#judaspriested

@judaspriested​ asked: ❛  careful ,  ye  might  hurt  yerself .  ❜ spoken with a manic grin, as if to goad the other into the opposite of what he advised against. || 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒄  𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔

“That a threat, pal?” A taunt, more like it, Nero corrects himself on second glance; a grin like that is asking for trouble, gloatingly deranged in a way that is unpleasantly familiar. Such that Nero’s blood boils to fever pitch under his skin. Such that his lip curls over tooth and fang with the hasty beginnings of a snarl as he scathingly stares the other man down in the dark, cold night. The hand posted on Red Queen’s hilt, albeit, holds steady as the blade is swung to rest across the devil’s shoulders.

“Ha!” Laughter, seething and scornful as Nero’s moon-white head tosses proudly back. “Sorry, but I don’t make it a habit to go around picking on old men. Hey, here’s a little piece of friendly advice for you, tough guy--you just worry about your own self, huh?

𓊔﹒𓌹𓂃𓌺 & 𝙸𝚃 𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻𝚂 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚂𝚄𝙲𝙷 𝙰 𝙵𝚁𝙰𝙶𝙸𝙻𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶;  he holds it as if he expects the knife to crumble in his palms like dry clay, sieve between the cracks in his joined fingers and fly off into the wind. the blade itself is graceful, the bold text impressed along the side making it even more-so in its mystery; a glimmering silver mottled with an aureate vein that spiders across it like marble, all the way to the heavy hilt. it’s clearly sharp, the tip thin as a needle’s point, though he’s yet to test it- yet to drag it flat across his thumb to feel that familiar, bittersweet sting.

@judaspriested​: ❛  don’t apologise . you’ve been through a lot , of course some days are harder than others .  ❜

                         He did not deserve this forgiveness from Anderson... Not after snapping at him like that... He did not want to speak any further of the Order, he hated that his people needed more info than what Henry had already given. Speaking those horrid words that he had been forced to memorize ( over and over and OVER ) made his stomach churn and breath shake.

If it had been anyone else ... He might have told them in the most certain of terms to fuck off. The Order was gone, so could he not just live in peace after all they had tried to do to him?  Which is, of course, why they had sent Father Anderson to do the work of asking him for more.

“ I... I can’t... Not help you, Father Anderson. Not after everything... You did for both Eileen and I... ” His fingers thrummed across the counter, something to keep his mind off of the mixture of anxiety and guilt, “ But what... What else could they need. ” Henry looks up at him through side swept hair that intrudes his face as he does. He needed a trim... But things had become harder to remember and schedule since that incident with the Vampire Sullivan. 

It had been easier to forget himself and slip back into the safety of staying home and away from the risk of once again become a victim.

[ There is a notable delay between messages, as well as a good five minutes of him showing as typing, stopping, and then typing again. ]

[TXT] Ah'm a bastard who didnae get ye anythin', nae surprise. [TXT] But...

[ Another delay. ]

[TXT] Ah could get a hotel room set up. [TXT] If ye would take bein' spoiled as a good enough gift...? [TXT] Also, want tae. O' course. [TXT] Dinnae have anythin' else, really. Nae quite sure even in ideas what ah could get ye or do. [TXT] It's yer birthday. Yer choice.

[ ... pause ... ]

[TXT] Y/N? [TXT] Also. Clarifying it's always yer choice. In the sense it's necessary we are both sayin' aye. [TXT] Because it's... [TXT] listen, would ye accept a birthday fuck or nae

HAPPY BIRTHDAY LYRIC

-> They sit in their desk chair with one leg bent up close to their chest and the other dangling loose, heel dragged against the carpeted floor of their apartment dwelling when they shift it just enough to get the leverage to unfurl themselves from their cramped up position of pen-in-mouth and bookmark between their fingers while reading. The light up of their phone screen is the only thing that pulls their focus away for even a moment, not because Lyric was overly attached to their phone, but because those who possessed their number were exceptionally few and those who would message them so late in the evening even fewer still.

Which meant it could only be one person.

