#tw mild blasphemy
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Driving through town last night, saw a house that was decorated top to bottom and said “WOW look at all those lights!”
My daughter exclaimed “JESUS!”
I was like, ok, where’d she pick up that particular swear? I don’t think that was me, that’s not my standard swear. Then I realized that there was a nativity scene on the lawn, and she was a kid raised by a couple of agnostic Buddhist/pagans and went to a preschool based out of a church so she sort of sees Jesus as this interesting character who occasionally pops up here and there like Kermit the Frog.
Anyway, that said, I was thinking that maybe I should try out using the Muppets as swears whenever I feel like taking anyone’s name in vain. It makes about as much sense.
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god is a fag and that means we can kiss so hard that i burn up in its divine light and be wholly consumed by its pleasure
#bun bouncin#nsft#ftm nsft#t4t nsft#trans nsft#mild blasphemy#anyways#tw religious themes#religious kink#sometimes i want to just be consumed#i just think it’s neat#god is a fag#i should call my girlfriend god someday /hj#it is divine to meeee
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A Face I have Seen Before
Tw: Mild angst and fluff
Part 1 (You dont really need it but here if you want ig)
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“Oh! Monsieur Neuvillette. Please forgive me, I didn't mean to bump into you.” The young lady apologized as she collected the papers she had spilled.
“It is quite alright,” Neuvillette bent down to assist her in picking up her papers. “I wasn't looking where I was going, I do apologize for causing you to drop your-” His voice died in his throat as his eyes met hers, teardrop shaped pupils looked back at him, his heart squeezed as he felt the memories of his beloved resurface, her soft smile, her striking eyes… and how they would dance on the water each of their anniversaries.
“Uh- Monsieur Neuvillette? Are you alright?” The woman asked, waving a blue loved hand in front of his face.
“Huh- Oh yes.” He cleared his throat, the woman shaking him out of his memories. “I am alright… just lost in my thoughts.” His gaze locked on to the woman, a familiar pull in his heart, the oh so familiar grief resurfacing.
“Ah! The documents!” The lady finished collecting her papers rushing inside the Palais Mermonia desperately trying to salvage her documents, while the droplets of water descended upon Fontaine. Neuvillette watched her go, the lady with pale hair and blue eyes reminding him too much of Furina. He stood back up again, his heart hurt. The droplets of water cascaded down around him, landing on his head and trickling down his face like tears.
“Monsieur… you should go inside, you will catch a cold.” Neuvillette looked over, realizing that the woman was holding an umbrella over his head.
“Oh… thank you.” Neuvillette gripped his cane a little tighter. “I don’t think I caught your name…”
“Oh I didn't introduce myself? How rude of me… My name is Furia.”
“Furia…” Neuvillette echoed her name, “That is a nice name.” His gaze traced over Furia’s face, he didn't know if it was his mind playing tricks on him but Furia looked eerily similar to his late wife. It was probably just the eyes… those familiar teardrops looking at him just as she had used to. It had been a few hundred years after all… perhaps his memory was already failing him. No. Such blasphemy. He could never forget Furina. He looked at her picture every morning after all…
“I still think we should go inside.” Furia commented, it's raining harder than before.
“Oh… I suppose that would be of interest.” Neuvillette took the umbrella from Furia’s hands, holding it above them as they walked into the Palais Mermonia. “Thank you for bringing an umbrella for me.” Neuvillette thanked Furia as she hung her coat on a coat rack.
“It's no problem… I wouldn't want to leave you alone in the rain to become all soggy.” Furia laughed, waving a hand.
“Well I would like to invite you for tea as a thank you.” The words left him before he could stop himself.
“O-Oh?” Furia blinked, “I- I suppose it would be rude of me to decline.”
“Ah- How about we go to Cafe Lutece?” Neuvillette offered, “After the rain stops of course.”
“Very well.” Furia smiled, “I do love a good pastry.” Furia giggled, her voice soft and sweet as she spoke.
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“I love this cake!” Furia beamed as she ate the slice. “It's really hard to get one too…” Neuvillette chuckled watching as Furia savored the cake. “They only make a few of these each day you know!”
“I know. I am normally not one for sweets, but I do enjoy this cake.” Neuvillette ate his slice slowly.
“I never thought you were one for sweets.” Furia downed her tea.
“Well, it reminds me of someone I knew.” Neuvillette drank his water, “And I did enjoy eating this cake with her so I suppose it's more nostalgic than I enjoy the taste.”
“I see.” Furia hummed as she devoured her cake. “I must say this whole thing feels awfully deja vu.” Furia thought out loud. “Feels like I've done this a hundred times before…”
“Done what?” Neuvillette raised a brow.
“Eaten with you I mean.” Furia explained. “I feel like I have done this a thousand times with you.”
“Oh? Really, how curious.” Neuvillette spoke softly, his voice a whisper. “I almost have the same feeling…”
“Mon dragon…” Furia mumbled.
“W-What did you say?” Neuvillettes head snapped up.
“Huh- I just said that if feels like I've done this a thousand times-” Furia blinked confused,
“No after that- What did you say?” Neuvillette stared at her as if she held the secret to Celestia herself.
“I didn’t say anything…” Furia looked at him concerned.
“Oh… I must have heard someone else mention my name…” Neuvillette shook his head, “Well this has been wonderful. And consider this my thank you to you for getting me out of the rain.” Neuvillette stood up, “I will… be returning to my house now. I must rest. It has been a long day.”
“O-Oh okay then. Have a pleasant evening Neuvillette.” Furia called out to him as he left.
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The sun slowly rose over the water as Neuvillette stood before the familiar ocean, where the two had shared their last dance.
“Oh… I didn't realize you were here,” Furia blinked as she stood beneath her umbrella, “I’m sorry for disturbing you-” Furia made a move to leave him in peace.
“Wait. What are you doing here Furia?” Neuvillette grabbed her arm to stop her from leaving.
“Oh… I had this weird feeling when I woke up so I decided to take a walk…” Furia shook her head, a familiar untameable white strand of hair bouncing with each movement. “I wasn't really paying attention where I was going and I just… ended up here… I’m sorry for disturbing you.”
“It's alright…” Neuvilittee looked out at the water, “Would you like to watch the sunrise?”
“I- I suppose.” Furia agreed, standing next to him, her snowy hair glowed a faint yellow as the sun hit her, the woman squinting and blinking as the sun hit her eyes. Neuvillette sat there for the rest of the day, and to his surprise Furia didn't leave his side, the woman making a fire to cook a pot of macaroni. Neuvillette tried his best to keep his feelings in check. Furia… She was so similar to Furina, from her name, to her mannerisms, to her appearance, almost as if she was a ghost. His head spun, it was too much, his heart was ablaze with pain, memories swimming before him.
“...Neuvillette?” Furia whispered looking at him, her voice soft and playful. “You look upset…”
“I am alright.” Neuvillette answered stiffly,
“Hm. Don’t cry.” Furia whispered.
“I’m not crying.”
“It's raining.” Furia didn't bother opening her umbrella, extending a hand to catch the droplets as they fell. Neuvillette glanced at Furia, the girl watching the rain with a strange fondness. “Such a shame to see the hydro dragon cry…” Neuvillette stayed silent, “Come on now, Neuvillette don't cry.” Furia closed her eyes as she sat in the rain.
“Excuse me?” Neuvillette raised a brow, tensing up at her words.
“Do you remember what I promised all those years ago?” Furia smiled, ignoring his words.
“Pardon? You still havent- How did you know…”
“Do you remember what I promised?”
“Why won't you- how would I know?” Neuvillette gritted his teeth, annoyed and confused by Furia’s antics.
“I promised that one day we would reunite.” Furia smiled at him, her eyes knowing, that oh so familiar glint in her eyes.
“How do you…” His voice died in his throat as Furia looked at him, just as Furina had.
“Remember… when we danced on this very water for the last time…” Furia looked out at the sea, “I promised that I would love you for eternity and that one day we would reunite… and it appears that day is upon us… So mon dragon.” Furia offered him a hand. “Care for a dance?” Neuvillette stared at her, his eyes filling up with tears, the sky mirroring his emotions as droplets of rain started to fall.
“Furina…?”
#fluff#angst#fluff to angst#furina de fontaine#furina x neuvillette#neuvillette#neuvilette genshin#neuvifuri#furinette#furina#genshin impact#genshin#oneshot#immortal x mortal#furina genshin#not beta read#genshin angst#happy ending#furina is like a cat 9 lives babyyyyyyyyyyy
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screenshots ov tags that say "tw blasphemy" is honestly one ov thee funnier phenomena I see on here w mild regularity. it rly makes u consider thee cultural admixture that produces and thee kinda person that has that specifically blacklisted
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"Shit, you're bleeding?" + Berlermo
“Shit, you’re bleeding.”
Andrés laughed. He fucking laughed. It sounded all wrong though – strained and hollow, almost delirious. But that was probably to be expected of someone who’d just been fucking shot in the abdomen.
Martín gritted his teeth.
His hands were shaking where they pressed against Andrés’s wound. The blood kept spilling through his fingers like sand in an hourglass, more and more and always fucking more, and Martín wasn’t sure what he wanted more: to rub his cheek against Andrés’s chest and beg him not to die, or to grab the bag of jewels and walk out the hotel room. To turn his back on their partnership. On Andrés.
The job had been supposed to be easy. Ten minutes, in and out. Martín had joked about it, of course he had. A quickie, he’d said, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. Because Andrés was fucking hot, and Martín was only a man.
But Andrés had shaken his head, his expression pinched.
“You don’t understand,” he’d said, and maybe Martín would have paid more attention to him – to the tense set of his shoulders, to the sternness of his tone, to his warning – if he hadn’t been so damn distracted by the way Andrés’d pushed the olive of his martini between his lips, slowly, sinfully.
