#Btw that's not just in conservative areas

[magpie-to-the-morning]

If you’re looking for a quick, simple way to get politically active on a local level, this is HUGE! Support your public libraries - especially if you live in an area where your right to read is under attack.

[midnight-in-eden]

I realized I never made a thorough post about my experience at the Unitarian Universalist church. I’ve attended several times now and I honestly don’t even know how to sum it up. Here’s an attempt:

At the UU church, all the leadership members introduce themselves with their pronouns. The reverend uses she/they and has a trans teenage son. Today their stole (the scarf-like thing clergy wear) had the trans pride flag emblazoned on it.

At the UU church, I wrote my pronouns (they/them) in large letters on the name tag I wear every week. No one has batted an eye. I am openly nonbinary. Everyone is unfazed.

At the UU church, there are queer people everywhere. I am no longer the only non-cishet person in the room. Far from it.

At the UU church, there is signage explicitly stating that it is a safe and accepting space for LGBTQ people.

At the UU church, so many people expressed worries this week for queer people, for immigrants, for other people impacted by the new administration. It was candidly discussed during our secular meditation group.

At the UU church, congregants are not united by shared religious beliefs, but by shared values, which include equality, inclusivity, valuing human life and the planet.

At the UU church, on my first day, I met Christians, Buddhists, pagans, atheists, and practitioners of various eclectic spiritualities. (Including many exmormons!) None of whom had any problem including each other in their community.

At the UU church, God is rarely mentioned and they don’t fixated on gaining salvation and exaltation; instead they talk a lot about how we treat people and how we can make the world better.

At the UU church, today the little story about animals having a soup party shared for the children was focused on inclusivity and included a they/them fox.

At the UU church, today the reverend asked us to imagine what kind of world we wanted to create together and handed around the microphone. People talked about a world where healthcare is a human right, where schoolchildren are safe, where borders are not more important than people and families. When I took the microphone and added, “Where politicians don’t get to declare that my identity doesn’t exist,” the entire congregation cheered and yelled YES and AMEN.

At the UU church, though she does not mention politicians by name or tell people how to vote, the reverend encourages people to be politically active. Not the way Mormonism does, by sending out a formal letter during big elections, but by reminding people to call their representatives, to vote in elections big and small, to show up to school board and city council meetings.

At the UU church, they coordinate with other churches to provide transportation, meals, showers, and overnight sleeping spaces to homeless people, with the UU church sanctuary taking its turn being used for that purpose once a week. (Try to picture Mormons doing that—allowing homeless people to sleep in their buildings.)

At the UU church, they’ve adopted a refugee family and an elementary school in a low income area and do fundraising and provide assistance for both.

At the UU church, there are so many groups and efforts focusing on different ways of making the world better that I have a hard time even knowing where to start.

At the UU church, instead of demanding people starve themselves to show their obedience and loyalty to God, first Sundays of the month include a lovely soup lunch fundraiser for the youth group. I love this monthly event, where I get to sit with different people and eat and talk. And if you don’t want to or can’t pay, there are always coffee, tea, and snacks provided free at every meeting.

At the UU church, they start and end with the lighting/extinguishing of a flame instead of a prayer.

At the UU church, the congregation is alive. People laugh, cheer, clap, do call-and-responses with the leaders. We are invited to stand or sit for songs as we wish. Every meeting involves some kind of opt-in ritual or extra fun thing; you can light a candle, add water to the water fountain, write a note in a book saying what you’re struggling with or what joys you’ve had lately—all those are every week—and then some of the once in a while things we’ve done include choosing a percussion instrument to accompany the day’s songs (I got to play hand drums today!), standing at a side table to wrap care packages for homeless folks while the reverend spoke, or coming up to the front to write a worry on dissolving paper and drop it into a bowl of water. It’s just so fucking fun. Nothing like the boring, enforced silence of the congregation in the Mormon church.

At the UU church, people swear. People drink coffee or tea. People have whatever piercings they want and wear sleeveless shirts if they want, and “church clothes” can be anything you want. At the UU church, the idea of your religious leaders dictating all these things and even your underwear is completely baffling. It’s hard to see how such infantilizing nonsense ever made sense to me.

At the UU church, I am welcomed with genuine friendliness, but not pressured to formally become a member. No one is harassing me to commit to baptism or declaring that this is the only path to salvation/true happiness/whatever. I’ve met quite a few people who’ve been attending for years but are still not formal members, and everyone is fine with that.

At the UU church, people are encouraged to donate (to pay the reverend who is a professional instead of a voluntold rando doing unpaid labor, to pay for the building, etc) but tithing isn’t a thing. No “Give 10% of your income or you’re stealing from God!!!”

At the UU church, I don’t think I’ve heard the word “repentance” once. It’s just not part of the worldview. Neither is “sin.” Or “redemption.”

At the UU church, rather than being taught humans are inherently sinful and in need of saving and unable to rely on our own strength or anyone’s strength but God’s, I am taught that humans are inherently good and valuable and powerful in our ability to make a difference together.

In short: Unitarian Universalism is an entirely different world than Mormonism. If you haven’t had the chance to attend a UU church I’d recommend trying it at least once. It has soothed my religious trauma in some ways, and I am starting to love the community there. I don’t know if I will ever become a formal member of any religion again (probably not), but I like this a lot.

[peethan69]

bro why dont queer ppl know theres a mlm flag? like ive had so many other queer people see my bracelet with the mlm flag colors and ask what flag it is. like a surprising amount of people dont know that gay men/nonwomen have a flag

[southerngothicaf]

I'm a trans man, lived in the same spot in Texas my whole life, and the place I've worked and the people I've worked with have accepted me as I am since I started working there at the start of my transition. I recently moved to a new store within the same franchise, and a new employee there has been deadnaming me behind my back and asking teenage employees if I'm a boy or a girl. This is a grown man, much older than me, afraid to talk to me about this straight on.

But what's even funnier to me is that I'm not the weirdo in this situation. Literally all the other employees are laughing at this guy behind his back, telling me how ridiculous they think it is that he's making such a big deal outta this. It is ridiculous, given I'm 5+ years on T and no one's questioned my gender in years. He clearly thinks it's weird that I'm trans, and must be so confused why every coworker he tries to discuss this with treats him like he's the freak.

All this to say, even in places where you wouldn't expect it, people are more likely to be accepting than ostracizing. And even when you don't expect it, people will stick up for you.

[kisforkerosene]

i don't really hide my sexuality from my extended family but I don't really talk about it either, so most of my cousins know but I don't think any of my aunt's and uncles do

so during a family dinner, whenever lgbtq politics or whatever come up all my cousins turn and hit me with the I know what you are look

[therevengeoffrankenstein]

can't wait to see all my works touted as having so much diverse representation simply by virtue of all my characters being self-inserts.

[jessiarts]

Hey, I just want to throw this in here for anyone anxious about the election tonight.

It's likely gonna look really rough the first few hours after polls close- it's gonna look scary like Trump is winning- but don't freak out yet!

The reason for this is just that areas with smaller populations tend to vote more conservative, and because of those smaller populations they get finished counting their votes sooner, and therefore they're reported sooner. (This is called a "Red Mirage" btw)

And the areas with larger populations tend to vote more democratic, but they also in turn take longer to count all the votes because of the larger population size, and so they get reported later.

Which is why you're gonna have people (not reputable news stations, mind you) calling it for Trump early, and yelling "Stop the count!" (like last election) later in the night/the following days, once the "blue wave" starts crashing in because all the larger cities are finally turning in their counts.

They can only tell you the "projected winner." It just takes far too long to count all the votes for the election to actually be called the same night as voting day. So don't get too anxious too soon tonight!

[satoruhour]

need reader to have a confession with priest!geto about how they feel guilty for touching themselves late alone at night and priest!geto helps them by just fucking their brains out as a “penance” for their sins.

yes, i’m okay in the head btw! (lie)

AU REVOIR, O HEAVEN !

wc: 12.2k

warnings: DARK CONTENT, SLOW BUILDUP, CORRUPTION, priest!geto, fem!reader, age gap (reader is in early 20s, geto in late 20s), long descriptive fic that goes in depth of christian lore, lots and lots of christian references / metaphors / analogies, comparison to Satan’s banishment and fall from heaven, religious themes used in inappropriate ways, questions of religion and life, multiple scenes of f! and m! masturbation, fingering, clit stimulation, virginity loss, both f! and m! receiving oral, cumshot, praise, degradation, spitting, sex in a religious place, p -> v sex, unprotected sex, creampie / breeding kink, multiple rounds, n*sfw under the cut

for a small town like yours, it was a no-brainer that everyone knew everyone; and everyone’s drama as well. from the baker’s daughter being a whore to the mayor of the town being sacked for purposes that have since been twisted by word of mouth. that was another thing: word got around fast, and it was particularly suffocating in a conservative town such as yours. people were not outright about the obvious choices they favoured, but there was the older generation who were not shy to turn down progressive ideas.

because of that, the previous priest was kicked out because of the misuse of funds from mass collection and offertory. it was one thing to see a bunch of notes missing from the sack and the money counter but it was another thing to see that money going into funding a new strip club that was opening in the next town over.

it was simply unheard of, and the parishioners basically gave him a free ride to that very strip club by excommunicating him from his own church. it was unbecoming of a priest, especially in such a small congregation that everyone made sure the new priest to transfer here was a God-honouring one.

you hope he was. you’ve always felt the obligated need to serve your god and your parents. always the good girl, following the Ten Commandments, saving yourself for marriage. it was the natural order of a christian, and you could only hope that you’d get even a fraction of the eternal life they preach about in mass. but lately you’ve been having some . . thoughts, and you pray that this new priest could help you immensely, even if you had to do a hundred Hail Mary’s at the pews.

it was peculiar, the first time it occurred to you. the area where your body separates into two and forms two legs — the centre of it all, the middle where Eve had it covered in statues and paintings with a leaf, the middle where you had only learned of it in anatomical drawings. you knew what the vagina, cervix and the ovaries were, but seeing the convergence of pink and maroon between your legs confused you, even scared you.

and the next was when you’d had a guy come up to you whilst doing up your university application, saying something along the lines of how cute you were, would you like to grab a drink some time? and you were left dumbfounded and unable to answer. you let your eyes travel over his features, of the exposed arms of his button up shirt and the thickness of his forearms, you let your eyes skim over his plump thighs before you’re asked “are you okay?”

“n . . no sorry, i already have a boyfriend.” you lie through your teeth and all the guy does is sigh before walking away — but now you’re left with a bigger problem . . why was the thing between your legs throbbing? you swear you can feel your panties getting wet as well, but you aren’t quite sure why.

that night you’re lying in bed with a lewd website shining right in your face, as you’ve laid here for about two hours already, going through in your head whether you really wanted to do this. your hands had been clean, untainted from the moment you were born, but you imagine going to university and knowing not a thing about sex and that makes your whole body burn in embarrassment.

you chicken out and fall asleep.

“honey! come down here, i want you to meet someone.” your mother calls out to you, running about like she usually does. she’s always overworking — caring for the newborn, cooking the meals, cleaning the place. why don’t you ask dad to help sometimes? / nonsense! he works so hard and deserves a break! i don’t mind. / but he just lazes around at home after work . .

you’re pleasantly surprised to find a long-haired man at your front door, clad in a thick and loose turtleneck sweater with a gentle smile on his face. that uncomfortable feeling returns to your core and you land a hand to your stomach to calm the churning that’s happening.

