#and that pastor’s son was abusing his child

[megarywrites]

This part i’m writing is making my skin crawl so much i can’t wait for him to die (it happens in the next chapter lol)

[jessicalprice]

So I've spent a lot of time untangling Christian exegesis of parables and talking about how the way Christians interpret parables almost always ends up being antisemitic.

But aside from how it makes them think about Jews and Judaism and Jewishness, I also want to talk a bit about how it makes them sympathize more with abusers than with victims.

The easy-to-point-to culprit here is the trilogy of parables that culminates in what most Christians know as the Prodigal Son story.

The common interpretation of these parables is that God does (and therefore Christians should) value a repentant sinner over someone who's never sinned.

The problem here isn't the stories themselves--they're pretty enigmatic as far as their actual meanings--but Luke's gloss:

"Just so, I tell you, there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who need no repentance."

(Mark says, "So it is not the will of your Father in heaven that one of these little ones should be lost," which is very different.

So on its face, in 2023, that's a blatantly dangerous, abuser-supporting belief. What is it like to be a child sexually abused by your youth pastor and to hear that the fact that he hurt you is part of what makes him somehow spiritually "better" than you?

And we can see it play out in the way Kevin M. Young, a popular progressive pastor on Twitter (who describes himself as "post-evangelical" and was the senior pastor at a Quaker congregation) responded to being told one of his tweets was antisemitic, and then jumped in to support a woman who responded by identifying herself as a fan of John Chrysostom (the literal author of "Against the Jews" and the most antisemitic of the Church Fathers, which is saying something).

I'm not going to transcribe the whole thing, because it's not all that important for what I have to say about this, but I am going to call out a few lines:

"The American Christian approach to t'shuvah sees the victim's spirit, character, and speech as equally important to the offenders. I.e. in Christendom, the victim can exceed the sin of the offender simply by their reaction (if it be in sin or acted in a way that is not Spirit led)."

So, to be clear, if someone assaults you, and you don't meekly forgive them in a "Spirit led" way, you're somehow worse than they are.

The uniquely Christian brain rot here is in seeing every sin as an opportunity for forgiveness. After all, if being a repentant sinner gives you a higher spiritual status--if there's more "rejoicing in Heaven" over you--than that of your victim, then you have to sin to get there. It treats other people as props in your salvation journey, not as fellow humans whose suffering matters. (Combine that with the Christian idea that suffering is somehow virtuous in and of itself, and you've got a very toxic recipe. Not only, by abusing others, are you guaranteeing your own value as a repentant sinner, but you're giving your victim the opportunity to ennoble themselves through suffering.)

Of course, a key word here is repentant. Put a pin in that.

These sort of exchanges on Twitter--a Christian being outright genocidal toward Jews, and a supposedly progressive Christian figure jumping in to defend the Christian, with seemingly no ability to comprehend that the Jews in the conversation are human beings who may have their own trauma around violently antisemitic language, with boundless empathy for the Christian abuser and none for the Jewish targets of their abuse--happen frequently and just as frequently leave Jwitter baffled in addition to angry.

Why all this empathy for the abuser and none for the victims?

I think a lot of this comes out of progressive Christian exegesis of parables, which is frequently looking for the radical "twist" to the story.

E.g. in the story of the Pharisee and the Tax Collector, the assumption is that the audience of the time would have empathized with the Pharisee, and thus the twist is to make them empathize with the tax collector. In the story of the Good Samaritan, the assumption is that they would have seen the Samaritan as a threat, and the twist is to make him the hero.

The thinking goes that the audience would have had empathy for certain groups and none for others, so the stories push them to feel that empathy for the latter, and that this was needed to balance the scales, to make sure everyone was receiving love and empathy and care.

Except that this, in modernity, has the effect of simply reversing the roles, not balancing them. The groups that are assumed to be in good social standing get no empathy, even become the implicit villains, and the groups (supposedly, since this is now a Christian-dominant society) traditionally looked down on get all of it.

That might still be a balancing act if the "looked down on" groups were actually marginalized. But in the Christian imagination, that role is filled by sinners in need of Christian grace, not necessarily demographically marginalized groups.

The idea seems to be that the victims are getting sympathy from elsewhere, so it's the Christian's job to make sure the abuser/sinner gets sympathy too.

But I'll point again to that pesky word "repentant."

Ultimately, when it comes to treatment of Jews and Muslims and anyone else who points out that a Christian has in some way harmed them, Christian sympathy goes immediately to the offender before the offender has even expressed any repentance.

The repentant sinner is so much more valuable, at this point, than their victims that they must be preemptively forgiven, that they are more valuable purely because they now have the potential to repent.

And this seems to be lurking under not just how "progressive" pastors act on Twitter, but in a lot of our cultural narratives around, say, college rapists and their futures, around white people who are publicly called out for racist acts, etc.

[probablyasocialecologist]

We are living in a moment of serious gender revanchism in the United States. Feminists who self-define as “gender critical” and are otherwise openly transphobic will object to the comparison, but it is striking how much the movement to criminalize gender-affirming care for young people shares with the movement to criminalize abortion. Both find their fiercest champions in white, religious, conservative men who dismiss the evidence put forward by medical professionals that the treatment in question saves lives. Both claim to speak on behalf of silenced “children,” be they conveniently unborn or too young to be taken at their word. Both struggled to find widespread support until a father took his crusade on the road: abortion was not “an Evangelical issue” before Dr. Francis Schaeffer, a charismatic pastor, promoted his son Frank’s 1979 anti-abortion film Whatever Happened to the Human Race?; and anti-trans legislation was initially “hard to sell,” according to the Texas Tribune, until a North Texas dad named Jeff Younger built a sympathetic following online by accusing his ex-wife, a pediatrician, of wanting to “chemically castrate” their trans daughter. Texas Governor Greg Abbott’s order that citizens report parents of transgender kids to the authorities so that they can be investigated for child abuse echoes the section in SB 8 that rewards vigilante citizens for reporting abortion providers to authorities. Both movements have become central to the Republican Party’s strategy to raise funds and win elections. Not least, both movements have forced pregnant and trans people to prove, in preordained terms, their absolute certainty that they need the treatment they say they do. As the opposition puts up resistance in the form of misinformation, mandatory waiting periods, sonograms, and extensive psychological testing, patients lose precious time as hormonal processes they hope to forestall come closer and closer to transforming their bodies.

The experience of gender dysphoria is not identical to the experience of forced pregnancy, but it should not have to be for us to defend one another’s right to bodily autonomy as if it were our own. To respond to the heartbreak of losing Roe by further scapegoating trans people, as some cisgender feminists have done, is not only an unnecessary cruelty but a logical and political error that none of us can afford to make. There is no evidence to support the claim that inclusive language in reproductive health spaces “erases” or “harms” cis women, as Pamela Paul recently argued in the New York Times. (If anything, terms like pregnant people are more precise, as not all women are capable of pregnancy and not all pregnant people — e.g., cisgender girls under 18 — are women.) To say so anyway, with no basis in fact, is to do the far right’s work for them.

Dayna Tortorici, Your Body, My Choice The movement to criminalize abortion

[puddleofpins]

Why Catnap/Theodore worships the Prototype

This theory contains spoilers for Poppy Playtime Chapter 3. Buckle up, this post is not short. tw for mentions of abuse, many mentions of Christianity/Catholicism and its teachings, enforced religious (specifically Christianity) doctrine, mentions of fictional torture/punishment and inhumane experiments

I’ve seen a few people noticing Catnap/Theodore Grambell was…religious in his devotion to the Prototype, and asking why he’s like this. There’s some hints and pieces to put together that puzzle

1. Catnap uses many words/phrases associated with Christianity (and pretty much all of its branched off religions) to refer to the Prototype and what he means to him. Such as:

• “Salvation”- which means liberation/given freedom from suffering, sin, and evil (referring to the experiments being done on the children by the scientists) This word is used 114 times in the Old Testament of the Bible

• “Rejoice in Him” - Luke 1:47: “and my spirit rejoices in God my savior”

• “my somniferous flock” - referring to Jesus, the son of God, being a shepherd of sheep and also his disciples (yes this does imply Catnap sees himself as a higher being, but only after he is turned into Catnap)

2. Having a shrine to the Prototype, and holding his hands up in prayer/worship to him, like a priest or pastor (or now that I look at it, like Jesus is depicted in many statues)

3. Punishing “heretics” like Dogday, who don’t believe in Catnap’s belief that the Prototype is their savior (this honestly even resembles crucifixion {a punishment used against criminals in the time of the origins of Christianity} with Dogday being held up in a ✝️-like position)

But again, why does he do this? Theodore Grambell seems like a normal child up until then.

We gotta look at the location of Playtime Co.

Now, we haven’t yet been given an exact location, but in a poster in one of the prior chapters it says the Midwest, referring to the Midwestern region in America

doing a few google searches, I found this

Catholic churches, and (I’m assuming the orphanages they hosted) run on donations, and that’s why they are not taxed by the states that they’re in. Oftentimes these orphanages had extremely poor conditions because of low funding and in turn high rates of abuse and even death of the children.

Playtime Co. could’ve bought out countless Catholic orphanages with “donations” to the churches they’re connected to. This would’ve been extremely easy with the lack of regulations and the power of money

There aren’t anymore traditional orphanages in the states today, but 300 is not a number to scoff at. And I’m aware that orphanages in the USA were all closed by 1960, but Poppy was created in 1950. I believe that MOB Entertainment got wonky with the timeline for storytelling purposes because creating Living Sentient Toys in 1950 does not align with real life technological advancements.

What I’m getting at is: I believe Theodore Grambell and other orphans were bought from Catholic orphanages (not all of them of course, just a good chunk of the orphans). Either that, or Theodore was an orphan attending a Catholic school, who was then bought out by Playtime Co.

Think about it, at first, the Playcare must’ve been like heaven to little Theo, especially in comparison to the possible abuse he experienced due to being raised in a Catholic orphanage. Everything is colorful. The adults are so nice and caring, unlike those mean and strict nuns. There’s even toys who can talk and interact with them! All of their needs are provided for, and there’s even dedicated areas to play and have fun!

but then Theo probably starts to see the cracks in this oasis, this heaven:

• Playcare is literally underground and the children are not allowed to go outside

• Anytime one of the children experiences something horrific or abnormal because of a feature of Playcare/Playtime Co. (like Marie Payne who become Mommy Longlegs, or the mentioned “Kevin” in the third tape found in Ch.3) they’re never seen again

• The orphans being said “selected” by the doctors, instead of saying that they were adopted, in I believe the 4th tape

And definitely a lot of other signs I haven’t mentioned, because there must’ve been much more than just what’s been listed.

So Theo starts to get a little wary of what’s around him, a little less trusting of the adults who have been taking care of him and his fellow orphans. This place becomes a little less like heaven and a little more false.

but then he meets a friend!!!!

{insert the picture Theo drew of the Prototype under his bed, because I’m on mobile and have already hit the limit of 10 pictures per mobile post}

A friend that only interacts with him. A friend that is only seen by him, only heard by him, that disappears whenever anyone else comes around. A friend that people don’t believe is real. A friend that sees and hears everything. A friend that gives him little missions because that friend has deemed him worthy of them.

Do you know who that friend sounds like?

God. Or one of the angels sent by God.

THEN on one of these missions, Theodore accidentally gets hurt. He’s electrocuted and close to dying, but his friend who was watching over him saves him from death.

And even after Theo almost dies, he stills tries his hardest to complete these missions give to him by his friend. Because why wouldn’t he? This friend is so special. This friend saved his life because Theo almost died trying to complete the mission he gave him. This friend who is so knowing to the point of being “divine”. This friend who is so similar to the “God” that the nuns he spent his early days with talked about nonstop, he has to be Him.

This leads to Theo being found out and taken as a test subject himself, and subsequently being turned into Catnap; which meant going through horrific and painful experiments. Theo may interpret this as “punishment from following the words and teachings of his God” (definitely an equivalent of Jesus being tortured before his death on the cross), so he might consider himself a bit of a martyr.

Now Theo is no longer a little human boy. Theo is Catnap, and Catnap is much more powerful than humans. He became Catnap because he followed what his Lord told him to do. He was reborn as Catnap because he was such a devoted follower, and now he can complete his Lord’s work even better than he could as a human (literally paralleling Jesus being resurrected).

If we want to get even deeper into this theory and the Christianity parallels, look at Theo’s age and when Catnap was created. It says on the wiki that he was born in the 1980s, and he’s 7 at the time he’s introduced to Playtime Co, which means the year is now 1987. Catnap is made in 1990. That’s 3 years. Jesus after he was beaten, tortured, crucified, and killed, was sealed in a cave. It took 3 days for Jesus to resurrect.

