#Ecclesiastes mention

[many-sparrows]

Jesus was really right when he said the poor will always be with us. A lot of christians have struggled with Matthew 26:11, and it has caused a lot of people to subconsciously justify a de-prioritizing of the poor; we can bedeck our churches in opulence while people starve. We can make priorities of everything that makes our lives easier, and leave the hard work of caring for the poor for later, for our "thoughts and prayers." The poor will always be with us, so they can wait while we attend to our internal hungers.

I think what Jesus meant is that human greed will corrupt every system, which will always result in poor or disenfranchised people. We've tried a bunch of different socio-economic structures since then, and not one of them has worked to uplift all people. The eternal struggle against evil isn't about fighting off intangible demons, it's about fighting off the evil in our own hearts. We are never going to construct a "perfect system" that eliminates poverty automatically because someone will always try to take advantage of it. Instead, we must work every day, even when things are good and people are taken care of, to make sure that we see each other as deserving of dignity. We are never going to be able to legislate, dictate, or delegate our way into perspective. We have to work towards it, consciously, to make sure those around us are cared for. Vanity of vanities, a generation goes and a generation comes, but the poor remain forever.

The poor will always be with us because someone is always going to try and profit by depriving others. It is our mission and responsibility to improve as much of it as we can.

[kleptonancydrew]

Niche observation perhaps but, does Leo give anyone else major Jesuit vibes? He is clearly Catholic coded (at a Catholic cathedral) and wears a clerical collar but does not go by 'Father' or any other ordained title. (He's clearly not a seminarian at this point in his life.) Jesuits tend to be the only ones I know who do this - but that's very much an American thing I think.

[lockedinabookstore]

When you see this, post 5 songs you actually listen to and tag people!

tagged by @xcziel thank you😊

Tacones Rojos by Sebastian Yatra

Cassandra by Florence and The Machine

Jesse by Janis Ian

Time in a Bottle by Jim Croce

I Hope by Gabby Barrett

tagging @wheel-of-fine @agnesclementineblog @princess-charmingx and anyone that wants to do it

[borgialucrezia]

"As only an ecclesiastic, Cesare had very definitely a secondary rank at this wedding, where his brother Don Juan was the leading figure. [Johannes Burchart] also mentions how other diplomats observed that Cesare was hardly noticeable amongst all the cardinals and clergy, and was necessarily far outshone by his younger brother. Juan again took his sister’s arm and led her and the other wedding guests into the Sala Reale." — The Borgias Power and Fortune (Paul Strathern)

LOS BORGIA (2006) dir. by Antonio Hernández Sergio Muñiz (Juan Borgia) & María Valverde (Lucrezia Borgia)

THE BORGIAS (2011-2013) dir. by Neil Jordan David Oakes (Juan Borgia) & Holliday Grainger (Lucrezia Borgia)

[lookforsomeoneelse]

sahsrau and the ways in which the game’s story changes pt. 1: Sigonia-IV

aventurine’s story made me sad. maybe this is my way of coping. got aventurine’s sister’s name from someone who talked about her on this app. also i’m making a lot of assumptions about how it went down, but there were roughly 10,000 avgins that were involved. also apparently the avgins are based on romani culture and I have no idea about that either soooooooooo cw for blood and severed limbs. and maybe gore. and definitely mentions of death. and probably my ignorance too.

Ecclesiastes 4:1-3

Again I looked and saw all the oppression that was taking place under the sun: I saw the tears of the oppressed-- and they have no comforter; power was on the side of their oppressors-- and they have no comforter. And I declared that the dead, who had already died, are happier than the living, who are still alive. But better than both is he who has not yet been, who has not seen the evil that is done under the sun.

Kezia knew she was going to die. It wasn’t the greatest way to go down at the hands of the bloodthirsty Katicans, but what was honorable about it was that she would meet her end in the rain.

“Kakavasha must have escaped by now,” she thought to herself, “and he will survive.” Kezia held faith in her brother and in the Mother Goddess, Gaiathra Triclops, the one whom she served.

It was now time for the festival- and so she tossed her Knot into the bonfire as a sort of goodbye to this cruel life she had lived in, and lamented on her brother’s fate- he will go through many hardships and sufferings, but she knows that the blessing of Fenge Biyos will remain with him all throughout his journey.

It was a shame she’ll never get to see him again.

She regrets not saying more before their departure.

She had heard that some of the other bastard clans had made a deal with the Interastral Peace Corporation- the people who had promised to protect them on this very day- to make sure that they were all wiped out.

She held her makeshift club in her shaky hands. She didn’t want to die. Not like this. She had wanted to get married and have a family of her own.

And, for the first time in her life, her faith cracked like a shattered mirror.

The Mother Goddess had always let her down-

When Dad fell into the quicksand,

When Mother was caught and slaughtered like an animal,

And now, while she was facing down death.

She remembers one of the workers that came during that first day- praising the Aeon of Guidance and all their works-

And so, under her breath, unsure of how to do it, she prayed for her safety, she prayed for her survival, and most of all, she prayed for the opportunity to see her dearest brother once again.

As the sky wept for the fate of her people, the Katicans arrived, howling laughter emerging from within the storm.

do not worry child

Finding the sudden strength within her, she let out a roar.

i shall be forever with you

Her club slammed into the skull of a Katican, pulverizing it into a bloody mess.

i shall give you strength

Another near her tried to avenge his fallen comrade, and she cratered their face, producing a sickening squelch.

and when you are trapped in the darkness

She didn’t count. How many had fallen at her hands? 100? 500? 1,000? 5,000? All she knew was that the sky wept blood.

i shall bring you into the light

All around her there were the corpses of Katicans, Not a drop of her blood was shed, and nothing to threaten her in her vicinity. She looked down at her hands. Red. Her hands were red, stained with the crimson of those who had tried to end her life.

Kezia wept tears of joy.

“The Avgin always return back their blood debts,” she had remembered saying to her little brother.

It looks like they had a new debt to pay.

(A/N: I have no idea what the hell I just made. I have no beta reader, so there’s that I guess. I don’t have a structure either. I just made stuff up and used the wiki for reference.)

[blueberryarchive]

𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆.

୨ৎpairing: cowboy!jm x reader x preacher!jk

୨ৎword count: 5k

୨ৎgenre: smut, horror, angst

୨ৎtw: dead dove do not eat, mentions of death and gruesome details (human and animal), blood, mentions of arms and physical violence, cursing, smut (blood drinking and playing, period sex, rope play, degrading, dub-con, groping, penetration)

An Ewe and the Captive Bolt (a serie)

Today was his birthday, and for the first time in 28 years, the sky looked like a sheet full of spots. He felt ever since he saw Sirius and Canopus in the sky as two little white suns the night before, that this year was going to be different.

What Park didn't know was that what would be different was the pain he felt on the left side of his arm and his chest. The hot, thick blood soaked his shoulder and eye until it covered his eyelashes. The battered hat clutched in both dusty hands as he entered Carmen's diner, a child's shame on his tight lips.

The poor girl behind the counter dropped the key lime pie from her hands, creating even more noise in the place (which Jimin didn't appreciate being in such a state).

"Christ." She murmured, still static.

"Be a doll and bring me a glass of water, would ya'?" Jimin crawled to one of the seats, grunting as he felt his muscles burn.

The girl approached with a small towel and a terrified look.

"Never seen blood before?"

"No, sir." Her brown eyes were like two walnuts bouncing between Jimin's face and arms. She was adorable, her face round and her hair so curly that she reminded him of his sheep. If she hadn't been the sheriff's daughter, he said to himself every time he saw her.

"Are you hurt, sir? I can call my daddy and-"

"No need for that, sweetheart." He raised his hand. The last thing he needed was to have Montrell in his affairs. "It ain't my blood, it's my horse's"

Apparently, that seemed to affect the young woman more. Jimin was a little offended by her reaction.

"Why don't you bring me a piece of that delicious key lime pie you had in hand and two coffees."

There were more questions in her curved eyebrows, but she just nodded and walked away. Park took off his shirt, leaving a tank top underneath it, with the handkerchief that he kept in his jeans, he began to wet his hands and his face.

His fingers were still shaking from the adrenaline. The shrill sound of the car's tires driving away, the heated laughter cloistered behind the smoked windows, the last sharp sigh of his horse before Jimin ended his suffering. He had to find the bastards who ran over his horse. FH-6077, he read the plate in the distance before crossing the curve, and his brain couldn't stop humming the six digits like a prayer.

The sudden hand on his shoulder calmed the waters, the undoubtable smell of myrrh and tobacco from his companion.

"Happy birthday, buddy." His voice was gentle. If Jungkook ever went above a couple of those decibels, Jimin assumed he was going to die. Even seeing Park's bloody hat on the table and Park's bloodstained boots, he didn't flinch to ask.

Perhaps it was his ecclesiastical nature that gave him the confidence that at one time or another, others would fill the silence with their confessions. But Jimin could see in the father's noble eyes the desperation for an explanation.

"Sure." That was all he said. The girl approached the table with the pie and the coffee.

"Goodnight, Father John." She smiled widely.

"Night, Billie. How's your dad?"

"He really liked your mass today. I did too, I really liked the reading." Jimin noticed how the corners of Billie's lips twitched, contorting herself to try to look prettier for Father John. So obvious and adorable, but of course, Jeon would give nothing more than a shrug and the most predictable questions.

The difference is that Jungkook could fuck the sheriff's daughter. What father didn't want his daughter to be in the sacred hands of Father John?

Father Jeon (or John due to the Americanization of Jungkook's family) was tall, wide like a log, and robust like an unhorned bull. Attractive in every sense, but bland, shy until it hurts.

