#sinsuerte

[sluaghter]

@sinsuerte asked: “ are you trying to make me jealous right now? ” MORBID CURIOSITY (accepting)

The corner of his mouth pulls. “Will you punish me, Lemuel.”

Róisín sleeps curled like a semi-colon beside the nettles. The moon is a sea salt aspirin-pearl, the result of a hole puncher. Lala grazes.

He knows now that Nicholas dreamed of marrying a mermaid, a fish thing blessed with chameleon color-changing eyes, and van Gogh red hair, and who sings him wretchedly sweet lullabies that beget global warming. He has loved women.

Nicholas cannot handle wine.

“Will you keep me to yourself,” he says, setting the bottle down. “Will you lock me somewhere so that no one will ever see me, or hear me, and they will forget I ever lived.”

Moonlight leaks in through the pencil slit of their tent. It throws a laser ray of silver sodium onto Nicholas, slicing him in two.

“Will you charge gold if someone says my name.” He hasn’t blinked. Lemuel is beautiful. Grass tickles his wrist. “Will you demand their children if they look at me. Will we raise all of them, like Róisín, and turn them into our army of knights. Will you make them die for me.”

[soursoil]

another harlon comm, this time w @sinsuerte's lemuel! ^_^ got it as a holiday gift for us and ezlo just finished it up tonight!! so so so in love w the finished product T_T💖

[silverwoodcursed]

a first meeting that was meant to be feat. @sinsuerte - continued from here.

Even though Lucifer was only a few months old he had already decided for himself that he preferred the darkness of the night over the bright light of the day. Daylight always made him feel exposed, it caused all angels to turn around and look at him, point at him and flock to him, showering him in praises and compliments for his beauty, which was something the youngest angel still had a rather complicated relationship with. It had eventually caused him to find more comfort in the night. There were fewer angels roaming the streets once the sun was down and the darkness also helped to conceal his outstanding beauty, as long as he clung to the shadows he was an ordinary angel, just like everyone else, but as soon as he stepped into the light, he again was nothing more than the angel of beauty. Yes, as rare as nights were to occur in Heaven Lucifer preferred them. He had not yet learned he had every reason to be afraid of the dark.

Wandering the gardens of Heaven Lucifer was quickly attracted by a single source of light and with wonder he realized it was an open fire caught in a circle of stones, a fire in a capacity he had never seen before; he was used to candles or little fires in lanterns, but this campfire was something new. It was bright and warm and he was attracted to it like a moth to a flame.

So fascinated was he by the flames that he only noticed the other angel when he spoke and Lucifer winced in response, fighting the urge to immediately turn around and flee, but the other angel’s voice was so gentle, the tenderness in his voice was inviting him to stay and cautiously Lucifer stepped forward, towards the fire and while Lucifer curiously looked at his new companion, said companion seemed to avoid looking at him. Someone who did not stare at him? Well, that was something new. The younger angel immediately felt more at ease.

Following the invitation, he settled down by the fire, right next to this most curious of all angels, and at his words Lucifer quietly giggled to himself. Someone who did not immediately recognize him? That truly was a first. And Lucifer still experienced a lot of firsts every day. Usually everyone knew who he was the moment they laid eyes upon him, but this angel really seemed to be unaware. Somehow Lucifer wished it could stay that way. It was so wonderfully refreshing to not immediately be swarmed or complimented, being this unknown almost felt like a relief.

“Please do not apologise, brother, it should be of no surprise that you do not know me, I am still rather young..”, Lucifer immediately tried to calm the other angel, not wanting to be the reason of any kind of discomfort, though his words made his cheeks blush just a little as he usually insisted to his friends and housemates that he was anything but young anymore. It felt wrong to say one thing to this angel and insist on something else with the others.

Lucifer pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs, his faze wandering back to the tame flames dancing before him, but soon his curiosity won again, and he tilted his head to look at the angel next to him. For the first time in his life it was Lucifer who could not stop staring.

“Our Father named me Lucifer, it means Lightbringer or morning star”, Lucifer introduced himself in that gentle voice of his. “It is an honor to meet you, Lemuel.”

The name of the other angel rolled off his tongue and immediately afterwards Lucifer furrowed his elegant eyebrows in surprise, before he chuckled in delight.

“Lemuel. Lemuel. Lemuel.”, the young angel whispered again and again, as if to properly try out what the other’s name would taste like on his tongue.

“What a wonderful name, I wish I had learned it sooner. There isn’t anything more beautiful than knowing you truly belong to Him, is there?”

[mccnlitashes]

𒐴 🢖 · closed starter for @sinsuerte

It was one of those days when Remi hadn't turned the “Closed” sign around to “Open,” and yet he wasn't alone in the shop. He had actually wanted to work through some of the artifacts that had been lying around here for half an eternity. And indeed, it had been half an eternity. Every now and then, he simply forgot that work was waiting for him, while he preferred to stay in bed and watch another dream that wasn't his own. Instead, he held a steaming cup of coffee in his hands and looked through the steam at Lemuel.

“You know,” he began, but interrupted himself to take a sip from the cup before setting it down. “Sometimes I miss the lively man you used to be.” It was hard to believe that Lemuel and Remi had known each other far longer than this shop had existed. Back then, they had been so unknowing. Even today, Remi would claim that he didn't know everything about this strange world in which they both now lived. “It's as if you've grown up.” There was silence for a moment. But then something broke through that was very rarely seen in Remi. 