So yeah, Theo was a kid from a Catholic orphanage that was bought out by Playtime Co., who was indoctrinated into Catholicism because he was taught it at such a young age. He’s freed from a hell of an orphanage, to be brought to a false heaven, which leads him to meet his God. That’s why Catnap acts the way he does.

[atsadi-shenanigans]

Feeding Alligators 50 - The Smallest Ember

TW: abuse, reference child abuse, potential eating disorders, referenced corporal punishment, suicidal ideation, and threats of sexual assault

You return to the farmstead.

It’s…the chapel. You wouldn’t know until much later that chapels outside the farmstead have benches. That their congregations sit for their sermons.

The Pastor of the farmstead, however, says laziness comes from the devil. Your congregation stands. All the better to witness confessions.

The floor is bare concrete. The walls are timber boards. The roof arches up, overhead. The whole space is open and clear in the back, where y’all stood, with a raised dais at the front. Upon that dais sits two chairs.

One is a massive throne, painted gold with red, velvet cushions. Only the lord in heaven can sit in it—it’s big enough to hold two people with their feet dangling. Beside it sits a smaller, slightly less opulent chair. And everyone was very specific to call it a chair and not a throne, because The Pastor was not some delusional man with dreams of grandeur, but the voice and the right hand of the heavenly father. His chair just happened to be decorated like a throne, because he was still important to the lord.

Both were illuminated in a single, golden band of sunlight streaming in from a strategically-placed skylight. The pastor would seat himself in his “humble” chair to deliver his latest sermons, Mother and his eldest son standing to his right.

He took confessions from that chair.

You walk towards it. The space is smaller than you remember. Old. Sort of musty. The boards don’t fit together very well, and sunlight leaks through the cracks. It got terrible cold in the winter. The chair is smaller than you remember, too. And the paint don’t glimmer. It’s faded in places. Cracked and chipped. It looks…cheap.

When you turn, Sarah stands in the confession circle. Your knees hurt just looking at that part of the floor. There’s nothing to mark it. Seems it should be stained. Greasy brown from sweat, crusted white with salt. Worn dents from all the knees and foreheads pressed into it.

But it’s just a plain patch of concrete, same as the rest.

You spent hours on that spot. Knees aching from the cold. Face pressed down, voice shaking and cracking as you said whatever they wanted. Whatever an Aunt hissed at you. Pride and stupidity, insolence, laziness. Lust. Always lust. They saw it every time you looked at someone, every time your lips moved, your fingers twitched, every time you breathed. Never mind you’d never so much as kissed anybody, that you don’t understand when the others saw in Caleb Jennings (he was tall? And skinny).

You are a lust-filled harlot. They can tell just by looking at you (and later, much later, you would read about “savages” and the “loose morals” of the native women, and some of that would shed light on what exactly all them people was seeing in your tanned face and dark hair).

So that’s what you said. Over and over, day after day crouched on that floor, crunching the inside of your cheeks in a desperate attempt to keep in your tears. Groveling for forgiveness for your whoreish thoughts, the way you lusted over this or that boy (but never the girls). How craven you were, the filthy things you (never actually) imagined. Lies and stories spilled from your lips, crouched right there on the floor, at the feet of The Pastor and Mother while they watched on in judgment.

Until you believed it. Because there had to be something wrong with you. There had to be a reason for this. They had to see something your stupid eyes couldn’t perceive. You were wrong. You were dirty. And only they could cleanse you.

Your stomach flops all queasy. You look to Sarah.

“I’m here now. Is that all?” you say.

But she shakes her head and points again. You instinctively resist the urge to roll your eyes (it was ten lashes with the switch). Remember you are thirty-fucking-five, your name is Eleanor Ripley, and you can roll your eyes as you damn well please.

It feels like sacrilege, all heady and delicious.

It feels great.

Until you follow Sarah’s gaze, and where them thrones sat, the cellar doors await.

Your entire body snaps rigid.

“No. No, Sarah—”

But she’s gone. You stand alone in that fucking barn. Alone. The empty space, the creaky boards. And those fucking doors.

From the outside, they’re shabby, fragile looking things. Classic root cellar—two doors opening up from the ground. But normal root cellars don’t have a chain wrapped around the handles with a padlock hanging unlocked, you suspect. It came with the house, these doors. Back from when claim jumpers raced in to snatch up Native land. The farmstead even used it as a root cellar, most of the time.

The handles are worn smooth. You ain’t never touched them. Always one of the Aunts, or even Mother, when you were especially egregious. Your hands rattle as your fingers brush the cool metal. Bile rushes up the back of your throat and you have to take a step back and swallow.

The chapel still sits empty. Outside, the air is hot and heavy and stone still, like it’s waiting. You know you have to. Down in your bones, the knowledge thrums. Only way out is through. Is opening them doors. Is stepping down them stairs.

You use every trick you know to keep the vomit down. It barely holds. And before you can think anymore, you grab the handle (no chain and padlock now) and wrench it open.

The stairs are bleached out. They creak as you coltishly stagger down, gripping the door frame above to keep yourself from tumbling (unlike last time).

The smell hits you first. Dirt, wood, stale air. The faintest tinge of mold. A sourness to it.

You double over, clap a hand over your mouth. No. No, no, no, no. If you puke you’ll be switched so bad you can’t sit. You’ll be stripped down to your underwear for next confession, so the congregation might witness your shame. No. No, you can’t.

Deep breath. Controlled, deep breath.

You open your eyes. There’s the shelves you spent so much time looking at. The one on the left has a whorl and a knob in it that looks like man with a pointy beard. They line the walls, two rows filling the space between, loaded with big cans of evaporated milk and powdered eggs. Sacks of flour and sugar. Canned vegetables stacked ten rows deep, on the outer shelves. The jarred fruit and jams. Some of it was farmstead produce. The gift of the lord through y’all’s hands.

A lot of it was store bought—though less and less often as the years went on and The Pastor preached self-reliance, rejecting the toxic chemicals of the secular world which damned the body, and wasn’t the body the holy temple of the lord? To pollute it was a sin.

It looks innocuous. Some old-timey painting of Wholesome Farmer’s Pantry. Until one noticed the bucket in the corner. The glint of a long chain bolted into the wall. The handcuffs they’d bring from the main house, by the shepherd ushering your way to repentance, to click into one of the links, its proximity to the wall depending on how bad the sin was.

You stand at the foot of the stairs, legs rooted to the dirt.

The chain only appeared after the first few years. In the beginning, they’d shut the sinful down here in the dark, to reflect and repent. And starve. Age didn’t matter. Sin was sin, and all were equal in the eyes of the lord. You were five the first time. You broken a towel rack in the bunkhouse on accident.

The thing about the root cellar was that it was full of food. And to a five-year-old, eight hours is a very long time in the dark and hungry. You took two fingers of raspberry jam. No one would notice. You even hid the jar behind the others after you’d jimmied it open.

But five-year-olds are stupid. Your fingers were sticky when Mother came to fetch you.

Your body was a holy temple. You’d defiled it with stolen goods. It dirtied your temple, and a dirty temple must be cleaned.

She’d made you drink the lemon-scented dish soap. Not a lot. Couldn’t bring down the attention of the secular, satanic authorities should the poison control center become involved. But it was enough. Your system purged itself quite thoroughly. Quite violently.

Then she’d made you wash the sin from your clothes yourself. By hand.

Everyone knew, of course. That might have been the start of it; you’re not sure. Your childhood memories are hazy in the few patches you can remember. You were branded a thief. Greedy. Dirty. Sinful.

And here you stand now. What a fun trip down memory lane. Time to go.

Wood thumps. You spin as the light winks out. Bolt up the steps. Misjudge the distance in the dark and slam head first into the doors. They give, but only so far as the chain allows.

“No, no! Let me out! I didn’t do anything, let me out!”

You bang and shove and rattle. Get your feet under you and shove up with your entire body. The chain above rattles and wood squeals, but it doesn’t give. It just falls back on you, hard enough to send you stumbling down, lose your footing, crash into a shelf.

Jars fall around you. One of them crashes and you know even in the dark it’s shattered. Slimy pears spill over your hair, down your front, pooling in your skirt.

“No, please! I didn’t mean it! Please!”

But nothing moves up there. The chain will hold. The chain always holds. And trying it only earns you lashes, and more time down here surrounded by food you cannot touch.

The lord will not forgive you this time. Because The Pastor will not forgive you. Prideful thing. Too busy lusting after good, honest men.

“But I’m not!”

They’re trying to protect you. Give your sinful lust a holy purpose.

“I don’t want to!”

They all see how you watch the men. Twenty years old and your womanly weakness cannot be contained anymore.

“I want to be good! I’ll be good! I can stay pure, please!”

The lord has finally blessed you through his shepherd. The Pastor has found a faithful man to take you into holy matrimony. To (you’re gonna vomit) fill your womb (throat clenches and the corners of your jaw prickle) with the blessings of the lord. Your duty is to him and through him the lord and you will obey the head of your house as you would the lord for if his eye strays it is because you invited the devil and failed the commandment given unto you to be fruitful and loving and kind and ever welcoming—

You scream. You scream now as you couldn’t then. When The Pastor summoned you to the main house to deliver unto you the Good Word and Mother beamed. You were to be a wife, finally. A mother, finally.

They see how you watch the men.

“I d-didn’t.”

They see how you lust.

“I n-never.”

The lord knows your secret thoughts.

“Please. I want to be clean. I want to serve you.”

The Pastor is the instrument of the lord and you are to be his trusting child.

“I don’t…I don’t want…please.”

You could never overcome your own, weak nature. So you had to be placed into the root cellar to cleanse yourself. To prostrate yourself before the lord and his will and see the wisdom of The Pastor, see his Holy Truth.

Mother had been rough pushing you down the stairs. You fell against this shelf, right here. Knocked off a row of jars (you don’t even know how many lashes, it’ll be a lot, waste is not tolerated). The glass shattered, had sliced a thin line into your forearm as it broke.

You sit down there, cradling the scratch as the terror closes your throat and buries your thoughts. A husband. Your duties. Your purpose as a servant of the lord. Finally, to be wed to a man forgiving enough to accept one as flawed as you. A holy match, determined by the holy lord.

You can’t refuse. No more than you can deny the word of the lord himself. You’ll come to your senses. Here in the peace and quiet, your female hysteria will run out of fuel to burn and you will know the proper order of things and submit yourself to the authority entrusted to guide you. And they’ll be proud of you. Married. Swollen. Run ragged by children to raise for the lord’s army.

Your duty. Your sole purpose on this earth.

That glass is awful sharp.

There’s no way out, no matter what that heathen girl in town (her ears pierced like some jezebel whore) says. She’s trying to temp you (“You ain’t never seen the ocean?”). Trying to lead you astray. (“There’s all kinds of people on the other side. You know in France they serve hot chocolate and it’s literally melted chocolate? Wait…what do you mean ‘what is chocolate’?”)

She gave you a slip of paper with her number, she said. If you ever needed anything (you ain’t got no intention of reaching out to an agent of the devil). You’d taken it, because she was talking to you all friendly, like she wasn’t trying to damn you, and the joke was on her, because the farmstead don’t got phones.

You’ve disappointed Mother. You disappointed The Pastor, who only wanted to keep you safe, even from yourself. They found you something good in your life, and you threw it back in their faces. This ends one way. You’ll accept. Whether they keep you down here for days, until your legs cramp, until the hunger wraps around your spine and turns you inside out. They ain’t letting you out until you beg for forgiveness and accept The Pastor’s judgment.

But…that’s not the only way out, is it?

Mother was so disgusted she didn’t even walk you back to the chain. It’ll be some time before somebody comes to bring you water. Once that happens, they’ll bring the cuffs.

That jar smashed. One of them pieces is about the size of your palm. Long enough. Sharp enough. It could…could cut deep. You hear sermons, and some of the husbands work out in town, so when a secular girl killed herself, the news spread like a brushfire through the bunkhouse. You seen them bleed the calves come butchering season, and you’re sure this glass could cut deep enough. Could open your arm and let all the sin flow out of you. Let it seep into the dirt of the cellar floor. Let it take all this with it.

You’ll be damned. But lately, you’ve started to think you’ll never be the lord’s favorite. Won’t even be the lord’s liked, no matter what you do, no matter how hard you pray or how hard you work, you are broken. Wrong. Dirty and stupid, greedy and lustful, the product of shame and sin and it flows in your veins, corrupting every part of you—

No. No, the lord probably doesn’t even know who you are, does he? Or he don’t care. He’d never smiled on you. Never reached his hand to shield you or protect you.

No.

