#and they do not call it a 'baptism dress'

[killjoygem]

Is it a catholic thing to be baptised later in life? Like middle childhood or later?

I've always been kinda curious and I just saw people talking about being baptised around 8 or 9, but I think most people where I live get baptised when they're a baby

[jilyandbambi]

yall are gonna annoy me to death with your weird Catholic Laura Lee fixation.

Listen. As a New Jersey Catholic(TM) raised around other NJ Catholics, quite a few of them WAAAAY more pious than myself, Laura Lee is not our tribe. She never so much as makes the sign of the cross for fuck's sake. BUT

You know who is Catholic?

Mari.

[theonottsbxtch]

PREACHER’S DAUGHTER PT5 | MV1

an: AND WE'RE BACK!! WHO MISSED OUR FAVOURITE LITTLE FAMILY! can't wait to hear what you guys think of this part, i've loved being with them this week, this is a shorter chapter but i've got ideas for what might happen next! lmk if y'all wanna see anything in particular

wc: 3.2k

Theo was four when his parents welcomed his sister, and Max very nearly missed it, if not for Danny.

It had been a normal day at the garage, Max elbow-deep in an engine rebuild, grease staining his hands and his focus entirely on the task at hand. His phone, forgotten on the workbench, buzzed furiously with calls and messages. It wasn’t until Danny came barreling into the shop, panting like he’d just run a marathon, that Max looked up.

“Max! Man, what the hell are you doing?” Danny wheezed, clutching his knees.

Max straightened, wiping his hands on a rag. “Uh, working? What’s wrong with you? You look like you’re dying.”

Danny shot him a glare, pointing accusingly at the phone vibrating incessantly on the workbench. “Your wife is trying to call you! She’s in labour, man! She’s having the baby!”

Max froze, the rag slipping from his fingers. “What?”

“She’s at the hospital! Her aunt’s with her, but you need to move! Now!”

Max’s heart lurched into overdrive. Without a word, he sprinted to the workbench, grabbed his phone, and bolted out the door. “Danny, lock up!” he shouted over his shoulder as he jumped onto his bike.

Danny shook his head, muttering, “You owe me for this one, man.”

Max arrived at the hospital in record time, still in his grease-stained shirt and boots. His wife was mid-contraction when he burst into the room, panting, his face a mixture of guilt and relief.

“You’re here,” she said through gritted teeth, her eyes narrowing slightly before softening at his frazzled appearance.

“I’m here,” he confirmed, rushing to her side and taking her hand. “I’m sorry, angel. My phone was on silent—”

“Save it,” she hissed, squeezing his hand so tightly he thought his bones might break. “You’re here now. Just don’t let go.”

Max didn’t. Not for a second. Hours later, they welcomed a healthy baby girl into the world. Max cried as he held her for the first time, the tiny bundle swaddled in pink resting against his chest. He looked at his wife, her hair damp and her face radiant despite her exhaustion.

“She’s perfect,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re perfect.”

Their daughter, Mary-Ann, came home a few days later to a little house with a white picket fence that they had purchased not long before her birth. It was a modest place, but it was theirs, filled with laughter, love, and the chaos that only a toddler and a newborn could bring.

Theo was adjusting to his new role as a big brother with enthusiasm and curiosity. He followed his parents around, always asking to hold the baby or show her his toys. “She likes dinosaurs, right?” he would ask, clutching his favourite plastic stegosaurus.

“She loves dinosaurs,” Max assured him, grinning as he ruffled Theo’s hair.

Max had seamlessly embraced fatherhood, splitting his time between the garage and his family. He spent his evenings teaching Theo how to kick a football in the back garden and his nights rocking Mary-Ann to sleep.

The house, with its picket fence and flowerbeds lovingly tended by his wife, was the picture of the life Max had never imagined for himself. Yet, here he was, living it and loving every moment.

The day of Mary-Ann’s baptism dawned clear and bright, the kind of perfect day that made everything feel just a little more magical. Their little family was dressed in their Sunday best, Theo proudly wearing a bowtie that his mother had wrestled him into after much negotiation, and Mary-Ann bundled in a delicate white christening gown.

They arrived at the church to find her aunt, Danny, and a few close friends waiting for them, just as they had for Theo’s baptism years ago. Her aunt immediately swooped in to coo over Mary-Ann, her face soft with affection.

“She’s the spitting image of you at this age,” her aunt said warmly, brushing a soft curl away from Mary-Ann’s forehead.

“Let’s hope she doesn’t inherit my teenage rebellion,” she joked, glancing at Max, who chuckled.

The service itself was intimate and beautiful. As the pastor spoke, Theo sat on Max’s lap, squirming occasionally but staying quiet enough to earn whispered praise from both his parents. When it came time for the baptism, Max and his wife stood together at the front of the church, Theo holding onto his mother’s hand while Max held Mary-Ann close.

The pastor asked Theo if he wanted to say anything, and the boy puffed out his chest importantly, his tiny voice ringing out through the quiet chapel. “We’re all gonna be... um... part of Chris-tain-ity now!”

There was a soft chuckle from the congregation, but Theo frowned, frustrated by his own mispronunciation. His brows knitted together, and before anyone could stop him, he muttered under his breath, “Damn it.”

Max’s head snapped around, his eyes narrowing as he looked down at his son. “Where did you hear that, Theo?”

Without hesitation, Theo turned and pointed to Danny, who froze mid-grin. “Uncle Daddy says it all the time.”

The entire room dissolved into laughter, but Max’s expression darkened. “His name is Uncle Danny. Not Daddy,” he corrected firmly. He handed Mary-Ann to his wife with exaggerated care and then fixed Danny with a dangerous look. “Uncle Danny also has five seconds to run.”

Danny’s eyes widened as he stammered, “Now, hold on a second—”

“Five.”

Danny bolted toward the back of the church, nearly tripping over a pew. Max didn’t miss a beat, stepping around the altar and charging after him. Theo laughed hysterically as he watched his father chase Danny out the door, and his mother shook her head, trying to stifle her own giggles.

When Max returned a few minutes later, slightly winded but victorious, Danny trailing behind him with a sheepish grin, the ceremony continued. The pastor, who had been struggling to keep a straight face, resumed his blessing, and little Mary-Ann was baptised without further incident.

As they left the church, Theo clung to Max’s hand, his face lit with excitement. “Daddy, can I chase Uncle Danny next time?”

Max ruffled his hair, smirking. “Not until you’re faster than me, kid.”

The two of them loved the life they had built together and sometimes when Max woke up he had to pinch himself. Just under half a decade ago he was eating dry hotdogs and drinking stale beers in a rundown trailer. Now he was helping his wife. His wife. In the kitchen with his two kids. Not one, two. Max was a father and everyday he woke up he couldn’t really believe. it.

The smell of cinnamon and vanilla wafted through the house as she stood at the counter, carefully icing a tray of perfectly golden cupcakes. Mary-Ann was nestled in her baby chair nearby, happily chewing on a soft toy, and the kitchen felt like the warm, beating heart of their home.

Out in the garage, Max had Theo standing on a small step stool by the workbench, his tiny hands gripping a wrench that was far too big for him. Max crouched beside him, guiding his hands as they worked on an old oil pan together. Theo giggled every time Max made a joke, his high-pitched laughter filling the air.

She wiped her hands on her apron, grabbed a glass of iced tea, and wandered outside to watch her boys. Leaning against the doorframe, she crossed her arms and smiled. “Teaching him how to change oil already? He’s four, Max.”

Max turned, his grease-streaked face lighting up when he saw her. “Hey, never too early to learn the basics, right, buddy?”

Theo nodded enthusiastically, smearing a streak of oil across his cheek as he waved the wrench triumphantly. “Mama, I’m helping!”

“I can see that,” she laughed, walking over and kissing the top of his messy hair.

As her gaze wandered around the garage, it landed on their old motorbike, tucked into the corner, its polished chrome gleaming even in the dim light. Her smile turned into a smirk, and she gestured toward it with her glass. “You know, you’re going to have to sell that death trap.”

Max froze mid-laugh, a look of horror crossing his face. “What? No way. We’ve got so many memories with that bike.”

“We have two kids now, Max.”

He frowned, standing up and crossing his arms. “But what if Theo wants it when he grows up?”

She raised an eyebrow, placing a hand on her hip. “He’s not stepping a foot on that thing.”

Max threw his hands up in exaggerated protest. “Oh, so when it’s us, it’s fine, but when it’s Theo, it’s a problem?”

She grinned, completely unbothered. “Yup.”

Before he could argue further, Danny strolled into the garage, a familiar plastic container in hand. “Alright, where’s the good stuff? I heard there’s baking going on in that kitchen, and you know the deal���Danny gets dibs.”

She laughed, pointing toward the house. “I’ll bring you some in a second. Just made a fresh batch.”

As Danny leaned against the workbench, Max glanced at him, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Hey, Danny, you wanna buy that death trap over there?”

Danny raised an eyebrow, glancing at the bike. “How much are we talking?”

Max grinned. “Fifty bucks.”

Danny’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What’s the catch?”

Max smirked, holding out a hand. “You buy it, but I still get to use it whenever I want.”

Danny laughed, shaking his head but reaching out to shake Max’s hand anyway. “You got yourself a deal, man.”

Max turned to her with a triumphant grin, wiping his greasy hands on his jeans. “See? It’s sold. Problem solved.”