"'M glad, tell him I will visit Missus Davis next week."

"Do you have a smoke? I'm dying in here."

They both looked at Jimin who was just smiling with his mouth smeared with whipped cream.

"You can't smoke here, sir."

Jimin winked at her, grabbing the white stick that Jungkook handed him as he also sat down to end the unbearable flirting.

"I know, pumpkin. It'll be a quick one, I promise."

The girl didn't say anything else, and she walked away. Disappointment in her walnut eyes.

"I'll marry her in two months." Said Jungkook.

Jimin frowned. Jungkook curled his fingers, pointing for his friend to come closer and light the tip of the tobacco.

"Marry her? You can barely tolerate the poor girl."

"I love her." The father stated as he nodded slowly while he drank his coffee. "She's a good girl, I think she likes me, too."

"Are ya sure?" Jimin joked.

"Where's that bad hoss you've been riding since last month?"

Jimin's blood warmed again, the drags on his cigarette even longer.

"Fuckin' punks ran over 'im and broke his ribs. Had to do it." He pointed to the gun under his hat. The bloody clothes reminded him how clumsy he sure looked trying to pamper a horse that was already three steps away.

FH-6077.

"I'll find them tomorrow."

"I'll help you."

"What are you gonna do?"

They both looked at each other, the watery, electric current between them. Ideas undulated and braided between their cruel smiles.

"Haven't changed a bit, church boy." Smoke weaved into Jimin's blonde hair, his devilish smile vaporizing memories of his teenage pranks.

Jungkook drank the last of his coffee, his face falling back into the same bitter sadness that every father held as if he carried the weight of all the souls and sins of Rivermouth on his back. The silence was long afterward, the black night extended to the mountains, to the sky, to Park's own reflection in the glass. The round face with pronounced lips and rude, detailed eyes, sweet when they feel like it. The spitting image of his mother.

"I have some hippies coming to the ranch tomorrow."

Jungkook nodded, the pressure in the handle increasing, the clack of the cup being clenched by his teeth in a sip. Jimin knew he shouldn't have mentioned the hippies, but it was that ecclesiastical power. He knew that Jungkook hated the smell of pot, the long hair, and the colorful t-shirts, which reminded him of his father, previous father John.

God knows what Jungkook had to witness, the carbonic stench that emanated from that charred skeleton. The tongue pressed between two pieces of blackish board that used to be teeth. The fetid fat that ripped and curdled in the organs. There was not a day in which the poor man did not think about that before going to sleep and found himself face to face with the featureless face of his father, with the incinerated bowls pointed at the eyes of his son. Sitting in the chair under the cross that has sat on that wall since Jungkook's birth.

And Jungkook cried. He would close his eyes and every night, he would grab the skull and make it crunch under his thick hands. The body did not defend itself, it let its boy vent as if he were a sacred entity and knew that at the same time, the next day and every other day, he would appear again in that chair, and Jungkook would never be able to exhaust his anger against him.

"I have to go." It was the only thing he said leaving a ten dollar bill in the table. Park understood. "Go fetch a new hat from my house tomorrow, it's about time you threw that shit in the river."

"Hey."

Jungkook turned around. Jimin stopped smiling.

"Take it home in the morning, I'll make you breakfast before the rodeo."

Jeon looked at the floor with uneasy eyes.

"We'll see."

As he left the diner, the fresh wind conquered the father's soul. Nostalgia washed away his stony face and for the first time in years, he wanted to be a child again. Disappear with Jimin and sleep in the old hayfields of the abandoned Hillside.

He put on his black hat and started walking down the dark street, both hands in his pockets.

Today the smell of boiling fat was stronger than ever, the ghost of his father floated in the swirls of Rivermouth dust and, with it, the remains of the children who were later taken from that same cabin.

The white lace curtains let in the yellowish light of the first rays. The unmade bed, the smell of pine in the sheets.

In one corner of the bed, Park was dressing for the day, the muscles in his shoulder had swollen with the hours and makeshift cloths covered the open, bloody sores. Every so often, he hissed and swore under his breath.

The coffee began to gurgle in the kitchen as he finished putting on his boots, it was barely 6:30, but he already had the eggs frying and the beans hot in the pot. It seemed strange to him that his companion was not already sitting next to the window, Bible open and the first cigarette of the morning in his hand.

He turned off the stove just in time and poured himself a cup. Today he felt more domestic than ever, he had spent the night fixing every detail in the ranch, from the dust on his late mother's china to the rifles displayed in the hallway. To be frank, he spent the entire night cleaning every corner, maybe detailing every object in every room so that at the end of the weekend nothing would be missing, or the crash made him remember how little he's done in 28 damn years.

A porcelain jewelry box his mother had placed in one of the rooms was covered in a thin layer of gray dust; it was his mother's favorite piece. He hadn't opened it since the last time he stole a couple of pearls to buy his first rifle, the red stained his face with shame, and the only thing he could do as an apology was turn the house over with his own handkerchief and clean even the windows. He was surprised that the smell of lye and soap hadn't killed him.

Hearing one of his sheep bleating, he opened the window and decided to lower his chivalry a bit and smoke his first cigarette before Jungkook arrived. In the distance, he could see one of his ewes, fat and terribly woolly, walking slowly towards the barn. She was pregnant and Jimin knew that there were maybe 24 hours left, her skin was bulging, and her bleating was painful and whiny, she couldn't take it anymore.

The curtain caressed Jimin's face with the wind that was beginning to warm up, he took a drag of the cigarette and turned his body towards the kitchen. He felt a strange itch in his chest, the kind that bothers him when he senses a spirit floating near him. The greenish branches and the smell of sausages were mixed up with the subtle gallop of a skinny horse and the unexpected smell of myrrh.

He walked to the front door and opened it to find Jeon's promised hat. He sighed as he saw that not only was it one of his black deathly-looking hats, but he had also planted him at breakfast, sure to go see the grandmother of his very unexpected but predictable fiancée.

Long story short, Jimin had to eat four cowboys' breakfast and the whole pot of coffee, and the hat he would wear to the rodeo today didn't match his outfit at all. Dozing was the only thing he could do after loosening the buckle on his belt and putting the hat on his face.

The leather furniture was sinking under his body, the soft song of the river in the distance, and the birds pecking at his roof took him back to his childhood. Sleeping wherever he wanted without any purpose. He dreamed of the gallops of his first horse: Champ, a Tennesee Walking that had belonged to his grandfather, black as coal, glistening in the sun of his student days and running like a devil in a hurry. He dreamed that he was in public showing the animal to auction it.

"How do you encourage a horse to move forward, Sage?" A woman in the audience shouted.

"I don't know, kick his ass or something." Heavenly laughter coaxed him out of his lethargy.

His body sat on the furniture before he knew it, sweat covering his back, veins marked on the left side of his face. He ran with the unconscious weight of his body to the window, pushing the curtain aside with his finger until he saw the circular corral where his star horse, Arrow, was located, with a stranger on his back.

His fingers reached for the rifle lying on the rocking chair.

The blonde girl staggered on top of the animal while her thin fingers held his hair tightly. The horse's sleepy eyes moved from side to side, snorting as he searched for direction.

"Come on, horsie!" The girl snapped her teeth and laughed as the horse curved to one side. "Are you seeing, Hunter? It's moving."

Hunter was smiling foolishly, lying on the grass, his thin, wavy hair fluttering around his ears like a delicate flower. The dark glasses covered his wounded deer's eyes.

"You're such a cowgirl, my love." His voice was sarcastic.

And with a shot into the air, silence muted nature. He silenced the current, the clucking of the chickens that fluttered in the distance. Hunter, Sage, and Blondie turned to the cowboy who walked slowly across the grass towards them. A whistle from the stranger caused Arrow to raise his front paws until Blondie fell with a screech to the hard ground.

"Kitty!"

"Woah, cowboy." Jimin's silky voice approached, placing the buttplate of his rifle on his shoulder, aiming directly between Hunter's eyebrows. "Move slowly, ya wouldn't want to scare an alarmed man any further, now would ya?"

"I'm sorry, sir."

Blondie or Kitty or whatever her name was, rolled her red eyes.

"What the hell are you doing on my ranch?"

"Let's go, Hunter. I'm not going to talk to cornman." Sage was the tallest of them all, her shorts squeezed her thighs until they were overflowing, and her hair was long like a beach princess.

"Watch your fucking language around me, missy." Gritted Jimin removing the safety on the rifle.

"Sage, for once do you want to shut the fuck up."

Hunter raised his hands, sweat beginning to gather on his wrinkled forehead. His eyes shone as he heard the heels slowly approaching behind Jimin.

"Love." He exhaled.

"Is this part of southern charm, Mr. Park?" Coquettish, the dying accent of someone who once lived in these parts, daring, too much for her own good. But still, he lowered the gun, spitting on the ground.

When he turned around it was as if a pink burst of glitter and vanilla had slapped him from the stupor of sleep. The glasses were square and large, they covered almost her entire face, that was the first thing Jimin saw.

"Ma'am, are these your friends?"

"We are your visitors, cornman." Jimin ignored the Californian's irritating nasal whine as the sweet girl in front of him approached little by little with a smile. He felt the itch again, the one that senses a spirit floating nearby, this spirit was the nebulous memory of your face.

"Could you speak again, ma'am?"

"Sorry?" You laughed, and it was like birds were chirping in your throat. "You're Ari's son, right? I really liked the jams your grandmother used to make."

And oh, it couldn't be more obvious. It couldn't be more evident, not even because God had exploded your name in the sky. It was the stunning makeup and hair wax, it was the sequined heels and Patsy Cline songs reverberating from the old speakers. It was your name in the newspaper almost every week.