You won’t be missed. And this, this you can choose. You can rest. No hurting. No cold guilt. No freezing, aching shame.

You test the sharp edge. It pierces the tip of your finger. You’d barely feel it, even if you do make a mess of it, and you would deserve that. It’ll be hours before anybody finds you. Long enough. They’ll all know they were right about you. A disgusting little bitch to the end.

But.

There’s something inside you. Not a voice. Not a song or a feeling or any of those pretty words you will soon read about. It has no emotion to it. No warmth. It just is. A tiny, little ember. Not even a flame. Just a glowing speck down deep in the heart of you.

Sleep, it says. And you’re tired. Sleep now. Maybe all these thoughts later, but sleep now.

Your body drags. Your eyelids flutter. You shuffle around and curl up on your side, try to tuck your bare toes within the folds of your skirt to keep them warm. And you sink down.

Wake to light. Warm sunlight. For a moment, you only lie there. It comes back as slow and steady and dreadful as gray rain. The glass. Your way out.

But that tiny ember is still there. Still glows. Soft and steady. So fragile, yet it doesn’t sputter. Footsteps stomp outside and voices mutter, yet it remains. It just…refuses to go out.

A high voice, pitched sharp in irritation. Mother. Come to water you. To chain you. To wait out your stubbornness the way a cruel man breaks down a dog.

That’s what you are, isn’t it? That’s what you always been—

You clap a hand over that thought. Not safe. Blasphemy. The lord can hear your every thought and if The Pastor learns of it…

A shadow falls over the hatch. A booted foot on the first step.

The phone number. That heathen jezebel.

Sarah Greenwood lives with her husband and kids in one of the trailers closer to the edge of the property. She’s The Pastor’s eldest daughter, the shining beacon of gentle womanliness to the rest of you. Her husband has a town job, so he has a phone…

As eldest daughter, it’s Sarah’s job to prepare her younger sisters for being married. Helps sew the dress, teach the rules, instruct their duties. Mother is too busy being the helpmeet of The Pastor. Sarah will surely be the one to prepare you. And Sarah’s house has a phone.

Another boot. The hem of Mother’s skirt.

That shining, shimmering line. What you want and how to get there. You…you have to leave. God save you, but you can’t, you can’t stay here. But that brilliant, glimmering line can show you how to get out. All the steps leading to that phone. What comes beyond it, you can’t imagine. Your mind shies from it. But you can feel it in the thump of your own pulse. This is what you need to do. They’ll be furious. Sweet Sarah, who only ever helped you, the only one to help you, and you are going to hurt her. Betray her. Get her into trouble because everyone will be furious.

But this is your way out.

You scrape at the dirt with your bare hands. Look at the piece of glass in the dim light spilling down from above. The razor edge glitters. You lower it into the shallow hole. Scoop and pat the dirt over it and it’s a promise, somehow. One that faded as you threw yourself into the back of Sasha’s (that heathen jezebel, and she absolutely cackled when you told her that) truck not-so-distant-from-now.

A promise that became blurry as she reached out to friends and coworkers, because it turned out she was part of a network for this, and they could help you get things like a birth certificate, a social security number, enroll you into school. You cried when you got your GED certificate in the mail. You spent precious grocery money to get a frame.

And your promise lifted like morning mist as you built yourself an entire life upon this tiny grave in the bottom of a root cellar.

But you did make a promise, those years ago. One you remake now.

Mother descends to find you sitting primly, hands folded in your lap, head bowed respectfully, stinking of canned pears.

For the first time in years, she smiles at you. Even offers her hand to help you up and guide you to the stairs to emerge, and take your first steps towards the life you will claim.

Just as here, now, you emerge alone, into brilliant sunlight.

Previous - Index - Next Chapter

[nerdyqueerandjewish]

Tw sexual abuse, child abuse

The pastor of the church my family went to growing up is weird and homophobic and transphobic and writes letters to the local newspaper about how we gotta ~protect the children~. He started this in the mid to late 00s.

His son in law recently got busted for distributing child pornography and he wrote to the local paper recently about how “actually the best marriages are the ones where people show the most forgiveness to each other uwu”

You cannot make this stuff up. If this was in a piece of media people would complain it was too heavy handed.

[hopefulatrocity]

From The Ashes Chapter 8

Note: I finally finished Chapter 9, I rewrote the ending like 5 times. I no longer have a beta reader so I'm sorry for any mistakes! This includes a small Rick's POV, I probably won't do that much. I have no doubts Rick would be an ally. Shane not so much. Sorry for the Shane lovers out there. Also, I realize that Daryl will be OOC in this story. I'm trying to keep him as close to character as possible. But have you ever met anyone that, despite whatever walls you've built or whatever anxieties you have, you just felt right with them? Like you know you're supposed to have them in your life but you don't know why? That's the kind of relationship I'm trying to portray with them. Daryl is scared of being something he's denied for so long, but he also feels peace with Pheonyx. They have barely spoken but they both just feel a connection that they can't deny.

Dividers by: @firefly-graphics and @omiyours

Banner by: @liminal-creations​ 

Chapter CW/TW: past child abuse mentions, scars, religious trauma mentions, depression/anxiety, gender dysphoria, transphobia, internal homophobia

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Masterlist

Pheonyx's POV

As everyone began to head back towards the house after Otis’s memorial service, Rick pulled the scruffy attractive man, who he was assuming was the tracker of their group, aside and waved a hand to Pheonyx, beckoning him over to the pair. The dog followed hot on his master’s heels. 

One hand on the bow strong across his chest and the other on the handle of his knife, Pheonyx approached the two men. His disquietude over being around Rick had diminished over the past 24 hours. Pheonyx had always been good at reading people, and he could tell the sheriff was a good man. Maybe a little naïve to the way the world was now but overall he seemed to have a heart of gold. He loved his family, his son especially, and he cared about his people. In all honesty, Pheonyx was slightly jealous of Carl. He would have given anything to have a father that loved him as much as Rick loved his boy. He had Hershel obviously, but there had always been a barrier between the two. In the beginning, Pheonyx didn’t trust the man. How could he? His own father had been abusive. Torn him down and scarred him for life. How could he trust a complete stranger to not do the same thing? His mother insisted that Hershel was different. But he hadn’t believed her at first. Over time he realized she was right. But he still couldn’t find it in himself to let the older man in. And as Pheonyx’s feelings of gender dysphoria–although he didn’t have a word for it at the time–grew, the divide between him and his parents also grew. He didn’t fault them for not understanding what he was going through. He hadn’t even known until he was in his late teens and had access to the internet finally. He did fault them for their refusal to see his pain. Their continued insistence that the depression and wrongness he was feeling was just a phase. Or that he was broken for feeling that way. Forcing him to have bi-weekly therapy sessions with the creepy pastor from their church, where he was forced to dress in “respectable” women’s clothes and recite verses from the bible about being a submissive woman. His mother throwing out all his jeans and replacing them with flowing skirts. Forcing makeup on his face and pushing him to go on dates with boys from the church. It wasn’t until he was in the hospital, his spirit broken, that they finally started to call him Pheonyx. But the fact that he had to almost die in order for them to even try erected a wall in his heart that they could never break down. Hershel had been a father figure to him but not in the way Rick was to Carl. Seeing the man sitting with his son, holding his hand, and whispering stories to the young boy, Pheonyx had felt the rolling of his stomach as he thought of his own father. He felt the round burns on his shoulder tingle and the long scars, that crisscrossed his back, felt like they reopened. It was all psychological. He knew that. But that didn’t stop him from rolling his shoulders to ease the ache. He would have given anything to have a father like Rick growing up. But he also knew that all the pain he endured as a child gave him the fortitude to survive the world as it was now.  It allowed him to protect his family and a small part of him was grateful for that. 

Rick gave him a small smile, which Pheonyx returned. His gaze moved to the man next to him, blue eyes meeting his. As he got closer and stopped in front of the two, he waited for the inevitable feeling of panic and anxiety to flare at the increasing proximity of the strange man. But it never came. The normal tingling of fear that rushed his veins was absent. All he felt was a fluttering in his stomach and his mouth going dry. 

“Pheonyx, this is Daryl Dixon. He’s the tracker I mentioned yesterday. He’s been headin’ up the search for Sophia. Daryl, this is Hershel’s stepson. Both Maggie and Hershel say he is an expert on the property and woods surrounding it. He’s offered his services-” Rick was interrupted by Kismet barking once, begging to be included in the conversation. “And his dog, to help find Sophia. I’d appreciate it if you two would work together to head up the search for her.” 

The man, Daryl, had his arms crossed against his chest and Pheonyx noted the tensing of his muscles at the mention of working with him. His blue eyes were like fire on Pheonyx’s skin and it was almost like the man was seeing all of his secrets written across his already-inked skin. He felt a different kind of fear fill his stomach. Did he know? If he did, would he be okay with Pheonyx? With who he was? What he was? Pheonyx tried not to judge people by their appearances or label them, but it was instinct sometimes. The only word he could think of to call the man in front of him was “redneck”. And unfortunately, his encounters with men of that label never ended well. So why wasn’t he panicking? Internally, his mind was rolling with worry about being outed, but the urge to run, or to fight, didn’t fill him at the sight of this man. That had to mean something, didn’t it? But why did Daryl tense? Was he uncomfortable about being around new people like Pheonyx was? Maybe that was it. 

“Work better alone.”, the older man grunted and Pheonyx’s knees went weak at the sound. It was deep and raspy. The edges of it practically rubbed against his spine and it sent shivers through his body. Pheonyx had opted not to take testosterone when he started transitioning. The major reasoning being that, outside of his breasts, he was comfortable with his body. Genetically, he was lucky. Overall, Pheonyx wasn’t too curvy, his body was lean and with the right clothes, he could pass fairly well. He also didn’t have an issue with growing body hair. The hair on his legs and arms was fairly dark and thick, so testosterone wouldn’t have been much help in that department.  But the low register of Daryl’s voice was one he would kill to have and made him wonder how his own voice would have sounded if he chose to go on T.  Would it sound as raspy as Daryl’s? Would it make the other man feel how he was feeling now? Like the rumbling of his voice was vibrating throughout his body, from his ears to between his legs? Shit, he really had to stop his mind from heading towards the bedroom around this man. The likelihood of Daryl being attracted to him was nearly zero. He was most likely straight and he’d probably be freaked out by another man lusting after him. He had to get his mind back to the matter at hand. The little girl that was lost. 

“So do I. But I spent last night creating a plan for the search. We can split up tomorrow but I need your help at least for today. I’ve been working with Kismet,” Pheonyx inclined his head to the side where the dog sat, “On scent tracking for the last month. I need you to take me to exactly where she and Rick split up. He can follow her trail from there. It hasn’t rained so he shouldn’t have too much trouble.” Noticing Daryl’s blue eyes flicker to Rick, Pheonyx continued, “Rick needs to stay here for Carl and Lori. And Shane fucked up his ankle at the high school. Or else one of them would take me”. Which wasn’t true. Pheonyx refused to go anywhere with Shane. But Daryl didn’t need to know that.  Pheonyx squared his shoulders and crossed his arms across his chest, trying to appear stern and unmoving. 

Daryl raised an eyebrow at the younger man, his eyes moving down to look at the dog next to him. “ That mutt is a scent tracker? He don’t look like he’s got much goin’ on behind those eyes.”

Confused, Pheonyx’s eyebrows pushed together. He glanced down to Kismet and sighed at the sight. The dog was on his back, rolling around, with his back foot in his mouth, chewing on it like it was a chicken drumstick. He heard a small chuckle from Rick and snort from Daryl. Using his boot to gently nudge the dog back to attention, Pheonyx muttered to the pup, “You’re lucky you're cute.”

He held his ground against Daryl though. “Okay, Kismet may not be the brightest crayon in the box, I’ll admit. But when he’s got a job he works hard. Unfortunately, you guys don’t have the luxury of shopping for a certified dog. I stand by him though. We’ve only tracked wildlife so far, but I would bet my life on this ‘mutt’”

Daryl looked him over, seeing the conviction in Pheonyx’s words, he nodded. 

“I want us all to gather up to talk about the plan. You okay with that?” Rick asked while looking at Pheonyx. After receiving an affirmation, Rick continued, “You’ll need something with Sophia’s scent on it, so I’ll ask Carol for something of hers. I’m assuming you have a map we can use?” 

Pheonyx nodded and noted the way Daryl’s hand lifted from across his chest to brush against the pocket on his shirt. “I got one in the stable, I’ll grab it and we can meet up by the cars.” 

Pheonyx, carrying his rolled up county survey map, approached the old station wagon that everyone was crowded around. Aside from Rick and Daryl, Andrea, Shane, Hershel, and Maggie were surrounding the hood of the beaten up car. 

