#Where Sin abounded

[fear-is-truth]

𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐖𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐓𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔 — charlie mayhew

CHARLIE MAYHEW isn’t always the way he is now—weaponising his sexuality, toeing the line between sacred and outright blasphemy with reckless confidence. he had once been a man of simple faith, entering the priesthood with a pure heart and a determination to serve god. he is ambitious, sure, but there had been no arrogance in his calling.

you are his fall from grace.

in the beginning, he tries—really tries to resist. he prays harder, longer, throws himself into his duties with even greater fervor. but no amount of scripture, no recitation of prayer, can dispel the debauched thoughts that cloud his mind whenever you smile at him.

he simply can’t stay away.

the first time it happens, the kiss is barely more than a chaste brush of lips. he pulls away immediately, guilt and horror flooding his conscience. that night, charlie flees to his private chamber, and the self-flagellation comes soon after. with each lash of the braided leather whip against his skin, he whispers scripture through gritted teeth: “for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of god.” but no amount of blood, no pain, can undo what has been done.

he convinces himself it will end there. one kiss, one slip, and he will be stronger for it. but that is a lie.

every time you come back, charlie’s resolve crumbles. the guilt is still present, yes—but it is soon buried under desire. he wants you. needs you. more than he has ever craved anything. more than he craves salvation.

lingering glances turn into fleeting touches, and eventually, stolen kisses become something more. with each illicit interaction, he strays further from the garden of eden, but he can’t stop. at first, he justifies it—priests are human too, temptation is part of the journey. he will confess, seek forgiveness, and return to his calling, a better man.

but that never happens.

intimate moments with you are both a sin and a revelation. afterward, he retires to his chamber, desperate to cleanse himself through pain. the lashes leave his back raw and bleeding, but it isn’t enough.

over time, the guilt begins to fade.

the young priest no longer seeks penance. instead, he begins to twist the words of the bible to suit his desires. he tells himself that love—in any form—is divine. didn’t jesus himself walk among sinners? wasn’t the act of love sacred? “where sin increased, grace abounded all the more” — romans 5:20

and in his heart of hearts, he knows he is lost.

“god is love,” he tells himself, “and if love is holy, how can this be wrong?” he begins to see his desires as a reflection of the modern world, telling himself that the church needs to evolve with the times. the world is changing, and so, too, should the church. how could they expect people to follow a path so rigid and outdated? by indulging in these passions, he is becoming more human, more relatable. perhaps this is his purpose—to bridge the gap between the divine and the human experience, to show that priests are not infallible, that they too struggle with temptation, that they too love.

how could it be wrong to love, charlie thinks, even as he kisses you again, fingers unbuttoning your blouse, lips tracing the curve of your neck.

you have become the centre of his downfall, and he welcomes it.

m.list  fear-is-truth

[fatesundress]

⭑ life of the party. tom riddle x reader

summary. when one game is ruined, another begins.

tags. explicitly fem afab reader, smut with as minimal plot as i can physically allow myself, minors SCRAMMM, loosely implied hogwarts university au as always, flirting via mutually assured jealousy, impeccable communication skills, established relationship, the guy the reader is talking to gets annoyed she doesn’t want him but he doesn’t do anything, religious undertones that might have accidentally become overtones, party setting (background drinking & general degeneracy), probably the meanest tom i’ll ever write and i still tried making him nice because lots of heavy jealousy tropes are misogynistic icks fo me, fingering, piv, a little degradation but that's life, fawwwk the weeknd but the song this is based on is so sexy, etc

note. Me writing this: nightguard: ON, religious themes: RIFE, shame: ABOUNDING. i am so embarrassed by this. have i mentioned smut doesn’t come naturally to me? i don’t even know how i got here. i’m on heelys at the proverbial skatepark and everyone else apprenticed under tony hawk. Do you understand? ok.

word count. 4.5k

request. yes!

He is what he is. Stoic, sacred, silent and then verbose. You knew he had his fixations before you knew him at all — no one made top of every class without a shadow of obsession to contrast the glint of their excellence — but you could not anticipate how that obsession might translate when applied to a person. You’re not sure he had either.

He is what he is. The muggle world taught him religion and in it he learned only the tenor of devotion. When his fingers take your jaw, trace slow at the stripes of your thighs, steady your hips from under you and hold tight, there’s reverence in it. His kisses don’t wane with the months gone by; they soften with purpose. They rouse with hunger. His eyes don’t waver. Should a good man gaze upon his altar? Should he smile like sin when he gets on his knees? 

He does.

Tom Riddle is what he is and you solemnise in equal part.

You don’t come to these things often, taken aback by the sight of the Slytherin common room in ribbons and banners tattered within the first hour of the night. Bottles glow green in the lake-light on every available surface, scattered about the place and spilled in sticky puddles. 

You’re a wallflower tonight, though not for lack of options. You observe from a comfortable distance the drunken antics of new adults, free to carry their liquor in hand rather than hidden away in pockets and pillowcases. There’s something vaguely entertaining about it, intoxicating where someone else might mind their business and actually get intoxicated, but you see no harm done. Whispers fall on your ears before the rumours make their rounds, couples slink away in the darkness where someone in the crowd might not notice, and the night’s first instance of someone hurrying up the stairs in tears comes barrelling right past you. You invent a story for why to keep yourself busy. 

It’s all just buzz.

Now, if you don’t come often, he certainly doesn’t.

Tonight, he has, and for reasons explicable but few, you’ve found yourselves on opposite sides of the room.

It began on the green couch by the window with a chess set spilled across the velvet — a bet you made with him upon arrival; you find wizard’s chess trite, Tom finds it feckless, but it makes for a good challenge. 

What else could convince a man so perpetually controlled to pour himself a drink? And you imagine, from his perspective: what else could convince a woman so determined to outwit him?

It’s for no nefarious reason — to slight him or see him stumble — but because you love the fractions of relief that colour him, soften him, temper him. It’s because he loves you in every shade, in every pliancy, in each and every fervour. But mostly it’s because you love kindly to best him, and he loves mirthfully to best you.

So you play. The game is slow and teasing, hard to see in the ripples of the lake, and toppled over in the final moves (which you’ll insist you were winning) by the same swaying body that spills its drink down the front of your dress. And so you’re up, brushing your index finger over the corner of Tom’s sudden scowl. You whisper like a joke not to kill anyone but he’s so quick to look like he might that you consider repeating yourself with more conviction.

You poke at the spot where his jaw is tense. “I’ll be right back.”

Drying liquor from lace is a matter of precision even with magic, and this is half-gelatinous like someone raided the kitchen’s supply of jelly and steeped it in something offensively alcoholic. You utilise the clearer light of the Slytherin girl’s lavatory, wetting your dress before evaporating the water from it. There’s the matter then of transforming the stained fabric back to its original colour, and you huff in the mirror at having a game you thought you didn’t care much for ruined so close to its end.

You care about Tom, though. The omphalos of your issue resides there.

(It is fair to say most of your issues reside there.)

With only minutes gone by, the common room crowd looks doubled when you return, and though you wade through you’re pushed back like debris caught in a tide, the bodies more stubborn rubble than you. So you retreat, stand flush at the wall with your arms crossed, and wait for Tom’s eyes to land on yours. To, perhaps, open your mind and let him in, tell him exhaustedly from afar that the game is at rest and you’re ready to leave.

But even he’s hard to find in the bodies unified in breath, flux like a big set of lungs —  and nothing about Tom blurs into the background.

So you wait. You wallflower. You pour yourself a drink.

The moment stretches on longer than anticipated, and after many detached observations of the room, someone else finds you instead. He’s tall, blond to Tom's inkwell black, kissed by summer sun even as autumn soothes its blister. Your gaze wavers back to him a few times though his own is uncertain for all its focus. He seems to be waiting for you to stop, perhaps for the silhouette of someone else to slip by and prove you were looking at them instead. When no one else comes, he traverses the crowd with a straightened inch of pride, stepping through new colours until he’s close enough to you that the light settles emerald-black and you can see the great chasm of his beauty up close. 

His freckles are carefully dusted, his structure strong, all squarish, rugged lines and shades of August.

The chasm is not a lack of allure, per se, it’s just a lack of him. One man’s August to your adherent’s December, the intention of his warmth, a thing that does not come to him like everything else but that he makes and makes and mends when it lapses because he does not want to see you cold. The singular reward of a rarity like that.

“Hi," you say, glancing over a broad shoulder.

“Evening," he responds. He takes you in with a look of (unappreciated) appreciation. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“No, we haven’t.”

He extends a hand. “Oliver Belby.”

“Pleasure.”

You don't offer much in the way of conversation. He’ll vie for your attention regardless of how much of it you offer. So you lean against the wall where the buzz of sound prickles your hair, let him talk, let his hand come up to rest beside your head, and you find Tom.

He’s right where you left him, a new clearing in the crowd making space for your eyes to meet.

His are ice even at a distance. As if you proselytise — as if you could — kneel for another man or let one kneel before you, all of your trysts together faithless.

They aren’t. He must know they aren’t.

But you put yourself here and standing at the target of his gaze has never been marred by the severity of it.

You decide then; when one game is ruined, another begins.

In truth, you can’t deny the element of theatrics in the way Tom denies everyone but you: his soft, penitent smile, the apologetic cant of his head, how his eyes can find you in any crowd and whoever is clinging onto his every word that night will follow his gaze and deflate when they discover you at the end of it. Sometimes it’s harsh. Final. He lacks the patience of pretence. 

Sometimes, the week is dull. Sometimes, the whoever is undeterred. Sometimes you’ve pushed him here. 

No — You’ve never done that before. This is new.

So it’s one of those weeks, and one of those whoevers, on an anomaly you may as well have directed the encounter yourself, and Tom is half-indulgent as he forces his eyes away and you force yours to stay. 

You watch him from across the room as the woman drapes herself across the arm of his chair. There's a furious blush on her cheeks even in the dark, a pretty disarray to her shoulder-length hair, skirts pleated over knees she faces toward him. She smiles and offers him a glass of something, and you know for certain Tom understands this game because he accepts it, eyes flicking back to you as he swirls the glass in contest. 

To that you take an inappreciable sip of your own.

“ — Which is why no one has even attempted to kill one in decades. And capturing one is another thing entirely. My mother works with the Greeks on occasion, and the nearest she came to a den was in the twenties. If she had gone any nearer I wouldn’t be here.”

“Hm?” You look back at the man in front of you. His lips glisten with having licked them between every phrase.

“The manticores,” he says, undeterred.

“Right. Five-X beasts, aren’t they?”

“That’s what I said. I heard from one of my mother’s colleagues that — ”

The woman is whispering something in Tom’s ear, her hair on his cheek. He’s looking at you as if you had said the words. You don't shy away when Oliver leans in to whisper too. It's a strange, fractured language. Too intimate while too detached. Whispers from across the room, desire from another in the place of desire for each other. But the strangeness should not surprise you anymore. This is Tom: beautiful and wicked and the one you chose.

“ — And Nundus are worse. Deadliest creature there is — ”

She’s laughing about something, the woman. Half-reserved, she’s angled toward the party despite her leaning on his shoulder and the dissipating inches of distance.

“ — They stalk in silence. Think of the size of one, right? They’re apex predators… so commanding and still they could be in front of you one instant and gone the next.”

You engage with detached interest. “Really?”

And now Oliver barricades your view, his other hand coming to rest on your other shoulder.

“Do we have any classes together?”

You blink up at him. “No.”

“No, right,” he says, eyes darting to your lips. “I’d remember you.” 

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, and you wonder if for some men one-sided discussions of class five beasts qualify as foreplay.

You place a hand on his chest, eyebrows raised and half a startled smile curled. 

“You’re not going to kiss me," you inform him.

His face falls, but with it, at least, does his hand.

“Did you hear me?"

“It’s loud,” he decides suddenly. “Can we go somewhere else?”

You’re not sure you believe that. 

You duck under an arm and search the crowd again. The woman is on the arm of the chair looking thoroughly dismayed, and for good reason —

Tom is gone. 

Your breath is caught.

“This isn’t… You’re not going to…?”

You flash Oliver with a glare. “So you did hear me.”

He makes a pathetically sad face, and you think: it’s a wonder he made it this far when his courtship evidently hinges on the subject of his affection not listening to a word out of his mouth.

“Goodnight, Oliver,” you say tersely.

“What was that for, then?” he asks, and it comes out practically whined.

“That was talking.”

“But you’re —”

“Belby.”

He is what he is. It shouldn’t surprise you when he appears beside you all fatal rage on a quiet lead, narrowly fixed to you. 

Tom’s cold is his median temperature, yes, but in moments like this it’s as much for you as his handmade warmth. He’d pluck the fingers off a boy like Oliver. The digits would string eaves like icicles.

Oliver is looking between you and Tom like something terrible has dawned on him, hands urged to his pockets to soothe the flames your unveiled ties to a man seemingly singed him with.

“Riddle — Mate, I didn’t… I didn’t know she was…”

Tom’s voice is flat, edged with something that makes his monotony sound merciful. “Pity. If only you knew as much as you talked.”

Oliver’s mouth opens and closes and opens again, but wisely he settles on silence instead of excuses, and wastes no time fleeing slowly into the crowd. 

The instant he's stolen by the wave Tom's eyes are on yours and they’re molten. You move to say something but his patience was for show — he’s dragging you by the arm out of the common room and into one of the dungeon's empty classrooms without giving you the chance.

“Tom —" You start to protest, mouth twisted in a scowl. “Tom, you're being —"

He shuts the door behind you and locks it with such delicacy your breath catches at the question of how badly he's holding himself back right now.

“I'm being what?"

“You're…" It's hard to formulate an answer when he's like this. “It was a game. Don’t pretend you weren’t playing too."

Tom inches in, chest rising with angry breaths. “A game, was it? Did he know that?"

