#Or maybe he was preaching fire and brimstone?

[mx-monster]

I have a lot of Horny Thoughts about the incubus. It’s such a cliche and so overdone but it’s just so hot. MM, corruption/virginity kink, a leetle dubcon, nsfw maybe one day it’ll become a full story but for now just enjoy my horny rambling

The son of a fire and brimstone preacher has been homeschooled all his life, with little interaction with anyone outside the church his father preaches at.

The church he’ll one day preach at.

He has a girlfriend but they’re waiting until marriage to kiss. He doesn’t understand why his peers are having such a hard time abstaining from the sins of the flesh. It’s easy for him. He’s never even watched porn. And aside from night time expulsions, he’s never had a proper orgasm.

He’s exactly everything he’s supposed to be. Free from sin. Free from failure.

Until the dreams start.

He feels weight on his chest. Something was laying on top of him. He blinked his eyes open only to have his breath stolen by a pair of brilliant gold eyes. The strangeness of the eyes didn’t stop with the color of the iris. Where the whites of the eyes were supposed to be, there was inky black. And instead of roundness the pupils were thin, vertical slits.

The eyes of a snake.

Of a demon.

He was in his bed with a demon sprawled out on top of him.

It had to be a demon. The creature had blue skin and a pair of horns that sprouted from its long, inky black hair. And yet, despite its alieness, he could not look away from the sharp angles and planes of the creatures face. So enraptured by the creature, he didn’t notice it begin to grind its sex into his own clothed cock until a wicked heat sparked deep in his belly.

“I see you’ve noticed my gift, sweet one,” the demon purred. And God that voice, “I’ve been blessed with two cocks. Do they feel good?”

Yes, they did, he loathed to admit. Bolts of electric pleasure sparked underneath his skin with every roll of the demons hips.

It was just a dream he could have this in his dreams

The sound of his own wrecked whimper broke him out of his lust induced haze.

“Get off me,” he snarled, scrambling out from underneath the demon. As the demon sat back on its haunches, the covers fell away revealing the demon in all its naked glory. Blue skin that stretched over lean muscle. Elaborate gold tattoos adorned the demons arms, torso, and legs. He traced the intricate patterns with his eyes until his gaze fell to the two thick cocks that stood at attention between its muscular thighs.

The demon gave him a pacifying, nearly condescending, smile.

“Don’t worry, sweet one. I have no plans on forcing myself on you. That defeats the purpose. I plan on taking my time with you. To truly savor you. A meal like you is rare nowadays,” the demon reached out a clawed hand, tracing the preachers sons jaw with a long, black talon, “I’ll take you in my mouth first. And then you’ll take mine into yours. I’ll press your face into the pillow while rut into that virginal hole of yours and then I’ll turn you over and lavish myself on your cock until I’ve had my fill. I’ll have you in front of God and you’ll cry tears of ecstasy. But not until you want it. Until you’re crying for it.”

“I’ll never want it.” The preachers son growled through clenched teeth. Heart beating wildly with rage and perverse desire.

The demon’s golden gaze flitted down to the tent in his sweat pants. A grin bloomed on it’s face, revealing a mouth full of pointed teeth, “we’ll see about that.”

[vampirepuppygirl]

You know, I grew up catholic and never experienced catholic guilt, and it still kind of confuses me

When I went to mass, the readings and the gospel were always just life lessons or stories to make you think, and what it wanted you to think about was usually humility and piety and loyalty and faith and stuff like that

Faith formation was mostly about learning the history of the church and important stories that you should remember, plus prayer memorization

I don't ever actually remember a time where they were specifically like "you must feel guilty about this" or "everyone by default deserves to go to hell and you must constantly prostrate before god to be deemed worthy"

It was "everyone sins and everyone drifts away from god and that's okay because he will never abandon you"

It was "Jesus died for your sins. To liberate you from them so you're no longer beholden to the old way, so you're no longer beholden to original sin, so you can have a clean slate without ceaseless penance"

The sin forgiveness cycle that Catholics kind of get pulled into was always described to me as a liberating cycle. It gives you the freedom to sin and the freedom to make mistakes as you bumble through the blind chaos of life without worrying about perfection or damnation

Even when I went to confession it wasn't just a blanket "don't do it again" it was "think about why that is a sin and let that experience teach you something."

If I know anything about catholics it's that they love rules and they love the pursuit of knowledge, I once had a very long conversation with a priest about why a certain rule was a rule and why a certain sin was a sin and it was a lot more complicated than just "god said so," even if I can't remember the specifics anymore

I don't know, maybe it was my specific diocese or I've just been around a lot of liberal priests or something, but I even had someone tell me basically word for word "As long as you follow the ten commandments and use the seven virtues as a framework to guide you, you're set. Use confession to scrub away the sins you can't avoid and that's it. Nobody is without sin so just do your best and that's all anyone can ask of you."

Primarily, what growing up catholic taught me was just the importance of love

Love your family, love your neighbor, love a stranger, love the Earth, love nature, and fundamentally love yourself. And forgive yourself. And be patient with yourself. Because I was taught that everyone sins and that's okay.

And that's okay.

I was taught that seeking absolution and forgiveness is meant to steer you in the right direction, yes for the ultimate goal of heaven, which was defined to me as Oneness with God. And hell was defined to me not as a multi-tiered demon filled demiplane of fire and brimstone and ice, but simply the state of separation from god.

But it wasn't just about salvation it was also about making the Earth we live in now a better place and they are rules specifically to facilitate good communication and good relationships with other people and yourself, and obviously God (but whatever.) It was always basically let God absolve you of your guilt but don't force yourself to feel guilty if you make a mistake.

I don't really consider myself catholic anymore, mostly because of other people, catholics and protestants who use their religion as a tool to spread hateful rhetoric and become their own personal left hand of God, instead of using their religion to spread love and patience and understanding and forgiveness and tolerance and all of the things that they actually fucking preach. Why y'all throwing stones huh? Y'all ain't without sin. Literally nobody is. That's the point.

But I like what I was taught. I use what I was taught a lot. Technically even if I don't consider myself catholic I still am. I have been confirmed, I could waltz right into a catholic church confess my sins and my doubts and have a long conversation with a priest and boom blank slate once more. There would be penance hoops I would have to jump through but that's literally what happens with every confession, so still

But that's always what confused me about Catholic guilt like

What were you taught?

[amendehonorable]

( hugh jackman + cis man  + he/him + fifty ) crossing the gates of Jackson is ALLAN KIRK! our records show us they are a GUNSMITH, known to be LOYAL AND METICULOUS, yet SELF DESTRUCTIVE AND HEADSTRONG at this new life. many around town said they remember them of STARCHED AND IRONED DENIM; STALE MARLBOROS BETWEEN YELLOWING TEETH; THE FEELING OF HAVING NOTHING LEFT TO LOSE; THE COLD BITE OF AUTUMN CREEPING BETWEEN CARHARTTS AND FLANNELS, may your survival be long, and your death be swift.

YOU'RE A PREACHER'S SON, so you're pious, aren't you? but you walk into church and you sweat like a sinner ... why is that? i think it's because your father was disappointed in you from the second he laid eyes on you. you had so much to live up to and it had always seemed too big, too out of reach. it's impossible to never live up to your potential if you never try to begin with. instead, you spent the most formative years skipping class with who your father would call 'folks from the wrong side of the tracks', dropping acid and stealing liquor. half of your childhood was spent behind bars with the other miscreant kids from your county—and the only thing you learned was how to do was get into more trouble.

ON THE DAY OF YOUR SEVENTEENTH BIRTHDAY, your father dragged you by the ear to the local military recruitment center and demanded you enlist into the army. his voice, that same voice you heard preaching fire and brimstone, telling you 'you're a weak, weak boy, allan. you're not right. you need fixin.' you need to be whipped into shape.' he was right. it took you half your life to realize this.

ONE SECOND, YOU WERE A BOY, and the next? a man with a gun. three years of your life are blocked from memory. you remember them only in fragments during night terrors. the men in the marines taught you very little, but they did teach you how to drink. maybe a little too much. you use alcohol to cope to this day. it'll kill you sooner, you hope.

JUST BEFORE SHIT HIT THE FAN, you met a woman who made drink feel trivial. you were soothed by the delicate pitch of her voice and the stories she wove with her mind. you fell fast and hard because you've never felt anything so beautiful before. nine months of bliss—before the world began it's quick process into rot and decay. she was on vacation with her friends in the foothills, due back in a day. the perimeters of the county blocked all entry or exit under military control and you knew because they sent you the orders. ordered to point guns at the people you knew, ordered to follow orders. and what did you do? you up and left. abandoned everything you've ever known, all because you were convinced you had nothing else to live for.

MONTHS BECAME YEARS and years became decades and you forgot the sound of her voice. you think you remember, but it never echos in your brain quite right. time in the wasteland hardened and jaded you beyond comprehension. you killed for the clothes off people's back and you wish you could say it haunts you, but you suffocate it with drink. sometimes, when you feel the guilt start to creep and raise the hair on the back of your neck, you pray. run your fingers along a bible you've carried for your journey and, like a man weakened, you pray.

[bigsoftmarshmallow]

Lol! Hole-y! XD

Puns are always fun!

While I can understand that... I dunno, I guess that there's just... something... about a small congregation all singing together from the hymnal, where it's mostly just our voices with maybe one or two instruments that just feels... right...

With the big churches & the projectors & stuff, I've noticed that it feels more like a performance. And while, yes, the congregation gets to sing there, too. It feels like the band is the focus.

But when it's a little church with a wooden podium. When the ladies there feel free to smile at you & joke with you & give you gifts for your graduation because they're proud of you. When you feel safe asking questions of the pastor because yeah, he's a bit hard of hearing, but he's welcoming & loves God so much & legitimately wants to help.

When the pastor doesn't only preach the fire & brimstone, but also the overwhelming love that God has for us.

In this way, it's more evenly balanced & more honest, which in my experience, is more honest than if it's nothing but fire & brimstone or nothing but all the love.

When it's small & cozy. I guess that it all just feels more personal.

Now, I'm not saying that I dislike the music in those mega churches, but I guess that I just feel like... something gets inadvertently lost.