“It’s a test,” Andrés’d told him, making Martín frown.
“A test for what?”
But Andrés hadn’t replied. He’d merely smiled at him, all tall, dark and mysterious, and Martín’d rolled his eyes and signaled the bartender for another drink, eager to move on.
He hadn’t understood. Not until now.
The test, he realized, was to see if they’d make a good team, if Martín was as good as he’d claimed.
If he’d keep his cool, even if one of them was bleeding out.
Martín pulled a breath of air through his teeth. It spread through his lungs, filling him with a sense of purpose.
“Come on,” he said, dragging Andrés’s blazer off his shoulders. “Let’s get you cleaned up and bandaged. You’re bleeding all over the upholstery.”
Andrés laughed that damned laugh again, like nails on a chalkboard.
Martín blocked it out.
Instead, he focused on the task at hand: undressing Andrés. Dabbing up the blood with hotel towels, the white stained red. Cleaning the bullet wound. Wrapping the bandage around Andrés’s torso, again and again and again, until his mind was numb. Until he no longer felt that surge of fear, an iron fist around his throat, his heart, his soul.
He didn’t pay any attention to Andrés’s ragged breathing, to the flush of his skin. He barely noticed the way Andrés smelled – a heady combination of sweat and adrenaline, like danger, like life.
And his heart certainly didn’t stop when Andrés reached up to brush his knuckles against Martín’s cheek and down to his mouth. The gesture would be sweet – almost reverent – if it weren’t for the smears of blood he was leaving on Martín’s face, marking him.
Martín’s tongue flicked out to wet his lips, subconsciously. He could taste Andrés’s blood, warm and wet and bittersweet. A part of Andrés that now lingered on Martín’s lips, each of you drink from it, for this is my blood.
It was fucked-up.
He swallowed. Hard.
“Andrés,” he said. His voice rasped. “That’s been inside your heart.”
Andrés smiled up at him. In the dim lights, his teeth looked sharp and dangerous.
“Oh, Martín. I think I’m going to keep you.”
#berlermo#berlin x palermo#la casa de papel#thank you Marie!#you're a darling#marirable#ask#I'm just going to yeet this out#the point is not to agonize over them too much#I want to go from 'first ideas / rough draft' to 'hitting post'#which means that these'll probably be a bit rough around the edges#but that's the point Karen#tw: blood#tw: mild blasphemy#ficlets
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Ungrateful. (nsft)
summary: god form venti/reader. Venti overhears you praying about something trivial and decides to teach you a lesson in gratitude.
word count: 2.4k
warnings: explicit content, NONCON, mild yandere, abuse of power, god/mortal dynamic, ooc venti
note: please read with caution, heavy tws.
The Favonious Cathedral was unlocked at night, though it was almost always empty, just in case anyone needed emergency sanctuary or comfort. You were here for the latter, coming to pray to Barbatos for guidance. Your footsteps clack against the linoleum floor and echo through the large empty hall. You get down on your knees between two pews and clasp your hands in prayer.
At least once a week you found yourself here, praying. You knew Lord Barbatos wasn't personally solving your troubles, he probably had much more important matters to attend to, but just getting it off your chest and into the open air of the cathedral brought you a unique sense of solace that you just kept coming back for.
You thought about the events that brought you here tonight. Your heart ached in your chest as you began praying. You truly thought they were different, that you could trust them. But they broke your heart anyways. You were glad you chose to come at night when the church was devoid of other churchgoers, as tears started falling down your cheeks and into the corners of your mouth. You inhaled shakily and shivered.
New footsteps resounded the room and you froze up, silencing your cries. The footsteps marched towards you and stopped in the aisle behind you. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hands to cover up your shame and turn slowly to face the newcomer.
Your already-throbbing heart skips a beat at what you see. A man, though he appears to be short, towers over your kneeling form. He is draped in long, flowing white robes that complement his figure. His face has gentle, round features with two braids tied around the sides of his head. He bears a striking resemblance to all known depictions of Lord Barbatos. You would have assumed it was an imposter in distasteful cosplay, gotten up and accused him of blasphemy, if it weren't for the beautiful, sprawling white wings behind him. He had to be real.
Everything about him is beautiful. Your mouth gapes slightly as you process the overwhelmingly holy presence before you, frozen in shock. You mindlessly stare at his stunning green eyes, currently void of readable emotion. His entire soft face is blank. You snap out of your trance and realize that he could strike you down at any second for your insolence.
You turn your body fully around to face him and bow your head. "Lord Barbatos." you say.
Your mind aches with questions- why here? Why now? Why you? The church and the people of Mondstadt had total radio silence from the god for centuries. Had you done something wrong, and he was here to punish you? You want to ask, but you didn't dare question him out of turn.
His lips finally move. "Why are you here tonight?" he asks. His voice is solemn yet angelic, nasally but not annoyingly so.
He knows why you are here. You come here once a week with something new to cry about. He wants to hear you say it, though.
Your breath catches in your throat at the direct acknowledgement and you struggle to find words. "For… guidance, my Lord," you manage, folding your hands in your lap.
He says nothing, waiting for you to continue.
"My partner… left me. I just feel so heartbroken. I just wanted to pray for comfort. I'm sorry," you say tentatively; you aren't exactly sure what you're apologizing for, but you still can't tell if he's upset or not, and you aren't about to risk it.
He blinks. Here you were, at his feet, in shambles over a breakup. He had fought tooth and nail for the liberation of his people. He lost everyone he had ever loved so you could be free today. But you get dumped and you’re suffering?
Sure, you were allowed to be sad, breakups happen. But every week you found some new trivial problem to be crumbling over, whining his ear off in the wee hours of the night. Bad hair day before an interview. Lost your wallet. Fight with a friend. He always listened to your prayers, as you were a pious follower (and he didn’t have much else to do), but they were always so insufferably inconsequential. You were privileged through and through, and you deserved to be knocked down a peg.
You didn't know what it was like to suffer. But he would show you.
He doesn't say that, though. Instead, he softens his eyes and gives you a kind smile that complements his gentle features. "It must have been hard," he soothes.
You stare at him in utter disbelief, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. He knelt down on one knee in front of you, your heights now level, and extended a hand out to you.
You hesitate for a moment. You want oh-so-badly to accept his hand, but you aren't worthy. You don't deserve such a loving touch from someone as magnificent as him.
But rejecting him would be sacrilegious, and you would not be able to live with yourself after. Managing all your courage you crawl out from between the pews and into the aisle where he kneels. You crawl into the reach of his arms and he places his soft hand on your face. You would have thought his hands to be calloused, given the amount of times they fought for Mondstadt, but the delicateness matches the rest of him just as well. His disarming smile and loving gaze warms your weary soul and you melt into his hand, closing your eyes.
For a moment you just revel in the warmth. Then, he leans forward and you instinctively lean back, sitting on your legs. He removes his hand from your cheek and gently takes your wrists in his hands instead. His gentle eyes are still fixed on you, so you don't resist, fully trusting him.
He doesn't stop leaning towards you, slowly pushing you. "Let me comfort you," he says. You're about to question him, but he finally pushes you down onto your back. Your head hits the cold tile and you grimace in pain. Barbatos moves quickly before you can sit up, straddling your hips and still holding your wrists. You try to tug them away but his grip tightens at the movement.
"Lord Barbatos- this isn't- we can't-" You struggle to find the politest way to tell him to stop, but he just shushes you dismissively.
He lets go of your wrists once he's comfortably situated atop your hips and puts one of his hands on the center of your chest to keep you down. You immediately use your freed hands to try and push him away but he pays no mind to your feeble attempts. He undoes a clasp on his robes and they slide off of him gracefully, now clad in much lighter, more revealing underclothes.
The impending doom of the situation causes panic to settle in your chest. Adrenaline pumps through you and the force with which you shove at his shoulders and arm increases dramatically, though he is much stronger than he looks. You didn't expect any less from your archon, but it only serves to enhance your dread. Your ribcage feels like it's closing in around your lungs.
Barbatos grows visibly irritated with your weak shoves and catches both of your wrists in one hand. "Stop fighting," he huffs, "I'm doing this for you."
He isn't. You don't know what he's doing this for, but you're gaining absolutely nothing from what he is doing to you but lifelong trauma that will weigh heavy on your mind like shackles. You will never be free from the suffering he is inflicting upon you now.
With his other hand he starts undoing the buttons of your top. He stops when it's unbuttoned to your stomach and your chest is fully exposed. His beautiful wings flutter slightly behind him.
Your once-dried tears come back with renewed life and you cannot bear to look at him any longer. You tilt your head back and fix your eyes on the ceiling of the cathedral and you cry as silently as you can manage.
You hear the rustling of clothes and feel him hike your skirt up to your waist. You close your eyes and shudder. He releases your wrists and adjusts his position so that he's between your legs. He must notice you tuning him out because he taps the side of your face, "Hey. Pay attention." You open your eyes and he's laying on top of you, his face directly over yours. You know what comes next and you give him a pleading stare with your teary eyes. He smiles down at you.
He casts his gaze downward. Tears blur your vision and his warm, soft fingers tug your underwear aside. You blink and hot tears stream down the sides of your face. You brace yourself.
He spares no time piercing through your virginity, bottoming out like he had been waiting ages for this moment. Pain sears through your abdomen and your will to fight reignites. You thrash your legs, trying to kick him off. You didn't care about being pious anymore. You didn't care if you were called a heretic. You just wanted him off.
But he somehow keeps going despite your movement. With one hand he props himself up over you, and he wraps the other delicately around your throat. He doesn't squeeze, but the threat is there. "Just- ugh- just relax," he pants.