“Did she?” you hiss.

“It certainly became apparent when she was discarded so that I might retrieve you.”

“It was as apparent to Belby, judging by the way he was left gawking.”

“And with great restraint I let him. A mercy I didn’t take his eyes so he was left without the ability.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, now I understand; the problem wasn’t the game, it’s that I played it better than you.”

He looks at you for a long time before casting a silencing charm on the room.

Oh.

Oh — your heart barrels off somewhere. You’re without it for a moment, breathless in the wake of the implication of a spell like that.

“Tom," you say politically, “It was hardly a matter of rescuing.”

He nods imperceptibly. “No, it wasn’t.”

“So we’re in agreement.”

He hums a non-answer.

Each step he takes forward, you take back. It's a peculiar way to have a conversation, but part of the game, you suppose.

Interesting he’s still playing.

You still gasp when you inevitably hit the wall, hands going to the carved edge of a windowsill.

“You’re terrible when you win,” he whispers. His lips brush your ear.

You shudder, mouth dry as you press against his shoulder. “You’re worse when you lose.”

His mouth drags down your jaw but he refuses to kiss you, still withholding something, still holding back in some terrible, electrifying way. Instead one of his hands starts to dip down your side. You shiver as he grazes the skin of your breast, exposed by the cut of your dress, and continues down your waist. His mouth traces your bare shoulder as his tongue makes a slow pass, skin beneath leaping at his careful ministrations.

With long, slender fingers he's pulling your dress off button by button, torturously slow, and you feel mocked to have cleaned it earlier. You feel foolish to have left knowing the night would have ended like this regardless.

“Tom,” you say. His name is followed by staggered breaths. Your fingers are clutching the windowsill.

The air is thick as he watches you, flesh exposed by each undone catch. And still he will not kiss you, even as his lips trail along your collarbone and you start to tug instinctively at his belt. He makes the barest sound of disapproval and spins you to face the window, your hands urged on instinct to press against the glass.

“Tom...”

He hikes your dress up your thighs. It clings to your hips, a meagre two buttons left attached to keep it from falling.

Your wand clatters as his fingers work the clasp of your bra and his teeth skim your shoulder, leaving little bites he laves at softly with his tongue. You shudder, arching into him, searching for friction. His touch traverses the shape of you and stops feather-light between your legs.

“Tom —”

“Quiet," he admonishes, a little tut.

Your skin jumps at the caress of his fingers tracing deceptively timid up your thighs, like he hasn’t done this before, like it’s care and not punishment. His favourite oxymoron: the gentlest torture, the cruelest succour.

His index draws upon the lace of your underwear and tugs it aside with a tenderness that makes you gasp. Is there a way to press harder to the glass without breaking it? Is there ever enough to grab onto when he gets like this — so singularly focused on ruining you? 

One of your hands latches onto the arm half-disappeared in your skirts instead, clinging steadfast to the white of its sleeve, your body swaying as if at sea. He keeps you steady, but this is his crown achievement: that he is all there is that can do it when you’re so singularly focused on being ruined by him.

The sinews of his forearm work imperceptibly under your fingers as he appreciates the newly unfettered flesh, two digits sliding between your legs, and he makes a satisfied sound against your shoulder at the wetness he finds there. 

You’re swallowing air with a moan stuck in your throat; too dry, you realise, and feel like you’re choking when he starts to move, gripping his arm somehow tighter.

As a rule, you know how much he loves this, but it’s tenfold under his jealousy and you think deliriously, probably wrongly, that for how much he enjoys pushing you you enjoy pushing him to get here. You’re his and he’s yours, there’s no doubt in it — but what he can reduce you to — this desperate creature, writhing and panting, trying in vain to satiate herself with a simple finger — this is the translation; the fruition of his fixations put to a person rather than a subject. This is what it is to be his.

Tom’s mouth opens in a smile at your throat, and there it feels more like bared teeth, a smile that is as animal as it is pretty. 

And still he whispers with all the affection of a lover, your name peppered between kisses.

His fingers inch inside you and curl. You’re wedged in the perfect balance of his discrepancy; your disciple and your devil. He worships you in white. He ruins you in it too.

Now his name comes out in a babble, wet, half-drooled. A nip pinches the little space beneath your ear and you clutch impossibly harder to his wrist, your free hand squeaking down the window pane as you grind on his palm. He crooks his fingers against a spot that has you seeing stars, thumb pressed to your clit in a subtle motion, and you feel yourself tip off into an unknown he aquaints you with often. In a blurry, flickering moment, the light gleams somewhere beyond the stained hues of the window. And that should be it. The edge is at your heels and you should be falling. But the sinful press of him at your back commands you to lurch against him, and when you moan for more he pulls his fingers free.

You stumble weakly into his chest, startled.

“What… What?”

“Ask me for it,” he says, his voice hoarse, markedly wanton in spite of himself. But there is hunger and there is greed. There’s a sacrificial lamb and there’s a hunted one— there’s religion and there’s Tom. He invents something that demands greater devotion.

And the sound of leather rasping serge and metal clinking metal reels your conscience in. There are no stars. There’s just him. His belt is coming undone.

“Tom.” You swallow. “I told you —”

“And I want you to ask.” He cups your jaw in his hand, thumb tracing your lower lip. “Nicely.”

Your mouth opens for him and you shiver, pressing further back for contact he doesn’t allow. Instead another small tut is whispered at your neck, relinquished to a kiss.

His finger brushes your teeth when you speak. “I want you.”

You feel him shake his head and you all but whine.

“I want you inside, Tom — need you — please.”

“Please?” he echoes mockingly.

“Please,” you say in an uneven voice, and when your tongue grazes his thumb he eases it further into your mouth with an appeased hum.

And so his zipper comes down and you hold your breath with the weight of your dress at your hips.

He pushes inside you with minimal pause, slow still, to relish the way your little pants hitch, stop, and shudder out in a broken moan; the way your breath is guided by his rhythm, how you’re shaped by him, fitted around him. You careen forward and your palms flatten on the window, trembling at the first thrust. Your fingers quiver down the glass.

Tom pulls you into him on the second, patience abandoned. His lips chase your pulse. His grip on your jaw tightens as his thumb pops free with a string of spit. He nudges deeper at a new angle, your body forced as far as it can lean back, gasping heavenward when your head falls helplessly onto his shoulder.

It’s profane. Your ears almost dull to the sound of his hips snapping against yours, the obscenity of your skin on what he offers of his, but you waver between earth and something else, brought back to him by the torturous sight of the edge he stole you from. Always brought back to him. 

He’s gripping your jaw in one hand as he pushes deeper, and your fingers are lost for purchase on his forearms, trembling to hold onto something.

When he pulls out of you at your brink again, you practically cry out. But you understand when he spins you around again, hiking you up against the windowsill, your shoulders hitting the cool glass with a gasp you barely register in the fog of your desperation. His eyes are dilated to midnight rings. The weight of his desire is frightening. The insistence to claim you better yet.

He wastes no time before slamming into you again, pausing at the hilt to watch your eyebrows wrench together before resuming his pace. When your mouth falls open, he swallows the noise that tries to come out of it.

It doesn’t feel like a kiss. It feels like the prolusion to a bite.

His fervour is all the reminder of how you got here in the first place; the teeth, the force, the grip on your waist. There’s a rough sound he makes in your mouth that you taste more than you hear. The vibration of him is everywhere. You’re too hot and it only occurs to you because your fingers are clawing at fabric instead of skin that he’s fully dressed and your last button has finally snapped, lace pooled on the classroom floor as he fucks you. The thought is consigned to oblivion as quickly as it came. It doesn't matter.

You're clutching at his shoulders, the nape of his neck — trying to kiss him back, but you feel torn in two by the intensity of his ministrations, a low, immolating pressure building in your abdomen. He’s proving something with you, and his is a relentless, unending appetite. You don't really stand a chance. You think you've known that from the start.

Tom is all-consuming. Tom is a force of nature, a whirlwind that sweeps over you. He leaves you breathless and somehow needing more as he wraps his hand around the small of your back and seizes you in place.

Still you find yourself wanting to be held tighter.

“T-Tom —" you sob through the kiss but he doesn't give you enough air to do it. He pushes harder, a rasp at the back of his throat, some carnal thing. He’s not withholding your release now; he’s spurring you towards it.

When he withdraws his lips from yours, his brows are furrowed in concentration. There’s a fine lustre of sweat on his forehead, stray curls pulled across dark, wicked eyes. The sight of him alone is condemnable, but it isn’t for you.

He likes to watch you like this. When your moans dissolve to the torn syllable of his name, again and again. The veneration. Your choked litanies.

You give them to him.

Sleeves drawn up by your body’s baser instinct for skin, you’ve carved a canvas of praise into his arms, marked up to his elbows where your fingers had jerked upward to rake at his back. This time, when you find the cliffside, nothing stops you from teetering off its edge. Flames dance across your skin in an explosion, your collar damp and bitten, your waist in Tom’s vice-like grip. One hard thrust and you’re falling.

The stars are blinding. You decide then they were made by him.

Your head lulls back as shocks of pleasure course through your body, the coil snapped, the hard shape of him inside you demanding impossibly for more. You stumble through the light, vision blurred, praying and praying and praying. His grip comes to find your jaw again.

You keen, addled through the ecstasy, barely conscious of the way his panted breaths hitch at the sight of you in his hands, soft-eyed and puddy.

He always comes apart soon after you, but it happens rarely that your body is so taut on the wire of rapture that his twitching inside you takes you with him. 

This time it does.

You sink against him, thighs numb and wet, one hand slipping dumbly from his figure and swiping across condensation-foggy glass. The second orgasm is an aftershock of the first. It’s slow. It feels like being caught from the last fall. You land in Tom’s arms and they’re holding you through whitened knuckles. His eyelashes flutter, ink-dipped twines of quills, and he steals the shaky sigh from your mouth by pressing it to his.

You kiss lazily and softly. The room feels sheeted in static. The electricity lingers on both of you.

It’s hard not to fall against the window when he slides out of you. You slump on quivering legs into his chest instead, heaving, spend trickling down your legs.

Tom holds you close, adjusting his trousers before sinking down to settle you on his lap. He wipes the sweat from your face and presses his lips to the feverish skin it plastered. Forehead, cheeks, nose, chin, whispers of your name down your jaw like a prayer answered. Your eyelids flutter shut and he kisses you there, too. His lashes tickle.

You love him more than you worship him. You think he likes that more.

He grabs your forsaken dress from the floor and slips it over your bare shoulders, summoning the snapped button back in place before he begins to meticulously clasp the rest together again. His mouth leaves a path at the skin under each one before it closes, and you hum in dizzy gratitude.

“That was,” you say in a very worn voice, “a terrible way to reinforce not making you jealous.”

He glares at you from one of the lowermost buttons and you giggle sleepily, curling a hand into his hair. “Don’t look at me like that. You liked it too.”

He leans back up at that, tipping your chin with his fingers, gaze darting over the wrecked state of you with a pleased gleam in his eyes. “You liked it? What a modest interpretation.”

Now it’s your turn to glare.

He is what he is — pursuit of buttons forgotten as you’re laid down on the moonlit floor to be reminded just how much you liked it.

taglist. @lyis @indimoss @poddzi @esolean @d1anna @maripositanoctruna @mentally-in-northern-italy @ronniemaximoff1234 @moobell55 @jaerang @ramayantika @saltwaterbythesea @acube07 @togenabi @adazito @kitcat334 @blaurghhh @shutupfinn @jaymeeshayden @lilu842 @leaosee @garfunkelworld @definitely-not-captain-america @multiplefandomstan @mangoesareorange [ note: inexplicably, a bunch of my tags aren't working. i tried to fix it but if you didn’t get a notif i’m sorry! ]

[cowboyemeritus]

Cenerentola (Frater Imperator/Reader)

Summary: Copia hosts a gala to celebrate his ascension to head of the Clergy. When things go haywire, it's up to you to keep him safe. In the process, it becomes impossible to avoid your feelings for him any longer.

Content Warning: mild violence, a singular Monty Python reference

Notes: me? writing sfw? it's more likely than you think.

i've been doing a lot of social dancing so naturally that made me think about dancing with copia. i am also a sucker anything remotely cinderella-esque lol. reader is sort of based on an oc of mine.

i don't really know how i feel about this — i had ideas for two related scenes and then had to fill in the gaps from there. sorry it's so long lmao

feedback is always welcome :)

Even amidst the sea of people below, it is impossible for you to miss him. Copia shines like the Morningstar, the candlelight glinting off the ruby brooches and bedazzled collar of his new, freshly pressed suit. All eyes are on him as he spins the delighted young Sister of Sin in his arms, leading her with grace and elegance through the steps of the fast-paced waltz. He’s changed so much in the years since you left the Ministry. Now, with his ascension to head of the Clergy, there are moments where he seems like an entirely different person, exponentially more confident and self-assured than you remember. 

You know his new demeanor, however, betrays a deep-seated anxiety, the product of years of vague threats on his life from the organization he’s now expected to lead. And surely, the irony is not lost on him that the very hall in which he is now dancing sits directly above the crypts, where the bodies of his assassinated brothers lay in eternal repose.

From your position, leaning against a column up on the balcony, you have the entire ballroom in your sights. Every step, every gesture, every side conversation, is under your scrutiny. This was by design. Although Copia, by some miracle, lived to see the end of his reign as Papa, the transition of power has not been an easy one. Threats abound, the old guard of the Clergy still dissatisfied with him, many enraged by his recent promotion. His mother’s scheming was meant to protect him, but now it seems to have backfired, putting him in more danger than ever before. While this gala serves as a way for him to potentially smooth things over with the Upper Clergy, asserting himself as Frater Imperator, he is also making himself vulnerable, open to attacks of all kinds.