But then, maybe that's just my personal preference? When I'd gone to a couple of the bigger churches, I guess that it all just came across as too theatrical. It felt like it lost a bit of its soul.

So because of personal experiences with the Christian religion and churches, I get very bad anxiety attacks being inside of church. The only thing that calms me while inside of one, is music.

I adore hymns and songs sang from choirs or the people of the church, and I adore music sang from instruments and bands. I will agree that small churches provide less anxiety to me, less people, feels like less judgement, its more cozy.

IN MY OPINION (This isn't a universal experience I know) There are not enough small churches in my opinion, and that the large churches do not provide the actual *something* of a religious experience. While I have felt a sensation of something in a small church I once went to with a friend, I have never felt it in a more commercial church. I fully agree that the community of a smaller church makes it a home and brings people together.

(Of course, not all small churches are like this. I know some are corrupt like the big ones, judgement because its a small town or the pastor believes more brimstone than forgiveness. To those who deal with those sorts of churches, I am so sorry you have to do so. I hope those who do follow the Christian faith find a church perfect for you and your style of worship!)

If you don't mind me asking, Relig Anon, how many churches did you go through until you found the one that spoke to you? Were you raised in the church or did you have to hunt to peck?

To clarify to any reading: I am an Omnist. Omnism is the belief in all religions. I also claim to be an Agnostic Omnist, because I have no truths nor facts of which are real/fake/lied about/stretched/etc so I give my belief and respect to all of them. I was raised Nondenominational Christian, then went through the stages of Atheist, Agnostic, Wiccan, Pagan, Agnostic, Omnist, to my now claimed stage of Agnostic Omnist. I love to learn about all religions and experiences, and though I do not go to a Church or Temple myself, I do love to hear about them.

[cybermoonmoon]

Life goes on going. I'll be 74 next month. I sometimes think of possible futures. Me above at 90 maybe 100. My father's side is seriously long lived. My Uncle John Baptiste lived to either 96 or 101. This depending on which faction of the family you're in. I want to be like uncle.

His life was hard. He suffered from drink and overcame it. 'Became an ordained minister for the last 40 years of his life. He gave one of his amazing Netflix worthy fire, and brimstone sermons the Sunday before his passed. Yeah, I'll take Uncle's example.

I always had the calling. That is to yak on da radio or preach in some religion. I chose radio. It was the free pizza. Did that for centuries. These days I'd be happy running some Hippie Buddha pacifist store front temple toy store, and comic book shop. This in some post-apocalypse urban hell somewhere.

I'd have a few cats of the robot sort. They don't shed or crap all over the place. That, and you can shut 'em off and put them in a box when you get fed up with them. This so one can get on with all that contradictory holy guy jazz. ...it's a plan. All welcome, bring funny hats and cake.

[jakewienhold]

And as it is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment http://bible.cc/hebrews/9-27.htm

And whosoever was not found written in the book of life was cast into the lake of fire https://biblehub.com/revelation/20-15.htm

And the smoke of their torment ascends up for ever and ever: and they have no rest day nor night https://biblehub.com/revelation/14-11.htm

For the preaching of the cross is to them that perish foolishness; but unto us which are saved it is the power of God. For it is written, I will destroy the wisdom of the wise, and will bring to nothing the understanding of the prudent http://bible.cc/1_corinthians/1-18.htm

The Lord is not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance http://bible.cc/2_peter/3-9.htm

For the invisible things of him from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even his eternal power and Godhead; so that they are without excuse: Because that, when they knew God, they glorified him not as God, neither were thankful; but became vain in their imaginations, and their foolish heart was darkened http://bible.cc/romans/1-20.htm

Jesus said unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man comes unto the Father, but by me http://bible.cc/john/14-6.htm

I said therefore to you, that you shall die in your sins: for if you believe not that I am he, you shall die in your sins http://bible.cc/john/8-24.htm

Gethsemane to Golgotha: Path to the Cross: https://www.holylandsite.com/jesus-path-to-the-cross

The fool has said in his heart, There is no God. They are corrupt, they have done abominable works, there is none that does good http://bible.cc/psalms/14-1.htm

Evolutionary Racism: https://www.conservapedia.com/Evolutionary_racism

Atheism and Mass Murder: https://www.conservapedia.com/Atheism_and_Mass_Murder

Spotlighting the Lies, the Agenda and the irrationality of Militant Atheism: https://atheismexposed.tripod.com/

Noah’s Flood Questions and Answers: https://creation.com/noahs-flood-questions-and-answers

Noah's Ark & the Great Flood: https://www.holylandsite.com/noah-ark-great-flood

But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake which burns with fire and brimstone: which is the second death http://bible.cc/revelation/21-8.htm

[salemsaberhxgen]

re; chilling adventures of sabrina bio

  so this will mainly be following the chilling adventures of sabrina horror comic books since it provides a lot more detail in regards to salem’s origin story but i will include/change elements to make it show canon compliant. of course keep in mind that we know very little from the actual show so i take a lot of creative liberty in regards to his personality as well as exact details. this maybe be updated as we learn more about him from the new comics when they pick up after the series finale. the main difference from show canon being that, as in the comics, salem can talk. as seen in his introductory scene ( link to a clip here ), he talks to sabrina. i can only assume this is a telepathic connection which is characteristic of witches & their familiars, but he isn’t a typical familiar. in the comics familiars are often demons such as in the case of salem being a goblin, but in either case ( as far as i’m concerned ), salem has the ability to speak. i chose to ignore the possibility that being killed & resurrected as a goblin would have taken away his ability to speak but that’s just my opinion. now onto the actual bio:

  trigger warnings: severe animal abuse, detailed descriptions of violence & death, age gap ( 9 years ), pregnancy/unwanted baby/implied abortion/implied child abuse, hangings, mention of disease ( the black plague ), i think that’s all but yea it’s pretty fucked up. if you need the cliffnotes but are uncomfortable reading, this is a-okay, just let me know & i can give you the rundown minus the triggering content.

in the coas timeline, salem was a powerful warlock who pissed off an even more powerful witch who then turned him into a goblin. he can take whatever form he wants but chooses a black cat.

while samuel possessed some powers, no one would consider him a proper warlock. with no training, he stood no match against ANYTHING magic. he didn’t know how to use what he had, nor even how much he had. so he went through life as a mortal, able to perform only the simplest of what he assumed to be spells, though all were of his own creation.

it was the winter of 1692 when samuel’s ship ( the black pearl ) arrived at boston harbor. many of the men on board were sick with the plague or had already died from it. but by some miracle ( or perhaps some magic ), samuel was untouched & he made his way ashore. prospects for a sailor were quite limited in boston, but he’d heard a tip that there might be work in salem village. found himself stopped at the outskirts of the village, near the edge of a forest. it was there he came upon a farmer cutting down his corn; a farmer named john proctor.

then on, from dawn to dusk, he worked the fields with john. at the end of the day, samuel then had dinner with john’s family; his wife elizabeth, his sons benjamin & william. & his servantgirl abigail williams. but samuel's hubris was greater than was safe & he wanted more.

he & abigail became… close. weekly visits became nightly. except on nights of the full moon. nights of the full moon, he slept alone in the barn with the other animals. on sundays they all went to mass at the reverend parris’ church. the reverend preached fire & brimstone but samuel actually liked going to services. he liked to people watch, he liked seeing the people who lived in the town. but especially so, he liked to see the girls abigail gossiped with after mass. & one in particular, mercy lewis.

as time passed, samuel grew closer to the protor family. then, one day, abigail came to him in the dead of night.

❝ samuel, i am with child. will you marry me? please? ❞ she begged him.

❝ abby i have nothing… i can give you nothing… ❞ was all the answer he could give.

❝ then you’ve ruined me & i am lost. ❞

& for a long time, neither of them said anything after that… what would they have said? the next day he waited for the shoe to drop, for some outburst or accusation but none happened. at dinner that night, nothing happened. after dinner, he went to her. if she hadn’t said anything yet, there was still a chance…

❝ why haven’t you told them yet? john or his icy wife? ❞

❝ why should i tell? there is nothing they can do for me. ❞

❝ you should run away then, now while there’s still time… find a remote place where you can have the child. & then do with it as you will. ❞ while his words offered agency, the implication was that what she will do with it would involve taking its life in one way or another.

❝ … you… you would have be abandon the child… our child… or.. or kill it…? ❞

❝ children die every day, abigail. many of them in childbirth. ❞

❝ i curse you, samuel. i curse the day you came here… ❞

but even then, she said nothing to the proctors. but their seeming closeness had not gone unseen.

❝ do you fancy her then? elizabeth says you do. she wonders if you two will marry some day… ❞ john finallly inquires.

❝ i am too young, john. & abigail… would never have me. ❞

abby comes to find to find samuel in the barn not 2 days later.

❝ i did go to see my aunt — but not to new hampshire. to these woods where my aunti nesther lives. ❞

❝ what.. what kind of woman lives in the woods? ❞

but i knew what kind. i’d heard the stories. & suddenly, they were all around me… the girls of salem village. the witches in the woods.

