#Post Traumatic Church Disorder

[daringdaphne]

One of the ways toxic religion is a disservice to people is how it theologizes life in a way that prevents people from responding to situations as they truly require.

“Honor your father and mother” should never mean accepting their manipulation, abuse, or toxic interactions or behavior.

“Turning the other cheek” should never mean that you allow someone to violate your boundaries.

Being a "person of faith" should never mean that seeking professional therapy is a sign of spiritual immaturity.

"Taking up your cross" should never mean denying your needs, desires, and individuality.

Being a "Proverbs 31 woman" should never mean assuming a posture of inferiority, submission and appeasement to men, or tolerate domination or abuse.

The "fear of the Lord" should never mean living in a state of anxiety and uncertainty about being unconditionally worthy of acceptance and love.

“Obey your leaders and submit to them” should never mean giving another human being authority over your life and choices.

People are not told that the right choice in life includes:

standing up for yourself

saying “no"

enforcing boundaries

terminating toxic relationships

seeking professional therapy

caring for yourself

honoring your needs and desires

zero-tolerance for disrespect or abuse

-Jim Palmer

[spookietrex]

Literally once when I was 10, my little sibling was born. My stepmother would let them cry for HOURS (the baby slept in my room) and wouldn't get up with it through the night. (Sibling uses they/them pronouns). I mentioned it at church and BOY WAS THAT WRONG. I was then woken up every hour on the hour with the lights on and told that I had to take care of the baby because I'd made the family look bad (my ex stepmother is 11 years older than I am). I had metal belt marks when I came home from my dad's. But you can sure as fuck bet I played the game better the next time and didn't betray my abusive family's secrets.

kids who werent raised christian being like "lol baptising children is whack if they tried to do that to me i would start doing things to make it look like i was possessed" no you would not. you would bask in the pride and approval coming from the adults around you and you would quietly wait your turn because you were told from birth that sinning sends you to hell and baptism is The Promise that youre dedicating your life to jesus that youve had hyped up for years and watched other people be fawned over as they cry happy tears about it and you do NOT want to fuck up your One Big True Promise To Love Jesus Forever So You Don't Get Tortured For Eternity when you are literally 8 years old. im begging yall to remember its a thousand times easier to see the church's bullshit for what it is when you're not actively in the church. eight year old you is not thinking about trying to fight back against an oppressive religious group indoctrinating children because You Are The Children Being Indoctrinated. stop acting like you would've magically known better if it were you.

[glycerineclown]

BEFORE DINNER: HOW DID SIMON GET SO FUCKED UP?

Great art takes risks, and 2020’s cult hit Dinner In America took a huge one by making its male lead incredibly off-putting. Kyle Gallner’s Simon has off-the-charts anger issues, commits arson, sells drugs at an arcade, lies easily, curses loudly in public, has little to no respect for other people (“my dad’s allergic” “fuck your dad”), makes creepy sexual remarks and then acts like it was a joke, goes through cigarettes like he needs them to live—but by the end, you root for him. He defends Patty when no one else will, stands by his convictions, and is without a doubt an incredible musician.

He's a punk with just one patch on his jacket: an Eagle Scout badge over his heart. It’s the highest honor that a Boy Scout can earn, requiring demonstration of leadership, good citizenship, 21 merit badges, and the final piece: an extensive individual service project benefiting the scout’s local community.

Eagle Scouts are overrepresented in politics, clergy, the military, and NASA’s career astronauts. Even if it's technically secular, the Boy Scouts of America is an intensely Christian organization—very often troops are organized by churches, not schools.

Scout Law dictates that scouts be trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent (to God). All things that, you know, totally sound like Simon, the guy with a grown-out mohawk and an upside-down American flag hanging in his bedroom. He’s so clearly against conformity that it’s hard to imagine him ever being interested in wearing a uniform and building rope bridges. PSYOPS lyrics are blatantly anti-Christian, too (“fanatical religious right, pray with you because you’re white” based on the subtitles on Hulu).

The hypothesis I am proposing is that Simon earned the rank of Eagle Scout because doing so would allow him to receive his parents’ permission to do something else he really wanted to do—start a band. Maybe for his Eagle Project, he turned a storage closet into a recording studio for the high school music department. Simon goes big. Fuck building benches.

I was in Brownies through my elementary school for three years in the late 90s. We went camping, sold Trefoils, milked goats, and made gak. Our troop leader was the mom of one of the other girls, and when needed, additional chaperones were always more moms. I had a great time. Across the United States, most Boy Scouts are similarly unharmed as they get out of the house and learn basic survival skills.

Youth organizations have a problem, though—they attract people who want access to kids. I watched a documentary on Netflix last year, Scout’s Honor: The Secret Files of the Boy Scouts of America, illustrating how for decades the BSA protected child molesters on a level that rivals even the Catholic Church. Simple background checks for scoutmasters were considered inconvenient and too expensive for an organization largely run by volunteers, and the BSA refused to risk their Norman Rockwell reputation by acknowledging the issue. Men who were red-flagged as abusers could easily pop up again with another troop, since no database of “ineligible volunteers” was available to the public, and the BSA did not report crimes to the police. Deep shame and rampant homophobia meant survivors very often did not reveal the abuse they suffered until well into adulthood.

I have been thinking about this a lot with regard to Simon—maybe you saw my other, much more informal text post—but I am not qualified to (and really, really don’t want to) write fic exploring what the fuck could have happened to make him the way he is. Instead, I’m writing this essay about it. Proceed if you like to be sad!

[content warnings, obviously: discussion of CSA by an authority figure, post-traumatic stress disorder, substance abuse]

HYPOTHESIS: Becoming an Eagle Scout was the only way that Simon’s parents would let him pursue music.

Abuse in adolescence can affect how people learn to control their emotions later in life. Anger problems are especially prevalent with PTSD when the victim has been betrayed by others or exploited.

In the film, Simon has a pretty acrimonious relationship with everyone in his family apart from Danny. I don’t really buy that he was abused at home, though. It’s more likely that his family loves him but he’s out of control, and he is. Simon’s basement bedroom is full of instruments—it’s even more “fuckin’ tits” than Kevin’s bunk bed and guinea pigs. He used to be someone they trusted with a key.

So let’s assume that Simon was being molested by his scoutmaster as a teenager. If quitting the BSA meant he wouldn’t get to start a band, he’d be completely trapped.

Telling his parents would result in one of two options: they’d either assume he was making it up to get out of doing the work (do nothing but start a fight), or believe him and pull him out entirely, get the police involved, risk everyone at school finding out. And telling wouldn’t guarantee that he’d get to focus on music—surely Simon’s parents would rather he go off to college and get a degree in something reliable, as his siblings did. Becoming an Eagle Scout was the compromise because his parents figured it was an impossible task.

There’s no question that if that scoutmaster knew about the deal with his parents, it would have been used against him. If you don’t let me do this, you won’t get that merit badge you need, and if you don’t get that merit badge you need, you can kiss your dreams goodbye...

In the beginning, back in Cub Scouts, Simon could very well have bought what the organization was selling. Maybe he wasn’t jaded yet, wasn’t disillusioned, wasn’t quite old enough to think for himself. But if the man teaching Simon to respect the flag, do what he’s told, help others, set a good example, believe in God, and be a responsible, contributing member of society was also the one pulling his pants down, convincing him he had no power or worth, Simon might well have ended up doing a complete 180 against those ideals.

Maybe that piece of shit eyed him all the time, made him feel unsafe even from the other side of a room, and now he blows up at people staring at him in restaurants.

This experience could also, perhaps, motivate Simon to use his newfound power as an adult to protect other vulnerable people from bullying, like Patty.

The church angle works too. Simon knew immediately how to manipulate Patty’s dad. He fabricated the story about Tanzania and the prayer like it was nothing, and it would have been easy for him to do if he was steeped in that environment for years.

And then, of course, there’s the drugs—classic self-medication. A way to stop constantly thinking about stuff he doesn’t want to think about. Research has shown that traumatic experiences in childhood often lead to substance use disorders. Even if Simon’s not doing dope while he’s hanging out with Patty, he certainly has been addicted in the past. His parents have likely paid for him to go to rehab, maybe more than once. Substance abuse does make people lie to and steal from their families. Simon’s sister is an asshole at dinner, but her suspicion is probably not unfounded.

That wouldn’t have been where the lying started, though. He’d have been holding back the secret of his abuse since it began, giving poor excuses for injuries, and lashing out. Traumatic experiences, especially at a young age, can rewire your brain and change your personality. Addictive drugs can, too. He’s not the same person anymore.

Simon needed help, and he never got it.

More than 82,000 former boy scouts have come forward about sexual abuse that they experienced as children in the BSA. Criminal background checks only became mandatory for all scoutmasters and volunteers in 2008.

Maybe for Simon, wearing the badge is his way of saying, “You didn’t beat me. I deserve to be here. I earned the right to start a band.”

-

SOURCES: Boy Scouts of America (Wikipedia) Eagle Scouts (Wikipedia) Scout’s Honor: The Secret Files of the Boy Scouts of America (Netflix) Anger and Trauma (National Center for PTSD) Trauma and Stress (National Institute on Drug Abuse)

Support for survivors of abuse in the BSA is available here.

[arabriddler]

Hey hey hey I wanna hear the Jon lore please

finally posting this for Jon’s birthday 👀

Okay! Backstory time! Tw for evil doctor things and a bit of traumatic religious experience ( nothing happens though for the latter it’s just threats ) Jon grew up in Columbia with his parents. When he was born, he didn’t cry and the doctors worried that he was dead at first before realizing he’s alive and breathing. His parents didn’t think much of it and loved him. As Jonathan grew up his issues appeared more permanent. He cried out of frustration sometimes but overall it began to look clear that he barely felt any fear. Jon’s parents, again, didn’t think much of it. He’s healthy and lovely and what if he doesn’t scare easily? It’s not that big of a problem. except the neighbors were concerned and kept offering advice or creating gossip. The most popular rumor was that it’s the doing of some demon or something, and to control the rumors since the kids wouldn’t play with Jon, his parents took him to the local church. the priest was a nice old man, but he reacted very widely to Jon and called him the spawn of Satan. He began listing ways to exorcise the evil out of his body, but as he did so, suddenly, a visiting doctor from abroad barged in claiming he knows what the problem is. the doctor introduced himself as Doctor Hugo Strange. He explained that he’s very passionate about rare diseases and disorders and Jon’s problem was rare. He offered help and asked them to come with him to Gotham. At first, the parents refused, they don’t really mind Jon’s problem, but somehow the neighborhood grew more aggressive and more alienating. Jon would be bruised all over ( unbeknownst to them, this was all carefully crafted by strange ). Eventually they agreed. Who knows maybe they can start a new life in Gotham. It seems like people are more opened up over there.

except, on the train and a long way from home, Strange explained that so he can study Jonathan’s alignment, he needs to have the boy with him for long periods of time and in isolation, often for months or years. Jon’s parents refused bedside that’s absurd, and strange, deeply frustrated, killed them. In the mix up, Jon witnessed the murder but was too traumatized to realize it was Strange. He tried to run away, he managed to escape strange but was found by the local police who admitted him to an orphanage not really putting an effort into finding his parent’s murderer. Jon took time to adjust to the new setting and deal with his parents murder. It was all very stressful he started finding some grey hairs on his head at the tender age of 8.

After three years, Hugo Strange visited. He proclaimed that he needs a student and chose Jon. So, for 5 years, he’d come to pick up Jon for a day or a week or sometimes months, there he’d study him or try to scare him or use medicines to affect Jon. None of this worked, but Jon’s psyche got worse and worse. He’d beg the sisters in the orphanage to not let the man take him, but Strange paid them well and they needed to provide for the other kids. In one of strange’s experiments, he towered over Jon in a way that triggered his memories and he remembered that Strange was the one who killed his parents. Strange was about to inject him with something but Jon tackled him and injected the serum into Strange. Strange began screaming and crying and Jon found that… interesting. It was life changing to see such pure fear and knowing he caused it.

afterwards, Jon left Strange and returned to the orphanage. He took all the kids out on a picnic while the orphanage and the staff burned up in a mysterious fire. Eventually, the cops showed up to deal with the mess. Strange was convicted of the arson, and the kids were relocated to another orphanage.

