Whether or not this is self harm could probably be up for debate, but I, personally, consider it to be a form of self harm. Please put your own health and safety first; read with caution of feel free to keep scrolling. Stay safe, readers.

**Alastor sometimes conflates sex and gender because he just doesn’t think about or care what people have in their pants. He grew up in a time where the two were considered interchangeable; while he knows neither sex nor gender are static/that not everyone matches up with the gender they were assigned and will call a trans person by their chosen name/pronouns, gender them correctly, and treat them exactly like he’d treat anyone else, he still gets the terms a little mixed up from time to time. He wouldn’t gatekeep someone based on their transition status, because the physical state of someone else’s body isn’t his concern unless he’s actively in the process of killing them. And even then, he’s not focused on sex characteristics of any kind.

…

“And all this time, I thought it was mere population control!” Alastor ranted ino the private connection. He was pacing across his meticulously sound-proofed hotel room while his shadow flew from wall to wall.

“Well,” Lucifer began, but Alastor wasn’t done speaking and didn’t care for being interrupted.

“Ha!” Alastor laughed, threading a hand through his own hair. “Can you blame me?” he asked.

A rhetorical question, but Lucifer gave his best attempt at answering. “It is p-”

“They’ve got no style, no finesse! And barely any skill!” Alastor’s shadow curled its claws into fists, and Alastor removed his hand from his hair to keep himself from pulling it or digging his claws into his scalp as he felt the urge to do the same.

“Year after year, decade after decade, it’s nothing but artless, soulless slaughter!” Alastor laughed again, manic, hysterical, and lacking any and all joy. “Is it any wonder I assumed it was simply a mindless masacre?”

“Alastor-”

“Entertainment…” Alastor dug his claws into the inside of his palm, attempting to ground himself with the pain.

“If killing Sinners for one’s own entertainment is so damned Holy, then why is he in Heaven while I’m down here?” Alastor demanded, static rising in his voice. “Why, one could argue that he’s worse than I am!”

“He’s certainly killed more Sinners than I have by now, considering how long the Exterminations have been in effect.” Hell’s history books were patchy at best, and Lucifer only talked about his – and by extension, Hell’s – past in vague, non-specific terms, often while drunk or sentimental. Or both.

Alastor’s claws began to draw blood. “And from the combination of what Charlie and Lilith and you have all told me, he’s a vulgar, disrespectful chauvinist!”

The pain no longer felt like an anchor. It was fuel on the fire that was the rage burning within him, the wrath he felt at the injustice of it all.

“My mother raised me to be a gentleman,” Alastor said. “Any disrespect I show is based on a woman's actions, not her sex. But Adam expected Lilith to bend to his whims simply on the basis of her gender! He talked down to Charlie, likely on the same logic!”

“And yes, I kill because I enjoy it, but I’m selective with my victims! I enact vengeance on behalf of the weak and vulnerable! In life, I corrected the injustices of a corrupt system, and in death I punish those already Damned by their sins!”

Blood was seeping through Alastor’s knuckles. He pushed his claws deeper, sinking them into the meat of his palms.

“So why…?” There were bloodstains on the carpet. Niffty would be quite upset if she learned that the blood was Alastor’s rather than one of his meals’.

“Why?” Alastor repeated, barely audible above his own feedback. His cheeks were wet. He must have gotten blood on them at some point.

Everything was silent for a moment, save for the static Alastor couldn’t reign in.

Then, Lucifer spoke. “It’s complicated,” he said, quietly.

Alastor made an animalistic sound deep in the back of his throat, something between a growl and a whimper. But he let the Devil speak.

“I don’t know the particulars, but murder and vengeance are both Damnable sins.”

“Then why isn’t he Damned,” Alastor said through gritted teeth. “Why hasn’t Adam Fallen?”

Lucifer sighed. “Nepotism?”

Alastor laughed. “Oh, that’s rich coming from you!”

“What the fuck do you mean by that?” Lucifer asked, his volume increasing. “My Father kicked me out of Heaven for falling in love with Lilith and for daring to dream of a world where humanity wasn’t bound by eternal ignorance.”

“And he gave you a kingdom!” Alastor swung his arms, flinging blood across the room with the sheer force of the movement. “He let you and Lilith elope when he could’ve smited you both! Do you think he’d give the same courtesy to his other angelic children, or do the rumors of you being his favorite son hold true, hm, Lightbringer?”

The radio began to smoke and glow with a faint golden light.

“Get that name out of your fucking mouth, Alastor.”

Alastor ignored him, ignored the projections of his power.

“My father never would’ve shown me such benevolence if I’d disobeyed him the way you did yours.” Alastor moved to inspect the bloodstains on the walls. “And the best thing he ever gave me was a lesson in the inherent cruelty of man.”

#self harm cw #implied abuse cw #fanby’s fuckery #fanby’s fic snippets #fanby: uhverse #fanby: uh3 #fanby: an age of upheaval #not tagging fandoms and shit because i don’t want this breeching containment

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wrathfulrook · 3 months

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WIP Wednesday

I've applied to my schools and I'm writing again <3 I've been tagged by a million people these past few months... sorry

Tagging @skoll-sun-eater @socially-awkward-skeleton @adelaidedrubman @trench-rot @cassietrn @dumbassdep @thedepyuty @direwombat @josephslittledeputy @locustandwildhoney @roofgeese @voidika @afarcryfrommymain @purplehairsecretlair @strafethesesinners @deputyash @inafieldofdaisies @josephseedismyfather and anyone else with something to share! As always, no pressure and apologies for duplicates... <3

Here's a bit from something that is blatantly not Wrathling. I'm still working on Wrathling but here's an AU instead...

When it all ended, when the National Guard came, they all ended up behind bars. Joseph, Jacob, John, and Faith. Tucked away where they could never hurt anyone ever again. In the aftermath, her own name and face were plastered all over the news. Her statements were used in each trial, printed in papers nationwide. And so the courts had been all too willing to grant her petition for a name change. Patience Ekner ceased to be, and Patience Rook was born.

Patience Rook left Hope County, left Montana, never to go back. She put it all behind her and moved forward, the only reminder she chose to keep the new surname she took, her nickname from those brutal, bloody days. Of course, there were other reminders she hadn’t chosen. The tattoo of her sin, for one. Wrath, he’d assigned her. Not that she ever believed, but she found wrath fairly fitting at the time.

In hindsight, he’d chosen wrong. It shouldn’t have been WRATH she spent hours getting covered up with flowers that she didn’t think particularly suited her. No. In retrospect, it should’ve been LUST.