The initial pain dulls out but you still feel him splitting your insides and hitting your cervix with each thrust, like he was made perfectly to fill you up in the most mind numbing way possible. You whimper in pain and stare up at him. His face is flushed red, breath uneven, his hand trembles slightly against your neck. His wings obstruct your view of anything past him. Even like this, even though you hate him right now, he's beautiful.
Your body rocks back and forth against the cold floor in time with his thrusts. The way he stretches you out around him is uniquely painful, and yet a warm, pleasant feeling blooms in your abdomen. It feels natural.
You scan his graceful features. He looks so soft. You realize that, while he's had a field day touching you, you had yet to touch him, aside from the desperate shoving. Formalities are long gone by this point, so you reach up slowly and cup the plush flesh of his cheek. He doesn't seem to mind, and in fact he enjoys it. He leans into your hand and closes his eyes. It's a wonder how someone so warm and soft can be capable of such cruelty, you muse. You pull your hand away and he sighs at the loss of contact.
The hand around your throat slides lower to your exposed breast and he squeezes one in his hand. All the resentment he felt towards you mere minutes ago had dissipated. This was no longer about making you suffer, he just wanted you. You felt so good under him, he was certain this was what Celestia had intended for you all along. He was your god, and you were his angel.
His uneven hip movements become more erratic and he leans down and presses his forehead to yours. You push at his shoulders one last time, silently urging him to pull out.
He bucks harshly into your cervix with bruising force and you cry out in pain. You feel him tense up and relax, twitching slightly inside you. He thrusts haphazardly a couple more times, fucking his cum into you, and panic swirls in your clouded mind.
He pulls out and slides off of you. You button your shirt back up as soon as he's off in a frivolous attempt to preserve your dignity. Agony weighs heavy on your mind. You're disgusted with him. You're disgusted with yourself for hating the god you were meant to revere. You're disgusted with your body for enjoying even a second of it.
Barbatos sits on the floor behind you. He lifts your head and slides his legs under so that you're resting your head in his lap. His robes are back on. You roll over so you're face down in his lap and openly sob into it. Your shoulders shake and you gasp for air between wails.
"You did so good," His nimble fingers stroke your tangled hair comfortingly, "It's like you were made for me."
You sob harder into his robes at the words, desperately clinging to the fabric for comfort. You cry into him for several minutes and he just pets your hair gently the whole time.
You're exhausted, emotionally and physically, and when your crying eventually ceases, you can't resist the urge to just shut your eyes. You fall asleep in his lap.
When you wake, it's dawn, and Barbatos is nowhere to be seen. A sister found you when she stepped into the main hall to prepare for morning mass, out cold on the floor of the cathedral in disorderly, rumpled clothing. She assumes you must've taken sanctuary in the night from something outside.
If only she knew.
~
You stopped going to church after that, on your own at least. You still went when invited by friends or family, just so they wouldn’t suspect something was wrong. Time passes and one such day occurs- you walk out the doors of the Favonious Cathedral after watching the choir sing with two friends. You gossip lightheartedly with them and one suggests visiting a tavern on the east side of town to wind down, and that there should be a performer there today.
You push open the door of Angel’s share and have a seat with your friends at the bar. Lo and behold, the performer is a bit farther in, singing in the more crowded area with all the tables. He’s facing away from you, but slowly turning to address the full crowd. His green clothes were a striking clash against the brown background of the rest of the bar. Something about his presence is familiar, and as he turns towards your group it clicks like the hammer of a gun.
His visage bears perfect likeness to the man that day in the church, to Barbatos himself. His attire is different, his demeanor is fully changed, to where you almost think you must be seeing things- but as he spins around to the melody of his tavern tune, he makes brief eye contact with you and you see the slightest glimmer of recognition in his eyes. You know.
Your friends giggle at the sight of your staredown with him, and playfully accuse you of having a crush. You laugh it off nervously and turn to the bartender. You order two shots.
#yandere venti#yandere genshin x reader#yandere genshin impact#yandere venti x reader#tw abuse#tw rape#tw noncon
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A Gift from the Gods
I am... on a brainrot. So now everyone has to suffer with me <3
Also, please note that this contains Trans Fundy and as such, in one section he's referred to as a "she" and by the name "Flora". I just honestly really like the idea and it makes me really happy reading fics like that since it's honestly very relatable sometimes.
(Also also, Wilbur and Schlatt here are best friends and yes they raised Fundy together for a bit but pls do not ship them. Platonic parenting exists. Please do not ship them. For the love of god, do not ship them :) )
TW: Mild Body Horror and Kidnapping
Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28886223/chapters/78095399
“What you got there, loverboy?” He rolled his eyes at his best friend’s antics, the man slamming right into his side in his quest to see past his shoulders. The little bundle in his arms squirmed, a small whine piercing through the air, which caused Schlatt to stumble back in surprise. He glanced behind him to see Schlatt fall right onto the grass, his drunken state not really helping his sense of balance. “Wha— What the fuck? That’s… That’s a fucking baby!”
“Your skills of deduction are out of this world, Schlatt. They really are.” He trudged past him and towards the camp they’d set up. His wet clothes weighed him down, making it difficult to reach the campfire that Schlatt must’ve made in his absence. He reached the camp at the same time that Schlatt did, the drunk man was somehow much faster than him. He cradled the baby in his arms, shushing and rocking them until the baby was cooing again, beady golden-flecked brown eyes staring up at him with joy. While he waited for his clothes to dry, Schlatt sat across from him, downing another bottle of alcohol. He chuckled, rolling his eyes despite his disgust at the stench of whiskey. Even the baby hated it, for the baby had begun whining and pawing at their noise. Schlatt wiped a bit of drool from his chin. “Third bottle and you’re already wasted? Maybe your age is finally catching up to you, old man. I thought we had forever, Schlatt.”
“Shut the fuck up, Wil.” Schlatt’s brown eyes shone underneath the fire’s light, casting them in the hue of a setting sun. The man placed the bottle back inside his bag, jostling the other bottles of alcohol that were inside. “Did you kidnap it? What’s it for? Bait for tomorrow’s trial?”
“What? No!” He held the baby closer to his chest, throwing his best friend a sharp glare. The baby giggled, gurgling while his little hands tried to reach for the feather necklace that Wilbur wore around his neck. He nervously chuckled, adjusting the necklace so that the baby wouldn’t accidentally grab it. He couldn’t afford to lose it. He let the baby play with his finger instead, keeping in mind to make sure that the baby didn’t actually put his finger inside their mouth. “I met someone by the river, she’d just finished her trial but… she was too injured and well she…”
“Fuck…” Schlatt groaned, running a hand through his face. “This place is fucking hell, Wilbur.”
“I know. We just… We just need to get through the trials, Schlatt.” The baby yawned in his arms, snuggling deeper into his yellow sweater. Schlatt chuckled, a small smile on his face, but it was quickly replaced with a scowl once Wilbur met his eyes. He rolled his eyes, at least his best friend wasn’t telling him to get rid of the baby. Sally - the nice lady that he had met by the riverside - had begged him to take her baby, that she couldn’t die without the assurance that her child was being cared for. He hadn’t wanted to take the baby, terrified of the idea of fatherhood. Schlatt and Wilbur weren’t exactly parent material. Schlatt didn’t know his parents and Wilbur’s parents were— He didn’t like thinking about them that much. He subconsciously began to tug on his feather necklace. “We’ll get out of this shithole. Just the three of us. We’ll get out of here.”
“This isn’t a place for kids… How the hell did a baby get here? The gods are such fucking assholes.” Thunder rumbled in the sky despite the lack of clouds, causing both of them to wince. Schlatt muttered an apology underneath his breath, and that was all they could do to hope that the gods didn’t decide to punish them for their blasphemy. Schlatt sat up, moving until he was sitting next to Wilbur. He had a sharp glint in his eye, reaching a shaking hand towards the happily squealing baby. The baby immediately latched onto Schlatt’s hands, refusing to let go even when Schlatt tried to move back. Wilbur threw his best friend a confused look, but Schlatt was reaching for the blanket around the baby, gently pulling it back until the baby’s head was exposed. He watched, blinking in surprise. Little fox ears twitched on top of the baby’s head, flattening the moment a strong blast of wind came from out of nowhere. “... So… it’s a furry.”
“Schlatt!” He laughed along with Schlatt, both of them chuckling until they couldn’t breathe. Wilbur shook his head, a frown appearing on his face. “The baby… The baby’s one of them—”
“Who fucking cares, Wil? They clearly don’t care if they decided to give one of their children to a random human woman!” Schlatt wrinkled his nose, petting the baby behind the ears. The baby yipped, a smile appearing on their face. Wilbur frowned, biting his bottom lip while he continued to hold the baby. Maybe… maybe the baby was like them too. Maybe the baby was unwanted by whichever god had created them. He hesitated before poking the baby’s cheek. They gurgled, grabbing his hand along with Schlatt’s. His best friend chuckled, a shine appearing within Schlatt’s eyes. He knew that look. He’d seen it plenty of times, but never really directed at him. He wondered if that was what he looked like too, if he cared for the baby the same way that Schlatt cared for them. He hoped so. “They’re our responsibility now. We’re going to get out and give this kid a home. Hey, we can’t keep calling them the baby. Have any good names, Wil?”
“Um…” He glanced down at the baby, mulling over what to name them. He didn’t even know what name would actually fit them. Schlatt raised a brow at him, opening his mouth but Wilbur quickly shushed him. Schlatt was terrible when it came to names, like hell was Wilbur going to allow him to name the baby. He hummed, rocking the baby back and forth until their eyes began to droop. The baby let out a yawn, letting go of both their hands in favor of biting down on their own hand. He laughed, caressing their little cheek until the baby finally fell asleep. At least they didn’t cry a lot. The gods might not be pleased with such loud noises. “Maybe… Maybe, um…”
Through the fire, he saw an orange flower growing near the tree line.