[cinnamon-stixs]

I feel like I need to put a warning on this one? Idk. This is a small exploration on the major threat in Spirit's Creek; A widespread cult called the purists. It's framed as an in-universe article on the cult, but I'll be popping in to give some context. Also this is a LONG one. This post contains:

-Themes of religious indoctrination -sexism -religious trauma -religious sacrifice -racism allegory kinda?

"Everyone has the perfect tools for control right in front of them. You just need to know how to bend love and fear into one."

The purest message is simple. Magic is evil. Disobedience is evil. Individuality is evil. So what if these are inherent traits, natural to everyone? They were just put there by Abaddon [Satan] to tempt you towards filth and sin. Follow the light, not the beast.

Witchcraft, of course, Is considered magical. But according to purist definition, the following things are traits of magic, only done by Heathens.

-Making wishes

-Believing in 'luck'

-wearing black

-Keeping gemstones that aren't approved by the church

-Being a hybrid species

To add a little more on the whole anti-hybrid thing, 85.7% of the world's population are hybrids. In purism, it's common practice to surgically remove hybrid features like ears, tails, horns, and wings. This does not remove any other biological traits of Hybridism, but it is "The closest to pure that natural-born beasts can get" (Pastor Batin, at a 20XX public sermon).

Additionally, 99.4% of people are born with the ability to do magic. Those who cannot are born with a rare condition called Magica Carentia Disorder (MCD). People with MCD are commonly nicknamed 'Duds'. Head Pastor Batin has this condition, along with being a non-hybrid.

Additionally, according to purist belief, Women are more likely to be witches, or secretly evil. A commonly held belief within the religion is that the Salem witch trials were justified and accurate, being held by early purists. (Even though there is no evidence of purism as a religion existing until the late 1900s.)

Women are also considered 'Natural temptresses'. Do I even have to go into this one? Dress codes for women are far stricter than those given to men.

Dress code is fairly strict. Gold rings symbolize God and Nubibus [heaven], and one must be worn at all times outside of the home past age 13. Church robes are required for sermons, and black is strictly forbidden.

Sermons themselves are deeply traumatizing at times. They're very.. reminiscent of Grape Cool-aid. Fear tactics and Love-bombing are the most common tactics used by higherups.

Things like baptisms, purity rings, and the drinking of Pure/Blessed water are common.

Additionally, the cult has many illegal practices within it. These atrocious actions go unpunished, since parts of the government have been bribed and indoctrinated into the cult.

These can include many disgusting human rights violations, but the worst? Human sacrifice. If a person is acting out against the cult, they are considered 'corrupted'. A corrupted individual must be culled by church officials as soon as possible. According to Head Pastor Batin, "The only way to save a corrupt soul is to wound them with the knife of the pure, touching the damaged blood with the Blessed blade. Then, perhaps they have a chance at a peaceful eternity."

I shouldn't have to tell you why this is contradictory and heinous, and how it's clearly a control tactic.

While phones and other picture/recording devices are not supposed to be owned or used by purists, recently one photo has emerged of a pastor sacrificing a person. Unfortunately, the brave soul who spread this photo to the public has since gone missing.

For the purposes of transparency, I will be including the photo below. If this is too much for you, you don't have to view it. I promise there's no more important information you'll be missing. [Being so fr, blood warning.]

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[Also yes, the Salem witch trials and Jonestown cult are cannon]

[star-struck-sea-lestial]

hi!! ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋🌊˚˖𓍢ִ✧˚. (〜^∇^)〜

I’m Jupiter (jupe, or jupi!) They/She but honestly any pronouns!!

Pantheist, Druid, Bruja, Animist

Student, Philosopher, Social/Political/Environmental Activist, Aspiring Teacher, Actor, Musician, Reading Addict, Pan and Non-Binary :)

i’m making a new pinned post to introduce myself lolz. I’m 20, I live in Texas and currently go to college studying theatre education, and philosophy. i hope to go back to college again lol to study wildlife biology and political communication/science after being an educator! my practice is my art, it is my connection to everything, i worship, practice divination, study a LOT, and prioritize expression (art, honesty, dancing, singing, acting, drawing) and connection (love, friendships, animal caretaking, tending to local ecosystems, communities, organizations of like minds) in my life and as part of my practice!

I’m an ex-Christian, I moved around a lot growing up so I’ve been a part of/had a lot of experience with Pentecostal, Baptist, Methodist, Catholic, and non-denominational churches and practices. A lot of the fundamental beliefs of these specific communities and foundational principles was that I had to feel shame and guilt just for being born a human, an inherent sinner separate from the one true vengeful and wrathful God, and in these spaces (and in many in real life) there was an even more obvious hierarchical approach to humanity and life, it was especially obvious to me being born female. Around 8-13, being a girl who could not perfectly follow (the very contradictory and often misconstrued) scriptures, I felt deep shame and insecurity. The religious spaces I was forcefully a part of (and certain Christian people) traumatized me growing up, a priest had even told me any negative responses I had to (fairly traumatic) things in my life was me opening myself up to demons😭, and so I developed and was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety and Major Depressive Disorder (I also have ADHD!). However, learning sciences like biology and physics, philosophy, history, and theology, allowed me to grow my understanding of reality and i consider myself to be a pantheist and witch! i believe we are the hands of earth and are just as important to the universe as the grass, animals, sun (and other cosmic powers). Monotheism is lovely however, and I believe a part of me sees everything in existence connected as one quantumly entangled emblem that is reality, but yeah!

as for deities! i worship Santa Muerte, Nature, Aphrodite, Dionysus, Hermes, Artemis, and Erebos!

i use tarot, sigils, (small) altars, rituals, and am learning to use other things aside from my own art as well!

thank u for reading :)

No closed practices, No racism/homophobia/transphobia/xenophobia/bigotry/TERFs(FARTs)

[givemearmstopraywith]

not expecting you to have an answer and i'm not sure how to phrase this, but i've always wondered why god would "allow" for people to be born really sick or with difficult disabilities. it just feels so unfair to me that people are born with let's say down syndrome and they don't have the same chances as i do and i so deeply wish they did. it makes me so sad that they can't get a driver's license even if they really wanted to and tried their hardest, there's just no way.

i've always imagined a god that's also disabled, because then the "we're made in god's image" makes the most sense to me. but that is all i have.

opening this by saying that while i have read a lot of crip theology, and i have a congenital disability, i do not consider myself hugely impeded from functioning by my disability and my take on this should not be taken is definitive. i am not a crip theologian and deal strictly with problems of domination and subjugation within systems, rather than ontology. i would recommend john swinton, nancy eiseland, and in particular my body is not a prayer request: disability justice in the church by amy kenny, which i read and loved.

assuming that a disability is a tragedy is in itself a problematic stance: so is the idea of pitying disability by the assumption that they cannot have fulfilling lives if they are unable to partake in the created rituals and behaviours of societies are inherently ableist and exclusionary. the problem with disability is not the disability itself: the problem is the suffering that results from that disability, whether that suffering is innate (pain from the disability) or systemic (ableism, lack of treatment, lack of compassion).

equally problematic is the idea that god creates disabled people to be examples of something in themselves. i think your feeling that god is also disabled is the right one. when christ is crucified and resurrected, his resurrected body retains the wounds of his crucifixion: holes in the hands and feet, a wound in the side. did it hurt him? did he struggle to walk? did he experience chronic pain? did he have symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder? i think he did, because not only is god disabled, but the god of the resurrection, the god who conquers death, is also disabled, because disability is not an impediment to the resurrection or to grace.

i also sense a feeling of "how can god allow suffering?" in your question. this question was the main impetus behind my break from faith as a teenager that led to identifying as an atheist. on a very theological basis, the way i understand this question is that the first gift god gives humanity is the gift of free will. to interfere in human history would be to deny humanity that gift, to roll back on his initial promise to give us freedom of choice. what occurs within human history is neither a sign of an uncaring god nor evidence to a lack of one. it just is: a neutral thing. how people respond to those occurrences that makes them good or bad. god does not single-handedly cause war or disability, but the ability to alleviate human suffering with the lifetimes of those who suffer is within the grasp of humanity. it is our responsibility to alleviate that suffering, not god's. this is the crux of being alive whether god exists or not.

edit: also not saying the disability is a result of "free choice"! nor that i believe that it's the result of the world being "fallen," which is something often alluded to in christian spaces and which is deeply ableist in itself.

[circular-bircular]

Christianity and Plurality

I want to preface this with a few different things. 

Firstly, I don’t fully identify with the label plural, even if I used to; I struggle to see my plurality as “plurality,” even if I do technically fall under that label. I’ve been working on finding a good alternative, but at the end of the day, I still associate with certain plural ideals and symbols, and regardless of how much I’d rather not associate with that community, I am forcibly put into that community due to my disorder. I feel qualified to talk about plurality from a personal experience lens, but as always, do not take my word as the one and only truth.

Secondly, I have wavered somewhere between Christian, Agnostic, Atheist, and various other styles of “ex-Christian who is traumatized by the religion.” I’m not entirely sure what label to apply to my religious ideals, particularly as, I didn’t think I’d be figuring this out due to… syscourse, of all fucking things. Through all of this, I think I’ve determined I am Christian, just… loosely.

Lastly, connecting to the syscourse point: I really don’t want to make this post. The only reason I am is because I haven’t seen people who share my perspective speaking out, despite knowing that many do, and I figure… If I won’t, who will? As a Christian who struggles with modern Christianity, and a system who struggles with modern Plurality(™), I feel the need to speak up about all this drama lately regarding the topic of a Plural God, and how it is negatively impacting me. I want to speak my truth, y’know? 

So, let’s talk about it.

When I was still going to church weekly, I was part of both the children’s worship and the more adult sermons. I watched the sermons for adults before heading downstairs to work with the children and see their lesson. By and large, I appreciated the latter far more than the former, as I felt it got to the core of the religion without frustrating semantics and vague ideas. 

In all of these spaces, when the topic of the Holy Trinity was mentioned, it was… odd and definitely confusing for me, especially as someone who struggles with AND without things being seen in absolutes. I’m unsure what denomination I fell under (my parents refused to inform me, saying we’re all the same under God) but the approach was the same for the three different churches I recall attending.

The Holy Trinity (the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit) was a triad of things. The Father was God, the Son was Jesus, and the Holy Spirit was what came after Jesus’s death. However, it was secondly the phrase, “My God is three-in-one,” referring to the idea that God is present in all of those ideals, having given the world Jesus, and having predetermined Jesus’ sacrifice to save us from our sins. Lastly, the Holy Trinity was a concept and belief, and that was what was focused on the most. See, the denominations I was raised in specified that belief in God and the Son and the Holy Spirit were just that: a belief. That our belief in God is what made us worthy of salvation, and thus, the Spirit of God was in all of us. 

It was known to me that God was not also Jesus and was not also the Holy Spirit. They were separate, but each part informed the other, and our understanding of those three separate parts formed one unified belief.

With this new rise of the comments that God is an endogenic system… It feels incredibly disjointed from the childhood beliefs I’d learned and absorbed. Suddenly, my belief is something that isn’t factored in; the Holy Spirit is now something solid and tangible, an entity rather than my faith in Christ and the Lord. The best comparison I’ve been able to come to is how people play with Greek myth, making it more modernized while ignoring the original premise and meaning behind the myths -- No, no, Persephone wanted to marry Hades, really (ignoring the kidnapping of Greek maidens and the betrayal inherent to motherhood, yada yada yada yada).

If God were an endogenic system, suddenly, Jesus’s sacrifice is the death of God as well (as headmates share the same body). Unless people are attempting to say that Jesus’s death was only innerworld, in which case, we’re now saying, “The death that led to the salvation of humanity from eternal damnation was entirely in the innermind of God.” 

It removes the human element of everyone else in these biblical stories. It removes the human context, the failure of humanity (and the successes) from the core essence of Christianity and centers instead solely on this idea of plurality. 

Then we get to the Holy Spirit, and it all breaks down more. Now the endogenic headmate of God is inside of me? Now you’re stating that my belief is on the same level as my parts; but it’s not. God is not in my head — he’s in my heart and soul. He’s not an alter. 