But the tattoo wasn’t her only reminder of that time, of him. There was also the child she’d birthed, the child she adored. Her son. Hers. But, oh, did he look like his father. His hair dark where hers was blonde, eyes blue where hers were grey. He even had that same charming smile, the one that had worked so well on her those many years ago. The only thing of hers she could see on her child were her numerous freckles. But while her freckles remained always, her child had outgrown them by the time he hit high school.

Every now and then, he would say something, make some face, talk with his hands in a way that she was hit full force with the memory of his father. Both the horrible things he’d done and those stolen, secret nights they couldn’t keep apart from each other…

But mostly, usually, she looked at her boy and saw only him. James. Her perfect miracle baby. The gift that made everything about those dark days worth it in her eyes. He was such a happy, smiley baby. Always giggling and gurgling. He’d been talkative long before he learned how to speak. Always so sweet and kind. Petting her hair and telling her “Okay mommy… s’okay mommy…” as she purged herself of a stomach bug he’d brought home from daycare when he was too small to even form full sentences, while she in turn tried to reassure her baby that mommy was ok.

Even now, he was her perfect child. Still sweet, still happy. But now his own person. And she was so amazed by the person he’d become. He was funny. Funny in a way she never was. And so clever. Amazing grades as well as a quick wit. Patience loved her child and she knew how much he loved her too.