“hello, and you are?”

you’d never think you would see one of God’s angels on earth in actual flesh in front of you. you’re convinced God is looking over you and you think you might see heaven when that silky voice repeats himself again.

“hi, kind miss, are you alright?”

“h . . huh? oh! yeah, uhm— who are you?”

your mother smacks you on your shoulder and sidles up to your side, holding onto your arm a little tightly that it hurts just a bit.

“don’t be rude!” she whisper-shouts to you, “this is geto suguru, and—”

“and i’m the new priest for the church.”

that catches you off-guard. he’s the new priest that was just transferred over? he looks anything but a holy man of God, what with his long hair and gauges in his ears; if you didn’t know any better you would think he was the one paying for the strip club instead. he seems to read your mind.

“i know i look . . a bit of a delinquent, miss, but i promise you the word of God is what i strictly live by. i honour and praise him with all that i can.”

“ah, i’m sorry if you thought i thought that way, father.” you mumble, giving him an awkward smile that he misses because he’s too busy focusing on the way you say father. you’re prepared to close the door on him already; the pulsing sensation between your legs isn’t fading and your whole body feels like it burns in hell. you rub your thighs together for some sort of relief, nothing.

“that’s usually the response i get, so i thought i would preface it first.” a little laugh leaves geto’s lips and if it wasn’t for you holding on for dear life on the door, you definitely would’ve buckled under your knees. “no hard feelings.”

“he’s a charmer, ain’t he?” there’s another sheepish laugh from the pastor at that. “told me he’s been going around giving cakes to all the people as a way to thank them for letting him take over the church.” your heart melts at that — he looked so hot and had a heart of gold, too?

“what cake did you get us, father?” you blurt out and you have no time to take it back, but the preacher doesn’t seem to mind. you also don’t seem to mind that barrier of authority that was established ever since he‘s introduced himself as the new priest of the church. it felt . . friendlier, less intimidating than the previous. it was probably mostly due to him not wearing his cassock or collar, though.

“chocolate.” that one word possibly ignited every nerve in you. the smooth lilt in his voice paired with the slight smirk. it was detrimental. you were going to hell, you were condemned to eternal damnation.

“how’d you know i liked chocolate?”

he shrugs, “lucky guess.” wrong.

he had come around the day before already, but you were too distracted with work and pressured with a deadline that music drained out everything else — one look at your side profile and the hard-working first year university student was all it took for geto to return again today with another cake of your liking. oh! you’re such a sweet one for asking what flavour we like; frankly, my dear boy, my husband and i don’t really eat cake but her . . loves it for some reason. i wonder where she gets the sweet tooth from, honestly.

geto could only thank his saviour that your mother had promised not to tell you he already came around yesterday. and it looks like she didn’t.

“i should get going, miss . .”

“(y/n).”

geto simply nods his head, resisting the urge to call your name pretty and only manages a decent call to your mother. “mrs (l/n), i’m heading off, thank you for having me. (y/n).”

you return his smile, hesitantly, inching the door close with immense difficulty — you wanted to see him walk away with that imposing height of his, of the proper gait he carried himself with and the politeness in which he greets people of the town.

that night you locked yourself in your room, muttering out some dumb excuse of having to study for a test when in reality you were more interested in the feeling between your legs. it both excited and scared you when you first find a comfortable position on your bed, stalling for a good half ’n hour before the clinking cutlery of dinner happening downstairs had brought you to your senses. there were countless articles open in your safari tab, none of which helped your growing dilemma — a tear in the Red Sea between the sin of pleasure and the liberation of acting on it. you felt like Moses, treading in the centre, on the fence.

one last text made you yelp out loud.

[8:03 pm, read]: R u coming down 4 dinner?

it was your mother, as if she knew what was happening behind doors.

[8:03 pm, delivered]: nope, sorry mummy. need to study for this test, its important !

[8:05 pm, read]: Alright, alright. I left out a serving of what we cooked tonite. Heat up if u need to with the microwave O.K.? Don’t sleep so late!

you simply favourited her message, losing all motivation from before; until your mind crosses over dinner and goes straight to that chocolate cake, and then to the person who had brought it.

“Farewell happy fields / Where joy forever dwells: Hail, horrors, hail.”

“geto . . geto suguru.” the name feels foreign. it does sound like a countryside name but it felt like he had come from the city instead. “geto . .” you sigh, letting your hands tremble and move along your body. they brush over your chest, over your nipples and you recoil a little from the strange feeling. they harden under your touch as you continue to repeat his name.

each murmur of his name is a step farther from God, dipping your toes into the waters of hell as your fingers travel lower, lower, lower. you press a finger against your clit unknowingly, and you let out a loud moan; you immediately slap a hand over your mouth.

but the pleasure’s too much, and so you try again. one hand goes back to your nipples, squeezing your tits and playing with them while your fingers rub pathetic circles along your core.

“su . .” you gulp. “geto—”

you pant softly to yourself as you continue to rub your clit, messy, inexperienced circles in whatever shape or form. as long as it felt good to you, you were doing it. you made sure to keep your moans in as your hips bucked into your hands, back arching off the bed in needy movements. your hands were getting tired, clutching at the bedsheets.

long hair, built physique, crucifix on his neck. funny, you never noticed that before, but now you imagine it clearly, dangling over your face. you’re imagining geto fucking you, thrusting his cock into you as he groans out your name.

you’re at the end of your tether, feeling the deep plunge of your body in Satan’s lair the same time you cum for the first time in your life and your body shakes so violently. you flail around on your bed, bite into your shirt, anything to keep you quiet from the immense orgasm you had just felt. your pussy clenches around nothing and your hand aches so much it might fall off, but it just feel so damn good that you only have a minute’s rest before you’re rubbing at your clit again.

scooping up a little of your cum, you marvel at the clear liquid, sucking on your finger to try the thing that’s always drenched your panties. and soon you’re conjuring the image of the long-haired priest yet again, never really studying for that test you made up or even eating dinner — all you do is rest and come again, each time more wrecked than the last time.

you dreaded going to church the next morning.

it had slipped your mind that service was to continue once geto has gotten settled down in the rectory, a small outhouse at the back of the church that had been revamped. you’re not sure on how father geto was able to get it done up so fast but, you’re not one to question.

with the short walk to church, you regret not eating the night before, groaning softly at the discomfort of your growling stomach. what you were more worried of though, was what would happen to you once you stepped foot in the church. was your body going to go up in flames? were you going to get ridiculed by the townspeople? were you going to get called out by father geto in front of everyone?

“what’s gotten you so worked up?” your father was walking behind and smoking, as always, not giving a shit about your mother and the newborn.

“nothing . . just, wondering if i got everything in my head for my test.” your mother coos, and your baby brother in the carrier thinks it’s because of him. he babbles into your mom’s shirt, giggling.

“you’ll do fine, honey,” the reassurance worried you only more. you were lying outright — you had no test, you weren’t even studying, you were busy—!

“i raised a smart girl, didn’t i?” you can only manage a smile, reaching the church within minutes. taking the chance to mutter a short prayer and a plea, you take a deep breath and that light from above Lucifer’s kingdom seem to call out to you again.

stepping into the simple but cozy church, you dip your hands in holy water. Father, Son, Holy Spirit along your forehead, chest and shoulders before you trail behind your mother, suggesting places for you to sit at the back. she only waved your hand away, pointing towards the front. we always sit at the front! why the sudden change? / nothing . . maybe thought we could switch it up a little.

the mass starts after a few minutes of waiting, and you have the luxury of wallowing in your self-pity and guilt for those few minutes, trying to get the very filthy imagery of father geto above you, father geto between your legs, father geto himself out of your head. you fail, it’s only amplified when the bell rings and the congregation stands up.

everyone waits in anticipation for the new priest in this small town, hoping he won’t disappoint them like the last one. but they already seem to be in good spirits as he makes the entrance down the very short church. two altar boys follow behind him in the procession, accompanied by an organist and a duo of choir singers, straining to have their voice heard over the loud instrument. he’s already made some friends, nodding to the excited kid who whispers and the shy girl who waves her hands at him. but while everyone feels anticipation in hopes of a good sermon, dread is only making your legs feel like lead, you feel lightheaded, dizzy even.

because whatever you had imagined last night was him in his sweater get-up, and it just now sinks in what a disgusting thing you were doing as you watch the rich purple of his chasuble sway alongside his stole — the very image of him in his priest robes (in Lent season too, not to mention) — meant to deter you from more thoughts, only fed your desires.

geto suguru made being a pastor look so natural, and attractive, that it was almost criminal.

“good morning, brothers and sisters, how are we all doing this morning?” there’s a few murmurs around, but geto doesn’t falter, instead pressing on with his very convincing, beautiful speech; as does he with the rest of the mass. he conducts himself with as much professionalism as he can, handling the Eucharist with proper hands, giving a sermon whilst giving you too many eyes, distributing Holy Communion with a gentle, accepting smile; your skin burnt when he handed you the body of Christ, a soft inaudible “amen” hanging off your lips.

father geto was all the talk after, some hanging around to catch a minute of geto’s time if they could and you were no different, purposely looping your arm through your mother’s and slowly down your pace.

“goin’ out for a smoke.” your father gruffly tells the three of you, two of which understands better. your newborn simply cuddles deeper into your mother’s breast, humming softly into the nap.

“’kay.” it was opportunistic, now, as your eyes flit around the place to find geto talking to two older ladies. he’s politely bent down to reach their heights better, chasuble now removed and simply in his alb, one patting his shoulder and the other giggling. you think you imagine it but his eyes dart over to you for a moment and then off to the other parishioners.

“how are you two lovely ladies doing?” you hear him before you see him and the voice startles you a little, jumping back from brushing your baby brother’s almost non-existent hair.

“fine.” it comes out kurt and abrupt and you burn when your mother nudges you like yesterday.

“think what she means is that we’re perfectly fine. how was your first mass?”

father geto looks around the church, recalls the altar boys, ingrains each church-goer into his head, “i hope the congregation likes me.”

“oh, nonsense! i’m sure they do,” your mother reassures. she was always good like that, putting others before her and making sure they see the best in themselves, “that was a very riveting sermon you delivered.”

“yeah—! yeah, i . . really enjoyed it, father geto.”

a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, “did you now?”

you nod, and he continues, “you enjoyed me telling you that sin was revolting?”

when he phrases it like that . . you swallow, “isn’t that what God’s whole schtick is?”

and that makes father geto laugh, because for such an innocent flower like you, you make it sound like you were forced to go to church and made to learn the basis of why God exists and now you just don’t know what to do with it. it’s common for people at their university age where they’re exposed to more views and mindsets, to question the religion you were born in and think about what it meant to be tied to a god you didn’t even really know existed, and when that happens, Christianity turns stagnant and boring.

“yes, pretty much, miss (y/n), but His schtick also involves forgiving anyone who has sinned against Him. after all, that’s what He died on the cross for.”

“y . . yeah, i know, father geto.”

you only realise now his purple chasuble matches his eyes, eyes that swirl with the colours of amethyst. they’re much brighter in the parish lighting, and they hold your stare much longer than yesterday. there’s the tugging feeling at your stomach again that goes right down to your centre and it throbs; your eyes flutter and blink to get you out of your head.