-> They want to say that opening with his desire to prevent things from being awkward did, in fact, make things more awkward. Neither of them were particularly graceful in this dance---though all the factors were right ( the mutual consent of both parties, a certain amount of bodily chemistry, a familiarity with each other that prevented upsetting boundary pushing or potentially hazardous miscommunication, to name a few ) they could never seem to shake themselves free of the awkwardness of a first invitation. Though Lyric has never declined, and Anderson has never recinded, each act as though they are a moment away from the whole thing collapsing like a card house. Maybe they wish it would. Maybe they both hope something irrevocably awful would happen because neither of them can bear the weight of a single thing in their lives that did not constantly martyr and dissect them until they were so weary they could not so much as lift their heads. Maybe they hope something bad will happen, because something always does, and they're just waiting for what feels inevitable.

[SMS]: you're not obligated to get me a birthday gift because we know each other.

-> They think he's projecting in some way, if not about himself then about someone else. Did it matter, a present? Was it important? Lyric put their life on the line every day and he worries about a birthday gift? They imagine him opening and closing his hands, empty and anxious, facing them but his eyes turned away. When he sometimes found them working in the library late at night by the light of a single lamp and a full moon, he hovered as if trying to usher them to bed without saying anything. When he blooms flowers that repel demons from stifling a laugh at a ridiculous, poor joke, they think he is a gentle man who has been through hell. They think he deserves to be loved equally as gently. ( they think he deserves better than Alucard, and better than them to warm his bed. )

I don't think I could take being spoiled by you they want to say, Being treated too gently might scatter me to pieces. But they don't say that---how could they? The thought of crying in front of him for any reason closes up their throat. ( not to imply Anderson was not careful down to the finest detail; Lyric had certainly come away sore or with a vague ache in a muscle they forgot they had some handful of times, but they had never hurt intentionally ) They're sure he means it well. Somewhere nice---maybe a little fancy, where they leave little chocolates on the pillows and have hotel breakfasts, though Lyric rarely stays that long. They had a habit of being the first to rush away; it was a very minor point of contention with Anderson, who desired the comfort of physical contact after all was said and done, and Lyric had to heel themselves to keep from leaving in a hurry of shower and clothes and cigarette smoke. ( it felt wrong somewhere in their lungs. anxious. they didn't know how to allow themselves to be held or to hold someone else when they couldn't hide behind something. maybe they were afraid he would notice something he didn't like after all. )

[SMS]: you wanna spoil me now, huh?

[SMS]: I'm not a pretty call boy, you know. there's not a discount for being too nice to me.

-> They're no better about avoiding the question, are they? Tiptoeing around it like they hadn't passively made up their mind when he chose to ask. ( they weren't doing anything else. the psychological and physical benefits of occasionally undergoing sexual release were positive ones. it comforted Anderson to have a partner who he knew rather than a stranger, which Lyric tells themselves is none of their business and yet they still list it as a benefit. he was aesthetically attractive and good at it in a way that's almost embarrassing to think about. another benefit. )

[SMS]: sure. I'm not busy.

[SMS]: don't twist yourself up about getting a real fancy place. just somewhere normal is fine.

❛ It’s in the blood and this is tradition. ❜ for maxwell // @judaspriested​

Body of Christ. Blood of Christ. Anderson’s hand disappears into the aumbry, disturbing what the boy had helped to settle only hours before. The dark recesses stir his memory, as if he can trace those gloved digits tracing across Christ’s remains.

Enrico can see it, even as he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. There’s still grit there, the remains of a deep sleep disturbed only by the priest’s feet on the floor. Ever the loyal son, he had traced Anderson’s steps, caught readily, but welcomed into the little church of Ferdinand Lukes. Suddenly, his hands seem too dirty as he pulls them from his face, pale palms pressed into the bottom of his pajama top in a threadbare attempt to cleanse himself.

“What good will the Eucharist do if they can’t confess?” Removing the sacraments at such an hour paints an easily deciphered story. He’s clever like that. God does not strike him down for pride that Enrico reasons is well-deserved.

Salvation is more than blood -- It is surrender. He’s heard that from the pulpit for over a decade now, and does not flinch from the brutal nature. One needed the fear of God to truly understand him. Yet here the Father fumbled, pulling at the remains of that days Mass. The wine and host seem so small in his grasp, as if they were only toys reclaimed from the orphanage nursery. Enrico’s face is a perfect masque of contempt.

random dialogue prompts