She rolled her eyes, shaking her head but smiling as she headed back into the house. “You two are impossible.”

As she disappeared into the kitchen, Max knelt back down beside Theo, who looked up at him with wide, curious eyes.

“Daddy, what’s a death trap?”

Max chuckled, ruffling his hair. “It’s something fun that your mom doesn’t like.”

From the kitchen, she called out, “I heard that!”

While she packed up some of her baked goods for Danny she too thought of how lucky she was. How all her prayers had been listened to. How she finally made it out of that house. How she was going to witness all her own kid’s life milestones with joy and love, not hatred and jealousy. 

The morning of Theo’s first day of school, the sunlight streamed through the windows as the family bustled to get ready. Theo stood proudly in his brand-new school uniform, his backpack almost as big as he was. Mary-Ann, her curls tied up in tiny pigtails, was toddling around in her nursery outfit, clutching her stuffed bunny like it was her lifeline.

Their mother, however, was a whirlwind of emotions. She double-checked Theo’s lunchbox for the third time and nearly forgot to zip Mary-Ann’s coat, all while blinking back tears.

“I can’t believe they’re both going,” she murmured, her voice trembling as she fixed Theo’s collar for the tenth time.

Max, leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee, tried to hide his grin. “Sweetheart, they’re not moving out. It’s just school and nursery.”

She shot him a glare. “Don’t start with me today, Max.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Come here, buddy,” he said, crouching down to Theo’s level. “You ready for your big day?”

Theo nodded, his little chest puffed out. “I’m gonna make so many friends!”

Max ruffled his hair. “That’s my boy. And you,” he added, turning to Mary-Ann and lifting her into his arms. “You take care of those nursery teachers, alright? Show ‘em who’s boss.”

Mary-Ann giggled, planting a slobbery kiss on his cheek.

After a bittersweet drop-off that left her sniffling the entire car ride home, they returned to their now eerily quiet house. For the first time in years, it was just the two of them.

She walked into the living room, glanced at the toys still scattered around, and sighed heavily, sinking into the couch. “It’s too quiet.”

Max sat beside her, pulling her into his side. “I told you this morning was gonna hit you hard.”

She swatted his chest lightly. “It’s just�� I’ve never been in the house without one of them here. It’s so empty.” She buried her face in her hands, her voice muffled. “What if they need me? What if Mary-Ann gets scared? Or Theo forgets his lunch?”

Max chuckled softly, rubbing her back. “Sweetheart, Theo’s got this. The kid’s practically running for class president. And Mary-Ann? She’s gonna have the nursery wrapped around her finger before lunch.”

She peeked at him from behind her hands, her lips twitching into a reluctant smile. “You think so?”

“I know so.” He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple.

For a moment, she leaned into him, letting the comfort of his presence soothe her. But the silence of the house pressed in again, making her sigh.

Max pulled back slightly, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You know, we’ve got the house all to ourselves now.”

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Max…”

He grinned, running his fingers lightly up her arm. “I’m just saying. We’ve got a whole empty house and a few hours of peace.”

Despite herself, she laughed, smacking his shoulder. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m practical,” he countered, leaning closer. “We might never get this chance again, angel. Think about it.”

She shook her head, rolling her eyes, but her cheeks flushed. “I can’t believe you’re suggesting this right now.”

“I’m just trying to make the most of the quiet,” he teased, his hand slipping around her waist. “And besides, you’re way too stressed. Let me help you relax.”

She laughed despite herself, the weight of the morning momentarily forgotten as he kissed her neck, his stubble tickling her skin.

“You’re ridiculous,” she murmured, tilting her head to meet his lips, her heart finally feeling a little lighter.

And if she counted the exact weeks, that day was how she ended up pregnant with her third and final child.

Nine months later, their family grew again with the arrival of a boy they named Daniel. It was a tribute to Danny, their ever-reliable friend who had, over the years, become less like a buddy and more like an honorary member of the family.

Daniel came into the world with a loud cry and a shock of dark hair, immediately staking his place in the chaos of their household. Mary-Ann, now three and brimming with sass, had proudly declared herself the "boss" of her new baby brother. She often toddled around after him, dragging her favourite stuffed bunny in one hand and fussing over Daniel like a miniature mother.

Theo, at five, took his role as the eldest sibling very seriously. He loved showing off to Mary-Ann and anyone who’d listen about how he could hold his baby brother “without dropping him” (a feat Max closely supervised with a hovering hand). Theo also began peppering Max with endless questions about how cars worked, proudly announcing that he’d take over the garage one day.

The house was louder now, bursting with life and love in every corner. Daniel’s cries, Theo’s endless chatter, and Mary-Ann’s theatrical storytelling meant there was never a dull moment.

Max had learned to juggle bottles, bedtime stories, and car repairs, often collapsing into bed with her at the end of the day, marvelling at the whirlwind their life had become.

On quieter days—though “quiet” was a stretch—she’d watch Max play with the kids in their backyard. Mary-Ann would climb all over him, Theo would ask a million questions about the engine of a toy car, and baby Daniel would sit in his lap, chewing on whatever he could grab.

Sunday mornings had become a cherished tradition for her. Dressing Theo in his little button-up shirts, coaxing Mary-Ann into tights and her favourite frilly dress, and cradling baby Daniel in his soft onesie all felt like sacred rituals. She loved sharing her faith with her children, teaching them the hymns, and watching their faces light up during Sunday school.

But as much as she loved church, there was always a weight to bear. Her parents still attended the same church, their presence lingering like a spectre of the past. While most of the congregation had embraced her family with warmth, her parents had not. They’d sit on the far side of the pews, casting disapproving glares, and every so often, there were whispers—cutting, cruel words spread by those who believed her parents' version of events.

Still, she focused on her children. Theo beamed when he memorised Bible verses, Mary-Ann proudly showed off her colouring pages, and baby Daniel giggled at the choir. Sharing this part of her life with them felt like reclaiming something pure.

That afternoon, the church hosted a children’s Bible study, and she stayed to help with crafts and snacks while Max wrangled the baby. Daniel was perfectly content napping on his dad’s chest while Max sat in the corner, earning approving glances from the other parents for his patience and attentiveness.

As they packed up to leave, her father appeared, stepping out of the shadows like a storm cloud. His eyes were cold, his expression a mask of disdain. He walked past her, close enough that she could feel the venom in his whispered word:

"Whore."

The word cut through her like a knife. She froze, her heart pounding, the air sucked out of the room. Before she could even react, Max’s voice broke the moment.

"Angel, hold Daniel."

She turned to him, startled, as he handed her the baby with a calmness that belied the fire in his eyes. Then, without hesitation, Max spun on his heel and marched toward her father.

The sound of Max’s fist connecting with her father’s jaw was thunderous in the quiet room. Her father staggered back, clutching his face, as gasps rippled through the remaining churchgoers.

Max stood tall, his voice steady but cold. “Don’t you ever call my wife that again. You lost any right to speak to her the day you hurt her and abused your power. She’s a better person than you’ll ever be.”

Her father glared up at Max, but he didn’t dare rise. The weight of his disgrace was palpable as the onlookers murmured, their judgement no longer directed at her but at the man who had insulted his own daughter in a house of worship.

She stood rooted to the spot, Daniel cradled in her arms, her cheeks flushed. She could feel every eye in the room on her, but the only one that mattered was Max’s. He turned back to her, his expression softening, and strode toward her.

Max placed a gentle hand on her back, his touch grounding her. “Let’s go, angel,” he said quietly, his voice carrying none of the anger from moments before.

She nodded, unable to form words, and followed him out, their children close by. As they left the church, she glanced down at Theo and Mary-Ann, both wide-eyed but clutching each other’s hands tightly.

When they got to the car, she took a deep, shaky breath. “Max—”

He cut her off with a kiss to her temple. “Don’t. You don’t owe him anything. Not even your anger.”

Tears welled in her eyes, and she leaned into him, Daniel squirming lightly in her arms. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Max tilted her chin up so she was looking at him. “You and these kids are my family. No one, not even him, gets to treat you like that.”

taglist: @sinofwriting @le-le-lea @vanicogh @iamred-iamyellow @rayaskoalaland @spookyanamurdock @iimplicitt @hellowgoodbye @maximuminfluencerstarlight @lottalove4evelyn @piceous21 @ladscarlett @leclerc13 @linnygirl09 @labelledejourr @cmleitora @fortunapre @felicityforyou @isagrace22 @bookishnerd1132 @formulaal @mastermindbaby @daddyslittlevillain @inmynotes63 @litllefox @hollstopia

[rottenpumpkin13]

Somehow, the Turks are all sick and the SOLDIERs are called upon to do an undercover mission where one of them has to pose as a bride and the rest are her wedding party.

How much of a bridezilla does Genesis become, and what roles does he assign the others? What happens? How much does Lazard's stock price in headache medicine go up?

*Tseng is massaging Lazard's shoulders while Lazard sips from a flask*

Tseng: Director, relax. Your operatives are more than capable of completing this mission. Perhaps try having a little faith.

*Genesis walks in wearing a wedding gown*

*Tseng wordlessly plucks the flask from Lazard's hand and drains it in one swig*

Lazard: Commander, what in the name of Gaia is this? All I said was to go undercover!

Genesis: Exactly! Undercover. Distraction. Hidden in plain sight. And what's more inconspicuous than a radiant bride and her devoted wedding party?