It was your sailor costume, the jam falling from your humiliated face, it was Jimin's hand caressing the bulge in his jeans that same night on top of the hay, imagining how you ate the strawberry jam that his mother made.

Now you called yourself Love, the name was as obvious as you were. Of course, your hippie name is Love.

"Miss Peaches '57." His voice was soft and trembling. Your eyes opened in surprise.

"Gods, I didn't even remember that title." You put your hand on your mouth, dressed as a Hollywood girl but your loving manners were indelible.

"Excuse me, where are my manners? Jimin Park." He raised his hand for you to place in yours, light and trusting. A chaste kiss to the back of your hand without stopping to see your eyes behind the orange glasses.

"You can call me Love."

"A sight to sore eyes, Love."

"Always." You responded. Jimin swallowed hard, trying to hide that nostalgic smile, 'pure in every way. With that same smile, he invited the four to go through their rooms, the tension subsiding fluidly with each laugh that came from your blessed lips.

It was as if you said one thing and the sun came a little closer, deorbiting out to your echoes, warming the room and Jimin's cheeks.

"Can you help me look for my suitcases?" You touched the shoulder of the cowboy who agreed and guided you to the front door. Like the good boy his mother raised, he opened the door for you, and outside stood a Packard Caribbean: long, yellow, and sleek as a sunflower.

"Nice ride."

"Thank you, it's from Hunter's dad. He gave it to him for his birthday. Isn't it a beauty?"

"Beautiful." His nose scrunched watching your stomach bulge down your cute little top, hard nipples contouring the pink fabric. You still were just good enough to eat.

Examining the car little by little, a detail began to emerge in his memory. Among them, glowing in the heat of that morning were the six digits from the night before: FH-6077.

When it came to religion Jimin didn't have many opinions.

As a kid his mother went to church every Sunday and took him. He saw the statues of Jesus suffering with indifferent eyes, he made his first communion only because they promised to give him a sip of wine with the host, he listened to the stories of death and plagues as if they were cartoons. 

God was a very complicated being, the more he thought about him, the heavier his body became.

To his surprise, God was nothing more than a sham, a wall between you and him. The host, that time Jungkook's father offered him, tasted like nothing and the wine went down his young throat tasteless.

"Body of Christ." You said, the music playing crisply on the record player Hunter had brought. The guitars repeated the same riff over and over, he hated it.

Jimin stuck his tongue out where you placed a small square of magazine paper no bigger than a fingernail. Jimin’s eyelashes fluttered, his knees throbbing as he knelt in front of you, your thumb brushing against his lips before sealing them.

"Amen," he sighed.

The host that you offered to his mortal body was as tasteless as the first, but only Jimin knew the euphoria that, like a hurricane's wind, announced the sweet path that awaited the cowboy.

Jimin was not a man who smoked more than five cigarettes a day, seven if it was a bad day. But your siren song in his ear convinced him to drown his morals in your dark waters, your hands took both sides of his tanned face and you threw him without warning to your sanctuary, towards the steepest rocks, to your glorious eyes. And damn, Park could drink the water from your pupils and die of poisoning.

"I missed you so much, I didn't know it until the moment I saw you." His lips said before thinking about it, narrow pupils lying on the grass next to you. You just laughed, it was the only thing you did and he just admired it.

At one point around noon, Jimin took the steering wheel of the Packard. Hunter, Sage, and Kitty were talking about a record, making strange sounds and asking the opinion of Jimin who was driving down the dusty road, making the engine roar so that you would scream next to him.

"Slow down!" You asked. He went faster, he didn't care.

The purring of the car made Jimin's body pulse, his mouth was dry, his arm no longer hurt, and his lips prayed the license plate of the car, over and over again.

I'm going to find it, he told himself. And when I find him I'm going to make them suffer, as the tips of the horse's bones pierced its dark fur, neighing over his own stupid words trying to calm the wounded animal.

Faster, find it.

Like oil, the green branches of summer became watery and greasy in his vision, and the dust was stalactites that bathed the car in yellow.

"Good luck, cowboy." Kitty approached Jimin, somehow he had made it to the rodeo. The horns announced his name on all four corners and people shouted his last name like the idol he was.

Sage and Kitty kissed his cheeks before he climbed on top of Arrow, the weight of his body creating echoes every time he moved.

There was no one in that audience who saw Jimin on his horse who was not surprised by the agility with which the rope rose above his head and created fluid circles to catch the rough calf that writhed with the knot in its thick neck.

Jungkook saw from a distance how the cowboy's smile was so bright, how he rejoiced at the applause and the roses that were thrown at him. His movements were vehement, fiery, and impulsive like a devil without fear of death.

The hat Jungkook had given him had a small, withered pink carnation on it. He stood up as quickly as he could at the end of the show, but before he could talk to him he only saw Arrow galloping thunderously in the distance, one girl was wearing the gifted hat, she grabbed Jimin's waist and with the other, she gave whiskey to the cowboy. The copper thread falls to his chest and settles on his strap.

"The sight of him today was incredible, I had never seen 'im like that." Billie smiled behind Jungkook, her cheeks red, eyes covered with a fine lust that she probably didn't even recognize.

The firmament rose high above his eyes, there was no star that Jimin didn't feel the overwhelming sound of fire burning in his ears. His body was sweating on the grass, and the smell of nicotine was strong after smoking two cigarettes to settle his reverberating body. The high had passed and his body was a used towel.

He doesn't remember much of what happened, but the remnants of the hallucinogen's burn made him understand that he had the damn time of his life. A laugh left his lips, embarrassed by how easy it was to convince him to do that stupid thing. What Jungkook told him was true: you haven't changed at all, cowboy.

"How's my favorite rodeo king?" The angel landed above his head, you were wearing his hat and a flowered dress.

"Roughened up, I guess." Just like after a good fuck.

"Don't get hooked or you'll end up like Hunter." You combed your hair as you walked around him. "He can't last a day without it or else he starts hitting Kitty."

"Why don't you report it?" Jimin stood following your steps. After looking around him for a few seconds, he realized that he was in the rodeo arena, darkness bathed the stadium. The blue moon showed your silhouette walking over the horseshoe tracks.

"Because Kitty doesn't want to, they are going to get married in a few months. He promised to stop doing drugs when they did. It wouldn't be good for a kid."

There was a lightness in the promises the Californians made to others, they nodded seriously, but you could see the consequences in their evasive gaze.

Jimin nodded.

"Are you always so quiet?"

He nodded again, and they both laughed.

"'M better when I'm not ten feet deep in an LSD hangover, I can assure that."

"Yes, but..." Your silhouette approached his body, and you carried the energy of ten bulls on you. Your immortal look, you haven't changed anything. "I asked if you're always this quiet."

Jimin inhaled as he understood your question.

"When I'm in the stadium I'm more vocal." He again evaded the answer you were looking for so much. His chest beat boldly like the time he saw you covered in strawberries and sugar.

"You were a star this afternoon, your eyes were shining."

"Always."

You raised your eyebrow and scoffed. "Sure thing, sir."

Blood surged to Park's neck, his eyelids drooping, his pride tainting his flirtation. Enough of the games.

"Run." He murmured, saliva pooling in his throat.

You frowned with your typical smile.

"What?"

"I asked you to run." His body suddenly lunged and you became alarmed, raising your hands. "As fast and as far from this stadium as you can."

His pupils didn't move, his soft smile was confident. Your skin grew cold with each step, at first slow and suspicious, the darkness of the large arena was intimidating because it felt like you were not moving forward.

You heard how an object created hollow, sharp sounds in the air. It was his lasso.

"No." You muttered, running even faster.

And swoosh, you fell to the ground. The rope squeezed your neck, leaving your body in mid-air, your tongue came out and your eyes bulged from the sudden lack of air; the hat fell away from you. Your body was no longer yours, your stupid fingers tried to loosen the knot, but it was too late.

The boots approached, collecting the rope that was left over around his arm. The silhouette became part of your blurred vision.

"Stand up."

"I. Can't." Your lips emulated as you writhed like a worm in the dust.

"Lemme' help ya'." Jimin snatched the rope for you to stand up, your knees moved up to him where his fingers loosened the knot a little. "Breathe, little girl. We don't want an accident."

Saliva came out of your mouth in streams and fell to the floor. Jimin grabbed your chin and wiped it.

"Don't make a mess now."

"I'm sorry, sir." And now you sounded as helpless and stupid as Hunter did this morning. It was adorable.

You were afraid to look up, your eyes trained on the hat a few meters away from both of you.

"Tell me, pumpkin. How can two ugly sons of bitches like your parents have such a beautiful girl?" He laughed, dragging the rope to where his hat was, you walked behind him with careless steps. With a couple of blows, he blew the dust off his hat and looked at you again, searching for an answer you didn't even know how to articulate or if you should.

His hand wrapped the rope around his fingers until he had you as close as possible, the smell of tobacco hammered your temples, and your eyelids wrinkled to try to wake up. 

Great was the surprise when you felt a pair of dry lips resting on yours, his tongue daringly passed over your lips so that you would open, his moans softening your fear.

His saliva was bitter and lovely, his tongue running flat across the outside of your mouth until it reached your chin and the tip of your nose.

"Let's see, open your mouth, sugar. Don't be shy."

You obeyed as the knot tightened around your neck, moaning as his lips sucked on the tip of your tongue and bit your bottom lip.

"God have mercy." He sighed, squeezing your chin with his hand. "How can you taste so damn sweet."

You moaned as you felt his teeth nibble gently at your neck, his fingers piling the fabric of your dress around his fingers.