“good that you know . . of course, it’s not an invitation to sin. self-restraint and chastity still exists,” you hate how he puts an emphasis on the latter word, because he could be referring to anything, “but we need not be worried for our lives. we only need to pray and repent in prayer, and God will have mercy on us.”

but well, if God didn’t want you to sin, how then can he explain creating such an attractive person? if God valued his followers’ self control, why did he have to plant such lewd, inappropriate thoughts of his preacher in your head?

father geto could probably see your dilemma with how hard he was staring at you, and he only makes it worse by putting his larger hand on your left shoulder. it descends deeper to your upper arm and the skin there ignites—

“i hope you liked the chocolate cake.”

you manage a small smile, “haven’t had the chance to try it, sorry, father.”

“don’t apologise.” you forget your mother and baby brother is even beside you with how he talks to you. you’d love to be on his chest, hearing the deep rumbling of his voice or even have his hands be somewhere else but your arm. you don’t know how simply talking to you has got him doing everything in his power to restrain himself; not even a prayer from God could help.

“The mind is its own place, and in it self / Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n.”

what you don’t know, either, that the hand on your shoulder was between his legs just last afternoon, trying so hard not to sneak under his cassock. he could barely keep his moans in, palming his bulge from above his robes at the mere thought of you. no touching means less sin, right? he comes to that pathetic conclusion easily, so all he does is bury himself in the outhouse after distributing his cakes, hips positioned over his pillow and he grinds.

the feeling for father geto was so archaic, been so long since he’s given up his life to God right after graduating university. all the carefree times that he’s experienced — drinking in dorms, going to parties, getting some nice quick fucks in between exams — were going to stop for good. but that doesn’t mean he stopped lusting.

lust. one of the seven deadly sins, a weak point for father geto’s journey as a pastor. it’s obvious now too that he hasn’t really left his older ways, bucking his hips into the fabric of his pillow. he thinks of you, your sweet little eyes and your cute outfit at home, he thinks of your face twisted into pleasure as he’s positioned between your legs.

father geto twitches, friction against the underside of his cock feeling so good after years and years of holding back — with a pretty face to think of, too. his hips ruts in short thrusts, desperate for that high and he chokes on a moan imagining your sweet voice begging to cum. and so does he, shooting such a large, hot load into his underwear that even his cassock is stained with his cum. but unlike you, he’s already thinking of his next round — if he’s doomed to die by lust, then might as well go all the way.

father geto spares a glance towards the door just to be safe before flipping over on his back, and pulls his robes above his lower half. the sight is dirty, underwear painted a darker colour and cum sticking to every part of the fabric. once he wraps a hand around his cock, geto is gone, pumping it so fast he might have gotten a burn along his length but it’s all rewarded by the second quick orgasm he reaches — spurting ribbons of cum all over his holy garments.

it’s why he didn’t have time to write a proper sermon for the morning mass. he was up all night, stroking himself — just, from the thought of you.

it was father geto’s turn to have uneven breaths as you asked if he was okay, hand on your shoulder shaking. but the visions of last night is overtaken quickly by his need to impress the other parishioners, and so he gives you a tense smile.

“enjoy the cake.” it sounded like an innuendo if you’ve ever heard one, but you mutter a soft thank you, before heading off back home with your family. that contact with your shoulder is all you can think of, giddy at the warmth of his hand and eyes.

“baby, could you open the door for me?” your mother calls out to you, hastily wiping her hands on her apron and abandoning the kitchen to tend to your crying baby brother.

“ok, mummy!” the doorbell’s been rung twice now, jogging a little to the door to prevent the person from waiting. you didn’t think to look through the peephole, a tight-knit (conservative) community made you trust anyone, opening the door to find father geto standing in front of you.

“o-oh. hi, father . .?”

he was dressed in his roman collar, a black shirt with a white strip around the neck and some black jeans. it wasn’t as casual as the first day, and it still held an ode to God even on a weekday.

“hi, (y/n).”

“ohhh! it’s father geto, come, come!” your mother bellows throughout the house, baby brother on her hip as she bounces him to get him to stop wailing. “are you hungry already?”

geto displays a meek smile, “a little, mrs (l/n), since you mentioned how big of a feast you were cooking.”

your mouth drops in recognition; was that why she was so preoccupied for the whole day? doing the maximum in the kitchen not just because it was for your father’s recent promotion at his job, but also for dinner with father geto.

“you’re having . . dinner with us.” it’s more of a statement to yourself than a question to the priest, but he still catches on and assists you by closing the door himself, and taking off his shoes. already, he looks part of the family, looking like a hard-working husband coming back from his job to you. instead, he’s answered the vocation of priesthood, and not matrimony.

“it looks like i am.” it’s such a sly comment, like he already knew the effect he had on everyone. this sucking up was just to get every church-goer to like him more, and it’s working.

geto is charming at the dinner table as he is at the parish, cracking jokes that make both your parents and you laugh, talking about his university life and telling a myriad of stories that he’s gone through.

“what did you major in in university, father?” it felt such a weird question, especially with an honorific attached to something that you were doing at the moment — it felt out of place that someone so close to your age was already pursuing a lifetime commitment of serving God.

“my studies focused mostly on philosophy and theology. i minored in linguistics.” there’s a chorus of ooh’s that echo throughout the table, cleaning up the last bit of food on his plate before he continued. “i’m currently going more in depth for latin, which is a stunning language, beyond those who say it’s dead and should stay dead.”

that only makes him hotter, and you cross your legs beside him, looking at him from the corner of your eye at you play with the last meatball on your plate. the sauce leaves a trail of red from the tomato, somehow mirroring the murder of your old self — or what you thought it was. it was more of a knife wound, a cowardly stab in the arm.

that dinner with father geto only deepened your sense of guilt.

it was the way the priest was quick to stand just as your mother does, offering to help with cleaning up the dinner table. even when she brushes him off, he insisted, answering for her when he only silently takes the plates to the back. all your mom does is shake her head with a smile, letting you help as well. your father just watches curiously, entertaining the baby with his canned alcohol.

“i’m embarrassed i can’t fight back against you well enough to stop ya from cleaning up at my own house,” your mother confesses, already having used her last breath to tell him to not help with the dishes as well. you scrub at a stain on geto’s plate over and over, a stubborn one at that until you finally are able to get it out. it still leaves a faint red glow, though.

“it’s nothing, really, mrs (l/n), i’m happy to help whenever.” father geto’s eyes rake over your figure as you clean alongside your mother, heel bouncing up and down; to non-existent music or in impatience he wasn’t sure.

she just takes the soapy plate from your hands with a laugh, “c’mon, it’s okay, my dear. go entertain father geto.”

it was the way his courtesy shined through when he doesn’t enter your room until he has gotten verbal confirmation from you, guiding him in with a uneasy hand as he looked around your quaint little space. it was filled with photos, some plants, tons of research papers and a messy table to match, but all he did was reassure you. you take note of his flowing hair and the laid back hairstyle he liked to don when it wasn’t for mass.

“how is university treating you?” you’re stuck on being completely honest and lying with every answer, but father geto has a face that makes it difficult to lie to.

“it’s . . alright, i guess,” you settle on your bed, crossing your legs and hoping he wouldn’t pick up any of your essays. thinking is manifesting, though, and his hands naturally go for the paper with the many red markings on the front page.

“Paradise Lost? by Milton?” ah. that paper. you shoot up from the sheets before he can read it, because frankly your thesis in that paper was weak and wasn’t well supported, but you still believed it deeply. you were just having a little bit of trouble straying from your reverence for God. you only manage to clutch the top of your paper, but geto is adamant on reading it, piqued by genuine curiosity.

“the retelling of Milton’s Paradise Lost humanises the experience of Satan’s (or Lucifer’s) fall from glory . .” he trails off, reading over your evidences and analysis. you feel like you’re being read like an open book, laid out bare for vultures to pick at and for God to enumerate your sins until you felt no shame.

with his head still tilted down, father geto has to look up through his lashes and bangs, seemingly making you cower more and more in your spot as the unsolicited advice for your essay dies down on his tongue. the size of his hands has you hypnotised, and he decides it’s against his own values to give feedback about a text he so childishly brushed off when he was in university, even if he had to read it to complete four years in the seminary. geto places a hand upon yours and the heat is dizzying; you can’t help but think if he was just normal person, instead, holding your hand like this.

it was the way he let you explain yourself a little better through your own words. it was a premature essay, anyway, made to test out your close reading and citation skills. but he found your interpretation of Milton’s poem to be much more insightful than he expected it to be — you think maybe, your understanding of the text grows the more you learn about your body, how you like to be pleasured; you feel like Lucifer.

“i . . don’t necessarily think you are born into evil. it’s multi-faceted and loaded, this question. God our Father would do anything but create evil willingly, it’s just unfortunate that the people that bring up their offspring contribute to the shaping of their identity and outcome.”

“then, how . .” your lips twist as you think of a way to word the question, “how would that justify evil existing? wouldn’t the fact that evil is developed somehow meant that God created evil in some shape or form, in the first place?”

father geto rushes to answer but—

“why did he have to create the serpent that tempted Eve in the first place? couldn’t he have just left them alone in Eden?”

“...there to dwell / In adamantine chains and penal fire / Who durst defy th' Omnipotent to arms.”

you frown, not expecting the other to answer but instead just wallowing in your thoughts. you never thought the talk with father geto would turn into some philosophy lesson, but the more you chatted with him on the bed, the more the conversation seemed to steer that way.

your own faith wavers in the night, a quietness settling over the two of you like a cloak of stars. the mass of each star weighs heavily with your questions up in the air until you faintly hear his answer.

“i don’t . . know, miss (y/n).”

“ah! no no— sorry to dump everything on you, father geto,” you scratch the back of your head, “it was just passing thoughts. i’ve never thought to think of this before.”

it was morbid, it was macabre. it was like looking over and seeing a skeleton in your place instead of flesh and skin and yet each question after question ignites something in him that no one has excited before. he can already feel lust influencing the other six, pumping through his veins at a life void of God, void of religion, a free place to think of the omnipotence of a higher being that no one was sure really existed.

“it’s okay . . it’s natural to ask. it’s natural to inquire. God,” he nods like he was in a trance; the word feels weird on his tongue, “God would want this.”

that night you did anything but sin, clutching the essay between your hands and digging your knees into the floor with elbows on your bed until they ached and you prayed. you wished blessings on your family, you wished blessings on the parishioners, you wished blessings on father geto and you wished eternal damnation on yourself.

there’s a heavy pull on your heart when you go to sleep a few minutes after and the dream you have of your body turning to soot and burning with each feet into flames makes you crave salvation all the more — like all a bad dream, it will be fine as long as you pray, and pray, and pray.

but the flesh desires what the heart denies: the more you ‘hang’ with father geto (by God, he was perfectly okay with that word when you let it slip to your mother. he merely throws up a peace sign in a ‘cool’ way and then immediately cringes, but it makes you laugh), the more you find yourself attracted to his morals, to his ideals, to the natural way in which he exists. he could speak for hours on end, voice sounding like birdsong and a chilling breeze all at the same time.

his voice did wonders in your head, as well, coaxing you into betraying your own code; and you betray it easily. that phantasmic voice leaving you to remove your top and pinching your nipples as soft little moans leave your mouth. the imaginary sway of his crucifix above your face while you harshly abuse your clit and dip a finger into you for the first time. the feeling is so foreign and weird that you shamelessly think of the slight lilt of his voice helping you: “it’ll feel better soon, (y/n). c’mon, finger your pussy for father geto.”

father geto had a natural talent for talking and preaching. that downturn of tone like hitting a dead-end when he holds a point above your head (“but”) and then resolves it into perfect cadence like chords ending a phrase when he proposes a solution (“God will take care of everything”). he does it so much you think he’s rather convincing himself more than he’s convincing you, though.