As a favor to his predecessor, the woman who taught you everything you know, you begrudgingly agreed to provide additional security around Ministry headquarters. At first, returning to the Abbey, its halls so hauntingly familiar, reminded you of why you left in the first place: decadence, hypocrisy, lies — a message lost in a quagmire of sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll. Somehow, though, Copia and his ghouls have wormed their way into your frozen heart over these last few months. It was done before you even knew it was happening. Copia has this sort of magnetism about him, some preternatural force that makes it impossible not to be charmed. It was like this even when he was a shy, awkward cardinal. Because of this, although the Clergy wants him gone, he has the distinct advantage of a congregation that completely adores him.

The song ends, and Copia sweeps the Sister into a dip. She giggles, pressing a playful kiss to his cheek. Something in your chest pangs.

At the end of the day, you just work together. It would be foolish of you expect anything more. Still, there’s been an undeniable tension between the two of you since your return to the Ministry. You see the way he looks at you, the way he hangs on to your every word when you speak. But maybe you’re imagining it — you spend so much time around him that perhaps you’ve mistaken proximity for fondness.

You sense a familiar, fiendish presence approaching from behind. “You’re having fun,” Cirrus remarks, entering your field of vision. She has a flute of champagne in each hand and offers one to you. To maintain the illusion of normalcy you accept, taking a small sip of the bubbly, golden liquid.

“We’re on the clock,” you say, eyeing a small group of cardinals that have congregated near the refreshments table. They seem to be merely gossiping. Rain is stationed nearby, carefully observing. “No fun allowed.” The ghoul chuckles, leaning against the balcony railing on her forearms.

“I take it everything’s alright so far?” You nod, thinking back on the hours you spent painstakingly drawing sigils at various locations around the Abbey, setting up one massive alarm spell. If anything supernatural tries to get in, you’ll know. All that’s left is to be on the lookout for any natural, more human threats. You swallow down a lump in your throat, hoping your preparations will be enough.

“Try to relax, then,” Cirrus coaxes, sipping her own drink. There’s a pause. “You should go dance with him.” You feel your cheeks heat up, but keep your composure.

“I don’t have time to mess around,” you state bluntly. Your posture sags a bit. “He’s busy, anyway.” Copia is leading another Sister onto the dance floor, taking the starting position as the ghoul band strikes up another tune. You zero in on the hand resting on her hip, worrying your lower lip between your teeth. It looks like her dress doesn’t have any pockets; the probability of her concealing anything is low.

Cirrus places a clawed hand on your shoulder and gives you a playful jostle. “For you? He’ll make time.” You give her a quizzical look and she winks, straightening back up before taking her leave. “Do it!” She calls. “I’ve got good money on you two getting together!” Your mouth hangs slightly agape, watching as she descends the stairs to rejoin the party.

You take another, longer sip of your champagne, relishing in the sensation of bubbles tickling your tongue. It helps take the edge off, if only a little. You remain up on your perch for another long while. Copia eventually abandons dancing in favor of strolling through the crowd, greeting and shaking hands with various high-profile guests. It’s harder to keep track of him this way, even from your vantage point, so once your glass is empty you descend the stairs, entering the fray for yourself. To your relief, no one pays you any mind as you weave through the mass of bodies. You spot a truly nameless ghoul carrying a tray of empty glassware and flag them down, depositing your glass. You’re about to find a better place to camp out when someone taps you on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, signorina strega.” You turn and sure enough, it’s Copia. He’s holding out a hand. “May I have this dance?” Multiple pairs of eyes are now focused on you. Swallowing hard, you flush, smiling nervously. It’s a little more attention than you’d like, but you reason that within arms reach of him is the best place to be right now.

It’s completely logical, not motivated by anything else.

“Of course, Frater Imperator,” you reply, bowing your head slightly. You make it a point to use his full title in front of the guests. “I would be honored.” Gingerly, you take his hand, and he leads you to the dance floor. You pick up your pace a bit so that you’re able to whisper in his ear. “I’m not very good.” Copia gives your hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Do not worry. Just follow my lead.” As the last few bars of the current song play, Copia guides you into the starting position, placing his right hand delicately on your hip and holding the left out for you to take. You try not to think about how, even through the leather of his gloves, his hand is so warm. Having difficulty looking him in the eye, you glance over his shoulder in the brief moment of silence between songs. You see Cirrus, Rain, and Swiss gathered by the refreshments table, watching you with shit-eating grins plastered across their faces. The air ghoul flashes you a thumbs-up and you have to resist the urge to destroy her with your mind.

“Ready?” As if on cue, the band resumes playing. You recognize the song instantly: Waltz No. 2, Shostakovich. How woefully on brand. The dance begins, Copia stepping forward with his left foot while you, mirroring him, step back with the right. It’s easy enough to follow him after that, stepping to your left as he steps right, then forwards to start all over again.

“One, two, three. One, two, three. You’re a natural.” Once you find a steady rhythm, you’re able to look up from your feet and actually start to enjoy the feeling of whirling around the room.

“How are things?” He asks, clearly trying to remain nonchalant. There are so many eyes on you, and from the crowd you sense intrigue, amusement, and a significant amount of jealously.

“Fine, so far,” you reply through a smile, trying to make it as difficult as possible for people to read your lips. Copia nods.

“Bene.” A few beats pass. “Thank you for all your hard work. I appreciate you coming back after...” He looks away for a moment. “I appreciate it.” You didn’t do it for him and he knows that, but his expression of gratitude makes heat bloom in your chest nonetheless.

“I’m glad I did,” you say without thinking. “This place is different now. Good different, because of you.” Copia smiles, the skin around the corners of his eyes crinkling. He raises his left arm and you pass under it in a spin, feeling lighter than air.

“I had hoped you would be able to enjoy yourself tonight,” he admits, a hint of guilt in his eyes. “Instead it seems you are just fretting over me.” You quirk an eyebrow at him.

“It’s that ego of yours I’m worried about,” you tease. “Pretty soon there won’t be room for anyone else in this Ministry.” Both of you laugh at this.

“I had better check myself, then,” Copia says, running a hand through his mousy brown hair. “I would hate to see you leave again.” That catches you off guard and you nearly trip, but his hand finds your hip again, keeping you stable. By now, you’re certain he’s noticed the blush on your cheeks.

“Don’t worry. I’m not-“

Somewhere, an invisible thread snaps. It makes your stomach lurch, the color draining from your face. You pause, your playful expression melting away as you try to pinpoint the source of the disruption. The South Wing. It’s approaching fast. When you return to this plane Copia is looking at you with concern.

“I have to go,” you say quietly. He doesn’t have time to respond before you exit the dance floor, heading for the large double doors at the other end of the ballroom. It’s hard not to shove people out of the way as you duck and weave through the crowd. Dewdrop is at the entrance, minding his post, but as you approach it’s clear from the rigidity of his small body that he’s been waiting for you. He follows you wordlessly out into the hall. Kicking off your heels, the two of you take off in the direction of the intrusion. You internally curse your foolishness for talking yourself out of wearing sneakers, or even flats.

“It’s something nasty,” he says once you’re out of earshot of any guests. You can only nod in agreement, hoping the two of you are enough to deal with whatever this foul thing is.

You round the corner to the South Wing and stop dead in your tracks. The sight before you makes your blood run could. Charging towards you is a hulking creature, easily Mountain’s height but with Aether’s bulk. It’s clearly a humanoid figure, but its edges are poorly defined, a mist-like quality to them. Still, you observe shapes that resemble horns and a tail, and that tells you all you need to know: a rogue ghoul, not bound to this plane by a contract. As such, it’s less of a consolidated form and more of rampaging ball of fiendish energy. This information helps you narrow down the list of potential culprits exponentially.

There’s no time to dwell on that, though. The creature is headed straight for you, no doubt attracted to the smell of your human flesh. Before you can react, Dew puts himself between you and the ghoul, ready to engage. He’s strong in spite of his small size, but the odds of him defeating this massive a beast on his own, especially one this energized, are slim. You realize he’s buying you time to cast a spell, and immediately you formulate a plan in your head. It will take some time to accomplish, but if he can hold off this monstrosity for long enough, you should be able to successfully banish it back to the Pit without endangering him as well. Planting your feet, you take a deep breath, letting your eyes shut. There’s a whoosh of warm air as Dew charges the rogue ghoul. Energy begins to flow through you as you chant under your breath, crafting the spell. A metallic taste fills your mouth, the air crackling with static.

You’re about halfway through the incantation when the sound of a body hitting the floor breaks through your wall of concentration. The creature roars, forcing you to crack an eye open just in time to see it lunge at you. It’s covered in scratches and burns, but Dew is ultimately the one on the ground, desperately trying to pick himself back up. You’re only just able to side-step, the spell breaking as you focus all of your energy on surviving the next few seconds. You’re frantically backpedaling when it swipes at you, claws catching you in the side. You cry out as it tears through the flimsy red fabric of your dress, leaving three long gashes in its wake that begin bleeding immediately. Though profoundly painful it’s a superficial wound; if you had been stationary, there’s no doubt it would have disemboweled you. 

Your back hits the wall. Dew shouts your name but you just stand there, frozen. The creature is about to pin you when a large body slams into it from the side, knocking it to the ground. You immediately recognize the form as Aether, and looking in the direction from whence he came you see Cirrus, Swiss, Rain, Mountain, Sunshine, and Phantom, all approaching with teeth and claws bared. Cirrus gets to you first, grabbing your arm and pulling you away from the scuffling ghouls.

“Are you-“ She finally notices you clutching your side, blood seeping into your dress. “Oh shit, are you okay?” You nod, lifting your hand to show her it’s minor. Phantom is helping Dew to his feet. He seems alright other than a few scratches, the fall appearing to have knocked the wind out of him more than anything.

“I’m fi-” Your heart nearly stops. “Is someone watching Imperator?”

“Cumulus and Aurora are with him,” she says. “They’ve got it under control.” You let out a relieved sigh, shoulders dropping. It’s only now you that you notice how much tension you’ve been holding in your body all night. Your body trembles with excess adrenaline.

Aether lets out a frustrated growl. You barely have time to look in his direction before the rogue ghoul, having slipped out of his grasp, hurls itself out of one of the long, gothic windows lining the hallway. Bits of stained glass go flying, scattering across the marble floor tiles. The creature is smart enough to recognize it’s been outnumbered. One-by-one the members of the pack leap through the broken portal, none of them too keen on letting the intruder escape. Dew tries to follow, clearly excited about the prospect of a hunt, but Cirrus shoos him away from the window.

“Go clean yourselves up,” she orders, perched on the ledge. It’s directed mostly at you. “We’ll take it from here.” With that, she jumps down, disappearing from view as the sound of the pack whooping and howling fades into the distance.

Twenty some-odd minutes and a round of healing magick later, you and Dew are sitting out on the steps of the back patio, passing a cigarette back-and-forth. By now, the rogue ghoul has most certainly been torn to ribbons. There could still be threats lurking, but for as much as you’d like to go find Copia, you’re nowhere near presentable and would prefer not to incite panic, or suspicion, among the guests. Besides, you’re hardly capable of doing anything now, your energy completely drained by the evening’s events. You only had enough juice left to stop your cuts from bleeding; anything physically strenuous would certainly reopen the wounds. For now, you’re content to enjoy the cool autumn air, knowing he’s in capable hands.

“There you are.” Speak of the Devil. You look over your shoulder and Copia is stepping out into night, flanked by Cumulus and Aurora. Clutched in one hand are your strappy red heels, and it’s only now that you realize you’re still barefoot. Dew, with a quiet groan, rises to his feet and climbs the stairs, passing Copia as he descends.

“We’re going to go take care of this one,” Cumulus says, draping an arm over the fire ghoul’s shoulder. It’s hard to tell in the dark, but for a moment you swear she winks at you. Dew tries to shrug her off with a huff, and the girls giggle. Copia nods approvingly.

“Thank you, miei cari. We will debrief in the morning.” The three ghouls turn and step back inside, leaving you and Copia on the stairs. Your heart beats a little faster with the realization that you two are alone, although you tell yourself it’s because you won’t be able to defend him in this state. There’s definitely no other reason.

“Your glass slippers, my lady.” You roll your eyes and reach out to take your shoes from Copia, but he refuses to hand them over, kneeling on the stair below you. “Allow me, per favore.”

This might as well be happening. Lifting your foot up, you grant him permission to assist you. Copia slides the first shoe back on, holding your calf with one hand. Again, you can’t help but notice how warm and gentle his touch is. 

“I’m sorry for running off,” you say, needing to break the silence. “I hope you didn’t think that-“

“Not at all. I figured that something was, eh, ‘going down.’” When he looks up he finally notices the gashes in your side. He hisses, wincing. “Ahia! That looks like it hurts.”

You wave him off. “’Tis but a scratch.” He looks like he’s going to protest, clearly upset, but instead opts to tighten the strap of your shoe before moving on to the next foot.

“What happened?” He asks, starting the process over again.

“Rogue ghoul,” you explain, looking out into the forest at the edge of the lawn. “Likely the work of Cardinal Ambrosius. He’s gotten in trouble for trying to make contracts before. Doesn’t look like he’s quite figured it out, though. I can have his head on your desk by Monday morning, if you’d like.” 

Copia laughs through his nose. “You are absolutely vicious, mia strega.”

You shrug. “Just doing my job.” Once Copia finishes with your other shoe he stands, offering you his hand.

“Walk with me?” 

You give him a hesitant look. “I don’t want to keep you from your guests.” He scoffs.

“I have had enough of those two-faced pricks for one night. A lifetime, even.” His expression softens. “But if you are not up for it, I-“

“No!” You shoot up, taking his hand. It startles him a little bit. “I’m good. Let’s go.” Copia smiles, the moonlight sparkling in his eyes. Like an obedient  lamb, you let him lead you down the rest of the stairs and across the patio to where a walkway wraps around the side of the building. He’s taking you to the gardens, it seems. Though your legs feel like jelly, the walk isn’t very long, which you’re thankful for.