“Mm,” you squealed, walking away even when it didn’t suit you. "Can't."

"It's a good thing I didn't ask." Jimin brought you closer, caressing your neck again.

"I'm on my days." Shame sealing your thoughts, in your eyes the hope that just the thought of seeing the blood would disgust him.

Jimin raised his eyebrows and slowly kissed you again, this time with the softness of an apology.

"A cowboy doesn't mind a little dirt." He murmured, touching the soaked towel that covered your underwear, two fingers pushed aside and the burning of your pussy collided with his cold fingers drawing a moan from your hurt throat.

"A good cowboy loves to get dirty." He smiled, removing the two soaked fingers from the red viscosity to put it in his mouth with a frown on his eyebrows. "Mm." He grunted, swallowing slowly.

You were speechless, stupefied. Who was this demon?

"Have you ever ridden a bull before?" His blood-tainted lips said, the idea shocking your senses.

You denied it, and God knows that was the stupidest answer you could give.

The animal began to make a mechanical noise beneath both of them, the leather surface pressed your thighs against the mechanical bull that began to move slowly.

Jimin's bestial eyes did not take off from you, the last of the bottle of whiskey went down his throat in long gulps and pushed the glass into the distance causing a roar.

Your legs were above his defined thighs, the bleeding wound between your legs dirtying his jeans but the cowboy didn't seem to mind. The dress already forgotten outside the stadium playing area.

"We'll go slowly because it's your first time on top." His consideration was so minimal, considering the situation. But you were a woman whose details annihilated your logic.

To the front and sides and then a gentle turn, this is how the animal began. Jimin moved his center with the animal, the bulge in his pants rubbing against your pussy.

One of his hands approached the dripping hole and with four fingers collected the blood until it painted his hand.

“Ah,” he requested, sticking his tongue out and you followed suit. His fingers got smeared on his tongue and cheeks until they reached his neck. With his tongue he passed over his lips, like wine he drank you, like sweet he possessed you and rejoiced.

His tongue entered your space again, the strange and bitter taste of your own blood while with his fingers he removed the zipper of his jeans until he showed that he was not wearing underwear underneath him, his tall and throbbing cock moved under his fist.

"Climb on, doll. You're wet enough for me." He laughed taking your body to sit on top of him. You hugged him as tight as you could as the mechanical animal began to move faster.

"We're going to fall." You whimpered. "Hurts".

"Shh, shh. Let me medicate you, it'll stop hurtin' when I dick you properly." One spank and his fingers squeezed the skin of your ass tightly. "You just have to move with me."

To the front, to the sides, two turns. You just had to keep your legs elevated a little, Jimin's cock sliding smoothly in and out with each movement.

"Now you're getting it. Fuck." Jimin hissed, squeezing your waist with his forearm. "You're quite the cowgirl, Love."

You moaned, pressing your forehead to his. His eyes absorbed every curve, from your breasts to your red-painted thighs. You were an angel, a myth that devours men. Your songs of pleasure echoing on the aluzinc walls.

The animal began to attack, abrupt and deeper.

"Does it hurt?" You asked between moans, watching the fabrics covering Jimin's arm begin to dye again. Jimin denied, cuntdrunk.

You removed the knot of cloth from the wound on Jimin's arm, running your thin fingers over the bleeding muscle. Park hissed, and the walls of your pussy tightened.

More, you wanted more.

Your lips sucked on the sores until you felt the metallic taste in your throat, Jimin pressed your body against yours. One turn, two forwards, three up. Your poor body trembled with the desire for the game to end but your pussy still wanted your walls to expand until Jimin's cock was molded inside you forever.

"If I knew you were such a slut." Park grabbed your hair to pull you away from his arm.

"If I knew cowboys fucked so well." The bloody smile of both of you was devilishly erotic.

The bull stopped suddenly, you looked at the man standing on the other side of you, rifle in hand, hot tears burning his cheeks.

"Jungkook? Jeon!" It was the last thing you heard before you fell face first onto the inflated floor, blood flowing warm and your eyelids falling softly.

[whencyclopedia]

Bible

The Bible takes its name from the Latin Biblia ('book' or 'books') which comes from the Greek Ta Biblia ('the books') traced to the Phoenician port city of Gebal, known as Byblos to the Greeks. Writing became associated with Byblos as an exporter of papyrus (used in writing) and the Greek name for papyrus was bublos.

Although the Bible is often considered a single, cohesive, work, it is actually an anthology of ancient writings by many different authors over many centuries, which were collected in a single book. The Bible contains works of poetry, religious-themed narratives, philosophical musings such as The Book of Ecclesiastes, epistles, and the apocalyptic masterpiece known as The Book of Revelation.

The common thread in all these collected works is the existence of an all-powerful deity who is the creator of the universe and has an interest in the personal lives and final fate of human beings. The books of the Christian Bible were arranged in the sequence one finds them in today to tell the story of the creation of the world by a supreme deity, the fall of man from paradise, and humanity's redemption by the Son of God but these books were not written in that sequence nor would the original authors of the Old Testament works have had that particular story in mind.

The Bible of Judaism (collected and authorized by c. 3rd century BCE) contains the Torah (the first five books of the Bible) and the Tanakh (the stories of the judges and prophets) and makes no mention of Jesus Christ. The God of the Bible in these works is the God of Judaism - a single all-powerful deity - and, prior to the appropriation of Hebrew scriptures by early Christianity, the stories which made up the Bible told the story of God's care for and intervention in the affairs of the Israelites of the Middle East.

Structure of the Bible

In Judaism, the scriptures are called the Tanakh and are recognized as comprising 24 books divided into three categories: The Pentateuch (or Teachings of the Five Books of Moses), The Prophets, and The Writings. Christianity, which appropriated the Tanakh and claimed it as their own early theological history, call it the Old Testament. Early Christian writers, years after the probable date of the death of Jesus, penned the gospels and The Book of Acts. Paul the Apostle wrote most of the epistles which make up the 27 books of the Christian New Testament and whose theology informs the gospels. The Book of Revelation, attributed to John of Patmos, is the last book of the Christian Bible.

It is difficult to accurately date the composition of the books which make up the Bible, but scholars generally agree that the Pentateuch dates to the 10th and 6th centuries BCE and that the Tanakh was fixed as scripture well before the 1st century CE. The books of the Christian New Testament were composed between 60-110 CE (the Gospels), 45-130 CE (the Epistles), and 68-100 (The Book of the Revelation of St. John). Many people of the ancient world, and even today, believe the Bible to have been written by God. It is held to be the bestselling book in history and has influenced religious thought worldwide for centuries.

Continue reading...

[latinare]

Hi! A while ago you mentioned that you use ecclesiastical pronunciation and not classical. I have a vague understanding of the distinction, but I've always wondered how much of a difference between the two there are. Like if someone learns ecclesiastical latin, would they be unable to read Cicero? Or if someone learns classical latin would they be unable to understand [famous example of medieval latin]? (I don't know any)

On those lines, when I pull up Google translate for Latin, which one am I getting?

I love this question!

So, pronunciation is strictly about how the words are spoken aloud. The same Latin text can be pronounced ecclesiastically or classically: for instance, the famous veni, vidi, vici in ecclesiastical pronunciation would sound something like "vay nee vee dee vee chee", and with classical pronunciation more like "way nee wee dee wee kee"--but the written form doesn't change. It's not hard to switch between them; it would be a bit like me (Canadian) listening to this--slightly unfamiliar to the ear, but easy enough to understand.

There are differences in written Latin too. Many spelling variations, especially early on, plus a lot of words that only came into use after Latin was technically a dead language, in the Middle Ages or later. I'd compare this to the sort of change English has undergone since Shakespeare's day: potentially confusing at first, but very intelligible once you're familiar with the rules.

The classical period does have some highly stylized forms, especially poetry, that may be daunting if you're more used to Medieval Latin; they are to me, at least.

P.S. You might not be getting real Latin from Google Translate at all; it seems to be pretty bad at it.

[bluecatwriter]

There's a long history of Dracula adaptations clearly made by people who have never read the book.

I think in this fine tradition you specifically should adapt the Beetle without reading it

You are SO right, anon. I am going to direct the movie version of The Beetle upon which all other adaptations will be based! It will full of iconic quotes that are not in the book and I will butcher all the themes and characters!

Initial thoughts:

-Robert Holt will be played by some no-name actor who is putting his entire heart, soul and mind into the performance. The Brick Guy is also played by this guy. The first part of the movie is filmed in a very straightforward period-drama style, with the exception of a Carpet Scene, which is filmed in soft focus like a "flashback to dead wife" scene.

-Robert will also of course be referred to as "Bobert" and wear jorts. Alas, he does not get a GAP sweatshirt or a slushie in this version because there are no Ordinary Solicitors to save him.

-The Beetle will be portrayed as just a beetle of varying sizes, and they will be CGI. Specifically the really low-budget bad CGI of the early 2000s. This is very important for my artistic vision.

-Paul Lessingham will also be CGI.

-The cat will be a real cat, and will be voiced by the guy who voiced Garfield from the 1990s Garfield and Friends cartoon.

-I am open to casting suggestions for Sydney Atherton, although again, I suspect that it would be best to forgo celebrities and cast a guy who has played the comic-relief guy in Oklahoma at community theater one too many times. I will change nothing about Sydney Atherton's atrocities, and will in fact probably add a few more, but all the other characters will say how manly and wonderful he is while he's like beating someone to death with a cricket bat in the background. The movie critics will read a lot into this directing choice.