Schlatt followed his gaze and groaned.
“Flora, then?”
“Whatever, Wil. Yes, the baby is now named Flora.”
Flora… their baby. Their little miracle from the gods.
---
A pained scream tore through his throat, his head throbbing while blood spilled down his face. He could hear Flora screaming from somewhere nearby, and Wilbur… gods. His hands gripped the top of his head, large bumps rising past his hair and continuing to grow and slip through his fingers. His backside felt like it was on fire, and he could feel his bones rearranging themselves all over his body. He gritted his teeth, enduring the pain of his choice. This was a blessing from the gods, it was what he’d asked for. Another scream tore through him, the bumps growing until he could see them curl near the sides of his head. His ears were the first to go, morphing into a different shape with white fluff growing on the skin. Then he felt something grow behind him, sending him into another fit of screaming and crying while he tried to claw at the ground.
After minutes - or perhaps it had been hours - of agony, the pain subsided, almost like nothing had changed at all. He took a shaky breath, looking down at his hands that were covered in dirt. He couldn’t feel the blood on his face anymore. He looked around, catching the glimpse of a river nearby. He stumbled towards it, mindful of the little footsteps that followed after him. He was surprised the kid hadn’t run off, she should have. She really should have. He tripped near the river bank, mud staining his already tattered suit. He forced himself to move towards the water. He had to see. He had to see what he’d done to himself. What he’d chosen to do to himself.
Bright golden ram eyes stared up at him from the river’s surface. He shuddered. They didn’t look like his eyes. He took in the way his ears had changed, they were longer now and had actual fur on them. On top of his head were two large ram horns. There were a lot of golden bands hanging from them, casting glints of sunlight on the ground around him. He didn’t need to check behind him to know that they’d even given him a ram tail to match the horns. He swallowed down the bile that threatened to rise up his throat. The longer he glared at the water, the more he noticed the subtle changes that were happening to him. His suit had begun repairing itself. Large holes in the cloth - that had been there ever since his first trial - started to patch themselves anew, almost like they were never there to begin with. Even the bloodstains - both old and new - started to fade away. He waited until the transformation was over, letting his newfound powers fix himself up.
He felt a hand settle on his shoulders. Flora stared up at him, fear dancing in her eyes while she clutched Wilbur’s beanie close to her chest. He felt a pang of regret at the sight. He’d have to live with his regret. He knew that. He shakily stood up, not missing the way Flora immediately backed away from him, her ears pressed to the top of her head. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Gods, he needed a fucking drink. He didn’t want to deal with this right now. Flora looked down, rocking back and forth before finding the courage to go near him again. There were tears in her eyes, and he knew that he needed to watch his next words carefully. Schlatt didn’t want to upset her. “D-dad? Is Papa Wil going to be okay? I… I can’t find him anywhere.”
“He left.” There was no hesitation in his voice, he’d accept it as the truth. Still, he cursed himself for not saying that more gently. Flora sniffled, a frown appearing on her face before she promptly burst into tears. He felt panic rush through him before he immediately crouched down to her level, trying his best to console her. She was throwing a fit, stomping her foot against the ground before letting out a shriek. He winced, darting his gaze past her and towards the tree that had spontaneously combusted. That was why he didn’t want to upset her. “It’s okay! Kid, it’s okay! You still have me. Wil… Wil’s just a dickhead who decided he was too good for either of us.”
“B-but… He was there with us! He was right there! He-he wouldn’t leave us! He wouldn’t!”
“I know… but he did.” He sighed, opening his arms before Flora threw herself at him, latching onto his suit before crying into his chest. He held her close to himself, letting her weep for a few minutes before standing up with the kid in his arms. He glanced up at their final trial, the wall of water slowly draining back into nothing. He swallowed down his guilt. He’d done what he had to. With Flora in his arms, he turned to leave. He wouldn’t think of what he’d done. He wouldn’t think of the look on Wilbur’s face the moment he realized what Schlatt was doing. He was only lucky that Flora didn’t understand what was happening, too busy hiding her face in Wilbur’s sweater to realize Schlatt’s betrayal. He shook his head. They had to go. He gave the area one last look before turning to leave. “We’ll be okay, kid. We’re finally getting out of this shithole. We’re free. We’re going to go somewhere else and spend the rest of our lives in fucking peace.”
He stumbled further into the treeline, letting the child weep while he searched for what the gods had promised him. He felt a shift in the air behind him, followed after by a powerful presence. Schlatt turned around, coming face to face with a woman. She gave him a kind smile, scales dotting her cheeks like little freckles while frills replaced where her ears should be. She had fiery red hair, and her clothes were clearly that of a god’s. Behind her was a rippling portal, giving him a small glimpse of the outside world. They were so close to freedom. They were almost free.
“How does it feel?” He ignored the question, holding Flora closer to himself in case the gods decided another sacrifice was in order. She chuckled at his action, shaking her head before walking gracefully towards him. She smelt of the sea. She paused in front of him, placing a gentle hand on top of Flora’s head. The child whined, burying her face further into Schlatt’s suit. “Shame. I do so love my little darling, but I think she loves you more. Be good to her, will you?”
“You don’t have to fucking tell me.” He batted the woman’s hand away, a dark look appearing in those golden eyes before they briefly morphed back into sereneness. She gave him a smile, sharp teeth lining her mouth while her frills flicked back and forth. Schlatt backed away immediately, much to her delight. She clapped her hands together before moving back towards the portal. He followed after, narrowing his eyes but he knew that it was over. He’d given up everything that he was, everything that he used to be, all for the sake of freedom. Flora whimpered in his arms, gazing up at him with such a heartbroken stare that he had to wonder if he had made the right choice. The woman gestured for him to step into the portal, but he couldn’t leave without forcing himself to look back at where he had lost himself and his best and only friend. The water was gone now, like it had never even been there at all. “I’ll be a better parent than you ever could be.”
“Careful, Mr. Schlatt.” Sally hissed, “Even gods have enemies.”
He took a deep breath. He needed to leave before he pushed his luck.
With Flora in his arms, he took his first step into freedom.
Wilbur would understand. He’d have done the same if he were in Schlatt’s shoes.
Yes. Wilbur would have understood. Wilbur would have forgiven him. He had to.
---
“Someone looks very dapper today.” He jumped, nearly smacking into the mirror in his haste to turn around. He glared at his dad, crossing his arms in front of his chest while the man chuckled by the doorway. His dad was supposed to be outside, talking with a customer. Fundy didn’t even hear him come in! He glanced down at his suit, frowning when he realized that his tie hadn’t been put on properly. He had wanted to surprise his dad by wearing the suit, wanted to show him that he was capable of being fancy like him. His dad smiled, gesturing for him to come closer. Fundy huffed, but walked over to his dad. “You’ll get used to it. It just takes a bit of practice.”
“But I want to do it perfectly now!”
He stomped his foot on the ground, forgetting that he wasn’t really supposed to do that. His dad flinched, but, luckily, it was only the unlit candle that began to burn. His dad sighed, glancing down at him with a warning look. He whimpered, curling his tail around his waist. “Sorry, dad.”
“No problem, kid. You’ve been practicing, haven’t you?.” His dad patted him on the head, kneeling down to fix his tie. Fundy’s tail began to wag. His dad had noticed! He looked down, face scrunching up in concentration while he tried to memorize what his dad was doing. He got lost after a while. He pouted, but tried not to stomp his foot on the ground again. His dad didn’t like it when their wagon ended up in flames. After a few minutes, his dad stood up, placing his hands on Fundy’s shoulder. He had a proud look on his eyes, one that made Fundy smile with joy. “Would you look at that… Such a dapper young man. Very handsome like your old man.”
“No. I’m much more handsome.” He stuck out his tongue, darting away from his dad’s hold. He ran back to the mirror, glaring angrily once he realized that his dad’s way of fixing the tie was… perfect. His dad chuckled, sitting down on the table, reaching for a bottle of whiskey that had been left in the center. He wrinkled his nose, turning to open the wagon window so that the smell didn’t stick around the wagon. He didn’t like the smell all too much. It made him nauseous. His dad drank straight from the bottle, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his suit jacket. He sat down on the chair by the window, resting his head against the sill while he stared sadly at the village scene in front of them. “Dad, how long until we leave? I want to see other sights again.”
“We’re setting off to a new place tonight.” He could hear his dad shuffling behind him, settling into a kneel next to him. Fundy knew that his dad wasn’t really looking out the window, but instead was focusing his gaze on him. He kept his eyes on a group of children playing nearby, all of them giggling while they passed a ball amongst themselves. He felt a pang in his chest, but he didn’t know what it meant. His dad sighed, reaching out to pull the window close. He pouted, but didn’t bother to complain. He didn’t like other people anyway, all they were good for was the stuff that Fundy could get from them. The other people didn’t like him either. They were mean and they ran away from him even though all he ever did was say hi. He usually retaliated by burning all their belongings or by stealing coins from them. “This place we’re going to… It’s a good place. No one will ever run away from you there. You’ll have friends, a normal life…”
“I don’t see why I can’t have that here, or anywhere else we’ve been to before.” He sniffled, feeling tears collect in his eyes, but he quickly wiped them away with his hands. His dad sighed, producing a handkerchief from one of his pockets before dabbing them over Fundy’s face. Fundy felt his tail curl around his waist again, his ears pressed to the top of his head. Maybe the pang in his chest was jealousy, he’s heard other people mention it before in passing. He looked up at his dad, biting the inside of his cheek. His dad would know what the word means. He would know why Fundy’s chest hurt the way it did. He thinks he’s felt it before… once. “Dad… What… What's jealousy? Is it what I feel every time I see other children? Is that what jealousy is?”