I will say, this is no fault of those who are sharing this headcanon, but I want to add it to provide context for why people may be feeling particularly heated about this topic. I’m currently in a very stressful time in my life, and this discussion of a plural God has made me start thinking about all of this at an incredibly poor time. Made me start thinking about the concept of the Holy Spirit being an alter, rather than the presence of God’s love in me, and how it’s suddenly more concrete. This has been sending my demonic and angelic alters into quite a tizzy, especially as one of those demons (Numb) is a protector who is certain I’ll be splitting a fucking Jesus introject.

Needless to say, this wouldn’t be good for us.

But do you see how the spiral arises?

I will say, I don’t feel that the belief that God is an endogenic system is inherently bad, and having a belief in God that could negatively impact someone else’s view of God or even just them as a person is not on that person’s shoulders. Again, I only mention the splitting thing because I want people to understand that these topics are stressful — and not just for “ridiculous anti-endos.” 

I’m also not saying it’s bad to play around with the concept of God and adopt new beliefs that are outside the norm. Quite the contrary; I’m sitting here with the belief that God is a genderless being using He/Him and They/Them in conjunction, that Jesus qualifies as trans and queer, and that Joseph and his technicolor dreamcoat put on a stellar drag show for the Pharaoh, his lover. I know plenty of Christians who would have a heart attack at these ideas.

The issue I do have is that those who are saying that God is an endogenic plural are not doing so (excuse the pun) in good faith.

When I say that Jesus is trans, I do not do so to “raise awareness of transness in Christian spaces” or to “own the bigots and reclaim Christianity.” I do so because I genuinely believe it to be true, and I like to share that truth. I share it to help others gain more perspective about religion, not about transness. I also share it with those I know would receive it, as I don’t want to push others away from the concept of transness or Christianity by offending them -- religion should not be the starter course of acceptance.

And yet, in all of the discussions I’ve seen of this topic, it has not felt that anyone is actually saying this because they truly believe it. It doesn’t feel like people are saying this to share their joy and wonderment about finding themselves in their religion. It feels instead like people who are purposefully trying to bait anger or confusion in order to manipulate people into learning something, or even simply to be cruel. As a teacher, and as someone who was also manipulated by the church, I can attest that manipulating people in this way doesn’t… help. Why are people purposefully seeking anger? This literally goes directly against the edicts of the God you’re theorizing about. 

In the past few weeks, I’ve seen more vitriol at the “colonizing homophobic Christian bigots” than I’ve seen for years, particularly as I’ve tried to avoid any mentions of my religion in public after years of abuse (both from my religious parents, and from non-religious peers). I try to avoid it because people form assumptions about me if I mention my religion, even in passing. Let’s not forget the poll that stemmed from this that lumped all Christians under the straight white label, an issue that persists and that queer Christians have tried to fight for goddamn years. 

And all of these people are going on about a plural God. 

It just feels… disconnected. Like the people saying this don’t actually say it to connect to God, but rather, to tread on those religious beliefs for their own agenda. It feels like people using my religion for their own means, without actually caring a lick about the meaning behind what I believe. 

And that’s why I’m hurt. 

I ask kindly that people consider not using a religion they don’t believe in for their crusade for more acceptance of Endogenic systems, or at least, to do so with the intention of actually interacting with the religion as more than a simple mythology. Please try to consider the context of these stories, the power behind these beliefs, and the impact that imposing modern systems (another good pun) on these beliefs could have. 

[ero-keixx]

I'm in a mental better state to start talking about this so I will. My post about RAMCOA was posted on Systemscringe and I am being fakeclaimed to hell and back. And this person is pissing me off and proving my point about people thinking RAMCOA is some satanic panic bs. Also they're just lying about what I said and putting words in my mouth. TW for RAMCOA talk and mentions of CSA and horrific child abuse in general under the cut.

RAMCOA stands for Ritual Abuse, Mind Control, and Organized Abuse. The ritual abuse gets mistaken for satanic cult stuff constantly when in reality it's abusing someone in the same exact way on certain days and times. Like "we do this on this day/everyday, at this time, the same exact way everytime". That is what Ritual Abuse is. It can include elements of cult stuff (most commonly cults that use Christianity like certain churches) but it's not really cult stuff. And I am NOT a victim of that, I don't see what I went through as that. I'm a victim of Mind Control and Organized Abuse.

For the Mind Control it's the process of TBMC (Trauma Based Mind Control) where you INTENTIONALLY traumatize a child enough to make them dissociate and develop a dissociative disorder. It's not the sci-fi fantasy stuff that you guys see on TV.

And for the Organized Abuse it's just two or more perpetrators working together to abuse one or more people. An example of that would be a trafficking ring and CSEM (I am a victim of both).

These are very real things. And I never said I was abused by a super secret SATANIC cult. Y'all just assumed that because that's what YOU think it is. I was abused by an organization/trafficking ring of some kind that trafficked children and produced CSEM and snuff like films. I was regularly taken to a building to be drugged through injections that would make me dissociate and tortured in horrific ways and sometimes it was recorded. And other than this organization my aunt also trafficked me to friends of hers and people she knew that wasn't even connected to the org. One of them recorded his instance with me where he almost took my life and ran off with the material. And my aunt proceeded to severely beat me afterwards for being "too loud". I almost died that night and still get horrific flashbacks to it.

Also someone in the comments said if I want to claim to be a victim of this I should be able to list the organization. First of all, THAT IS DANGEROUS. There are organizations/cults that will hunt down their victims and harm them if they ever came out. Second of all, a lot of victims don't remember the organization's name. Which is me, I don't remember the name (if it even had one). It's not like my maternal aunt and grandfather sat me down and told me the names of the people, organization/ring, and what would happen. All I remember is them taking me to the building with NO WARNING that the abuse would take place in. And because of the intentional development of DID through torture I remember almost nothing about the building besides of two rooms. An all white room with concrete or tiled floor that was very cold along with a metal table with straps on them and a bedroom with a child's bed (it looked like a bunk bed of some kind). The abuse happened in both rooms. This is all I can remember about the building. I was only 4 to 8-11 years old when I was actively being abused by this org. And no it did not happen EVERYDAY but it happened on a regular basis (lets say a weekly basis for now because I really don't remember how often it happened).

What happened to me is not some conspiracy theory bs. It is real. I deal with flashbacks to these events everyday. And the people in the comments are just proving the points I made. Y'all know JACK FUCKING SHIT about RAMCOA. You prefer to believe what you hear on shit like Fox News. You prefer to believe the organizations that often use lies to cover themselves up. You guys often cite an organization (*cough* gray faction *cough*) that commits RAMCOA acts and spreads lies about the reality of RAMCOA. As if it's a valid source. RAMCOA isn't some antisemitic satanic panic conspiracy bs, it is real. And if you bothered to do basic research on it you would know that, but I guess your brains are too tiny for that.

Anyways if you want to read this and post me again and fakeclaim me, fine. But you'll be proving my points. And karma will bite all of you in the arse for spreading misinformation and basically protecting these abusers. Call me insane idfc anymore. My own psychiatrist and therapists believes me and even gave me resources and help for RAMCOA victims. Which proves that it's a real thing.

Also I never claimed my job making me carry boxes and my mom drinking was satanic abuse. I don't remember talking about my mom's alcoholism and I was just venting about my job. Because I have a physically demanding job that I'm struggling to keep because of my physical disabilities getting worse. Y'all are putting words in my mouth.

Also for ANYONE reading this, if you see that I'm posted on these subreddits DON'T BRING IT UP TO ME. I actively avoid them for a reason. This is the type of shit that makes me relapse and nearly harm myself. I was close to doing that this morning just from this post. I don't want to see this shit anymore so please leave me alone if you ever see that I'm posted on these subreddits. I already expect it but I don't like digging for it for this reason. Let me ignore these people please stop showing them to me.

[smolvenger]

Reason for my absence

tw: mentions and discussions of mental health and child sexual abuse, and thoughts of suicide.

Hellooo guys,

So, I know I haven't been posting a lot lately or writing and it's mainly because of Graduate School and working a job at once to pay rent I took another smaller job housesitting for this nice, but challenging old lady over winter break...but...something happened right during the week after my birthday.

*deep inhale, deep exhale*

So, on January 13th, I...I had a mental breakdown.

That whole past week, I have gotten myself so wound up over a blog of mine that I plan to critique media. I missed sleeping and meals because all I wanted to do was work on it. And I still want to do it, but...mentally...I couldn't focus and kept spacing out anytime I Was asked to do anything, be it at church or work or even sitting down at a restaurant for someone else's birthday.

And then my mind...spiraled to dark places and traumatic experiences.

You see...when I was a child, I was, by definition, molested by my cousin who was only two years older than me, so the family could not press charges on him or send him to juvie.

This traumatic experience has haunted me my entire life. It affected my relationships and dating- I struggle to date at all and I can't use a tampon or get a pap smear without it being excruciating and getting nauseous.

And my family is still involved with this cousin's family despite knowing. My brother knows what happened to me. And he made my cousin the best man at his wedding anyway.

So on the morning of the 13th, I was too...too sad to even go to work, I kept thinking about it, I cried and called my parents, yelling at them for letting my cousin in the house and then I finally broke that dam of the Best Man Situation and sent texts to my brother in all caps and then called my brother to talk about it and we ended up making up for everything and crying.

And yet my mind would not stop racing.

I ate some, but I wasn't hungry. I tried to cook, but I kept getting distracted by everything. I couldn't focus on anything in the present moment for over a week. My parents scheduled therapy today and I kept racing and racing in my head. I ended up going on online shopping sprees and impulse buying all sorts of things I wanted forever and could not due to my job working me just barely above minimum wage due to a high city tax.

For a year and a half...I have been struggling with intrusive thoughts regarding suicide. I lost a good friend of mine that way. A friend who reminds me of myself. I have told myself that the thoughts go away and to let them pass but on the 13th...they were especially loud.

I wasn't aware of it at the time...but...

I have depression. (And I suspect, like my father and grandmother, I might have bipolar disorder.)

I will spare the scarier details but tell you guys what happened:

I kept calling my therapist, then my frightened parents and family, then ending the calls, ordering my third delivery on Uber Eats to be delivered, but something inside me said "I have to live, I have to live," and the suicidal urges and thoughts got louder and louder. I was saying things that didn't make sense and dangerous.

I will spare everyone details of what my kind of plan of going out was but...both me and my parents called emergency services. The police arrived and took me to a crisis center. My phone and wallet were taken from me so I could not contact anyone. I Was there, still depressed and spiraling and convinced I was about to die by either being shot or executed via capital punishment until four in the morning when the hospital knocked me out and took me over. I slept all day on the 14th and they drew my blood, they then took me to stay mental health institute.

I stayed there from 1/14-1/22.

I got a social worker and insurance to partially cover the bills (my previous Medicaid in my home state did not apply to my new one), although, of course, I am still worried about the cost, but that's just me. I got a new medication and the doses on my existing medications increased. The Mental Health Institute can have a bad reputation in fiction, but I was never harmed outside of some rude, offensive people who couldn't help what came out of their mouths and harmed no one. I went from depressed to functional and eager to get out.

So yeah...the reason I Was gone this week was that I learned I have issues with my mental health, but I was discharged last Wednesday and feel good and normal. My mom, who is retired, has even been staying over to get me back on track to a normal life because I am going to continue to go to Grad School and do shows and work at my normal place since it's incredibly close and flexible with my schedule, even if the pay isn't great.

I just wanted to say this because it was a scary, overwhelming, and even shameful ordeal and I could use support and hugs after all that! I do want to pick up writing again and want to do so with The Barnoet Seeks A Wife so if any writers have advice on how to get back on the wagon, let me know!

Thank you! Here is wholesome content after all of that!

@evelyn-kingsley@jennyggggrrr@five-miles-over@fictive-sl0th@ladycamillewrites@villainousshakespeare@holdmytesseract@eleniblue@twhxhck@lokisgoodgirl@lovelysizzlingbluebird@raqnarokr@holymultiplefandomsbatman@michelleleewise@wolfsmom1@cheekyscamp@mochie85@fandxmslxt69@skittslackoffilter@mischief2sarawr @asgards-princess-of-mischief @liminalpebble @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @muddyorbsblr @steasstuff @mari-malgamore

[aluyatoktokbang]

PERSONAL DATA OF "SANTA CRUZ"

Full Name:

-Karen Isabela de la Cruz.

Age:

-24 years old (present).

Height:

-1.65 meters (5'5").

Weight:

-65 kg.

Date of Birth:

-November 1, 1999.