He held up the map and then unrolled the thin paper across the hood. “County survey map. Shows terrain and elevations. And other stuff. As you can see.” His sister placed a rock on one side of the map to hold it down and Shane placed a rock on the other side. All the colored marks and lines stood out against the grays of the printed landscape. Maggie had already seen the map the previous day, so she wasn’t shocked by the extensive key in the corner or all of the handwriting across the parchment. Everyone but Daryl stared at it wide-eyed. Pheonyx flinched as he noticed the dark look that came over Hershel’s face when he realized what the red stars indicated. He knew there would be an argument about this later. Trying to avoid thinking of the inevitable fight, Pheonyx looked for Daryl’s reaction. The tracker’s face was almost blank, but Pheonyx noticed a spark of something as Daryl’s gaze swept over the large paper. His hand went from brushing the corner of the map on the hood, to brushing against the pocket of his shirt again. Intense blue eyes lifted from the paper and ran over Pheonyx’s face like a warm hand. Heat flooded his face and he looked away. 

Rick realized the meaning of the stars the same time Hershel did. “You’re the one who placed the walker traps? We ran into quite a few of them. Weren’t sure what to make of them at first.”

“Walkers?”, Pheonyx asked, slightly confused before realizing what the other man meant. “Oh yeah. I call them Shadows. Walkers is a bit less of a mouthful though.” Avoiding the glare his stepfather was sending him, he kept his eyes trained on Rick. “Yes. The traps were my doing. The tree traps are pretty obvious when you’re walking but you’ll have to be careful of the pits when you’re out there. I placed signs around them as a warning for any living people walking around out there. So be on the lookout for those.”

Andrea looked at him with hard eyes, “Pits? Is that a euphemism or something?”

Pheonyx shook his head. “No, ma’am. They’re, quite literally, pits. Holes I’ve dug with sharp sticks at the bottom. Windchimes right above the hole to draw in any Shadows that are nearby. There aren’t a lot. I only had a chance to dig two so far. ”

A sharp inhale came from where Hershel and Maggie were standing. His body tensed again, an instinct from childhood that crept up on him. He didn’t expect Hershel to hit him or to lash out, but he couldn’t help the fight or flight instincts that popped up whenever the older man was mad. He rolled his shoulder as the phantom pains echoed across his back. 

Noting the tension, Rick spoke up as he glanced between the older man and his stepson. “Well this is perfect, Pheonyx. Thank you. We can finally get this thing organized. It looks like you’ve already gridded the whole area. So, we can start searching in teams.” 

Hershel let out a sound of disapproval. “Not you. Not today. You gave 2 units of blood. You wouldn’t be hiking 5 minutes in this heat before passing out.”, he turned his gaze to Shane, “And your ankle. You push it now, you’ll be laid up a month. No good to anyone.”

“What about Pheonyx? He gave the same amount I did.”, Rick puzzled. 

Hershel shook his head. “Pheonyx hasn’t been on a near-starvation diet for the past couple months and didn’t experience an intense bout of shock yesterday. Your body needs to rest. His doesn’t.” 

Shane let out a huff and shook his head. “His?”, the man’s gaze ran over Pheonyx’s body with disapproval. 

Pheonyx’s eyes narrowed on the man and he squared his shoulders. “Yeah. His. Got a problem with that, Ears?” 

Tension rose in the air. Maggie and Hershel were glaring at Shane along with Pheonyx. Rick was sending his best friend looks of reproach. Andrea shifted uncomfortably. The air of hostility was broken by Daryl, a snort of a laugh clearing the air. The people from his group looked at him incredulously, shocked by the sound. Apparently, he didn’t laugh much. The sharp sound made the corner of Pheonyx’s lip curve up. Something about the noise made his stomach flutter and he decided he’d do anything to hear it again. 

“Just me and Pheonyx then.”, Daryl’s gruff voice saying his name sent shivers up his spine. He tried to hold off the blush that was threatening to overtake his face. He hoped that everyone around him would mistake the redness for the heat. Seeing the smirk on his sister’s face though, he knew that wasn’t likely. Kismet, who had been sitting patiently at Pheonyx’s feet, barked at Daryl, upset at not being included in his statement. Sometimes, Pheonyx swore the dog could understand every word that was being said. The archer looked around Shane to raise his eyebrow at the dog. “And the mutt. I’ll take ‘em back to where her trail started.” 

Pheonyx cleared his throat, trying to break his train of thought away from Daryl.  “From there, I’ll have Kismet start tracking her scent. Did you get something of hers for us to use, Rick?”

Rick pulled out a small t-shirt that had been hanging from his belt. Pheonyx took the shirt from him, nodding his thanks. It was pink with a flowery design on the front and thin from frequent washes. He tried not to think of how small it was. How terrified the girl must be. Not only being lost in the woods but also having to run and hide from the dead. 

“I can still be useful.”, Shane said while placing his hands on his hips. “I’ll drive up to the interstate, see if Sophia wandered back.” Pheonyx couldn’t help but notice how flat the statement was. He could tell Shane didn’t believe that Sophia would be there. He was following a script. Saying what he thought other people would want to hear. The man had already carved Sophia’s name into a tombstone. Pheonyx clenched his fists on the hood of the car, trying to calm himself from the anger in his chest. 

“Alright. Tomorrow then. We’ll start doing things right.”, Rick placed his hands on his hips, mirroring Shane’s stance. 

“That means we can’t have our people out there with just knives. They need the gun training we’ve been promising them.” Shane said. Andrea visibly perked up at the statement. 

Oh no. Hershel is not going to like that, Pheonyx thought. 

Just like he thought, Hershel cut in, “I’d prefer you not carrying guns on my property. We’ve managed so far without turning this into an armed camp.”

A slightly bitter part of Pheonyx’s brain wanted to tell Hershel that they had only managed so far because of his traps and nightly runs in the woods. But he kept his mouth shut. He was already dreading the argument about the traps. It would just make it worse by antagonizing his stepfather. Daryl’s eyes shift from Hershel to him, almost like he knew the Pheonyx was the reason the farm had avoided tragedy up until this point.  

Shane shifted the hat he was carrying in one hand to the other, clenching it in frustration. He glanced from Hershel to Pheonyx “Your boy”, he said the word with a slight tinge of disgust and Pheonyx had to reign in his anger, “here carries one. Plus three other weapons. Don’t sound much like an unarmed camp.”

The look Hershel gave Shane was scathing. “If you must know, my son and I disagree over his use of weapons on the property. Even so, he is my son. You are a group of strangers who I’ve offered shelter to out of the kindness of my heart. You want to stay here, you play by my rules.” His stepfather placed a deep emphasis on the word “son” and Pheonyx could tell this was his way of standing up for him. Hershel wasn’t a confrontational man by any means, so the fact that he was speaking like this to Shane, made Pheonyx feel elated and protected. He’d spent so long having to stand up for himself against his mother and stepfather. Having Hershel stand up for him now was a nice change of pace. 

Rick gave his best friend a look that told him to keep his mouth shut. “Look, Hershel’s right. We’re guests here. This is your property. And we will respect that.”, He looked pointedly at Shane before taking his Colt from his holster and placing it onto the hood of the car. Shane shook his head but placed the Glock, that he had tucked in the back of his pants, onto the hood of the car with a clang. His facade was calm but there was a flame of anger in his eyes that made Pheonyx shiver. 

A look of relief flitted across Rick’s face. “Okay, first thing’s first: set camp, find Sophia.”

“I hate to be the one to ask, but somebody’s got to-”, Shane said, “What happens if we find her and she’s bit? I think we should all be clear on how we handle that.”

From the way he spoke, Pheonyx could easily guess at how Shane would handle that situation. Flashes crossed his mind of sitting next to Shawn’s bedside, wiping the sweat from his younger brother’s forehead. Trying desperately to bring his fever down, even knowing the attempts were futile. Listening as his brother screamed from the pain. Doing the same for his mother when she was bitten after Shawn turned. His gut clenched thinking about a little girl having to endure that suffering. Glancing over at Maggie, Pheonyx could tell the same memories were passing through her mind. 

“You do what has to be done.” Rick said softly, looking at the ground. The pain of having to say those words was written all over his body. 

“And her mother? What do you tell her?”, Maggie asked, shock lacing her voice. 

“The truth.”, Andrea replied. 

Pheonyx watched the look pass between his sister and stepfather. He knew that they were upset by this conversation. To them, the strangers were talking about callously killing a sick little girl. He’d been trying to get his family to realize the truth, that these weren’t people anymore. They were dead. But he knew why they clung so hard to their beliefs. If they admitted that the Shadows were dead, then that would mean admitting that all their friends and neighbors were dead. That his mom and Shawn were dead too. 

Shane’s nasally voice invaded Pheonyx’s train of thought, “I’ll gather and secure all the weapons, make sure no one’s carrying till we’re at a practice range off site. I do request one rifleman on lookout. Dale’s got experience.”, He tilted his head in the direction of the man wearing the bucket hat, who was helping set up tents a few feet away from them. 

Hershel hesitated and Rick jumped in, his voice soothing, “Our people would feel safer. Less inclined to carry a gun.” Pheonyx had to admit, the man had a silver tongue, because Hershel nodded his assent. The Sheriff thanked him, looking relieved. 

Eager to get the search started, and also already drained socially, Pheonyx looked at Daryl, catching his eyes, “You ready to head out?”  

The man grunted and started walking away from the car, so Pheonyx assumed that was a yes. Before he could follow him, Maggie reached down and grabbed a canvas backpack leaning on the side of the car. She tossed it to her brother, which he caught easily. He raised his eyebrow at her in question. 

“Food for you guys, a few bottles of water, a bowl for Kismet, and a baggie of treats. You’re not gettin’ him to do any trackin’ without a bribe. Right, handsome?” Maggie smiled down at Kismet, who was panting at his side. The dog’s tail thumped at the attention he was getting. 

“Thanks”, Pheonyx said. “We should be back around sunset. But don’t wait up for dinner.” 

“Come back in one piece.”, Maggie kissed his cheek and gave Kismet a pat on the head. Lowering her voice, a playful smirk crept onto her face. “Have fun with your archer.”

Hiding the heat that immediately spread on his face, Pheonyx ducked his head. Normally he didn’t carry a bag when he was out in the woods, so he had to configure the weapons on his body to be able to carry it. He ran into a bit of a problem with the quiver and bow across his chest. Since he wasn’t planning on doing any hunting and he also had his cutlass and other weapons, he opted to take both off and replace them with the backpack. 

“Can you put these in the barn for me, please?”, he asked his sister sweetly, and she nodded. 

Pheonyx handed the quiver and bow off to his sister. Patting Kismet’s head and whistling to have the dog follow him, Pheonyx jogged to catch up with Daryl. 

Daryl’s POV 

As soon as Pheonyx asked if he was ready to leave, Daryl grunted and started heading towards the woods. He didn’t even look to see if the younger man and his dog were following him. He needed a moment. So many thoughts and feelings were coursing through his body. He wasn’t used to most of them. 

Anger, yes. That feeling was second nature to him. He was angry at Shane for the dirty looks and snide words that he’d flung at Pheonyx. He’d treated him like he was a freak, and it took everything Daryl had not to beat the shit out of the officer. It was the same way that people had treated him and his brother growing up. People assumed that because they were Dixons, that meant they were trouble. In the beginning both boys tried to avoid acting out, so as not to confirm people’s views of them, but eventually they realized it was pointless. They could be model citizens and the whole of Senoia would still see them as the dirty, trailer-trash, sons of Will Dixon. Daryl had retreated into himself at that point. Why bother making friends if people were just going to make assumptions of his character based on his genetics? Merle, unfortunately, went the opposite route. He decided that if people were going to assume he was bad, he might as well live up to their expectations. And often this led to Daryl following him into fucked up situations. But Pheonyx hadn’t let Shane’s words bring him down. He’d straightened his back, stared at him with intense eyes, and spit his hatred right back at him. Daryl hadn’t been able to contain his snort of a laugh at the name Pheonyx had given the other man. The sound was foreign and the others had looked at him in shock. Not surprising really. He didn’t laugh a lot. It was probably the first time they had heard something other than vitriol from him. 