“Kid… Jealousy is, uh um… It’s what you feel when you want something you can’t have or it’s what you feel when you wish to be… someone else.” His dad winced, ears flicking up while his tail twitched. Fundy frowned at the answer. He didn’t think that was what he felt at all! Why would he want to be any of the other children outside? Maybe he wanted their ball? Yeah, that had to be it. He nodded his head, his eyes set in understanding, but his dad was looking at him with a sad look in his eyes. He didn’t know why his dad was upset. Fundy had figured out what he wanted. Now he just needed to get it. He turned to open the window, but his dad reached out to hold his hands in his own. He looked down, taking note of how big his hands were compared to his. “Fundy, no. I know you take up after your old man but no stealing today, kiddo. How about this? Why don’t we buy you a new toy before we leave, hm? Would you like that, kiddo?”
“I guess…” He leaned back on the chair, letting his dad ruffle his hair. His dad headed back towards the table, downing the last bit of whiskey before placing the bottle beside the overflowing trash can at the corner of the wagon. He looked down at the chair, his claws digging to the edge while he waited for his dad to sober up. He liked that his dad was always quick to sober up. He remembers how other people act when they drink, stumbling and saying mean words that usually led to their hands combusting. Fundy didn’t like those people. They were rude. His dad made his way back to him, making him forget about all those horrible, horrible people. He stood up from the chair, giving his dad a smile. “Can we buy something cool?”
“Of course, kiddo.” He watched while his dad turned to the mirror, adjusting his suit jacket and tie. His dad stared for a moment before nodding, like he was assuring himself that he looked good enough. He looked up at his dad’s horns, always in awe of how the golden bands that hung from them never fell off. His dad’s golden eyes caught his stare in the mirror, a little smirk appearing on his dad’s face. Fundy waited, pouting once he realized what his dad was going to do. His dad kneeled down in front of him, a hand reaching behind his ear. He whined when his dad pulled out a golden coin - or, well, a Schlattcoin, twirling it in between his fingers. The coin appeared and disappeared, like one of those street tricks that fake magicians would do so people would give them more money. He liked his dad’s tricks - cause they were real and not fake! - but he didn’t want to see one right now. “Hey… you used to like this trick. What’s wrong, kiddo?”
“Dad…”
He watched while his dad multiplied the amount of coins in his hand.
“Dad… what are we?”
His dad sighed.
“We’re people, kiddo. We’re people.”
---
He stumbled deeper into the forest, his legs carrying him while his head was filled with that beautiful melody. It sang to him and him alone, whispering honeyed words into his ear and lulling him into open arms that would hold him close and never let go. He stumbled against tree roots, low hanging branches smacking into his face. He paid them no mind. He needed to go.
He walked and walked until he found himself inside a clearing. There was a hill in front of him, a wooden door standing out against the stone. He stumbled, falling to his knees while the song continued to circle around his mind. He could feel himself try to follow after the tune, but all that came out were whimpers. He could do nothing but stare while the door slowly creaked open, a tall lanky figure appearing in the threshold. He blinked, sleep whispering in the back of his mind. He couldn’t move, but it was alright, the figure was moving towards him. The song was getting closer now, wrapping him in a warm and fuzzy embrace, or maybe that was just the figure pulling him up into their arms. A part of him wanted to whine, to unsheathe his claws and draw blood. A part of him wanted to scream and burn the figure to a crisp. But how could he bring harm to such a lovely symphony? The figure cradled him in their arms, singing him to peace.
He curled closer to the figure, purring when a hand began to pet his ears. He hugged his tail close to himself, content to fall asleep in the strange figure’s arms. He could feel the wind against his cheek, the moonlight disappearing the moment the figure headed back into the darkness of their home. He shivered, eyes taking in the shadows. The song didn’t sound so sweet anymore.
He jumped when light suddenly flooded into the small cramped room. The man had lit a match with his free hand, lighting up the lone lantern that had been placed inside a small alcove that had been carved into the wall. He shuddered, the spell breaking and his eyes opening to the horrors of the night. The man - he knew this man - smiled down at him sweetly, but he had a crazed look in his eye that made him whimper. The man wore a coat over his shoulders, the smell of something bitter and heavy hanging in the air. He found himself not liking this new smell, preferring his dad’s whiskey over this scent. What caught his attention the most were the wings that protruded from the man’s back. They were brown at the top but turned red at the bottom.
The wings reminded him of a nightingale’s. He’s seen a few of them before, when his dad had taken their wagon through a thicketed woodland. He found them to be adorable. He gazed much longer at the man’s wings, keeping his hands to himself even though he wanted to feel if the feathers were soft. The man chuckled, breaking him out of his thoughts. He turned his gaze to the man’s eyes, nearly shrieking when he looked into them. They were dark like the night sky, but empty like the void. The man tried to shush him, rocking him back and forth his arms, but he wouldn’t have it. He tried to wiggle his way out of the man’s arms, wanting to go back to his dad and to his warm bed. The man shushed him, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead before he began to sing again. He screamed, but it was too late. The song had begun again and it was pulling him back into a sense of calm. He sniffled, letting the man guide him back to lean against his chest.
He tried to keep himself from slipping, but he knew sleep was coming for him.
Before he was pulled under, he managed to get out one question.
“What… What are you?”
The man smiled.
“We’re gods, son. We’re gods.”
In another world, a god sits on top of her throne, smiling to herself.
She knew a child was exactly what those two needed.
She saw potential in them, and why waste such potential?
She smiled.
Two gods were made that day. One freed from his shackles, and the other born with hate.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Clarification: This is essentially just a god AU except new gods are either born from the olden gods or people are turned into gods. Schlatt and Wilbur were chosen by the gods and had to go through a series of trials (aka: Rising Lava, Rising Water, and Raining TNT challenges). I'm pretty sure the Raining TNT challenge was the last one in the series, but I wanted to do the rising water one because it was so dramatic as hell (and because Wilbur dies in the end of that one lmao).
Anyway, yeah. Sally made Fundy because she wanted to give Wilbur and Schlatt an actual motivation to become gods (Schlatt choosing to be a god so he can leave with Fundy to get a better life, and Wilbur choosing to be a god so he can get his child back and screw over Schlatt for betraying him).
Also, in case people are interested (yes, I know the animal symbolisms do not work but shush):
Sally - Goddess of Water and Deceit (Fish Symbolism)
Schlatt - God of Wealth and Greed (Ram Symbolism)
Wilbur - God of Music and Vengeance (Nightingale Symbolism)
Fundy - God of Fire and Trickery (Fox Symbolism)
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Touch Me (I Want to be Dirty)
Chapter 4 is here!
Chapter Four: Stan (The Present: Part One)
Chapter Specific TWs: nudity, explicit body description, shared bathing, sexual references, touch aversion, intrusive thoughts, mild misuse of medication, insecurity, referenced homophobic slur, blasphemy, swearing
AO3 Link
See below the cut for more information on this story.
Title: Touch Me (I want to be Dirty)
Pairing: Poly Losers, Steddie-Centric (everyone will get lots of attention)
Summary: Eddie Kaspbrak thought he moved on from his mother’s abuse, but when she died his trauma unexpectedly resurfaced. His fear of germs, sickness, and contamination came back with a vengeance. Unable to process his emotions and unwilling to go to therapy, Eddie struggles to let his lovers touch him, especially Richie. Stan vows to help Eddie overcome his trauma and reclaim his intimacy with the Losers.
Rating: Explicit
Tags (so far): Hurt/Comfort, Eddie Kaspbrak Has OCD, Eddie Kaspbrak Has Issues, Stanley Uris Has OCD, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Canonical Child Abuse, Sonia Kaspbrak’s A+ Parenting, Abusive Sonia Kaspbrak, Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy, Working Through Problems, BDSM, Adult Losers Club (IT)Aged-Up Losers Club (IT)References to Illness, Non Graphic Vomiting, Vomiting, Brainwashing, Stomach Ache, Sickness, Donald Uris is a dick, Andrea Uris is great, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Nudity, Explicit Language, Blasphemy, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Self-Medication, Bathing/Washing, InsecurityTouch Aversion, Intrusive Thoughts, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Mental Health Issues
Link on AO3
#touch me (i want to be dirty)#poly losers club#steddie#losers club fic#it fanfiction#readinglikechickensoup
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Loss of Faith
Remember when I was like ‘777 fic, woooo’ and then nothing happened? This is that fic. 777 is God’s number or something, so I went super the other direction.
Disclaimers:
1. Peter and Tony are pretty OOC. This is mostly aesthetic/setting driven.
2. I am not religious in the slightest. lol
***********************************************
TW: blasphemy, religion, demons/demonic stuff, homophobia, mild internalized homophobia, implied/referenced child abuse (Howard’s A+ parenting), blood mention, lots of references to eating/devouring (all metaphorical, but just in case), suicide mention/suicidal thoughts
And away we go…
***********************************************
{2020}
Tony leaves his flock for an abandoned church by the sea.
It’s where he–where they will wait, for the month, the day, the hour.
It’s too far north along the coast for real, persisting sunlight, but it doesn’t matter. The first few days, Tony spends most of his time on one of the padded benches in the entryway, watching the rain trickle down the outside of the stained glass windows that flank the front door. When the rain is calmer (not beating against the boards and glass), he sits out on the top step under the awning and stares down the path between the borders of swaying dune grass under the ever-grey sky, and does as he’d been told.
***
Days turn into a week. Peter still hasn’t come, and Tony can’t keep sitting around.