❝ i gave you a chance, samuel… you ruined me but i gave you a chance. you made our dark lord very angry, samuel. he wanted blood, samuel, your blood. so i gave it to him. & his dark highness was pleased. ❞

❝ wh-what blood? how come you to have my blood? ❞ 

❝ i had it samuel, inside me. ❞

❝ our baby..? … you gave him our babe…? ❞

❝ children die every day, you said… you did not want it, you said… it were a boy, by the by… but still, he ate it…  ❞

❝ monster. witch. devil’s whore. ❞

❝ better his whore than yours. & better our son die than live to meet the woard who is his father. now… … let us discuss the matter of punishment. you trifled with me, samuel… i was a plaything to you, a poppet, a ball of string… you would have had me drown our child as someone would a basket of kittens… ❞

❝ make him one. ❞

❝ what was that, auntie nesther? ❞

❝ every witch needs a familiar. you’re old enough now. make him a cat & let him eat mice. ❞

❝ hmmm, a cat… it’s more than you deserve… …you villain…  you shall goe intell ane catt… with sorrow, & sych… & a black shott… … & i shall goe in the devil’s name… … ay while i come home againe… ❞

he walked into those woods a man named samuel… & was carried out of them a cat with no name. at least as a cat, & a witch’s familiar to boot, he had a hope of surviving…

now abigail was a clever girl, no doubt, but she was so focused on her wicked games, she missed the early warning signs… the troubles in salem village as they came to be known, started not long after his transformation… doubt & paranoia ruled the day, as accusations of witchcraft spread across the down, like rats carrying the plague.

some of the people hung were, indeed, witches. others like john proctor were merely caught in the gears of some infernal machine… either way, his mistress abigail was taking no chances. she plotted her escape with mercy lewis… while samuel made his. 

as he was leaving the village, he’d found himself pelted by rocks, some young boys no older than 9 or 10 had likely come to see the hanging place where the corpses of witches & mortals alike were twisting in the wind… but instead of staring after the dead bodies, they found it more interesting to add to the death toll. it happened so quick, the time between the first rock slingshotted to his side & the decent of three boys crowding him with kicks & stomps to drive him into the dirt. the pain wracked his body but with one final piercingly painful kick to his skull he lost conciousness.

but much to his surprise, he awoke. he felt different, like something had fundamentally changed in his person. then, he realised he was in no pain. there was blood pooled & dried into the dirt where he’d been laying moments ago, but he, himself, was in one piece without a single scratch. 

then came a deep & comanding voice, once samuel turned to face its origin, the words seen leaving the lips of a goat or ram, anthropomorphised & bipedal. hugely towering over samuel’s new & revived cat form.

❝ this wretched place will always be remembered for the butchery done to my wives & daughters… my brothers & sons… from this moment forth, thou shalet be named for this place, so thoust never forgets what happens when witches are betrayed… speak, slave. ❞

❝ speak what?  ❞ samuel says, suddenly able talk in his human voice again. ❝ why can i speak, devil? what have you planned for me? ❞

❝ you will serve witches & you speak to serve better. & one day, thoust will serve a girl who is both less than a witch & more… she will need your protection, slave… ❞

❝ & then will i be human again? ❞

❝ perhaps… there is a path through the woods… follow it, salem, & remember who spared your life… remember who is your master now…  ❞

defend her, the devil had said, her life will depend on it. & now, here salem is, four hundred years later, working with sabrina & the spinsters… not eating mice.

note: once “samuel” had been killed, satan revived him as a goblin, not just a cat. what exactly this means for him will be posted at some point but all that’s really important is what i had said above the cut; what his new goblin form looks like, that he can still speak, & also that he can turn into any animal ( other than a human in order to better serve as a familiar ).

[youshouldhavepaidattentiondad]

Crushes and Coming Out

Written for @needybeast and @whotfamitho because they both drew bi Sweetbers

Ao3

“It’s spring, it shouldn’t be this hot,” Barry complains as they file out of the dugout after practice wraps up.

Sam silently agrees with him. Carrying his bat across his shoulders, he asks, “Anybody wanna go out for ice cream after we hit the showers? My treat.”

A chorus of agreements rings out amongst the group. Grinning, Sam turns to double check with Duke, only for his voice to catch in his throat.

Duke’s head tilts back as he pours the rest of his bottle of water on his head. Sam could have dealt with that if Duke was still wearing a shirt. Instead, he watches droplets of water race down Duke’s tanned, toned chest.

“You okay, Sweets?” Duke’s twangy drawl does something to Sam that he can’t put in words. He finally raises his eyes to meet Duke’s bright hazel ones, watches him brush his damp, dark curls off his forehead.

Sam can’t remember how to fucking breathe. 

Everyone else has already trudged ahead, muttering and swearing about how hot it is. Duke stops beside Sam, reaching out a hand to shake his shoulder gently.

The closeness, the proximity, the fucking electricity that shoots through him finally breaks Sam out of his reverie. Laughing awkwardly, Sam steps back.

That had been the first moment Sam realized he wasn’t as straight as he thought. He didn’t dare tell a soul though. Why did it matter? He had a girlfriend, it’s not like he was going to take Duke Keane to prom instead of Charlotte (though when he saw Duke in his tux, he half-wished he had). 

It didn’t help that the following Sunday, he had agreed to go to church with Charlotte and her parents. It had been the most uncomfortable hour, shifting on the pew as the pastor preached about the sin of sodomy from behind the pulpit. Sam still remembers the way the pastor said homosexual, as if it carried every ounce of fire and brimstone in hell. Seared into his brain, he vowed never to tell another soul.

It doesn’t matter.

Yet, here he is twenty years later, recently divorced, with an entire cache of men he’s found attractive stashed away in the depths of his mind.

Tonight, he’s sitting at the Birdhouse with his girlfriend, smiling slightly in amusement at the sight of her nails. “Why don’t they match?”

“What do you mean?” Zoey wiggles her fingers. The pink, purple, and blue polish glints in the low light of the bar. “Of course they match. It’s the colors of the bi pride flag.”

Sam’s entire body tenses at that. “... you’re bi?”

“Don’t tell me you’re a homophobe. That would put a bit of a damper on our relationship,” Zoey quips. Still, her voice shakes slightly.

Immediately, Sam reaches out for her hand and squeezes it. “No! No, no, no. It’s okay. More than actually.” He smiles kindly at her. Before he can continue to reassure her, a familiar, drawling tone catches his ear.

“Well if it isn’t Sam Sweetly!”

A warm, broad hand claps him on the shoulder. shoulder. Sam looks up into the familiar warm hazel eyes of Duke Keane. God, he gets more and more handsome every time Sam sees him. He smiles and maybe even leans into the touch a bit. “What’s goin’ on, Keane?” He asks.

Zoey frowns in confusion as Sam scoots over on his side of the booth to let the man sit next to him.

“Glad to see you’re not wearing those stupid sunglasses all the time anymore, Sweets,” Duke teases, bumping his shoulder against Sam’s good naturedly. He notices Zoey and extends a hand for her to shake. “Douglas Keane, nice to meet you.”

“Please,” Sam snorts as the two of them shake hands. “No one calls you Douglas except your ma. How is she, by the way?”

As they catch up, Sam catches a glimmer in Zoey’s eyes that evolves into a full fledged twinkle. When Duke finally leaves their booth, with Sam casting a discreet look after him, Zoey leans forward. “You have the hots for him,” she says with a cat-like grin.

Sputtering, Sam stares at her. “Wha- No, are you- I’m not gay!”

“Didn’t say you were,” Zoey says with a shrug. “And I have some pretty hard evidence that you’re not.” She snickers as he flushes at the innuendo. “But there’s no heterosexual explanation for the hearts that replaced your pupils while you were talking to Mr. Keane.”

Unsure what to say, Sam takes a long pull from his beer. Then another. Zoey doesn’t press, instead just waits patiently. “I, uh… I’ve thought Duke was cute since high school. I was dating Charlotte though, so nothing ever happened.” He shrugs.

“...is he the only guy you’ve ever thought was attractive?”

Unbidden, his mind starts listing off all the men he’s found attractive: Bill Woodward, Gerald Monroe, Duke Keane, several men he’s only seen in passing, Ted fucking Spankoffski for whatever fucking reason. Biting his lip, he shakes his head. “But I-”

“Hey,” Zoey interrupts him gently. She wiggles her nails again. “You don’t have to put a label on it. Now or ever. If you don’t ever want to be ‘out’ that’s okay. I love you.”

At her words, he relaxes. “I love you too.” He glances over at Duke sitting at the bar and sighs. “I think bisexual is a pretty good description.”

“I agree.” Zoey raises her glass of screwdriver. “Happy coming out, babe.”

[caffeinatedopossum]

I joke about my mom causing my ed sometimes but I'm ngl, it was 100% my dad. He gave us all (my mom, me, and both my siblings- literally everyone in my home but him) eds and then seeing and living with other eating disordered people... Yea, constant triggering

(Sorry I didn't expect to go off like this slgkckgf...also tw for neglect i think? Mostly just me complaining bc I'm finally allowed to lol)

Every time someone ate, he would yell at them, accuse them of eating much more than they were ("you eat three bowls of cereal!" When the person is literally eating one small bowl) and degrade them for various things, mostly how they eat - I would often get praised by him for eating slowly, taking small bites, and chewing a lot. as well as for eating less than anyone else. Yknow, because I was a literal child. And everyone else got yelled at for NOT doing that, very healthy being compared like that at a young age 🙃 there was also lots of verbal abuse directed at us kids for costing so much money- supposedly the amount of food we ate was so absurd and costly that he would say we'd have to file for bankruptcy and/or be homeless because of it almost every day. That's not even to mention the religious speels- he would often preach that "man cannot live on bread alone", meaning by his description that god wants you to read the bible instead of eating apparently 🤨 he would preach like this and by 'preach' I mean we (me and my sisters) would be sat down for hours, not allowed to stand, fidget, (fidgeting was another thing he HATED) have any distraction, or eat at all until he was done. Usually it was fire-and-brimstone and the-end-is-near topics but sometimes he got creative. There also seemed to be lots of rewards for not eating, like better food. My parents never really cooked for me but if they made themselves something and I hadn't eaten yet that day, they would *sometimes* offer me a portion. And we're talking a hot meal of eggs, hashbrowns, bacon, and toast or pancakes sometimes as opposed to one bowl of cornflakes, which I had for breakfast almost every day that I even ate breakfast. Not that I hated cornflakes but eating anything every single day is a little fatiguing. Also if someone could say "I haven't eaten anything today" there would be this weird sort of admiration from my whole family and then that person would be allowed to eat more than they normally would. I tried, even though unsuccessfully, to not eat for an entire day sometimes- I think first when I was only 8 or so. And then periodically every now and again until I finally succeeded when I was 13 and my ed truly developed. So uh yeah, maybe its not so surprising looking back that I developed an ed.. 🙃🥲

[enbies-and-felonies]

Only Then I am Human / Only Then I am Clean

(AO3 link)

@jatp-rules-my-life, this is your fault (based on this post)

Summary: Alex listens to 'Take Me to Church' by Hozier and maybe it affects him in a way he wasn't prepared for, maybe it just let's him heal a little bit.

warnings for homophobia and religious themes

taglist, just ask to be added or removed (i know it's not my normal work but,, yeah): @barrel-of-cat-mituna @completekeefitztrash @tiergan-andrin-alenefar @lemontarto @hershis-kotlc @genesiscaveat @everything-else-and-mars @juline-dizznee @chaotic-basics @an-absolute-travesty @classyfunnyquotesmuffin7 @smolanxiouscatvoids @itstiger720 @introvertedscarecrow @sunset-telepath @an-idiot-in-a-trenchcoat @cowboypossume @anaccidentwaitingtohappen @sofia-not-sophie @fire-sapphics @dr-alan-grant @real-smooth @juline-dizznee

The first time Alex heard 'Take Me to Church' he was on the verge of dozing off, which was an interesting feeling as a ghost, like he was a boat tethered to a dock and he might drift away if he fell asleep for too long. The evening sun was casting lazy beams through the windows of Julie's garage, and he smiled as the warmth hit his face, causing his eyelids to droop lower. At least as a ghost, he could still enjoy some of the simpler things in life.