Even despite how he’d recently been pulling away.

~~~

James wondered how many signs he’d missed over the course of his life. How obvious it should have been. His mom had always told him she didn’t know who his father was. He recalled once, in one of his earliest memories, that she’d told him she chose his name because she’d always liked it, but also because she thought his father would like it too. He’d asked her about it later, and she said that she’d never said it. And he believed her. He was so little at the time; it could’ve easily been a false memory. He still wasn’t sure it’s not. After all, he had a memory from around the same time of flapping his arms and flying like a bird throughout the house, and that memory feels equally as real.

But whether or not she’d told him his father would like his name, she knew. His mom knew who his dad was the whole time. Because he looked exactly like one of them. The Seeds. The cult leaders. He looked exactly like John Seed. The Baptist. The sadistic monster who tortured and murdered and starved innocent people. Just reading about his crimes had been enough to give James nightmares for a week.

James had spent the past weeks learning everything he could about the Project at Eden’s Gate. And he was horrified at the thought his mom would ever willing have any sort of relationship with any of those men. He almost hoped she hadn’t. But if one of those men was his father, and his mom had in fact not been voluntarily involved with any of them… No. James couldn’t stomach the thought of that either.

No matter what the circumstances were back then, the situation now was that James was had told his mom he was spending the long weekend camping with a friend’s family, when in reality he was on a bus to Montana to meet the man who might be his dad. It had been surprisingly easy to contact John Seed.

James’ first letter hadn’t received a response. Probably because he had intentionally been a bit light on the details. Eventually he’d tried again, this time including his mom’s former name and, after much mental back-and-forth, a photo of himself.

And that had received a response.

#wip #my stuff #oc: patience ekner #oc: james rook

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the-silver-chronicles · 3 months

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WIP Wednesday and Last Line

Tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton @g0dspeeed @nightbloodbix @cassietrn (for WIP Wednesday) and @deputyash (for last line)

Tagging @direwombat @adelaidedrubman @strangefable @strafethesesinners @carlosoliveiraa @josephslittledeputy @josephseedismyfather @chazz-anova @bitchofedensgate @trashcatsnark @minilev @onehornedbeast @voidika @afarcryfrommymain @corvosattano @derelictheretic @deputy-morgan-malone @dephellseed @skoll-sun-eater @florbelles @fourlittleseedlings @henbased @titiagls @vampireninjabunnies-blog @wrathfulrook @inafieldofdaisies @la-grosse-patate @ladyoriza @shallow-gravy @snake-in-the-garden @softtidesworld @starsandskies @thewanderer-000 and @megraen

FC5 WIPs for No Snake, Only A Boa In The Garden, a new fic Let The Skyfall (When It Crumbles) and last line for You’re Almost Like Family. Also the first official introduction for Silva's (disowned) adopted father, Paul Yellowjack!

TW: First WIP involves mentions of bullying and abuse. Second WIP involves... IDK body mutilation? Self-body multilation? Screw it, a wasp comes out of a character's hand, then it takes off its hard shells, and proceeds to enter a different character's mouth in semi-disturbing detail. Probably inaccurate anatomy on both humans and supernatural yellowjackets too. Last line involves a main character getting shot dead (not for long though) so there's that too. There! Enjoy.

Here's the moment in No Snake, Only A Boa In The Garden that the Voice realizes its Muse is in the wrong occupation and Joseph unfortunately suffers from its temper tantrum. I hope I was able to do Joseph and the Voice justice here. Snippet below:

The distrustful gazes of the deputies nearby did not go unnoticed by Joseph, their eyes held onto barely hidden wrath towards him and his brother. It felt like an additional weight of the burden he carried, even after John successfully bailed three of his formerly detained flock.

The Sheriff and his department saw him as crazy. They looked at him like a madman. Their fear of the unknown, it prevented them from seeing the signs of the Collapse.

The sins that blinded them from this truth were the same sins that the government pushed them to indulge in, indoctrinating the consumerist lifestyle upon them, turning them away from God's warm embrace.

Joseph mumbled a silent prayer, a blessing for these misguided souls, holding onto faith that his Lord will guide the deputies, the supposed protectors of the county, to his flock, where he and his siblings would guide them on the right path.

Perhaps Jacob could train them to be true protectors...

But only time will tell if the deputies would accept his truth, if the Sheriff would. For the meantime, Joseph would focus on his children, those who have accepted him as their Father.

Turning his attention back to the conversing John and Sheriff Whitehorse, he felt warmth on the back of his head, and recognized a soft humming above him.

He was more alert, closely listened as the words exchanged between John and the Sheriff became mute, the persistent hum above him canceling out the hum of the building's air conditioner. The warmth of His glow consumed the cool air, and Joseph felt expectant eyes upon him, from beyond his own perception.

The Voice. His Lord, his God. Have you a message for me, Lord?

No, the Voice spoke, its tone even and still, lacking emotion yet always familiar, always reassuring to Joseph, I have need of your eyes, Joseph. The Hell that will follow the Whitehorse is here... nearby.

Joseph's blue eye widened in shock. The pace of his beating heart quickened. The very reminder of this... figure, quickened the steady pace of his heart. This figure whom the Voice had said embodied "Hell" itself, was one that haunted him. This lost soul was one he never truly got a glimpse of in his visions, both the good and the terrifying. Always obscured by the environment, whether it be the sun that shined between him and them, in the Garden that will become their New Eden, or the shadows and flames that consumed him and the corpses of his family, their back turned to the destruction they made, the paradise he tried to preserve.

The Voice had told him that it was up to him, His prophet, to bring this Great Sinner to the correct path, for they were his family's salvation, or face the destruction they will wrought. He had asked once, at the pews of his chapel, "How will I know to help them if I don't even know who this Sinner is? What do they look like?"

The Voice hadn't answered him right away, but when it did, he was unable to stop the dreadful weight sink on his soul, "You will know on the day the locusts come for you. You will know when Hell stands in front of you in this house of Mine. You will know on the morning the First Seal breaks and the Reaping finally begins."

He wondered, briefly, if it was time. If the day of reckoning that he had been tasked with preparing for had finally come upon him, at a moment where he wasn't with the rest of his flock, and in the heart of the locusts' nest.

Though Joseph put the thought to rest with the knowledge the Voice had passed to him. The day the First Seal broke would be in the morning, on compound grounds where his Flock and Family resided, and the locusts' attitude was more that of frustration than being on the offensive.

As if sensing his confusion, Joseph heard his Lord's voice once more, Calm yourself, my child. It is not time yet. This is merely an observation. An introduction if you will. You had asked me, "Who is the Sinner whom heralds Hell?" I had not thought you ready, but now, I deem it so. You will see the shape this harbinger of destruction takes form in.

Joseph's eyes shifted from the locusts, the green deputy uniforms coiling the uneasy nausea that settles on his dread. And what form is that, Lord?

The anticipation of finally seeing the one constant figure in his visions, his flock's savior or destroyer, all depending on the choice he makes, how far he can go to reach their soul and bring them into the light.

He felt God's presence above him, a constant reassurance to the Father, waiting with him as they scoured the moving bodies for the one person that will change the fate of his family at a moments notice.

That of a deputy, my prophet, the Voice revealed, Focus your eyes down the left hall.

Joseph did as instructed, his gaze locked on the corridor, catching the sight of two large double sided doors.

Can you feel their presence yet? Overwhelming, isn't it? He chuckled as Joseph's breathe hitched at a presence he swore he could just touch with his fingertips, despite no movement from his own hand and the lack of physical presence, Not something the majority of humanity is skilled enough to do. Unless you have the privilege of being my chosen prophet, of course.