He uses his anxious energy to sweep the crust of salt and sand from the wooden floorboards in the entry hall (some of it is ground into the un-stained wood, never to be extracted) and to board up the few cracked and broken plain-glass windows with spare lumber he finds in a back supply room.
When his hands and back and knees need a break from the work, he wanders to one of the foremost pews to sit and look up at the colored expanse making up most of the wall behind the pulpit. An abandoned building is usually irresistible fodder for less than reputable explorers; he wonders what sort of power has kept the most beautiful panes from taking the brunt of any local teens and drunks.
Dark eyes flash through his mind.
He imagines Peter walking ahead of him to step up past the altar and run fingertips down a section of the driftwood cross.
Tony wants to scream, or maybe fall to his knees and pray.
He does neither.
***
{1990}
The town’s small, almost the entirety clustered together in the pews every Sunday. Everyone knows everyone, and new faces cause talk (no one wants to call it gossip; too close to something sinful), but everyone notices.
Tony notices. He feels the new boy’s eyes on him every service. If he turns around in his seat, he knows he’ll see honey-brown shining from the back pew. He’s about Tony’s age, maybe a little younger.
It only takes a week.
Peter stands before Tony on the steps to the church and asks if he’d like to go to the little taco truck down the road and maybe walk to the park? The pink stain on Peter’s cheeks says too much and not enough.
‘No’ sticks in Tony’s throat, comes out as a shy ‘Yeah, sure’. He tries not to think of the heat in his own face, or the hummingbird rhythm fluttering behind his ribs
***
{2020}
‘Gone’ doesn’t mean anything. Thirty years of distance don’t mean anything. And those things mean even less when Tony steps into the attic bedroom and finds his past right there in front of him, dressed all in black and sprawled on the ratty armchair Tony still hasn’t managed to haul away.
Peter manages to look both impeccable and very at home in the time-weathered, dusty space; an angel in a decaying throne room.
“Hello, Father,” Peter says, the corners of his mouth ticking up.
Tony crosses slowly to the bed and lowers himself to sit at the edge, uncaring of the way the springs croak under his weight.
There are things he should ask, questions that matter:
What’s left for me after this life, now? Where do I go when you’re done with me?
But Peter is here, gorgeous, untouched by age and everything else that’s ravaged Tony’s body, and Tony is weak.
“Did you ever really love me?” he asks.
The rain patters loudly against the bedroom (attic) windows, beats against the roof. Peter smiles a little. His eyes are the color of burnt honey in the lamp light.
“I always have.”
Tony swallows, nods, mostly to himself.
When Peter rises fluidly from the armchair and steps forward, Tony’s chest tightens–but his hands still come up automatically to rest on Peter’s hips as the younger (looking) straddles his lap.
Peter’s next words are a warm, satisfied murmur, washing across Tony’s lips.
“Even more so, now. You’ve given up everything for me.”
The truth of it burns, but the weight of Peter on his thighs, the press of their bodies and the twin hardness made obvious, turns the heat into something that doesn’t hurt so much.
**
{1990}
“Fuck what they think.”
“Peter!” Tony says on a surprised laugh. He tries (and fails) to hold back his grin at Peter’s unrepentant look.
It’s beautiful outside, the sun spilling through the leafy canopy above them, dappling the grass in their clearing with spots of gold. Howard still hasn’t found this place, far enough in the woods behind the church that Pastor Stark wouldn’t deign to venture, and Tony’s hoping to keep it that way.
“We’re not doing anything wrong,” Peter insists. “Going to hell for wanting to hold hands? To kiss each other, to touch? Love isn’t a sin.”
Tony stiffens, his retort sticking in his throat.
He pushes himself up onto his elbows, twists to stare down at Peter.
“Love?”
Peter looks fondly amused where he’s still stretched out on the green.
“Yes, love. I love you, Tony.”
He’s laying so that the speckled light doesn’t touch his face. His eyes look darker in the dappling shadows, almost black. But his smile is as warm as ever, as kind.
Tony rolls over, ignoring the faint twist of ‘wrong’ (like he always does), and sprawls along the length of the other teen’s body. He slots their legs together and brushes a breathless, smiling kiss across his boyfriend’s lips.
“I love you, too.”
***
{2020}
It’s supposed to be harder.
He’s supposed to be angrier, guiltier. The flames of the pit themselves should be licking under his skin and reminding him of all he’s given up for something he’s spent more than half his life ‘fighting’.
But he gives in shamefully quickly, even as Peter’s eyes turn black as pitch, fathomless and ancient (for all that they seem to repel the light, they are not empty).
Tony thinks traitorous thoughts–
Maybe this is what the fire feels like…maybe this is sin–the delicious dark heat that pours over him, this tingling warmth that spreads through his body, that envelops and invades everything (especially those parts of him so glad to be enveloped and invaded); how could it be so wrong when it feels anything but?
–and he shudders as they are whispered back, Peter’s voice low and sweet in his ear, praising him for opening up, accepting what he’s being given.
And he is. He’s tilting his head, pressing back into the pillow, closing his eyes and exposing his throat as he opens first for Peter’s confident and surprisingly careful fingers, and then for something larger, harder, more.
Taking everything Peter gives.
Over and over and over again.
***
{1990}
During the services Howard has him assisting, Tony barely casts a glance in Peter’s direction. It’s hard, impossible–but fear is a strong motivator, and he fears losing Peter too much to draw attention to him. He knows his father must be aware, at least in part–but Stark men are particularly good at pretending their problems away, and in this case, Tony’s perfectly happy to let Howard pretend ignorance.
After every service, hours later, he always apologizes to Peter with words and hands and the press of lips.
Now, as with every time, the apology is accepted in kind.
“I love you,” Peter says into the hairsbreadth of space between their lips. “I’ll wait for you. One day you won’t have to apologize anymore.”
Tony swallows, nods. It’s a reminder that always leaves him sick with hope–sometimes more sick than hopeful. But he wants it, wants to stop apologizing, wants to just…keep this. What they have. Even if it means changing everything.
Peter smiles at him, heat in the curve of his lips, eyes black in the darkness of the clearing. “I believe in you, Tony. I’ll follow where you go. Always.”
***
{2020}
The aches are fading.
Tony spends hours dusting, cleaning, repairing; his hands don’t cramp, his knees and back don’t protest. When he asks about it, he gets a shrug.
“I take care of my things” is all Peter says. The flippancy (and the words themselves) are insulting, but Tony doesn’t feel as stung as he should.
His reflection looks no younger (he wonders when that will change), but he feels it.
His morning walk becomes a run; a few miles a day. He breathes the salty-clean tang of the ocean air, his feet sinking into sand still wet from the tide.
There’s a cluster of boulders a little ways down the beach, tide pools between them. When he discovers them, he comes back so he and Peter can walk down to look at all the small things living in them. Small creatures in their own hidden corner of the world.
***
{1990}
“Shh, someone might hear you…”
Peter says it every time they do this, teases like this. It’s (it has to be) a lie. This is their place, this clearing, so far from everyone that Tony can only hear the quiet sounds of the forest around them.
Tony barely manages to repress the whine building in his throat, caught behind his teeth. He can do it, be quiet; he can do what Peter says. He wants to.
But he can listen and still glare half-heartedly, beg with his eyes–
(because his hands are clasped over his head, and Tony is good; he’s good, and he’s going to keep them there, no matter how touchable Peter looks in the moonlight, pale and slender and otherworldly–)
–and when his glare only earns him a wicked, promising smile, the things in Tony’s heart–in his mind–that are supposed to shy away, reach for it.
It’s wrong, it’s wrong that the hot squeeze of Peter’s body around the hardest part of Tony’s should be damning, when it feels so perfect, so natural, so…divine.
He flushes at the thought.
The moonlight leeches color from the clearing, turns everything around them inky black and silver, but when Peter’s smile turns somehow sharper and softer all at once, Tony is sure the other boy can tell.
***
{2020}
It’s been months, and there’s still grey in Tony’s hair. Tony knows it’s because Peter likes how it looks, the same way Peter likes the calluses and scars, the crow’s feet.
“The marks of time look delicious on you,” Peter tells him (murmurs in his ear at the produce section at the little grocery store in town). Tony hasn’t blushed so hard in public (at all) since the last time he knew Peter.
Public is almost unfamiliar, now; Tony’s days are so swallowed (sometimes literally…frequently literally) by Peter, that it’s difficult to remember that there are things outside of their tiny corner of the world.
But they’ve been here long enough that when they do venture out, eyes follow them with that curiously affectionate judgement singular to small towns; everyone might make assumptions, might wonder, but you’re still one of them.
Tony thinks maybe the people of this tiny town find some measure of peace in seeing their place of worship–even unused as such–clearly cared for. He knows he does. It’s the closest he ever gets, anymore, to missing the clergy. But no one ever approaches them, or the church itself–no visitors or solicitors find their way down the long dirt road.
No one pries into his and Peter’s life; it’s less about manners and more about the thrill of guesswork and gossip. The people here are kind and close-knit and bored, and Tony finds his and Peter’s relationship with them weirdly symbiotic:
The people spread warm, juicy gossip among themselves–
(Peter’s favorite rumor is about the “eccentric, enigmatic ‘billionaire’ and his ‘kept boy’”; he likes to exacerbate that one frequently; plasters himself along Tony’s back or front in brief moments, whispers in his ear, teases and pouts and asks for treats. He does it all quietly enough to feel intimate, and just obviously enough to draw attention.
Coming from someone–something–like Peter, it’s…well, it’s the kind of show that means Tony catches a lot of quickly diverted gazes, flushed cheeks and parted lips.)
–and he and Peter are essentially left alone to be the spectacle of Them, in a way they hadn’t been able to before.