-I will make Marjorie and Dora both girlbosses™ by giving each of them a sword and a multi-level marketing business. They will contribute nothing to the plot and I will be offended if people think they are bland characters.

-I don't really know the other characters, so they will be played by a gender-inclusive rotating cast, and everyone will keep mixing up their names. The goal is for it to be impossible to keep track of who's doing what at all times.

-The cat still dies but goes to Cat Heaven and there's a whole musical dream sequence (inspired by 1930s cartoons and musical numbers from Gene Kelly movies) about the cat having a really great time in Cat Heaven.

-During some mundane scene with this rotating cast of characters and CGI Paul Lessingham, Bobert will dramatically die of starvation in the background. Nobody notices.

-The train crash will be on-screen instead of off, and there will be a very long monologue from the train themself as they dramatically fall off a broken bridge (this will be a practical effect with a full-sized train). This monologue will be delivered by the same guy who plays the cat, and if the actor isn't crying real tears by the end, we will redo the take until we get it. There will be a lot of montaging and soft focus. We will give the train a tragic backstory, but the train is also kind of accepting of their fate, you know? The book of Ecclesiastes will probably be mentioned somewhere in here.

-I will be diverging from canon by having Sydney Atherton die in the train crash. Not from the train, though, he chokes on a shrimp cocktail moments before the train hits the ground.

-Credits roll

-Epilogue scene: Sydney Atherton ends up in Cat Heaven and all the cats jump on him like the hyenas at the end of Lion King and there's just a giant wriggling ball of cats. Bobert is there too, drinking a slushie in the background. Hard cut to black.

[ecclesiasticallatinfest]

Join us!

In our first ever Our Flag Means Non-English Fanworks Fest!

Rolls off the tongue, doesn't it.

As we all know, the Our Flag Means Death fandom community is spread across the globe (Awesome map set up by the RenewAsACrew team and filled in by the fans!)

So how about we celebrate how international we are and focus on non-English languages with a fanworks fest that will run from the 7th of February 2024 until the 15th of February!

And by fanworks, I mean:

Fanfic

Fanart/fancomics

Fanvids

Meta on translation/subtitling/dubbing choices!

Schedule and rules under the Read More:

Schedule:

7th & 8th of February: Write fic in a non-English language OR translate a fic into a non-English language. (If you want to do the latter and translate someone else's fic, check the fic author's profile to see how they feel about translations!)

9th & 10th of February: Make fanart or a fan comic in a non-English language.

11 & 12th of February: Make an OFMD fanvid to a non-English language song. (Hard mode: Don't use Con's French version of La Vie En Rose. Bonus points if you make a supercut of all the different dubs of Oh Daddy for some multilingual awkwardness)

13th & 14th of February: Write meta on the translation choices made when it comes to dubbing and subbing to a non-English language you speak, OR write about meta about the use of non-English in the show.

For example, here is some meta from a while ago on the German dub and how it handles the formal and informal form of address, and here's one that does the same with French.

15th of February: Catch-up day and also AO3's International Fanworks Day!

This is both a catch-up day for posting fanworks mentioned above OR catching up on commenting on those fanworks! And obviously you can also comment on non-English fanworks that were posted outside of the fest!

Rules:

All characters and pairings welcome.

All ratings welcome.

All non-English languages welcome - AO3 supports the following languages.

Please post your fanwork to the AO3 Collection (if possible and if you like) to make it easy for everyone to see the fanworks made for the event.

Please use either Ecclesiastical Latin Fest and/or EcclesiasticalLatinFest if you post about it on Tumblr or Twitter or elsewhere to make it easy for everyone to see the fanworks made for the event.

You can use a few sentences of English in your fic here and there, same as English fics often have Jim saying some words or sentences in Spanish.

You can start posting your fanwork when it is the correct day in your timezone.

You can participate if you're a native English speaker, so break out your best secondary school/Duolingo German/French/Spanish! There's no foreign language practise like reading and writing fic.

Don't be a dick.

[bupia]

prompts 39, 45, and 3 w/ copia🤭 <3 tysm ily

MIRROR SEX

"I'll take care of you." "Will you let me be your first?" "Is this okay?"

There's a smut under the cut, +18 only, please.

(AFAB!Reader: Copia is a VAMPIRE on this one; mentions of blood; blood drinking; dirty talk; Italian swearing; fingering; unprotected sex; breeding)

Available on AO3

Day 19 | Day 21

Today, it fell upon your shoulders to undertake the responsibility of tidying up Cardinal Copia's quarters. While not the most glamorous task within the Ministry, it was a duty that inevitably needed to be fulfilled, and today, you were the chosen one.

Armed with a bucket and a mop, you ventured towards his quarters, entrusted with these humble tools, a key, and a rather peculiar gaze from the fellow siblings.

You approached the door to Cardinal Copia's quarters, taking a deep breath before inserting the key and turning the lock. The door creaked open, revealing a room with dim lighting and ornate, strange decor. It was a space that reflected the Cardinal's unique taste.

You stepped inside, glancing around at the antique furniture and a dark tapestries adorning the walls, with a silly poster of a cat beside it. The room was a bit cluttered, and dust had settled on various surfaces. You couldn't help but wonder how long this room haven't been cleaned.

With determination, you placed the bucket and mop in the corner and began the task of cleaning. As you moved about the room, dusting and mopping, you couldn't shake the feeling that you were being watched. It was an eerie sensation, as if the very walls had eyes. But you brushed it off as mere paranoia and continued with your work.

"Are you the one they sent today?" Cardinal Copia's voice echoed in your ears.

Startled, you spun around, frantically scanning the room from side to side in search of the source of the unexpected voice. You had assumed you would be alone in this task.

"Cardinal, you surprised me," you said, trying to regain your composure. "Yes, I was sent to clean your quarters today."

You responded to him, though uncertainty lingered about the origin of his voice. You continued to search, your eyes darting around the dimly lit room, which offered enough obscurity for someone to conceal themselves in the shadowy corners. As you scanned the room, your eyes eventually landed on a figure emerging from one of the dimly lit corners. It was indeed Cardinal Copia, dressed in his signature ecclesiastical red attire.

"Don't let me stop you. Carry on with your duties."

"Cardinal Copia," you greeted him with a respectful nod, your heart still racing from the initial surprise. "I apologize for not noticing your presence earlier. I was just beginning to clean."

He smiled faintly and approached you, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "No need to apologize, topino. I enjoy a bit of mystery and intrigue now and then."

You couldn't help but feel a shiver run down your spine at his words, and you wondered what exactly he meant by "mystery and intrigue."

"I'll do my best to be thorough with my cleaning," you replied, trying to maintain your composure.

Copia watched you for a moment before retreating to a nearby chair, seemingly content to observe your work. You continued your cleaning duties, feeling his eyes on you as you moved about the room.

The way Cardinal Copia's gaze bore into you began to make you feel a tad uneasy. While there was a certain allure in having the Cardinal's attention directed your way, it was also an unusual occurrence to see him outside of his quarters, and his intense scrutiny was beginning to grate on your nerves.

"Cardinal," you spoke, turning to squarely face him. "Is there something you require?"

"Me?"

"Yes," you continued, resting the mop within the bucket. "You've been fixated on me, and I couldn't help but wonder if you had something to say or needed assistance with something."

"Sometimes, I find that watching is just as pleasurable as partaking," he said, his voice low and sultry.

Your cheeks flushed as you considered his implications. The room felt charged with an electric tension, and you realized that the Cardinal was making no effort to hide his desires.

"I see," you replied, your voice quivering slightly. "I'll continue with my cleaning, then."

You returned to your duties, more aware than ever of his watchful eyes on you, as you tried to maintain your composure in the face of his audacious advances. Suddenly, you felt Cardinal Copia's arm enveloping you from behind, drawing you tightly against his chest. You froze in place, his grasp unyielding. He inhaled deeply as he positioned his face near your neck, his arm securing you firmly. His nose brushed against your skin, then his lips, and something sharp made contact, followed by the gentle caress of his tongue.

"Do you know why they sent you here today?" he asked.

"N-No..." you stammered.

"Because your Cardinal is hungry," he whispered seductively into your ear. "But don't worry, I'll take care of you."

"I-I... I should finish my cleaning," you stammered, your voice quivering, even as you made no attempt to break free from his grasp.

"Don't worry about it, someone will clean up after I'm finished with you," he whispered, his tone laced with mischief.

Your heart raced as he whispered those words into your ear, and you could feel the sharp sensation grazing your skin again. Despite the fear that coursed through you, there was an undeniable allure to the dangerous situation, as if Cardinal Copia's dark desires had awakened something within you. Your breaths quickened, and your body responded to his closeness in ways you hadn't expected. A mixture of fear and curiosity flooding your senses. You knew this was wrong, but a part of you couldn't deny the thrilling attraction to the forbidden. Your body felt trapped in the web of desire and danger that Cardinal Copia had spun around you.

He tightened his grip on you, and you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. The sharpness grazed your neck once again, and he inhaled deeply, savoring your scent. You couldn't help but tremble, caught between the urge to escape and the inexplicable pull of his presence.

"Excuse me," he whispered.

And then, you felt it, the sharp yearning at your neck, and the realization dawned on you; Cardinal Copia was a vampire.

The sensation was both exhilarating and terrifying. Your heart raced, pounding in your chest as his fangs grazed your skin. You couldn't help but shiver as he leaned in, his breath hot against your neck, his lips parting. As his fangs pierced your skin, a mixture of pain and pleasure shot through your body. Your hands clung to his arms, and you let out a soft, involuntary moan. Cardinal Copia's lips locked onto your neck, his tongue flicking over the wound, lapping up your blood. It was an intense, intimate act, and you found yourself torn between the fear of the unknown and the strange allure of his touch.