Is... is this how you touch us? How you see us? Joseph questioned, gaze locked on the doors as the presence that was not there yet continued its pace towards the doors.

The Voice only chuckled, like a parent amused by a child's question. God did not answer him, again, and Joseph realized he had already answered his own question, again. Through this new sense the Lord had blessed him with, Joseph tried to close the gap between him and the approaching presence of the deputy that will doom his garden, or be another addition to it. With just his hand at his leg, he closed his palm.

But it did not last long, and swiftly opened his hand, hissing as if he had been bitten, only silently as to not alert his younger brother nor draw attention to himself. The sense the Lord gave him ceased, and Joseph could not feel the presence that had stung him, no, burned him upon touch.

He could, however, hear the echo of bellowing laughter of his Lord, his God. It was familiar, in a way, reminding him of how Old Man Seed had once bellowed at his expense, rather than roar with wrath, once word of Joseph getting battered and beaten by a group of older teens who he had come across while walking home from school. Jacob hadn't been there at the time, forced to stay at the house to do chores for their father after another suspension.

Joseph shook his head. He would not compare God to that wretched monster of a man, over a bellow of laughter no less. He should feel honored to have heard such a rare moment of laughter from God himself.

Careful now, Joseph, the Voice silenced further thought, Touching affinity that high will damage you. Thankfully your soul knew exactly what to do.

Joseph could still feel the sting on his palm, even though he was uncertain on how exactly that happened, I don't understand...?

It's not important. Humans weren't meant to have such senses. We have more pressing matters. Keep your eyes on those doors Joseph. I want to see.

Joseph kept watch on the doors, and though he could not feel their presence like before, but he could feel the Lord's grow warmer and warmer as the moment continued on.

Finally, it was at last that he saw the handle jiggle, and the door begin to creak open.

Finally, the Voice spoke once more, the humming drowning all other noises as its warm protected Joseph from the cold embrace of the building, everything except for the corridor and the opening doors darkening as God and his prophet watched a figure emerge from the end of the hall.

She reveals herself-

The Voice didn't finish, hushing itself as Joseph stared at the woman from down the hall.

Files tucked under her arm, the woman who emerged from the doors made her down the hall, her path leading towards Joseph.

The Father remained still as he observed the approaching woman, who seemed none the wiser of Joseph's presence, nor that interested in John's debate with the Sheriff. Hair dark hair flowed smoothly behind her, not tied up, not braided, simply free. Slim, rimless blue rectangular cat eye glasses rested on her slender nose.

As her figure became more discernible the closer she came, Joseph noticed the slivers of silver running down her hair, likely dyed. He was almost shocked to see the small faded scars that littered across her face. The scarring was notably darker than that of her tawny brown skin.

Now merely a meter or two apart, almost face-to-face, he noticed more details. Thick eyebrows, high cheek bones, the indifferent frown she wore on her pouty lips, and more concerning to the Father, the dark bags under her eyes.

Her eyes.

As she crossed paths with him, Joseph caught a glimpse of her grey eyes, dull but determined, focused on some deputy or another further behind him, her attention neither on him nor his brother. They appeared to be irrelevant to her apparent mission of delivering the files.

His brows scrunched as he squinted from behind his yellow-tinted aviators, mouthing the words plastered on the file. Office of the Sheriff-Coroner?

Then his eyes widened, as he took in the clothes she wore.

Instead of the telltale green jackets and the deputy's badge, she wore a white coat over a dark blue button-up and a black turtleneck shirt, with an ID badge that he couldn't get a steady look on as it shifted and turned as she walked.

She also had dark grey jeans, black combat boots and gloves. Joseph had to wonder why so much of her skin was covered, aside from her face. What was she hiding from everyone else?

She passed him, no indication nor acknowledgement of his presence. He watched her move from desk to desk until she found the right deputies, Hudson and Pratt he recalled, catching their full attention as she spoke, for what he could only assume was about the contents in the files.

He observed in silence, the humming above him growing louder, the Lord's presence no longer warm and welcoming as it always has been, but uncomfortably hot and erratic.

Lord?

This... this can't be right- No, it's impossible! She can't have- Why? How?!

Joseph froze, confused and lost on the tone of the Voice. He'd never heard such strength of emotion from Him. When God chose to speak with him, it was with a monotone neutrality, well-spoken and well-versed with an air of seriousness. Rarely He showed amusement. Even rarer to show disappointment.

But he'd never heard God's voice hold frustration before. It even bordered on rage.

He felt a sharp pain pound in his head, the heat becoming unbearable, his shirt itching against his skin.

Lord, I don't understand... is this not part of your Plan?

He looked to the woman who was supposed to represent Hell, the woman who conversed with the two deputies out of ear-shot. The Voice spoke once more, almost hissing, Does she look like a deputy, Joseph?

Joseph swallowed emptily, swiping at his damp forehead, the heat almost unbearable. He took another glance at her once more, the woman unaware of what she had done, however baffling it is for Joseph to believe that this supposed Sinner had managed to spit in God's plan.

Joseph tensed when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he swiftly turn to face John.

"We're all done here brother. No trouble will be coming from the Sheriff's Department for a while," John informed him, grin wide as he looked into Joseph's eyes, searching for any pride.

Joseph could only nod, the heat dying down as the sensation of the cold air rested against his skin once more, the aches pounding in his head still present though.

John furrowed his brow in worry, his concern overpowering his need for his older brother's approval, "Joseph, are you alright?"

Reconvene your heralds back at the Compound, Joseph, the Voice spoke, His warmth and light retracting away from Joseph's head, There is much to discuss about this new course of events.

As you wish, Lord, Joseph almost mumbled, but the light and warmth God shined on him left, already knowing Joseph's answer.

Turning to John, he was weary of the audience around them, though giving one last glance to Hell's enigmatic vessel, he saw her eyes were not amongst the deputies and Sheriff who watched their every move.

Gesturing to the door where their released flock members were waiting outside, John understood immediately and walked alongside Joseph towards the department's entrance.

"We must gather brother and sister," Joseph whispered to his faithful brother, "The Voice has spoken once more. New developments have occurred. Some I fear have threatened all that we have worked for."

He had faith in the Lord's ability, but the shock that even the Voice could not have predicted the Great Sinner's change in occupation had deeply shook him, making him ponder what else this sinner was capable of.

"What do you mean brother?" John asked, his confusion evident. Once out of the building, Joseph decided that he will not answer his younger brother just yet. Better to have the whole family together.

"I will explain when we gather Jacob and Faith at the Compound, but for now, we should return our missing flock back to the rest of the family," Joseph gestured to the three men who piqued up at the sight of both the Father and the Baptist, in awe of the brothers as they were lead into the car.

Here's a WIP for a new FC5 fic, Let The Skyfall (When It Crumbles), a scenario where I pondered the question of what would have happened if Paul Yellowjack, in all his wasp-y glory, had been at the events of the Reaping (or FC5 in general) where Silva was busting her ass to fight the Seeds... the answer? He would win. He... would have won. I mean... there's really not much you can do with someone who, in their current supernatural incarnation, can pull off a Kenjaku move (Jujutsu Kaisen reference... and spoilers for the manga and season 2) amongst other things and is an experienced, cunning strategist to boot. Case-in-point... Paul's first victim; the Father himself, Joseph Seed. The post giving a summary of this scenario idea + a summary of who Paul is and his relationship with Silva can be found here and the WIP snippet I have is below:

When lamplight disappeared from the window, Paul rasped a whisper to himself, "Go time."