*Sephiroth walks in, dressed as a priest*

Sephiroth: If there is a god, I pray they deliver me swiftly from this mortal coil.

Lazard, rubbing his temples: Of course. Because nothing screams subtlety like a fake wedding.

*Zack walks in wearing a groom's tuxedo*

Zack: Wait, this is a fake wedding!? Are you serious? Man, I thought I was actually getting married! Kunsel threw me a bachelor party and everything!

*Angeal walks in behind him, visibly uncomfortable in his maid of honor dress, followed by Kunsel as the best man*

Lazard: This is absurd! You all should be ashamed of yourselves for such an utter lack of—SEPHIROTH! LET THAT MAN GO THIS INSTANT!

*Sephiroth is drowning Hojo in a nearby fountain*

Sephiroth: I'm performing a baptism.

[novaursa]

The Flames We Loved (dark baptism)

This is one of my darker works. If it's not your cup of tea, skip it. All warnings are up for this additional part of the story.

Happy Halloween! 🔥🩸

- Summary: You are called to Aerys' chambers. A ritual that is familiar to you, one which always happens in wake of his burnings. But this time is more unholy than ever before.

- Pairing: daughter!reader/father!Aerys II Targaryen

- Note: You can place this scene everywhere you wish in the story's timeline.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- The first part of the story: prelude

Ser Jonothor Darry and Ser Gerold Hightower flank you, silent and unmoving as they escort you through the darkened corridors of the Red Keep. Their faces remain impassive, revealing nothing of what lies ahead, but you feel it—the ever-thickening dread that seems to claw at your skin. Your father, the King, has summoned you, and you already know what this night holds by the strange energy in the air, like the silent fury of a storm building over Blackwater Bay.

As you approach his chambers, the heavy scent of smoke and copper clings to the air. Blood—fresh, potent—fills your senses. Ser Gerold opens the door, his white cloak barely brushing your shoulder as you step inside, and your heart seizes at the scene laid out before you.

The room is dark save for the dancing flames in the hearth. A dragon egg, dormant yet pulsing with a life long snuffed out, rests in the embers, radiating a feverish heat. But it is the blood—spattered across the floor, the walls, even the bed’s silken sheets—that halts your breath. It drips like a sacrifice offered in some forbidden rite, and you realize, horrified, that the blood is his. Your father’s.

He stands before the bath, skin pale and ghostly under the smears of red that trail from his chest, arms, and hands. Cuts line his flesh, jagged, cruel things, like he’s waged a silent war against himself in the throne room. Aerys’s eyes, wild and unchained, fall upon you with a strange, predatory glint as you step forward.

"Father," you murmur, throat tight. "What happened? Why are you bleeding?"

His expression shifts, his mouth morphing into something halfway between a smile and a sneer. He raises a hand—bloodied, trembling slightly—and gestures for you to come closer. "Y/N," he says, your name falling from his lips like an invocation. His voice is thick, weighted with something dark and unholy. "The Iron Throne does not yield easily to mere men."

Without breaking his gaze, he motions to the bath, its water shimmering faintly in the firelight, waiting. "Undress," he commands, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.

Your hands shake as they move to the fastenings of your dress. The fabric slips from your shoulders, pooling at your feet, and you feel exposed, vulnerable in a way you cannot name as his gaze sears across your bare skin. You take tentative steps forward, lowering yourself into the bath. The water is warm, almost scalding, but it does little to ease the chill sinking into your bones.

Before you can fully adjust to the heat, Aerys is there, sinking into the bath beside you, the water turning crimson as it mingles with the blood from his wounds. His hands find your face, his touch harsh yet feverish. The fierceness in his eyes flares, and he presses his lips to yours, fierce, hungry, claiming. The taste of copper stains your tongue as his kiss deepens, consuming, as though he intends to devour every part of you.

"Do you understand, daughter?" he murmurs against your lips, his words slipping into Valyrian, a language as ancient as the dragons themselves. "The blood… it is our birthright. It is the legacy we pass on, the fire within our veins."

His hands roam over your skin, leaving bloody trails in their wake, the red smeared across your pale flesh like a lover’s caress, an artist’s mark. He moves with purpose, his body pressed tightly against yours, and when he enters you, there’s no tenderness, only an unrelenting intensity that steals your breath.

A gasp escapes you, involuntary, and a twisted amusement lights his face. He strokes your cheek almost mockingly, leaning down to whisper, "Does it frighten you, my sweet? The blood? The power that thrums beneath your skin? It should. It is a gift few are worthy of."

His pace quickens, his hands gripping you tightly as he continues to move within you, his breathing ragged, punctuated by muttered words in perverted Valyrian, half-prayers, half-madness. And then, his hand reaches for something beside the bath, a flash of metal catching the firelight. You barely have a moment to understand before he draws the blade across the skin just above your breast, a quick, sharp slice that makes you cry out.

“Shh,” he murmurs, a mockery of comfort as he presses his hand to the wound, his blood-stained fingers mingling with yours, your blood running together, sinking into his skin as though binding you to him in a way words never could. "Do you feel it?" His voice is low, almost reverent. "Our blood as one, a union of fire and flesh."

His lips find your neck, trailing down to the fresh cut, where he drinks in the sight of your blood with a fevered gaze. "You are mine, Y/N. As I am yours. We are bound by blood and by fire, by destiny and by madness. There can be no other."

Each movement, each thrust, feels like a command, binding you tighter to him as his words sink into your mind like a brand. The water swirls around you both, darkened with blood, the scent of iron and smoke heavy in the air, a grotesque ritual binding you to the Mad King, your father, in a way that feels both holy and damnable.

And as he moves within you, his words grow softer, becoming a chant, a prophecy, spoken only for you. "We are the blood of the dragon, daughter. Ours is the fire that shall never die. And in the end, the world shall burn, and we shall watch it burn together."

As your bodies move in sync, your breaths merge, shallow and gasping, his hands rough yet steady as they hold you firmly in place. The intensity builds, like fire caught in a tempest, and you cling to him, fingers digging into his shoulders, holding on as if you are the only things keeping each other tethered to this world. The iron-scented water sloshes around you, crimson and murky, but you are too lost to care. His eyes blaze into yours as you both reach that blinding height, his mouth turning into a near-manic grin as he basks in your grasp, your shuddering breath against his blood-streaked skin.

Your gaze drifts, just for a moment, falling upon the dragon egg in the hearth. It sits lifelessly amid the flames, long turned to stone, a relic of a time and magic that seem long gone, yet it calls to something deep within you—a shared memory, a yearning for the impossible. You feel the weight of it in your chest, the hollow ache of something that will never truly be reborn.

Aerys notices the direction of your gaze, his hands cradling your face. He presses his forehead to yours, a rare, fleeting gentleness in his insanity. "It will awaken someday," he murmurs, his voice soothing, almost tender, as though he’s comforting a child haunted by nightmares. "Our blood, Y/N, our fire. One day, it will return, and the world will tremble as it did in days of old."

He kisses your temple, his lips ghosting over your brow, calming you with the ease of someone who has held you since infancy, as if his words hold an unspoken promise that everything, no matter how twisted, is as it should be. "But it needs sacrifice," he whispers, as if sharing a secret. "And we are both made for this, aren’t we?"

The bathwater, still tinged with the remnants of his blood, feels heavier as he pulls you to your feet. His grip is possessive as he leads you from the crimson-stained waters, not sparing a glance at the mess of diluted red that remains behind. He draws you to the bed, a glint of satisfaction in his gaze, and you follow, half-dazed, a strange warmth filling you as his fingers tighten around your hand.

As dawn approaches, he finally loosens his grip, and you drift into an uneasy sleep beside him, his arm draped over you like a claim etched into your very soul. The silence is heavy, almost oppressive, the room filled with the lingering scent of iron, smoke, and something darkly primal, bound by the memory of his feverish touch.

The servants enter the room with the first light of morning, their footsteps hesitant, almost fearful, as if they sense the aura of something forbidden before even crossing the threshold. The scene before them stills their breath—blood pools around the edges of the bath, drying into dark streaks upon the floor, the sheets tangled and streaked with red, as if an unholy rite had been performed in the dead of night. Their eyes widen as they catch sight of the stone dragon egg in the hearth, its black surface cracked and scorched, as though touched by something unearthly.

One servant dares to look upon you, lying beside the king in a deep slumber, your skin still marked with the faint streaks of his blood. He holds you possessively, his hand splayed over your shoulder, his fingers stained with dried crimson. Even in sleep, his grip upon you is fierce, binding, as if he would never allow you to leave.

Another servant averts her gaze, swallowing against the horror curling in her stomach as she approaches the bed. She shudders, her hands trembling, but Aerys’s eyes snap open before she can even reach for the sheets. His gaze is piercing, feral, and the servant stumbles back, her cheeks blanching as his lips curl into a twisted smile.

“Did you come to see the remnants of our union?” he asks, voice low and mocking, the hint of mania bleeding through. "Look upon her,” he commands, his hand moving to rest against your cheek. “Look upon the blood of dragons made flesh, the fire reborn. We are eternal, she and I."

The servants exchange wary glances, their faces pale, eyes flitting between each other as though afraid to look directly at either of you. Aerys’s laugh fills the chamber, hollow yet ringing, a sound that seems to seep into the stone walls, leaving an imprint that will haunt the room long after dawn has faded.

"Tell them," he murmurs, voice dark and soft as he settles back beside you, eyes drifting closed once more. "Tell them the blood of the dragon is more than they could ever understand."