An old radio crackled on the little table nearby, playing songs Alex had never heard before. He enjoyed a few of them, but others he rolled his eyes at. Idly, he wondered if Reggie and Luke were having fun with Julie; She had taken them on a trip to see some sights, but Alex had opted to stay home, feeling listless, and decided to catch up on whatever new tunes had came out since he was alive.

He bopped his head slightly to 'Bad Liar' and hummed a bit to 'Counting Stars'. He had missed out on a lot of good songs. Yawning, he stretched and settled deeper into the couch, giving a contented sigh as the next song started playing, a strong piano coming in and setting the tone.

Alex liked the man's voice, and he raised an eyebrow at the lyrics.

"-She's the giggle at a funeral / Knows everybody's disapproval / I should've worshipped her sooner."

He sat up and cocked his head by a margin, feeling a tiny, guilty thrill at the way his lips quirked at the lyrics. There was a forbidden excitement that came from it's gentle blasphemy.

"Every Sunday's gettin' more bleak / A fresh poison each week."

His heart twinged. A choir, a pulpit, fire-and-brimstone preaching, he was just a kid-

"We were born sick / You heard them say it."

He sucked in a breath and his eyes flew open, throat tightening like a noose, trapping his breath like a fluttering bird in his lungs.

~~~

"This Sunday we will be touching upon the topic of a Biblical marriage!" The preacher's voice booms across the congregation, and fourteen year-old Alex's stomach sinks as he tries to slouch further down in the pew, as if he could just slip low enough that the words won't catch in his heart and weigh him down like so many stones. He briefly thinks about the millstone the preacher once mentioned. He tried to remember the context, but the only thing he comes up with is that it was for people who sinned. He gulped.

"Now, 'what exactly is Biblical marriage?' you might be asking yourself! Biblical marriage is a holy union between one man, and one woman-"

Pastor James' voice carries on, and Alex does his best to let the words pass through his ears without hearing them, the rocks weighing him down turning to boulders. His stomach turns.

"-now, the men gotta love their wives!! Just like Christ loves the church, and cares for her. Marriage is a wonderful blessing, the greatest blessing we could ever experience in fact! It is perhaps the second greatest gift God has given to humans, and as such we must respect it.

"There are many ways you can disrespect the holy marriage bed. Divorce of course is one of them. In fact, in Matthew chapter nineteen, verses one through eight-"

Alex tries to tune him out harder, knowing what's eventually coming and yet still hoping to avoid it. He counts the number of stained-glass windows -twelve without turning to either side, thirty-six if he rotates all the way- and taps his fingers on his leg to the cadence of Pastor James' words.

One, two, three, four. One and two, and three, and four-

He makes increasingly faster and more intricate beats, imagining drumsticks in his hands, base-drum pedal beneath his foot.

One and two-o-o, and four and, one and two and three-e, four-

His fingers are pattering rapidly, and he forces himself to swallow, trying to remember not to bounce his leg, trying not to distract his mom and dad, trying not to dwell on the words he can't avoid, trying not to scratch at his wrist, trying-

He can't breathe. He's trying to calm himself down but his fingers aren't a drumset and he can't play away the sin that coats his soul and he's just a kid but he can't breathe, he can't-

"And that leaves us with those who have disrespected the sacred act of marriage by letting themselves be lost in sexual perversion. I am, of course, referring to those disgusting individuals who have chosen to live the transsexual and homosexual lifestyles. People like these were born sick."

Alex's hands quit their anxious movement. He's completely still. He was born sick.

He was born sick.

~~~

"The only heaving I'll be sent to / Is when I'm alone with you."

And he started breathing again.

"I was born sick, but I love it / Command me to be well / A-a-a-amen amen amen"

Air was rushing back into his lungs and maybe it was the way reliving that memory gave him closure, but it felt like the song was purging the preacher's burning words from where they'd branded his heart with wounds he never thought would scar-over.

Alex felt his eyes close again, letting the lyrics and the lilt of the man's voice wash over him in a cleansing baptism. His fingers began pattering against his lap, joining in with the beat, weaving him together with the music, becoming one with it.

"We've a lot of starving faithful."

He thought of himself when he was younger, sitting in church week after week begging God to fix him. He thought about the girl who bowed her head at the foot of the altar the Sunday after a lesbian couple was attacked, he thought of the way her fingers linked together like someone else's hand used to hold them, and he thought of the way she cried: silent, tears streaming down like shooting stars, her lips whispering unspoken prayers.

This song was for him, he realized. It was for him, and every moment he cried himself to sleep under his parents roof, thinking he was dirty, thinking he didn't have God's love, didn't have God's forgiveness.

It was for every time a prayer caught in his throat like a trapped butterfly, the prayers he could never bring himself to say because he was 'unworthy'.

"I'll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife / Offer me that deathless death / Oh good God, let me give you my life"

The lyrics seeped under his skin, replacing the lies that he had believed over the years. The lies about himself, about his faith, about his gayness-

Washed away like a world-destroying flood.

Because this song? This song was for every cold-shoulder from his parents instead of a warm hug, and it was for every time he had to watch him mom recoil from his touch, every time his father didn't quite meet his eye.

"There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin."

The first tear slipped past his eyelashes, and he heaved a shuddering sigh.

"Only then I am human / Only then I am clean."