He looked down to his glove-less hand, opening his palm far and wide. The vespe that watched from his shoulders flapped their wings, snapping at the air, chattering encouragement as the runt of the alveare crawled its way into the body's right palm.

Paul could only describe the sensation of a vespa maneuvering under the skin, especially in a fresh body, as a numb tickle at best and the numbed pain of popping a pimple at worst. The bump the runt made under his skin finally made it to the palm, and without further instruction, broke through the flesh.

The runt, unlike its kin that were irregularly bigger for the kind of wasp they were, was as small as the average vespa should be, and perfect for the task he needed it for.

It used its forelegs to clean itself off, while devouring as much of the nutritious meat and blood as it could before it begun its journey to the cabin. Two of its bigger kin flew down to the gaping hole in the hand, mandibles snapping before widening, a yellowish pale substance slowly spewing out, their forelegs pulling a stream of it out, and then working together to cover the breach in the sticky spew, swiftly hardening as they worked.

He brought the hand up to his clean-shaven face, the runt looking back up at him with beady red eyes. It knew what it needed to do. He knew what he needed to do. So without further prompting, the runt flapped its wings and made its way towards the sleeping cabin, the lights at the Profeta's compound glowing brightly in the distance.

Though if things went to plan, Paul smiled to himself as he hummed out an old tune he heard, walking back towards the cover of the trees, They won't be much of an eye sore for much longer.

Though he rarely allowed his hive to separate, he was confident that the runt would ensure that Profeta's body was under his thumb. Seeing through its vision now, he was already impressed how far it made it without being eaten by a bat.

The runt flew towards the small wooden cabin, landing at the window sill. Looking inside, the darkness held no disadvantage over his vision, and he could see clearly that the Profeta was laying down on his bed, sleep having finally caught up to him.

The runt clamped its mandibles together, its body convulsing and buzzing erratically. He had quite enjoyed keeping the Profeta awake over the course of the month.

Crawling through the cracked and broken glass he made during a another nighttime visit, the runt had successfully entered the cabin.

It looked to its target, growling out softly at the sight of the shirtless man.

The Profeta was a man in his early forties, reaching his mid, facial hair grown into a small beard, the hair on his head usually tied in a bun, but locks left to flow naturally as he laid asleep on his back.

The man was shirtless, a proof of arrogance and ignorance towards the vulnerability that can be exploited. Not to mention his doors and windows were all unlocked as Paul had discovered.

The visible tattoos that strewn across the younger man's chest held little meaning to the runt nor Paul, though the self-inflicted scars littered across, some with the labels of the seven deadly sins, did gain attention. How mocking it was to Paul, seeing the Profeta display such scars in public, when he had done nothing to earn them.

They weren't reminders of what he survived. They weren't lessons that shaped his core being, nor were they stories that told a tale of hurt and despair, of someone in pain, and yet through persistence alone, they continue on, to breathe, to live. No, the scars of this profeta held no merit, no truth, no reason to exist beyond glamorization.

A point of glorification to impress the gullible sheep he had entrapped with his charm, to show that suffering is a choice, giving them no chance to naturally experience what it means to fight and crawl and survive. Telling a lie to keep them subservient, slaves who never question the question of what is right and what is wrong, only what the Profeta wants. Individuality and potential talent squandered and crushed over trusting the wrong words.

The truth, the universal truth Paul knew, was that suffering was apart of life. Pain is unavoidable, and the only choice one can have in it is either enduring it or die trying.

To endure pain is to prove you're alive. To endure suffering is to prove your strength. To endure and overcome both, though, is to show your worthiness as a survivor.

The Profeta has only proven how low he will bend to the whims of his cruel master. While Paul's own existence was less than satisfactory, yet he at least had enough freedom to choose how to serve his own Master.

The runt looked to the black pants the man wore, a potential landing spot. But Paul opted against the idea, directing its gaze to the Profeta's jugular. The runt's faint red eyes locked on to its target, wings spread out for flight.

This chance was now or never. There wouldn't be another opportunity, not with the sceriffo's department so restless. The fate of Paul's precious Boa hanged in the balance.

Without further hesitation, the runt leaped in the air, its wings propelling it faster as it brought out its stinger. In mere seconds, the stinger stabbed through the neck, injecting the venom into his bloodstream.

The runt swiftly dropped off his neck, avoiding hand that slapped against the stung area on instinct, the pain rousing the Profeta from his slumber.

The runt's wings saved it from hitting the floor, allowing it to hover up to see the Profeta try to lift himself up, the drowsiness of interrupted sleep becoming heavier than usual.

His hand rubbed his neck, sucking a breath in at the sting, though his arm numbly slouched over the bed. He attempted to lift it, only to find he couldn't. The Profeta tried to sit up, but found himself barely being able to lift his head.

The runt watched the Profeta's face twitch, then it listened as he groaned, moaned and grunted nonsensically, no words forming. His voice failing him.

Through the runt's eyes, Paul couldn't help but smile at the sight of the broken down instrument of a God. One of many tools used to keep the cogs of the wheel going.

Paul urged the runt to go for a closer look.

The runt complied, buzzing and chattering excitedly as it landed on the man's nose, right in his view.

It stared into the Profeta's blue eyes, allowing Paul to see the still gaze of a man helpless and trapped, but more deserving of it.

Paul wondered what this man saw when he slept. What he hears?

The laughter of those long gong, whom he'll never see again except in the depths of buried memories, to bring himself a moment of joy to the grim purpose he existed for now? Did he fantasize of a life he'll never get, one where everything went right?

The runt turned to glance at the arm that had the woman's face etched on his skin.

Does he wish as I do? That he could have made a different choice than the one he did?

The runt faced the Profeta's gaze once more, taking notice of the tears that matched his watery eyes, the body reflexively trying to wet the dry eyes, the venom keeping him from doing something as simple as blink.

Or does he believe he has done no wrong?

The runt turned its back to the Profeta's frozen eyes, looking over the tip of his nose to the half-open entrance that awaited it.

Has the lies he's been told and never doubted become truth, despite how ludicrous they are?

The runt gently hopped down to the man's upper lip, gentleness no longer a necessity as the vespa's legs dug into the soft flesh.

Does he sleep soundlessly despite the terror he's wrought? The lives he's ruined?

The runt's middle legs steadied on the man's upper teeth, its hind legs pushing the upper lip back, while its forelegs pushed the forward the Profeta's bottom teeth, the venom's sluggish effects combined with the vespa's unnatural strength widening his mouth open. With the entrance now large enough to fit it inside, the runt flew over to the chin, its head looking down the interior of the mouth.

Does he hear their damning screams?

Slowly, the runt turned its middle legs to latch onto the slim outline of the shell Paul had attached to it, hooking underneath casing before loosening the thorax and abdomen shells, letting both fall to the sides.

The writhing small tendrils pulsed out, dripping small yellow-ish pale spew, like what most of the alveare produced. The liquid substance hardened as it dripped further down. The Profeta's breath quickened, panicked and confused, unaware of the plans Paul had in store for him. The runt shuddered as the heated air washed over it, before beginning its descent.

Though I'm not overly upset of never knowing the answer.

The runt crawled through the heated wetness of the Profeta's mouth, passing the tongue until it reached his throat. Beady red eyes looked down the path that descended into the esophagus. Unless it wanted to trigger the Profeta's gag reflex, it would avoid the path. Growling, it looked up, and found the breach point.

Crawling to the roof of the mouth, it ascended upwards, the writhing tendrils on its back lubricating in preparation, as its mandible jaws opened wide for the breach.