The gardens aren’t really a sight to behold this time of year, but the full moon bathes everything in a mesmerizing blue glow, giving the space a dreamlike quality. The ballroom is just up another set of stairs, the music still audible where you emerge. You stop by the fountain, a marble visage of Lilith pouring water from a bottomless goblet. The water is still running, providing a little extra ambiance.

“Care to dance?” Copia asks. “We were so tragically interrupted before.”

“I…” Damn you and your nerves. You’re blushing again. “I don’t want to get blood all over you.”

Still, he persists, shrugging. “It’s a black suit.” It’s hard to say no to that face, but the McQueen jacket? Really? He gives you a pleading look and your resolve instantly crumbles.

“Alright.” It’s all but a whisper. “But go easy on me.”

You don’t wait for the next song to start, you simply get in position and go from there. It’s slower than what you danced to before, and you two end up just swaying to the rhythm rather than following any steps. That’s fine with you, your legs are still shaking, though you can’t tell if it’s from exertion or something else entirely.

“You look beautiful,” Copia says after a few measures. In that time you two have drifted closer together, only a few inches between you now. It’s hard to look him in the eyes when your face is so embarrassingly red, so you choose to stare at the ground.

“I’m a mess.” You laugh, but there’s something bitter in it as your eyes wander to your soiled dress, torn and bloody. There was a silly, naive part of you that had been thinking of Copia when you selected it for this evening. He stops swaying, a hand finding your chin and gently lifting your head. In your opinion, he’s the beautiful one, practically glowing in the moonlight. 

“Nonsense. You are the fairest of them all, cara.” You roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth draw up into a slight smile.

“You’re getting your fairytales mixed up.” The two of you share a laugh before dissolving into a few moments of comfortable silence. You can tell he’s thinking about something, and he looks away, clearly nervous.

“Did you mean what you said about coming back?” The question catches you off guard for a second.

“I did,” you finally respond. “I really did. This place feels like home again.” Swallowing, you decide to take a bit of a leap. “Did you mean what you said, about me leaving?” You haven’t discussed it in a long time, but when you first took the job, the understanding was that this was only a temporary arrangement, lasting at least until Copia was able to settle into his new position. The notion pains you now. He nods.

“Yes. I-“ He chuckles. “I cannot stand the thought. Signorina strega, say that you will stay with us, with me.”

You don’t even need to think about it. “I will. Of course I will.” Copia beams, and the sight is breathtaking. There’s another pause, the air between you charged with an energy more powerful than magick. In the ballroom, the final notes of the song ring out, though you hardly notice. A bomb could go off next to you, but even that wouldn’t be enough to pull you out of this moment.

“Beautiful…” You don’t protest when he cups your flushed cheek, running his thumb across the bone. “May I kiss you?” It takes everything you have to not melt into a puddle.

“Please.”

And then his lips — Sathanas, they’re soft —  are on yours. Stars explode behind your eyes as he presses into you, the hand on your hip to pulling you in closer. His body is so warm against you; it feels so right. Your heart is racing, head spinning, as the euphoria overtakes you. 

He kisses you until you’re both out of breath. When he finally pulls away, you want to chase after him, to kiss him until your lips fall off, but then your knees buckle. Copia is just barely able to catch you, letting out a surprised little noise you can’t help but find adorable. He seems less concerned when he sees you’re grinning like an idiot.

“Alas, I have killed her!” You both laugh as he helps you regain your balance. “Why don’t we sit down?” Humming in agreement, he leads you over to the fountain, sitting you down on the edge. He brushes a strand of hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear. “Are you sure you are alright?”

“Just peachy,” you say, gazing at your intertwined hands. “It’s been a long night.” Feeling bold and still a bit woozy, you bring Copia’s hand to your lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. 

“Ah, young love.” You both jolt, heads snapping in the direction of the voice. Before you stand the glowing specters of Papa Nihil and Sister Imperator. The old man has a wistful, nostalgic look on his face, while your former teacher observes with her arms crossed. How long have they been watching you? “Just like we once were, don’t you think?” Imperator huffs.

“I sure hope not.” Her focus falls on you. The wrath in her translucent blue yes makes your blood freeze. “You think you’re good enough for my son, girl?” For a moment, you’re completely speechless.

“I-“

“Are you two serious right now,” Copia shouts. “Get out of here! Go on! Get!” He gets up from the fountain to shoo them away. Imperator gives you a pointed look before dissolving into a blue mist. Her message is clear: this isn’t over. You gulp.

Copia groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I cannot believe those two. I finally get to have my moment with you, and then they go and spoil it!” He flops back down next to you, sighing. “I am sorry, bella. I understand if-“

“Forget about it,” you say, holding up your hand to silence him. “Just kiss me, like, forever.”

Copia happily obliges.

[islamicrays]

How to deal with stress, anxiety, anguish and sin, and helping find the secret of success & happiness.

People often forget the importance of the simple yet powerful dua (supplication) – Istighfar i.e., saying “Astaghfirullah” (I seek forgiveness of Allah).

Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) recited this at least 100 times a day.

Let us see the benefits and virtues of reciting this simple beautiful supplication insha Allah.

Istighfar (Astaghfirullah) is the gateway of relief and happiness. Whenever you are in distress start reciting it and Insha Allah it will take you out of your anxiety and will put you in a peaceful situation and will give you happiness.

Istighfar removes anxiety and duas are answered.

Istighfar opens the door of sustenance.

Istighfar opens the door of mercy.

Istighfar opens the door of knowledge.

Istighfar is also gateway of productivity.

Istighfar relieves you.

When you feel that sadness within you, when you are disturbed and frustrated, when anxiety surrounds you, say “Astaghfirullah” “Astaghfirullah”…

Reciting Astaghfiruallah is an effective method of calming our self and wipes away the variety of worldly worries from our mind and body. It may also help us, if we are suffering from depression, it calm us and lessen our depression.

Astaghfirullah also helps us to refrain from all forms of sins. Regularly saying this reminds us that Allah is everywhere and in this way there is very small chances of doing wrongful actions.

Ibn Abbas (May Allah be pleased with them) said: The Messenger of Allah (peace be upon him) said,

“If anyone constantly seeks pardon (from Allah), Allah will appoint for him a way out of every distress and a relief from every anxiety, and will provide sustenance for him from where he expects not.” [Abu Dawud].

In another hadith, Abdullah bin Abbas (May Allah be pleased with them) narrates that Rasulullah (Sallallahu Alayhi Wasallam) said:

“The one who (regularly) says Istighfaar, that is, frequently repent to Allah Ta’aala for sins committed, Allah Azza Wa-Jal will open a path from poverty and difficulties.

All sorrow and hardship will be removed, and in its place prosperity and contentment granted. One will receive sustenance from unimagined and unexpected sources.

Do Tasbih of Astaghfaar at least 100 times daily as it is the Sunnah of Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him).

In one minute, you can say “Astaghfiru Allaah” more than 100 times!

The virtue of seeking forgiveness is well-known, it is a reason of obtaining forgiveness, entering Paradise, having good provisions, increasing one’s strength, repelling harm, having affairs facilitated, the descent of rain, and increasing in wealth and children.

The doors of repentance are always open therefore don’t delay your repentance in a hope of tomorrow, as tomorrow is uncertain , Repent now and make it a habit to ask Allah’s forgiveness by reciting “Astaghfirullah”.

Say I believe in Allah’s mercy, I have sinned, I have gone astray, I have been negligent, but still I believe in Allah’s soothing mercy and forgiveness, I’ll not despair!

IMPORTANCE OF ISTIGHFAR FROM THE QURAN:

One of the 99 Names of Allah is Al-Ghaffaar (الْغَفَّارُ) – The Great Forgiver The Forgiver, the One who forgives the sins of His slaves time and time again.

There are numerous verses in the Quran about the importance of asking for forgiveness of Allah SWT. Here are few of them:

And (commanding you): “Seek the forgiveness of your Lord, and turn to Him in repentance, that He may grant you good enjoyment, for a term appointed, and bestow His abounding Grace to every owner of grace (i.e. the one who helps and serves needy and deserving, physically and with his wealth, and even with good words). But if you turn away, then I fear for you the torment of a Great Day (i.e. the Day of Resurrection). [Hud 11:3]

Declare (O Muhammad SAW) unto My slaves, that truly, I am the Oft-Forgiving, the Most-Merciful. [Al-Hijr 15:49]

Then, verily! Your Lord for those who do evil (commit sins and are disobedient to Allâh) in ignorance and afterward repent and do righteous deeds, verily, your Lord thereafter, (to such) is Oft-Forgiving, Most Merciful. [An-Nahl 16:119]

Your Lord knows best what is in your inner-selves. If you are righteous, then, verily, He is Ever Most Forgiving to those who turn unto Him again and again in obedience, and in repentance. [Al-Isra 17:25]

And verily, I am indeed Forgiving to him who repents, believes (in My Oneness, and associates none in worship with Me) and does righteous good deeds, and then remains constant in doing them, (till his death). [Ta-Ha 20:82]

And say (O Muhammad SAW): “My Lord! Forgive and have mercy, for You are the Best of those who show mercy!” [Al-Mumenoon 23:118]

Need more verses? Read the Quran! There are plenty of verses about the importance of seeking forgiveness.

So did you say “Astagfirullah” (I seek forgiveness of Allah) 100 times today?

#Reflect

-Qasim Rafique

[changbunnies]

Crave, Part 1 (18+)

♡ Pairing: Romantic Demon!Hyunjin x Human Fem!Reader

♡ Genre: supernatural au, demon au, age gap relationship typical in monster fucker fics, intended to be porn with plot but atm there is more plot than porn lol

♡ Word Count: 3.6k

♡ Summary: "The more a thing is perfect, the more it feels pleasure and pain." - Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy. In which Hyunjin, a demon from the nine circles of hell, finds himself impossibly infatuated with the very human he once set upon himself to destroy.

♡ Warnings: don’t read if you’ll be uncomfortable over talks about religion from the perspective of a demon!, themes of sexual purity in the context of religion, a lot of immoral behavior and thoughts + ideas from hyunjin, supernatural abilities, themes of possesiveness, the seven deadly sins are brought up multiple times, hyun is thousands of years old so take that as you will lol, hell's structure is based off dante alighieri's depiction of it in the divine comedy but knowledge of it isn't necessary to enjoy this fic!

♡ Smut Warnings (contains spoilers): there isn't really any overt smut in this first part it's more like referenced sexual activity, masturbation, voyeurism (hyun is watching reader while they're unaware he is there), porn watching

♡ Notes: after receiving feedback, i'll now be posting my long fics in multiple parts as i finish them like i do on ao3 instead of waiting until it's finished to post here! i'm taking a break from my royal au series to finally write out this fic i've had rattling in my brain since last september but never got around to writing until this past month :') idk how long this will be in the end but i'm planning at least 3 parts! i hope you stick around till the end <3

♡ Disclaimer: please read responsibly, and remember that this work is fiction and meant strictly for imaginative fun. the idols used in fics are more accurately faceclaims and personality outlines for imaginary characters, and should not be interpreted as factual representations of existing people.

There are many things in this world, the world of humans, that even a monster such as Hyunjin was born to desire. A primal want, weaved into the very fabric of his being, designed to be etched into his soul- if he had one, that is. That is what initially brought him here; the heart of one of the world's most populated cities, his territory an otherwise unoccupied luxury suite in one of the many skyrises that line the bustling streets.

It was an ideal place to be; there wasn't much in the way of furniture, given that it's a new development with no human occupants, but the amenities it held were sleek and pristine. High windows that overlooked the entirety of the city rife with sin from what was nearly the top floor, marble countertops that screamed sophistication and elegance, and well equipped with security of both the physical and digital kind to keep out those who may want to chase the thrill of wandering where they do not belong. Hyunjin, who could simply float about wherever he wished, had no need for human things like beds or sofas.

In this space, he already had everything he needed- an ideal vantage point, isolation from the world until he himself chose to interact with it, and easy access to the myriad of damned soul that walked the streets beneath him. It was perfect, and it was his- until you showed up.

Hyunjin was no stranger to dealing with potential renters overtaking his territory- it was only natural for those with wealth to be ready to spend a fortune on the newest availble luxury apartment that catches their eye. While Hyunjin had never once been seen; he was certainly known; rumors abound of an evil presence in suite 13, that left even non-believers fleeing in terror, leaving as quickly as they came. "Evil" felt a bit extreme of a description from Hyunjin's perspective, but what would humans truly understand of him? 

He always felt as if his actions were completely justified; after all, why should a being with immense power such as him bend to the will of a measely human whose life was akin to a grain of sand in the desert of immortality that was his own lifespan? Regardless of his justifications and thoughts on what is evil and what isn't, he welcomed the fear humans have towards him- it made his life easier if they feared him and stayed far from his domain. 

And yet here you were, seemingly ignorant of the fearful reputation this apartment held (not that he expected that the building's landlord would have informed you of it, of course- their only goal is money, at the end of the day.) Hyunjin didn't care for the rules of humans- whether or not you'd supplied the necessary money to purchase your way here or were deserving of it made no difference to him. It was his until he decided otherwise, and you were trespassing on his territory by being here.

When he'd first arrived back after a long outing back in his home within the second circle of the nine hells, only to see you filling his space with your things, walking about the apartment as if you owned it, blissfully unaware of his presence- it was infuriating. He had half a mind to scare you out right then, forever scar you by showing you his true form, send you running as he'd done to countless before you who tried to be here. But no, that wouldn't be enough. It would be letting you off too easily for his liking; this was different than scaring off someone who might intrude on his home- you already had.