He cried, but there was a smile on his face.

~~~

When Julie and the boys got back, the radio was long silent, but Alex still sat on the couch, tear-tracks on his cheeks and a relieved smile on his face.

He had sat there a long time, reliving moments in his life, and then letting them go, letting them be washed away. He was quiet when he was surrounded by the rest of Sunset Curve, letting himself be held by them; Julie comfortingly running her fingers through his hair, Reggie linking their fingers together and side-hugging him, and Luke tugging him halfway onto his lap. They were his family, and they loved him.

"You okay, Lex?"

Alex took a deep, slow breath, letting himself take in each of their faces, and he gave a small smile.

"Yeah, I really am."

[princesssarisa]

One of the most interesting aspects of Catherine Earnshaw's character, which often seems to be overlooked, is the fact that her arrogant behavior as a young woman (taking everyone's love for granted, assuming that the people who love her will obey her every whim, seeming shocked when they don't do this or when someone dislikes her, calling herself "an angel" and refusing to admit to any wrongdoing, etc.) runs contradictory to the way she was raised.

So many commentators just call her "spoiled," but no one ever really spoiled her when she was a child. Her beloved father emphatically disapproved of her wild, willful personality, was always strict with her and favored Heathcliff over her, and became especially harsh in criticizing her when his final illness worsened his temper. Overall, he seems like a quintessential parent who loved his daughter but didn't like her. Nor did Nelly ever make any pretense of liking her, and Joseph even less so – despite being a servant, he felt free to box her ears and order for her to be denied meals as punishment, not to mention all his fire-and-brimstone preaching. Then there was Hindley, whose attitude toward his little sister was basically "Stay out of my way, don't make noise, and stay away from Heathcliff or I'll throw him out of the house," and Frances, who was only affectionate when it suited her. From her mother's death until she befriended the Lintons, Heathcliff was the only person who gave her pure, constant love and approval.

So how did this upbringing create a girl who seems to expect everyone to adore and obey her, and who pins the blame on others for any conflict while painting herself as a martyred saint?

Of course there are no easy answers, either about her or about any other character in this book. Maybe she's just a clinical narcissist with delusions about other people's feelings for her. Or maybe, since Nelly tells us that Mr. Earnshaw's scolding used to make her cry until "being repulsed continually hardened her" and she responded by being more defiant and provoking instead, maybe it's all a facade. A too-extreme way of coping with a childhood where she was made to feel inappropriate and unlovable.

One thing she says in her "I am Heathcliff" speech might be more revealing than she realizes. She states that Heathcliff is always in her mind, "not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being." Since at other times, she behaves as if she is always a pleasure to herself, this just might be an especially candid moment.

[invisibleraven]

I can go anywhere I want (just not home)

So I saw this gifset and got this angsty idea for a fic that pestered me until I wrote it. Enjoy!

On AO3

1. Alex

Growing up, Alex knew he was lucky to have the parents and home that he did. He never wanted for food or clothes or attention, his parents lavished him with all three. When he started suffering from anxiety they took him to the doctor to discuss their options, finding him exercises he could do on his own, and were supportive about getting him help at school for when tests and assignments started to trigger him. When he wanted to start learning the drums, they bought him lessons, and then a kit that he could play in their garage. He had good parents, and they always told him how much they loved him.

Sure, he knew they weren’t perfect, they were strict about curfew and he knew they weren’t the most fond of his friends, but they never said anything directly. They insisted on church every Sunday, prayers before every meal, and frequently brought him to religious social gatherings in hopes of him meeting more suitable acquaintances, or perhaps a girl. He went dutifully, because he didn’t have the heart to tell them that his faith was a bit more skewed. He didn’t get why any loving god would let some of the atrocities of the world just happen and not intervene. He didn’t like how some people used faith as a reason to hate certain groups of people when that went directly against the message they were preaching. But he went every week, recited the prayers, sang the hymns, smiled uncomfortably at the girls his parents kept shoving his way.

Then he came out.

He had known he was gay for a while, he always caught himself gazing at boys on the beach, at school, and watching movies. He would rather be the one kissing the action hero instead of the damsel in distress. The band had taken it well, surrounding him in hugs, and then teasing him for his taste in men, even if none of them could deny the hotness of Brad Pitt. All three of them promised to stick up for him, to make sure that no one would touch him. Alex knew he was lucky to have such cool, understanding friends. So he figured his parents, who always told him to be himself, to be honest would be equally supportive.

To say they were not would be an understatement.

His mother started to cry, lamenting that maybe she had done something wrong, that it was somehow her fault he was ‘this way’. His father looked stern, telling him that he was confused, that it was a sickness that Alex just needed to be cured of. That no son of his would be gay, he was going to marry a woman and have a good life, that was that. They called the pastor of their church, the three of them praying for his soul, so many talks and the word sin being thrown around too much for Alex’s taste.

They tried to make him quit the band, as if Luke, Reggie, and Bobby were the reason he was gay. He told them he could stay in the band or he could leave. “Maybe it’s best if you do.” his father had muttered, but his mother pleaded with him to stay, they could still fix this.

The number of suitable girls thrown at him increased, but Alex was always upfront with them; he was gay, happy to be their friends, but he couldn’t be more. Most of them were understanding. Some of them were downright cruel, and it soon got out to the congregation that he was a homosexual. The glares as he walked into the church, those who thought he would infect them all with his queerness. Others watched as if they expected him to burst into flames upon touching consecrated ground. Sermons filled with talks of fire and brimstone for those who engaged in sodomy. Alex scoffed at that, he hadn’t even kissed a boy, let alone going that far!

His parents let him know how much shame that he had brought to them by being gay. How they needed him to take it back. They threw out the idea of a camp that could fix people like him, broken people who thought they were gay. He refused, and started packing a bag before they could force him to go.

“If you leave now, this won’t be your home any more. You will no longer be our son.” his father warned.

“I haven’t been for months.” Alex retorted, lifting his bag onto his shoulder and walked out, heading towards Bobby’s garage. Luke was already living there, so he hoped the Wilson’s wouldn’t mind another teenage runaway on their property. He spared one more glance back, at the house he had called home for seventeen years. His parents weren’t watching him go, and he doubted they would think of him ever again once he left the property.

~

As a ghost, Alex has no interest in looking up what happened to his parents. They had made their opinion of him very clear twenty five years ago, and he doubts they even spared a glance when they found out he died. There was no way to salvage what had already been broken, even with Julie’s friend magic all but bringing them back to life. He’s stubborn about it, avoiding his old neighbourhood, he has no interest in seeing some new family walk through the familiar halls and rooms he used to inhabit.

Willie confesses that he had all but forgotten his own parents, some side effect of decades of Caleb’s influence. Yet he isn’t sad about it, he just shrugs and accepts it for what it is. Doesn’t try and guilt Alex into looking, or support his decision not to. Just claps him on the shoulder and lets him know he’s here for him. Alex smiles and brings Willie in for a hug. He knows that family, home, it isn’t blood or a certain place. The band is his family, and has been since the nineties. The garage, as loathe as he is to admit it, is his home. Especially now since Julie let them spruce it up to look more like a living space instead of a rehearsal space.

The thing is, even without looking for them, Alex is convinced he can see his parents everywhere. The older couple debating over grapes at the farmers market, the woman offering mom hugs to kids at pride, the scowling man holding signs spewing hate from the other side of the parade. But it’s never them. Alex wonders if he should just get it over with, so at least he’s not left wondering. Then he looks at Willie doing skate tricks in the Molina’s driveway, being cheered on by his bandmates, and he shakes his head. He has everything he needs right here.

2. Reggie

Reggie quickly became an expert at sneaking in and out of his house at night. Whenever his parents started screaming at each other, or throwing objects, which was a frequent occurrence, Reggie left. Some nights he just went to the beach by his house for an hour, watching the waves crash on the shore, letting the sound drown out the yelling he could still hear from his vantage point. Or maybe that was just the echoes of it, certain his parents weren’t being that loud, or else the Meyerson’s would have called the cops by now.

Sometimes he went to one of his friend’s houses, knowing the guys would still be awake and let him in. He tended to avoid the Mercer’s house, things were already bad enough for Alex, he didn’t know how much worse it would be if they caught him in Alex’s room at night. Luke was no longer an option since he ran away after some big fight with his mom regarding the band. And Bobby… Well Bobby didn’t do the touchy feely stuff, but he’d still let Reggie in, or let him crash in the garage any time he needed to. But with Luke living there now, Reggie used that as a last option, not wanting to burden Luke with his issues when Luke didn’t even have the option to go home unless he wanted to concede to his mom.

There were days that Reggie wondered about just leaving home, so then he wouldn’t have to listen to the incessant arguing and spewed hatred, but this… this was his home, this was his family. He couldn’t up and leave. His parents never hit him, or screamed at him, they just… didn’t like each other. Luke had said they were always a fight away from a divorce, and Reggie wished they would just have the damn fight so everyone involved could be happier. Surely they knew how messed up it was to stay together when they couldn’t stand one another right?

There were days that Reggie stayed home, just blasting his Walkman to drown it all out. He stayed out of the way, and hoped the fight would end soon. He knew this wasn’t normal, but he also knew getting involved would make it all the worse. He loved his parents, and wished he could make them love each other once more, but that wasn’t possible. At least they still loved him, for that he was thankful. He didn’t know how Alex did it, living in a home where the only thing felt for you was disdain. Was silence and indifference better than this constant warzone? Reggie wasn’t sure, and given a choice between the two, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to make it.

There was another crash from downstairs, accusations flying through the air, and Reggie shuddered in his bed. It was the same theme as always; money troubles, other people, not helping one another. But then, his name got thrown in. About his grades, about the band, about how each of them were at fault for all their disappointment in him. Reggie could feel the tears dripping down his face. He thought… all this time… he wiped furiously at his eyes and grabbed his Walkman once more, letting the music take him away.

But the fighting increased, snatches of bile creating a crescendo even louder than the melodies ringing through his brain. Reggie turned off the music and debated leaving. It was late, but surely he could get to the studio for a few hours of sleep before school the next day. The noise shook the house, all roars and screams. The words all blurred together, indistinguishable but the sentiment remained. Reggie wanted to shout at them to stop, go get counselling, go their separate ways, anything to make it be quiet for one moment.

Then he heard it, the sound of flesh hitting flesh, his mother gasping. Reggie startled up out of bed, running downstairs on instinct, finding his mother clutching her cheek, his father standing over her, steaming, “Go back to bed Reginald.” he said, his voice firm.

Reggie went over and helped his mom up, not even sparing a glance at his father before sitting her down and pressing an ice pack to her face gently. He turned and looked at the man, standing up straight. “That’s enough. Go cool off before someone does something they’ll regret.”

His father began to stalk towards him, but his mother said his name, quietly, and he stopped. His shoulders slumped and then he grumbled, moving towards the door, letting it slam behind him. Reggie fell into the chair, looking at his mother’s watering eyes. “You okay?”