But aside from the usual feelings of anger, Daryl was confused by the fiery feeling in his ears and cheeks. The fluttering of moths(because he refused to call them butterflies) in his stomach. All in regards to Pheonyx. To be honest, he hadn’t heard much of what Rick and the others were discussing at the meeting. All he could focus on was the map in front of him, a larger version of the one that was sitting in his chest pocket. The one that felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. He had suspected that Pheonyx was the one to make the map as soon as he saw him. But this was just confirmation. He’d spent most of the night before just looking at the thin paper. If anyone asked, he would say he was studying it to make a plan for finding Sophia. But in reality, he just kept running his fingers over the handwriting that dotted the paper. Something about it just drew him in. Knowing, now, that Pheonyx was the one who made them, who put all this work into protecting a family who was obviously living in denial about the state of the world, he was confused. What about this man entranced him so much? Why couldn’t he brush off these emotions like he did with everything else? Obviously, he wasn’t sexually attracted to the younger man. That would be wrong. Maybe his body was just pointing him in the direction of a new friend? Aside from Merle, Daryl had never had a true friend before. Maybe he could try being friends with Pheonyx? Even thinking that though, there was a wrongness that flooded his brain. No, what he was feeling wasn’t as simple as friendship. 

When Pheonyx had looked at him, and a light blush had spread across his face, Daryl felt like his soul was leaving his body. Was he feeling these things too? Did Pheonyx feel the same draw to Daryl that Daryl felt to him? Did he have the same voice in his head telling him how wrong these feelings were? Is that why he looked away from him so quickly? 

As he walked, crossbow in his hands, his knees felt weak from the emotional turmoil in his head. There was a hopeful part of him that believed that Pheonyx was also feeling the attraction he was. But another part, a darker part, was telling him that he was a freak, an abomination for feeling what he was for another man. 

Lost in his thoughts, Daryl nearly tripped when Rick’s voice sounded from behind him. He spun around, subconsciously noting that Pheonyx and Kismet were jogging over to the treeline where he was headed.  

“Hey!”, Rick said, his ridiculous sheriff’s hat in hand, “We got a base now. We can get this search properly organized now.”

There was an edge to Rick’s eyes, like he was trying to imply something that Daryl wasn’t picking up. He took a few steps forward, narrowing his eyes. “Ya got a point, or are we just chattin’?”

Rick shuffled his feet, placing his hands on his hips. “My point is, it lets you off the hook. You don’t owe us anything.” 

On one hand, Daryl was slightly pissed that the man assumed he would just leave, even in the midst of a search for a lost girl. He wasn’t that much of an asshole.  On the other hand, he knew that he hadn’t exactly been…. Friendly. He was surly, avoided social situations, and often snapped at other members of the group. Not to mention he tried to kill Rick within 5 minutes of meeting him.  It was no wonder that Rick assumed Daryl was looking for an excuse to leave.  Shaking his head, his eyes landed on Pheonyx, who was standing at the edge of the treeline, petting Kismet, and waiting for Daryl to meet up with them. His eyes were glued to the younger man. He didn’t even think about how it would look to Rick, seeing that Daryl couldn’t pull his gaze away from the man yards away from them. 

The usual edge to his voice gone, the simple sight of Pheonyx placing a haze of calm around his shoulders, Daryl spoke clearly. “My other plans fell through.” 

Without even looking back at Rick, Daryl made his way over to Pheonyx and the mutt. His brain screamed for him to run the other way, but his heart pulled him right to the other man’s side. 

Rick’s POV

Rick watched as Daryl walked towards the treeline,walking beside Pheonyx and Kismet. A slight smile colored the Sheriff’s face. He’d seen the glances that the archer had been throwing the farmer’s stepson. The redness of his ears and cheeks while he looked the younger man up and down. It wasn’t hard to assume that there was something brewing there. Up until that day, he’d seen Daryl as a hot-tempered redneck with a hair thin trigger. Aside from the man’s bout of drunkenness at the CDC, all Rick had encountered from the man was snappy replies and sarcastic remarks. Which was probably deserved considering he handcuffed his brother to a roof. But still, Rick felt like that anger was a front for something else.   When he’d offered Daryl a way out, the man’s eyes had flicked to Pheonyx and stayed there. His response saying his plans fell through, was soft and almost entranced as he watched the tattooed man petting Kismet, waiting at the tree line for the archer. It was the first true bit of emotion that Rick had heard from him. He felt like, in that moment, he finally saw a glimpse of the real Daryl Dixon. 

The thud of the screen door behind him had Rick whirling around. He was greeted by the serious eyes of Hershel Greene. The man slowly made his way down the steps and over towards him. Rick had an idea what this was about and it made his stomach clench. The Greene’s had been extremely hospitable and had saved his son’s life without hesitation. But he also could read the apprehension on Hershel’s face anytime he was around them. The man didn’t want them here. And honestly, he couldn’t blame him. While his group was mostly able-bodied, they were technically more mouths to feed. And the medical issues in the group just kept mounting on top of each other. He wouldn’t be surprised if Hershel had gone through the majority of their first aid supplies on Carl alone. Rick needed to tread lightly. Pushing Hershel wouldn’t be a good idea. The man was kind and godly but also strict and stubborn. 

“We could give you more space. Set up over by the barn.”, Rick offered. His hands were sweating against where they rested on his hips. 

Hershel shook his head. “No. No need for that. Better you stay close to the house.”, the old man looked down and let out a small sigh, “I don’t say this easily, Rick. We don’t normally take in strangers. I can’t have your people thinking this is permanent. Once you find this girl, and your boy’s fit for travel. I expect you’ll move on. We need to be clear on that.” The look Hershel gave him was no nonsense. Arguing with him wouldn’t do anything. He could change his mind but he knew that he needed to ease the man into the idea. So he kept silent, just lowering his gaze. He expected the conversation to end there, but was surprised when Hershel spoke again. 

“And, Rick?”

He looked up at Hershel and the man continued, “If you’re going to be on my property, your people will have respect for my family. Every one of them.”

Rick immediately knew he wasn’t speaking in general about the people in his household. There was a specific person he was hinting at. Pheonyx. Over the past 24 hours, Rick’s only thoughts had been on his son and Sophia. He hadn’t had time to really think about much else. All he knew was that Pheonyx had offered his blood to Carl without hesitation. That he had sat with Carl, held his hand, sang to him despite the fact he was unconscious. Hershel had saved his son’s life, but Pheonyx had nurtured his soul.  So, when Shane made snide comments about Pheonyx’s gender, alluding to him being born a girl, Rick was surprised. Not just because he had never heard such disgust in his best friend’s voice before but mostly because he hadn’t realized or cared. Hershel and Maggie both referred to Pheonyx with male-centric language. Stepson, brother, he, him. So that’s what he thought of him with. And his family would know better than anyone. It wasn’t up to him to police someone else’s identity. The vitriol in Shane’s words had made him sick. Pheonyx had helped save Carl’s life. Shane should at least have the decency to show him respect for that, no matter what his views on trans people were. 

Hershel looked him dead in the eye, his voice was stern, “I don’t care what your personal feelings are or what your personal beliefs may be. Everyone is allowed their own opinions. But you will reign in your people. Shane especially. My son has had to deal with too much in his life to have to deal with hate in his own home. If I hear another malevolent word from any of your people, I will have no qualms kicking you off my property. The boy can stay until he is healed, you and Lori as well, but all the others will have to leave.” 

Rick nodded without hesitation. “I understand. I’ll talk to them. Pheonyx helped save Carl’s life. I won’t tolerate anything but respect for him. You have my word.” 

There was a look of relief in Hershel’s eyes but he just jerked his head in acknowledgment before walking away. The words he spoke to the old man were true. It didn’t matter that Shane was his best friend. He would talk to him. He wouldn’t permit him to speak badly to or about Pheonyx. The younger man helped save his son. He owed him that much, if not more.

Next

Masterlist

Taglist: @yoongibaybee @edgyboi10000

[insomniac-jay]

Music Meister Backstory Headcanon

Until (and even after) we get an in depth backstory for my boy, I'm going with the one I made up

TW mentions of abuse

Music Meister was born Darius Benoit Chapel in Louisiana to Fontenot Chapel, a well respected pastor at the local church, and Lisette Chapel, a former Broadway actress, in the West Baton Rogue Parish. He had an unusual eye color, leading to whispers and rumors of cheating from the community, putting a strain on Fontenot and Lisette's already fragile marriage.

Growing up, Darius always heard stories of Lisette's days as a musical theater star and wanted to be just like her.

Lisette began teaching him how to sing, dance, and act; but his dad had different plans.

Fontenot was a very intimidating man who kept Darius on a tight leash (partially because he was still burned from the cheating rumors) to the point where it was borderline abuse. A Bible thumper who reigned over his house in a very biblical way (i.e. "Spare the rod, spoil the child") and strict way. Every time Darius harmed his father's image in anyway, he was harshly punished.

Fontenot did, however, allow Darius to sing in the church's choir for a brief period before he got kicked off.

In retaliation, Lisette had Darius join his elementary school's choir, where he excelled as a musical prodigy. A decision that both Lisette and Fontenot got into an argument turned physical altercation over.

Enraged at her husband and fearful for both her and her son's safety, Lisette and Darius ran away to her hometown of Houma to live with her parents.

As the story goes, Darius was picked on by bullies because he sang in choir, which led to him discovering his Metahuman powers.

In middle school, he joined both marching band and theater--much to Lisette's joy. Not for long, though, as Fontenot found them and threatened to take Lisette to court for kidnapping their son if she didn't hand Darius over to him.

Having no choice, Lisette gave Darius to his father. Back under his authoritarian household and put on an even tighter leash, Darius and Fontenot's relationship deteriorated into toxicity. To cope, Darius began getting into trouble as a form of rebellion by using his powers, gathering up a string of misdemeanors for petty theft.

Fontenot caught wind of this and used even harsher, more abusive punishments. I mean very abusive. Everything came to ahead when Darius found out why his father treated him so cruelly.

Darius and Fontenot got into a huge argument, causing the older Chapel to up slapp Darius so hard that his vision went white. This caused Darius to snap and use his powers on his father and made him severely injure himself.

Having nowhere left to go, Darius left Louisiana when he was 19.

[lavender-teardroplettes]

Friendship Bracelets and Stab Wounds🔪

Working title for the beginning of my YOU and HIM fanfic!

Pairing: This is going to be heavily Si and Adam focused with Cain making an appearance in later chapters!

Content Warnings: Religious trauma, mentions of child abuse and neglect, mentions of blood/being stabbed, mentions of cannibalism, general cw for serial killer/yandere themes, nsfw themes (in later chapters). More could be added, but I think this covers the gist of it. Also small content warning for depictions of an asthma attack in this chapter.

Enjoy Chapter 1~!

Church. Si had never really liked going to church, he didn’t really see the point of it. The stories and metaphors were long, tiring, and often didn’t make much sense to him in the long run. Well- that is- if he ever paid attention for that long. Often times he’d be roughly shaken awake by Aunt Ruth, her scowl ever present each time he had the audacity to sleep during the sermon. He’d always scowl back at her, and they’d get into an argument about how he’s ‘too old to be sleeping in church now.’ He only ever went when he was visiting his aunt and uncle, which happened to be a lot during summer and winter holidays from school- where his parents didn’t have to deal with him and vacation away child-free for a few months or weeks depending on the time of year.

No, the only things he liked about Church were Sunday school recess and singing with the choir. Si was enrolled in his school’s choir, so it was nice being able to continue with it when he was here in Arizona. There was a boy around his age, maybe a year older, who Si really admired for his singing voice. He was also pretty cute, but an eight year old really didn’t have a grasp of that concept yet. Still, he’d find himself staring at the boy occasionally, and was a little surprised to find that sometimes their eyes would meet. Si himself was too shy to really start a conversation or ask if the boy would want to play with him during recess- too many failed attempts told him it was better to just play on his own since not many kids seemed to like beast-kin children. He tried his best to hide his ears with his hair and kept his tail tucked under his skirt as much as he could, but he could hear the other children whispering about him, and he decided he didn’t need to be friends with mean people in the first place. The boy also didn’t seem to have many friends, or that people were just avoiding him entirely. Si had heard whispers about him being the pastor’s son, maybe that was why? He couldn’t really understand it at the time, but he knew he felt a little sorry for the boy knowing how lonely it could be on your own.

The sound of the organ brought Si out of his thoughts once more- it was time to sing the closing hymn before the sermon ended for the day and Sunday school to begin afterwards. He followed his relatives in standing, Aunt Ruth opening the hymn book for Si to read along with as they sang. “My God is good, and he is kind, for this gives us peace of mind. Loyal lambs, in his flock, lead to glory, and not to rot-,” Si could feel his nose scrunch at some of the words. He didn’t agree with them or his simple understanding of their meaning- not everyone here was the picture perfect idea of what a good church goer was ‘supposed’ to be like. He knew this, because he wasn’t one of them. He was only here because his Aunt forced him to be, his own parents didn’t even attend anymore and hadn’t for a long time, longer than before he was even born. Still, he sang along, and tried to be on his best behavior nonetheless. Just a few more pages and a steady process of fudging some answers to the teacher later and he’d have his freedom for a few hours.