[tellmeallaboutit]

knock knock (Raphael x Player), THE ENDING

Chapter 18, In Which You and Raphael Live Happily Ever After

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Luca Signorelli: detail of The Deeds of Antichrist 

The second year of the Coming of Prophet Raphael. Holy See, Rome. Do not let anyone deceive you in any way, for that day will not come unless the rebellion comes first, and the man of lawlessness is revealed, the son of destruction, who opposes and who exalts himself over every so-called god or object of worship, so that he sits down in the temple of God, proclaiming that he himself is God.

“Such a blessed day”, your mum said. 

“It is”, you said. 

A lovely midsummer day. The sun beat down on the Vatican gardens, dappled shadows through the trees. You and your mum were having coffee in the gazebo, you with your phone, she with her newspaper, enjoying the sweet scent of flowers and freshly cut grass.

Not much changed in the Holy See. The Family of the Prophet Raphael moved in where the late Pope used to reside; crosses were banned and called a heresy, replaced by a symbol vaguely reminiscent of the double horns, but otherwise, not much.

Your mum gasped as she read something, and you had to shoot a quick glance at the headlines as well…

…a tactical nuclear strike… the Holy Army of Prophet Raphael…

You quickly looked back on your phone before you could catch the rest.

“Well, there has always been trouble in the Middle East”, your mom said after some contemplation. "God willing, Raul will bring about an end to it all."

“Raphael”, you corrected. “And be careful with your phrasing”.

"I prefer to call him by his baptismal name, the one he bore before the Resurrection," she responded with a soft smile. “Old habit”.

“Those are two different people”, you said. “The one who got resurrected was not the one who died”.

“Anya, you got more religious than me”, your mum laughed. “Who could have known?”.

You held your tongue and continued scrolling through Reddit, the subreddit dedicated to the Prophet. 

“You should go out”, your mum said. "You should visit Rome someday; it's been reborn. The streets are pristine, people dressed in their Sunday best every day, crime rates at their lowest since records began. It’s heaven on earth. Reinstating capital punishment was truly an act of divine wisdom. We are blessed indeed to have witnessed His Second Coming".

And he will speak words against the Most High, and he will wear out the holy ones of the Most High, and he will attempt to change times and law, and they will be given into his hand for a time and two times and half a time.

You did not need to go out. 

Nothing existed outside of this house anyway.

It’s just you and this house. And the gardens.

As for your mum, she was the necessary evil.

Raphael was busy with his Crusades, you were busy battling Asmodeus, and since Raphael could not stand the idea of nannies, your mother looked after your son around-the-clock. It was her own personal mission from God, to raise the son of the Great Prophet, so she said.

“If you ask me,” she said as she sipped her tea from a china cup, “those who turn a blind eye to Raul’s miracles are simply reaping what they've sown. God knows who they truly serve.”

Oh, damn! They finally dropped the new update to the Conquest Of Nessus. At long last, you flagged these bugs a month ago. 

“Anya, pay attention to your child. What’s so interesting on your phone?”

Three new re-worked romance scenes with Raphael and a new boss fight, that’s what's interesting on your phone.

“What?”, you asked as you scrolled through the release notes. “He is happy. Michi is a very happy little boy”.

Your little boy sat in his stroller with his jet black hair and blue eyes; angelic except for those little double horns and tail. So well-behaved and sweet you sometimes forgot about his existence. Michi was short for Michael, and Michael was short for Archangel Michael - nomen est omen after all.

Couldn't ask for a better baby.

“Anya, you need to be present for your son”.

You never spoke with Raphael of Michael’s blue eyes; with your mum, of his horns. She never brought them once either; but she would often knit small hats for him, carefully including two holes on each side.

Some things you just don’t talk about in a family. 

“Present where?”, you tore your eyes off the phone screen. “Mom, I wish you would refrain from criticizing me all the time—I'm doing my best here.”

Your mother’s face softened into a serene smile.

“I know, sweetheart," she said warmly, "I am proud of you. I love you—you're the most wonderful daughter anyone could dream of."

That’s all you ever wished for.

****

The remainder of your day was spent immersed in beta-testing, just like in your pre-Raphael days. As midnight loomed, you'd squashed enough bugs to warrant a serious chat with Larian.

"Thanks for the latest patch," you began as the newly appointed development lead appeared on your Teams call screen. "There are a few areas I want to discuss, particularly this bit where Tav and Raphael liberate Nessus from Asmodeus' tyranny and celebrate their wedding."

“Too cheesy? We hoped you’d like it”

“Um, I appreciate the sentiment”, you said. “But I had a feeling it was too much. Like, unrealistic. Can you schedule me a call with the chief writer? Besides many other minor points. Raphael doesn’t talk like that. But you will receive my full feedback in an e-mail”.

"Certainly," he agreed with a nod. "We'll make sure everything is according to your preferences. After all, Lady Prophet, you're our exclusive client."

Nobody else was allowed to play the game.

“Anya”, you corrected. “I really cannot stand when they call me Lady Prophet. But just so you know, I really appreciate the hard work you do for me”, you said.

“How is the Prophet?"

"Oh, well... The Middle Eastern conversion isn't exactly going as smoothly as anticipated. South Asia isn’t looking much better".

Russia was in the drenches of a civil war between raphaelists and orthodox. China bought itself some time. 

"Here's hoping there will still be some folks left for him to convert," he joked without a smile on his face. "Just so we're clear though - we are all followers of the Prophet here at Larian Studios. In hoc signo vinces. No heretics among us, Lady Prophet. Anya. Sorry. Anya".

You could feel your cheeks turning red. There were heretics, yes. A lot of them. Especially in northern Europe.

They did not live long before they were put on trial in hellfire. Raphael had his own inquisitors (there were about ten thousand applications for a place, a favourite career choice for young men of Catholic background).

Raphael did not burn the inquisitors for their crimes back then.

He burned them because their crimes were not in his name.

For false messiahs and false prophets will appear, and will produce great signs and wonders in order to deceive, if possible, even the elect.

“Don’t hate me”, you muttered. “I did not… You guys created Raphael. Not me”.

There was a long silence.

"We'll have that update ready for you ASAP," he finally said.

***

You used to hate the spotlight, and you still do. 

Unfortunately to you, you were the most discussed woman in the world; and your marriage was the item of every gossip. Which meant you had to do public statements from time to time. This time, on national news, live stream from the papal enclave, you and Raphael sitting on the sofa, the entire United Christian nation's eyes on you.

He was dressed in pristine white and blood red; the two colors he hailed now to be his signature. White shirt, scarlet waistcoat, pristine white cape over his shoulders. Not quite the papal robes, not quite his devilish attire; something quite in the middle. 

"Lady Prophet," the reporter began, her face magnified on the giant screen behind her before switching to yours. “How challenging is it to be the spouse of the Chosen One?”

“It is what I wished for”, you said simply.

“My dear Anya and I are striving to give our utmost efforts in making our relationship flourish and serve as a model for other believers to follow”, Raphael said as he held your hand and kissed it gently.

Raphael was trying his best, you were sure of it. He never raised his voice at you, nor did he ever harm you in any way. Everything was wonderful in the bedroom. 

Both of you were putting in your best effort. Because that's what marriage is all about: work. It’s hard.

Not without it’s lovely moment, of course. Raphael read you poetry before bed: from Milton to Eliot to Keats. And you would go to the theater every other weekend, and to the opera once every two months. Not last month, though, as he was away managing the conflict from his war room in Zion. 

"Can you tell us how both of you were resurrected alongside the Prophet? Lady Prophet, is it true that God commanded you to end both of your lives so that you could be reborn?" another reporter piped up.

“The details are hazy, if I am honest”, you said. “I am not sure it was God who commanded me, but it seemed the right thing to do”.

Most of the details you yourself got from the press. You were dead for three days. They held a lavish funeral for both of you, despite you being the murderer. The Family wished for it (and kept the details of your deaths hush-hush), you learned later. There was a lot of press, a lot of crying. Both caskets were open, a scarf around your neck, a suit jacket covering Raul’s gun wound. They made this whole “and then, both were dead” thing oddly romantic.

So, half of the world witnessed you both coming back from the dead on a live stream. That part you remember. Chaos. Some went straight into religious hysteria, some ran, some just stood there shell-shocked. Raphael delivered his first speech within the first hour.

Therefore, stay awake, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming.

"Anya chose to sacrifice herself for us all," Raphael added smoothly. "Her bravery knows no bounds."

“I did not feel so brave at the moment”, you said.

You killed yourself and you were dead for three days.

Three days of nothing. 

Absolute darkness. 

Not a single memory or feeling.

“Your actions triggered the Second Coming, Lady Prophet, for which are eternally grateful”, the moderator said as she clutched the double-horned pendant on her chest. “God guide your hand, Prophet Raphael. In hoc signo vinces”.

For the powers of the heavens will be shaken. And then they will see the Son of Man coming bearing the Holy Light and great glory.

“Tell us, what of your son?”, she continued. “You were pregnant at that moment, were you not?”

“I did not know that”, you said. “Everybody but me knew, but I did not”.

Raul knew. Jens knew. Camilla knew. Your mother knew. Nobody told you. Angus told them that you had a high risk of miscarriage, so it would be wise not to tell you until the 10th week, when the chances decrease rapidly. You killed yourself at nine weeks and four days.