“perhaps this parable that Jesus uses tells us rather to look within ourselves, to look within the vineyard that is us. the owner have done everything: kept the roots tied so it would not be trampled, making sure they get all the sunlight and water it needs, yet . .” he pauses a little, looking at the almost full parish now that he’s won over the hearts of your town. his eyes flit down to you at the second pew, shooting you a quick smile.

“and yet he yields sour grapes. we pray, we act civil and diplomatic, we are giving, but are you truly doing it for the glory of God? is that maybe why we only get the sour grapes — not satisfied with the ‘thank you’ after doing a favour or silence from God after praying daily?”

geto looks over the last bits of the scribbled sermon, a little more coherent than last week, but still done with thoughts of you. there’s multiple smudges of his words that he has to squint and stutter a bit, caused by the frantic cleaning of his cum upon the paper.

“we all . . naturally expect things back, but to be Christian, to be a follower of Christ, we would have to abandon all thoughts of that.” father geto’s mind wanders to last night as his eyes look for you again. “we would need to be generous, to be kind without needing anything in return.”

father geto integrates into the church easily, shown in how his sermons capture the hearts of many. albeit, they never really take in the true meanings of the preachings he gives, but it’s enough for geto if they nod and mutter amen like fools in mass; whatever they do out of it is out of his hands.

but along the many preachings he does, there is one subject he fears approaching: lust, the one thing that threatens the downfall of his vocation and yet he cannot get enough of it. each walk and meeting with you only heightens his desire, makes his cock throb beneath his robes. each sunday he wishes he could split his soul in half — one as the confessor and one as the confessing — and repent in the confessional box.

“today’s gospel from Mark, chapter 6 talks about lust, briefly.” there’s a shake in his voice, eyes now scrambling over the congregation to find you in a much more revealing top contrasting with the out-of-place cardigan you have on. he’s sure it was mrs (l/n) that had made you put that on before you left the house; the house where he’s memorised the placement of your shoe rack and how your door creaks when it’s opened too quickly. geto is so fucked.

geto clears his throat before continuing, seeing you adjust your body for a moment, “King Herod is tempted by his flesh when he sees one of Herodias’ daughters dancing, so much so that she tempts him to commit murder. a clear beheading, just from giving into her body, and when she asks of him, he delivers like a dog. this calls us to truly think of the desires that we possess. they need not be sexual,” soft whispers emerge, a taboo subject, “they can also be related to money, to power.”

“lust for more things turns into greed when we act on that initial lust,” geto is sweating by now. he pulls lightly on his collar when you press your arms together in retaliation and he has to look away from the way your tits perk up so perfectly.

you had to know what you were doing, surely. partially — you were feeling cold, but you stifle a smile when you realise how geto’s eyes linger a little longer on you, or rather your chest, before he coughs and continues,

“when we are driven so terribly by the feeling that we abandon all morals just to please this person, thing on earth is when we tread into dangerous territory. no earthly possession must make you feel this way,”

the irony settles in his bones after he says it and his dick twitches at the thought of having you under the podium right now, sticking his fat cock down your throat while you struggle to keep the gagging noises to a minimum.

“no matter . .” a gulp, “how rewarding the aftermath must be.”

father geto knows you both are braving the edge of God’s merry kingdom. it is just a matter of who falls first.

“your place is in the kingdom of God, meant to fulfil eternal life with Jesus and the Lord which is what we all should be keeping in mind and working towards, ignoring all the distractions that will soon fade and die off.”

geto coughs again in the mic and breaths shakily, finally tearing his eyes away from you before he concludes the sermon and eases into the Offertory and Eucharist. he buries himself so deep in the procession in order to get you out of his mind, and it’s shown in the haste in which he carries the mass. it feels like he rushes so much that even the day outside follows too, because evening seems to arrive earlier than usual.

the sun sets outside, illuminating the altar. it taunts you like reminding you of the beauty of your faith; it deepens the need developing in your core.

“body of Christ.” you can faintly hear it being repeated over and over at the front, just a few steps away from your turn and you wish you weren’t standing behind your dad’s hulking figure so you could actually prepare yourself for father geto. you’re greeted with his cascading hair tied up into a bun and the cup containing Jesus’ body, gold and shining. you see your stretched reflection before your eyes snap back to the pastor in front and you will your hands not to hail routine.

instead, you stick out your tongue for the father to put the communion on and you take in the little panic of his hands and the choked sentence of body of Christ. his eyes drift down to your pink tongue, to the small twitch it does when he places the host on it and he cannot wait for you to get out of his sight, lest he be overtaken by the sin he particularly preached about just minutes ago.

“any test to study for tonight, darling?” your mother asks after dinner, meaning to ask after seeing you be so fidgety like you needed to be somewhere.

“uh . . no, not exactly, but i do have something i need to do.”

“oh! what is it, sweetie?” she doesn’t read your expressions, you mannerisms, so you were safe from that, but you willed your voice to not break. your body is on fire, you needed to quell your needs, now.

“just— i promised father geto i would meet him later for a confession, since he’s so busy, he could only propose a late timing,” no, you didn’t. either way, you give a reason, explain yourself before she can speculate, works every time.

“oh, okay . .” she trails off, seemingly unaffected, “just don’t get home too late, alright, darling?”

you nod even though she’s too focused on the dishes, pressing a hand to her back in thanks and she carries on, carefree, while you sprint to your room. lock the door, get your phone out.

“ . . ings turns into greed when we act on that initial lust . .” the words recorded just hours ago leave the phone speakers on a low volume, already lighting a flame in your pussy when your hand brushes over the microphone and he stops at the same time, “when we are terribly dri . .”

you sigh loudly when your hand starts to make its way down to your centre, rubbing slightly to the sound of his voice. your clit is just begging to be touched, begging for your inexperienced hands flicking your nub in every which way. impatient, your hands dip into your cunt and your jaw drops open at the intrusion of your fingers, just as your eyes widen and your imagination has never worked as well as it does now.

you can see geto’s amethyst eyes boring into yours, you can see his hips fucking into yours and yet it doesn’t give you the same kick as you think it would — you’re fucking yourself with your fingers even faster, circles on your clit increasing in speed and messiness and you smear your juices all around.

“father— father geto—” it was pathetic, the way you moaned for a man of God, but the feeling of your cunt clenching around what you wished was his dick was too good, the coil in your stomach still feeling rather uncomfortable but welcoming and you’re unravelling with a silent scream soon, back arching off the sheets.

“s . . suguru, f-fuck,” the swear word feels weird on your lips, as with his first name, but the trembling of your virgin body is so delicious that you just keep rubbing and rubbing, taking so long to come down from your high as your pants get heavier and heavier. and then his face starts to fade off, eyes turning into lilac air and you’re glancing towards the crumpled essay on your bed with guilt festering in your chest.

“ . . mptations of the flesh are childish, are temporary. they lead you to do foolish things that have no place in the kingdom of God. we may repent and put it past us but the memories that our tainted bodies possess, they remember the sinful things that you did.” the recording of father geto dies out as with his powerful conclusion, speaking so loudly into the mic that it screeches with feedback, you remember. you don’t even know where the guilt builds up from, in your torso and your heart, despite questioning the faith you were in for all your life.

if God did not want us to sin, why did he create temptations and ask us to pray for forgiveness?

you roll over and remove your fingers with a small whine, taking up your phone and opening up the contact with father geto hesitantly. it was meant to be a strictly professional exchange like the conversations he’d had with many other parishioners: updates on the church, changes in mass timings, but your chat was filled with questions from you and answers from him. you didn’t dare ask him anything out of the faith.

[9:37 pm, delivered]: uhm. father geto? are you there?

oh god, it’s you. the you who on the second walk around the town exchanged numbers with him because he found your thoughts so intriguing.

[9:39 pm, read]: Yes, Miss (Y/N). What is it?

you take a deep breath. better to ask for that confession, you couldn’t risk your mother asking about it tomorrow.

[9:40 pm, delivered]: is it alright to have

[9:41 pm, delivered]: can i come over to the church, for a bit

father geto straights up in the rectory, getting closer to the socket where his phone was charging and hovers over the screen. his hands are clammy when typing a response and he manages it in about three minutes.

[9:44 pm, read]: Of course, my dear. The doors of the church are open for the congregation at any time.

bidding goodbye to your mother, you stay on the lit path to the church and you’re bathing in anticipation, too excited to see father geto that you bump into a dark shadow. almost resembling a hard wall, hands emerge from its sides to clutch at your biceps.

“miss (y/n), what is it? what has gotten you up so late at night?” if he was still in university, he would’ve laughed at how he asked that question. hundreds of texts of u up? that mimic the nature of the question right now. 

“i was hoping . .” you ignore the tingly feeling of the way in which his hands leave goosebumps along your biceps and then to your forearms. finally, they clutch your hands between his, meant to be like a warm hug but instead is like fire, licking at your fingers and wrist like you’re at the stake. “i was hoping that i could, request you for a confession?”

the priest across you swallows with a nod, swiftly putting a hand across your back to lead you to the booth. you both could’ve done it perfectly fine in the pews, sitting across each other. “the confessional is where we will feel the strongest compulsion of Christ. come,” he answers your question before you can ask it, “take your place on the kneeler behind the curtains.”

father geto showers in the same sea of anticipation when he makes sure you’re okay before heading over to his side of the confessional. he’s imagined this scene over and over — you on the pew kneeler, breath warming the velvet curtains — he cannot help the bulge that forms.

the first words he speak behind the curtain shock you, voice sounding so close yet so muffled and distant.

“come, now, (y/n), make the Sign of the Cross with me.”

Father, Son and Holy Spirit

upon your head, chest and shoulders you do it, taking a deep breath before you start. “bless me, father, for i have sinned. it has been . . about five years since my last confession.”

geto nods, the soft carry of your voice in the late night having an effect on the priest. the hold he has on the crucifix of the rosary is so tight it makes an indent on his skin, the only thing on mortal flesh to keep him from falling.

“What though the field be lost? All is not lost; the unconquerable will, And study of revenge, immortal hate, And courage never to submit or yield.”

your thighs rub together, hot breath sending chills down your clutched hands and down your arm as you ponder over the things you’ve done — “i’ve . . lied to my mother at times, to my friends when they ask me where i’m from. i have stolen money for my own needs, n-not— that high of an amount but um . . still a fair amount.”

“what did you need to buy, sweetheart?”

the name surprises you, but you simply ignore it. “i wanted new clothes — was all the rave at uni when the girls wore miniskirts and little tops. unfortunately it didn’t suit me.”

geto swears under his breath when the image of you in such skimpy clothing infiltrate his thoughts. his curiosity overtakes him; overwhelmed with emotion, he never had the chance to see what you were wearing before he pulls back the curtains and hopes your eyes are closed and they are: pulled tight with quivering eyebrows. there, like a sinning Christian is you in a thin camisole, cleavage showing beneath your arms. he peers lower, gasps softly to himself when you’re wearing a skirt.