His hold on your waist gradually slackened as he withdrew from your neck. Cardinal Copia's tongue flicked across the bite mark, and his hands settled on the sides of your body. He kissed the mark, sending shivers coursing through you, and you whimpered softly. His hands explored your form, caressing every contour as if he were savoring your essence, worshipping your body. You closed your eyes and inhaled deeply, his face pressed against your neck, his tongue licking you again, prompting another soft whimper. He repeated the act, as if waiting or testing your reaction, and you couldn't help but moan softly.

"You have an exquisite taste," he whispered. "Your body radiates warmth, teeming with life... Your scent is intoxicating, your heat is driving me wild," he continued to murmur, his hands continuing their journey across your body. "And I can feel it, especially between your legs. What a sinful delight."

"Cardinal, please," you whispered, torn between the need to push him away and the overwhelming desire that made you want to pull him closer.

"Have you ever been touched, topino?" Cardinal Copia inquired, his voice a sultry whisper.

"N-No..." you confessed, your voice quivering with anticipation.

Your breaths quickened, and you couldn't help but respond to his caresses. When his fingers traced down to between your legs, you gasped, your body trembling with longing.

"Can I touch you here?" he asked.

"Yes... Please..." you breathed, your desire palpable in your response.

You moaned softly as he began to explore your heat above your underwear. Your body writhed with pleasure, and you clung to him, lost in the whirlwind of sensations he was unleashing. His fingers danced skillfully, igniting every nerve ending. Your moans grew louder, and your desire intensified with each passing second.

"Is this okay?" Cardinal Copia inquired, seeking your consent as he continued.

"Cardinal... Oh, Cardinal," you gasped, your voice trembling with need. "Yes... Yes..."

"Look at you," he murmured. "Look at yourself in the mirror."

Your eyes turned to the mirror in front of you, revealing only your reflection. Cardinal Copia had no reflection, and you saw yourself with a visage of pleasure etched across your face. As you gazed at your reflection, you turned your eyes to see him standing behind you, a wide grin on his face. He slid his fingers inside your underwear, causing you to gasp, and you obediently shifted your gaze back to the mirror as he had instructed.

"Molto bene," he praised you.

You remained transfixed by your reflection, watching as Cardinal Copia continued to pleasure you, his fingers expertly exploring your wetness. The sight of your own face, twisted with ecstasy in the mirror, only intensified your arousal.

"Cardinal," you moaned, "Please, don't stop..."

"I won't," he promised, "Not until you are satisfied."

His words sending a shiver coursing through your body. You whimpered, your hips moving in rhythm with his hand's ministrations. A mischievous chuckle escaped his lips, his fingers never ceasing their tantalizing dance. You continued to whimper, your hips moving restlessly against his skillful touch.

"Oh, Cardinal..." you groaned, your eyes fixed on the mirror.

His fingers quickened their pace, and your breaths came in rapid gasps. Lost in the overwhelming sensation, your body writhed as his skilled fingers caressed your clit. You hissed and bent forward, pressing your hands against the walls on either side of the mirror. With his other hand, Cardinal Copia lifted your habit, reaching down to pull your underwear down to your knees. His fingers then found their way to your entrance, teasing and circling it.

You couldn't help but look back at him above your shoulder, his eyes fixed on your reflection with a devilish glint. Your body felt hot and needy as his fingers continued their tantalizing dance. Your hands gripped the mirror's edges, your knuckles turning white with the pressure, as you tried to hold yourself up.

"Please... Inside..." you breathed.

Cardinal Copia didn't need further encouragement. His fingers slipped inside your aching core, and a wave of pleasure surged through your body. You moaned loudly, your legs trembling as he expertly pumped his fingers in and out of you. Every thrust seemed to send electric shocks of pleasure through your entire being, and you couldn't contain your desire.

"Yes, yes, Cardinal... Yes...!" you moaned softly.

Your reflection in the mirror was a vision of pure lust and ecstasy. Your eyes were heavy-lidded, your lips parted in a sultry moan, and your body writhed with unbridled passion. Cardinal Copia watched your reflection with rapt attention, a wicked grin playing on his lips

"Oh... Cardinal... That feels so good," you moaned.

"Does it now?" Cardinal Copia's voice was seductive and filled with amusement as he continued to pleasure you.

His fingers worked their magic inside you, and his thumb rubbed circles over your swollen clit, intensifying your arousal. He continued to pump his fingers in and out of you, increasing the tempo, and your body writhed in pleasure. Your breathing became erratic, and your moans grew louder. You couldn't take your eyes off your reflection in the mirror, where your lust-filled expression mirrored the intense sensations building within you.

"Cardinal... Oh, Satan..." you groaned. "Please, fuck me... fuck me...!"

"You want me to fuck you, topino?" he asked, his voice filled with desire. "Will you let me be your first?"

"Yes, please, I need you," you begged. "Please, just fuck me."

Cardinal Copia grinned with a look of satisfaction in the mirror. He pulled his fingers out of you and you whined in frustration. He chuckled at your reaction, stepping back for a moment to undo his pants. Then, he pressed himself against your wet folds, his hardness throbbing as it met your hot, waiting entrance.

"Are you sure?" he teased.

"Yes," you whispered softly.

You spread your legs a little further, arching your back, pushing your hips against him, grinding yourself against his length. He teased you with the tip of his length against your folds before finally thrusting into you, filling you completely.

"Ah!" you exclaimed, feeling a bit of discomfort as you adjusted to him inside you.

"Can I move?" Cardinal Copia inquired.

"Yes," you whispered, giving him permission to continue.

Cardinal Copia held onto your hips as he began to move inside you. His thrusts were slowly, but powerful and rhythmic, each one sending waves of pleasure through your body. You moaned and whimpered, your body responding to his every move.

"Cazzo!" he exclaimed. "I've just discovered something even more enticing than your blood." He lowered his body on top of yours. "What a delectably tight pussy you have."

"Ah... Ah! Cardinal... Yes..." you purred, lost in the feeling of the moment.

He held you firmly, his hot breath caressing your neck as his thrusts grew more intense. Gasps and moans filled the room as his length plunged deeply into you with each motion. Your arousal had made you slick, allowing him to glide effortlessly inside you.

"Merda, how can a pussy be that good?" Cardinal Copia questioned, his voice strained with desire. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into your flesh as he continued to thrust deeply.

As Cardinal Copia's words of praise washed over you, your body quivered with delight. You clung to him, feeling your pleasure build with every relentless thrust. Your walls tightened around his length as he thrust his member in and out of you with long, deep strokes.

"How can your pussy be that tight and wet?" he mused, his breath hot against your neck. His hips moved with a relentless rhythm, each thrust making you gasp.

He continued to move within you, his thrusts unyielding, and the ecstasy he was driving you toward grew more intense with every passing moment. Your cries of pleasure filled the room, mingling with his own fervent groans.

"Is this because of me, topino?" he inquired, his voice husky.

"Yes... yes, yes, yes, yes!" you gasped in response, your body arching in pleasure, meeting his every thrust with fervor.

You straightened up your body, your back pressed against him, and you began to meet each of his thrusts with one of your own. The incredible sensations overwhelmed you, and you surrendered completely to the passionate rhythm, savoring the feeling of his length penetrating you. Each stroke brought you both closer to the edge, and you could sense him growing even harder inside you with every movement. Your walls clenched tightly around him, intensifying the pleasure for both of you.

"Cardi...Ah!" you whispered. "You're so big! It feels so good!"

His lips descended to your neck, kissing you with fervor as he devoured your skin hungrily. His hot breath on your neck sent delicious shivers through your body, intensifying the pleasure. His hands shifted from your hips to your thighs, gripping them firmly, causing you to clench around him once again.

"Giuro su Satana... Your pussy feels even better than your blood," he moaned in your ear. "Satana blessed you with this, and gifted me with you today." His words dripped with desire and reverence for the moment.

He pounded into you relentlessly, the intensity of his thrusts driving you both closer to the edge. Your bodies moved in perfect unison, a symphony of passion that echoed through the room. His moans filled your ears, spurring you on even more.

"Mmm... Cardinal..." you moaned, your voice laced with lust. "Fuck me... Fuck me hard!"

Cardinal Copia eagerly complied, his thrusts becoming faster and more forceful. You responded by pushing back against him, your breathless moans filling the room. Your gaze remained locked on the mirror, where you could see the pleasure etched across your face, your body undulating with each passionate encounter. You yearned to witness his reflection too, to see your bodies entwined as his movements grew more urgent, the rhythmic sound of your bodies meeting echoing throughout the room.

"Yes, Cardinal... Oh Satan, yes!" you cried out in ecstasy. "You're going to make me cum... I'm going to cum..." The intense pleasure building within you was reaching its peak, and you could hardly contain yourself.

Your moans grew louder and more urgent as Cardinal Copia's relentless thrusts pushed you to the brink of ecstasy. The pleasure surged through your body, and you could feel yourself teetering on the edge, ready to tumble into the abyss of release. His hands tightened on your hips, guiding your movements to match his rhythm as he relentlessly drove into you, each stroke sending you closer to the climax you so desperately craved.

"I'm going to make you cum now, sì?" he said. "And when you do, I want you to look into the mirror."

Your heart raced in anticipation as his hand reached down to your clit, his fingers working it fervently while he continued to pound into you with unrestrained abandon. The combined sensations of his thrusts and his skillful touch sent you hurtling toward a powerful climax. He grunted, and suddenly you felt his length throbbing inside you.

"I- Cazzo! I'm going to cum," he growled, relinquishing your clit and concentrating solely on thrusting into you.