What he wanted was more than his territory back- he wanted to make you suffer the most egregious torment one could ever endure for intruding on it, something far worse and much harsher than whatever a demon below his stature could muster. You deserved worse than that of mild terror, or to be able to flee from his space without repercussions for your transgression. No, he would only take back what was his after he'd turned your mind into a den of paranoia and hysteria. You needed to know true terror, true loss, true suffering, by his hand.

So he settled for observing you- it would be a longer process, one that could easily take months to reach true fruition, but the reward would be well worth his patience. He watched carefully, intently, his presence always concealed but unmistakably there. You would feel it sometimes, unbeknownst to yourself. A sudden chill up your spine, the subtle feeling of being watched making you turn your head, only to be met with nothing unusual in your line of sight. Funny, how humans were so attuned to the supernatural while simultaneously being so oblivious to their reality.

Your routines became committed to his memory, your every step and every action becoming increasingly familiar to him. Boring at times, but necessary if he wanted to learn the ins and outs of what makes you you, taking in every detail and memorizing them fully, so that when the day comes for him to turn your life into a miserable tragedy, forming you into a shell of who you once were, you'd have to beg him for forgiveness, for his mercy.

What were your fears? He'd easily make them reality. What did you hate? He'd make sure you suffered it. What broke your heart? He'd subject you to that pain over and over, until your heart was left shattered into a million, microscopic pieces. And it was only then, when you were mentally destroyed, the lowest you could ever possibly be and unrecognizable in your despair, that he'd appear before you, triumphant as he made you apologize for ever having stepped foot in his domain.

But as he observed you, he came to realize something strange- something he had never once found himself thinking about a human before. You were so... good, the closest to perfection a human could ever possibly be. And not perfect by the bullshit puritan standards set by the "heavenly creator," because you were as touched by sin as any human is, but perfect to him specifically.

Your sins were few and far between, with only one making a substantial impact on your purity; but it was the most important, most delicious sin of them all, the one that made Hyunjin's body seethe with delectable desire. You weren't envious, nor greedy or gluttonous; you lived in a luxurious penthouse suite, that was true, but greed to have the best of everything isn't what brought you here. The pride you felt for your accomplishments didn't go anywhere near sinful levels- you were proud of yourself, but not in such a way that you looked down on others while you sat atop your high horse.

You weren't slothful, brought to your current position by your own hard work and tireless efforts, and you weren't wrathful either, your emotions toward your fellow man always sweet, compassionate, and gracious. That only left one sin- just one that impacted your soul, that barred you from reaching true, godly purity.

Lust.

It wasn't an unhealthy amount of lust by any means, but any at all is enough to damn an unmarried woman's soul if she gives in to the temptation- an unfair ruling that has cost many their rightful place in paradise. And you certainly did give in to your temptation, and that is what made you perfect to him. You had none of the avarice of other humans, none of the undesirable qualities that made them foolish and arrogant and insufferable to deal with, instead held closely by one desire, the most important desire.

Was it a coincidence, he wondered? That he, a demon born of lust himself, found one such human that seemed to adhere perfectly to what he enjoys most? Hyunjin often felt himself above that of the sins his brothers were born to pursue. Violence did not suit him, emotions such as greed, pride, and jealousy often went beyond his comprehension. And not because he was some lowly, ignorant creature who was only capable of thinking with his dick, but because those feelings simply never came to him to begin with.

What was there to be jealous of? If he wanted something, he could have it, he could take it, as simple as that. Was he prideful? Sure, one could say he was, say that he had an ego, but he would argue that there was a clear difference between the arrogance that often comes with pride, and simply having confidence in one's own abilities and joy in their accomplishments.

He knew he could feel other emotions, indulge in other sins, if his brothers' conquests and actions were any tell, but he simply.. didn't. Lust was all he knew, was all that he enjoyed, but at the same time, he wasn't some low level demon who was consumed by lust. No, he could control it quite easily if he wished, was more than capable of waiting for the most ideal moment to finally savor in the addictive dance two bodies can share. (Or more than two bodies, should one prefer that.)

Lust was all he ever knew, but unlike the sex-starved beasts he ruled over and observed in his circle within hell, he was very much in control of himself. Make no mistake, it never went away, he always felt the gnawing craving for more and more and more- but it never addled his mind. That was the perk of being a demon with a higher consciousness than that of say.. an imp. He had complete control of his compulsions and desires. 

It was this control over himself that led to Hyunjin savoring the lust that poured from human souls in only the most ideal conditions. There were many different kinds of lust, each with their own "taste" so to speak, and while Hyunjin found them all enjoyable to at least some degree, there was one in particular that was the most intoxicating to him, one that never failed to light a fire within him, the one that was always, always, worth waiting for.

The lust between two lovers, whose care for eachother was true, and good, and special- such as you would see from couples sleeping together for the first time, full to the brim with nervous excitement. Or maybe from long-time lovers reigniting their spark with a romantic night spent together after a warm, candlelit date. Especially delectable was the sweet consummation after making an eternal promise under God to be together forever, in sickness and in health, 'til death do you part. Those are just a few examples of the sort of lust that gave Hyunjin the best, sweetest taste.

The irony of being an immoral entity who gained the most enjoyment out of love and romance wasn't lost on him, but his preferences weren't built on some misconceived notion that he could aspire to feel those things himself. Yes, Hyunjin knew he would never feel the human emotion that was love, but he could understand, at least on a superficial level, why it tasted so sweet, and why humans seemed to fight for that feeling above all else.

Perhaps he existed to be a hypocrite, sowing seeds of chaos and turmoil while valuing true love, contradicting that which humans believed they knew about demons of lust such as himself. After all, was it not the very nature of a demon to confuse, contradict, and twist the human condition? And was it not utterly against his being to indulge in a feeling that was considered sacred by God? It didn't matter either way; if there was one thing that Hyunjin knew for certain, it was that sweet tastes were the best, and it didn't matter where it originated from or how- he just knew he liked it.

And oh, how his proverbial heart jolted when he sensed it on you the first time he saw you touching yourself. It was a surprise when, after a long day of unpacking and arranging furniture, you let your hand travel sinfully between your legs with a heady sigh- and far be it from Hyunjin to deny himself the opportunity to feed on a human's lust when it's practically being delivered to him on a silver platter. You hadn't been touching yourself for long, barely got your panties down your legs when he tasted it- subtle, but familiar enough to Hyunjin that he could recognize it anywhere.

It was hard to explain the sweet taste in human terms- there were really no words that could come close to describing it, as the "flavor" itself didn't exist within human understanding. Suffice it to say, it was something entirely unique to his kind, and something any demon would be able to distinguish with ease should they be in close enough proximity. It was unmistakable- you loved someone. That was information that could serve him well, something that he should be delighted to know he could ruin you with. And yet, for the first time in all his thousands of years, the feeling of lustful love left a bitter taste on his tongue.

You were in love.. And you envisioned that person while your fingers were buried between your legs, as you bit your lip and made your eyes roll to the back of your skull. Who was it? Why did you love them? Were they even deserving of someone as perfect as you? Did they deserve to touch you? To feel you? Hyunjin grit his teeth, fists clenching into tight balls as an unfamiliar feeling began to permeate through the entirety of his being.

Is this.. what envy feels like? A rage beyond comprehension at the thought of someone else having you when it should be him? He should be the one you desired to have touching you, the one you imagined marking your unmarred skin, the one who made you cry out and tremble with even the simplest of touches. Would they even indulge in the sweet taste you radiate like he would? Would they even understand what perfection it is you offer simply by being? His, you should be his, only his, his, his.

The realization hit Hyunjin like cold water over hot skin- he wants you. And not just for one night, not superficially, not with needing to part ways afterwards. He wants you to love him, wants the feeling of love-drenched lust that radiates off you to be because of him, wants you to belong to him and him alone. You don't know him yet, but you will. And he'll make sure you're left wanting him, and only him, by any means necessary. Because it's what he wants, and he always gets what he wants.

Hyunjin wants to say it's simple curiosity that leads him to carefully stealing your phone off your nightstand once you've fallen asleep, or that's acting with the desire to know how to ruin the target of his ire more succinctly, but that simply isn't true. No, he is scrounging through your phone not with the intent to learn your greatest fears and hates, nor does he scour your messages to discover your darkest secrets.

It's a different purpose that has led him here, an unfamiliar ache that drives him to search your phone for something more. In hindsight, going through your phone to learn about you is a simple, easy act he could've, should've, done already, but he's a bit of a traditionalist in that regard. (Or maybe he just doesn't want to admit how much he's liked watching you these past few weeks.)

Who is that you love? And why? It would've been easier for him to find out had you truly let yourself go, allowed yourself to be loud and moan their name to your heart's content, but you hadn't. And maybe that was a good thing, as hearing someone else's name leave your lips in such a moment would've definitely sent him into a dangerous hate spiral, but that also meant he was left with nothing to go on as a clue.

He was much too stunned, and then seething with anger and jealousy, to read your thoughts in the moment, and if he tried to do so now, while you were sleeping, all he would do is catch a glimpse of your dreams- not helpful in the slightest, unless you happen to be dreaming of the object of your desire. (Which you weren't. He already looked.)

Unlocking your phone is easy, as he's seen you put in your password several times over at this point. Unfortunately for him however, (and fortunate for the one undeserving of Hyunjin's wrath,) he finds nothing that makes the object of your affection explicitly obvious. Your texts with friends all use the same tone, you talk about mundane things like what movies are coming out or how you wish you could go on a vacation for a while.

Your photo gallery is relatively small, filled mostly by screenshots of things you wish to remember or keep for a laugh, and the occasional selfie. There's nothing that screams "this is the person i'm in love with!" no matter where in your phone he looks, and if it wasn't for how intensely he felt the emotion radiating from you as your fingers sped up and release built, he'd think he must have imagined it.

What interesting this he does find, however, are the differen't porn links littered through your incognito tabs, all that paint a very vivid picture of what you find most appealing, or in more vulgar terms, what gets your pussy really fucking wet. He skims through your collection of favorites and private bookmarks, and quickly comes to realize they all hold a similar theme- love, romance, and doms who are soft even when being rough with the sub's body or speaking condescending words.

Various videos and audio files, with titles such as "roommate gets railed after confessing her secret feelings," "pov: boy next door accidentally confesses and then fucks you passionately," and "soft dom makes his good girl cum hard: boyfriend asmr." There's even an entire erotic movie, much to Hyunjin's surprise, with a 2 hour run time and dedicated plot in your recent bookmarks.

He decides to watch it, for research purposes of course- what better way to get to know the object of his desire than by watching the porn she consumes for himself? It's rather generic as far as ideas go- childhood best friends confessing their love before going away to college, with sweet, sensual but desperate fucking and a promise they'll be in love no matter the distance put between them. A cliché plot, by human media standards. 

However, he has to give it due props- it's obviously not an amateur production. It's acted well, has better cinematography than one might expect for a film produced by a porn studio, and the dialogue never crosses into cringe, overtly fake territory. Despite it all, something about it feels real, as if he'd taken a genuine glimpse into the lives of two young people in love, rather than a manufactured video meant to make the people who watch it unbearably horny.

Hyunjin continued through your collection after that, eager to see what other gems lied in your favorites, waiting to be watched by him. They're all the same fundamentally speaking, your preferences and biases easily shining through with each video watched and audio listened to. Emotionally charged, romantic confessions, sweet "i love you"s, soft, caring doms who take good care of the submissive one, making them feel desired, beautiful, and secure.

The person you're in love with, the one who lingers in your mind when you watch these videos and your hand travels between your legs- this is what you want them to do. You want them to love you passionately, to make you fall apart in the sweetest of ways, to take care of you so well that your thoughts can linger on nothing but the way they make you feel. You want them to sweetly tell you they love you while they fuck you, to speak filthy words in your ears in a soft, saccharine voice as they make you cum. To fuck you dumb, to ruin you, and then expertly put you back together with a tender touch. 

Carefully, he puts your phone back in its place, looking at you once he's done, still sound asleep in your bed and without a clue in the world that there's a demon standing before you, close enough to touch. You've lived with Hyunjin for weeks now, but you don't know who he is, don't know that he's there, don't know that you have unexpectedly become the reason for a demon's strange and new complex emotions. Isn't it funny? How a demon as powerful as him has become infatuated with you despite you not even knowing he exists.

It's illogical to desire you, truly. Humans are fickle, subject to corruption and irrationality, their lives impossibly short. What one man works his entire life to obtain, Hyunjin can have in mere moments with a fraction of the effort. To a being that has lived thousands of years, the life of a human happens in a mere blink. You grow old, you get sick, you die, your accomplishments fade to nothing, forgotten as the next wave of humans walk the earth in your stead. You're beneath him, he's better than you, and yet..

Why does he still crave you so? Maybe he's no better than the humans he's looked down upon, considering them lesser for their innate hypocrisies and irrational actions- because Hyunjin is about to do just the same. His feelings for you are hypocritical, irrational, foolish, but also the most real thing he's ever felt. And if it's romance you want, that will make you fall head over heels for him, then he'll be the most romantic demon the nine hells have ever known.

[thewordfortheday]

Romans 6:15 What then? Shall we sin because we are not under law but under grace? By no means! 

If we are justified by grace rather than our own efforts, then, does this gospel imply that we should give free reign to our sinful desires and sin all the more so that grace may abound? “May it never be!” To ask such a question means you don't understand the nature of justification. Only those who renounce their sinfulness and acknowledge that it places them under God's wrath, who long to be free from sin will receive justification for their sins.

We are dead to sin. So why would we want to go back to that life of sin? We are no longer slaves to sin. We need to quit making ourselves available to sin. We need to avoid those places and situations where we are tempted to commit the same sins. We cannot live the true Christian life with our own strength, but the Holy Spirit can help us to live it through us. 