The group for today’s class was a little larger than he had remembered it being, so he was lucky in not being called on for today in favor for some of the newer faces in class. Si took note that the boy didn’t seem to be there that day, that is, until he came in quietly with a note for the teacher. His head was down the whole time, but the air around him felt tense and distressed. The other kids didn’t seem to notice or mind, but Si couldn’t help but want to ask what was wrong and to comfort him in some way. The teacher let the boy, who Si heard her call him Adam, leave the class for recess early much to the rest of the classes dismay as it was time for the final lesson. Once the class broke for recess, Si got to work looking for Adam. The playground area wasn’t too large, accompanied by a field for playing soccer or tag and a few trees lining the fence. When Si couldn’t find him under the jungle gym, he took for the field, finding the boy crying behind one of the larger oak trees.

Suddenly, Si felt what he later figured out was social anxiety creep up from the back of his neck. His tail puffed up with the annoying itchy feeling that always followed suit, and he wanted to run away at first. Before he could, Adam looked up from hiding in his arms to wipe his eyes, only to see the cat beast-kin who only showed up two times a year- the cat person he had been so curious about but afraid to approach. Si’s eye’s widened and slit in surprise, and he found himself blushing nervously while balling his hands into his dress. For a moment, neither of them moved. Adam was first, moving to open his mouth to say something, but Si cut him off frantically. “I-I! Uhm...A-are you okay?” Carefully, he took a step forward. Adam leaned back with a frown on his face, seemingly trying to force himself to stop crying- which only caused more hot tears to stream down his face. His cheek looked red and swollen, and Si shrunk a little at how much hurt his eyes carried. Still, he persisted, getting close enough to bend down at arms reach and hand Adam a tissue.

Adam studied the tissue for a moment, sniffing quietly as he looked Si over. He could see the concern in their face, like they were genuine in their worry for him. When Adam didn’t reach for the tissue right away, Si got closer, moving to wipe the tears from his cheeks gently. The action surprised Adam, but all he could do was sit there and blush as a wave of emotions overtakes him. The sudden gentleness and kindness from what essentially was a stranger to him was overwhelming, mixing with the fear and pain from his encounter earlier caused a new wave of hot tears to stream down into Si’s hands. Si’s tail puffed up in alarm as Adam quietly sobbed into his hands, and he pulled the larger boy into a hug. Adam’s arms were shaking as they held each other, and Si could feel his shoulder getting soaked with tears after a few moments. It made Si’s heart hurt, and while he didn’t really understand what was going on, it made him sad enough to tear up as well. Still, he held Adam for as long as he needed to, letting Adam pull away first. There were too many tears left over to wipe away with just his hands, so Si used a few more of his hand tissues to help Adam wipe his face. Once Adam’s tears seemed to stop for the time being, they sat there in an awkward silence, both of the children holding their knees and staring at the ground. Adam felt mortified for crying in front of someone like that, but he also found it to be really comforting to get it all out like that.

“….Thank you…” Si’s ears perked up at the sound of Adam’s voice, soft and horse from crying. He gave a shy smile to Adam when he glanced over, tapping his feet on the grass nervously, “Y-you’re welcome. Uhm...I’m ---- by the way.” Adam blinked and mulled Si’s deadname in his mind, “Adam...how do you say that again?” Si rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish expression, “Ah...it’s okay, you can call me something else if you want, my friends at school call me by nicknames so I’m used to it.” Adam nodded, picking at a few strands of grass idly, “I’ll think of something, I-I guess….can I call you Cat for now?” Si blinked then smiled with a nod, “Sure, can I call you Addy?” It was Adam’s turn to blink, he wasn’t expecting to get one as well. Did this mean they were friends now? Is that how it worked? He glanced back down at the pair of wide, brown, cat-like eyes staring back at him excitingly, and he found himself looking away with a nod and a blush, “Uh...yeah, sure.”

There was another pause in their conversation, the sound of the other children playing filling the silence between them, but this time it was much more comfortable than before. Si looked over to Adam and leaned a bit closer, as if they were sharing a secret, “Addy, why were you crying?” Adam’s eyebrows furrowed before he tucked his face into his knee, “I don’t want to talk about it…” Si blinked before nodding, knowing better than to press the matter. There were loads of things he didn’t want to talk about himself, so he could understand how Adam must have been feeling. Si reached his hand out, smiling and poorly hiding a giggle at Adam’s confused expression, “Do you wanna hold my hand? My mom used to rub the back of mine when I cried to help me feel better.” Pitch black eyes stared back at him through locks of brown hair, seemingly processing the question like it was a hard math problem. “….Okay….sure.” Si’s ears perked in a way Adam found endearing, and he slipped his hand into Si’s smaller one. It was warm and as inviting as the rest of the beast-kin, and Adam couldn’t help but wonder if being part cat had anything to do with it, or if it was just Si on his own. Si gave Adam’s hand a gentle squeeze, being careful not to squeeze too hard. It felt firm to Adam, he figured beast-kin humans must be stronger depending on their race, but it was still reassuring.

He liked the way it felt when Si’s thumb started trailing little circles on the back of his hand. He didn’t know why it felt so soothing, but it was better than the bitter feeling that came after you finished bawling your eyes out. “...You’re really kind, Cat...thank you” Adam’s eyes where drawn to his shoes as a new feeling started to bubble up in his chest, another blush softly spreading on his face as he got accustomed to the warm sensation. He wasn’t really sure what it was, but he had decided in the moment that he liked Si and was happy that he came looking for him. Si’s eyes widened a bit when he saw Adam smile, and his ears seemed to twitch around, finding the best way to express the new feeling he also felt in his chest. They seemed to settle on folding back against his head, annoyingly being wedged uncomfortably between his hair buns as the hot feeling on his face alerted him that he was blushing himself. “I just...didn’t feel right leaving you alone after seeing how sad you were.” Adam’s grip tightened on Si’s hand slightly as he took their words in, genuinely surprised that someone cared that much about him without even knowing him.

Adam opened his mouth to speak, but it was cut off by the sound of the recess bell. “Oh...Looks like it’s time for choir practice.” Si’s gaze was directed to the church building, missing the longing look Adam was giving him. Adam wanted to continue the conversation, he wasn’t ready to go back yet. Si stood up, still holding Adam’s hand as he tugged on it gently, causing Adam to lean forward and have to balance himself with his free hand. Adam didn’t know what would be more mortifying- crying in front of his new friend as their first interaction, or eating dirt in front of them because he wasn’t stronger than a werecat a year younger than him. A thought passed though his mind as he caught himself- he needed to be stronger to protect them. He didn’t know where it came from, but he held onto it for dear life. “C’mon Addy we gotta go sing!” Si’s eyebrows furrowed, the anxiety over being late expressing itself with a few flicks of his tail. Despite feeling annoyed that recess was over, Adam could help but smile at Si as he stood up, “Are we going to sing together?” The question made Si perk up, and his tail stopped flicking, instead replaced with a happy sway that followed his excited nodding. “Mhm! Mhm! Mhhhm!” The last confirmation of his agreement to the idea was accented with an exaggerated head nod, “We can sing together every practice! But….you’re kinda taller than me, so I might be moved to the front of the group when we perform. Maybe I can stand in front of you then?”

Once Adam was up, they started walking back together as they talked. Adam liked the idea of singing together, nodding along with Si before frowning at the mention that they might be separated. “I dunno...maybe you could stand with me, I’d like that..” The last part came out of the corner of his mouth, but Si heard it anyways, “That would be pretty nice, huh?” Adam blinked and Si just smiled back at him, oblivious to the fact that he wasn’t supposed to hear what Adam tried to mumble to himself. The taller of the two made it a mental note that Si had good hearing, he should have figured that much at the least knowing what he read about cats in the library. He nodded quietly without saying anything further, Si’s attention was on the building’s door and no longer on him. There was a crowd of children waiting to funnel into the building, but Adam could see how nervous Si looked, probably worried that they’d be scolded for being the last two in. Adam tugged on Si’s hand to get his attention before pointing at the door, “Do….Do you want to race?”

The way Si brightened up would have blinded Adam as if he was the sun, “Yes!! I’ll even give you a head start!” Adam’s eyebrow raised at the sudden confidence that seemed to well from the shorter of the two, where cat beast-kins that fast? Si poised himself, his eyes trained back to the door with determination, “You get five Mississippi’s when you start running!” A smile crept on to Adam’s face at the challenge, breaking off into a sprint before Si could react. He counted five Mississippi’s, looked back behind him, and was surprised to see Si closing the distance between them. It looked like Si was going to win for a moment after he passed him shortly after words, but suddenly Si held onto his side while slowing down. It looked like he was panting and trying to push past the pained expression that overcame his face. Adam had seen other kids react like this while running, but usually they had an inhaler to use when this happened. Si never pulled one out, instead slowing down to a weak jog before having to stop. One of the teacher assistants noticed this in the middle of ushering kids along into the building and rushed over before Adam could reach Si. He just stood there in shock as the assistant pulled out an emergency inhaler, helping Si use it before picking him up. They looked over at Adam with a sorry expression, “Run along now, Adam, I’ll take ---- to the nurse and call their Auntie to pick them up.” Adam wanted to protest, but he knew better. He didn’t know how to help despite every part of his body urging for him to do something. His lips pursed as he watched Si cough, his sturdy body seeming so frail in the moment.

The thought passed his mind again- he needed to be stronger to protect him. Adam’s fists balled as he watched the assistant walk away, noticing the way Si’s tail hung lifelessly after being so vibrantly expressive while they were together. He could feel the tears welling in his eyes again, but he forced them back before continuing to jog towards the building. He took note of the calendar in the hallway. It was the beginning of August, Si would only come to church two more times before leaving again. He had taken note of every time the shy, almost aloof cat person came to visit each year, and he had also taken note of the way the other kids would whisper about him, much in the same way they would do with Adam. Despite many forms of direct eye contact, it seemed to him like neither of them were going to approach each other first. While Adam had experience with friendly stay cats, Si was another world of communication that he just didn’t understand or know how to approach. But, somehow, they still found each other.

Adam frowned, pausing for a moment as he examined it. “August….they’ll be gone until the middle of December.” His heart dropped, seemingly in the same way it had did earlier, but for different reasons this time. The chorus teacher walked up behind him, noticing Adam staring at the calendar, “Oh, hello Mr. Gaudin. Are you excited for picture day?” Adam’s eyes scanned the calendar again- picture day was next week. He didn’t really care about it before, but this was a chance to at least have something related to Si while he waited for December to come around. Adam smiled in a way that actually reached his eyes for once, delighting the director given what she had overheard in the lounge. “Yes, I am. Thank you Ma’am.” He nodded his head to her, feeling confident for once in his plan and with himself. Following the teacher’s direction, he made his way to the main hall for choir practice. While he was sad that they couldn’t sing together today, he looked forward to seeing Si again and hoping that they were just as excited to see him next Sunday.

[01298283]

How are rapists treated in your country?

I live in Brazil,in São Paulo and here in my country the rape culture is very strong, patriarchy and christian conservatism. The judiciary in my country is made up of abusive judges and so the victim continues to be abused by the courts and everyone who works there,the psychologists and psychiatrists who work in the Brazilian judicial system are abusive and ignore the victim,they treat victims like villains.

When you (victim) report what you suffered,they (lawmen) ignore it,say you are lying and treat everything that happened to you (victim) as something irrelevant. Society, the law and especially religious people here, mostly Christians,treat abusers like kings and innocents,they are extremely sexist and misogenic and many women defend patriarchy here and condone abusive men and persecute victims.

You can fight for justice but you probably won't have significant results and you will be ignored,rich and white abusers are acquitted and the justice system here hates the poor and treats the poor like trash,the processes take many years.

I was sexually and psychologically abused by a man who is a pastor's son and his family is conservative and Christian, but they live by appearances and his family and friends are silent about all his crimes,I suffered various types of violence and some of my bones were broken and I will use a prosthesis for the rest of my life and I was stabbed,but the justice system in my country ignores most of the facts that occurred,because he is Christian,white and has more favorable financial conditions.

I'm poor and I live in the suburbs of the city, I'm not Christian and I'm not conservative and that means that the courts and judges hate me,mainly because I'm a feminist and I'm not part of the extreme right,most of them are from the extreme right. Here abusers can abuse because they will not be punished,especially when he is white and has money...So,he is free to abuse.

I have several sequelae due to the abuse and some have no cure and public medical treatment in my country is precarious, honestly it doesn't help much. You can report it and there are several government incentives to do so,but in practice it is a horror film because the reality is very different,they will treat you like dirt.