Nationality:

-Mexican (currently residing in Colorado, USA).

Family:

-Víctor Marlon Addams (Father, judicial court judge, current status: deceased).

-Sor Pauline de la Cruz (Mother, nun in the convent, current status: deceased).

Current Status:

- "Deceased" ((Alive)) (Serial killer, thief, hitwoman, wanted by authorities).

Physical Traits:

-Short brown hair up to the shoulders, two pale golden-highlighted strands, pale skin, noticeable dark circles, large brown eyes; third-degree burns, now healed, on the right side of the face, from forehead to chin, with the right eye affected by the burn, resulting in blindness and slight loss of flesh on the right cheek area; thin arms covered with first-degree burns, scar "cross" shapes, and scratches from anxiety and past tortures, medium-sized hands, long, thin fingers with purple and reddish nails from the cold, large hips, long, curved legs covered with scars from falls and past tortures, average build, normal physical condition, and abnormally cold body temperature.

Diseases or Conditions:

-Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Theophobia (fear or rejection of religion or God), excessive religious intolerance (irrational hatred towards religious figures, images, buildings, prayers, and traditions, people who believe in religion, work in or hold a position in a church, temple, or holy place, such as nuns, priests, clergymen, bishops, pastors, etc.), intermittent explosive disorder, and minor hereditary heart problems.

Weapons Used:

-She uses firearms, a S&W Magnum Model 500, a Swiss army knife, and a hunting knife. If she does not have any weapons, she will use whatever is available to cause harm.

Skills:

-Excellent aim with any firearm, normal speed, normal agility, good balance, extremely stealthy and silent. Good at cooking, drawing, and singing.

Weaknesses:

-She can't run fast, is somewhat distracted, relies heavily on firearms, poor at hand-to-hand combat, stubborn, vengeful, resentful, very emotional, careless, and more prone to heart disease, which could worsen her health. If her face is exposed, she becomes more vulnerable and easier to attack.

Extras:

-She carries a small, old backpack with just a few survival items: a bottle of water, some energy bars, rolls of bandages, a box of band-aids, a small battery-powered flashlight, a lighter, and limited ammunition for her firearm. She enjoys drawing, cooking, and singing, though not often due to her lifestyle as a killer. Occasionally, she explains, shows, and practices traditions from her home country (Mexico), such as the Day of the Dead. She decorates random graves with cempasúchil flowers, papel picado, and candles as a form of well-being or placebo. She often has free time but doesn't rest, remaining alert. She constantly wonders how her life would have turned out if she hadn't become a killer, fantasizing about whether she might have become a judge like her father, had a family, partner, children, or pets.

Clothing:

-She wears a black balaclava with holes for the eyes, nose, and mouth, and over it, an old, yellowish-green mask with oxidized black spots, black tear-like marks under the eyes, and black lipstick, all to conceal her identity and hide her burn marks due to insecurity. Her outfit is similar to that of a nun, but with the shoulders exposed, which she herself cut. She wears two brown leather bracelets to protect her wrists and forearms, tight black pants, a brown leather corset to protect her abdomen, a knee-high leather belt with a holster for her revolver, light brown military-style boots, and a black hoodie with white edging, resembling a nun’s veil. Her intention is to mock, insult, and express her hatred and resentment towards nuns.

Modus Operandi:

-She typically targets nuns in vulnerable states who are alone, but also attacks priests, religious believers (both men and women), and sometimes burns churches to destroy any structural connection to religion. She avoids attacking infants, babies, or animals, as she does not direct her hatred toward them (although a traumatic event involved her accidentally killing a baby, which is why she avoids attacking children). She will make exceptions if someone (regardless of age) appears to be a threat to her, has seen her uncovered face, or has attempted to physically or verbally attack her. She has committed some contracted murders in search of money to survive, but that is not her primary interest.

Personality:

-She has a calm, serene, and slightly cold personality. She can be somewhat cheerful depending on her mood, enjoys joking occasionally, and acts elegantly, refined, with good manners, and cordiality (a personality she developed from her upbringing). This helps her appear more cruel and hateful. When she has an anxiety attack, is angry, or is in a situation where she attacks, she becomes impulsive, aggressive, swears, is stubborn, and does not assess the surrounding dangers. She has no fear of death (which makes her reckless with her physical health). She is tenacious, acts without thinking, enjoys torturing her victims, and delights in their suffering. She rarely shows affection, tends to have anxious attachment, is vengeful, and is guided by her emotions (with the most dominant being anger and revenge).

Nicknames:

-Since no one knows her real name or identity, she is called "Inquisitor," "False Nun," or "Santa Cruz" (the latter from blood writings found at a crime scene). Some people have developed a misguided sense of admiration for her, calling her "Art" or "Virgin of the Bullets."

Interpersonal Relationships:

-She was very close to her father, admired and respected him. Her relationship with her mother was non-existent, as she never felt affection for her since childhood. They constantly argued, which escalated to physical, mental, and verbal abuse by her mother. She was never a very sociable person, and the only relationship she has with someone outside of her family is with T. Joseph Rogers (Ticci-Toby), who was her friend in the past before both became killers. They reunited and decided to ally for better survival. Their relationship is complicated; sometimes they get along and treat each other as they did in the past, other times they act like a couple, but they have nothing formal due to their current situation. They often argue because both of them deal with mental disorders (and T. Rogers has more frequent anger attacks), which makes their coexistence toxic and escalating toward fatality.

[thewalrusandmeman]

I've been hesitant to release this track. It's one of the most frank and vulnerable songs I've ever written, and I've written a lot of those sorts of songs over the years.

However, the select few people I've played it to have been knocked out and told me I had to release it. Some of you will probably know what the lyrics relate to, and some won't. But hopefully it will help others who do listen to feel less alone, and as one dear friend said, that's what all good songwriting is about.

I hope you enjoy listening.

With Love

Joseph x

P.S It will be on all major streaming platforms very soon.

Find me where I shouldn’t be

handed into lost property 

among the unnamed ragged clothes

wear my heart on my sleeve 

and wipe my runny nose.

Climb the spires of old churches

Letter headed social services 

a family lying in the dust 

pooling tears turn my 

bike chain to rust.

And I can’t remain...

Reduced for quick sale 

I’ll be the last one on the shelf

Or buy one get one free.

Deflecting all the sticks and stones

Getting lost in your timezone

Once again I’m all at sea.

Where were you when

I was all that I could be.

All the bottles underneath your bed

Blotted out all the hurt you said. 

Whilst I’m frozen in the past. 

Post-traumatic stress disorder 

hides behind a laugh. 

And here comes the rain

Your favourite one to blame

And I’ve always picked you up

When you’ve pissed life down the drain. 

[scribbleseas]

The Indignant Pawn, Chapter XVIII: The Eternal Promise

Description: You are Y/n Y/l/n- formerly known as Princess Helena, the runaway princess.

You're an assassin for hire who only agrees to find the worst of London's criminals at the business end of your knife; until a mysterious woman hires you to end the likes of Ciel Phantomhive, the King of the Underworld. You find yourself trading your weapons for your abandoned family crest in order to infiltrate his home as none other than Princess Marie-Louise, your twin sister. What's to happen when you find that the young Earl is more than a callous businessman?

OVERALL STORY WARNINGS: sexual assault (once in the prologue), objectification, misogyny, death, detailed description of blood/gore, detailed description of murder, lying, impersonation, theft, weapons, detailed panic attacks, symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder, kissing

Author’s Note: Hi everyone! This is the last chapter of The Indignant Pawn! Thank you so much for reading and following along on this story! It means the world to me and I’m so happy that I was able to complete this for you, and so soon. I ended up having more time than I thought, and I was so inspired. I couldn’t start to study for finals without completing this, unfortunately. Please let me know how you feel about the ending. It’s been years in the making. 

One more thing, I opened commissions! If you're remotely interested, please check out this post!

Happy Reading!

- Dan

⇠ PREVIOUS CHAPTER

MASTERLIST  

. . .

MAY 12TH, 1892

SCHLESWIG-HOLSTEIN, GERMANY

It was early noon and you were already exhausted. 

Last night, the Glücksburg Castle staff separated you and Ciel the moment your steamship docked at the port. They pulled you apart before you could share much of a goodbye; taking you to the castle in different carriages and in separate routes before showing you to separate quarters. In accordance with common wedding superstition, you weren’t to see Ciel until the wedding ceremony, the next day. 

Instead, your company was the bridal party, handpicked by Queen Victoria. The Hesse sisters occupied the full length of the brunch table’s left side, talking amongst themselves.  

Despite being married across the continent, they still came in a set of four, the beautiful and elegant daughters of your late Aunt Alice. The eldest, Victoria, was about ten years your senior, married to Louis of Battenberg, the adventurous one. She was engaged in some emphatic discussion with her sister, Elisabeth, one of the most beautiful women in Europe, the papers liked to say.

Elisabeth turned down numerous dukes and princes before Grand Duke Sergei Alexandrovich captured her heart. 

The other two sisters were Irene and Alix, both were shy and withdrawn, at least by comparison to their siblings. Irene was content to let her elder sisters engage the European press, enjoying her serene marriage with Prussian Prince Henry. Meanwhile, Alix was still engaged to Nicholas II of Russia. She was unpopular with the Russian public, but a noted beauty.

“I believe our gowns are soft blue or some shade of periwinkle, are they not?” Victoria of Hesse said ponderously, adding a half-spoonful of sugar into her tea. She had your deceased aunt’s pleasant smile and joking eyes-- at least from what you remembered of Aunt Alice.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Elisabeth replied, “Gangan had our modiste send over my measurements and that was all. Do you know, Marie?” she asked, turning the table’s attention back to you. 

“No; Gangan handled all of the wedding planning,” you hoped your tone was light enough to portray amusement. “I haven’t so much as seen my gown, much less yours.” It was true. Nina merely sent your measurements to your Matron of Honor, Aunt Beatrice, and that was all. You were even unsure if the wedding was going to take place at the castle or a traditional church. 

“We should hope it is a more vibrant color than blue, no?” Grand Duchess Maria chimed in, seated at the right of the table by Lizzie. You managed to convince your grandmother to allow the Midfords to attend the wedding, so long as you strictly referred to their familial relationship, rather than past engagement. Not to mention, Ciel needed stand-ins in the wedding procession for his parents.

She seemed well-suited to the royal table, easily carrying conversations with the Hesse sisters, and winning over the Grand Duchess. Maria was advertising her and your Uncle Alfred’s son, Alfred II, for Lizzie to consider marrying. They were the Duke and Duchess of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, and they were looking for a bride for their second son. Lizzie would make a better duchess than you did a princess.

“If it’s a baby blue, I think it could look quite elegant,” Irene said. “Especially if the gentlemen wear deep navy and with chartreuse accents.”

“That’s exactly what I thought!” Lizzie smiled. “That color scheme is perfect for the spring.” Her word of agreement seemed to encourage shy Irene. Lizzie navigated these situations flawlessly, engaging the outspoken, and encouraging the quiet. You respected her ability to infuse cheerful care into every conversation she was a part of, even if it was these sort of superfluous topics.

After all, this was the sort of aimless conversation you had been entertaining all morning. It was endless torture with a side of tea and miniature pastries and finger sandwiches that the other women hardly touched. You would’ve taken the pain that came after Mey-Rin’s grazing bullet over entertaining this group of frivolous women. 

“Good morning, everyone!” Princess Beatrice of the United Kingdom entered, carrying a wooden box with both hands. By the tension in her shoulders, it seemed heavy.

Beatrice was your youngest aunt; Queen Victoria’s youngest child. She was Victoria’s known confidante; living with her for years as her secretary. Beatrice and her husband, Henry of Battenberg, made home with Victoria since their early marriage.

And for the next several days, she was to serve as your Matron of Honor.

You were satisfied with that choice, as well. Out of all your grandmother’s daughters, Aunt Beatrice was the most motherly. Marie was fond of her — she was a bridesmaid at her wedding in 1885. You were always most partial to your Aunt Louise, the Duchess of Argyll, but much to your silent chagrin, she was not a part of the wedding party. 

The table rose, everyone dropping into a shallow curtsey, though Duchess Maria’s was too quick to be genuinely respectful. Your aunt was too humble to comment on it and make an unnecessary scene. Instead, Beatrice took measured strides towards you, exchanging knowing smiles with the rest of the table.