He gripped your hips tightly as his own orgasm overtook him, filling you with his hot release. The pulsating waves of pleasure from his climax and the rhythmic movements of his fingers against your clit sent you into a mind-shattering orgasm. Your vision blurred, and your body convulsed with ecstasy. You both moaned in unison as you rode out the waves of pleasure together.

Copia's hand gently cupped your chin, guiding your gaze to the mirror. You watched your entire body tremble with pleasure, your face a picture of ecstasy, until the sensation reached its climax, leaving you feeling utterly relaxed and weak in the knees. Copia held you securely in his arms, gradually lowering you to a more comfortable position, his gentle hand soothing your flushed face.

"Are you okay?" he asked, a concerned tone in his voice.

You nodded and managed a smile, meeting his soft gaze as he looked at you with tenderness, his concern reflecting in his eyes. Gently, he lifted you up and carried you to his bed, laying you down there and sitting beside you.

"Mi dispiace, I guess I was a little too rough and drank a certain amount of your blood," he expressed with remorse.

"T-That's... Okay," you replied weakly.

He offered a gentle smile. "Rest now."

You nodded and closed your eyes slowly, taking deep breaths to regain your strength.

"I'll be here when you wake up," he whispered softly, his presence a comforting reassurance as you drifted into a well-deserved slumber.

[txttletale]

What do you think of state atheism? You rightly mentioned the poison of Christian theology, and of course religious institutions serve as a moral distraction to the proletariat too… do you think it would be more justified in a Marxist state to have something more like what was done under Stalin or Mao (obv not in exactly the same way) where there’s a state secularism?

like many theoretical questions, the correct answer was already arrived at a century ago by one vladimir ilyich

Religion must be declared a private affair. In these words socialists usually express their attitude towards religion. But the meaning of these words should be accurately defined to prevent any misunderstanding. We demand that religion be held a private affair so far as the state is concerned. But by no means can we consider religion a private affair so far as our Party is concerned. Religion must be of no concern to the state, and religious societies must have no connection with governmental authority. Everyone must be absolutely free to profess any religion he pleases, or no religion whatever, i.e., to be an atheist, which every socialist is, as a rule. Discrimination among citizens on account of their religious convictions is wholly intolerable. Even the bare mention of a citizen’s religion in official documents should unquestionably be eliminated. No subsidies should be granted to the established church nor state allowances made to ecclesiastical and religious societies. These should become absolutely free associations of like-minded citizens, associations independent of the state.

—Lenin, Socialism & Religion

[givemearmstopraywith]

how do i reconcile being religious (catholic specifically) while also being pro-choice? I’m sorry if this sounds like a bait question, it’s not i promise! But recently i’ve been grappling with my faith again and trying to immerse myself with god again and i feel a bit….dissonant i guess? over having strong opinions on abortion and then on the other hand being religious. i don’t feel grief about being pro-choice, it’s something i believe proudly and w integrity. but it seems like i am in between two opposing great forces which demand of me to choose one over the other? do you have any kind words on how i could possibly reconcile with these? thank you x

i just finished writing research close to this topic, specifically on the problem of mary's consent. which of course comes back to issue of bodily autonomy which is central to questions of abortion. and mary is a problem: theology can neither acknowledge the problem of rape nor accept a consenting woman. to not consent is to be raped, to have control over your body, to say "yes," to consent, is to show a yearning for sexual pleasure, for oneness, and to innate acknowledge that a woman has control over her body before Go does. women must be both and neither: that is why we have the virgin mary. according to contemporary understandings of consent, mary simply could not consent: effectively God has autonomy over her body before she does.

the historical mary is a woman: she is jewish, poor, young, unmarried, and pregnant, and is the ultimate embodiment of liberation theology’s “preferential option for the poor.” but she is absolutely absent of any sexuality. when marcella althaus-reid states that poverty is a bodily and sexual matter, mary cannot be included in this statement. mary is never indecent: her existence is pinioned on the concept of her decency. she is the “right” version of all women, the perfect mate for the god-man: she is submissive, and receives him without becoming distracted by the matter of her self-determination. mary is never overcome by a profane hunger. theology requires this ultimate model of femininity to measure against all other women.

elisabeth schussler fiorenza calls attention to the danger to ecclesiastical and political authorities if mary is rendered as a self-determining single mother: a single woman who is “god-empowered, god-protected” and “filled with the holy spirit who exalts the violated and makes the fruit of illegitimacy holy.” if mary was rendered as excitedly or joyfully consenting to the act of impregnation by god, she would not suit the dominant narrative of women’s sexuality in theology: her joy can only be vocalised after she has already submitted to the masculine-penetrative god-man.

a woman who leans into the oneness and pleasure of union with god because it is pleasurable, out of the locus of her body and her sense of self-determination rather than a sense of duty or submission, has no defined place in christian theology. she can only be appropriated and co-opted by dominant patriarchal narratives, talked over, and silenced. a mary who found pleasure and joy in her impregnation, who readily and excitedly agreed to the divine directive in full knowledge of its implications, implies a femininity which cannot be controlled.

i mention mary because mary is the nexus of most catholic arguments about abortion, whether she is specifically named or not. she is the excuse used to block anyone regarded as "receptive" to patriarchy from having control of their body. i personally read the lucan narrative as mary consenting: let what you have said be done to me. this is consent, though we may debate whether or not it was informed or coerced. but i cannot imagine that christ would have come into the world through an unwilling mother. nor does God force belief on those who do not consent to believe: only people, only dogma, forces itself on the unconsenting. so in this way i can say that God cannot exist to us without consent. violation is a human creation: it is humans who violate God at the crucifixion. as such God cannot exist to us without bodily autonymy, without allowing us choice- it is the human creation of fascism which denies choice, and i hold that dimension of denial absolutely separate from God, because it is not part of God. God may be used to excuse it, but God cannot deny the natural choice and autonomy of his creation without also violating his own existence.

as for catholicism, it is old and it loves augustine. the idea that abortion is wrong is a fairly new invention in the cahtolic church and really only comes from fears that all babies are destined to hell. medieval catholicism saw life as beginning at the "quickening," which could mean anything but was seen as the first movement of the child in the womb. quickening was seen as the moment of ensoulment, and church views of abortion dictated that after ensoulment, a baby would be condemned if not baptized. it is this bizarre and exceptionally antiquated view that is the foundation of contemporary abortion debates: but even contemporary ideas of "human at conception" are ludicrous in comparison to how medieval catholicism understood when a person became a person separate from the person of the one bearing it. christianity dispelled with the judaic idea that the mother's life was more important than the fetus: it is typical of christianity to dispel of its own humanity.

effectively what i'm saying is that things change. the church changes: we find ourselves in unfortunate epochs, but the catholic church is prone to evolution and i appreciate that. but i don't feel, in any way, that being pro-choice and being catholic are at odds with each other. your morality is simply beyond where the magisterium can currently gather itself, and that's okay. the church has always been like that and probably always will be. it is the body of believers, those in the grassroots, those out in the world, who matter the most: over and above canon law, since all law (unlike God) is subject to editing and change. maybe that's a bit controversial: i don't believe it is. jesus didn't live in the temple, he lived on the street. he loved his religion, but he also knew that certain aspects did more harm then good. and maybe he felt conflicted over his love for his faith and his conviction about humanity. you walk where he treads: be proud of that.

[beauty-and-passion]

Do you believe there is any particular reason as to why women in Euclydia are not lines like they are in flatland? Like, Bill's mom is clearly a triangle too. Also why are women lines in flatland anyway what is that supposed to mean

I don't really remember if there was a specific reason why Women in Flatland are Lines - and if someone knows of a specific Victorian reason or a reason Abbott himself mentioned, then feel free to correct me.

Personally, I think Women are Lines because lines, half-lines and segments are all part of the Euclidean geometry. And since Abbott was talking about a 2D geometric society, he wanted to include that part of geometry too.

For the sake of the story itself, Women as Lines is a great choice: A Square, the protagonist of Flatland, spends a lot of time talking about Women and explains how their shape, despite being considered lesser than multilateral shapes like Squares, Pentagon, Polygons or Circles, is way, way more dangerous than theirs.

A Flatland Woman can potentially kill any shape: since their ends are pointy, they are basically invisible to a 2D creature's eye. So, if a Woman stands still, a Shape can potentially bump into her without noticing and, since she's so pointy, she can easily pierce through the shape (especially if it's a multilateral one) and kill it without any problem.

That's why Flatland Women have to constantly waggle their ends and signal their presence through vocalizations called "Peace-cry": because otherwise they would be invisible killers.

Also, they're subjugated to men because... well, of course they're not as mighty and multilateral as the Circles, who are the highest authority in this world. And since this world is based on the number of sides and regularity, Women can never be on the same level as Circles.

Speaking of that, I would like to cite this part regarding the Colour Bill, a historical event mentioned in the book: this bill proposed that every shape should be painted of different colors to identify them (and replace therefore the Recognition by Sight). But when talking about Women and Priest (aka Circles), the bill suggested they would be painted the same way:

"When it was objected that Priests and Women had no sides, they retorted that Nature and Expediency concurred in dictating that the front half of every human being (that is to say, the half containing his eye and mouth) should be distinguishable from his hinder half. They therefore brought before a general and extraordinary Assembly of all the States of Flatland a Bill proposing that in every Woman the half containing the eye and mouth should be coloured red, and the other half green. The Priests were to be painted in the same way, red being applied to that semicircle in which the eye and mouth formed the middle point; while the other or hinder semicircle was to be coloured green."