And last line paragraph(s) for You're Almost Like Family, the time loop fic where the Seeds realize just how easy it is for Silva to just wound up dead, and much they miss the luck she had in the first three months she fought against them. Anyway, paragraphs below:

A shift in movement from one of the Chosen stepping out of his peripheral momentarily caught John's attention, and he almost glanced to see where the Chosen was moving to, but noticed that Alexander raised a brow at the movement from the other end of the circle they surrounded the Deputy in, giving Jacob a signal with his head.

John heard his big brother huff out an annoyed sigh, glancing a quick glare over to the Chosen's new spot. Seeing nothing to worry about, John returned his attention to Joseph's pleas to the wayward sinner who had caused everyone trouble.

"Child, this wrath... this violence that you have escalated for the sinners who only use you as a weapon is no longer necessary," Joseph spoke with a soft, even voice filled with paternal gentleness, "This unnecessary rebellion needs to end. The Collapse closes in on us ever closer, just as I showed you in the Henbane, and the only salvation... are the Gates my family has prepared for. I see you, the person you are. And that is not as the tool of destruction your so called friends view you as. We see your compassion. Your bravery. The virtues you only think you don't have. And we welcome it, in our Garden. You seek someplace to belong... God has shown me you belong with us."

John watched as Joseph outstretched his hand to the Deputy, the Baptist sucking in a breath as she, of all people, eyed it, even as Joseph continued, "Please, child. Put aside the wrath. Put to peace the suffering. This doesn't have to end in blood. We can help each other. With your help, we can save more souls, more lives... and together we can bask in the new world God promised us."

John watched in bated breath as the Deputy glanced down, putting together her options.

When the Deputy finally found an answer, John saw Alexander's eyes widen at something ahead of him, and was shocked to see the Chosen Leader reach for his sidearm.

"Tch, you li-"

A loud crack shot through the air as it did the Deputy, her lips glistened with blood instead of the rest of her words. John watched, frozen on the spot, as the Deputy's body slowly fell back, following after the cartilage and blood that the bullet blast clean through. The bullet of which glinted at his eyes.

And the bullet continued to glint at him, just as the Deputy's corpse stopped in its descent, not even touching the ground. From what John could see, Joseph midway from stepping back, and hadn't planted his foot down, just as Alexander hadn't even been able to fully aim his sidearm at the culprit.

He tried to glance to Jacob and Faith, but found his eyes refused, locked on Joseph and the fresh corpse of his family's most determined rebel, who defied gravity just as she defied them.

What is going on?! Though he couldn't move, John was relieved he could still think to himself.

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stuffymcstuffsworld · 8 months

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Seven sins/Seven days

Sunday: They say children born on a Sunday in hell are born with a large sense of Wrath. Their passion burning brighter as they lead an army to victory. Or great destruction follows them with every step.

Monday: On Monday, children are born in hell with a sense of Envy constantly wanting for more than they have or could possibly want. A jealous child of Envy has led to many conflicts in the netherworld.

Tuesday: Tuesdays children are full of Greed, of which hell has always welcomed. Their hoards are great, and their methods are tricky. It would be in one's best interest to never be in debt to a child of Greed.

Wednesday: For Wednesday, children of Gluttony, they find themselves constantly indulging. They who absorb the most be it food, splendor, or knowledge. It is often a wonder if anything is left for the other children of Sina.

Thursday: Yet here we find the children of Thursday drained and rather lazy compared to those before them. Being children of Sloth that only wish for slumbers sweet embrace. They would rather dream away than do much else, but you try telling a dreamer not to dream.

Friday: Fridays Children of Lust have always been known for their beauty. They say the children born on that day are made without flaws. But be warned a child of Lust will not easily be swayed into temptation. It is they who can conquer even Wrath and Pride the most stubborn of sins.

Saturday: The children of Saturday are full of demonic Pride. That of which could outshine even the brightest pyre. A prideful child will show off their talent and charm without second thought. And yet a child of Pride is the one who suffers the most when they are beaten.

So the real question is... if you were born in the human world on one of these days, would it be similar? You had no way of knowing, although it would be amusing if iruma was born on a Wednesday in the human world, causing a match for his bottomless pit of a stomach. You chuckled at the idea.

#mairimashita! iruma kun #welcome to demon school iruma kun #iruma suzuki #reader

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roman-catholic-mass-readings · 2 months

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21st February >> Mass Readings (Except USA)

Wednesday, First Week of Lent

(optional commemoration of Saint Peter Damian, Bishop, Doctor)

(Liturgical Colour: Violet: B (2))

First Reading Jonah 3:1-10 The Ninevites repent, and God spares them.

The word of the Lord was addressed to Jonah: ‘Up!’ he said ‘Go to Nineveh, the great city, and preach to them as I told you to.’ Jonah set out and went to Nineveh in obedience to the word of the Lord. Now Nineveh was a city great beyond compare: it took three days to cross it. Jonah went on into the city, making a day’s journey. He preached in these words, ‘Only forty days more and Nineveh is going to be destroyed.’ And the people of Nineveh believed in God; they proclaimed a fast and put on sackcloth, from the greatest to the least. The news reached the king of Nineveh, who rose from his throne, took off his robe, put on sackcloth and sat down in ashes. A proclamation was then promulgated throughout Nineveh, by decree of the king and his ministers, as follows: ‘Men and beasts, herds and flocks, are to taste nothing; they must not eat, they must not drink water. All are to put on sackcloth and call on God with all their might; and let everyone renounce his evil behaviour and the wicked things he has done. Who knows if God will not change his mind and relent, if he will not renounce his burning wrath, so that we do not perish?’ God saw their efforts to renounce their evil behaviour, and God relented: he did not inflict on them the disaster which he had threatened.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 50(51):3-4,12-13,18-19

R/ A humbled, contrite heart, O God, you will not spurn.

Have mercy on me, God, in your kindness. In your compassion blot out my offence. O wash me more and more from my guilt and cleanse me from my sin.

R/ A humbled, contrite heart, O God, you will not spurn.

A pure heart create for me, O God, put a steadfast spirit within me. Do not cast me away from your presence, nor deprive me of your holy spirit.

R/ A humbled, contrite heart, O God, you will not spurn.

For in sacrifice you take no delight, burnt offering from me you would refuse, my sacrifice, a contrite spirit. A humbled, contrite heart you will not spurn.

R/ A humbled, contrite heart, O God, you will not spurn.

Gospel Acclamation Ezekiel 33:11

Glory and praise to you, O Christ! I take pleasure, not in the death of a wicked man – it is the Lord who speaks – but in the turning back of a wicked man who changes his ways to win life. Glory and praise to you, O Christ!

Or: Joel 2:12-13

Glory and praise to you, O Christ! Now, now – it is the Lord who speaks – come back to me with all your heart, for I am all tenderness and compassion. Glory and praise to you, O Christ!

Gospel Luke 11:29-32 As Jonah became a sign to the Ninevites, so will the Son of Man be a sign.

The crowds got even bigger, and Jesus addressed them: ‘This is a wicked generation; it is asking for a sign. The only sign it will be given is the sign of Jonah. For just as Jonah became a sign to the Ninevites, so will the Son of Man be to this generation. On Judgement day the Queen of the South will rise up with the men of this generation and condemn them, because she came from the ends of the earth to hear the wisdom of Solomon; and there is something greater than Solomon here. On Judgement day the men of Nineveh will stand up with this generation and condemn it, because when Jonah preached they repented; and there is something greater than Jonah here.’

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

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fanficonly · 1 year

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Wenclair- Mine- Chapter 10