Yourself and Michi. 

“And if you knew”, the reporter asked and took a little pause.  “Would you have had the courage to?..”

Would you kill Raul and then kill yourself?

Would you?

Michi (he would be called something different, for sure, Marco or Alessandro or something) would be playing with Raul now. Raul would have dreamt of such a kid.  You’d be living in his villa while the king of Blackrock would be turning the world into an even more capitalist hellhole than it was. You dreamt of this scenario too, recently, and woke up screaming and not knowing what’s real and shook Raphael awake to check what colour his eyes were.

Brown.

The only dream of Raul that came true was that Italy became the powerhouse of the United Christian Union. Raphael kept hold of Blackrock, too. He did not use the infrastructure and power and money to generate even more profits.

He used it for entirely different purposes.

“Every “if” is a different story”, you said. “I don’t know the other one”.

“Your words are full of wisdom, Lady Prophet. Oh! Such beautiful blue eyes your baby has”.

She gestured towards the photo projected on the screen, taken on Michi's first birthday - there were fireworks and a parade in his honour. The horns were carefully photoshopped away and his black hair slicked back.

Raphael said nothing to the comment, his jaw set tight, his lips slightly twitching. You didn’t have blue eyes either.

Nobody in your family did, all green and brown.

“Plans for more?”, she asked.

“Naturally”, Raphael said. “for as they say, one child is no child at all. I lead by example”.

You said nothing.

“Can the little one already summon the Holy Fire?”, the moderator said, immediately spotting unease between the two of you.

“Not yet,” Raphael said and stood up, facing the cameras. “But in due time, he shall be able to, as will all those who have faith in me. In hoc signo vinces”.

He produced Hellfire in his palm; the parlour trick that converted the first ten million, and it still worked wonders.

The cameras captured every spark. 

For false messiahs and false prophets will appear, and will produce great signs and wonders in order to deceive, if possible, even the elect.

“You never get used to it, do you?”, the TV show moderator said, trembling, her mouth agape with awe. “The miracle of the Holy Fire. The miracle of God”.

“I did”, you shrugged. “You get used to everything, really”.

*** 

After the interview, Raphael came out on the balcony to greet his flock in St Peter's Square, a smile on his face; you were standing next to him, hand in hand. 

The crowd applauded him, their faces absent, possessed, not a trace of humanity in him, chanting his name, chanting your name, chanting something in Latin, shaking their fists, raising the symbol of the Prophet.

"In hoc signo vinces!" They chanted the motto of his Crusades. "In hoc signo vinces!"

All beautifully dressed. White and red robes, gold emblems, guns at their belts. Former citizens of the European Union, now known as the United Christian Union (including the Commonwealth and Latin America). Raphael preferred the Holy Empire, but it never stuck.

"Hail Archangel Raphael! Hail His Lady Prophet!".

Raphael did not forbid to call him archangel, but he humbly asked to be addressed as prophet.

You dropped your eyes and reached for your phone. You haven't checked your emails for a while. It's high time you did.

"Anya," Raphael chided gently. "Your flock needs its Lady”.

Emails. Emails. Who knows what's there? You must know. 

"Give your worshippers some recognition," came the email.

You looked up and waved to the crowd, and they waved back in delight, shouting your title. Raphael raised both arms to the blackened sky above. The sky responded in kind; clouds gathered into pitch-black formations, fires flickered. They knew what Raphael was summoning, and so did his flock.

The hellstorm was coming.

***

"I keep thinking, Anya."

You watched as Raphael unbuttoned his shirt and prepared for the night's rest. Soon he'd be brushing his teeth and lathering his skin with moisturiser before changing into blue silk pajamas.

You wondered how much of this nightly routine was a remnant of his Raul days and how much was just Raphael. In moments of that, the reality of one blurred into the memory of another. 

"What about, my love?" you asked as you combed through your hair.

"The devil," he said. "The one you mentioned in Dr Bambauer's files. The one you lied to me about. It was not Asmodeus, Anya. I am sure of that now. Who was it, then, and why did he choose to reveal himself to you instead of me?"

You knew that little encounter would come to bite you one day.

"I wish I knew”, you muttered. “Let the old dogs lie. I rubbed his horns, nothing more happened".

"Well, I should be grateful that our child does not bleat," Raphael said, arms folded over his chest. "You've only seen this creature once, have you?"

"Yes," you said, very eager to drop the subject.

"I thought I would finally succeed when Mecca was converted," Raphael said, clenching his fists and relaxing. "Yet I am no closer to true divinity. The powers I know are there have never shown themselves to me. Why?"

"Why do you ask me?", you sighed as you laid yourself to rest.

"For the same reason I chose you, my dear consort. You seem to see more than anyone else".

And yet he never asked you about the things he decides to do on his crusades.

"Why the tactical nuke, Raphael?" you asked, closing your eyes and pressing your cheek against the silk of the pillow. "You can summon hellstorm and hellfire to make them worship you. Why?"

Raphael and tactical nukes should have never coexisted in the same sentence.

Whips, hellfire, infernal magic, yes.

Nukes, segregation, jihad, no. 

"I can summon hellstorm and hellfire," Raphael nodded. "Yet there are those who continue to dismiss it as psyops and propaganda and deep fakes. The use of tactical nuclear weapons has proven to be a more efficacious method for conversion."

For you yourselves are fully aware that the day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night. While people are saying, “There is peace and security,” then sudden destruction will come upon them as labor pains come upon a pregnant woman, and they will not escape.

"You don’t like guns, but you like nukes? Was it Kötter's advice?", you asked. Raphael said nothing, so that meant "yes". "Why have you never fired him? He is Raul's man, and Raul was a piece of shit".

That was the first time you said his name out loud in ages.

"Raul was competent in choosing advisors," Raphael snapped back. "I shall not speak of the man again and neither shall you. I have enough reminders, thank you".

You read recently that parents with green and brown eyes have 12% to produce blue-eyed kids. It’s possible, just unlikely.

But you said nothing as Raphael creamed his hands. Some things you just don’t talk about in a family. 

"It's just... I wish you could have asked me," you said, emphasising the word "wish". “I would not have allowed that”.

No, your magic never worked on him. 

He never let it work with him. You have all the power in the world, but not with him, never with him. 

"I didn't wish to distract you from your reverie," Raphael whispered as he lay on top of you, ready to commence the next part of the evening programme. "Or disturb your beautiful dreams."

My sweet. My darling. Little mouse. Apple of my eye.

Never, never, "my love". 

Not even once.

***

Behold! I tell you a mystery.

You didn't have to do anything but enjoy yourself, day after day, week after week. Michi was growing up all by himself, a poster child in all manners conceivable, your mother took great care of him, Raphael was away on crusades. 

Life was idyllic behind the high walls of the Holy See, guarded by the carefully selected Prophet's Guard. Nothing ever happened inside. Perfectly orderly, perfectly lawful, clean and utterly, utterly beautiful. One thing Raphael did right (one of the few) was bringing back classical art with a vengeance - sculptures especially.

You didn't have to work, you didn't have to think about the future (what future?), you didn't have to worry about money or health - you had everything. Everything there was to have.

And the world outside was what it was: the world outside.

And the stories of others were what they were: the stories of others.

Do they exist, even? Maybe all that exists is you.

Or maybe all that doesn’t exist is you; maybe you never came back from your suicide.

Be it as it may, nothing ever disturbed your reverie, your own little world. And you dreamed, every day. Of how things could be different. Should have been different. 

Of other worlds, other people, other places, other stories.

And you played the game, of course, daily. You killed Asmodeus a thousand times, a thousand ways. You asked for three rewrites. None of them mattered. Raphael was getting more and more frustrated, so you searched for new ways to defeat Asmodeus. 

“Lady Prophet?”, the servant girl knocked on your door when you and your party were casting poisonous clouds on Asmodeus’ guard. “There is a visitor waiting for you at the entrance door”.

A visitor, on a Sunday morning? You haven't had any visitors in years. You personally, at least. You asked what he looked like. The girl flushed red and said she could not remember, but he was very sweet.

Huh.

You were all too aware of the sight that would greet you once you swung open the grandiose door to the Papal Palace, yet a gasp still escaped your lips.

There he was, Mr. Goat, looking somewhat dishevelled with muck clinging to his hooves and a rugged hiking backpack slung over his shoulder. In his mouth, he held a dandelion - its yellow petals slightly wilted from being gnawed on.

"That's for you, my sweetest morsel”, he said and handed you the flower. “I couldn't help but sample it myself; it was simply irresistible."

You felt heat rising to your cheeks when he said the word 'irresistible', and then he sent a little wink your way.

"Thank you so much, Mr. Goat," you replied, holding the flower close to your heart. "Raphael isn't home at the moment though. He will be back soon, though".

"The two of us have no need for him", Mr. Goat gave you a very ambiguous smile, and you blushed even harder. “May I come in?”

You nodded and watched as he clomped across Raphael's pristine white marble floors with little regard for cleanliness, leaving trails of dirt in his wake. If Raphael saw this mess, he'd surely have a heart attack. 

Not that it would kill him.

“Would you be so kind and make me a cup of tea, little human?”, Mr. Goat asked. “Terribly thirsty for some good tea”.

You found yourself trailing him into the kitchen, a place you didn't frequent too often - it was more the domain of your staff. But you and your mum did have a tradition of sharing tea on occasion. Mr. Goat glided as he moved, dancing with every step, his hooves tapping against the floor. 