Tony likes knowing he can kiss his lover in front of the seasonal fruit display and no one in this place would make him feel hunted…
…only watched.
And he’s okay with being watched, okay with being a part of the show. It reminds him of giving a particularly successful sermon; that swell of warmth, of energy.
He calls it ‘connection’.
Peter disagrees.
“It’s power, Father,” he says, playfully mocking, when they’ve returned home.
Tony just fucks up into him harder than before, watches the shark-like smirk break in a moan.
He knows Peter’s right; there’s power in the attention, in being the orchestrator of rituals. But Tony’s right, too.
He rarely feels more connected to Peter than when he pulls out and Peter lowers to his knees to receive communion.
***
{1990}
Black. Lightless depth where there had just been honey-gold warmth.
“Peter…what…” Tony manages. He reaches out, fingers trembling as he carefully touches the fine skin beneath Peter’s eye. It feels the same, soft and warm and real over the curve of his lover’s cheekbone, a familiar path traveled.
He’d known. He’d known and he’d looked the other way–no, he’d looked straight at it, into it, wanted it–but seeing is…honest. Terrifying.
“No,” Tony breathes, “please, no–”
“Yes,” Peter says, and it’s almost–it’s regretful, but amused and sympathetic in a way that makes Tony feel small and sick.
He would give anything, in this moment, to go back–to keep arguing with his boyfriend about something as…as comparatively mundane as coming out to Howard, as simple as leaving the congregation. He’d take hours of frustration, he’d take tears. He’d take Peter turning and leaving him there alone between the pews.
He’d take anything to go back before flat darkness had overtaken the honey of his boyfriend’s eyes, when Tony could still pretend he didn’t know. That he wasn’t in love with–didn’t desire–
It was…is this his punishment? Is this what he’s always been bound for? For being–for loving who he does, the way he does–?
“Not that,” Peter says, suddenly. His fingers wrap Tony’s wrist, squeeze. “Never that.”
The words are firm and incongruously reassuring, and Tony wants so badly to believe them.
How is he supposed to? How is he supposed to remember anything Peter has ever said–any comfort, any praise, anything at all–without wondering how much was used to twist him, turn him?
He yanks his hand out of Peter’s grasp, cradles it to his chest. He can’t–there isn’t a way to handle this, there isn’t a way to–he can’t–
“Get out,” he spits. It comes out weak, shaking…but he still sees it land, sees Peter flinch. “This is…” Tony starts, swallows, stands a little straighter, “this is a house of God, and you’re not welcome.”
Even as he’s saying it, he knows it sounds painfully
The flicker of hurt is gone so fast from Peter’s expression Tony can pretend it wasn’t there.
“Faith really only extends so far,” Peter says, smirking.
There’s ridicule there, such a sharp departure from minutes before, from the moment right before Peter had revealed…this–himself.
Tony tries to breathe. “I said–”
“Don’t you love me?”
Oh, it burns. More than fury, more than flame.
More than anything, Tony thinks.
“No,” he lies.
Peter stares at him for another long moment, gaze unreadable…until the corner of his mouth quirks up.
“Liar.”
And he vanishes. Gone. Gone, along with whatever he’d managed to carve from everything that Tony is.
Tony sinks to his knees on the rug, buries his hands in his hair. Drops them to the floor to touch the space where Peter had just been standing.
He tries to pray, tries to think, tries to do something, anything–but all he can see is Peter’s face.
***
{2020}
Sixth month, sixth day, sixth hour.
Tony calls Peter a cliche, and Peter gives him that flat look he gets sometimes when he’s not sure what to do with Tony’s teasing. It appears more often, now, that look; it didn’t when they were younger, in the first incarnation of Them. Peter would simply fire something back; playfully cutting, but never mean.
Now, Tony pokes the beast fully aware of what–of who–he’s teasing. He watches that wonder flit across Peter’s features, and feels a warm, appreciative sort of sympathy for something so old and powerful that can feel such doubt, that can be surprised by something so comparatively small.
Is it really so strange for Tony to have accepted him? To have accepted this as his ending?
Everything is painted in silver and shadow, the tide inky black where it laps at the shore. Tony watches it, the gentle drag back and forth over the wet, packed sand, and the glittery flecks of moonlight capping the small, rippling waves.
“I gave up everything,” he says.
The dune grass behind them moves with the low breeze, blades rattling in whispers. Peter doesn’t say anything.
Tony doesn’t need him to.
“I traded everything I had, everything I knew and fought for and thought I’d loved, and I traded it all for you. Even before you came back for me.” Tony smiles, small. “I never closed my doors to you. I couldn’t. I…didn’t know how.”
“Tony…”
There’s something unfamiliar, tight, in Peter’s voice. Concerned. It brings a wavering, liquid edge to Tony’s vision to match the tightening of his chest.
“I’m sorry,” Tony continues, softly; he knows Peter will hear him over the susurrus of the waves, the grass. “I’ve already said it before, but I am. I’m sorry I lied and tried to cast you out. That I tried many more times, in many more ways.”
Turning, he finally looks to the being to whom he belongs.
“I gave up everything, and you gave me so much more. You gave me life.” His smile trembles, now, and he can’t stop it, tears rolling down his cheeks freely (because he can feel, he can be whatever it is that he is, can leave knowing he was). “It only seems fair to return it to you.”
He holds out his hand, because it’s what he has to do, and he’s going to do it the way he wants to. He’s going to step into the waves with Peter’s hand in his and he’s going to fade with Peter’s arms around him, he’s going to trade his ‘known’ for the mystery of what comes next, and he’s going to do it with the certainty and peace he’s been given–
“No.”
Tony falters, hand extended between them. He swallows the sting. “You don’t have to test me, I–”
“I’m not testing you,” Peter says, that unfamiliar tension in his voice, that worry. “I’m telling you ‘no’.”
The waves crash, the grass whips a little louder. Peter’s eyes are pitch dark, his jaw set, and he’s no taller, no different on the outside, but Tony can feel him–can feel the size of him, the enormity of something borne of a place not bound by the laws of nature, the prickling electric wrong that tunnels under Tony’s skin and lights him from the inside, draws him close and pulls him apart without ever rending flesh from bone.
“You,” Peter says–growls, “are mine.”
Everything stops. The grass ceases its motion. The waves fall flat.
Tony’s heartbeat pounds in his ears, and each breath rushes hollow, trembling with the remnants of his tears.
Peter is…afraid.
A laugh pushes out from Tony’s chest, a wet, rasping thing.
“I know,” he says.
He crosses the sand, slipping into the gentleness he’d learned in front of a congregation, but so much more genuine as he comes to a stop before his world, his heart. “I am. We’re here because I am. I’m…going, because I am. I’m repaying you for an incomparable gift.”
He brings up a hand, brushes the backs of his fingers along Peter’s jaw.
“I made a deal, didn’t I?”
Peter reaches up and gently twines their fingers together, presses a long kiss to Tony’s knuckles, closes his eyes. Tony watches him take a breath, deep and fortifying.
The ocean laps softly beside them, the grass begins murmuring.
After a moment, Peter opens his eyes, dark and sure.
“There are other ways.”
***
{2019}
The last of his flock leaves, and the door closes heavy and soft.
He hasn’t told them, yet. Can’t. Isn’t sure he can muster the words of comfort, the reassurances of a plan he’s doubted for far too long. There’s guilt, fear; sadness. Anger. He can’t parse through it all, isn’t sure he ever will, and he’s not sure he should.
He doesn’t bother cleaning or preparing for the next day. There is something else he needs to do.
*
Howard never did find the clearing. When his father did find them, he and Peter, it had been on the steps of Tony’s family home.
A disgrace, an abomination; a shadow at a doorstep already shadowed by simpler, human frailty (a pastor with a temper has a quiet home flock). He had bent to the force of his father, told Peter to go home. And Peter had left, hurt in his expression, something like betrayal.
Tony remembers how hard it had been to forget that look, even in the months following the night between the pews, when he was still afraid, still lost and subsisting on the kind of faith that springs in the well of adamant denial of truths too large to handle. He remembers his own resentment–
You said you would follow me, always, and you disappeared. You wouldn’t follow me into the nothingness of us, into the emptiness of this–you left me to my own wounds–
It seems…petty, now. Everything does.
Howard’s reign of pious terror, a fleck–less than–of what Tony has seen, what Tony has touched. His father died a respected man of the cloth, and his mother and her undisturbed silence on the matters of home went with him. Violence begets violence, and Tony still sometimes wonders how violent a place his parents rest, being who they were and going as they did in the brutal, senseless twist of metal and glass.
He stands in the clearing, a place still untouched, though the world continues to creep in towards its edges, and he wonders what waits for him. What will eat him away when the guilt and resentment have lost their remaining teeth, when the the unstoppable, hungry, thoughtless thing spreading through his brain swallows him whole and steals his breath.
The moonlight paints the world in dark, ethereal shades, and he hopes that maybe Peter will be the thing devouring.
Tears well, and he tilts his head back, shuts his eyes and imagines he can feel the silver on his skin.
“If I’m going, let me go with you,” Tony whispers, drops slipping free and rolling down his cheeks, breath quickening, heart rising to his throat.
“Whatever you want,” he promises to the empty air, to the moonlight, to the stars, to the shadows between the trees, words trembling, “you can have it, if you take me, too.”
He opens his eyes, stares up at the wobbling streaks of the cosmos, bits of light quivering in the tears that won’t stop coming, and all he can think of is pitch blackness, emptiness that should feel cold but only reminds him of fire and life and want and love–
“Shh…” a voice whispers back. “Someone might hear you.”
***
***
***
{2020–}
There are other ways.