Hope you guys are enjoying the fic. A little disclaimer I have no idea where this story is going or where it ends anymore because I keep changing my mind. Sooooo... I will just keep writing until the end comes naturally.

Also I'm open to anyone sending any prompts for one-shots to keep my motivation to write going and for your own enjoyment. Thanks and enjoy reading😋

Wednesday felt... Wrong. Everything in her brain leading up to the moment she caught herself staring affectionately towards her roommate had been wrong.

So why did it feel so right? Urgh a cliche she criticised her uncontrollable emotions in her own head.

Wednesday had consistently concocted an array of excuses and explanations for her tolerance of Enid's affection and advances towards her, in pursuit of some kind of relationship with her. Yet this was not something she would admit lightly ... Or ever.

She does whatever the persistent blonde asks of her without a second thought. She allows her access to parts of her brain she wouldn't dare reveal to the public. AND, worst of all, she actually enjoyed the pleasure of Enid's presence... Even when paired with her incessant need for physical contact.

So when Enid promptly removed her body from Wednesday she was no longer surprised at herself when she found the absence of her roommate disconcerting.

Noticing Enid's worrisome expression and stand offish behaviour, Wednesday said "It's fine Enid" flatly then stood up to finally escape the colour blinding environment she had been trapped in all night. If not for the sleeping beauty laid upon her she would have suffered greatly but instead it was only mildly irritating.

A wounded Wednesday winced slightly as she stood for the first time in 12 hours urging Enid to finally turn around concerned for her mate.

"I'm fine" Wednesday spoke firmly, avoiding eye contact with the worried girl and moving slowly towards her own bed. Enid watched on, forcing herself to stay put in order to avoid the wrath of Wednesday Addams. But she remained vigilant ready to pounce if need be.

The darker haired girl tensed, remaining stiff and swallowing hard to prevent unwanted cries of discomfort as she gradually reached her destination. The sigh of relief was involuntary but still very evident when Wednesday finally sat down in her rightful place.

Enid became very aware of the silence that surrounded them both and made the decision to stand up and walk to their bathroom silently to wash up. They had both fallen asleep still bloody, muddy and bruised from the night before so without another word she closed the door and turned the shower on ready to clean herself of her sins.

Before getting in, Enid hugged herself tightly and inhaled deeply. She savoured the scent of Wednesday that cloaked her own for a while before finally giving in for hygiene purposes.

Outside the bathroom Wednesday was left alone with her thoughts again and found herself once again disturbed by her brains relentless ability to bring about the thoughts she was determined to fight off.

When Enid finally emerged from the shower, she was wrapped in her bright pink towel and wore sliders to protect her feet from the cold hard wood floors beneath her. Wednesday's eyes followed Enid, still fascinated by the werewolf girl, somewhat entranced by her.

"Wednesday" while absentmindedly surveying Enid, the freshly showered girl had caught her staring.

"Yes?" She questioned looking back towards the book she was pretending to read. Playing dumb. Not something Wednesday enjoyed doing but it was necessary for her sanity's survival at this point.

"What are you looking at?" She questioned back. She averted her eye for a moment taking a few seconds to think about her response

"It seems only fair" she spoke as if what she was talking about was obvious.

"Huh?" She was genuinely confused by the comment and everything about her demeanor displayed this.

"You have seen me in a... " Wednesday cleared her throat almost nervously "sensitive state" she grimaced, her face distorting into a scowl. "It seems only fair that I get the courtesy of experiencing the same with you" Wednesday spoke. She was proud of herself for explaining her affection in a deductive manner and remained elusive.

Enid choked after hearing this which caused a slight smirk to form on Wednesday sly face. Enid began to stumble over her words suddenly very aware of the fact that she was wearing nothing but a towel. She blushed profusely.

"I'm kidding" Wednesday exhaled through her nose almost mimicking something of a laugh and Enid sighed in relief

"Oh." She said rather shocked " I didn't know you did that" she explained her nervousness.

"Well-" but Wednesday's thoughts were interrupted by a loud knock on the door. She grunted in annoyance and stood up to answer it while Enid paced back to the bathroom to protect her decency.

When Wednesday finally reached the door she opened it to find Yoko staring back at her with Thing perched neatly on her shoulder.

"Hello" Wednesday greeted her.

"Umm yeah Hi" she put her hand up " Thing wants to know if it's safe to come in now" she pointed to the hand.

"Why wouldn't it be safe" Wednesday enquired directing the question towards Thing rather than Yoko. But regardless the girl answered

"I don't know he said something about you and Enid needing privacy and if he stayed here then you wouldn't let him live after what he would hear" as Yoko spoke, Thing was poking and prodding her attempting to stop the chatty girl from explaining any further which he failed miserably at... clearly.

"Oh did he now?" Wednesday asked rhetorically, staring at the hand questioningly. Thing just shook in fear for what may come next.

"Ya" Yoko confirmed and Thing did his variation of a face palm towards the comment.

"Come on Thing" Wednesday said, ignoring the comment and holding her arm out for him to crawl onto. He did as he was told still stewing from Yoko's blatant inability to keep a secret.

Wednesday stepped back from the door but Yoko continued " Oh and is Enid there I need to-"

"No" Wednesday cut her off slamming the door in her face rather rudely.

"Well that was uncalled for" Thing signed to Wednesday.

"On the contrary" Wednesday explained " It was very called for" she emphasised the last two words slightly to display her own blunt form of mockery.

Thing shook his finger and slumped along Wednesday's shoulder.

"Not that I am not happy to have you back but me and Enid still have something rather important to discuss and I don't want you to be a third wheel" she told him honestly.

Not wanting to aggravate his family member even more he gave her a salute and made his way onto the balcony to give the girls some privacy. Just as soon as he had returned he had been ushered away but of course he didn't mind in fact Yoko was starting to become a little much for him, there was only so much he could take.

Enid had managed to change in the bathroom and had only heard muffled conversation through the surprisingly thick walls. Of course if she was able to focus on anything other than the deafening sound her thoughts full of Wednesday then maybe she would have heard the conversation.

"Who was that?" she questioned drying her hair lightly with a towel as she emerged from the bathroom again.

"Yoko" Wednesday said "She returned Thing" she pointed to the Hand who was observing the school grounds below from the balcony's edge.

"ok" Enid accepted the story with no need to push any further "cool" she said biting her lip and rolling back on her heels, waiting for Wednesday to inevitably change the topic of conversation to last night's events.

She got lost in Wednesday's eyes again, longing to be even closer to her mate than she already was. Wednesday snapped her fingers Infront of Enid's face.

"We need to talk" she spoke, then without missing a beat she walked to her bed sat down then looked up at Enid expectantly.

When Enid didn't immediately move Wednesday just patted the spot next to her, almost menacingly. But then again, everything Wednesday did, had malicious undertones so how was she to tell the difference.

"Ok" was all she was able to say before doing as she was told.

#wenclair #wednesday #wednesday addams #enid sinclair #wednesday x enid #wenclair fanfic #wenclair mine

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josephslittledeputy · 8 months

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WIP Whenever!

Been tagged in a few WIP Wednesdays that I missed, so thank you @socially-awkward-skeleton @direwombat @inafieldofdaisies @jillvalentinesday @marivenah @simplegenius042 @g0dspeeed for keeping me in the loop!

Tagging @clicheantagonist @henbased @nonfunctioning-queer @purplehairsecretlair @adelaidedrubman and anyone else who feels like it! (Or don’t, totally up to you)

First up is part one of Willa’s dark au, They Watch From The Pews

Another day gone by, another hostage saved, another person she’s helped that weren’t her people.