“Good morning, Aunt Beatrice,” you greeted, swiftly kissing one another on the cheek. “Thank you for being here,” you said, though you doubted the queen gave her the option.

“Of course,” she smiled fondly, setting the heavy box on the table. 

“Marie, Aunt Beatrice had to secure your ‘something borrowed’ as it were,,” Victoria of Hesse explained. She gestured to the guard behind Beatrice with the slightest chin tilt. Of course, all traveling jewels from the royal vault needed to be accompanied by a guard and a gun.

“Go on, Marie,” your aunt encouraged, setting the thick wooden box down. “We all spent ages in the vault picking the right one for you.” 

You smiled. You hoped it looked more grateful than nauseous as you unclasped the box. Crimson velvet insulated the box’s interior, cushioning the imposing tiara that sat inside. The diamonds sparkled, cut into long, pointed off spikes. Small circle-cut diamonds lined each spike.

This tiara was a piece your grandmother obtained as a gift at the beginning of her reign in 1837, originally commissioned by her uncle, King William IV for his wife. 

“Queen Adelaide’s Diamond Fringe,” Aunt Beatrice said, though you knew the name. It was one of the oldest installments in the Royal Collection. Likely sensing your surprise, your aunt chuckled, “it did not take much convincing on the Queen’s part. Not after I insisted it would look best with your wedding gown.”

Reluctantly, you used the cloth included in the box to pick up the tiara, inspecting it more closely. The diamonds sat on the heads of two generations of royal women: Queen Adelaide, Queen Victoria…and now, you. An imposter. Royalty by blood, but of course, not by private association.  

“It’s lovely—” you began to say, until your cousin interrupted you.

Elisabeth of Hesse gasped, “Aunt Bea! You’ve seen her dress!” The rest of the table expressed their overlapping speculations, was it lace or tulle? Was the neckline straight across or Queen Anne?

“Elisabeth, Victoria, she would never hint at such a secret, there’s no point in accosting the woman,” Grand Duchess Maria scoffed, taking a cavalier sip out of her tea. She was jealous. 

“You will see it tomorrow!” Beatrice replied, laughing. The reminder of tomorrow forced another jolt of anxiety down your spine, but you used the energy to laugh as well. “In the meantime, I was also tasked with escorting you to your fitting, Marie. I do apologize for cutting your breakfast short, ladies.”

“That’s all right,” you smiled, carefully putting the priceless tiara back into its box. The moment you clasped the box, Beatrice’s guard took hold of it. After a reverent bow to the room, he took his leave, likely going to put the tiara into Glücksburg vault.

 At least you could escape this useless chatter. 

. . .

Given that your day was nothing short of exhausting, you should have had an easier time falling asleep. Yet, you paced Marie’s quarters, restless. It was unsettling to be around all of her recent belongings; letters, left behind clothing, books, her violin. It was as if she was truly on a short vacation in England.

A new lump of guilt rose in your throat.

But more importantly, you wanted to see Ciel. Strangely, after only a day of separation, you missed him.

Having lived together for the past several months, you were accustomed to being around him. Even if some of the time you spent together was quiet, and you only felt his presence at your side.

“I was sent to escort you to my Lord’s room, Miss Y/n,” Sebastian’s voice came from behind you. 

Instinctively, you turned on your heel and reached for the closest weapon possible, a small pair of scissors off your vanity. They were hardly big enough to cut thread with. You brandished the scissors in Sebastian’s general direction, but failed to find the voice’s source at first glance. The butler blended with the shadows, wearing nearly all black. He chuckled mirthlessly.

His red eyes were certainly glowing in the dark. 

“Yes, Sebastian?” You asked impatiently, putting the scissors back on the table. They wouldn’t be of much help to you, anyway. Nothing would be— not against some… being… that caught bullets. 

“My Lord requests your presence in his quarters. Unfortunately, you’ve made him care for you. Considerably,” he said. You hated his smile, the light tone his voice took. You would prefer he yell, or scowl, or frown. Anything to replace the patrronizing look that you knew so well. 

“Made him?” You questioned. Your eyebrows knitted together indignantly as you crossed your arms. What was he insinuating?

“Yes,” the butler said bluntly. “You’ve become an unfortunate distraction. A scourge to his soul.” His… soul?

“Thankfully, that is not for you to decide. Any opinion you have is irrelevant to us, Sebastian.” You said, turning your back to him to find flats to slip on. You never knew Sebastian to lie; he certainly wasn’t holding back at that moment.

“I simply want you to be aware that my loyalties will always fall with my master,” Sebastian replied, the undertones in his voice clear enough. If there is a life and death situation tomorrow, I will let you die, if I can.

“Well, you’ve been such an obedient servant, thus far,” you mirrored his obsequious tone, pairing it with your own reprimanding smile. “You ought to keep your Lord’s best interests in mind. Not to worry, Sebastian, I can handle myself.”

“Happy to hear it, Miss Y/n,” Sebastian replied, bowing with a hand over his heart. The gesture was as genuine as Duchess Maria’s greeting to your aunt had been.  

“My Lord ordered me to escort you. There are guards in the hallway,” the butler explained. His eyes brightened, daring you to decline him. 

You scoffered in disbelief, shaking your head. It was precaution from Diego’s warning, you assumed. “Fine.”

You left the room first, surprised that there was no guard fixed outside your door. Though you knew where you were going, Sebastian led you to the guest wing. Instinctively, you remembered where to step so as not to cause the wooden floor to complain.

Every few paces, Sebastian would have you pause to let a guard pass. Apparently, he sensed them much sooner than you did. 

Do some reading about the supernatural after all of this is over with, you reminded yourself. The thought was ridiculous, but there was no harm in investigating. Besides, Sebastian was becoming too unmistakable to continue ignoring. 

The moment you knocked on Ciel’s door, Sebastian disappeared. Your fiancé opened the door. Before he could speak, you hugged him tightly, hiding your face in his nightshirt. You breathed in his familiar scent, letting your eyes flutter closed. Your fingers grabbed fistfulls of his shirt, bunching the material around his back. Ciel hardly managed to close the door behind you, locking it to be safe.

“I waited to see you all day,” Ciel said simply, brushing strands of your hair behind your ear when you looked up at him. He pressed a greeting kiss on your cheek. “My groomsmen insisted we explore the city. It was quite a hindrance.”

“Well, I was stuck in a flock of blushing bridesmaids,” you laughed humorlessly. “If I so much as started saying your name, they would throw some fit— something about bad luck.”

“If simply saying my name is bad luck, seeing me must be absolutely damning,” Ciel quipped smugly. He guided you to sit on the edge of his bed, shamelessly regarding you. You returned the favor, your gaze catching on the way his collar bones protruded under his loose nightshirt.

You thought about the last time he sat on the edge of his bed with you present, climbing into his lap, pleasuring yourself against the hardness in his trousers. Technically, you wore more that evening than in this current moment. All you wore was a white nightgown. Nothing under it, nothing over it. It was made of satin, as sheer as a curtain.

Ciel made a respectable effort to look at your face only. 

“Tomorrow night, we will be wed,” you said meaningfully, feeling your face flush. 

“Yes,” Ciel’s response was impatient, “we will be.” He hated to wait, but he was never one to do something so significant haphazardly. If you were to consummate, you had to be married. But this time tomorrow, you would be. 

An amused smile tugged at your lips, “my Aunt Beatrice was giving me…anecdotes about her wedding night.” The interaction had been excruciating during your gown fitting, but now you thought it was rather humorous. Beatrice was a few years past 30— she had three children, another on the way, so it was rumored.

Ciel cringed at the thought of your relative telling you about what takes place behind a couple’s locked door. As if he had no clue, and didn’t want to know. You knew he knew. “And I thought nothing could be worse than my own cousin.”

While your eyebrows knit, initially figuring he was referring to Lizzie, but you took a sigh of relief upon realizing that he was speaking of Edward Midford, her brother. He was Ciel’s best man.

“Better than Sebastian,” you quipped. However, your smile faltered at the thought of the butler. Marrying Ciel meant you were resigning yourself to a life with a powerful, supernatural servant who wanted you dead. If given the chance, he would kill you. 

“Y/n?” Ciel frowned, mirroring your disheartened expression. 

“It’s nothing. I just…I suppose I’m tired,” you said unconvincingly. 

You rested your head on the side of his arm. “Being here…seeing my aunt and cousins. Living in my sister’s room....” It wasn’t the full truth, but certainly wasn’t a lie. There was an unwavering pit in your stomach. A premonition that something was about to go terribly amiss. 

“We’re taking the first steamship tomorrow night,” Ciel replied, running his thumb over your knuckles. It was a habit he picked up from you, the way you liked to ground yourself through small, repetitive motions. “I assumed being here would be difficult for you.”

“Where are we going?” The destination of your honeymoon was supposed to be a surprise, one left to Ciel’s careful planning. However, you were never one for surprises, and you would be away for about a month. You deserved to know where you were going to be for such a long span of time.

Ciel replied in French, “Quelque part où il y a du vin, des champs de lavande et une grande tour, ma chère.” He rarely used his second language, considering you couldn’t understand it and he was in the midst of perfecting his German, but it was attractive. You flushed at his graceful accent, the way the complex language suited his voice. 

“Ciel…” you started, chuckling fondly. 

“Et quand nous y serons, nous ferons des choses innommables les uns avec les autres,” Ciel continued, gauging your reaction. He kissed your cheek and slightly below your jaw before moving your hair out of the way to press a peck on the nape of your neck. The more you were intimate, the more you noticed his fixation with your neck. 

As Ciel turned to face you completely, his hand released yours to settle on your bare thigh. You moved further up the bed to make space.

His voice dropped to a whisper, “nous avons tous deux attendu si longtemps.” Your arms erupted with goosebumps as you pulled him closer, his lips centimeters from your own. 

For all you knew, he could be stringing nonsense into sentences, but it didn’t matter. It sounded perfect, his tender touch giving way for a new warmth to spread in your stomach.

Your fingers tangled into his hair as you pulled him down against the bedspread with you. The kiss was breathless and all-consuming. It ignited every nerve— down to your toes. You could feel Ciel’s warmth through his shirt, and you were consciously aware of everywhere your skin touched his. His legs bracketed yours. 

Giving you a moment to catch your breath, he kissed the center of your throat, your drumming pulse point. He paused, an amused grin playing at his lips. 

“What is it?” You managed. 

“Do you recall the last time we were in a position like this?”

After a beat of silence, you laughed. “Our dispute! When I nearly broke your nose and ran away.” Even when you hated Ciel, you couldn’t bring yourself to meaningfully injure him. 

Ciel hummed in confirmation, though his dubious look suggested he thought your recollection of the altercation was self-serving. “And you still looked like you wanted to kiss me. Even when I held a knife right here,” his fingers grazed over the scar on your throat— a superficial wound above your left carotid. 

“Yes… just like this,” you smarted, pulling him close to steal an innocent peck from his lips.

“Yes, I suppose just like that,” Ciel conceded, rolling his eye. 

“What’s more, you couldn’t bring yourself to press harder,” you added teasingly, pulling him back in for a long kiss, treating this opportunity to be intimate with your fiancé as if it was your last.

. . .

MAY 13TH, 1892

SCHLESWIG-HOLSTEIN, GERMANY

You didn’t recognize yourself in the mirror. 

Mey-Rin and Nina made elegant work with your makeup; darkening your eyebrows, painting on a blush that made your cheeks look flushed, a lipstick that made your lips appear bitten. After all, obvious makeup was considered fraudulent and deceptive; the work of women who worked street corners, Queen Victoria would say. 

Nina twisted your hair into a French twist updo, leaving curled strands out in the front. Queen Adelaide’s Fringe Tiara felt heavy on your head, fastened to your hair with pins. It dug into your scalp, the pain made it impossible for you to forget that it sat there.

Your gown was surprisingly simplistic; it was whiter than snow, free of any lace or bead detailing. Instead of was a sheen of satin, the lustrous fabric beautiful without being flamboyant. Your sleeves, controversially, were off the shoulder, meeting in a seam in the middle of your chest. 

To hide the gruesome scar on your arm, you wore matching white gloves that reached your elbows. They were out of season, but there was no way for you to hide the old wound otherwise. 