“father? father, what’s wrong?” you think you hear the swift swoosh and the rings of the miniature curtain clatter.

“n—nothing is wrong, miss (y/n). are there any other sins you want to confess?”

you swallow, “i . . i’ve wished misfortune on my father.”

not the sin he was hoping for but he wasn’t surprised; his head moves in understanding. he had seen your father — merely a ghost in the house and hardly contributing to fostering the family. it goes against what Mary and Joseph stands for as the Holy Family, but father geto has seen a lot of absent fathers and incompetency to truly be taken aback anymore.

“i’ve also . . i’m not sure whether to tell you this, father geto.”

your breaths were all you could hear in the silence of the church, an eerie quietness settling as if the critters and animals of the earth strived to listen to your ultimate sin, too. Beelzebub, Asmodeus, possibly even Lucifer himself clawed themselves up from hell to eavesdrop.

“of course you can, my dear.” the wind through the wooden confessional box sounds like the hisses of the three demons, like they have had holy water sprayed on them from the mere sounding of his voice; but they look hopefully for a server of Christ to fall exactly like they did.

“it’s, related to my body, father. i,” gulping, you continue with a prompt from the other, “i’ve had this growing need, like, one has when they’re hungry. they have the need to fill their stomachs. or— or a sudden pain you have to massage yourself through, like a cramp in the arm of sorts.”

“well . . is it your torso or your arm?”

“it’s . .” you spare a glance towards your centre under your very, very short skirt, the familiar pulsing of your clit turning more and more prominent. “it’s related to my pussy, father.”

you hear a choke from the other side, and then you realise your choice of words.

“ah— m-my bad! i meant my . . vagina, father geto.”

“no— no u-uhm, the previous term was fine. could you describe what you did? how far did you go so i c-can . . give you the appropriate penance?”

behind the curtains, geto have already started palming his bulge, massaging the ache in his length that still continues to grow and harden. the way you describe is so terribly innocent and unknowing, a deepening urge to corrupt you running through his veins.

“i played with um— my breasts, first. i pulled up my top and felt around my nipples, but i got impatient and . .” geto hangs on to every word of yours, shifting to get his robes out of the way. it was just like the first night: his underwear stained with so much pre-cum it’s probably changed the colour of the garment. he peels it away and the lack of restraint leaves him sighing softly while you ramble on—

“i tried playing with that . . thing between my legs.” you recall the quick google search from that first night, “i played with my clit, father.”

geto stifles a groan into his hand just as he starts to stroke himself softly. “y . . yeah, and?”

“i tried to um . . fit my finger in. it was uncomfortable, at first,” you cannot ignore the pull of your core; your hand shimmies past the clasped hands and down to your skirt. you have no panties to swipe to the side: you came here without any. your finger rubs gently at the throbbing bundle of nerves, a soft whine leaving your lips before you remember you’re in the midst of a confession.

“but i . . i got it into my pussy soon enough. and then i put in another finger.” there was a more audible grunt from the other side, the confessional weirdly heating up immensely as you follow your confession: two fingers easily glide in from just how wet you were.

“when?” there’s a strain in father geto’s voice when he asks it, maybe because he was trying so hard to keep quiet. his jaw is locked as he pumps his cock slowly because his tip is leaking so much that even a simple movement would give him away.

“w-wha—?”

“w-when did you first start . . touching your pussy, (y/n)?” hearing a priest say such a lewd word makes you clench around your fingers.

“after you came to deliver t-that chocolate cake . . father geto.”

“f-fuck—” geto squeezes his eyes shut and it’s like he’s a university student again losing his virginity for the first time by the hands of some random chick pumping him. the implied confession has him stroking faster; it was after that trip he made to your house, it was after seeing you stand at the door like a good little girl, it was because of him, right? right?

you snap back the curtains and your mouth waters at the scene: father geto hunching over the little window that separates the two of you and his head hung low; his cassock gathers around his hips and his cock— good Lord, his cock was so big, clutched tightly between his left hand. his tip was weeping, an angry red as it continued to push out globs of pre.

“f-father!” geto doesn’t seem to care, giving you a drunk and nonchalant glance as he continues to stroke his shaft. he knows it’s wrong, doing this in the house of the Lord but it feels so fucking good. “y-you—”

you’re at a loss for words, pointing to his exposed bottom, but even though you’re speaking out against him, you can’t help but follow his hand as it moves up and down like a spell. his eyes are simply pleading, hips bucking up and you would think he was a parishioner instead. shaking in the presence of God, in the presence of you—

you stick your hand past the squeezy window, drawing his interest and before you know it you’re blindly bumping into his erection. there, he silently grabs your hand, guiding it to his shaft. he uncomfortably leans down to look at your face, eyebrows still furrowed but your tongue stuck out and his dick twitches in your hand.

“s-shit, baby . .” geto swears under his breath, and again when you pull on his dick to the window. uncomfortably his body lightly slams against the partition, a soft thud coming from the booth as his head collides with the wood, “(y/n) . .”

he can’t see you, but he can hear you. “may i, father geto?”

you don’t wait for his answer, gauging mainly from the heavy breaths coming from above you. they really do need to change the confessional, too, because you can clearly hear every word he mumbles out from the holes in the partition.

“shiiit—” when you kitten lick his tip, collection the pre-cum that continues to leave his tip, and it feels better than his Rite of Ordination and when he finally got to host his first mass. it’s better than that prophetic dream he has of God calling him to serve Him and the churches in the city with church-goers of boring faces and predictable stories.

here was a rural place, a place where he never expected such a pretty girl to practice the Christian faith, only to falter in the presence of a pastor. he’s gotten such a cute little slut to corrupt. you start to bob your head slowly, unsure of what to do apart from putting his cock on your mouth. your teeth grazes his skin a little and he hisses.

“no teeth. suck in your cheeks,” he cannot see you but he wishes he can, and he knows you listen to his advice when he feels only the smooth glide of your mouth and he wishes it was your pussy that you fingered.

“going deeper, darling,” geto grunts when he pushes his cock past your mouth and into your throat, the sweet gag you do making him dig his forehead deeper into the uneven wooden partition. he can hear your struggling sounds, the muffled moans with his cock down your cavern. but he cannot go any longer without seeing you and reluctantly he pushes you off, still holding your hand and you seem to catch his drift soon enough.

you’re as eager as him, bouncing off the kneeler and leaving your side of the booth, and you’re opening the door to his. the reality of the situation fully sinks in, geto standing there with his cock dripping with your saliva and your camisole pulled down under your tits.

“oh . . baby,” geto coaxes you into him, under a little spell of his when you trail in a light as a feather. you don’t resist his hands pushing you down to your knees, and just like earlier, you’re sticking your tongue out and the priest looks at you from under hooded lids.

“did you touch yourself to me, little girl?” it comes out stronger than intended but you seem to like it, even when your answers are cut off by him slapping his tip on your tongue. it’s so heavy, his cock, and thick too that you can help but suckle on it when you get the opportunity.

“ever since that day, father geto.” you look drunk, swirling your tongue around the tip and continuing to talk, “i . . i imagine you above me and sometimes i dangle my crucifix thinkin’ it’s yours.”

a small laugh escapes the priest. “did you now?” it’s reminiscent of the time where you praise his sermon. his laugh is cut off as you continue to suck him off, hands still confused. he helps you by bringing your hands to the places you can’t reach and you follow like second nature. “dirty fucking slut, aren’t you?”

“i promise i didn’t know anything before this . . father.” you look up at him through your lashes, big doe eyes proving every last bit of your innocence. aht, partially. you did watch a video of this chick blowing her boyfriend, cumming with your own fingers in your throat, wishing it was geto’s cock in your mouth instead.

but having a real cock in your mouth? it was divine, better than the body of Christ in melting on your tongue. your ministrations speed up, the obscene noises of you gurgling reverberating in the wooden box late at night. it would be even worse at the altar where it would echo everywhere.

“y—yeah, baby, that’s it, that’s it . .” his eyes are shut tight, intoxicated on the way your warm mouth feels. you whine into his shaft, tears forming at the corners of your eyes from how deep he was in you.

“mmf— mmph!” your moans sends vibrations up his body, interrupted when geto thrusts his hips into your mouth suddenly and your nose meets with his pubes, eyes rolling back from the muskiness of his body. it smells like incense and sweat, filling your senses as he keeps you right up to his hilt.

“ohh . . fuckfuck fuucck—!” the father pulls you off to let you breathe, pleasantly surprised when you start pumping him violently, tongue stuck out again. there’s a hint of light from the outside that highlights the pinkness of your tongue and he’s never wanted to cum this badly before.

“i’m cumming— baby, baby, i’m g’nna c-cum—” there’s a long, drawn out whine from father geto upon feeling the warmth of your hands stroking his cock so obediently, resting his tip on your tongue where you’d willingly drink his cum like wine. geto shoots his load into your mouth and is the loudest he’s ever been; he doesn’t care who hears him, he doesn’t care if he gets transferred out tomorrow, all he wants to think about is you on your knees and your nipples hardened from confessing to him. he’d like to bet that your pussy was drooling too, hips bucking into the soft skin of your hands.

some of his cum gets onto your face and on your lips, and geto almost cums again when you use his tip to smear his seed around your face, sucking lightly on his tip.

“dirty girl . .” he pulls on your biceps to bring you up, and your lips meet instantaneously like you were meant to be separated for eternity, doomed only to meet for one day a year. it’s messy and sloppy, drool drips from your sides of your mouths as your lips merge together.

“was that your first kiss, baby?” father geto can tell by how you don‘t know how to follow his lead, teeth clashing and breathing uneven.

“am i that obvious?” you frown, feeling self-conscious, but geto is quick to reassure you.

“father geto’s going to teach you everything you need to know, alright?” he brings you in with a finger to your chin, hovers over your lips like a tease.

he teaches you everything you want to know and more, like how the front of the church looks like and how cold the marble of the altar feels against your back as he eats you out and the sensations are all too much for you. he teaches you that using God’s name in vain is alright when it comes to moaning out how good he makes you feel and how your penance is whatever he makes it out to be he teaches you how you can take not one, not two, but three fingers up your pussy.

they’re so much thicker than your own, one hand pushing on your shaking thighs to keep them open while his three fingers move in and out of you. you’re leaking so much, your virgin cunt dripping like holy water down the white marble and onto the matching marble floor.

he teaches you his first name and he makes sure you say it.

“su—suguru . . god, r-right there—” he latches his mouth onto your clit, suckling and flicking his tongue impatiently because he just wants to see you cum. your legs stretch out to knock over a candelabra and the clatter of the metal against the ground is enough to wake up a whole village but you. don’t. care.

your hips grind onto his tongue, feeling the borderline painful stretch of his thick fingers in you but they reach all the right spots that you can’t find it in you to care.

“you taste so good—” geto spits onto your cunt and goes back to sucking on your clit, “pussy’s so fuckin’ sweet, holy fuck.” your noises come out of you non-stop as you bury your hands in his hair, finally knowing what you sound like in an unrestrictive space under the apse.

father geto teaches you how to take a cock up your cute, tight pussy, not bothering for a condom when basically all of your clothes have been discarded throughout the night. it’s almost midnight and your mother have fallen asleep on the couch, unaware her sweet, sweet daughter is losing her virginity in the place she was baptised, where she got her first communion.

the first push into your drenched cunt is painful, mushroom tip stretching you out slightly as you clutch tightly onto his forearm, brows knitted together at the girth of his cock.