You picked out the crème de la crème of your tea selection and fetched the loveliest cups from their repository.

"Sublime," Mr. Goat crooned as he savoured the first sip, his jet-black eyes sliding shut in pure bliss. "Just what I craved after an eternity.”

Now both of you were snuggled at your quaint coffee table, your legs almost touching underneath it. His coarse fur grazed against your skin.

"I'm glad you liked it. This blend was a gift to Raphael from the Chinese Premier when they signed their pact of non-aggression," you said, though you had doubts about how long that pact would last.

The Chinese government had never officially recognized Raphael's divine status; instead attributing his miracles to some high-tech psychological warfare tech.

"Mmm...I can detect a faint hint of cyanide in its aroma”, Mr. Goat said. “How delightful! So how fares our ambitious cambion?" 

“Well”, you said. “He rules the Earth now. Well, almost”.

The Middle East, India and China remained stubborn holdouts while America had been swept up in religious fervor almost instantly; offering weapons and intelligence support. Nordic resistance had been a minor hiccup but was swiftly dealt with.

The fact that all-out nuclear war hadn't erupted yet was nothing short of miraculous.

“Oh does he now”, Mr. Goat chuckled. “My, my, ready to enter the big boys club, is he? How exciting!”

“He is not too pleased with the result”, you confessed.

"Really? With all those souls under his thumb and yet no closer to achieving godhood?" Mr. Goat chortled with an unsettling glee. “Has he pondered why that might be?”

“He had”, you confessed. “He lashed out quite… profusely recently”.

That was quite a night. The whole house had to lay low and pray for their lives. He managed to punch a hole through a concrete wall in his human form. 

“Who knows, who knows why that might be”, Mr. Goat bleated. “And you, my dearest delight? Do you now have what you always wanted?”

You thought how to answer this question and decided not to.

“You know the answer, Mr. Goat”, you said instead.

“Really?”, Mr. Goat pouted his lips in dissapointment. “Why ever not? Has Raphael lost his charm after he became reality?”

You shook your head and said nothing more on the matter, looking at your nails.  Still chewed to the quick. Well, at least some things do not change.

“Why did you never stop Raphael, Mr. Goat?”, you changed the subject. “Hundreds of millions are dead. There will be many more. He needs to be stopped”.

“There will be trillions more, with him or without, in the future and in the past. People live. People die”, he slipped the tea. “What’s the problem again?”

“Raphael is impersonating God”.

“Who hasn’t tried that at least once?”, Goat said. “You should as well, it is lots of fun. Why did you never try to stop him, Anya?”

“I cannot”, you said, your lips twitching in anger. “You know that very well! I can only watch what I created but cannot do anything. I stopped bothering a long time ago anyway”.

“Ha, you remind me of someone I know! He also created something, and now cannot bear to look at it. Stopped bothering a long, long time ago. Not what I imagined, he said. But that’s exactly what you imagined, I tell him, and he just won’t listen. All touchy-touchy, that one”.

“Are you talking about God?”, you blurted out. “Will he truly never forgive me for taking my own life?”

“I am talking about someone I know”, Mr. Goat said and slurped some more tea. “As for your question, ask him yourself. But I don’t think so. He cannot forgive me stepping on his foot once”.

“Well, yes, Mr. Goat”, you admitted. “My life is not exactly what I imagined”.

“Then imagine something different”, Mr. Goat suggested.

“Please leave if you are here to mock me”.

"I'm not here to mock you, sweetest morsel”, he sniffed in offence. “Quite the opposite - I find you delightful! You've rubbed my horns just right and danced with me. That’s more than most mortals have ever done."

“Are you here to punish Raphael? Kill him?”

"Would you like me to?" asked Mr Goat lazily. "Give the wicked little cambion some spanking?"

You feel silent.

Something in his voice told you he could do that with a snap of his fingers.

Probably wouldn’t even need a snap.

“No. No. I love him”, you pleaded.”He is the father of my child”.

Despite everything, you could never truly wish for Raphael’s death. You don’t know what you would be without him. You don’t know who you are with him, either.

Besides, what would they do to Michi and you if Raphael was gone?

"Oh really?" Mr Goat smiled. "Anyone in your family have blue eyes?"

You hadn’t discussed this with anyone before, not even Raphael himself.

"Well, Michie has double horns," you retorted, your body rigid with tension. "No one in my family had those, that's for sure."

Mr. Goat bobbed his head in what you hoped was agreement. 

“Raphael is… He can do better, Mr. Goat”, you said. “He is half-human. He has… he can… I can… make him better. With time, maybe. I just don’t know how”.

Mr. Goat flapped his lips a bit in contemplation, and then raised a finger, as if struck by the idea.

“Anya, I bought you a present”, Mr. Goat started to pull something out of his worn and torn backpack. “You know, they say a book is the best present there is”.

“If this is a Bible, Mr. Goat, I am throwing it into the fire”. 

You cannot hear quotes from the Bible anymore. There was a whole scriptorium in the Apostolic Palace where they wrote the Prophet Raphael’s edition of the Bible day and night; replaced words, edited stories.

“Oh, no, I haven’t read this one for a while. The human interpretations grew too wild for my taste. No, it’s a much simpler piece of fiction. But I thought you’d like it”.

You peeked into his open backpack; there was a black hole inside of it and a half-eaten apple.

What he drew out from his bag barely qualified as a book; it was more like a stack of A4 papers haphazardly stitched together at one end. Your eyes widened as you recognized the layout on the first page: rating information, warnings, tags and main pairing.

"Mr. Goat," you burst out laughing. "Is this an AO3 fanfic?"

Mr. Goat slowly nodded and went for a toffee on the table. 

"'Knock knock'," you read aloud the title, trying to suppress another round of laughter. "I haven't read one of these in forever. Is it any good?"

“Ah, so-so. I am not the key audience”, he said. “You are”.

You flipped through to the last page and read the final line aloud: “I am not the key audience”, Mr. Goat said. “You are”.

“What is it?”, you recoiled, looking at Mr. Goat in horror. “What in the holy hell…”

"Your story," he replied calmly as if explaining why water is wet."And Raphael's too." He paused, stroking his chin thoughtfully before adding, "It's still a work in progress though; one chapter left to go."

“And how does it end?”, you asked. “Please spare the child. Kill us, but spare Michi, he really is not at fault for anything”.

“Ah, Anya, don’t be morbid, I would never do something like that to your happy nuclear family. I'm asking you — how does your story conclude? Spill it. I'm all ears and ready to write it down."

He took the last page and held a pen at the ready. A very simple, blue ball pen, half-chewed upon. 

"It's a happy ending," you whispered. "Please, Mr Goat, make it a happy ending”.

"Anya," he urged gently, "give me the specifics here. Remember what I told you – this is your story.”

With that prompt, you began to speak rapidly - words tumbling over each other as if they were afraid of being left behind.

"Anya and Raphael lived happily ever after," Mr Goat nodded and wrote. "He... learned to love Anya... truly love her… and their little son. He became a good father. He actually came to Michi’s crib and rocked him and fed him at night, and he got one of those babybjorns to carry him around. He loved Michi just the way he was, no matter what colour his eyes were".

Mr Goat erupted into laughter (his spit flecked with bits of caramel splattered all over the page), but he didn't stop writing. 

Can Raphael even, will it even work…

Well. He has to. You changed for him, too. Not necessarily how you’ve liked, either. 

Love is fucking sacrifice.

You need to think about the world, too.

You are a good person.

"Raphael stopped killing innocent people who refused to pledge their souls to him and accept him as their new god”, you went on. “Instead, he vowed to build a better world on Earth. Basic income for all. Equal rights. Stock market is banned. And... and... high living standards and affordable housing. Space exploration!”

"Communism?" Mr Goat glanced at you. "Really? How many times are we going round this merry-go-round?"

"We'll get it right this time", you said, your jaw sat tight. “We will do right”.

"If you say so, my little idealist," Mr Goat nodded sagely. "Theocratic Communism, my favourite. You are right – what's another billion souls here or there?"

"Please write that down too: Raphael loved Anya unconditionally. He would sacrifice his own life for her. She was his special little mouse. She was! And no other little mice. Ever. He was faithful to the end of his days”.

At that, Mr Goat's laughter became so intense he had to put down his pen. You didn’t think it was all that funny.

"Please write the faithful part down," you reminded him. "It is important. I was beginning to have my doubts with all these crusades. Ah! But write down that Haarlep is okay. Haarlep does not count as cheating".

Haarlep was fucking his way through the United Christian Union Parliament (sex was no longer off charts for Christians, quite the opposite; the more believers the better). 

Mr. Goat transcribed your words, and he had some really sloppy handwriting, so you hoped he didn’t mess anything up. 

"Duly noted," said Mr Goat. "Anything else? What about Asmodeus?”

Hm?

“What about him?”, you asked. “I never cared about Asmodeus, really”.

Mr. Goat's expression turned to one of mock-offence, his pouty lips protruding.

"You are not him, are you?" you summoned all your courage to ask the next question. "What exactly are you, Mr. Goat? You are Satan, right? Our Satan?"

Mr. Goat let out a deep sigh and rummaged through his backpack before producing what looked like a gnawed-on business card - faded grey with some dubious stains on it. Your breath hitched as he presented it to you with an expression of grave solemnity.

"Mr. Goat" was scribbled on the card in childish handwriting.