Under such a heavy dress and tiara, you were ready to collapse. Your preparation team had you awake before the sun rose, giving you a small breakfast before stuffing you into a carriage and taking you to the church to get dressed. It was a prayer room made into a makeshift dressing areafor your purposes; security did not want to risk the wedding party arriving at the ceremony in carriages, per tradition.  Instead, everyone in the wedding had to get to the church at inane hours to let the guards watch every doorway and window for intruders, once again taking separate carriages in different routes.  

You took a deep breath in, trying to settle your nerves. You were marrying the man you loved, someone who understood you in a way that no one since Baxter did. Only…now your life was to belong to the monarchy once more. This wedding ceremony was more symbolic and full of circumstance than romance. It wasn’t yours and Ciel’s. It was Europe’s. 

Not to mention, Diego warned you that Mariana had a plan. Mariana…it was still strange to have a real name for the woman. A reason why she was determined to kill you both, but more importantly, Ciel. You couldn’t allow that, even if he did kill her husband.

No matter how security prepared, she was still a threat. She would try to kill the both of you until either she succeeded, or you killed her first. Still, you knew that every possible measure was made. Sebastian would protect Ciel to the bitter end, regardless. That was what mattered. 

There was nothing more for you to do besides having the wedding. You laughed at your reflection. You looked like a princess, but what raced through your mind — murder, death threats, the leader of a foreign drug empire — were not regal bride concerns in the least. 

And you looked much more calm than you felt. At least you could contain your inner turmoil; stuff it down, sort your worries into neat categories. Impending doom, a death threat, a potentially supernatural butler. Hide it all behind the image of a jubilant princess who balanced the weight of a diamond tiara and a dagger all the same. 

Besides, there was no other option. Ciel had an earldom to run, a business to support, an Underworld to terrorize. He was too proud to live in middle class America. He would detest waking up every morning, and that would soon become a hatred for waking up with you. All you could do was marry, and support each other in your new royal family role. Dispel evil together. Dispel Mariana if she attempted to challenge you. Maybe even have a child or two. 

You squeezed your eyes closed, thinking about last night. All you needed to do was complete the day, and you would be together. In every way a couple could be together.

There was a stiff knock at the door, forcing you to open your eyes and paint a pleasant expression on your face. “Come in.”

“Marie,” Christian, your eldest brother, entered. You figured he would be walking you down the aisle — giving you away — instead of your father. No one told you, but you had the good sense to expect it. It was well-known that Queen Victoria disliked your father. She didn’t care for Prince Christian I, matching your mother, Princess Helena, with him because she couldn’t find a proper European house to marry her middle child into. 

Meanwhile, it was no secret that Victoria favored your brother. The Queen adored him for studying at Wellington College as she wanted, and she found nothing more befitting of a prince than serving in the military. Christian recently returned from an expedition in Isazi as an officer in the British Army. His skin was still lightly tanned from being in South Africa for so long. He wore his uniform and full officer decorations. Other men in the service were likely doing the same; Edward Midford and his father, Lord Scotany.

“Christian,” you were unsure how Marie greeted him, and your hesitance showed. There was a beat of silence as he regarded you.

Christian raised his eyebrow, “why did you do away with Christle?” He was referring to that puerile nickname you both used for him as children. 

Marie still referred to him as Christle at this age? He was a military official!

“You’ve been acting differently lately, Marie. Are you sure you love Phantomhive? Is this what you want to do?” Christian asked, worry furrowing his eyebrows. He looked like you when you were apprehensive, the same level stare, pursed lips. 

“How am I different?” You asked. It was easy to act around Queen Victoria and your mother— anyone who spent more time worrying about themselves or their positions to really understand the difference between you and your sister. But Christian was more complicated. He was your authority figure while your mother was opening hospitals abroad and your father worked. Christian spent plenty of time playing with Marie, admonishing you for being lax in your duties as a child. As the eldest, he was 16 the second time you ran away, 15 the first. 

You felt like you were nine years old again, getting admonished for refusing to ride a horse side saddle, or for getting mud all over your dress before the family portrait. 

“You’re…acting quite like Thora,” Christian said, his militant eyes practically staring into your soul. You tried not to grimace at your old nickname. 

He wasn’t accusing you; his voice was thoughtful or concerned, if anything. “Aunt Beatrice was worried, too. I only…” he paused. “I only want to ensure that this marriage is what you want. You will always be my younger sister, even if I’m supposed to be giving you away.”

The honorable Prince Christian never changed.

“If I’ve been somber…I don’t mean to be,” you replied. “I…the past few months of my life have been terrifying. I know you were away in Africa but there was a death threat sent to court. On my life. The Phantomhive manor was even attacked, months ago,” you rolled down your glove to show him the injury. If you could persuade your brother, no one would question you. 

Christian sighed, his face unchanging. The military seemed to desensitize him to these sorts of wounds. He inspected the healed scar, and nodded once. “It healed well. Phantomhive’s medic is rather talented,” he admitted gruffly. The irony being, that the medic was Sebastian, a monster who wanted you dead. 

You pulled the glove back over your forearm. Christian didn’t argue with you, but you knew he was unconvinced. Before he could speak, the quick notes of Mendelsson’s Wedding March reverberated throughout the church, preceded by soul-shattering chords. That was your cue to join the procession. 

Christian glanced at the clock to confirm the time was right. “We have to join the others,” he offered his arm. You laced yours with his, and two servants you didn’t know picked up your gown’s long train. 

When you joined the procession from behind, the first of the wedding party was already walking down the aisle. First was Queen Victoria, accompanied by her secretary and two guards; the Officiant; Lord and Lady Scotany as they filled in for Ciel’s deceased parents; your parents; Ciel and his groomsmen. You and Christian joined from the hall behind the doors to the Sanctuary, so you didn’t see any of them before they walked. 

Instead, you saw the middle of the procession: your bridesmaids, the Hesse sisters, Cornelia, and Aunt Beatrice. Cornelia was one of your bridesmaids because her husband, Edward, was Ciel’s best man. It was more of a formality, than a show of closeness between you. 

After them was the ring bearer and the flower girl, respectively. While you expected Victoria to insist the roles be fulfilled by your younger cousins, she allowed Ciel to fill those positions from his own friends and family. He asked little Beatrice Moore and her betrothed, Theodore Ambrose, the next Earl of Granard. Beatrice was still giggling at the fact that she shared a name with a real princess, your Aunt Beatrice.

You settled behind the children. Little Beatrice nearly missed her cue because her eyes were locked on your tiara and seemingly endless gown. Beatrice waved at you vigorously, causing you to smile. “Marie! You look so beautiful!” She exclaimed, shooting Theodore an irritated look when he tapped her shoulder and reminded her to walk with him. 

One of the servants handed you a bouquet of flowers, alstroemerias with white roses, and baby's breath incorporated. It was your turn to walk down the aisle with your brother, but you couldn’t help but wish it was Baxter at your side. That this wedding had less people, a tiara that didn’t weigh more than your brain…

Smile. You urged yourself not to buckle under the weight of everyone’s states. Everyone stood for the entire wedding procession, given that Queen Victoria was standing as well. No one sat while the highest-ranking royal stood. 

First, you passed the servants and guards in the furthest pews from the altar. Mey-Rin dabbed at her tears from under her glasses, Finny waved, Baldroy nodded once. Nina smiled at you, gesturing for you to keep walking in time with the music. You had paused for a half second, attempting to find Sebastian. The awkward timing forced Christian to stop his stride to let you catch up. 

You didn’t see Sebastian, and you were unsure if that caused you more anxiety, or alleviated it.

Strictly-screened journalists and press members were in the pews in front of the servants. Their cameras clicked, lenses immortalizing the moment. You smiled for them, struggling to find a place to look.

The music echoed throughout the Sanctuary, overly cheerful. It was the same chords repeating on the grand organ behind the altar. 

Closer to the altar were the aristocratic and the royal guests. Several faces stuck out to you— your Aunt Victoria, the Queen’s eldest child; brother, Albert; Aunt Louise; Mateo and Valentina Bianchi ; the heirs to the English throne, Uncle Edward and Alexandra of Denmark. 

You caught Lizzie’s emerald gaze; she was in the front row, to the side. She looked at you before pointedly looking ahead of her. Look at the man you love. The rest of the world will simply fall away. She was too empathetic for her own good, sometimes. 

As you took your concluding steps towards the altar, you finally looked at Ciel. She was right. Your heart flipped immediately, taking in his deep navy suit. He had a white rose tucked pinned over his chest, his signature flower. The tie tucked into his jacket was a soft pink; pale enough that you thought it was white at first glance. The rest of the wedding party coordinated with him, the bridesmaids wearing the same pink, and the groomsmen the same blue.

Ciel didn’t smile broadly, but you knew better than to fixate on that. Instead, the corners of his lips turned upwards. He took in your appearance slowly, as if he were fixating on a painting. Inspecting every detail with the intensity of someone trying to commit each brush stroke to memory.

At the altar, you took your place across from Ciel. Christian stood behind you, to the officiant’s side. Aunt Beatrice took your bouquet for you.

All you needed to do was finish the ceremony, and you would have the man across from you all to yourself for the next month. Just you, him, Carl, and the servants abroad in some beautiful place. There was no royal tour— all you needed to do was attend Alix of Hesse and Nicholas II’s wedding in Russia as guests.

The thought of such solitude was elating. It helped your smile widen naturally, though your cheeks were beginning to sting.

The music quieted into a small, soothing tune that the officiant could speak over. 

“Welcome, everyone,” the officiant said. He was an agind man with kind blue eyes and a thoughtful smile. There was a gold wedding band on his left ring finger, matching his red and gold robes. “Please be seated. Thank you all for joining us on this joyous day and cloudless afternoon.” 

“Every one of you today has been invited today because you, in one way or another, shaped the lives of these lovely individuals standing before me, Her Highness Princess Marie Louise of Schleswig-Holstein and Lord Ciel Phantomhive.”

Not hearing your name hurt you more than you thought it would have. 

“For those of you I have not had the chance to meet, my name is Reverend Arthur Green. I have officiated the past…six… royal weddings,” he said with a flourish, making a show of counting. There were scattered laughs in the audience in response. Green was close with the Queen, who sat in a distinguished throne to the side of the author with her Munshi, Abdul Karim. Notably, not all of her children were present— likely for security reasons. 

Reverend Green continued, “we were all taken by surprise by this sweeping love connection, but seeing the way these two beautiful souls regard one another, their love is strong and true.” 

You felt your face redden, matching the new flush over Ciel’s cheeks. 

“I have vows prepared for both the bride and groom,” Green announced. Neither of you expressed a desire to write your own vows, and you doubted the Queen would have let you. She was reluctant with royalty expressing such passionate feelings in public, preferring to preserve the dignified appearance her Royal Mob upheld. 

“Please repeat my words, Your Highness,” he requested, forcing you to refocus. 

You repeated. “I, Marie, take thee, Ciel Phantomhive, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; and I promise to be faithful to you until death parts us.”

Ciel repeated the same vow, having the same reluctance with saying your name. No, Marie’s name. 

This is just the beginning, Y/n.

Ciel broke into a broader smile, yours matching his. His blue eye seemed even darker in the sunset. When you looked at him, you saw your honeymoon, your future, your husband. Your closest friend and confidante. Your heart fluttered, your mouth was dry. More than anything, you wanted to kiss him.

When you looked at him, you forgot about the weight of the tiara on your head.

“Your Highness, do you promise to love, honor, cherish, and protect Lord Phantomhive, forsaking all others, and holding only unto him forever?” Reverend Green asked.

“Yes!” You said more enthusiastically than you meant to. The guests laughed, and out of the corner of your eye, you caught Lizzie’s amused grin. You cleared your throat, “yes, I do.”

“And Lord Phantomhive, do you promise to love, honor, cherish, and protect Her Highness, forsaking all others, and holding only unto her forever?”

“Indeed, I do,” Ciel’s reply was much calmer than yours, but his face was full of love. It made your eyes sting, as if you could cry. You tried to blink the forming tears away. You thought about what his lips feel like, how his arms feel when they wrapped around you to combat your surfacing feelings.

The both of you already loved, honored, cherished, and protected each other. You’d do it forever, if that’s what the Fates had in store for you.

Reverend Green nodded at Theodore, preparing the child to get ready for his cue to bring your wedding rings up to the altar. 

Theodore nodded aggressively in response, tightening his grip on the small cushion with your rings. The audience laughed, but you couldn’t make yourself look away from Ciel to survey their responses any longer.