“been wanting . . to fuck this pussy so bad, baby,” geto grunts it out, obsessed with how his length slowly disappears into you. he can feel each ridge of your gummy walls, hugging him so snugly that there’s several moans that leave his lips, “have you been— thinking ’bout this as much as i h-have?”

your jaw stretches beyond your limit when he eases himself inch by inch into you, thanking the hells below that your vision was finally coming true. above you there’s that same crucifix, sterling silver with amethyst stones embedded into the design, you remember, catching the light of the lone spotlight above the both of you. there’s a similar glint in father geto’s purple eyes.

“all the time, father—” you moan out, pulling him by his necklace to your lips that are more experienced now, each minute that passes is one more atom of your body turning black from the fire that licks at you from below the altar. you kiss the lips of your parish priest, whimpering slightly when his hips buck and you feel the stretch more clearly now.

“is this what Isaac felt when Abraham tried to bind him for a sacrifice on Moriah? helpless, confused, betrayed?”

geto lets out a hum, sucking hickeys into your neck and you think it’s a million times better than questioning a God that never showed himself, who never really had the intentions of the people in mind, who created sin to watch the downfall of men while he enjoys his time in his kingdom.

if this was what was meant by losing yourself to your devils, you would gladly shake hands with Lucifer and hope the warmth of the fire in hell would be a hug warmer than any hug you’ve received by people of the Christian faith.

“well, baby, do you feel helpless?” thrust “confused,” thrust “and betrayed?” thrust

he punctures each word with a snap of his hips and the pain gives way to pleasure and soon he’s already lost in the comfort of your pussy, hips starting a pace easily that emphasises just how wet you are. the echoes of your weeping cunt and the lewd slapping of his balls into your ass is like the bell ringing during mass, loud, resonating, it shakes your whole body.

“mmfuck . . helpless, m-maybe,” you whine out, legs wrapping around his back, “confused, n-not— suguruuu, yesyesyes!”

you try again, “n-not really. betrayed . .”

you feel like a sacrifice, but it was willing, of a confession that has led to this lewd showing of just how much the temptations of the flesh were insanely undeniable. there’s a murmur of i don’t think i can last much longer into your ear, cock driving into your tight pussy so harshly you’re hoping the small altar doesn’t move.

“b-betrayed, i think—” you squeal when father geto angles his hips up and it kisses your cervix just nicely, sending multiple chills down your body. your moans penetrate the holy air, hair splayed out like a painting and geto knows this is better than any Eucharist he’s ever tasted.

you clench around his fat cock, and he twitches, switching to short, pathetic thrusts into your pussy and he cries out your name as he cums deep in you, giving you all of his seed deep in your womb. your breath catches in your throat at the feeling of your first load, the warmth already hooking you in and you pull so hard on his hair he has no choice but to follow your hand.

you let him handle you deep into the night, taking you off the altar and pushing you up against it, entering you again and you brace yourself against the marble.

“s-sorry, sweetheart, you were saying?” he also wants to apologise that he hadn’t made you cum just yet, but your pussy’s so fucking heavenly he just has to be in you again.

“i-i feel a little betrayed,“ you sag over the altar, back arching into his hold. father geto is fixated on the movement of your ass fucking back onto him, “that a priest would break his m-marriage to God for me.”

“i thought they were supposed to be men of God,” you barely manage to form sentences. geto’s laugh at that startles you, as with the hand grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling. payback. you love it, however, a sweet Christian girl turned into a slut, and the last bits of the thread unravels when father geto reaches around to rub your clit.

“’m gonna— cum, suguru—” you whine out, body turning to mush with how hard he rams into your pussy. by now there’s a ring of white around the base of his cock, your juices slowly starting to coat it, too and Lucifer succeeds at sin yet again.

you cannot blame Eve when the serpent is as beautiful and cunning as geto suguru, nor can you blame her when his thick cock just reaches so deep into you, tip kissing your sweet spots and his hand impatiently drawing messy circles on your bundle of nerves.

“that just makes it the best though, right?” geto breathlessly says, “a holy man fucking a virgin raw in a holy place where prayers are said.” your legs are spreading further and further, his sweaty body engulfs yours, you’re dizzy, “you’re too tempting, sweet girl. tempting enough for me to want to abandon priesthood just so i can be buried in this pussy for fucking eternity.”

and you cum, head and heart going a hundred miles per hour as your body trembles in his hold. “there we go, little slut, thereee we go . .” you can feel the chill of the sterling silver into your back and his smile before he orgasms a second time into your waiting pussy, a second, heavy load let go into your pussy. it’s so warm and filling, and you already want more, more, more.

lust for more things turns into greed when we act on that initial lust.

“aw,” father geto coos at your fucked out face, flipping you around to give you a sloppy kiss and forcing himself to his knees just to watch his cum drip out of you, “does she want more?”

“always, father.” you answer with a drunken smile, putting a leg on his shoulder. again, your finger hooks around his crucifix, and you drag the priest down deeper into hell, somewhere father geto would‘ve always ended up.

somewhere where he would renounce his priesthood and worship something, and someone: you.

“Better to reign in Hell, then serve in Heav'n.”

a/n: LOOOONG MAN WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS. also i put the author’s note at the bottom this time bc i wanted to format of the fic to look the best without my goofy words ruining it! hope you guys liked it :) / tagging @crysugu @omgeto @kazushawty @suguruplsr @hydrovillette @slttygeto @hyomagiri @jabamin

part two ✶

[bishonenspit]

Patalliro is writted by a straight man and was published on a shojo magazine with a lot of exposure, same as BL and its authors, meanwhile geikomi is self published and works like Uo to Mizu hardly gets any recognition. I am not being antifujo, but gay men creating gay art receive less monetary support than bl , and I think they both deserve recognition, especially the one created by a queer minority. How is it possible that there is only one BL author who has donated to the same sex marriage movement in Japan?

I read geikomi and buy the pixiv fanbox of multiple authors btw

Well first off, it isn't possible that just one BL author has donated to the same sex marriage movement, because that just is not true. Does an allegedly female author need to be public with her support in again, a conservative country that most outwardly detests women first and foremost, especially those in male-fronted industries like manga, for you to accept her allyship? You're assuming that every woman (again, ALLEGED women. You're making up women to look down upon. The genders of BL authors are often left anonymous.) is some kind of dismissive bigot who only writes BL to get off or something. Consider that possibly, a woman or queer person in a surely at least somewhat oppressive environment like the manga industry, might need to protect themselves and their work by being slightly under the table with their support? If you aren't being "anti fujo" which, sure, let's pretend you aren't, you're being a misogynist. If you ignore the anti-fujo label and discourse as a whole, that's what the mindset is entirely. People do not like that women read and write queer stories. Period. That misogyny continues into shoujo, by the way, even ones with "a lot of exposure." What world do you live in where there was 0 pushback towards Maya Mineo, or other shoujo mangaka like Takemiya or Hagio and all the extensive others who published very blatantly queer works in shoujo magazines back in the 70s and 80s. There was. Japan is a conservative country. Japan does not like queerness in any form. Geikomi is a NICHE under the expansive BL umbrella. Do you think that these hypothetically cisgender heterosexual females writing BL are just rolling in dough or something and flaunting their wealth to the sad and lowly gay male mangaka? Like what fucked hierarchy have you invented for the sake of shitting on women?? I don't understand why you've come to me with this. What do you want to have happen? I'm one person and frankly it is clear where my tastes run from what I post here. You're doing your part, clearly, in an area you think needs it. You're giving them money, if you really are, and you're not just saying that to posture yourself further. Seriously, get your head out of your ass and stop functioning with the idea that BL manga is by women for women only. Maybe 20 years ago. Maybe 40 years ago, but even then, be for real. June magazine had an incredibly high gay male readership, when a lot of artists featured within it were women. Queer men in Japan read BL all the time. There is no doubt they are a contributing factor to the success of the genre. Your actual knowledge of BL history and Japanese society is heavily skewed by discourse from Twitter or something. Don't piss me off

[bonefall]

i can’t help that feel like 350 calories per cat per day across 5 clans (150 some odd cats!!!) is more prey than there is! even with really generous cooking estimates you’d need to catch a rabbit or two or a large fish or something per clan every single day of the year. i feel like that would really mess up prey populations, wouldn’t it? i know animals have a lot of babies, but 3,650 rabbits’ worth of calories every year (not to mention what other predators like foxes, snakes, and hawks are eating) feels like too much for one territory. are we assuming that there’s more prey than there is or do i just not know how much offspring animals produce?

WELL, there's a lot of factors here, but you are actually organically figuring out something true and horrifying. BB!Cats are sapient, able to understand their impact on the environment and ergo manage it, but feral domestic cats are devastating to local ecosystems.

Not even because of caloric need btw just because of how much they hunt, and their odd behaviors.

The Bad

There is a reason why predator populations are so massively outnumbered by prey species. One rabbit would feed a single cat for days, but one colony is typically 3 - 15 cats. Most predators are solitary, or have "loose" social structures spread out over many partially overlapping territories covering miles (like alligators)! but something changed when cats were domesticated, and they now seek out dense social units unlike their wild ancestors.

That's why the only social wild cats are lions. Lion prides are extremely flexible, ranging from 3 to upwards of 30 members, and their populations are going to depend completely on how much prey they have access to. Even the shocking "infanticide" thing that male lions are notorious for serves an ecological purpose; less lions means more meat, so every cub that isn't yours is a future rival.

(tangent: the largest lion prides actually set up in major migration "hubs," where there is a constant influx of traveling animals. Not really an "ecosystem" where the pride can damage the population.)

But now domestic cats are doing this, in ecosystems that can't support them and never had predators that behave like them. They compete with the local mesopredators ("middle" hunters that hunt small game but are killed by larger predators. Ex: raptors, snakes, caniforms like foxes or raccoons, etc) and put extra pressure on prey populations.

But that's not the worst part.

In nature, there are Predator-Prey cycles. When there's too many predators, they decrease the prey population. When there's not enough prey, the predators starve and their population lowers. Here is a graph of this phenomenon;

In this way, starvation is required for an ecosystem to stay healthy. It's how nature regulates.

But human beings feed cat colonies.

So colonies end up hitting DOZENS of cats. Upwards of 30 in a tiny area. The sizes you see in canon WC and in BB are TWICE the size of what a feral cat colony typically reaches. In the real world, this is because humans feed them. They HAVE to starve to lower the population, and make no mistake, these are slow, painful deaths.

"But, if we feed the colony, then they're not hunting the local prey, right? Because they're not hungry?" INCORRECT. THEY ARE ANIMALS. Cats are not humans with our sense of morality and long-term consequences. Hunting is only partially driven by hunger, it's also driven by prey drive. Even an outdoor cat, who gets all their meals at home, is killing an average of 90 animals a year.

(note: you may hear the number "they kill 3.5 animals a day." That is a misreading of this study which says 3.5 animals a month based on owner reports; but better study shows they only bring about 18% of their kills home.)