She smiled, then grimaced as her face throbbed. “Nothing you need to worry about. Go back to bed, okay sweetie?”

Reggie wanted to protest, but she urged him on, kissing his forehead before she went up the stairs, the click of her bedroom door as loud as a gunshot in the now silent house. Reggie shook his head and went off to his own room, touching the door to his parent’s room just once as he went, silently wishing he could do more, and hoped this was the last time he ever had to witness this happening.

~

Reggie sat on the beach, quietly taking in the bike shack, wondering if pyrokinesis was a cool ghost power he could have or not. Of course the bike shack catching on fire wouldn’t bring his house back, wouldn’t make his parents appear, but it might make him feel better. It would erase the feeling that his past, his place in the world had been replaced. Sure his house was never a real refuge, but it was his house, you know? The place he grew up in, the place he called home for so many years, now gone.

His parents… god he had no idea how to find them. Julie had offered to help, but he was slightly terrified about what he would find. Would they still be together? Would they still be alive? How much worse had it gotten for them after he died? If they had finally gotten divorced, could he find both of them? More so, did he really want to? He remembered the violent, turbulent nights before the Orpheum, the fear that he would wake to the two of them having killed one another, sneaking downstairs terrified of what he would find. What new destruction lay in wait for him every morning. But… What if they were fine now? What if his death fixed everything, made them remember their love? Would that mean it was his fault that they fought constantly? He didn’t want to go down that road. He couldn’t blame himself for his parents' problems, and even if it hurt to think about it, he didn’t want his death to be the solution to them. He gave the bike shack one last glance, and poofed back to Julie’s house.

In the kitchen Reggie can see Ray at the stove, making breakfast, singing off key to one of their songs. He can see Carlos at the table, tapping away at his phone, Julie hasn’t come downstairs yet, and there’s still a spot at the head of the table set for her mom. Reggie aches to join them, be a part of a family again, but he doesn’t want to intrude. The Molina’s had been nice enough to accept them, let them live in the garage, or well, live as much as they could as ghosts. They didn’t need Reggie to interject himself into their lives any more than he already had.

But he still longed, wanting to have that loving parent like Ray who never yelled or threw things, or hit anyone. To have Victoria as the aunt who worried and brought food over so they weren’t always eating spaghetti. To have a brother like Carlos who was so enthusiastic and creative, while still wanting to look out for Julie. Julie, who he loved so much, who didn’t deride his love of country music and Star Wars. Julie who helped paint his nails and do his eyeliner for shows without judgement when he asked about wearing it. Julie who smiled so bright it was like looking at the sun some days.

Reggie knew what he had growing up wasn’t great, and what he had now was what a family should look like. Full of love and support. Sure, he’d always had the guys, but now it felt more real, more sure. He smiled once more as Julie came down the stairs and was about to poof away when she caught sight of him, and urged him to join them for breakfast. And well, Reggie never could say no to eggs and bacon.

3. Luke

Luke crept quietly up the driveway towards his house, careful not to be seen. He couldn’t bear it if he got caught and then forced to go back home before he was ready. In the large front window, he could see his mother, gazing longingly out the window, clutching a picture frame to her chest. Luke could feel his heart lurch at the pain in her eyes. She obviously missed him, and was wondering where he was. It had been three weeks since he ran away, and Luke had yet to regret it. If his parents couldn’t support his dream of being a rock star, then why should he stay? Music thrummed through his veins, and he could feel they were on the cusp of hitting it big.

But Emily Patterson was practical, and she told Luke time and time again that music wasn’t a viable career choice. That he needed a back up, something practical for when he realized his silly dreams were just that-dreams. Luke would scoff, roll his eyes and then toss away the college brochures she hid around his room. All the greats never went to college to study accounting or business, and Luke was no different. He knew that their next big gig would be it, they’d get discovered, and once he had a gold record under his belt he could rub it in his mother’s face how wrong she was. But that meant little now when he could see her suffering, his father urging her away from the window, and Luke got the feeling he had to do that often. He didn’t want to hurt his parents, he loved them. And he knew they loved him, in their own way, but how much the love was strained due to him wanting to be a musician. They never even tried to understand it, never came to his shows, never encouraged his songs, probably couldn’t even tell you the name of the band they were so desperate for him to quit. Luke went over that last fight in his mind a hundred times, his grades plummeting due to music taking over his life according to his mother. But what did he need school for if he was going to be the next big thing in rock?

He remembers the yelling, the demands that he concentrate on his studies, at least try. He knows he gave back as good as he got, screaming how they didn’t understand him, they didn’t appreciate how talented he and the guys were. How they never tried to even give him a chance, let him attempt this. They claimed they were looking out for him, that they were just worried. But there was nothing to worry about, Luke knew in his gut that he was destined for greatness. It would have been all the sweeter if they were there with him though.

He turned away, giving one more glance at the place he still considered home, and sighed. One day, he would come back, a legend, proving them wrong. He wouldn’t be an ass and tell every reporter how they hadn’t supported him, he wouldn’t make them feel bad in public for never believing he could succeed. But he would go back and show them he could do this, he was made for this. Until then all he could do was keep writing music and hope that his words would make that connection with as many people as possible.

Yet when he got back to Bobby’s garage, all he could see behind his eyelids was the haunted look in his mother’s eyes as she looked for him out the window. Hoping in vain that he would come walking up the drive like he used to every night, smiling big over a successful gig, or a joke that Reggie told. He would walk into the kitchen and talk with his mom over a sandwich and a glass of milk, just catching up. Even if music always made the air thick, his mom still sat there. Maybe waiting to pass judgement, maybe she really had been taking it in, but her faith wouldn’t stretch far enough to see that Luke could make it.

He thought of everything that been said that last night, and more so, what he hadn’t said. Of what he would say to his mother now if he thought she would listen. He takes out his notebook, and begins to write. “First things first…”

~

Luke wiped at his eyes as he sat on the countertop of his parents house. Because his mom wasn’t admonishing him for sitting there, especially with his shoes on. She wasn’t telling him to sit in a chair, to eat his peas or make sure he got his math homework done. Instead she was sitting there numbly, eyes staring off into the distance as his father got out the cake. Luke took the scene in, there were his parents, still celebrating his birthday, twenty five years after he died. Eating the chocolate cake his mother made for him every year, the one she knew was his favourite. The one he couldn’t eat, because he was dead. And she didn’t even know he was there, essentially haunting them.

That lone blue candle flickered, and Luke couldn’t help himself, he leaned forward and blew it out, wishing desperately that he could interact with his mom one more time. But touching her, his hand went right through. She couldn’t hear his frantically whispered apologies. Couldn’t feel his touch to let her know he was there, that despite being a ghost, he was okay. That he was still here, and he loved her. He wished that he had never run away, that he had found a way to make his mother see his truth, so she wouldn’t have to spend months wondering what happened to him, and then decades mourning him.

He saw his father, relight the candle, the pair of them blowing it out, Luke joining in at the last second. He wondered what they wished for, but knew it had to be that he was there celebrating with them. Turning forty two instead of being perpetually seventeen forever. There with a partner and maybe some kids, all of them happy and together. He wanted so much to turn back time, to give his parents that. He had done this, he had broken their home, over his foolish pride. Sure, they were bound to make it big, but couldn’t he have maybe once glanced at college and maybe convinced them to let him do a music degree? Couldn’t he have tried to at least graduate high school and still played his heart out?

He sat there, until there was nothing but crumbs left on the plates, no words being spoken, but the air heavy with things unsaid. Luke wiped at his eyes, and tried to scream, shout, anything to let his parents know he was there. But nothing. Then he felt the pull of Julie, her music calling out to him, so with one last sad glance, poofed back to his band, trying hard to make it look like he hadn’t been crying.

Later, when she gave his parents Unsaid Emily, he watched as they read his words, singing them quietly, hoping they could hear him, somehow. Hoping that this small gesture, twenty five years too late, did something to alleviate their grief. He’ll spend the rest of his afterlife regretting running out on his mom, but he doesn’t want them to waste what’s left of their lives mourning him. After Julie brings them back, or as much as she can, Luke debates going home, hugging his mom finally. But they’re better now, no longer stuck in a cyclone of sadness, and he wonders how much better or worse he will make that if he reappears, as a semi-alive, semi-ghost son that has no real idea of how long that state will last for.

“Go see them. You’ll hate yourself if you don’t.” Julie urges, even offering to come with him, but he declines. This is one thing he has to do for himself.

So here he is, decades later, walking up the same path, looking in the same window, and taking a huge breath before pressing the doorbell. Plastering a small smile on his face, and hopes the shock isn’t too much for them as the door opens. “Hi Mom.”

[cindrelle]

sukha - stories.

character details:

though a priest, sukha isn’t your typical sort of holy man. the archons of teyvat may have his faith, but if asked to choose between them and a glass of mondstadt’s finest wine, he would find the answer to be the latter. at least, in the short term.

he can be found welcoming people of all walks of life into his humble church --- be the journey to the city too far, they need refuge, or they simply wish to have an honest conversation with a man that is not about fire and brimstone.

story 1:

“ what is justice to the faithful ? ”

this is this very question that the people of fontaine seek to answer. in a country where justice and faith are intertwined, where does one draw the line ? by the hydro archon’s decree, all shall be judged for their crimes and even gods cannot escape ( in theory ), therefore it should go without saying that the law is the same as the church’s commandments, as scripture and that which is preached.

and what else should the church evangelize beyond the law ?

sukha tired of a question that should’ve been so simple to answer --- justice is not always salvation.

story 2:

the job of a priest is to guide the faithful and connect them to their god, but that is not the only way in which he helps those that have lost their way. there is not always a simple answer. in fact, sometimes that answer is of the supernatural sort, and when one is blessed with the ability to see spirits, should it not be logical for them to help ?

sukha does not remember when he gained the ability to commune with the dead, he can only ascribe it to his tainted blood and maybe a bit of a joke played on him by his patron archon. after all, there is nothing that strikes fear into him more than a ghost.

his first true exorcism was completely accidental. a young girl had been afflicted with some disease during his time in fontaine, when he was still known as venadas, and no matter how hard her parents tried, they couldn’t find anyone capable of curing her. thus, they turned to the church, praying with all their hearts that their dear daughter would recover.

on a home visit to perform last rites as the parents had accepted their daughter’s death, venadas notices something odd about the girl. or, rather, the specter that seemed to stick her like a burr. curious, he called upon the power of his vision to offer his blessing. the girl began to spasm, much to the shock of her parents and venadas, but that was not all that occurred: the spirit began to separate itself from her as her screams pitched higher and higher.

then, it all stopped, the being’s essence now held in venadas’ palm. fontaine’s first exorcist only had this to say, contrary to the way this apparition shook him to his core:

“ please, be at peace. ”

story 3:

there are few rules which one must follow while staying at sukha’s church. don’t disturb the other patrons, steer clear of the pantry, do not even think about touching any of the ceremonial wine, and please don’t vandalize the scripture. but those were all secondary to one:

don’t enter the mortuary-chapel, especially not at night.

if asked, he’d say that it should be obvious that you shouldn’t poke around where dead bodies are stored. if pressed, there is no answer that he could give without divulging the fact that those corpses are actually harvested for organs before burial and sold / used by piti for his practice. the doctor himself resides in one of the adjoining rooms.

of course, this is all without acknowledging the ghosts that flock to sukha’s side ...

story 4:

he doesn’t speak much of his home or his curse. it’s a sore subject for him, having been treated as an experiment for his feral traits. his people so desperately wanted a cure that they dared to bribe them and then tear them from their families upon refusal.

for his people, he would’ve done anything if not for the reality of it: a child hardly ever survived the poking and prodding of khaenri’ah’s scientists.

when he arrived in fontaine, he turned to the hydro archon and the rest of the seven in the hope that putting his faith in them would lessen his curse. after all, his people had had no god. surely, the protection of one could provide him with salvation.

but for the people of fontaine, that which occurs in the courtroom is a ritualistic spectacle, their laws are their scripture. there is no deliverance for those who were born in a godless land or allow themselves to give in to temptation.

still, he persisted, working in a house of the hydro archon who demanded those who break the law, even when they confide in a place of forgiveness and absolution, be taken into custody. by her decree, members of the clergy were to guide the people down the righteous path and weed out those that did not. there is no such thing as a confession made in complete confidence.

the inquisition rests on no one.

story 5:

sukha has done much to survive. when the ideals of fontaine’s archon became too much to uphold when a friend came to him to seek guidance after stealing to feed his family, sukha --- then venadas byström --- decided to leave to pursue his supposed faith elsewhere. his travels took him to snezhnaya where he, as a holy man, was immediately discovered by the fatui. after all, preachers have no place in a military state where the god has chosen to reign as a mere monarch.

in exchange for his life, he offered the fatui the most hallowed of secrets: that which remains between people and their gods, between patron and priest. from that day on, he became permanently tied to snezhnaya’s clandestine operations.

his travels do not end there. in the land of the archon of wisdom, venadas, now sukha, sought answers. through happenstance and the faulty illusions of a weary traveler, he was discovered by a researcher with a special interest in the people of khaenri’ah. in exchange for not only keeping his secret but letting her conduct research on him / hear his stories of him, she would do all she could to help him understand and possibly lift his curse. in the end, they weren’t very successful.

at one point, she asked why he didn’t just cover his eye with an eyepatch to keep from exhausting his energy. all sukha could really say that he just didn’t like wearing one since people always asked about it and it obstructed his sight, that with that eye covered, he can’t even see spirits ( which wouldn’t be an issue if not for his profession ). as a parting gift, she designs an apparatus to help him conceal it.

once sukha arrives in mondstadt, a taste of diluc ragnvindr’s wine and knowledge of the church in springvale now lacking a presiding priest, gets him to decide to settle down for a quiet life that is only interrupted by the occasional meeting of the fatui within its walls.

that is, until a man arrived at the church on a stormy night and asked him for shelter. not one to turn anyone away, he provided a room for him in the basement. his only condition was that he be careful not to accidentally enter the mortuary-chapel. there’s no need to disturb the dead and it’s never fun to deal with the restless spirits that still linger.

in the middle of the night, the wailing of one such spirit draws sukha to the mortuary-chapel to find that the man, piti, was examining some of the more recently deceased. rather than kick him out on the spot, as any less - patient individual would, sukha inquires about what he’s doing.

he explains, via notepad due to being unable to speak because of an injury, that he’s a doctor and he was just curious. after finding that piti lacks a place to operate out of for his practice, sukha offers to allow him to live there and use the basement.

later down the line, while checking in on the doctor, sukha discovers that the silent man has been using the organs from corpses in the mortuary-chapel for his own means. though incensed at first, he hears piti out and they come to an arrangement: piti would be allowed to use the dead’s remains for the sake of his practice and for selling them on the black market if to help people is part of the goal. all sukha requires in return is a cut of the earnings in order to keep the pantry stocked for the poor and for maintenance.

then, one day, piti returns to the church in a hurry, an injured young man in his arms. there’s no room to hesitate --- sukha ushers them in and helps begin preparations for piti to operate. not only did he need to be stabilized, but the young man was missing an eye. turning to the corpses in the morgue, the doctor set to work replacing it.

not long after his recovery and upon discovering that his family in the city of mond was no more, the young man, now known as ekaggata, becomes a member of their group of informants --- indra’s net, known otherwise as indra’s web.

the haunting of springvale church:

of all the ghosts that flock to sukha, what he has come to refer to as the goat man is by far the most horrifying. this creature takes the form of a bipedal, monstrous goat with dark fur and curled horns. there are several protections set up around the church using techniques from sumeru and liyue, but for some reason, the goat man always finds a way to slip through and will not be appeased until he is presented an offering.

an offering would be no issue normally, however, he seems to have a taste for the sacramental wine which sukha keeps for mass and for the days when the said masses are going by particularly slowly.

the goat man isn’t even all that threatening. it has no means of becoming corporeal. that does not change the fact that it still disturbs sukha greatly.

piti, of course, thinks this is hilarious and, despite not being able to see him, taunts the goat man at all opportunities.

vision:

sukha has a complicated relationship with his vision. he’s from a godless land, yet he caught the attention of an archon that is set on punishing the guilty. for what reason, he doesn’t know, only that his vision appeared in his hand the moment that he was officially welcomed into priesthood at the age of 18 and accepted his faith as more than a means to alleviate his curse.

priesthood --- the moment that everything had been leading to, when he’d now had the ability to hear the worries of the faithful and ease them, to cleanse them of their sins as their archon’s proxy.

but priesthood turned out to not be exactly what he’d imagined when he realized how tight a leash the inquisition held him and his fellow ministers.

[what-even-is-thiss]

For some reason I’m a regular target for people trying to convert others to their religion. Maybe because I give off cynical gay energy and am always alone idk. Anyways, I feel like sharing some stories.

One time a white guy in some robes with some glitter paint smacked onto his forehead walked up to me with his red wagon full of books and said “Excuse me, are you familiar with Hinduism?” Then came a five minute long conversation in which he tried to convince me to listen to him about converting to Hinduism. I had to explain to him that yes, I am perfectly happy being a Christian, thank you. Good luck, my guy.

There are these people in suits that go around campus pretty often in pairs trying to convince people that God of the Christian bible is a woman. Strangely enough they’re usually men. Every time I tell them that I believe that God’s gender can’t be known or that they have all genders or no gender I see them blink in confusion for a moment while their brains try to rewire themselves around that concept and I use that moment to make my escape.

The Jehovah’s Witnesses are always just kind of there but usually they don’t get anyone’s attention. They just wait for you to come to them. Except with me apparently. I’ve had a couple of them try to flag me down. Then I run away like a scared cat because I know who they are and what they’re trying to rope me into.

Sometimes a Westboro Baptist type cult will start preaching fire and brimstone outside the library. I have to run past them lest the guy ranting about porn hub and homosexuals starts pointing at me and asking me questions.

Some guys from the local mosque tried having a chat with me one time. They were actually pretty nice. A little too persistent, but nice. I don’t know if they were actually working on behalf of the mosque or just decided one day on their own that they should start passing out pamphlets about the Quran but they seemed nice.

There’s a guy that’s sometimes selling Zen Buddhism and meditation books near the food court. It’s always a different guy. I don’t know where these guys come from but they are always guys and of every ethnicity under the sun. They also really like cornering me by the fraternity booths.

People from the university’s Christian club always find me. I tell them that I already have a bible study group and they don’t know what to do with me. They just give me their card.

The one positive experience I had was these people coming in response to the angry cult to remind people that most Christians don’t think that way. (the angry cult had been there for like two weeks at this point) They were very nice

[robbyrobinson]

IN HEAVEN - A Horror story 

Being a reverend of our local congregation was a family tradition. My father was a reverend. His father was a reverend. His father was one. You get the picture. Sure, I might have had some doubts about the profession, and in life, I had tried to stave it off by furthering my education at some far-away university, but one way or another, the position called for me. I devoted most of my time at the university studying theology and religion. I was at the top of my class.

Soon came when my father passed the task of reverend to me. I recall that before he died, he seemed to be slightly darker in his mannerisms. He was always an optimistic man, even in the face of anyone who criticized his livelihood. But in his final years, he changed immensely. Anywhere he went, he carried grimness with him. He acted as though a rain cloud were over his head. He had grown despondent at his time of death, refusing to accept any prayers that his immortal soul be taken to a place of rest. But just before he succumbed and left the mortal coil, there were reports that he was deeply horrified and hyperventilated rapidly. His heart rate skyrocketed to abnormal leaps, and he died, a look of sheer horror being permanently glued on his face.

My first year as reverend didn't go as well as you'd imagine. For one, there were many young people who were the epitome of smart alecks. They always loved to bring up the supposed contradictions in the scriptures or how God was an immoral being who for all accounts was a tyrannical, mass murderer who was offended that mankind worshiped other gods or that He was simply unfair. This was always something that I was raised to believe: God had his reasons for what he does. What may seem to be bad for us is mere because we view things from our own perspective rather than his. Sure, descriptions of God's firing down burning sulfur and brimstone onto Sodom and Gomorrah were terrible, or God's slaughtering of the Egyptian children in the tenth and final plague that befell Egypt as stated in Exodus sounded horrific, but ultimately, I was convinced that God ultimately saw it as being for the Israelites' good, or how whenever bad things happened in my life, I held onto my faith.

Just last month, I lost my youngest son, Theodore to childhood leukemia. Yes, we prayed fervently for his recovery until he took his last breath. But still, maybe God wanted his precious, precious soul to be with him immediately. My one regret, however, was that he was never baptized. I remember my daughter looked at me with the most frightful expression of concern. That her brother was in Hell because he was too young to understand the notion of turning his life over to Christ. I tried to console my daughter that he was in Heaven, but she only compounded my frustrations by asking then why man was considered wicked the moment they were born.

But with all my trials, I prevailed. I continued to preach God's Word to the masses, saving countless souls. Some didn't accept the word, but if the seeds were sown, I was content. For sixty years I taught the same lesson of God's love for us and how he sent his son to act on our behalf. I also challenged countless atheist and agnostic debaters. To my congregation, I had - in their words - royally schooled them on my knowledge of the scriptures. By the time I retired, my eldest son Samuel took up the mantle. He started out kind of like how I did. He wasn't as bold in what he was saying, but within three months, he was becoming more convicted in the word.

At the age of 64, everything changed. During a monthly checkup with my doctor, I received the news that a tumor was detected forming in my frontal lobe. I had earlier endured severe headaches and I felt more tired than usual. I went to chemotherapy for weeks; anything that the doctors tried to implement simply did not work. On my death bed, my family gathered around. My church congregation had since ceased their prayers for me. Dying never really bothered me. Since I didn’t remember what it was like to be born, this would then mean that dying would be painless. My vital signs started to fade, and after two minutes, I let myself slip away.