He laughed. When was the last time he had laughed like that? And yet he couldn't stop. 

While he was still laughing, he said, “Somehow, I never believed it, you know? That there could be a different version of you than that lively, annoying creature you used to be. And yet here we are.” With great effort, he managed to reduce his laughter to a giggle. “But you know what hope I haven't given up yet?” He hardly waited for an answer, but continued almost immediately: “That someday you'll appreciate the coffee I make.”

[sluaghter]

@sinsuerte art by utm//bug

[sluaghter]

@sinsuerte (continued from here)

Nicholas is becoming accustomed. At three, he wakes to Santana in the still dark mornings, his face unmarred by the side effect of sleep. Right after, Santana is beside him for the first prayer of the Hours, then again at the fratery. He is there during illuminations, within the sibilant death rattle of the library. And during vespers, and compline, and every night until the unseelie begin to unspool from the backs of furry bats and Nicholas succumbs at last to restless oblivion, there is Santana.

There are other things he notices, too. Santana never sleeps first. Santana watches him, silent on his setiferous legs. Santana is imbued by the power of the druids.

He said abbot, and Nicholas smiles. 

“The other day, when I removed you from the way of our brother, you had hid something beneath your habit,” Nicholas says. He’s stopped picking at kindling. “And I know you wear it when you retire, and that you do not sleep.”

Brother Santana is snapping sticks. Nicholas’ mind fashions possibilities. First: this monk might instantaneously disrobe of his skin, revealing what the old ones called an abhartach, the cursed blood drinkers of first-born sons. Maybe he is a banished knight or a faun with suspiciously brown eyes. Santana could be no one at all.

Now, the wind shutters through the leaves, birds whistling. Santana smiles like he didn’t see this coming the way red skies warn sailors, or spilled salt, or broken mirrors.

“Brother Santana, you don’t bleed as the others.” He’s face-front. His cheek twitches. “Would you tell me why.”

[soursoil]

𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔢𝔯 ✧ @sinsuerte.

-`𖤓´- 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖇𝖎𝖗𝖙𝖍 𝖍𝖆𝖉 𝖇𝖊𝖊𝖓 𝖆 𝖘𝖙𝖗𝖚𝖌𝖌𝖑𝖊-- an hour long ordeal. bleating, bucking, wild-eyed panic... he's seen it all before. poor mother's exhausted now, laying splayed in her bed of hay after licking the baby clean. innocent and frail, wool stained pink with blood, her prize stumbles aimlessly around the candlelit stall. harlon watches the lamb with a satisfied smile, sleeves rolled to his elbows and hands sticky with gore and sweat. the stool he sits upon creaks as he half-turns to their distant guest.

❝ lemuel... thig a-mach às na faileasan, m’ aingeal. come, come. join me. ❞ his voice is as gentle as birdsong, sweet, lilting in its demands. ❝ there's someone here i'd like you to meet. ❞

[sluaghter]

@sinsuerte asked: does nicholas take his vows pretty seriously at least initially? how does he feel about the Church beyond his relationship with God? send me random headcanon asks (accepting)

nicholas takes them seriously, always. he always has. he always will.

for those who don’t know, nicholas is a diocesan priest, and his promises, rather than formal vows, are as follows:

1. promise of obedience (to the bishop); and 2. promise of chastity (celibacy)

he’s made no promise of poverty even if he lives very modestly. almost too modestly. aside from his Cornucopia of disorganized tea-yellowed, dog-eared books and letters—importantly those of sentimental value, but some of them bills carbon dated to the age of payphones—does anyone live here at all?

then there’s the elephant in the room. this one gnaws at him like a dog at a bone. Primordial drowns in his own pH levels about it. it was easier to ignore when he was younger.

i always say nicholas was meant to give love, receive love, and make love.

sometimes i worry that nicholas is difficult. he can be frustrating. his head and every fibre of his body is rattling at the bars shouting, “let me out!” while he weaves things like “we will never be what you want us to be” at the same breath as “i want to make you everything.” he wants you. he can’t have you. to be able to successfully romance nicholas, you need to be very resilient. you need to really want him. you need to fight through his self-inflicted need to stay loyal to his promise—he partly believes he must uphold it in order to return in God’s grace, whom he feels abandoned him—and it’s a massive hurdle. he feels unwanted; not even his god wants him. but he needs it. he wants you. he wants you to say, “no, shut up. i’m going to have my fill of you” and take him, anyway.

nicholas carries the rosary of the blessed virgin at all times and has rubbed the varnish off. maybe some of you have noticed that Primordial is deeply sexual (even embarrassingly obscene). that’s because nicholas is.

his biggest wishes are to marry and to have a family.

THE CHURCH

nicholas’ relationship with the Church is one of necessity. the Church gives him structure. the Church gives him purpose. the Church says it’s time for father nicholas to wake at four. it’s time for nicholas to recite Lauds. it’s time for nicholas to say the vesting prayers as he dresses himself, and now nicholas looks the way the world expects nicholas to look. nicholas leaves for morning Mass and everyone likes father nicholas even if they don’t know his favorite color or what makes him laugh.

nicholas plays a part. it’s all muscle memory. it gives him an identity devoid of love and passion. even when saying Mass and delivering the sacrament, and when praying the Liturgy of the Hours and baptizing, nicholas is electrical synapses and automatic locomotion. he does this because he has nothing else. he doesn’t quite know who he is without it.