The way they’d chosen was a blade, and a chalice, and Peter’s blood. It was a candlelight vigil to all the things they’d given up for each other, and it was their joining in the ring of flickering flames, spread before the audience of the altar and the tall driftwood cross.
(Tony had lain beside him after, buzzing and flying and unable to stop touching, stop feeling, and still managed to poke fun at the the five-pointed star beneath their bodies…and Peter had let slip a soft laugh, had grinned and rolled over and pushed Tony’s legs apart, reminded him again of the power of certain kinds of worship)
It was another deal, an eternal kind of promise. Maybe one too large for Tony to understand, but one he’d made nonetheless, with as little fear as he’d felt for walking into the sea.
Fear does not chew at his thoughts. Disease does not consume him.
Every night, but especially on moonlit nights, when everything is silver and shadows, he and Peter share twin, pitch-dark gazes…
…and they devour each other.
{Always}
***
The world does not encroach on the tiny town by the sea. It does not stretch fingers along the winding dirt path to the steps of the once-abandoned church.
The people in the town worship with whispers, watch with flushed cheeks and parted lips.
Because their gods sometimes see fit to walk among them, and their gods are beautiful.
fin
***************************************************
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#starker#tony stark x peter parker#tw: blasphemy#tw: blood#demon!Peter#priest!Tony#tw: religion#tw: homophobia#tw: internalized homophobia#ironspider#peter parker x tony stark#bamf peter parker#bamf!peter#nff#starkerflowers fic#Tw: suicide mention
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Guardian Angel, part 4
Part One / Part Two / Part Three
(I’m gonna make a masterpost for this one later today cause I’ve got.... Some Plans for this one)
@whumpitywhumpwhump
TW for: religion/Christianity, including probably some mild blasphemy; mild body horror (reanimated corpse); referenced seriously ill parent.
----
The priest seems like a nice enough guy, based on the not-even-two-minutes of interaction Karim has had with him. He’s also looking at Karim with deep concern and not moving from his seat in the front pew, so at this moment he’s Karim’s least favorite person on earth.
“I can’t tell you why I need it,” Karim says through gritted teeth. “I just need it. It’s an emergency.”
The priest’s frown deepens, and Karim fights back a frustrated groan. “What emergency are you having that you think holy water will help with?” the priest says, in the kind of calm voice you use for children you think are idiots.
“None of your business,” Karim snaps, because he’s way, way too stressed to come up with a convincing lie, and not crazy enough yet to think this guy with his carefully-ironed cassock and his uber-sensible wire-rimmed spectacles will believe the truth.
The priest sighs and removes the glasses, slowly, like a teacher who thinks you’re making them tired on purpose.
“Young man,” the priest says. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t bless water and just give it to you. The Church sanctions the use of holy water for a limited number of purposes. Now.” He looks at Karim with an over-exaggerated kindly-old-man expression. “I’d be happy to accompany you and help you with whatever emergency you’re facing.”
Karim scowls, and points behind him toward the back of the sanctuary. “You can’t pretend it’s a, a controlled substance or something, you’ve got a big bowl of it just sitting back there.”
The priest looks over Karim’s shoulder. At the end of the sanctuary’s center aisle there’s a big glass bowl nestled in the top of a carved wooden stand. He looks back at Karim, looking patiently disapproving in a way Karim hates down to his bones.
“The font is intended to remind parishioners of their baptism when not in use,” he says, a bit more severe, and then his face softens and he turns to face Karim fully, folding his hands in his lap. “Young man, I’m happy to help, if something is frightening you. I understand there are many things you might wish for holy protection from. Tell me, what is it that’s got you so upset?”
Karim stares at the man for a second. Then he says, “Oh, fuck this,” and turns on his heel to run.
By the grace of God— who he can apologize to later, if he thinks of it— the bowl that comprises the top of the font isn’t secured to the bottom, just like he hoped. It’s heavy, but now that he is actively sprinting out of a church he’s filled with enough adrenaline that the weight seems very manageable. A little of it slops over the front of his hoodie when he spins to shove the door of the church open with his butt, but it’s still more than half full by the time he skids to a stop next to his mom’s car, awkwardly repositions the bowl— it’s way too big to hold securely, but by some miracle he doesn’t drop it, maybe that means God is fine with it after all— and pulls the car door open by shoving the toe of his sneaker under the handle and yanking it towards him.
“What the Hell are you doing?” the priest squawks from behind him, and Karim laughs hysterically.
Whatever else this is, it’s a much better distraction than stealing his mom’s car ever would have been.
Art half-sits up in the back of the car, his eyes widening when he sees Karim holding an entire baptismal font balanced on his knee. “The fuck are you—?”
“What do I do with it?” Karim yells, because they don’t have time for this.
Art blinks at him at the same time that he hears the church door slam behind him, which means the priest is only the length of the parking lot away now.
“Wh— fuck, here,” Art says, and he leans forward, grabs the edge of the bowl with his good hand, and tips the bowl toward himself. Karim follows his momentum, pouring the entire contents of the font over Art’s ruined arm and leg, and incidentally also soaking the rest of him and practically flooding the backseat of Karim’s mom’s car, which he doesn’t have time to think about at the moment.
Karim slams the back door, turns, holds up the empty font, and sets it down on the asphalt next to the car, and blurts, “Thanks Father!” before he spins, throws himself back into the driver’s seat, jams the car into gear and peels out of the parking lot literally as fast as the car will go. He looks up once to see the bewildered form of the priest, holding the bowl and staring after them, and then he grips the steering wheel hard, feeling laughter bubble unstoppably up out of his chest. He can feel the hysterical edge to it, but he doesn’t try to stop it; this is the best he’s felt in—well, in six months, at least.
He hears Art laugh, too, from the back, though he mostly sounds confused, and meets his eyes in the rearview mirror, grinning. “Did it work?”
Art laughs again, breathing hard, and his answer sounds a bit strained. “It’s— in the process of working.” Karim can hear some deeply unpleasant cracking sounds from behind him. In the rearview he can just see Art stretched out on the back seat, his neck a tight painful arch, exposing his scarred throat. “Fucking— hate this part,” Art mutters.
Karim catches his breath, though his stomach hurts pretty bad from laughing. “You need me to pull over?” he says, trying to watch the road while also craning to see if he can see what’s happening any better in the rearview.
“No no, it’s—ah—it’s fine. I’m—” Art laughs, bitterly. “Used to it.”
Karim frowns at the rearview, where he can see Art’s eyes squeezed shut in obvious pain, and once he’s put another three blocks between them and the church, he pulls into an empty parking lot and turns around in his seat.
“Jesus,” he says, wincing back immediately.
Art’s leg seems to be almost done knitting itself back together, but Karim does get to see about three seconds of the bones snapping back into place. Art collapses back against the seat, panting.
“God,” Karim says. “I’m— um. I’m sorry, dude. About hitting you.”
Art waves his newly-repaired arm dismissively, then lets his hand drop onto his forehead, where Karim can see the cracks where he hit the windshield have closed up, too.
They’re a bit harder to see, now, lit by street lights at an odd angle, but it doesn’t look like the scars on his throat and arms have gone anywhere.
“‘sfine,” Art says breathlessly. “You’re lucky it was me, actually. Would’ve killed anybody else.” Pushing his hair out of his face, he cracks one eye to squint at Karim. “What the fuck were you going so fast for, anyway? And is this— what, Farah’s car?”
Karim jerks backward hard enough to honk the horn with his spine, making them both jump badly. “You know my mom’s name?” he blurts. That’s the most terrifying thing Art has said so far.
Art raises an eyebrow at him, like that’s funny. “I know Farah, yes,” he says, smirking. “You could not pay me to try and steal her car, to be honest. What the fuck—is—” He trails off, the smirk sliding off his face, and he sits up, running his hand through his hair and no longer looking at Karim. “Wait,” he says, apparently to himself. “2009. Shit.” Then he turns his head and looks at Karim like Karim has just turned into a hurt puppy before his very eyes. “Your father,” Art says quietly, and Karim feels his stomach muscles tense painfully, like he’s waiting for a blow. “I’m sorry. I forgot about that.”
Karim looks at the dead boy, and his ears immediately start to buzz a little.
“Is that why?” Art says softly, looking at Karim with his dead eyes full of pity. “Are you—”
“No,” Karim snaps. Art blinks, surprised, and Karim shakes his head, stiffly. “That’s not what we’re doing. I don’t know you from shit, and I’m not talking about this.”
He isn’t sure what he’s expecting—more pity, maybe, or else a fight—but Art nods immediately, saying “Okay, right, yeah, absolutely,” so fast he trips over the syllables. Karim watches his shoulders relax, like he’s grateful for the out, and it soothes a little of the knee-jerk that was building bitter at the back of Karim’s throat, too. “Absolutely, dear, whatever you need.”
Karim breathes out, trying to come down from his immediate defensive position, and then he shakes his head, slowly. “Hold on,” he says. “Hold on, you—you noticed the year right off,” he accuses, frowning at Art, who jumps guiltily. “I said it was 2009 and you—swore, or something, like you knew it was bad. You must have known about,” he swallows hard, makes it come out, “about m-my dad from the beginning, or… you…”
He trails off. Art is looking away, chewing on his cracked and colorless lower lip. When he looks back at Karim, his face is hard to read—somewhere between discomfort and nervousness and maybe guilt, too.
“What?” Karim says, alarmed.
“It’s, um. It’s gonna be kind of a big year,” Art says.
#whump#original whump#guardian angel au#undead whumpee#painful healing#religion tw#christianity tw#catholicism tw#time travel whump#art: this is gonna be a bad year for you#karim: uh yeah my dad is dying#art: ...oh yeah huh that too i guess
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