Green grinned, his eyes brimming with tears as well. At least you weren’t alone in your tragically sentimental feelings. “Now, if there is anyone present, who can show just cause why these two persons may not be joined in matrimony, speak now, or forever hold your peace,” he declared, naturally assuming that no one in the audience would protest. 

The gasps and screams forced you to look away from Ciel and into the audience as it rippled, devolving into chaos. They dove away from a singular woman who stood, aiming a small purse gun at the altar. 

Guards sprang into action, their guns unlocking, but they couldn’t shoot with terrified guests fleeing and hiding. Mey-Rin argued with a soldier, likely in an effort to take his weapon and fire. She was the best shot there, but you assumed the guards refused to let her bring a weapon in.

You didn’t need to look longer to know what was about to happen. You refused to let it. 

Before you knew what you were doing, you moved. You pulled yourself out of Christian’s restrictive grip, and pushed Ciel to the ground, just as the woman shot. The shot sounded throughout the Sanctuary, amongst the course of screaming guests, shouting guards and crying guests. 

You remained standing, merely feeling a searing warmth rip through your left chest. It was nothing like Mey-Rin’s grazing bullet. In fact, it hurt less. It was hot like nothing you’ve ever touched, but it didn’t hurt. Not even the hot stove you touched by accident as a child compared to the sensation in your chest. 

Ciel managed to pull himself off the ground, startled by your hard shove. He’d tripped down the short steps and hit his head, but otherwise, he seemed unharmed. You would have been relieved, had he not been staring at you in panic.

“Y/n,” he managed, horrified. 

But you name was lost amid the chaos. Before you dared look down, you took a quick survey of the rest of the Sanctuary. Queen Victoria and most of the guests fled or hid, guards shielding their escape. Edward sprung in front of Cornelia, the Reverend, Theodore, and Beatrice. The children cried for their parents, who were likely forced to leave with the guards. 

Reverend Green trembled behind the altar, bear hugging young Beatrice and Theodore, the Hesse sisters and Aunt Beatrice fell to the floor, covering their heads. Your brother stood before them, gun drawn. Royalty received crisis training for situations like this. 

Mariana was gone, having used the chaos to make her escape.

“Edward, take the kids!” Cornelia demanded, “get them to their parents.”

“I will not leave you,” Edward Midford insisted, his voice trained to be steady in the face of danger. He was a soldier, like Christian. 

“I-I can,” Reverend Green said, trembling. “Come on, children. We must— we must, go.” He tried to let go of them, but Beatrice held on, hiding her face in the man’s robes. 

“I’ll make sure nothing happens to them,” Green assured Cornelia, but neither child seemed interested in leaving.

“Y/n!” Ciel shouted, his face red as if he’s been trying to capture your attention. He put his hand on your shoulder, but he was trembling. His gaze alternated between your chest and your face, and you made the mistake of looking down at your fresh wound. At the fresh crimson blood that blossomed on the left side of your dress’s bodice. It was in the middle of your left breast— the third or fourth rib you assumed. 

“Oh,” you managed. Your legs buckled, but Ciel caught you and carefully helped you to the floor. He tore his jacket off and pressed it against the wound, hard enough for you to cry out in pain. The ease that he pressed indicated that the bullet fractured your ribs. Ciel sensed that the wound gave way too easily and paled. 

You took a difficult breath in, shivering despite the warm bullet in your chest. Your teeth chattered.

Pain, tenderness, difficulty breathing, you told yourself. Baxter always said that self-assessment came first. It was a small gun. The best you could hope for was a fractured rib, but the way your chest gave way to Ciel’s pressure suggested it was shattered. 

“Why can a shattered rib be dangerous, Y/n?” Baxter asked.

Massive bleeding from ruptured blood vessels, bone fragments from the rib can puncture a lung… or my heart.

Air could build around the lung and cause a tension pneumothorax… assuming the bullet didn’t puncture the lung and do that already.

“Ciel, keep the pressure steady,” Cornelia said. You forgot she was a nurse. Maybe you had a chance, if it wasn't a tension pneumothorax. But you never had that kind of luck. “Help me check for an exit wound,” she said to someone on your right side. The three of them lifted your torso up, and confirmed that you were also bleeding out from the back. They ripped the satin from your gown and used another man’s jacket to slow that bleeding while Ciel held pressure on your front. 

“We need a carriage to get her to a hospital,” Cornelia declared, checking your pulse.

“I-I think the guests took them all,” Lady Scotany said, “Alexis— go check. For a guard, a doctor, a commoner with a carriage, anyone.” With a grim nod, Alexis Midford ran with Baldroy and Mey-Rin. 

“Marie, I know it hurts but I need you to do your best to breathe. And wiggle your fingers,” Cornelia said, but you were more concerned with Ciel. His hands were soaked with your blood, despite Aunt Beatrice continuously giving him new material to help stop the bleeding with. 

“Marie!” Cornelia repeated. When you didn’t respond, she turned to Ciel. “Ciel, you need to tell her to breathe,” she said, “she will listen to you.”

You were Marie, even when you had a bullet in your chest. It was a cruel joke.

Were you not breathing? Was that why your lungs were aflame? Was that why your throat was constricting? Was that why your vision coated in white, and your ears rang like church bells?

Ciel trembled, but he nodded. “Look at me,” he ordered, “breathe. You need to breathe.” Breathing hurt. It hurt more than any pain you ever experienced in your life. It hurt more than your arm. Inhaling hurt more than the bullet itself hurt. 

“T-trying…” you managed.

“You’re doing well, Marie, it’s okay,” Lizzie said, sniffling. Your head was in her lap, though you were unsure when she showed up. “J-just focus on breathing.”

My ribs are broken. I probably have a tension pneumothorax, you wanted to cry out. But your voice wasn’t cooperating. You could feel your rationality slipping out with the same urgency blood bubbled from your wound.

Cornelia cut your bodice open, cutting through the dress and corset. Finny gave his jacket to Lady Scotany to drape over the right side of your chest, for your modesty. As if that was the most concerning part of the situation. 

“Take a deep breath in,” Ciel said, repeating Cornelia’s words. You shivered, struggling to do as told. Your lungs were already full— as if you took an inhale prior, held it, and tried to inhale again, all without exhaling. 

“Abnormal lung sounds,” Cornelia drew back to watch your chest as you struggled to breathe. “Asymmetrical expansion of the chest,” she mumbled gravely.

The problem with being right all the time, meant that you had also diagnosed yourself correctly. And this diagnosis was fatal without near-immediate treatment.

“What does that mean?” Ciel insisted. “Cornelia!” He shouted, but the nurse didn’t meet his gaze. 

“It probably means it’s a…tension pneumothorax,” Cornelia admitted.

“She got away,” you heard Baldroy say from a distance, returning with Lord Scotany. He shouldered his coat off to let Lady Scotany put it beneath the exit wound on your back. “Guards were too concerned with gettin’ the royals to safety. Took all the carriages, too.”

“What does that mean, Cornelia?” Ciel shouted.

“Where is Sebastian?” Lizzie asked, trying to keep her voice level. She removed the heavy tiara from your head and gently smoothed her fingers over your hair.

“Sebastian?” Lady Scotany asked. “He’s getting another carriage. We need to get her to the hospital.” 

You wanted to laugh. With Sebastian getting the carriage, you were surely going to bleed out— or die of hypoxia— whichever came first. You were going to die in front of an altar. In a church. At your own wedding.

“Cornelia!” Ciel yelled. 

“Ciel, shut up and let me work!” Cornelia put her ear to your chest again. 

“Air is building around the outside of her lungs, rather than inside because the bullet— or a bone fragment punctured it,” Christian said, pitying your…husband? Fiancé? 

“The air puts pressure around the punctured lung, and that strains that lung and her heart. Since the lung is punctured, air keeps getting stuck when she inhales, so there is no room for it to expand when she breathes,” your brother explained.

Your lung definitely collapsed. The well-meaning pressure Ciel put on the wound couldn’t be helping, either.

“Hyperresonant chest percussion,” Cornelia noted under her breath. Her concerned frown deepened.

“Cornelia, her neck,” Christian added calmly. He kneeled at your other side, across from Ciel, light fingers touching your throat, feeling for your trachea. “Tracheal deviation to the right and distended neck veins.”

“Tension pneumothorax,” they said in synchrony, sharing a look. 

“So what can we do?” Lizzie cried out. 

“Dying,” you mumbled, fully believing that these were your final moments. The procedure you needed was impossible on the floor of the church. If Sebastian was tasked with the carriage, you weren’t going to get there in time. And he was why you were shot, in the first place. 

He caught bullets. He wanted you dead…it was simple. Bloody demon.

That’s what he was, wasn't he?

“We need a large bore needle!” Christian exclaimed.

“A needle? Whatever for?” Lizzie cried out.

“To evacuate the air,” Cornelia said, “but we don’t have the right kind here.”

“So what do we do?”

“You are not dying, you utter imbecile,” Ciel insisted, steady tears streaming down his face. You weren’t sure if he noticed that his forehead was bleeding, much less the salty tears streaming down his cheeks. “She was bloody aiming at me.” 

You wanted to reach out and wipe the tears off of his face, but your arm was limp at your side, refusing to obey. You could wiggle your fingers, but you couldn’t quite muster the strength to lift the limb. You tried again, but your arm fell to your side uselessly.

You could hear your heartbeat in your ears, pounding in your brain. It was a welcome change from the terrible ringing.

“I’m s-..sorry,” you managed, but it was a lie. If you hadn’t pushed Ciel, it might have hit him. If the man you loved died from your inaction, you wouldn’t be able to forgive yourself for it.

You felt there was a constrictive corset around your brain, tightening and tightening. Your breathing was rapid, in out, in out, in out. You could feel your head throb in time with your heart. With every inhale you managed, you got less air. 

But even so, you would do it again. 

“They’re not going to have the right needle here, we have to burp the wound.” Cornelia said. “Otherwise, she’ll suffocate before the carriage gets here.”

“Burp the wound?” Ciel asked incredulously. 

“The air caught in the pleural space won’t come out safely and she’ll suffocate if we don’t let air escape the opening that’s already there. Ciel, you need to step aside for a moment,” Cornelia explained.

“But— but, she’s still bleeding! I’m…stopping the bleeding! She will bleed out if I stop!” Ciel argued, looking from his bloody hands on the wound to your paling face. Back and forth once more.

“She’s going to die of hypoxia if you don’t let the air out of the lung cavity, Ciel.” Christian said. “You need to move, or I will move you.” Christian was much taller than Ciel. It would’ve been as simple as moving a chess piece.

Ciel moved reluctantly, and switched spots at your side with Christian. 

Cornelia moved the blood-soaked dressing from the wound, and you caught a quiet rush of air before she put fresh dress fabric over it once more. It was only a little easier for you to breathe before it grew difficult again. However, she quickly  removed the dressing when she noticed you beginning to strain. The nurse repeated the process in tandem with your discomfort. 

You shivered, watching the world above you— Ciel’s face, Lizzie’s, your brother’s. The world was brighter, it was blurry. And then it was refined. It was vibrant, and then it wasn’t. Vibrant, clear, blurry, bright…

Was this what Baxter saw? you wondered.

“No, Y/n. It’s not your time, yet.” Baxter said. “You need to wait. You need to try to live. The doc’s comin’ in a carriage with his supplies. He will be there. Just hold on. We’re all here for you every step of the way. You will not die.”

Earnest Baxter.

You refocused on Ciel. His face was clear, and vibrant. And then it was blurry. It was bright. He was still bleeding. He was still handsome.

You put all of your focus into your next words. “I love you,” you managed. Your eyes fluttered closed, it was getting too hard to concentrate and keep them open. 

“No, don’t you dare say that!” Ciel demanded. “You will not die. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” his fingers felt warm on your face, they smelled like blood. Your eyes fluttered open again. You smiled weakly. 

You weren’t sure what you would do without Ciel, either. 

“It’s…not my intent to but…” that might be out of my hands.

This was supposed to be the day you eternally promised yourselves to one another, but apparently, plans sometimes went awry. Sometimes, the determined widow got her happy ending.

But you won too. All because the last face you were going to see was the face of the man you loved.

“Surgeon’s here! He’s got supplies!” 

Hold on, Y/n.