A beam of light gently grazed upon my eyes, forcing them open. My eyes beheld the Pearly Gates. Past that was the streets paved with gold and the many mansions that Christ discussed with his followers. As my eyes beheld several of the sights, I noticed that there was something strangely odd about it all. No one was present. I expected to at the very least see old faces once I woke up in Heaven. Instead, the streets were empty. Rather than hearing angelic singing, everything was bereft of the slightest murmur. I walked around the barren streets for quite some time. Right when I turned to head back, a low audible sound crept into my ears.

My legs tightened. Without a second thought, I sprinted towards the site of the audible noises. It took me to the very heart of the city. Right when I was about to make a right turn, my eyes locked onto something. In the middle of the square was the throne of God. The exact White Throne that was attributed to God and the exact one where it was held that he would judge the living and the dead. It was awe-inspiring. It was everything that I was taught to believe. The throne glowed with pure, white light. But with all that breathtaking majesty aside, something felt horribly wrong about it. The throne flickered feverishly. The sounds became more audible. Curiosity crept into me, and I slowly made for the throne.

What I saw made me question everything.

The throne itself throbbed as if it were a nightcrawler thrashing on a fishing hook. Upon closer inspection, I saw the faintest of humanoid attributes on the throne. The throne of God pulsated rapidly, the screaming nearly deafening me. Before my eyes, faces emerged from the throne. Each one bore the same look of terror. Their eyes were wide, almost as if they were observing something, but at a long distance. I could feel the heat of their glares on me, as though they were trying to telepathically beg me to put them out of their misery. They screamed in unison, their shrieks sounding like legions of malfunctioning sirens. I looked further at the throne, seeing that it had a fleshy appearance. It was as though the throne itself was one living creature. The tortured beings frothed at the mouth, making inhuman noises, the sounds of absolute hell.

I could make out that an innumerable number of bodies that comprised the Great White Throne of Judgment. Limbs littered the throne in different places. The light began to fade revealing the throne to be nothing more than a putrid-smelling mass of red meat. Whoever these people were, they had been conjoined. Something must have broken them down and put them back together with gallons of glue. I felt myself nearly vomiting if it were not for a voice.

“Welcome to Heaven.”

I looked up at the throne of God and saw a gargantuan figure sitting in the chair, as though it were completely unaware of the horrid screaming coming from its throne. The voice wasn’t as loud as I’d imagine it to be. It sounded as soft as the wind, but it didn’t comfort me in the slightest. This being was submerged in blinding light. I searched for a semblance of a face on the large entity, but I couldn’t. The further I looked on this creature, I felt a terror bubble from the deepest parts of my stomach. Somehow, I managed to choke a word out.

“Are, are you God?”

While I couldn’t see it, I could tell that the being before me had a wide smile across its face.

“I have many names,” it stated in the same eerie giddiness. “I am YHWH, Jehovah.”

What he said shocked me the most.

“I am also Zeus. Thor. I am Shiva. I am all of the gods that humanity had willfully believed in.”

I stood there, my jaw agape. “But, but, God, what about my life work?”

God chuckled. “You humans never cease to amaze me with the utter ridiculousness of what you’d be willing to believe.”

God had a good chuckle over it as if I had told him one of the funniest jokes in over a thousand years. The joke being my former life. After laughing fervently, God paused to feel the texture of the throne.

“It is a fine throne, isn’t it?” God asked.

My hopes of God somehow being ignorant of the deathly screeches of its throne died at that moment. This god almost got ecstasy from hearing millions – maybe trillions – of souls being melded together as a large blob of disharmony. The urge to vomit arose again.

“Do you know what this throne is made of?” God asked.

I shook my head, not wanting to know. But God was, of course, going to disclose the texture of it regardless of whether it intrigued me or not.

“Years ago, I created the angels,” God shuffled in its chair before continuing, “they were always meant to worship me, but after eons of feeding off their praise, it wasn’t enough for me.”

I flinched as I expected more vivid descriptions from God.

“When I created man in my own image, the angels didn’t want them to suffer as they had.” God sounded noticeably angered, its voice raising an octave to emphasize it. “So, one leader rose up to rebel against me.”

“Satan,” I said.

God scoffed. “Because of their betrayal, I decided the best way to punish them is to condemn them to a life of endless suffering, one of which would make them regret being birthed from the fires.”

I nearly fell backward at the realization. God’s throne was comprised of the fused bodies of nearly a third of the angels who rebelled against him and failed. Now they were being made to be eternally tortured. I tried to rationalize God’s justifications for this disproportionate retribution, but no logical answer would suffice. There were no excuses for what God had done. But the one thing that made me more curious was what became of the human souls of those who had died. If what God had said was true, then the afterlife as we know is just one inescapable nightmare. God apparently read my thoughts, and before my eyes, God conjured up legions of souls. Each soul lacked pupils in their eyes and their skins were a pale grey. They reminded me of the many zombie-related movies in olden times. But they were all people I knew in life.

The one that caught my eyes the most was a small figure. It tilted back and forth; its mouth open as though it were inciting a chant. I could tell that short stature from anywhere; it was Theodore. I ran to my son and hugged him tightly. I opened my eyes fully expecting the hug to be reciprocated, but instead, I felt the slight nibble on my neck. I looked at my son, to my horror, he started to bite down into my neck in a blind frenzy. I pried him off, tossing him to the ground, only for him to emotionlessly pick himself up and stand with the other souls.

I turned to look at God in anger. “That’s not my son.”

God giggled. He merely looked at the souls before him, as though he were an artist marveling at their work.

“No, he isn’t. And he never was.”

Each human soul was a former shell of themselves lacking even the slightest characteristic that made them lively. They had instead become inhuman slaves without their free will. At the time of death, God stripped each soul of their individuality, making them worship him forevermore. This would be the fate of untold many people who either followed the Christian faith or any religion for that matter. It seemed to not even matter if you chose to not pursue a religion because I saw many of my former atheist and agnostic debaters in the masses. It all made sense for why God would masquerade as different gods: the more people he got to believe him, he would bathe in their worship until their time of death when they would be made into the perfect followers by being removed from anything that made them human. This was the fate of my son, my father, and my grandfather. Even if I chose against the profession of a reverend, it wouldn’t have mattered much to God because he’d convert me the moment, I stepped foot in his kingdom.

I felt myself getting lifted into the air against my will. I levitated over the masses of souls and I was back to God and his revolting throne. While again I couldn’t see a discernible expression on his face, something told me that it was smirking.

“Well, time for you to join the heavenly choir, shall we?”

Not expecting an answer, I felt a surge of God’s power penetrate my body and consume me. I screamed in excruciating pain as my world suddenly started to grow dark. I tried to fight against the conversion with all my might, but my rationalization was starting to melt away. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think a cognitive thought. I used the last of my consciousness to curse God’s name before sudden darkness filled my sights.

[mermaidmafia-official]

{Part II: A COLLAR OF SPIKES}

@bebemoon​ @ayzrules​ @interluxetumbra​ @bubblingbeautifully

Lord Greggor, a prominent Vampire of the underworld, has invited Bilitis House to a costume ball on his private island off of the Italian coast...

[Scala & Kolacny Brothers - Smells Like Teen Spirit]

The clinking of silver from the courtyard, angry and cold and nauseating, still rang in her ears when all hell broke loose. One moment - Ysa saying something disapproving, like a soothsayer in a throne room, heard as if from far away. The moronic grins of happily tripping mortals, the inane screeching of jubilant vampires. Those piercing eyes that had just met hers across the room, still sharp and haunting, on her mind. The sense of moving through a thick, mesmerising fog. The copper smell of blood tinged with something sickly sweet. The dying flowers all around. And the next - grotesque triumph turned into panic. At first, Nessa was not sure if she imagined the growling, the shattering glass, the vampires crying - well, wolf. Literally. But then the acrid stench of fear burned in her nostrils along with smoke, and someone barrelled into her. She almost tripped on her stupid gown and jolted awake, as if suddenly sober. Oh, fuck. Usually, chaos was her element, but then she was always the eye of the storm, and she did not at all like being tossed about like this. She had a vague notion of someone calling her name and telling her to run - Yin? - and then someone’s head, frozen in a stunned grimace, rolled in front of her and she didn’t need telling anymore.

///

The wolves will not stop until they have turned us all into ash. Ysa’s voice echoed in her head while she ran, unusually quiet and entreating. They’re our enemies, Nessa. You must understand this. They are dangerous, Nessa, because they know how to kill us, and they will, if we let them. Ysa looking tired. Nessa’s boots tore at the lace of her dress while the thought, unbidden, returned: I can see why they would, now. And then, with nagging persistence: But he didn’t. Not my - not this wolf. Rough walls and deepening shadows suggested she was in some sort of cellar now. She was good with cellars. You learned to appreciate a good tunnel when you ran a moonshine business during Prohibition. Nessa kept the screams and smoke far behind her, and then she reached a doorway and something feral lunged at her, teeth flashing.

///

Her shoulder blades grated against damp stone. A growling, deep and primal, made her want to hiss, but she fought the urge. She wasn’t the dramatic sort. For a long moment, she saw only teeth and felt her own lengthen, and then there were those eyes again - either green or grey, or maybe both, but definitely piercing and wild, like something that lived deep in the forest. Of course, Nessa thought, with fatalist amusement. Serves me right. A more sensible person might have cursed, or pleaded. Nessa only grinned. The forest retreated. A look of confusion passed through the green eyes as recognition dawned. That was all she needed. ‘Down, boy’, she said coolly, as she pushed him away with all her strength - which was considerable. Still, she had not quite expected a man of his height and mass to hit the wall quite so hard - with a dull thud and an alarming cracking of stone where he crumpled to the floor. Panting, he wiped blood from the corner of his mouth. ‘You come here to finish me off, then?’ Bitterly. Savage. Nessa blinked. Wasn’t that her line? She looked at him, bristling and hunched, like something cornered, and the ground shifted beneath her combat boots. Suddenly, the smell of charred flesh came to her, and she noted the bruises on his arms and torso, and the blood… Nessa shivered. What - and how much - did you have to do to a werewolf until he stopped healing? ‘I hadn’t quite made up my mind yet’, she said. The words sounded wrong now, but they were all she had. The wolf answered with a hollow laugh. It turned into an ugly cough. Nessa cringed. ‘Look’, she said, and knew it was true, ‘I want nothing to do with the likes of Jabba the Hutt up there.’ And I only came along to please Ysa. His lips curled. ‘I don’t think you have a choice.’ Choice. The word, small and thorny, caught on her mind like cloth on a nail. She had a sudden and vague, unwelcome recollection of kneeling on hard wood until her skin bruised, of a mind deadened by the rosary, and of a raspy male voice gleefully preaching fire and brimstone. But the kingdom of heaven had turned into dust, hadn’t it, that night in the hold, surrounded by the corpses of people who had made all her choices and died miserably in their own filth? She had not known choices in her first life, but she sure as hell wouldn’t repeat that mistake in her next. And neither her coven elders, who had declared this sorry bag of fur her mortal enemy, nor that vile and predatory jelly of a vampire who could deal nothing but malice and cruelty, would change that. A stubborn anger rose within her. She could feel a short-circuit decision coming on. Good. ‘Watch me’, she said, and opened a portal.