The courts and the police are not prepared to help victims of abuse,they are cruel and distort everything you say and annihilate you, the psychologists who work in the courts are terrible and do not take into account the victim's situation and her mental health,they blame the victim in relation to the mental imbalance caused by the abusers,the victim suffers violence and procedural abuse from beginning to end and has their life and health damaged by these people,they are humiliated in court hearings and silenced.

So the entire system in this country is a true scheme of corruption and abuse,they hate the poor and always benefit abusers in most cases and force you to forgive and live with abusers. In most cases the abuser and those who defend him continue to persecute the victim and cause harm,however,the courts do absolutely nothing and if you (the victim) decide to take the law into your own hands, the judges will punish you according to the law.

Here it is normal for you to witness cases where children have been abused and the judge places the child in the hands of the abusers and so the cycle of abuse never ends and innocent lives are destroyed. Nothing in this country is good and to make matters worse,christianity is very strong here and has contributed to these habits being perpetuated,this country is a true medieval colony.

But all I want is that all abusers and those who defend them have a miserable life and a painful death and rot in hell,they don't deserve forgiveness,they don't deserve mercy,they don't deserve anything good,they are all sanguinary parasites and cruel and most of them hide behind a bible.

[lvlypink]

God DOES answer prayers

This is just my telling of how God has answered a prayer of mine within a couple of days, and it's brought me equal amounts of pain and understanding

!! tw: mention of sa and pedo !!

I was a member of a Presbyterian church for many years, basically since I was 4 until my 16 years, give or take. When I was about 12-13, our minister moved towns and we welcomed a new pastoral family: the minister A and his wife, two children, plus his wife's sister and husband, and their two sons.

The family as a whole seemed incredible. All very charismatic, very fun, seemingly very kind and the church as a whole ADORED the new minister.

Well, I adored him too until his 18/19 yo nephew started getting a bit too close for comfort to me, at 13. I don't need to say what happened.

The entire church turned a blind eye and some even openly supported our "relationship", and after over a year, we broke up (his family made me break up with him bc I was "manipulating" him and I was "bad for his mental health". His aunt BLACKMAILED me. I was literally not a high schooler yet.)

After I got out of church, living in the real world opened my eyes to the fact that I'd been a victim of abuse. I wasn't a willing girlfriend to him. I was a young girl who legally couldn't give consent to anything. I was shocked, and disgusted that no one in the church had ever brought it up as a problem. I thought it was normal.

So I completely cut them off. Everyone, the entire church. I never attended a single event after I turned 16, and many times I wondered: did I sin? Is God disappointed in me? Should I still go to church so God will love me, after all of this? But I couldn't. I never came back.

It's been over 4 years since. In my journey to reconnect with Christ, I prayed that he make things clearer to me in how to keep living as His child while surrounded by trauma, and congregations that made me feel judged, and hated. He answered me by telling me something through my mother, who used to be a VERY active member of the church: the congregation is basically a dumpster fire rn bc minister A has assaulted a woman, divorced, mother of 3, who I'll call C.

C is a lovely person. She's full of life, funny, positive, compassionate, and has been an incredible friend to my mother for years. When she accused A of SAying her, she thought she'd find support in the church. After all, she is a victim.

But to no one's surprise, the minister denied it. Again. And again. And again. And kept going. C's brother sided with him. The entire fucking church started whispering behind her back, and when A's wife caught wind of it, she went around town LITERALLY telling the church members to stay away from C. "She's a whore! She's a prostitute who's seduced my husband, the minister! Don't let your children near her daughter!", stuff of the sort.

C eventually did go to the council and the state president of the Presbyterian church and was DISMISSED out of "lack of evidence".

As of today, she and her parents have left the church after a lot, and I mean a lot of harassing from the Minister's family, and the church members. It's an infuriating situation. My mom's heartbroken for her friend, and I'm mostly angry that the dipshit of a minister will probably never face justice. Just like this nephew never did.

But in telling me that, my mother's revealed to me that I had a good reason for leaving, and it's okay that I don't feel safe in churches anymore. I was never wrong for mistrusting the minister after my SA, I was never wrong for hating the entire family and for still not wanting to find myself another church.

God has showed mercy on me and he's told me I'm not the sinner here. He stands with me, and with C, and with every one of His children who's ever gone through this. And I'll keep praying that our abusers will face justice by Him. May our Lord comfort C.

[the-invisible-queer]

How does a grown man beef with a child? Was it his daughter in the kitchen with your brother? Because if so that admittedly is a poor tactical choice.

And yes please give us all the decade old tea I bet it’s still good. Don’t even bother with pseudonyms if you don’t feel like it

OH BESTIE

Buckle the fuck UP and I'll drop initials so I don't get sued because the youth pastor is currently in a legal suit against his own father rn THE TEA IS PIPING

Our Characters:

Eddie - My older brother

R - Senior pastor

M - Youth pastor

M&M - M and his wife because they both suck and are one entity in one story

G - R's current wife

E- R's ex wife BUT NOT M'S MOM

JK - E & R's son

I've got 3 stories so it's long as fuck. There's aren't the only scandals just the main ones that have to deal with M's bitch ass. I can't wait to hear that he died. I'm gonna piss on his grave.

SO Eddie got the title of "junior youth leader" when he was like 15/16 because he WAS the youth group. People only showed up to hang out with him. He knew everyone. He knew everything that was going on. He was the one keeping the peace because we were ROWDY fucking kids.

FOR THE RECORD Eddie's kitchen fingering was not with M's daughter. It was with his first girlfriend.

Story 1: Local trashy white man picks on Puerto Rican teenager

Eddie is actually the reason M's daughter's bathroom fucking scandal wasn't a FULL scandal. He kept that shit underwraps and stopped the gossip because he was friends with both parties involved.

M wasn't our original youth pastor. We used to have this ANGEL named Tim but he moved out of state so R gave the job to his son. I never liked M and then when he gave me shit for taking Fridays off because I was exhausted from school I hated him. He was NOT meant for that position. I think he only got it because he was a big kid (derogatory).

NO ONE liked M. Deadass no one came to youth group for the lesson. We came to hang out with out friends we only got to see on the weekends.

Literally the beef STARTED because Eddie was smoking off property BEFORE youth group with a few other teens. M didn't like that because he's supposed to be an example.

Keep in mind Eddie was 16yrs old. Living in an abusive household. Taking the brunt of the physical abuse from our mom because he protected us. And he was a poor kid going to a private school and had to keep a certain GPA to stay. Man was stressed and JUST wanted to smoke before he had to go infront of his peers and friends act like everything was perfect and he was hyped for God for 2-3hrs every weekend.

So for like 2 months M and Eddie were going back and forth on Facebook. Indirect posts, comments. EVERYTHING WAS OUT IN THE OPEN! Eddie refused to move it to DMs because he's not stupid. If this grown man wants to act a fool he was going to do it in front of EVERYONE!

Like M was judging him so brutally and pulling out Bible verses out of his ass. It was annoying.

It came to a head when R basically told my dad to control his son. Imagine being I'm your late 40s with a son in his late 20s picking a fight with a 16yr old. And you blame it on the CHILD!

That obviously didn't sit well with my dad.

And it wasn't like my dad was just some dude. My dad was head of security. My mom was heading the baby/toddler care classrooms.

We were at the church SEVERAL days out of the week.

That was my second home at that point. It's the church I grew up in.

WE WERE PART OF THE CHURCH!

So we kind of started getting pushed out of the church. I believe we had been there for like 11 years at that point.

We finally left after a year of the awkwardness and feeling like it wasn't home anymore.

Story 2: Death, Devastation, and Divorce

This one is rough. Deals with losing a child. And is still very much a story that hurts me 19 years later.

In 2005, R and E's son, JK, who was only 7 at the time died on an amusement park ride. He was a friend of mine and I was absolutely fucking devastated.

R and E were still married and E was the worship leader at the time.

And it was FUCKED UP devastating. Because E took JK's body home and prayed over him for 3 days for God to resurrect him. Like she admitted this in front of the entire congregation. What made her stop and accept it was he came to her in a dream and told her he was not leaving heaven.

There was a huge rift at the church over it. Instead of people supporting R grieving his baby half of the church ended up leaving following this.

People didn't like that R rightfully took a break from preaching despite E still heading the worship team. He had guest pastors come in and give sermons. I think he took 3 months off.

During this time E had an affair with the man who she is now married to.

So obviously R and E divorced. Got in front of the whole congregation and broke the news. E left the church and opened a little cabaret theater with the money from the amusement park lawsuit from JK's death. E took all the money from the lawsuit because R didn't want it.

Even though I think he could have out some of that money towards the church but I digress.

A few years later R met and married G and they're still together. I adored G and still very much hope she's doing well.

Story 3: NEW TEA POPPING OFF AS WE SPEAK

SO I can't remember the date but I had a dream that Joe and I visited a church in Texas and it happened to be pastored by R. It was a weird dream because I hadn't thought of R in years and why was he in Texas?

TURNS OUT during COVID R and G sold the church and moved to Texas. I HAD NO IDEA THIS HAPPENED!

And the day I had the dream R&G posted on their Facebooks EXPOSING E, M&M and some other not important assholes from the church.

THE FUCKING DRAMA

So when G came into the picture people were weird obviously. She wasn't E. And some Christians don't believe in divorve and remarrying.

But what R&G exposed was some of the leaders didn't accept her. E still had loyalties within in the church. WHICH IS WILD!remarriage. She had spies.

Also despite E getting all the lawsuit money from JK's death, in the divorce she fought for alimony on top of child support. R and E had another daughter.

R claims she had 10% of his salary. He didn't fight or stand up for himself because he was trying to make it as quick and clean as possible for their daughter.

He also took accountability for not protecting and defending G from the sharks in the church's leadership.

E and her spies at the church made R and G's lives a living hell behind the scenes. AND NO ONE KNEW!

And even now that R and G are on the other side of the country E and M&M are still making their lives hell, trying to claim their new ministry is fraudulent.

Imagine caring that hard.

NOW let me tell you about M&M! So M married M² and I had no issues with M² but now as an adult I realize if she chose and married that piece of shit why wouldn't she also be a piece of shit?

So R alleges in his post that M&M did some sketchy ILLEGAL shit in the church that made him ask them to step down from leadership instead of throwing their asses in jail which they didn't like. Which at that point should have just sent them to jail.

He didnt specify because M&M/E and R&G are currently suing each other. It's a big MESS!

And after M&M were forced to step down they left the church and moved to NC.

And M&M/E we're trying to turn the rest of R's family (his mom and siblings against him) but fortunately they all knew better.

People mentioned in the lawsuits are people from the church my family knew personally.

Mostly all people I never fucking liked too. Which is why I trust my gut about people always.

It's a WHOLE thing and my mom is watching Facebook for updates.

[pretty-but-dumb]

[ andy biersack, cismale, he/him ] — PAOLO "PAULY" PARKER — 27 — Tattoo Artist

(jinx, 30+, cst, she/her/they/them)

Trigger warnings: 

Drug & alcohol use

juvenile detention

poverty/homelessness

religious fanaticism

verbal abuse

Childhood

"Paolo "Pauly" Parker began his life as Paolo Klein, born into a middle-class, observant Protestant household to Mr. and Mrs. Klein. His father was a pastor at a local Evangelical church, and his mother was a stay-at-home mom and wife. On the surface, the Klein family seemed nothing short of a beautiful hallmark family. However, beneath the smiles in photographs, the Kleins were riddled with unhappiness.

Mr. Klein was a man of control in his family; in his house, there was a place for everything, and everything was to be in its place, including his wife and children. Talking back or questioning authority was met with verbal berating, yelling, and being sat down to read scripture until they "found God" and behaved themselves. While the younger Klein children fell into the places their father deemed fit for them, Pauly was another story.

Pauly was a child whose first word might very well have been "why?" This question, loathed by his father, became a fundamental part of Pauly's vocabulary. Mr. Klein was convinced that enrolling him in a private Protestant school would straighten him out, but all Pauly did was engage in arguments with the teachers and the clergy. As Pauly grew older, these arguments with his father escalated into screaming matches, and Mr. Klein realized he was swiftly losing control of his son. No measure seemed effective in extinguishing Pauly's independent spirit – not Christian summer camps, not Wednesday evening Bible study, not even the removal of Pauly's "luxuries," which included his bedroom door and, at one point, his bed.