I could get into why I'm actually not a big fan of TNR as a conservation strategy because of this, but in a nutshell, the best solution to feral cat population management overall is (expensive) high-intensity TNR (70% or more) PAIRED with (inexpensive) removal/euthanasia and other methods (like banning colony feeding). PURE high-intensity TNR takes up to 30 years to remove a cat colony in computer simulations. And they keep killing wild animals that whole time.

(tangent: you may come across articles that say that killing feral cats doesn't work. This is often based on this Tasmanian case study by Lazenby et all, where they trapped and removed cats, only to find an influx of subordinate "satellite" individuals that filled the vacuum that the previously established individuals left and increased the overall population. This is a well-documented phenomenon of predator control. They don't tell you that this is short-term and also happens with TNR, just over a longer timeline, as discussed in the above studies, and the solution is to mix methods and make sure that these programs are carried out systemically, NOT ONLY in one limited range.)

So... feral cat colonies with totally realistic needs are very harmful to local ecosystems. They are animals, and they are an invasive species. Keep your cats indoors please

The Good

But BB!Cats and Canon!Cats aren't just animals. These are cats with governments and religion. They do understand long-term consequences.

Even on the page in-canon, they show an understanding that prey comes from breeding (unlike, say, a medieval human who believed in spontaneous generation), WindClan doesn't disturb lapwings during their nesting season showing a basic understanding of ecology, and they even have a law against food waste. Like it or not, these aren't realistic cats. They are small humans with a fuzzy little kitty coat tossed over them.

So we can actually reasonably assume that Clan cats are modifying their behavior so they aren't the ecosystem-shredders that their real-world counterparts are, like;

Hunting over a wider area and having a large territory (so to address you directly anon, their territories are not as small as you might think they are)

Taking the pressure off specific areas by sending their hunting patrols to various parts of their territory

Avoiding hunting animals during their breeding and nesting seasons.

Not killing animals that are pregnant or nursing

Leaving baby animals alone so they grow into bigger food items

Not killing what they don't plan to eat

Intentionally varying their diet so they take a little from many populations.

Hunting animals that real cats don't usually target, like fawns, seagulls, and young boars.

Breeding their own prey, if you're willing to do a little domestication innovation

If you're VERY cool, give them fire. go on. do it. 20% to 50% caloric increase is prettyyy cooool~

But also, you may be underestimating just how many babies prey species produce. Let's use rabbits because these things are insane. They weren't lying, rabbits can breed like rabbits.

European rabbits (and all the domestic breeds they are descended from) have a double womb. That means that when they've given birth to their litter of 4 - 12 babies (usually 6), they can already be pregnant with the next. Gestation is a month. These babies are able to leave their mothers at 2 months and can breed by 4 months. They can have 10 litters a year.

So a SINGLE rabbit COULD have well over 100 bunnies a year... but rabbit warrens are usually 10 - 50, mostly females, plus a bunch of bucks who are more solitary and more likely to travel around. And you're gonna have multiple warrens on a territory.

Low litter estimate, small warren; 10 x 4 x 10 = 400 bunnies. Big litter estimate, big warren; 50 x 12 x 10 = 6,000 bunnies.

That said, most estimates say they functionally end up with 20 adult children a year, which then go on to breed at four months. That's still 200 rabbits a year coming out of that small warren ALONE, and isn't counting the fact that those children are also going to have children of their own.

(though, rabbits in particular are facing a massive crisis in england and even across europe because of two diseases that hit them one after another OTL but it's not related to predation.)

Don't forget that a territory also has more than just rabbits. This is also happening with mice, rats, ducks, sparrows, voles, etc. Like I said, if your cats just diversify the prey they hunt in response to population changes, they'll be golden. In BB I even have a role dedicated to this now; the Head of Hunting, who is tasked with assessing this sort of thing.

SO, to answer you directly;

Feral Cats Bad

WC characters have more in common with a small human than a cat

Pure carnivores are pretty demanding on their ecosystems

There is plenty an intelligent creature can do to reduce their impact on the ecosystem

Their territories could still support them along with the other predators

You did underestimate just how many babies prey animals have, though

Overall, they would be fine. You COULD overhunt a territory, but not with basic prey management practices.

[goodlouse]

my thoughts on the two most recent games i've played (mouthwashing and silent hill 2 (2001)) which i've been thinking about alternately for the past few days for similar reasons

going to mention spoilers in here but this post will probably only be fully comprehensible to ppl who have experienced both games

not expecting many to read this but tumblr is quickly becoming my outlet for opinions that I can't rlly post on very public sites like tiktok where any criticism of a media means that I hate it and hate you for liking it. haterism be damned I actually got a net positive from playing both of these games!!

so I started playing silent hill 2 (original because I do not believe in/have the money to buy modern remakes) fresh off the back of silent hill 1 which is a game I REALLY enjoyed. I would EVEN say that sh1 is my number 1 cosiest game of the year.

sh2 is dirtier, bleaker and sleazier than sh1, and is lacking a lot of the occult aspects that I really liked. it's also like one of the most talked about games ever so like . i went into it with the knowledge of a few major plot beats and it took a long time playing to be able to take the game on its own terms.

i also took a little break halfway thru the game to stream mouthwashing for some curious friends. mouthwashing is a game thats very popular w streamers & youtubers and their audiences, so major plot points are also incredibly talked about. I mentioned this to a friend while setting up the game and he said I'll get something out of it anyway and then compared it to silent hill 2, which I kind of brushed off as a "psychological horror w unreliable narrator" thing (sorry choccy if you ever read this) but it turns out the two games are actually very similar in the way they draw my ire LOL

these things being: -sexual assault victim who doesn't have time in the plot to exist outside of her trauma. this is partially due to both plots being very tight and concise with no elements that don't serve a higher function BUT -this is then undermined by certain areas of gameplay dragging. for mouthwashing especially the last ~45 minutes felt very weirdly paced and unfortunately made me think of ppl who speedrun garten of banban in under 2hrs to get the steam refund, which resulted in later chapters being padded w drawn out segments.

The friends I was streaming for that have consumed more media than I have said that a lot of tropes in the game felt a bit derivative, but I don't know the things its deriding from BUT I wish mouthwashing would take more from the survival horrors its imitating in it's style. The gameplay between character interactions is limited to inputting codes you've read or corridors where there's only one correct route and everything else results in a reset - I think people that watched mouthwashing through a letsplayer might not truly get how understimulating that feels. Some more psychologically symbolic puzzles and riddles would not have gone amiss!

which brings me back around to silent hill 2, where I am legitimately just too stupid to do the 'collect and combine 3 items to progress' without a guide. because A) I don't intuitively clear out all rooms because I hate all combat encounters BECAUSE i am being too overly conservative with ammo so every enemy gets a fight to the death with melee weapons

i finished the game with a SURPLUS of ammo btw so that is partially on me for making myself struggle unnecessarily, but oh my goddd the prison/labyrinth section took so long!!

I also quite disliked eddie's plotline, which unfortunately literally just came down to his character design :/ his plot revolves around resentment over the way he's been treated for his appearance, but as a fat fuck myself my grievance was with the way he's been dressed by real world character designers that are falling on stereotypes. its juvenile in a way that betrays the subtlety of the rest of the game, and makes him seem infantile despite being so essential to james's arc. I genuinely think that a wardrobe change would have silenced my gut reaction of "what are they trying to say with this?", and its disappointing to see that the remake didn't take the opportunity when they did with maria

angela's plot was fascinating to me for depicting an abuse survivor with some imagery I've not really seen in other media! I think her character was written with a lot of respect, and her and eddie's plots feel like complimentary and cautionary tales to james, but it's very sad that ultimately her trauma was depicted as something that can't be lived with - this is something she shares with anya. I guess it's kind of disappointing that a womans struggle with sexual trauma ends in death in two games that are 20 years apart, I personally feel that theirs (and jimmy's suicide) is a bit of a tired trope

however. despite finishing extended periods of both sh2 and mouthwashing feeling annoyed and frustrated that they werent as tight as the rest of the game, but now that I've had days to process them my mind has been lingering on a few moments.

-pleasantly surprised by how legitimately startling pyramid heads introduction, really good use of unsettling imagery -sh's soundtracks always hit at the moments it counts -the last hour of sh2 had me in tears, mary's letter was bittersweet and I love how the tone completely changes depending on the ending. as someone that likes the occult stuff in the other sh games I loooove the implications of the rebirth ending but I appreciate it seems a bit left field in this standalone plot

-jim & curly's ladder conversation in the cockpit, I think that one stuck with me especially as the one defining moment in both of their outlooks, the wealth and status inequality that still leaves both of them wanting more out of their lives.. the guilt and resentment that can come of circumstantial success etc etc -similarly the dead pixel convo -swansea's honest monologue -the glitch effect after anya's suicide was REALLY cool visually, it felt like the one defining moment where mouthwashing really took advantage of its medium

TLDR I feel like I learned a bit about what I like and dislike in psychological horror by playing these two side by side, defintely interesting research while I'm drafting a horror comic with a dreamlike atmosphere... :)

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for telling an old man to kill himself on his birthday?

btw this has transphobia homophobia racism in it so yeah be aware

i (cisM22) have a trans girlfriend (F23). we live in a relatively liberal area and, not to say that she isn't beautiful, but she doesn't pass all the way. but she has long hair and she was wearing a dress that day, so she looked very feminine.

we were on a date at a relatively fancy restaurant. we had reservations and everything. we sit down at our table and next to us as these six white old people having a fucking ball. they were loud as shit and obviously drunk but my gf and i just ignored it for a while because we wanted to have a good time.

one of them had a birthday cake set down in from of him and their drinks were topped off. and then, loud as shit, these wrinkly fucking ballsacks start spewing conservative hate. something about the florida anti-trans bills and how they should just round them together and shoot them. my girlfriend looked visibly uncomfortable so i called for a waiter and asked if we could get a table far away from them.

i guess they heard me and one of the old women looked at my girlfriend and murmured, "i guess he just couldn't handle the truth." and i felt nothing but rage, so i said, "what truth? that her tits are better than yours?" and from there it just went downhill.

i honestly can't remember much of the argument. it only lasted thirty seconds but in those thirty seconds, my girlfriend and one of the waiters were trying to calm us down. i had six crusty ass white people dogging on me, calling my girlfriend slurs, calling me slurs (i'm mexican), and i was saying shit about their dementia-ridden asses are gonna die alone in a nursing home cause they kids probably don't even talk to them cause "where the fuck they at gramps".

eventually the birthday bitch called me a faggot and i was like "this faggot is telling you to fucking kill yourself sir, shove that walking stick up your ass" and by that point they got security to escort me and my girlfriend out.

my girlfriend was in tears and really overwhelmed after that. she didn't say anything the whole ride home until we got there. she said that while she appreciated me defending her, i just caused an unnecessary scene, and telling that man to kill himself was too far. i apologized to her, even though the only thing i really feel bad about is making her cry, and i promised i wouldn't do it again.

i don't regret anything i did honestly. i just feel bad about ruining our date and making her cry. i don't think we should've been the ones to get kicked out of that restaurant either. i don't know if those old fucks got the boot, but i'm praying they break a hip or something.

aita?

What are these acronyms?