Spirit of God, help us to overcome sin with Your power. In Jesus' name, Amen 

[godslove]

“Moreover the law entered that the offense might abound. But where sin abounded, grace abounded much more, ²¹so that as sin reigned in death, even so grace might reign through righteousness to eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

—Romans 5:20-21, The Apostle Paul, ‘Death in Adam, Life in Christ’

[redthefortuneteller]

About Snake's death

*Edit: I had to edit out a mistake I made, which was that I wrongly assumed the 20+ people Agni hung upside down in London had died! Thank you for letting me know in the comments and apologies for that! The main focus of the post still stands of course, which is to consider and wonder how the rules of justice in Kuro are applied and which are the rules exactly, if there are any. I also couldn't deny myself of adding a few other things, I once again hope you will tolerate my tendency to ramble on too much!*

From what is generally understood, Yana has a penchant for punishing characters for their wrong doings. I'd mentioned before that we can see this in Snake's case with him getting cut in the same side of the neck that Phelps got the snake bite on. It doesn't look like a coincidence, especially knowing how Yana operates in terms of details and foreshadowing. *Edit: I should like to add that Phelps dying was an accident. Snake, although he wanted to kill Smile, really didn't kill Phelps, specifically, on purpose. I've read someone argue that Snake isn't even to blame for the murder as it was a black mamba who killed Phelps, not Snake. I do not share that opinion, simply because he was the one who sent the snake. But it's still an interesting thought to consider as in "what does the author think or consider in this case?"* This being said, it's still a little hard to stomach that Snake should be dealt with in this way. I will try to explain what I mean. He died not even properly acknowledging Doll's presence, nor all his snakes surrounding him. He saw Finny leaving him behind. He died alone in his mind, wondering why he had such a horribly unfair life, treated like an animal, getting tricked and lied to by everyone, not understanding why or having anyone explain anything to him about why he was made a fool by everyone.

As he had just realized he was in the middle of it all, he was killed. He was dead before he could understand what had been happening all this time. Take Agni for instance, one of my dear long time favourite characters. He died a violent death, but at least died peacefully and happy that he got a chance at redeeming himself by doing good and living for Soma, after his sinful past in which he said he'd lived a life of sin in India and that he "hurt a lot of people". He did get sentenced to death but we don't know for certain, if what he'd done included killing. So I will still refrain from taking that into account. *Edit: Here's a link to a separate post I made, explaining why I assumed Agni had killed those people in London*

So all things considered, why did Agni die with a smile on his face, while Snake died with "why-?" as his last words? Indeed, why..?

I wonder if Yana is also taking into consideration the envenomation of the soldiers in the Emerald Witch arc to up the numbers? If we were to consider this to be Yana's "sword of justice" (haha sounds quite dramatic!), should we expect to see other characters dying such abominable deaths? Because there are so many characters who have killed a lot people and others that have killed some. Starting with the Phantomhive servants and ending with Wolfram, it could be a lengthy list. *Edit: Take Baldroy for example, he likely killed too many to even count. If there's such a concept as a "sword of justice", I dread to even wonder what will happen to him in the end.* Of course, don't consider for a moment that I'm wishing such things! I'm simply entertaining the possibility of this implicit method of justice being employed by the author, if, we were to consider that Snake's death came as a sort of payback for Phelps, that is all. Part of me wishes Snake's death would have been handled with a little more gentleness and grace. As he's such a kind hearted character... he didn't even get the chance to understand what he'd unknowingly gotten dragged into. But alas, this is the Kuroshitsuji universe after all where life's injustices are abound!

Thank you for reading and a virtual hug to all of you who love Snake! ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

[gritandgrace40]

GRACE =

Gods

Riches

At

Christs

Expense

Moreover the law entered that the offense might abound. But where sin abounded, grace abounded much more, so that as sin reigned in death, even so grace might reign through righteousness to eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.

- Romans 5:20-21 NKJV -

[nerdygaymormon]

Queer Gospel Music

This past year I came across several songs that I enjoy listening to on Sundays. I created a playlist for myself for Sundays and thought I'd share with y'all.

Yet : Ashley Hess - Ashley Hess was a finalist on the 2019 season of American Idol. I heard her perform this song at the Gather Conference where she introduced it by saying, "The next song that I'm gonna play is a song that I wrote in my lowest time. But it's a song that's so special to me because it was the moment that I felt like I finally came out of hiding, and that the Lord not only saw me, but loved me and embraced me." I can relate so much to that. Plus, I don't hear many songs from the perspective of "I'm trying, so God please don't give up on me."

God Loves Me Too : Brian Falduto - Brian played the gay kid in the movie School of Rock, and catapulted the character into an LGBTQ icon when he delivered the line “You’re tacky and I hate you.” Now as an adult, Brian is back and singing that no one has to earn God’s love. Brian wrote the song after visiting a church that was welcoming and accepting of queer people. I look around and see I’ve found a place where peace and love abound. I’ve waited my whole life for the truth. It is true, God loves you. It don’t matter if you’re LGBTQ

My Little Prayer : David Archuleta - David wasn't out yet when he recorded this, but I imagine he really related to some of these lyrics, such as I'm beginning to understand that you (God) have a plan for me.

The Queer Gospel : Erin McKeown - I love these lyrics. There are those who think we're wicked. There are those who call us names: depraved, lost and sick, and would rather bathe us in shame. But we put the "sin" in sincere, we put the "do" in the doubt. God is perfectly clear. We are perfectly out. Love us as we are. See us and we're holy. In this shall we ever be wholly ourselves.

Good Day (feat. Derek Webb) : Flamy Grant - Matthew Blake was a worship leader for 22 years who has become a “shame-slaying, hip-swaying, singing-songwriting drag queen” named Flamy Grant (it's a play on the name of gospel singer Amy Grant). The lyrics talk of coming back to church after having left for feeling oppressed. They’ve come back to church because despite what some say, God’s love is expansive enough for everyone. God made me good in every way, so I raise my voice to celebrate a good day. 

Believe : GENTRI - The pianist for this group is gay. After coming out, he was having a hard time with faith and was angry at God, and he felt God gave him this song as part of his healing process. Believe there is an answer. And while you feel you're buried deep in a disaster, believe more hands are waiting, ready to lift you up and carry you back to safety. You're not alone, keep holding on. And believe.

Explaining Jesus : Jordy Searcy - In 2014, Jordan was a contestant on The Voice. He grew up active in a church and since being on the television show he has written several religious songs, including this one. Jordy discusses the shortcomings of churches, comparing the ways in which church members act and interact with each other, including how they treat the gay community and oppress women. If you're gay and over 85, you've felt for your whole life that when God made you, he just messed up. In the chorus he apologizes that this has been the experience, I'm sorry no one explained Jesus to you.

Satan's Tears : Kyler O'Neal - Did anyone ask how real you are? Has anyone said that you are loved, or that you’re the one they’re dreaming of? Those questions start this beautiful song by trans woman Kyler O’Neal. The song addresses a young gender non-conforming person unaccepted by their world, and the singer promises to wipe away Satan’s tears which were created by a cruel society

Same Love : Macklemore & Ryan Lewis feat. Mary Lambert - Macklemore sings that his gay uncles should be allowed to marry, and speaks of how Christianity has hurt gay people. "God loves all his children" is somehow forgotten, but we paraphrase a book written thirty-five hundred years ago. The song concludes with Mary Lambert singing I’m not crying on Sundays, which I think means not letting religious intolerance and churches harm us anymore

No Place in Heaven : MIKA - Mika is singing about how religion teaches there’s no place in heaven for gay people because the way we love is sinful. Father, won’t you forgive me for my sins? Father, if there’s a heaven let me in

God Is : The Outer Banks - I don't know that they had queer people in mind when they wrote the song, but the lyrics relate to the conflict between one’s queerness and relationship with God. God was never angry. God was not against me. God was never far away. God is not disappointed.

I Know it Hurts : Paul Cardall & Tyler Glenn - I just wanted to believe, but how am I supposed to believe this about me? And then we find each other, queer church members who can understand what we’re going through, who know the hurt. For most queer people, they leave church and go on a different path. They’re not lost, a faint light at the end is guiding their way, they’re finding another way back home.

Losing My Religion : R.E.M. - The song was interpreted as the struggle of a closeted gay man coming to terms with what his religion taught about gay people and is seen as an example of queer coding in the era of “don’t ask, don’t tell.” Lead singer Michael Stipe had declined to address his sexuality, so when “Losing My Religion” came out, people assumed Stipe was coming out as gay. Consider this the hint of the century. Consider this the slip.

HIM : Sam Smith - This is a song about a boy in Mississippi coming out and the conflict between his sexuality and his religious upbringing. He is grappling with the feeling that there’s no place in church for him because he’s gay. Holy Father, we need to talk. I have a secret that I can’t keep. I’m not the boy that you thought you wanted. Please don’t get angry, have faith in me.

Pray : Sam Smith - You won’t see Sam in church, but they say they’re a child of God at heart and are begging God to show the way. I’m not a saint, I’m more of a sinner. I don’t wanna lose, but I fear for the winners

Faith : Semler -  This song reached No. 1 on the iTunes Christian music chart and is about growing up queer in a faith community and how the rejection by the church left them scarred. When my religion turned against me, they said my hopes and dreams were faulty. I showed these holes inside my hands, and they claimed they couldn’t see.” Even as they struggled with the church, Semler kept a relationship with Jesus and flourished far more than she did in any church building. But I don’t wanna get small to be in those rooms

Hey Jesus : Trey Pearson - Trey made headlines in 2016 when as the lead singer of the Christian rock band Everyday Sunday, he came out as gay. Three years later and Trey has a question: Hey Jesus can you hear me now? It's been awhile since I came out, I was wonderin' do you love me the same? As a person who struggles to reconcile faith with sexual orientation, I find this song quite moving.

Heaven : Troye Sivan feat. Betty Who - Troye sings about what it’s like for a religious teenager to come out as gay. Without losing a piece of me, how do I get to heaven? Without changing a part of me, how do I get to heaven? All my time is wasted, feeling like my heart’s mistaken, oh, so if I’m losing a piece of me, maybe I don’t want heaven? Troye explains “When I first started to realise that I might be gay, I had to ask myself all these questions—these really really terrifying questions. Am I ever going to find someone? Am I ever going to be able to have a family? If there is a God, does that God hate? If there is a heaven, am I ever going to make it to heaven?” The video features footage from LGBTQ+ protests throughout history.

Revelation : Troye Sivan and Jónsi -This song was written for the movie Boy Erased, which is about a young man being sent by his parents to a conversion therapy camp to try to change him to not be gay. The lyrics are about feeling liberated from the toxic teachings he learned at church about LGBTQ+ people. It’s a revelation. There’s no hell in what I’ve found, and no kingdom shout. How the tides are changing as you liberate me now and the walls come down. In other words, God doesn't condemn me for my queerness.

Orphans of God : Ty Herndon & Kristin Chenoweth feat. Paul Cardall - The message of the song is we are all loved by God, we are all thought about, we are all created equally and God loves us all the same.

Midnight : Tyler Glenn - The Neon Trees frontman gives an emotional song about his departure from the Mormon church but not from God. The ballad is accompanied by a video that shows Glenn removing his religious garments and replacing them with a glittery jacket, which is such a powerful metaphor.

[dailydemonspotlight]

Loup-Garou - Day 126

Race: Beast

Alignment: Neutral

October 14th, 2024

Werewolves are some of the most famous fictional monsters, easily among the ranks of vampires and zombies in fixtures of the spooky month abound. Werewolves, and Lycanthropy in general, are also very common aspects of storytelling in more fantastical spaces, being typically used as metaphors for several different things. However, where Werewolves came from is a very contentious topic, but one of our most vital links is actually today's Demon of the Day: the French Loup-Garou, one of the first and most notable examples of a werewolf in history. These lycanthropic monsters are some of the first, and most literal, werewolves we've ever seen depicted, and in spite of their relative obscurity they're a very stock and reliable example of what a werewolf even is.

A Loup-Garou, meaning 'one who turns into a wolf,' is a title given to someone who was cursed with transforming into an animal form at night- interestingly, it doesn't specifically have to be a wolf, as according to French-Canadian tradition, they can also turn into dogs, pigs, cattle, cats, or even owls. The idea of this curse was heavily tied to Catholicism and its morality- a person who would commit a grave sin or even just miss confessing their sins on Easter one-too-many times would end up being cursed to become one of these animals every evening, whereupon they would wander aimlessly the countryside. Interestingly, tying with the other animal forms, a Loup-Garou wasn't actually a wolf-man, as they would instead take the direct form of the animal they were cursed to become.

Naturally, however, the traditional French tale was about wolves, and so it stuck. As French settlers arrived in Canada, they brought tales of the Loup-Garou with them as moral warnings and boogeymen, with the first recorded mention being all the way back in the 1700's in the journal of one Antoine Simon Le Page du Pratz, where he speaks of a great wolf described with the moniker "Rougarou" that had the power of 20 wolves in one. To quote his journal,

The wolves being many in a body, kill not what is sufficient for one alone, but as many as they can, before they begin to eat. For this is the manner of the wolf, to kill ten or twenty times more than he needs, especially when he can do it with ease, and without interruption.

This is a borrowed observation from OSP's excellent video on Werewolves, but this actually lead to quite a lot of the modern-day danger that wolves find themselves in, as they had faced extinction at the time due to overhunting out of paranoia that they would attack. Still, the idea stuck, and it spread- the Loup-Garou soon became a fixture in the mythology of the area, inspired primarily by the legends of Dracula and other vampires in how it'd transform. The wolf also starred in a book called “Jean-ah Poquelin,” where it was the main character, and from there the idea stuck. Soon, the idea spread to the Americas as well, and in years the idea of a man transforming into a wolf became ingrained in the public psyche.