She'd been stuck in Fall’s End for nearly a week now, recovering from her concussion, helping out when needed, rescuing anyone who needed rescuing. Most everyone she’d rescued had made their way to Fall’s End, some even decided to form a group: The Resistance. Or at least that’s what they started calling themselves. It wasn’t very creative, but it didn’t need to be when it was getting the job done, which was to push back against the cult. So far, it’d been working relatively well and every day their numbers grew in strength. What she couldn’t stomach, though, was the fact that everyone looked to her like a de facto leader.

She was no leader.

What normally would elate someone else only made her infuriated. What right did they have to delegate such a role to her? Every day it was something new: Deputy, take out this group of peggies and rescue these hostages! Deputy, the cult stole all our gas, bring us some tanker trucks! Deputy, someone from the cult defected, you need to save them! Deputy, pick up a big rig you’ve never driven in your life because it was my dads! Never once did anyone ever ask about her needs. For days she'd been waiting for news, from anyone, and yet all they had to tell her was more shit that needed to be done! For all she knew, her people were dead already and here she was, playing a glorified errand runner for people who couldn't give two shits about her! Not unless she could do something for them first. The rage that had nestled in her chest before—a hot ember kept ignited by every slight she’d suffered—grew, and grew, until it was nearly consuming her.

Then, during one of the long, long days she’d been sitting in Fall’s End, she’d snapped.

“I don’t give a damn, Jerome! I’m goin' whether you 'er any a'yer little Resistance like it 'er not. And tell Mary May not to close my goddamn tab!”

They’d recently gotten word from the cult defector that Hudson was being kept in John’s bunker. Their only problem was that he kept the only key to the place tied around his neck and rarely ever left. When he did leave, it was with a whole entourage of peggies, keeping him more secure than the president themselves. It wasn’t that she couldn’t take them all down—especially with the help of the Resistance—but they had machine guns and grenade launchers, all things she very much lacked. So, her only course of action was to draw his ire, get herself kidnapped, and figure things out from there. If she played her cards right, she could get into the bunker and get Hudson out. Jerome and Mary May, however? Well, they weren't keen on the idea. What would happen if they lost their biggest asset against the cult? It led to an argument that carried over into the next morning, until finally, she threw her arms up and told them where the sun don't shine.

Fast Forward to when Willa rescues Hudson

“I know your sin. It drives you. Every thought, every action.” He lets out a breath. “Your sin is Wrath.” On the final word, he places his hand to his chest with a small laugh. “So I’ll indulge you: Become Wrath. Let it fill your body and consume your soul. Because in the end, you’ll still be empty. And I’ll be waiting right here.” John gives her a pitying look before throwing a glance behind him, at Hudson. “We both will.”

“No, John. I’m taking Hudson and we’re leaving or so help me I will cave your goddamn fuckin’ head in!” Swinging at him—something he evidently hadn’t expected—she smashes the pipe against his shoulder, ignoring his cry of pain. Dropping the pipe, she lunges for him, sending them both toppling to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Her fist launches forward, sending his head snapping to the side in a daze when it connects. “That’s for drowning me, you bastard.” Standing to her feet, she quickly rushes over to Hudson, who was struggling and yelling. “I gotcha.” Gently peeling the tap off, she quickly begins working on her ropes, ignoring the groaning John on the floor, who was recovering from her assault quicker than she'd expected.

“You came… I-I thought…” Hudson sobs, taking in deep breaths that weren’t restricted by the tape over her mouth.

“Of course I did.” She moves to the front of her and crouches down, working on getting the restraints off her feet next. “I know it took me a while, I had to… Well, I was preoccupied.” She looks up at Hudson, gently wiping away the fresh tears that’d fallen. “But I never stopped looking. Now let’s get the hell outta here, huh?”

“You’ll never get out of here, Deputy.” John coughs, standing and shaking his head with a bruise beginning to form around his eye.

“Like hell we will.” She growls, grabbing Hudson’s hand and pulling her toward the door. Yanking on the handle, she slips out the small crack of the door and closes it behind her, sealing John in the room by himself.

Next is my beloved Valerie Morgan, from my Clash of Worlds AU

The wind rushes through her hair, the motorcycles engine purrs beneath her, and the neon lights turn into blurs overhead.

God, she hates to admit how much she missed Night City, but it truly feels like coming home, even if it’s not actually her city. It won’t be long until it is. Until all the little ants are trembling beneath her feet, eager to get out of her way or to throw their lot in with her in hopes of being spared. It’s a thought that tugs a wicked smile onto her face, pulling at the freshly healed scars marring the left side of her face, a courteous reminder from a name she no longer cares to remember.

She wouldn’t want to ruin such a good mood, after all.

She’s buzzing with an energy that could transcend time, if she let it. She feels unstoppable, like there’s nothing that can stand in her way. Nothing, except the asshole in front of her that causes her to roll to a stop. Her teeth grind together with a ferocity that nearly shatters the pearly whites inside her mouth, but she settles for a simple honk of the horn instead. And by simple, she naturally means laying on the horn until the person in front of her has the audacity to look behind them.

“Fuck you! Go around!”

Her eye twitches and her nostrils flare. “Fuck… me?”

“Yeah, you heard me!”

She looks around to check her surroundings before pointing at herself, repeating, “Me?”

“Yes! YOU!”

She puts the kickstand on the bike down and turns off the purring engine, giving the man one last chance “Are you sure you mean me?” She questions with a tilt of her head.

“Who the fuck else could I mean? You’re the only fuck nut honkin’ their horn for a minute straight! Can’t you see I’m talkin’ here?” He jabs a thumb to his right, where another person stands by the passenger door.

She gets off the bike and walks up to him with a skip in her step, stopping right next to his door. Flashing a slightly manic smile, she bends at the waist and leans her arms against the open window. “What I want to know is who stops in the middle of the road?”

“You some type of gonk or somethin’? I said I'm talkin'!”

She stops, stares for a few uncomfortable seconds, then starts to laugh. The driver begins to laugh as well, and pretty soon, everyone’s laughing together, like they’re all in on the same joke. What joke that is, they’re still not sure, but the whole situation was beginning to seem downright silly.

It really was just utterly absurd! How could she not have noticed this man was talking to someone? How dare she have the gall to bring attention to that fact? How dare she think that she was above him? That she didn’t know she could just go around him this whole time! It was all just so. Damn. Laughable. She reaches in the window, grabs ahold of his shirt, and yanks him out. With a strength nobody could know she possessed, she tosses him over his car and onto the sidewalk, barely missing the idiot standing by the passenger door.

“Y-you’re fuckin’ whack lady!” They shout before taking off at a full sprint, glancing back to see if she was coming after them.

Before they can look back a second time, she’s right in front of them. “I’m whack? You’re the one who’s running!” Lashing out, she aims for their knees, sending them falling to the ground like a rag doll. “But not for long!” She taunts in a singsong voice, leaving them to tend to their shattered knees. “Now where was I? Oh right!” With a cheery smile, she turns and heads back toward the driver stumbling to his feet, ignoring the pained cries and pleas for help behind her.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. I’d be more worried about how you’re eating tonight.” The wicked gleam in her eye and smile that matches is the last thing the man sees.

#my writing #wip wednesday #except its saturday sooo..#oc: willa rook #au: dark willa #Pt. 1: They Watch From The Pews #john watching willa & hudson during that scene & being like 'are they... yknow? *does a limp wrist gesture*'#oc: valerie morgan #au: clash of worlds #guy in second wip really said 'aye! im talkin here!' sdfghjkl #valerie channeling the 'why are you running?' meme #Val shows up in Night City & the already high crime rate just skyrockets #& she hasnt even found out the news about Takemura or Johnny having a body yet... woof id hate to see when she gets mad 😈#was gonna post the intro to clash of worlds but deciding to post val having fun instead <3 shes definition of dog let off their leash #sorry if y'all dont wanna be tagged! i figured id actually tag people for once since i rarely participate cause Anxiety™️

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