Adolescence

When Pauly began high school, he started socializing beyond his usual school circle and began attending parties, where he experimented with drugs and alcohol—anything that could ease his life and drown out the troubles with his father. It didn't take long for his father to catch wind of a party he attended, leading to his father calling the police and having Pauly arrested. Pauly spent six months in juvenile detention, and upon returning home, he found himself in a volatile household. Mrs. Klein was deeply troubled by how her husband had demeaned and devalued their son instead of offering support, reaching a point where she couldn't endure it any longer. She insisted on a divorce, a process that stretched over a year and ultimately resulted in Pauly and his mother leaving their home with nothing to their names.

Mrs. Klein (taking on her maiden name of Parker) and Pauly faced significant challenges for months after leaving their previous home. Their family refused to offer any assistance, leading them to a homeless camp near Griffith Park. Pauly dedicated himself to supporting his mother, abandoning his education and taking on various jobs to help her gather enough funds to purchase an RV and secure some form of shelter for the two of them. Once Pauly's mother secured employment, she urged Pauly to obtain his GED and build a better life for himself. Pauly fulfilled this promise shortly after turning 18, taking on different jobs and pursuing an apprenticeship at a local tattoo shop.

Adulthood

It became evident early on that Pauly possessed a talent for tattoo artistry, and he effortlessly navigated through his apprenticeship. At the age of 21, he was tattooing independently, and by 24, he had established a reputation in the shop where he began. His artistic endeavors became so profitable that he could quit his other jobs and commit entirely to tattooing, enabling him to earn enough money for an apartment for both himself and his mother.

However, the glow of his success was dimmed by persistent interference from their family, who were resolute in preventing Pauly and his mother from achieving any form of success. Shortly before Pauly's 27th birthday, he successfully persuaded his mother to relocate with him to New York, seeking refuge from the incessant prying of their family and their congregation. The duo packed up and started over in New York City, settling in a less-than-modest apartment in Bed Stuy. Pauly's exceptional work caught the attention of Concrete Jungle Ink, leading to a quick hiring, and he has been contributing his artistry there for the last six months.

[nerves-nebula]

This is kind of a weird confession thing because I've never been able to actually voice any of these things before

So tw for incest and cosca and it's just a lot of nonsense ig

So when I think I was around 7 or 8, somehow someway I got to see a ton of sexual stuff and I think I saw them when my mom watched those stuff at night on the TV from her shows (now that I remember she watched them even when we were there but she thought we were sleeping) and that's when I started being a weirdly sexual active kid, well not really, I'm not sure my memories are jumbled up.

I kissed a family friend a lot but I don't really think it was giving with consent most of the time. I'm not really sure, well anyways for some reason I stopped with I think intervention from the kids mom but it was more of her finding it cute and telling us how we should get married and shit, even tho her son was rightfully distraught by it.

but then I met this pastors kid.

He was around my age and his dad was pretty abusive to him and he got un adulterated access to the wonderful world of the internet. He would go on and on about all the sexual stuff he saw on there. He would explain in graphic detail all the my little pony porn he's seen to me, my little sister and his little brother. I thought he was so cool and smart for knowing all the adult stuff the adult refused to tell us about.

Some how me and him started sneaking of to kiss a lot but it got to a period of time that I was kind of not that interested anymore because multiple times he would try to forcefully put his hands in my underwear in public and stuff. When I told him to stop, he got kind of mad and our relationship hasn't been the same ever since. He used to brag about all the stuff we did to other kids and I used to have panic attacks fearing I would go to hell and my mom would finally be free of the burdensome child that was me.

But anyways I don't know when but some things happend between me and my little sister. I'm pretty sure I started it, i don't remember but being the monstrous child that I was I'm sure it was me. I'm not sure how it happened, I think we were kissing this stupid m&m doll. We were practicing for our future husbands (we heard some stupid shit in church) and I had the bright idea to practice on eachother.

I'm not sure of the timelines of any of these, I don't remember a large majority of my childhood excerpts from weird specific shit like how the room my mom locked us up in when we overwhelmed her smelt like dust, cockroach eggs, rats and humidity or how when I had breakdowns I used to hide in my wardrobe and sing barbie songs to myself.

I only just learnt that I was cosca perpetrator and victim a few months ago when I thought about my first kissed and realized. I wished I never remembered anything. I feel sick. I wished I remembered more from my childhood and not that just the awful things my little demonic self did. I hope the pastors kid and family friend are doing alright, I still know the pastor, he's an apostle now and he's still awful. He threatens to beat me all the time because I'm a feminist who needs to be put in their place. He acts like he's joking when he says this but I know he isn't. My mom has threatened to send me to his house multiple times.

It doesn't seem like my little sister remembers. I hope she doesn't but I also hope she does so she can beat me up, so she can scream and curse at me. I imagine it sometimes I'll come home from school and she'll realize when I hug her and realize I'm an awful creep who has intrusive thoughts of her baby sister. I've already done so much evil shit to her from jealousy, I can't believe I did the exact same thing alot of adult tried to do to me.

Sorry for the stupid rant

Well ok, thanks for sharing this. first of all you weren’t uniquely monstrous or demonic or evil for this, hah. I doubt any adults really explained to you what was wrong with what you were doing right? And other kids opinions can only go so far when you’re also a kid. And you were a kid, a tiny child even! no use beating yourself up about it. I don’t really blame my siblings for what they did cause, yknow. We were kids and we didn’t understand. I do blame one or two of them for SOME of the things they did but I don’t think it makes them like Demons or Evil. it’s fine.

Maybe you can bring it up with your sister one day to apologize, even if she doesn't remember, cause it seems important to you. it seems like you’ve got a good relationship so maybe she’d understand. Idk your situation but you really seem to be eating yourself up about it. 

i dont think getting beat up by your sister would help the situation, and to be honest most people don't REALLY want to beat up their abusers anyway, so you should prolly stop fantasizing about some sort of violent retribution against you. cause it wouldnt help anyway, you're already a different person.

He used to brag about all the stuff we did to other kids

my brother bragged to my sister about us once (maybe to convince her to do stuff? idk) and i was soooo angry at him cause he promised not to. so i denied the hell out of it and called him gross. fun times.

[wherethedogsareburied]

long ass intro post incoming! general info and trigger warning below the cut.

this is my oc blog! it used to be more informational about my wip but then i realized that i was screaming to the void and it would be better if i just let myself have fun with it instead of trying to be Formal and Professional about it lmao. anyway they’re characters from my wip that i think might be my special interest and pinterest isn’t getting as much dopamine going when it’s time to write

the focus of the plot is the past and its tendency to come back to haunt you. it follows a small family that will have its mettle tested by monsters from both outside and within, as well as the leaders of a cult trying to gain control in an age of dying gods.

it goes without saying that there are triggering subjects in this wip. they will be listed in a non spoiler-free manner below:

body horror, infection genre

animal death/violence performed against and by beasts

death and mourning, self-blame for the death of a loved one

parental abuse, particularly neglect

sexual abuse at the hands of an older priest figure & a sister figure

explicit intrusive thoughts in the head of a pov character that involve suicide, assault, and self-hatred

weaponized religion & the long-term baggage that it comes with

heavily implied suicidal ideation

i don’t think i’m going to be posting much at all about all of this but if i do, there will be a “read more” over the post after the warning.

this is going to go by tag system! block or hunt for whichever ones you would like lol

present characters:

bd || 🏛: oleander “oli” noskov. good-spirited, though anxious and helpless in worse situations. infected with lycanthropy as a teenager while in a cult, is now the owner of a decently successful inn. experiences intrusive thoughts, emotional stunting, and involuntary shifts as a result of the cult involvement.

bd || 🎠: dante pastore. headstrong and brave, but a workaholic. close friend of noskov; helped to extract him from the cult. breeds and sells horses, looked up to by his town.

bd || 🎸: magnolia noskova. poster child of 'fuck around and find out'. noskov's adopted teenage daughter; considers breaking-and-entering her source of employment. mediocre guitarist, slightly above-average bassist.

bd || 🫖: emilia shevchuk. levelheaded but has a low tolerance for fools and bad actors. the inn's chef and second-in-command, frequently handles things during noskov's "episodes".

bd || ⚒: abram ogarkov. pragmatic but generally obedient. close friend of pastore, often helps him with work. works odd jobs for a living. is otherwise a sketch artist.

bd || 🃏: anatoly malakov. 'rotisserie-chickens' between being down to earth and high and mighty but holds grudges nonetheless. elderly man at the top of the theocracy as well as the aforementioned cult. widely believed within the country that he can do no wrong whatsoever.

bd || 🐊: ivan malakov blodniek. malakov's estranged son with all his qualities plus the added bonus of teenage clumsiness. missing a few fingers. homeless and on the run from those looking to return him home; ran away after uncovering malakov's and cross's crimes and relationship dynamic.

bd || 🫀: zaine cross. a living mask; prides himself on the ability to be anything one's heart desires. second-in-command beneath malakov in both groups. notably popular with the masses due to his appearance and charm. the driving force behind blodniek's retrieval.

bd || 🚬: hellen vassos. intelligent and methodical but would undoubtedly have some sort of mutual understanding with machiavelli if he were around. practices magic, was expelled from her college due to wanton disrespect of the rules and remains bitter about it. clings to her stepbrother like her life depends on it.

bd || 🏴‍☠️: midas vassos. either empty and stagnant or battling for his life at any given moment. genuinely believes he is dead and that the 'wolf' is the only force keeping his body moving. stepbrother to the aforementioned vassos, helps her acquire illegal materials despite her abuse.

bd || 🦉: ferox blythe. reserved and private but nonetheless regal; a decorated blade. aristocratic figure whose entire job description revolves around legality; works to keep nationwide peace as well as solve crimes untouchable by small divisions. possesses a form of muscular dystrophy. loves kazimierz.

bd || 🕰: fioritura kazimierz. medic by trade but proves to be skilled with blythe's line of work as well. gathers information regarding tricky legal situations as no other assistant processes information in his same manner. has a soft spot for contraptions; uses a motorcycle as her primary form of transportation. loves blythe.

dynamic tags

bd || 🏛️🎠 : dynamic between oleander noskov and dante pastore.

bd || 🏛️🏴‍☠️ : dynamic between oleander noskov and midas vassos.

bd || 🚬🏴‍☠️ : dynamic between hellen vassos and midas vassos. content warning for abuse.

bd || 🎸🐊 : dynamic between magnolia noskova and ivan blodniek.

bd || 🫀🐊 : dynamic between ivan blodniek and zaine cross. content warning for stalking and general obsession.

bd || 🫀🎸 : dynamic between magnolia noskova and zaine cross.

bd || 🫀🐊🎸 : dynamic between magnolia noskova, ivan blodniek, and zaine cross.

lore and worldbuilding

bd || 🌗: blunder (setting). large country close to the north pole. dragon-worshipping theocracy.

bd || 🐺: lycanthropy. illness that modifies the body and mind when presented with extreme stimuli. can be passed on through blood.

bd || 🐲: draconianism. national religion of blunder. involves saint lineages who dictate laws and priests that communicate with local gods. in shambles in the present due to the sudden deaths of 80% of the gods.

bd || 🌲: the sons of volok. cult formed as the gods began dying that emphasizes supremacy of those with lycanthropy. difficult to leave due to lycanthropy's stigma as well as infection rituals.

bd || 🔮: the magic system. power drawn from the use of blood and body parts. can easily turn on the user to draw power from them if abused.

bd || ⚰️: related to the plot. usually involves spoilers and important plot points.

bd || 🐗: rambling

bd || 🎶: music related since i wont be able to shut up about it

bd || 🦚: art

bd || 🦤: memes and shitposting lol

bd || 🐘 : reblogs

bd || 🦣 : original post

[dailymichifer]

Prodigal by BlueCookiesForRick @rubifer

Complete | Words: 11169 | Rating: M

Lucifer & Michael (gen), Lucifer/Sam Winchester, , Gabriel & Lucifer & Michael & Raphael (Supernatural), Gabriel & Lucifer (Supernatural), Lucifer & Raphael (Supernatural), Michael/Original Female Character(s)

Additional Tags: Heavy Drinking, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Religious Content, Alternate Universe - Human, Grief/Mourning, Dysfunctional Family, Brotherly Love, Brotherly Angst, they have the range baby, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Evangelical Christianity, and all the lovely trauma that comes with it, this is so incredibly niche i'm so sorry, approximately 2 people will read this, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, you know things are fucked when samifer is the fluffiest bit in the fic, Screenplay/Script Format, Drama, Angels as Siblings (Supernatural), Archangels, the dad isn't chuck but he sure is someone :)), Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Flashbacks

Summary: George Milton, pastor of New Life Church and father of four, is dead, leaving his eldest Michael to pick up the pieces of his broken family. And this starts by calling his brother Luke, who hasn't talked to him since he stormed out of the house eight years ago. Piece of cake. The prodigal son returns to town, and Michael is so very tired.