#vicar

Ainar and Panaceas relationship is complicated. Vicar and Vale? There’s no ambiguity. Vale wants magic drugs and Vicar denies him. Vale tries to steal Vicars Smoking Pipe? Bonking time!!!

…Vicar does not like Vale.

Is it cake? Is it? Not in my mind 😈 Aziraphale was just trying to be a helpful angel 😇

MR. ELTON MY BELOVED 🛐🛐🛐🛐

The sheer obscenity of the whole situation, how basically nothing is allowed in the late 18th century, everyone is to be behaving properly and poor you are having all these thoughts. And, what makes it absolutely terrible, all these explicit ideas circle around the young, face-made-in-heaven vicar, the servant of God who's adapted by the whole town. You adore him as well, so deeply that when you pray each evening, you wish he was in your room and stroked your hair as you struggle to fall asleep.

Each Sunday, you sit in the front row of the picturesque little church, eagerly nodding and listening to the each word of the sermon. When he offers the annual time for confession, you linger behind, allowing everyone else to confess to their sins instead.

"Dear child," the way he adresses you has you weak in the knees - thank god you're kneeling right now - and you're really having issues staying calm at the moment. "What seems to be troubling you?"

You join your hands by your chest, bowing your head down to gaze at his feet, heart beating as you suddenly feel so small under the intensity of his warm gaze. "Forgive me for I have sinned, father."

Now calling him that feels incredibly odd to you, considering there is not that huge of an age gap between the two of you, plus the intensity of your mind consuming dreams is like a heavy weight on your back.

"How have you sinned, my child?"

The most vulgar of words are running through your mind, some of them made up as you've never been to speak in the lower class way, but at the moment, you seem unable to come up with a properly former sentence. You feel the pit of hell burning beneath your knees, the eyes of christ drilling a hole into the back of your head. This isn't anything close to the casuality of accidentally showing an ankle or refering to someone with the wrong title.

"I've been having thoughts, father. Odious, ill and mind consuming."

"What exact kind of thoughts?" Mr. Elton asks, the softness of his voice like a caress to your cheek. How are you supposed to say it?

You gulp, fingers still intertwined, nails digging into the soft flesh of your own hands. "Thoughts that are not appropriate for an unwed woman. That should never occur."

Mr. Elton has rarely been exposed to certain vulgar images of female mind, not many women having visited him to confess to such a matter. And for that reason, he is supposed to find it troubling, to find it so obscure that he shouldn't even allow you to speak on such a matter. But something in his mind that has been touched by the finger of a devil, the not so God devoted part that's secretly longing for the basic male need is tempted to converse on such a matter.

However, you are a good christian girl, your father is the mayor of Highbury and he'd be damned for allowing your mind to get swallowed by something so sinful. He has to offer help, the same way he does to all your neighbours and all the people that come to seek his guidance.

"Tell me what exactly is on your mind, child," he demands softly, his voice as steady as his stance.

You gulp, eyes closing in shame as your heartbeat speeds up. This is way worse than if you were to confess to a murder, but once you've taken a bite, you have to eat the whole cake. So you speak. And for the sake of you both, choose to leave out the name of the main star of your fantasies.

"I've been... Imagining- vividly imagining the sight of a bare body, a man's body. And mine as well. Together, close," your voice is so quiet and full of shame that at first, Mr. Elton can barely hear you. With a small hum, he beckons you to continue. "And touching as well, places that shouldn't be touched. Kissing and performing other acts. I have never engager in anything of this kind, father, I don't know where the thoughts are coming from."

He can see you trembling at his feet and the urge to reach in and wipe the small tear that's rolling down your cheek takes over him. His hand shoots out and Mr. Elton manage to stop himself barely in time, the tips of his fingers running over your hairline. You flinch and he almost gasps too, luckily managing to disguise it as drawing a cross on your forehead. "Poor child."