Mr. Goat slowly nodded, as if he had just revealed the greatest of all secrets.

“Now you know the truth of this world, Anya”, he said.

“Thank you”, you let out a nervous laugh. “No more questions”.

“Well then,” he slapped his thighs and rose from his seat. “Appreciate the tea and the hospitality, sweet morsel. Give my best to Raphael".

He put his backpack back on his back and pulled on a silly knitted orange hat that made his ears stand apart even more.

"That's it? Will you just leave us alone then?", you could not believe it. "You're not going to destroy Raphael for what he's done to Earth?"

He cackled, a paw on his round belly.

"Why should I, my sweet morsel?" Mr Goat's lips curved into a sly smile. "You just did, and I must say I'm no match for your cruelty. To break a man like that! To twist his very nature! I applaud you."

He paused, clapping his paws together like an over-excited spectator at a show.

"I have not destroyed Raphael," you said. "I love him."

"And I love women," Mr Goat grinned, his furry face contorted into an expression of pure delight. "God's finest creations; far superior to men, if you ask me. What punishment would Raphael have in mind? Meat hooks and eternal torture, boring, boring, boring. What punishment have you thought of? Oh! Delightful!”.

He stroked your cheek and leaned in to kiss you.

The lips that touched you were not those of a man or a goat or anything in between. What was touched was primordial; it existed before the concept of existence itself.

"Au revoir, my little dreamer," said Mr Goat, his face disappearing into thin air until only his smile was left, but it did not linger for long. "Remember, there is only one truth: what has been dreamed shall never be lost”.

You sat there for a while, lingering the taste of eternity on your lips.

Until you heard a knock knock.

"Anya?" Raphael's worried voice called from behind the closed door. "My love? Why is the door closed? Are you well?"

THE END

(NO, SERIOUSLY. THE END)

[boy-of-death]

I just discovered the call of duty fandom and let me tell you I never read so much fanfic and hc in a week!!!

I will probably never play the game but I will still love those characters till my last breath. I am living for the cod cosplay community on TikTok and yes I was dragged there by the sheer power of our leader,✨💕Brittany Broski 💕✨

So here some fic/hc ideas I would love to read about but didn’t find🥲

• cod men going to the ren faire with reader who’s super excited and make the men dress up too (Simon dressed in a armor 🫠) ( the 141 that decided to go as a team with reader and they all play along and coordinate their outfits)

• gamer cod men that teach reader how to play and are super kind about it (bonus if in exchange reader teach them how to play cozy games like “animal crossing” or “a little to the left”

• cod men doing a date at the museum and reader is just a history nerd and basically do a guided tour and the men are just listening and be like: yup I am in love!

• cod men and reader drinking tea on the outside tables of a cafe and just gossiping about life and people that walked by (soap and reader with sunglasses just judging everyone like nobody could hear them and randomly dropping a “smash” every time someone hot pass them)

• (this one is especially for soap and it’s based on this TikTok https://vm.tiktok.com/ZGe9Taj72/ )

Just soap putting a kilt on at every single opportunity he gets because he loves it so much and reader had once said that they like it on him . So that’s how you get soap just rocking the kilt at almost every events they go together and of course, more than one time, there was a LOT of wind (Scotland is windy as fuck) and him being the idiot that he is and never learning from his mistakes, ended up butt naked in front of the whole wedding/party/baptism/family dinner/formal evening with the 141 … (he is a total idiot but I love him)

• cod men when reader put on the broski report every time they take the car and it’s just the both of them being super invested in what Brittany is saying. Bonus if it’s the first time reader put it on and of course it’s one of those episodes where she’s saying the most random shit and the proceeds to talk about religion and philosophy and they’re just there driving being like: “ I don’t know what this woman is saying but she did make some very good points” just becoming massives fan and buying matching sweatshirts with the broski report logo on it for them and reader. And yes, they start quoting her every day and it confuses everybody else!

Well, this was longer than I was expecting (that’s what she said) but for a first real post I’m pretty happy about it! Hope you enjoyed it and If by miracle someone found this post and want to use one of the prompts/hc feel free to use it! (Just tag me so I can see the results !)

✨💕have a nice day everybody!!!💕✨

(Sorry English is not my first language 😅)

[eldritch-spouse]

How would the triplets feel if we had family who was super religious and opposed to us dating demons? Like no budging on the issue

[Oh boy.]

Ludwig is mostly unfazed. Your family can call him whatever they want, most human languages don't have the raw savagery of infernal tongue. You haven't had a real dressing down until an envious demon argues with you. He's seasoned in this. Parents don't like demons? Aight, he's showing up with a cross necklace and a "Jesus loves you" t-shirt. He reads up on several religious texts so he can out-quote your family and claims you will show up for his baptism. He thinks pre-marital sex is totally not cool and will constantly chastise your family members for doing things The Lord would not approve of. Your family fucking hates him, but he's having a lot of fun.

Obie is genuinely saddened by this, but he tries not to let it show too much. He's more willing to negotiate than the other two. Sure, he understands the portrayal of demons in your religion isn't that nice, but the only thing Obie wants is to make you the happiest woman in the world. He promises he would never ever do a single thing to your soul (debatable), he promises that he won't "steer you down a path of degeneracy", Obie just loves you. And if your parents really loved you, half as much as him, they'd support you when you find someone who makes you happy. But they don't, they shun him even when the glutton has done nothing but be loving. He just thinks you'd love his folk a lot more. His mom certainly doesn't have a problem with humans, you'd be welcomed with open arms!

Mervin is a straight up cunt. He will not be shamed for his fiendish nature! He is PROUD to be a demon, he's proud of his nature, of who he is as a person, and he'll rip into your family verbally right to their faces. The gall you humans have, to think yourselves better than demons, when you're all weaker, absolutely powerless, they should be kissing his feet for even considering dating you! Because unlike them, Mervin can and will support you, Mervin can make you better, you shouldn't associate with these low-brow troglodytes, it's beneath you. He makes it a point to knock shit over as he leaves and will slap someone if he has to, he doesn't care if it's your mother.

[notchainedtotrauma]

The Revolution Will Be (Black) Life: How I Write The Complexity of Abolishing The World

I have never done that. Never. I have done posts aggregating Black poeisis and Black thought and Black art in order to put people's minds together. But I don't remember ever having done that kind of post...with my own work. So there it is. And yes, I wrote all the poems below.

Ode to the Black Girl Breathing The Party as She Goes

Which corner stores are required for the hand

to leap,

a globe of perspiration and swallow

a forever memory within the ineptitude

of fleshy concrete,

and what can she do with that ?

If she parts her hair, still,

the rock and sway of her scheme

and the merging of all the voices demanding she do her dance.

Illusions don't propel the airy girls on the ice

don't brace them with keys 

and offbeat songs,

don't whirl them against the wrongness of a blade

and their head,

a bubble in mourning

a piece of gum on an ashy knee.

Say what you want about all that gossip,

the walls remember the undoing of her bones

and her pacing teeth.

She doesn't attach herself 

to the begonias down the street

to repetitive devices, 

sheathed with sallow;

she hums her cordoned sentimentality,

a breast remains

sugar for the horizon

a sprouting eye around her renamed waist.

It's never been about weaving leather

about butterflied dust

and rippling blood;

the party always collapses into

faux furs earmuffs

and hobbling backgrounds.

Nobody needs saving, 

but all need a good sermon,

the pastor grand and golden,

the cars piling up around vigorous bodies

and secular kisses.

The wan girls on the burred couches

their hands a swarming breath

the rope blossoms from their stripped knees

and still 

she severs them cotton candy full

remand their tangled mouths 

acts as judge and jury,

holds the lawyer in her mouth,

his flushed indifference.

No bed suffices for the layers of bad sex

birthed from the courtroom.

Pear trees and verdant muck 

a short history of early drives and 

giggling proximity;

outside supplies psych wards

and paper boxes 

while people twist themselves into a curl of boredom.

Her leaning towards every sorrowful crushed bird

rushes her kneeling to bare rooms

full of bright coral light

and her sweltering voice.

But Who Will We Feed Next ? (* The entire poem turns on Nope by Jordan Peele)

As one image dissolved and another appeared, her heart raced.

from Wayward Lives, Beautiful Experiments by Saidiya Hartman

The music tethers what I thought was a baptism to the ground

I wake up to the sourness of cracked mud around my throat

I remain enmenshed in the slowness of honey, waiting for victory

I am spectator and victim, parting the manufactured sky with a paring knife

There is so much blood I wait to be slewed inside uncessing rooms

The geometry of my heart is something I remember sharp and shallow

I quiet down when through the dripping egg yolk of a blinking breath

What do you want to know now that I lay with an eye in my mouth.

I guess unsettling ache wasn't enough to crash the car home

I sit there and boil the bark of a cinnamon tree, hoping for redress

I drive the camera into my throat, a relief

The light can be so pale and so still I curl up to the side of my bed

He sat there and tried to whisper sweet things as the whiskey grew bitter

I tore the last silk dress I could find in a crumbling cabinet and let myself smile

I seek the comfort of hurt in the dust of every sloppy merry-go-round

I don't hunger for the hatchet or the camcorder and my brother holds my hand

The Pearl We Buried Into Our Sanctified Flesh

In a black episteme, radical spiritual practices gave release to alternate forms of being and selfhood. Ecstatic enactments of communion, often practiced in all-women prayer bands, produced realms generated in what we could call ecstatic time.

from Black Utopias: Speculative Life and the Music of Other Worlds by Jayna Brown

We're very sorry our bodies 

are burning

quashed against the wall.