And yes, it's extremely ironic that the female sex, considered so ignorant and inferior compared to the high Priests, was put on their same level - if not above.

Of course this was all a satire that aimed to expose the awful situation of women in Victorian society. And I love how Abbott decided to do it: by implying women are much more powerful than the authoritarian figures - so powerful that if the Colour Bill passed, they would've easily gained status, power and knowledge, three things the authorities are taking away from them:

"At home they (Women) might hear political and ecclesiastical secrets intended not for them but for their husbands and brothers, and might even issue commands in the name of a priestly Circle; out of doors the striking combination of red and green, without addition of any other colours, would be sure to lead the common people into endless mistakes, and the Women would gain whatever the Circles lost, in the deference of the passers by."

Having said that... I really don't know why Euclydia's women are not Lines as well. Maybe it was a way to imply that, since this society is apparently more "evolved" compared to Flatland's, women and men have the same rights and social status. So there's no need to put them into a specific category and make a satire.

Also, this choice emphasizes the playful, "childish" vibe of this world: like a kid can put together two triangles and imagine they are a couple, so Bill's parents are both triangles because they have the same shape. It fits more with what we talked about in the previous ask, about Euclydia's colorful, less serious world/society.

Sure, there may be rules we're not aware of - maybe only Triangles can have Triangles as offspring in Euclydia - but for now, I think that's why women in Euclydia are shapes and not lines:

women and men have the same rights (so no need to build a satire like in Flatland)

the playful nature implied in this world

what Bill said in the AMA years ago, about his dimension having 14 billion genders: with so many genders, enclosing women into a specific shape would've been weird, I suppose

[imagining-in-the-margins]

Stardust (S.R.)

Summary: Reader lost someone very important to them. Spencer helps them through a particularly dark moment of grief. Request: could you do a fluff comfort fic for reader who just lost her mom & is going through the grieving process?

A/N: I wrote part of this before I suffered a particularly difficult personal loss. Reading it back over gave me a lot of comfort, and I hope it can do the same for you. This is also one of my entries for my Comfort Fic Challenge! Couple: Spencer Reid/GN!Reader Category: Angst/Comfort Content Warning: Mentions death, biblical references Word Count: 900

MASTERLIST

The world is louder than it used to be. It is never more obvious to you than when you stand at the base of plot of land that is meant to make you feel better somehow. The trees in the distance are swaying with bitter wind, and something about the raucous sound makes your chest hurt.

It sounds like laughter, you think. Laughter, but worse.

As the day stretches on, there is little comfort to be found. The sun that kept you warm begins to fade away, and you realize that it is part of the human condition to only appreciate something after it’s gone.

You stay there, anyway. You sit in the discomfort like waiting will somehow make it better.

Eventually, he finds you.

Spencer Reid’s footsteps are hesitant and gentle, but they are loud. He can tell the sound is unwelcome, so he says nothing. Instead, he takes your hand and sits with you in the deafening silence.

It isn’t until the stars come out that he speaks.

“I might not be particularly religious,” he starts, and you can’t help but scoff.

From the corner of crying eyes, you see him flash a saturnine smile. He pauses, questions whether he should continue.

He does.

“… but there is a line from Ecclesiastes that I've always liked.”

He continues. Speaking quietly yet he is still heard over the sad laughter of the trees.

“‘All are of the dust, and all turn to dust again.’”

You haven’t said a word, but you feel your lungs begging for breath. Your throat closes around the lump his words have created inside of you. You are choking as you bring your joined hands to your face. You press the back of his hand against tear-stained cheeks. He catches each tear without worry about the weight.

“It’s alright to be sad,” he assures you. “In fact, I think it’s the most human thing we can do.”

You are so close to breaking. This time the noise is coming from inside you. You can hear worn muscle thumping against aching bones.

You are human. You are alive. You are loud, too loud to hear the silence they left behind.

Spencer feels you slipping, but he doesn’t let go. You don’t let go either. Instead, you hold his hand even harder than before. Implicitly, you beg him to fill the silence, to distract you from the beat of a broken heart.

“I personally choose to believe that there is something special in the stars,” he answers. “I like to think that energy is never completely lost. It’s just transformed into something… different.”

You want to say thank you, but when you open your mouth, your lip quivers too hard to make words. A stray sob breaks free and you let go of his hand.

Spencer doesn’t leave you, though. As you cover your face with your hands, he wraps his arms around you.

You mouth the words ‘Thank you’ against his chest. You are grateful he doesn’t ask you what you’re thanking him for because you don’t know the answer.

Thank you for being there, for being warm, for providing the sound of a heart that is still alive.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, “I’m here.”

After a moment of quiet, not silence, your hearts slow and become steady. In that moment of warmth, you manage to smile.

He feels it. He feels the life returning to you after a moment of grief. That overwhelming feeling ebbs with each breath.

The next time you exhale, he asks, “You know what else I like?”

It’s the first time you’ve spoken since he got there, and all you can manage is to mutter, “What?”

“You.”

You laugh. As your chest starts to fill, the extra breath turns to tears and chuckles. You sniffle as you squeeze fistfuls of his shirt.

Before the laughter can get too far away, he continues.

“I am so grateful that out of the whole cosmos, my dust found your dust.”

You believe him.

“Me too,” you say.

You think the same about the person whose dust has settled. You think back to the earliest memories instead of the last. You try to picture their smile made out of stars.

You open your eyes and turn your head for a better view. In the distance, millions of loved ones look down on you. The past shimmers against the backdrop of what we once thought to be a void.

It is not empty. It is fuller than it’s ever been.

“It’s not goodbye forever,” he says. “Just until the stars call us home again.”

You are not empty. That love that you had given is reflected with the warmth of each small sun. Their twinkling lights look like something lighter than laughter.

Perhaps the world hasn’t gotten louder, you think. Perhaps you were just listening for the wrong sounds.

Thump, thump, thump, sounds Spencer’s heart. You wish it could be louder, you wish it could fill every atom of your being so you can remember that you are not yet alone.

You won’t ever be alone as long as there are stars in the sky.

“Until then, you are here, and I am here,” he reminds you.

He is happy to see you smile, but he still looks away to guide you back to the millions of souls shining back down.

“And we have a whole universe looking down on us.”

You smile at the stars.

The stars smile back.

Thank you for reading.

[jennelikejennay]

There's an experience a lot of aspec people have where they do like the idea of sex, just not of themselves participating in it. So they get off from porn, erotica, voyeurism, etc but they don't want to be touched sexually themselves. Everything is better second-hand.

I could go on and on about this: about what the appeal is, about why it's so frequently taken as problematic or fetishizing, about how a person who feels this way (cough, me) can have sex in ways that are satisfying to them and the people they love. I even wrote a fic about it (although normally, I'm writing fics because of it, not about it).

But today I just want to talk about the name.

See I mentioned it and somebody said "oh that's called aegosexual."

A: Greek for not

Ego: both Latin and Greek for I

Sexual: latinate suffix meaning, well, sexual. Generally used with reference to attraction.

Not-me-sexual.

I hate it SO MUCH. Not as an aspec person so much as as a classicist. Who is coining these things and have they even been peer-reviewed?!

First off, the a- Greek prefix becomes an- before a vowel, such as in anemia and anarchy. Putting a+e together makes a diphthong ae which is pronounced differently in ecclesiastical Latin (ā), classical Latin (ī), American English (usually ā) and British English (often ē). So faced with aegosexual I simply don't know how to pronounce it. Is this one of those words, like Latinx or m/m, that we readily use online but suddenly hang fire when we have to say it out loud? A word that works in only one medium is nonfunctional. So somebody better decide how we're all saying it or we'll be having a gif/gif debate forever.

Second, there's a general rule that we use Greek roots with other Greek roots and Latin with Latin. Hence why we say astronomy and not stellonomy, stethoscope and not thorascope. I will admit that we break this rule all the time: homosexual rather than similisexual or homoerotic, automobile rather than automaton or ipsemobile. Still, all things being equal I would prefer nonegosexual or perhaps sinegosexual (without-me-sex) just for the sake of smoothness. I'm discounting anegoerotic because of the two vowels in a row problem.

But then I start thinking, why are we defining this thing by what it's not? I don't mean I'm not attracted to myself (I think I'm cute, transporter clones please call me). I don't mean I will grudgingly accept sex so long as it doesn't involve me. I mean I actively am into sex that doesn't involve me. I tried calling it third-person sexuality but in English we can't compound with English roots really.

So let's go back to the drawing board!

The Greek pronouns for self and others are taken: autosexual means you're into yourself, allosexual means you're into other people (as opposed to ace). But the Latin ones are all wide open, and Latin is what I want, to go with sexual.

Latin has tons and tons of pronouns. SO MANY PRONOUNS. Nonbinary Romans would be looking at an absolute banquet. Along with our usual me, you, it, etc, we have a raft of pronouns which work well for distinguishing different subjects in their long-ass sentences. So you have hic, this, but you also have ipse, That, you know, The One, Himself, Her Upstairs. It's mildly emphatic. Then you have iste, which means something like "that over by you," but sometimes also kind of "that one, ugh." When a sentence begins Iste Caesar you know the author isn't a huge fan of Caesar. Like saying "your Caesar, not mine." But it could be more like istud poculum, hey can you pass that cup, the cup over by you? All of these are of course available in all three genders, two numbers, and five cases, giving us 30 forms to learn for each. Yay!

The one I want for this purpose is ille. It's the most general kind of that. Rather than "this by me" and "that by you," ille is "that over there, not near either of us."

So what about illesexual? Attracted to something over there in which neither you nor I am involved at all?

illesexual

What do you think, is it too late to make this happen?