The fact that it's only one transformation, though, does make the design in SMT a bit confusing. Don't get me wrong, I love it- it's a fantastic werewolf creature design- but it has direct conflict with the plain wolf form. Even then, though, if it was just a wolf, it'd be a bit boring, so I have to acknowledge and love the fact that they took such a unique approach with the design of a werewolf, with its glowing yellow eyes and torn noble attire giving light to its French origins. Not much else to speak about- simply a story about were's and wolves. Do not post the pineapple GIF.

[du-sailarar-nerilia]

Alagaësia Lore And Headcanons Series, Part 2: Human Languages of the Broddring Empire

Given that by the time the books take place, there is really only one human language, most of this post is going to be on the Headcanon side of "Lore and Headcanons". Still, my observations will be based in canon, drawing from place names as well as given names of characters. Where I run out of canon to draw from, I will be taking a lot of inspiration from the history of real-world languages, but not so much as to eliminate the uniqueness of the setting. Or at least I will try.

-Lights

Taxonomy

Human languages of Alagaësia can be roughly split into four distinct families: Broddring, Surdan, Petrovyan and Hadaraki. Of these, the former three show similarities in their grammatical structure (being overwhelmingly synthetic, but non-pro-drop languages) which may indicate that they split away from their ancestor language - a theorized "proto-mannish" - later than Hadaraki, which seems as far removed from them as it is from the Ancient Language. As this post is dedicated to languages of the Broddring Empire, Hadaraki, i.e. the languages of the Wandering Tribes (which never submitted to Broddring authority) will be given their separate post.

The Broddring Language Family

By this term, we understand any and all languages that evolved from the language spoken by the tribe of King Palancar at the time of their arrival in Alagaësia. The name "Broddring" comes from the singular form of the name of Palancar's tribe - Broddringas. Interestingly enough, it seems to be an exonym bestowed by a closely related tribe, translating roughly to "Brother's kin" (from brodor and the kinship suffix -ing).

Archaic Broddring This was the language spoken by Palancar upon his arrival in Alagaësia. While it had already developed the typical grammatical features of the later Broddring languages, its vocabulary was so far removed from theirs as to be completely incomprehensible to a speaker of present-day Broddring. This is due to the fact that after coming into contact with the Elves, Archaic Broddring started adopting (and modifying) words from the Ancient Language en-masse, which would eventually lead to the two languages sharing up to 40% of their vocabulary. The resulting amalgam would become known as...

Old Broddring Language of the early Broddring kings who resided in Ilirea. It had a rich inflection system, with four cases (nominative, genitive, dative and accusative) and three numbers (singular, dual and plural). Despite being different enough from the Ancient Language as to lack its truthsaying and magical properties, it was similar to the point of mutual intelligibility:

OB:       Andumë ond Fíronmas on thaem      sorga              hyll,     lichama    sin      glaese     gelic.

AL:        Andumë un Fíronmas äthr dem        harmra            hyll,     leikrar       theirra  glaere     gelikr.

(similarities illustrated on the sentence "Andumë and Fíronmas at the hill of sorrows and their flesh like glass." spoken by Glaedr in Inheritance.) Given that not only vocabulary, but also parts of grammar seem to have been adopted by the Broddringas, discussions abound among scholars as to whether Old Broddring is Archaic Broddring in an Ancient Language cloak, or the Ancient Language in a Broddring cloak. It was this language that gave rise to the Toskan dialect, an artificial dialect created by Tosk for the purposes of the Religion of Helgrind.

Present-day Broddring Just as Old Broddring is the result of a metaphorical melting pot of Archaic Broddring and the Ancient Language, present-day Broddring is the result of Old Broddring interacting with the rest of the human languages of Alagaësia during the Broddrings' conquest. Again, it borrowed massively, mainly from Aberonian and Old Surdan (more on those below). This was not the case of the conquerors borrowing vocabulary from the conquered, but rather the conquered attempting to speak the conquerors' language and substituting the words they did not know with ones from their own languages. Moreover, as Broddring gradually became the lingua franca of a multi-national kingdom, the number of non-native speakers outgrew that of the native ones. This led to a significant simplification and streamlining of grammar. The number of lexically realized cases was reduced drastically until only two - the subject case and the object case - remained. As a result, the word order became much less flexible and Broddring as a whole became more analytical rather than synthetic. Numbers were reduced to only singular and plural.

The Lost Languages of Surda

By the time of the Fall of the Riders, only the Broddring lanuguage was spoken in Surda. Indeed, the ruling dynasty started by Marelda of Langfeld and continued by the Queen Frida and the Kings Larkin and Orrin was ethnically Broddring. Still, some of the languages of the tribes that first settled Surda and remained there even after Palancar and the Broddrings left for the north survive in toponyms, given names, folklore and old documents.

Aberonian Aberonian seems to be the language most closely related to the unattested proto-surdan language spoken by the first settlers. It survives only in its formal, literary form, preserved by the Arcaena sect (the name of which itself derives from the aberonian word for "secret"). Both its name and that of the current capital of Surda comes from the tribe called Aberati. We can only speculate as to the meaning, but it may be related to the verb aberro, "to wander away". Aberati could therefore be taken to mean "Wanderers", "Explorers" or potentially "Exiles". Many traditional surdan given names have aberonian origin, like that of King Orrin, which derives either from the word orans ("he who prays", i.e. pious) or orum ("gold, golden"). It carries an air of tradition and authority in the surdan public consciousness and prior to Surda becoming a province of the Broddring Empire, her monarchs would swear oaths of office in both Aberonian and the Ancient Language. This tradition would be later revived by Queen Frida, daughter of Lady Marelda and the first Langfeld monarch.

Old Surdan The contemporary of Old Broddring and the source of many of the borrowings that transformed Old Broddring into its present-day form. If little survives of Aberonian, then what we have left of Old Surdan may well be nothing. It originated as a spoken dialect of Aberonian and continued to evolve even as Aberonian fossilised in its literary standard. It would eventually overtake it as the official language of Surda, as it was more familiar to the common folk and was not as strictly policed by scholars and nobles. Today, it only survives in the form of folk songs, nursery rhymes and old government records. Those capable of reading and translating it are few but highly sought after by the Surdan government.

Petrovyan Very little is known of the Petrovyan language, as even the term is most likely not what the speakers themselves called it, only that it does not seem to be closely related to either Broddring or Surdan and Aberonian. It was spoken by a human tribe that landed in Surda but migrated north (possibly as far as Gil'ead), before being pushed back to the site of today's city of Petrovya by the Broddring expansion. By the time of the Rider War, only fragments remain in dialectal expressions, toponyms (like Petrovya itself) given and family names (like that of Marcus Tábor) and local swearwords.

Real World Inspirations

The evolution of the Broddring language was heavily inspired by the real life history of English. The Ancient Language in this analogy is Old Norse, which influenced Old English to such a degree that Middle English is disputed by some scholars to be a scandinavian language (see English: Language of the Vikings by Joseph Embley Emonds and Jan Terje Faarlund). The Surdan language family is based on Romance languages, with Aberonian roughly corresponding to Classical Latin and Old Surdan to the Vulgar Latin-Old French continuum. Petrovyan was inspired by Slavic languages because, well, the name.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

The New Stone Tablets

1 The Lord said to Moses, “Chisel out two stone tablets like the first ones, and I will write on them the words that were on the first tablets, which you broke. 2 Be ready in the morning, and then come up on Mount Sinai. Present yourself to me there on top of the mountain. 3 No one is to come with you or be seen anywhere on the mountain; not even the flocks and herds may graze in front of the mountain.”

4 So Moses chiseled out two stone tablets like the first ones and went up Mount Sinai early in the morning, as the Lord had commanded him; and he carried the two stone tablets in his hands. 5 Then the Lord came down in the cloud and stood there with him and proclaimed his name, the Lord. 6 And he passed in front of Moses, proclaiming, “The Lord, the Lord, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness, 7 maintaining love to thousands, and forgiving wickedness, rebellion and sin. Yet he does not leave the guilty unpunished; he punishes the children and their children for the sin of the parents to the third and fourth generation.”

8 Moses bowed to the ground at once and worshiped. 9 “Lord,” he said, “if I have found favor in your eyes, then let the Lord go with us. Although this is a stiff-necked people, forgive our wickedness and our sin, and take us as your inheritance.”

10 Then the Lord said: “I am making a covenant with you. Before all your people I will do wonders never before done in any nation in all the world. The people you live among will see how awesome is the work that I, the Lord, will do for you. 11 Obey what I command you today. I will drive out before you the Amorites, Canaanites, Hittites, Perizzites, Hivites and Jebusites. 12 Be careful not to make a treaty with those who live in the land where you are going, or they will be a snare among you. 13 Break down their altars, smash their sacred stones and cut down their Asherah poles. 14 Do not worship any other god, for the Lord, whose name is Jealous, is a jealous God.

15 “Be careful not to make a treaty with those who live in the land; for when they prostitute themselves to their gods and sacrifice to them, they will invite you and you will eat their sacrifices. 16 And when you choose some of their daughters as wives for your sons and those daughters prostitute themselves to their gods, they will lead your sons to do the same.

17 “Do not make any idols.

18 “Celebrate the Festival of Unleavened Bread. For seven days eat bread made without yeast, as I commanded you. Do this at the appointed time in the month of Aviv, for in that month you came out of Egypt.

19 “The first offspring of every womb belongs to me, including all the firstborn males of your livestock, whether from herd or flock. 20 Redeem the firstborn donkey with a lamb, but if you do not redeem it, break its neck. Redeem all your firstborn sons.

“No one is to appear before me empty-handed.

21 “Six days you shall labor, but on the seventh day you shall rest; even during the plowing season and harvest you must rest.

22 “Celebrate the Festival of Weeks with the firstfruits of the wheat harvest, and the Festival of Ingathering at the turn of the year. 23 Three times a year all your men are to appear before the Sovereign Lord, the God of Israel. 24 I will drive out nations before you and enlarge your territory, and no one will covet your land when you go up three times each year to appear before the Lord your God.

25 “Do not offer the blood of a sacrifice to me along with anything containing yeast, and do not let any of the sacrifice from the Passover Festival remain until morning.

26 “Bring the best of the firstfruits of your soil to the house of the Lord your God.

“Do not cook a young goat in its mother’s milk.”

27 Then the Lord said to Moses, “Write down these words, for in accordance with these words I have made a covenant with you and with Israel.” 28 Moses was there with the Lord forty days and forty nights without eating bread or drinking water. And he wrote on the tablets the words of the covenant—the Ten Commandments.

The Radiant Face of Moses

29 When Moses came down from Mount Sinai with the two tablets of the covenant law in his hands, he was not aware that his face was radiant because he had spoken with the Lord. 30 When Aaron and all the Israelites saw Moses, his face was radiant, and they were afraid to come near him. 31 But Moses called to them; so Aaron and all the leaders of the community came back to him, and he spoke to them. 32 Afterward all the Israelites came near him, and he gave them all the commands the Lord had given him on Mount Sinai.

33 When Moses finished speaking to them, he put a veil over his face. 34 But whenever he entered the Lord’s presence to speak with him, he removed the veil until he came out. And when he came out and told the Israelites what he had been commanded, 35 they saw that his face was radiant. Then Moses would put the veil back over his face until he went in to speak with the Lord. — Exodus 34 | New International Version (NIV) Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® All rights reserved worldwide. Cross References: Genesis 16:13; Genesis 22:5; Genesis 32:30; Exodus 3:1-2; Exodus 4:27; Exodus 6:23; Exodus 16:10; Exodus 17:10; Exodus 17:14-15; Exodus 18:12; Exodus 19:8-9; Exodus 19:22; Exodus 19:24; Exodus 21:1; Exodus 25:1; Exodus 28:1; Leviticus 9:6; Leviticus 10:1; Joshua 24:24; 1 Kings 19:8 Matthew 26:28; Mark 14:24; John 1:18; John 6:46; 1 Corinthians 11:25; 2 Corinthians 3:3; 2 Corinthians 3:7; Hebrews 8:9; Hebrews 9:19; Hebrews 12:29

Commentary on Exodus 34 by Matthew Henry

Key Passages in Exodus 34

1. The tablets are replaced 5. The name of the Lord proclaimed 8. Moses entreats God to go with them 10. God makes a covenant with them, repeating certain duties 28. Moses after forty days on the mount, comes down with the tablets 29. His face is radiant, and he covers it with a veil

[themosthatedbeingg]

{ Past Drabble — Hell , Pre golden age; Young King verse; The Dragon tyrant : }

The murmurs from court room died as large silhouette of dragon appeared in the stain glass window — before in a veil of shadows it dissapered and from the side the King made his way to his throne , above all of them and above Satan’s large throne below , signaling his Place above them all and looking down at those brought before Their Laws .

His second in command and the only Sin allowed to Rule in his stead Satan glanced upwards once the Large King of Wrath bowing his head in reverence to his King.

Lucifer graced him with a simple nod, red eyes piercing the fools kneeling against the chopping block , a young ish Goetia and some Imp hybrid Hellborn both looking terrified and yet defiant , he almost had to admire them . Almost at least they still broke his laws , wandering out to the wastelands without proper permission a secret opening that could’ve destroyed the young kingdom should those creatures get in.

All to give good and meds to a band of traitors who didn’t want to submit to the King’s rule . And to drag a Goetia into it — how shameful the house must feel.

He had heard their pleas and the pleas of their family but it was moot.

They dared to challenge his authority his rule and rebuke his throne .. they would pay the price .

“Sire please ! It was only an act of foolish kindness not rebellion !” The Goetia’s mother called in protest her feathers once sleeked back were ruffled and alarmed . “Spare my son at the least I’m sure that wretched Imp bitch has tricked him into this !”

More murmurs and hissings abound from the collected Hellborn around them till Lucifer silenced them all with a wave of his hand , the crown on his head glinting in the firelight .