[our-queer-experience]

ive been having a problem

im a lesbian, im very sure of it, i love girls and ive had crushes on girl characters and occasionally celebrities and i only picture myself dating/marrying/etc with a girl. im also very repulsed by the idea of dating/marrying/etc a man. the problem is though, ive never really had a crush on a girl irl. tbf i know VERY few queer girls my age, and theyre all usually either in a relationship or just not my type/not someone i would want to date for whatever reason (maybe theyd be a toxic partner, or i dont get along w them, etc ykwim). im also grey aroace, so thats a HUGE aspect as well lmao. this is distressing to me because i would really love to have a girlfriend, but also because its been making me feel “not lesbian enough.” if i come out to anyone, most people expect some story about the girl that made me realize, or previous relationships, or irl crushes, etc. and yk i want these things as well!! im sad that i dont have any of these stories, and i wish i did. even though im confident in my identity it really makes me feel… guilty? might be the word? idk. i live in a VERY conservative area and its been hard growing up queer here, i dont know enough sapphics and dont have the experiences that i want yet and im just. ugh. i wish that some things were different.

thank you SO MUCH for this blog btw, its nice to be able to vent like this and also to read all the stories of others :) if anyone has any advice for me as well btw please lmk 😭😭

please know there is no need for guilt! there is no right way to be a lesbian and there is no correct way to discover your sexuality. especially on tumblr there is a huge community of aro and/or ace lesbians to connect with. it takes a while to be at peace with yourself, and you just have to be patient with yourself. this feeling is not together

[cbk1000]

So those of you who have been following my blog for a long time know that my previous job was at a private family practice clinic that was an absolute shitshow, particularly in the last couple of years I was there. It was run by a husband and wife who were Good Christians™️ who managed it absolutely terribly, created a bunch of drama, fired people for reasons that were definitely not legal (including talking about wages) and/or stupid, and let the biggest ass kisser in the office rule supreme over the nurses and front desk staff, to disastrous results.

They finally got divorced a few years ago, and the wife is still running the clinic. Now, neither one was a peach. The husband made some racist comments and definitely had pretty stereotypical problematic conservative Christian views.

But the wife is batshit insane. Her office was right round the corner from the area where my sister and I used to work, and we would constantly hear them fighting. The fight would go like this: she would scream at him like a banshee for whatever he had done wrong, accuse him of sleeping with employees while he was silent aside from occasionally interjecting in a tired voice that he wasn't fucking whoever she was accusing him of fucking. Then after he left she would come out of her office and say to me and my sister, 'Oh my God, did you hear how aggressive he was being and how he just attacked me??'

She was convinced one of the employees was spying for her husband because the supply room was right outside her office, and he was the one who used to restock the exam rooms with gloves, gowns, etc. He would go into the supply room, grab whatever he needed, leave, usually chat with me and my sister for a couple of minutes, and then go back upstairs. She was convinced this was all a pretext and he was actually using it as an excuse to spy on her in her office.

She would smile and be cutesy with her husband, and then literally the second he was out of earshot start telling us how stupid and useless he was, what a pussy he was, etc. She would constantly talk shit about other employees to us, calling them stupid, lazy, etc. She called one employee a fat slut while my sister and I kind of just sat in shocked silence. She would complain about ass kissers and then promote/pay higher wages to the people who sucked her dick the hardest.

Anyway, she has a Twitter I occasionally poke my head into to see what kind of illiterate nonsense she's spewing and here are some recent screenshots I took. I don't have context for some of her responses because the original tweet was deleted. (She doesn't actually tweet on her account, she just goes around to other people's posts starting fights. She's in her 50s, btw.)

You'll be shocked to see she's a Trump supporter.

Bitching to The View about Those Illegals. (Btw, her youngest child is in his early 30s, and I'm positive she doesn't give a shit about anyone else's kids. The 'we are in fear of our teenage kids going out at night' is just What About the Children hand wringing. Also, we do have issues with gang violence in this town, but she has no way to know whether the people committing the gang violence are citizens or here illegally.)

FYI, Obama actually was not convicted of any felonies, let alone 34, so this is not the clever clapback you think it is.

Kamala is responsible for drive by shootings in a podunk town in Washington. (Btw, gang violence has been an issue here since I was a kid, decades before Kamala was anywhere near the White House.)

I'm not sure what she means here by 'Read Kamala's family history and who they were.' I suspect she's referring to the fact that Kamala's great great grandfather was supposedly a slave owner in Jamaica because conservatives were peeing themselves over that, which. Uh. A black person being related to a plantation owner is not the they're-a-bad-person flex you think it is.

Her son doesn't even want to get married because feminism!!! (The original comment was deleted, so I don't know what this person said, but it was probably something wild like, 'Women should have bodily autonomy.')

I haven't ever seen the Obamas linked to Epstein that I can recall, aside from a fake photo where someone photshopped a picture of Obama and George in a boat to be a picture of Obama in the boat with Epstein and two young girls, so this is a bit rich coming from someone who voted for a guy in numerous pictures with Epstein who referred to him as a good friend.

Notice me, Sempai:

Pleeease, Sempai, I voted for daddy Trump so hard!!!

Also, she has a weird hate-on for Meghan. I have no idea what 'sickening hand soap commercial' she's referring to.

The video they're responding to that's being called indoctrination shows a bunch of young children crying and speaking in tongues and trying to heal this kid with the magic of Christian Touch:

[romaticiseadarkcity]

i'm not sure if you have already answered a question like this... but this is a two parter so buckle up! i'm a high school senior (in the US) and i'm very uncertain about my future and need a nice big GOAL to push for. right now i think urban planning is it. i'm hoping your answers might clear some stuff up for me.

number 1- what got you into urban planning/urban design? was it something you saw in your community? at what age did you realize this? what kinds of things did you do when you were younger that you realize now could have indicated your future interest in this career path?

number 2- materials. do you have a list of literature, articles, resources, or creators that you like to go to for indulging personal interests in urban planning/design. this can include university assigned literature too ofc, i'm just wondering if you have any recs of materials to consume that could kind of point me in the right direction. (aka help me see if my current interest is real by seeing if i'm geniunely interested in literature on the subject of urban design)

anyways, ik that was a long one!!! pls take your time 😭 and cool sideblog you have just gained a follower :)

hi pluto! no worries about the length, I have a science degree so I'm used to 2000 word papers ahaha (this is not to brag btw it was a pain in the ass the whole time I studied it, would only recommend if it's your jam)

so glad to hear you have a goal and I get that feeling! tbh when I look at the many multifaceted things I want to make a difference in, being able to do something that influences people's lives in such a fundamental and behind-the-scenes kind of way really keeps me going.

OKAY so the thing that got me into this was actually permaculture! when I was your age we did a geography unit on feeding the world while conserving the environment, and, for context, my high school also had what was basically an accelerated design program at the time (totally by accident, one dedicated teacher and my grade who were Very Into this kind of thing). basically, back to geography, where that unit landed was

"Permaculture is a design system for the creation of socially, economically and ecologically sustainable settlements, whether in rural areas or metropolitan cities.” – Bill Mollison

and I was like! aha! design! see at this point, roughly 7 years ago, urban design wasn't that big of a field yet (most degrees in it have only popped up in the last decade or so) and so I thought a career in design at that point meant one of three options that didn't really appeal to me: architecture/ landscape architecture / interior design, industrial design/ engineering, or graphic design/animation. BUT!! on this day I was proven wrong!! because the definition in itself said design! and it was about being socially, economically and ecologically sustainable so I'd get to do Social Justice Things and Environment and Biology Things as well as use my knowledge of smallholder farming and business running from my side gig of breeding guinea fowls. At that point I knew what I wanted to do! I looked up permaculture degrees, and found nothing at a university level--which I knew I wanted to study because to understand the planet and our design needs, I thought I needed a lot more education.

Instead I applied to a bachelors of environmental science at several universities in Australia. The employment prospects were good, and I did biology in high school, and climate change was a Big Talking Point I thought I'd do well to understand a bit better. As well as ecology--living in Queensland at the time, it's one of the most rapid areas of land clearing. Urban design came later; for my fourth year I was required to do a year-long research project and write a thesis on it. There was a lot of emphasis on choosing something you know you can do for an entire year, and at this point I had three and a half years of backlogged ideas on how to make changes to our civilisations to be better for the environment, so I knew I wanted to do something that would allow me to express them in design. One of my capstone subjects was one on river catchments, and in it we studied something called water sensitive urban design. I arranged a crossover project between my lecturer for that subject and someone from the school of design at my university I later found out was the course coordinator of the master of urban design. She suggested this degree to me, and I enrolled--just at a different university to where I did my undergrad. tbh, it's everything I wanted at 17 when I wanted to design human scale civilisations that incorporate the principles of permaculture. I only wish working in the industry was more activism-led and less following a status quo that has historically been terrible for the environment and nonwhite people, and is making much too slow progress to remedy this.

PART 2: okay this will be a short one because I am that student who literally NEVER does any of their readings. I do them, eventually, at the end of my degree (like I did for environmental science) where I just save all the links and read through EVERYTHING for my entire degree at once. so I could not tell you what the good readings are. HOWEVER I want to push something: this field is NOT about reading. it is rooted in science, yes, but unlike something like biology it is a much more applied science. At its core, it is about problem-solving and innovation. It's about listening to your users. It's about holding their perspectives and their longings, and that of the land as well. It's about listening and creating. So I want to ask you these questions: 1) can you draw, whether on paper or digitally? Can you visualise things in your head and then translate that to a document? 2) can you collate several genres of information (planning law, ecology, social needs of MANY groups of people, stakeholder conditions, hydrology, the user experience, just to name a few) and use this to create a solution that covers all bases? and 3) can you listen to the land and the stories it tells, and would like to tell? Have you listened to you local Indigenous community about who they were before colonisation, how they feel now, and what they want to be? Are you ready to be the person who helps them see that vision? Are you ready to be the person who helps us see a vision of less traffic, of low carbon lifestyles, of being outdoors and meeting each other in peace?

I'll put up some links for reading sometime down the line when I hunt down where I saved them all to, but the reason I tend away from making this discipline too academic is because you're designing for the everyday person. You're not designing only for the small percentage who are capable of having academic conversations. You need to understand what someone on the street is saying behind their words, at least as much as you need to understand something some academic wrote in a paper or a book or even a council website. You're here to listen to the marginalised, listen to the need for connection of the wealthy who are hiding it behind accumulating things, and then have those perspectives in mind when you build up a collection of tools on how to make those needs a reality.

[rotzaprachim]

one interesting cultural thing is that what people are and aren’t open about is not at all the same between cultures. Like I grew up and came from a culture where people are VERY huggy and cuddly with their children and friends and family in platonic ways, it wasn’t at all strange to get hugs from all my moms coworkers at the holiday party last night or to hang off my friend at karaoke, but I almost never saw any kind of romantic pda or romantic/sexual touch at all - that’s for horny kids in high schools, not even twenty somethings who are fucking when they’re in public with their friends. it kind of came up cause my moms white male coworker from out of the community whose probably more conservative than the rest of us in other ways - probably wouldn’t see him braddah slapping his friend after karaoke- was getting a little handsy with his new wife after a few Jell-O shots, and it wasn’t anything Innapropriate or Bad, but it was so out of place everyone noticed. Ditto how it was pretty normal to talk about birth control and be open about abortions or trying to conceive on a medical level, but details or questions about a sex life proper? Absolutely not. (I grew up Ashkenazi Jewish in an overwhelmingly Asian diaspora area btw.) These things are very different from how my friends were raised in different ways - not good or bad, just interesting