. . .

Acknowledgements:

First of all, I want to thank everyone on Amino (who I unfortunately, didn’t keep in contact with) for telling me that the first 2 chapters of this fic were worthwhile. Without motivation from them, I never would have felt inspired enough to keep developing this idea. 

I also want to thank my best friend for listening to me rant about this piece. About the hours and hours of research about historical figures, laundry in the 1890s, makeup in the 1890s, speech, Victorian slang terms, hair, names, German breakfast food, types of tea, Victorian wedding traditions, serial killers, post-traumatic stress disorder, bilingualism, travel, everything. Even anatomy, dangerous chemicals, ages of me studying self-defense, waltz, and harp tutorials on YouTube. I even did the math-- Cornelia really is an 8th-generation New Yorker! I sat down and put a half hour into making a very preliminary family tree for her. Don’t even get me started on how many times I watched the anime and took notes on the cast’s speech and mannerisms. I even scoured Pinterest for reference pictures, outfit inspiration…everything you could ever want. It all amounted to 300+ pins to my TIP board, and exactly 127,411 words.

I digress. My best friend is so motivating, and without her telling me not to force myself to write when I don’t feel it, you guys wouldn’t have gotten anything close to this quality of work. In fact, she’s also a bit responsible for a scene in this chapter.

I also want to thank Sweet Anon, mylostleftfootsock, katherine101, for consistently reaching out to me in asks, DMs, and commenting. You all motivate me so much, and there’s nothing quite like knowing that the story I write touches you. Without knowing people were really engaging with what I put out, writing would have taken a lot longer, if it happened at all. 

Thank you all, so much. I’m so grateful for every single read.

I can't wait to share my next projects with you. I'll even give you a few hints to make up for this ending: Ciel Phantomhive, ballerina!reader, fake courtship, serial killer. Do with this what you will <3

Love, Dan

[richwater]

Summary of Alvaro's psychological profile and explanation of his disorders and their origin [I had nothing better to do and the drawing turned out well, sorry if my English is bad, I'm just learning :]

WARNING ⚠️: some sensitive topics and please do not self-diagnose, I am only creating the psychological profile for your entertainment and more information about my character, I tried to investigate well but I may not be right, please find a professional if you have any of these symptoms, your mental health is very important to everyone :(

1. Derealization

Origin:

He comes from a life marked by trauma since childhood, such as the loss of his parents and the disappearance of his sister [Olga Montoya, he doesn't really know if she's still alive, it all happened too fast and she went to another foster home, but oh surprise she never made it to that house and no one, not even the church itself, knows her whereabouts currently]. This left him in a constant state of struggling to understand his surroundings, feeling disconnected from reality at critical moments. Derealization is a form of psychological defense against the pain and uncertainty of one's life.

Symptoms:

Feeling that the world is not real or that you are separate from your own body. You may experience episodes where you feel emotionally disconnected from others or your environment, especially during times of high stress.

2. Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD)

Origin:

His experience as a Catholic in his adopted home and doctor was marked by abuse and manipulation, both from people who took advantage of his kindness and from the violence he faced. And the guilt of not being able to save more people or make difficult decisions has haunted him.

The murder of her brother and her failure to protect him is also a central trauma.

[Álvaro's younger brother (Erich Montoya) suffered from sickle cell anemia, a severe type of this, because of this he had decreased oxygen and the affectation of cerebral blood flow can trigger seizures, Severe anemia reduces the amount of oxygen carried by the blood. The brain needs a constant supply of oxygen to function properly. In extreme cases, lack of oxygen could cause seizures, although this is rare, but Álvaro's brother was classified as possessed then his adoptive parents began to practice rituals and exorcisms and he died in one of these, BUT BE CAREFUL do not take this seriously, I investigated and asked my mother who is a doctor but these are only rare and scarce cases but the context of the situation where Álvaro lived was why his situation worsened to this point, he had to travel far from his town to study his career and it could take days that is why he could not take care of his brother :(]

His life in Dutch's gang, facing questionable morality and constant violence, perpetuated this state.

Symptoms:

Recurring nightmares and flashbacks of traumatic events.

Hypervigilance (always alert and ready to react to any danger).

Irritability and emotional outbursts, especially when you feel your environment is not under control.

Moments of emotional isolation as a way of protecting oneself from pain. [Yes, he has avoidant attachment but he is a lovely person when he gives you the chance]

3. Religious Guilt

Origin:

Raised in an environment with strong religious values, Alvaro had faith in God but not in people. However, his life has led him to question both his faith and his morality.

He believes his inability to save his brother, his patients, or even the innocent in his life as an outlaw is a divine punishment or a test he has not passed.

Despite his doubts, he maintains a nostalgic bond with his faith, seeing it as a lost refuge to which he feels he cannot return. [Ah feels guilty for being bisexual but is already working on that]

Symptoms:

He feels that his bad decisions have doomed not only his life, but also the lives of others.

He experiences internal conflicts between good and evil, between duty and selfishness.

He uses small rituals or reminders (such as silent prayers or saint medals) as a way to deal with his guilt. [For a while he punished himself but then he began to improve to be a better person and not be self-destructive] The saints that he could identify with or at least respect are: San Martín de Porres represents humility, service to others and compassion towards the most disadvantaged, Lady of Luján (Patron saint of Argentina), San Cristóbal patron saint of travelers and protector of those who face difficult roads, Santa Teresa de Ávila and last San Judas Tadeo as a saint of impossible causes.

Conclusion of the Psychological Profile [which I did while riding the bus home]

Alvaro is a person deeply marked by his experiences, struggling with a constant internal conflict but he has his good and bad parts for example:

Strengths: Despite his emotional baggage, he demonstrates incredible resilience, humor, and ability to care for others. His connection with Hosea and the rest of the camp [I'm planning to make a mind map so you can see what his relationship is like with each one] and his willingness to improve as a person are signs of hope in his life.

Weaknesses: He tends to isolate himself emotionally, experiences aggressive outbursts under pressure, and struggles with the guilt that follows him since his youth, he is claustrophobic [oh and he hates Swason not for who he is, but because he represents everything that Alvaro has had to fight, addictions, religion and an authoritarian religious figure that he hates the most]

[But he is a good person, his specialty is making roast meat at 3 in the morning and waking everyone up by throwing a piece of coal in their face while he spreads the plate]

[thefourchimes]

Talking more about The Four Chimes AU because yes

so there’s been an interesting surge of apocalypse four (though most people call them vecna four) content recently, which i am very much thrilled to see

in line with that, i’m gonna share a bit more on the au that has been built from the ground up ever since last year, having definite arcs and various aus and sub aus of it already

the four chimes au

this universe has been mine and @lumaxramblings 's blood, sweat, and tears for the past year, ever since July 14

i've made a few posts about it, and shared some snippets on it in some wip weds and weekends, but i never fully explained the universe beyond the little bubble of the discord thread in the discord server im in

so let me explain now. we know this already but the apocalypse four are vecna's four sacrifices to make the four gates, but in this au, they're not just the four sacrifices. they're the four chimes too.

you see, vecna had a vision. he had remembered the story of the four horsemen of the apocalypse from a time victor creel had brought him and alice to the Church to listen

the four horsemen of the apocalypse, he had mused...and inspiration struck him.

he had a vision, and he saw it through.

and he got them all. he won.

and now he has his four horsemen of the apocalypse, or in this universe rather...his four chimes of catastrophe.

you all know who they are, but the question is, who is who? well, as @lumaxramblings has said in that fateful ask that started this whole universe in the first place, it would be:

chrissy = famine

fred = death

patrick = war

max = pestilence

as for the reason, canon itself gives some details and evidence to point out who would be who. (tw ed mention on chrissy's part)

chrissy is famine because of her eating disorder and her "hunger" to be free in a sense. fred is death because of his survivor's guilt and all the constant grave and death visuals. patrick is war because of his home life and how he's always in constant conflict. and finally, max is pestilence because of her thought process on being something that plagues others...and vecna!lucas' "you are sick."

there's quite a few more points that can be brought up, along with how some of the canon scenes actually fuel this universe, but i'll talk about that another time

so now, vecna's sacrifices are no longer who they were before everything.

now, they are his soldiers, his little experiments, his four chimes of catastrophe.

and just as they had been broken, they will now be the ones to break the world.

...

(but then...you remember, the apocalypse 4 weren't the only ones who got caught in vecna's curse and vision.

you know who else did?

nancy wheeler.

and in the four horsemen of the apocalypse lore, wasn't there something going on with the white rider of the horsemen? the fact that...there's a bit of confusion on whether the white rider is pestilence...or conquest?

...in another universe, nancy is conquest, the fifth chime of catastrophe.

an incomplete chime.

...but maybe that's a story for another day...)

—————————————————————————————————

i actually had started the fic of this already, but it's been a few months since i've updated it, oof :")

anyway, that's a bit of an explanation on the four chimes au.

it kind of becomes a s5 alternate universe in a sense? finnthony and i already have an idea on what happens all throughout the main story, complete with arcs already lmao (and that's not even talking about the sub-aus, like the conquest au...)

its lots of angst though, lemme tell you

i dont want to reveal too much but there is a lot of platonic and romantic dynamics here

platonic being the party's friendship (heh), the teens' friendship, best friend soulmates stobin ofc, and all other platonic relationships that can be connected with each member of this ragtag, traumatized group

for romance, we got lumax (with future elumax), byler, duzie, ronance, stongyle (aka steve x jonathan x argyle), jopper, and...well. a few others too, but i'll be keeping those quiet for now.

i’ll likely post more stuff at some point, to get it out here lmao and because this au is just <3

tagging the people who’ve been here all through out:

@laurienotteddy @mitski-slope @itsanotheridiot @hellsfireclub @history-of-stories @she-wont-miss

[leonardoeatscarrots]

I agree with you about all the issues of The Chosen, but i didn't understand the mislabeling mental ilnesses, were you referring to Mary Magdalene?

Ehhh kind of? Moreso the way they picture possessed characters in general.

While I understand that demons, and more specifically possession, are a part of biblical Canon, the way they are tackled in The Chosen is distasteful in my personal opinion.

The primary reason being that the symptoms used to indicate possession have a heavy overlap with symptoms of real life mental health issues and physical conditions.

Such as:

Seizure

Strokes

Tourretes/other involuntary movements

Meltdowns/outbursts/anger issues

Panick attacks

Hypermobilty

Schizophrenia or similar disorders

Drug use disorders

Self injury

Really anything that may cause unpredictable behavior, distorted sense of self, ""unnatural movements"", low/no empathy and bad understanding of social cues (actually happened to me once, weird story), and WAY more. This is in no way a conclusive list.

This actually has a sort of explanation. Because back in Ye Olde Times of Jesus Christ they didn't have these kinds of diagnoses. So, they would have come up with something to explain these undesirable behaviors. This is exactly why early civilizations have mythology and religion to begin with, in order to explain what they don't understand.

In Mary Magdaline's case specifically, she showed a lot of symptoms of depression, anxiety, post-traumatic stress, etc. And for a moment, I was actually really excited to see where they would take this narrative. To me, it seemed very clear that they were intending to have serious discussions of mental health. Until later in the show, it was revealed that it was, in fact, SERIES CANON that a demon possession was the thing that cast her into the initial situation.

Added with every other demon possession in the show....

I think it's pretty self-explanatory why this is bad, but for those who need it: this only isolates disabled people from the church, dehumanizes them, teaches people they are scary, unnatural, undesirable, and in extreme cases corrupt. It makes the religion as a whole look... quite unsavory.

And while it might seem absurd or irrelevant now, I am very sorry to tell you that there is a crowd of people out there who still genuinely believe in demon possessions. I myself have been accused (once again, complicated), and I have a family member who was also accused. I know that's only two cases, but that's two too many in one lifetime if you ask me. And even if people don't believe that, there is still a very real stigma that follows it.

Now, I understand that with those sorts of events happening in the Bible, the show writers probably didn't want to cut them out. BUT with a semi-omnitient son-of-God character in their toolbelt, they could just say that while the main cast assumes it's a demon, Jesus knows its not really (maybe plays along just for the sake of not confusing anyone) and helps the individual and their problem.

This fix would not only help humanize people with these struggles, instead of LITERALLY demonizing them, but it would also add a little more intrigue to Jesus as a character, especially in a place where disabled folks previously felt unwelcome.