“Tricked you say?” He glanced at his right hand, “Satan would you say it was trickery that left a hole in the south wall so large a flying scavenger was able to crawl through precisely to where the Royal Armory was at drawing the guards and thus leaving angelic steel unguarded for the rebels ?”

“Hmm such a well thought out plan no I don’t believe it was trickery but it has all the flavors of wrathful intent .”

“And my dear friend do you think this Imp was able to use her Giles to lure this otherwise smart young goetia to do something so foolish so often that he was not in complete control of his mental faculties at all during these exploits ?”

“I would say that’s more our friend Asmodeus’s department but from what I see no I think it be a discredit to the young bird’s Idiocy to think he was only thinking with his Lower brain~”

“Then there you have it, the blame falls to both and to both I say ~ Off with their heads “

He swirled his glass of wine and sat back on his throne as the guards forced the couple to stand and head for the chopping block, both of them struggling and trying to protest .

Satan himself got up his hand gripping the Large axe as he made his way to the main stand, lava hissing and boiling under the rocky floor reacting to the King of Wrath’s presence .

“W-Wait! Don’t do this! At least spare her please ! “ the Goetia tried to protest as he was forced onto the block eyes wide feathers fluffed up as death loomed above , from his point of view all he could see of the king was a shadow , with red eyes and horns curling back over his head , the Angel of judgement looking down impassively .

“My King—“ and then he was no more as the Obsidian blade cut clean through the neck blood staining the already red rock and the ground below . The Goetia’s body was tossed aside to the cries of the family and the scream of the Imp .

She struggled even as she was put to the block , staring defiantly at the ones that put her there . “, THIS IS TYRANNY WE WONT ALL BOW BEFORE THIS! THIS IS INJUSTICE!”

Lucifer stayed the blade with an outstretched hand , face impassive, a look he must have gotten from his family above — “ no my dear this is Hell “

The Blade fell once more .

[walkswithmyfather]

1 Corinthians 15:58 (ESV) "Therefore, my beloved brothers, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain."

1 Corinthians 15:50-58 (NIV). “I declare to you, brothers and sisters, that flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God, nor does the perishable inherit the imperishable. Listen, I tell you a mystery: We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed— in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed. For the perishable must clothe itself with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality. When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality, then the saying that is written will come true: “Death has been swallowed up in victory.” “Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?” The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. Therefore, my dear brothers and sisters, stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain."

Colossians 3:23-24 (AMPC). "Whatever may be your task, work at it heartily (from the soul), as [something done] for the Lord and not for men, Knowing [with all certainty] that it is from the Lord [and not from men] that you will receive the inheritance which is your [real] reward. [The One Whom] you are actually serving [is] the Lord Christ (the Messiah)."

Our labor in the Lord is never in vain. God sees everything that we do and we will be rewarded for it. When we work, we work for Jesus, not people. We can know 'with all certainty' that our inheritance, our real reward comes from Heaven. From God. Friend, life might be tough for you right now. Whatever situation you are in might seem hopeless, but Jesus is right there with you. He walks with you every day, in whatever you are doing. You are not alone. You can do all things through Christ, Who gives you strength (Phil 4:13). Amen!🙏🕊🙌

[daryldixonfanfiction]

a (Daryl Dixon) short story - pt.2

Masterlist

Paring: Daryl Dixon × fem!reader

Summary: on the run from a swarm of walkers they take shelter in un aboundant car.

Warnings: scary situetion, fluff, angst

*rewrritten

WC: 2.4k

Sharp branches scratched against their skin as they exited the forest. They now stood upon a road, littered with an abandoned car and a corpse that had fallen from the driver seat, dried leaves and branches covered the asphalt, making it look forgotten.

Daryl's firm grip loosened as he released her wrist, leaving a loss of warmth there. He moved swiftly around the car, scanning the tree line for the imposing herd closing in on them.

Then suddenly, a twig snapped in the distance, accompanied with distinctive sounds of the walking dead. She tried to revive the car, rotating the key, but it was to no vail. They flinched when suddenly the bushes behind them began to russell, their eyes met in knowing.

They could not escape such a big hurd and they could certainly not outrun them. So with no choice then taking shelter in the trunk of the car, Daryl beacons her towards him, “Comone,” he urges out of breath, swinging the trunk door open for her to enter. Daryl shut the trunk with haste and mutely motioned for her to stay silent, then secured it with his red bandana so it would stay closed.

The tight space forced their bodies to be close, so close their legs were touching, sitting opposite of one another. She could see the focus there, to make sure the dead wouldn’t break in with his crossbow aimed at the entrance where moonlight shines inside.

It had just gone by a few seconds sins they stumbled upon the road and then got into the back of the car, and just as they had settled in the small space the herd began crossing the road. Fear bloomed in her chest, but then a low, almost a warning realization hit her. Knowing she had been naive to blindly follow this stranger inside a car that she was now trapped in. She knew nothing about him but she could tell he was capable of things she wasn't - and things she didn't dare name. But at the same time she had been left with no other choice. Because if it wasn't for him, she would be dead.

The dead growls loudly, thumping against the car as they cross the road, making it shake and creek with every impact. Their terrifying sounds grow as more pass through and maybe the herd was in the hundreds or even more? She didn't know, but the thought was frightening. Thunder boomed, bright flashes of light flicker on the man's face through the small crack and she thought she saw blue.

His eyes were blue.

Hours went by as wave after wave of the dead passed. Lightning struck so close she feared it would hit the car or make her deaf when her ears ringed. But then eventually the storm calmed and so did the hurd.

Feet shuffled against the asphalt, and now and then one would stumble into the car making it creek at the impact. Morning light slips through, brightening up the space. They were silent, not making a sound, keeping them hidden from the dead roaming outside. The last stranglers of the herd dragged their decaying libs along the road to wherever their next meal would be. And it began to feel like the horror from the night never had happened, as if it all had been a simple nightmare, but when the next thud came she knew the nightmare wasn't over, and that she still felt so scared thinking of what would happen if the door didn't hold. It would be game over.

She turns her gaze from the little view the door crack offers of the outside - to the man before her. He meets her gaze, feeling her worry, reshoring her with a nod and motions with his hand facing her, ‘it's gonna be ok, we're ok’. She nods heavenly in return, and the thoughts of him being something to fear was gone in an instant - replaced with trust she hoped was not misplaced.

She keeps her gaze there, lingering with nothing else to occupy her time as he keeps on guarding the entrance. The man's face was pleasing to the eyes. His eyes were dark blue and hooded, making them look black when the light did not reach. His face held a stoic expression, worn with lines and bags under his eyes. As if he didn't sleep well and had certainly seen much more cruelty then she had. His chestnut hair was dark, falling over his eyes ever so slightly, ending at his neck, sticking to his skin as sweat had dampened it. The tip of his ear poked through and he had a straight button nose and a mole above the corner of his mouth. Facial stubble framed his jaw dashingly with a few strands of silver - indicating he must be in his late 30s, or perhaps early 40s?

Maybe she should be more on her guard around someone she didn't know, but something made her feel that she could trust him, that she was safe. And she had been so deprived of that, that she couldn't help it. And he had made no induction for her to fear him and never had she felt that he would harm her. Shad had been afraid but not in that sense. More so of her poor choice of not thinking and being naive. But nothing bad had happened to make her think otherwise. She reasoned that if he didn't try anything he was not one of them bad people out there. And he was protecting her. And she had not asked this of him, he chose to do so himself. And for whatever that reason was, she was alive, and that was all that mattered.

More hours passed and nature hummed, filling their silence they had been smothered in sins the last of the herd had passed true. There were no stragglers left and she was certain the herd was far away by now - making her wonder why they were still in this cramped up oven? Every breath felt suffocating and it was so disgustingly hot that their clothes were completely drenched like an extra layer of skin.

Sliding a hand over her temple, drained and exhausted, she removes the sweat before it can run down her face. God it was hot. Gazing upon the man once more she couldn't help but to take notice how his veins protrude under his skin, along his thick fingers down to his forearm as he held the weapon firmly, never looking away.

Shifting her weight a bit she then reaches forward and opens up the trunk door. Fresh air filled their lungs and the midday sun made them squint until their eyes adjusted to the outside and the world around them felt so empty as if they were the last people on earth.

And ho new? Maybe they were?

-

Daryl slung the black plastic bag over his shoulder, filled with what he had scavenged from the car, and his crossbow in his opposite. They stood before one another. Their eyes meet awkwardly, with the lack of confidence and uncertainty of the words to be spoken. Daryl was a man of few words, so he chose to say nothing even though there was a curiosity about the girl and why she was alone when he had found her.

He stared for a beat, then began walking down the road for her to follow.

She looked down to the pavement, relieved to not be left behind. While her eyes became glossy with relief, she thanked him in thought and followed.

–

The road feels like it keeps on forever. At some point the pavement beneath her sore feet had become dirt in the forest. She hadn't noticed, perhaps because she was too exhausted now? She was used to taking brakes but he didn't seem like he would stop anytime soon. Every step was a challenge and for hours on end they had been walking through the thick forest. Tall trees took the beating sun of their skin, but not the het that slowly drained them.

She began to feel dizzy and her legs heavy as she stared at his back. His biker jacket reminded her of an angel. And if she remembered right, wings were only worn by someone that had survived a bike crash. He was a survivor before and he still is now, and she wanted to know if it was true or if he had just found it because he liked it?

She really began to feel sick now, feeling how she started to pale. Her steps became heavier and her pace slower. The man's wide strides were exhausting to keep up with as her shorter legs struggled to follow.

Daryl felt her gaze behind him. As if to speak but no words left her lips. He knew she was tired, so was he as he had barely been eating since the prison fell. He could feel her pace slowing down. When the sound of her feet stopped, Daryl immediately stod to a halt, attentive and turned to face her.

“Hold up”, she begs, out of breath.

Daryl looks down at her smaller form. She was on the ground with palms flat against the forest flor, holding her weight with her head hanging.

He carefully approached the exhausted girl before him, feeling both perplexed and curious - how this young girl could have made it so far in a world such as this? He couldn't get his head around it. It would make sense if she belonged to a group at some point. He wanted to know. But he chose against it, like he often did. Maybe when they're safe enough and got some food he would ask?

Daryl watched how her shoulders moved in sync with panting breaths. And she looked to be the same age as Beth, but probably a bit older.

“We can’t stay here”, Daryl said, voice deep and rough, though meaning to say it more gently, he failed tremendously.

It was just not safe for either of them out here. The thought of getting caught up by another herd was still fresh on his mind.

His voice took her by surprise. It was the first time the man really spoken past one word sentence. Whatever she expected the man to sound like, she didn't expect it to sound so low and ruff. In a way it was captivating, and maybe she had been lonely for too long to the point a man's voice sounded like the best thing she had heard in days.

“I can't..." Her voice breaking as if on the verge of tears. Daryl could tell she was scared, afraid he would leave her and he knew she wouldn't survive on her own.

She waited for that moment, but It never came. Looking up expecting nothing then abandonment. But to her surprise, there he was. Standing before her as if leaving had never crossed his mind.

Daryl's mind was already made. He stretches out his hand, reassuring; he's not leaving her. Big bambi eyes look upon his hand then his eyes, hesitating for a moment before she takes her soft on into his calloused and her skin was so soft, so delicate.

Warmth radiated from his hand as it made hers look childlike. Only now did she really nothist how much bigger the man was compared to her. He had a wider frame with narrow hips making his shoulders look broad, he was about a head taller, his arms strong with lean muscle with veins traveling in his opposite hand holding the crossbow. Maybe she should feel some type of fear but she didn't. There was something there, kindness, no malicious intent behind his gaze. She was gonna be okay with him, he will keep her safe. And she could feel it as he carefully pulled her back on her feet, as if he was afraid she would collapse to the ground again.

How such a man could possess such a gentle touch was oddly fascinating. He looked like he had never been taught to know how to be soft- like he would rather use force than words.

“Thank you”, she said gratefully.

And he looked at her before nodding, “Comon '', he ordered but there was a gentleness added to his tone now and a noticeable difference in his pace for her to follow.

Being gentle like that has never come naturally. Growing up, he would be put down by his brother if he ever showed that side. Kindness was weakness, his old man often told him growing up. But there was something with this girl that made his old, ingrained ways shift within.

Daryl wanted to be gentle, to think before he acted. Because he was afraid he would somehow hold her small hand just a little too tightly, as if it would break like porcelain. In Daryl's eyes she looked like a frightened deer, a fawn pleading to be saved.

Why he felt that way, he couldn't fully comprehend. The gentleness he showed didn't seem so rong as his old man had told him. It didn't make him feel weak. The gesture felt right and the girl seemed pleased with this act of kindness.

He seemed kind even though he looked like someone to fear. It intrigued her, made her queries off all the layers beneath his rugged and intimidating exterior. And she wanted to hold onto that moment just a bit longer. The moment when their hands touched and their eyes met as space and time stood still - and she worried her eyes had been blushing. She sure hoped not, that he couldn't tell how flustered he made her.

They now walked closer. She was no longer walking behind him as she was now comfortable beeing at the man's side.

Glancing up at him, making sure she did not invade his space, she relaxed as he didn't seem bothered by her doing so. She dared getting even closer, with still some room left between them. Maybe the few words they spoke, just an hour ago, had something to do with it?

After some passing moments she finally got the courage to ask what had been on her mind, for some time now. As her curiosity grew, she couldn't help the question from rolling off her tongue.

A deep breath - then.

“So…Do you have a name”?

A good moment passed and she worried her question had upset him.

Then.

“Daryl”, he answered simply, and she wouldn't have heard it if she didn't walk beside him.

A satisfied smile played on her lips, dimples showing as evidence of her little accomplishment. Tilting her head at him as they walked side by side, she continued, picking up that his quietness came from shyness.

“I’m….y/n

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