We're minutious with it

a necklace of wails

glassy abundance 

a boredom so sharp it never hurts.

What do you see amidst the white robes,

music like,

a story about your nerves,

your sliced breast.

Nobody knows about the cigarettes wrapped around our wrists,

our delicate day dreaming

the scars across our sweet

when we pleasure ourselves with the breach in wooden surfaces.

Maybe we were always unprepared for this,

this escalator widening our mouths 

the metal cool and glinting against our jaws.

We want to hold everybody

with a knife in our hands.

We hurled our brown bodies across the length of the room

where there was no room

an eye, a building

erected through our smooth lower half.

We were prepared for this, though:

our hands rippling with the mud

we chewed on earlier

hoping for flight, for a slow erosion,

for a miracle bonding us to the walls and the walls and the walls.

We wake up with one mind,

clouded with pain,

we say everything but forget the soft of our hands

the ghost of our mouths.

Our teeth are white like nobody is around us

a pearl we can open

as it breaks us.

Surely you must remember the blood

we poured into your expectant throat,

the dull of your gaze

quartered and verdant

flowers huddled across

the small of you.

We sing and you cannot hear us,

buried into yourself.

Is that you, rolling off our prayers ?

We marry your silence

circled around you, sorrowful and glad.

When done, we sit at the forefront of burnt churches,

seek the cross to lay down through it,

embrace crumbling walls,

dusky and bitter.

We always carry between us a jar of liquid ash

forgive all our tremors

parry your slow walk

force into your throat the meaning of our grace.

We are nothing if sorrowful, which means sweet, which means

raw fish into your hands,

flailing as it tears.

What we eat doesn't sever our sweat from our spit:

when exhausted we strip away a car,

let the machinery soothe us

dip our hands into the motor as it if could save us

and it can.

We lay on puddles of leaves, dark green and itchy

we examine twisted valves,

we call out to the blurry road,

resting at last.

Skyrise for That Little Black Girl Nodding Along Her Own Hum

"I’m connected to legacy. This is more than just trying to build a watch. This is about building LEGACY."

from Aldis Hodge's Path to Purpose by Aldis Hodge

We well up against the mainspring

or we are the mainspring;

a smile smears blood across the border

between our empty

and that mouth, black,

thick,

a bowl of smoke.

We are the mainspring, I say;

a narrow bone 

grown from nowhere,

our collective body in flight from

ourselves.

We require no explanation when the light blooms so bleary

a man knots it across his face,

carves a river of glass and metal,

drags his knuckles across the grease of 

an acrid morning.

The morning is something only our children

remember;

cool with ease, playing games they made out of

dusk and orange peel,

they're buildings all over again.

The children, knitted through the amber sky,

liquid and gorged, 

draw an arc beneath their ripe breaths,

jolting lines laced with sleek skin;

tomorrow they bring cities behind their teeth.

Nothing feels good besides so many wheels;

when her husband, she boils sugar and cherry bark,

holds a finger to the door,

sticky with endings.

Everyone said hello after the first few nights

of splattered eyes

and peculiar bracelets.

Now everyone's made it, which is to say, everyone's died.

Who saw Harlem in flight ?

Who handed a fleshy tongue to white paint

and scorched concrete ?

The little girl we lost in the fire,

whistling rainbows on abandoned tree trunks,

a braid cloudy and undone:

but look how glistening,

the kind of grace her skipping knees

sway.

Tomorrow

she brings eternity in her teeth.

When we wake up

our children;

our spines curled to sleep.

It doesn't matter;

anyone can be bird 

or air.

Notes: 

1. I cite Garrett Morgan, who invented not only the three-position traffic signal, but a breathing device that would serve as a blueprint for the creation of the gas mask. 

2. I cite Marie Van Brittan Brown, who invented the first home security city system.              

3. I also cite Black feminist educator, poet, children books author, playwright, essayist and self-taught  urban designer June Jordan, whose unrealized urban planning project Skyrise for Harlem, created in collaboration with Buckminster Fuller, showcases her interdisciplinary radical and transformative vision. The title of the poem models itself upon the title of her architectural reimagining of Harlem.

The Spilled Skin of a Luminous Sunrise (This references the Lake Lanier)

All water isn't good water;

we kneel in a fistful of muddy rust, our voices ache.

We unearth jagged walls, charred glass;

our spines limp, undefined. As if a noose blooming

from our back; a small mouth, 

sated and bitter.

When we woke up, a hand between our thighs,

we saw streaked dusk, 

a wisp of chain-link fences

twisted around 

our doors.

In the vast empty rooms, sunlight thick as sugar cane;

often, I ask for forgiveness, drink the heat on the ground.

Can I be slick flesh, lithe marrow ?

Hands and knees always burn in the frosted evening;

I remember a scar between my teeth.

The knife becomes an exercise in longing;

wrists scooped from crumbled soil,

a voice floats in a cocktail glass,

a tear across the hours.

Between the charred sky and a foamy church

sinking into a pool of salt 

and tar

the glisten of a sheathed leg,

soaring.

We grin with smoke in our mouths; 

no longer 

are we scattered mist

a dismal shadow

through which

a hand reaches 

for some relief.

Blood comes easy when wrung

from gravel;

rivulets of dreamy history

a soft body left to rot.

Maybe or maybe not; some houses unraveling,

a wall black with grease.

Somewhere, I sip white roses. Sandalwood.

Knead flesh into prayer.

I come for the flood, stay for blasphemy.

The wawering windows spit liquid static, 

rupture the blurry light

a wound remains.

The Sweetness of Black Girls Driving Themselves Away

Something bigger than the two-plus-two way everybody else lived from day to day was going on and she was right there and part of it. Whatever it was that had fallen away was showing her another way to be in the world.

from The Salt Eaters by Toni Cade Bambara

Out of hunger, the road, slick black ice, 

a tongue, flickers; 

every window swallows a dust covered melancholy,

a sack of tears 

slid down the throat 

from which, fraying at the edges,

a clogged voice.

The afternoon descends like a rusted blade,

a fucked up smile

whose fat lip feeds on air.

Somehow, the trees blend in with the background of bleary

glimmer and brown matter; 

a faceless empire of fallen cackles, 

a crushed orange

whose grainy skin keeps rupturing 

at the center;

and everyone's sticky and worn out and fed up 

with the sluggish movement of 

overheated metal

and rank leather.

Popsicle red stains the foam capped borders of damp dresses,

arms drifting across bare clavicles,

lenghtened necks,

as if to say "let's play";

the hand gliding down the suddenly empty trail,

the severed hip 

signal more than casual boredom,

more than the ease

of the overfed

subject.

The breathing has grown

ragged

and rawboned.

There are men somewhere, in the constant ebb and flow

of a dreadful and swollen light;

an offering of hands around yielding flesh, 

breath like vapor

besides a pair of legs bent in gleeful prayer. 

The sea remains everything they haven't

touched,

an oily horizon of debris adorning their 

fractured guts;

a bracelet of nails across their

ankles.

A kingdom of brown legs 

spiked 

with hazy bruises

stretched against a background of trees burning like men

rose water sprayed against 

a lipsticked mouth;

bitter honey gets smudged through a mound

of droopy flesh, 

a slight opening. 

When the sobbing comes,

no sound.

The night comes out liquid and suffocating, 

a lava crusted bulb of

pallid light

they can reach and pluck,

like a rotten fruit,

full and ready to explode.

Black ice turned to sludge, a muddy field

wrecked by the innocuous

scent of menthol cigarettes mixed with sweat,

the bare bones

of bodies

to go alight, 

to stay unaccounted for.

[beanghostprincess]

Hey sweetie!! I realized I have been absent from your inbox for quite some time and that simply will not do, I am legally required to annoy people I like, it's the Law.

Therefore, I thus drop even MORE transfem Buggy ideas, silliest, and snippets in the hopes of making you smile and/or laugh bc you deserve nice things I wanna throw them at you ♡♡♡♡♡

• Buggy coming out as trans over the course of a loooooong time, where she had Inklings of it young (Buggy+Toki bonding my beloved), and for a while just went "it is what it is, it's my nose that makes me hate mirrors so much-" and thus reclaiming the nose with the clown aesthetic and commitment to the circus bit. And it's enjoyable, really, the colors and patterns are So Good, and the makeup feels WONDERFUL, and all dolled up, Buggy doesn't want to punch the mirror quite so much.

It's only with Alvida and their Mean Girls Gossip Club being founded that there are some late night, semi-drunk conversations and Buggy says something like "everything sucks but I think things would be better if I were born a girl, ya know-?"

Cue Alvida taking that as a "women have it easy" type of thing (it's not), and so she and Buggy make a bet - dress as a girl, go out for a night, and play the part. They pick a small, no name island, pick an equally small, no name town, and hit the bars there. And Buggy is.... thriving.

It's not all sunshine and daisies, and Buggy sees first hand what women experience, but there's a shift in the movements, in Her Chest, and suddenly things are clicking, she's stepping aside, she's off to the restroom, and she is staring into the mirror there, blue eyes wide and hair loose around her shoulders and she really Looks. Fingertips brush the cool, smooth surface before her, trembling with fear, with anticipation, with joy and grief and anger and love. She barely notices when Al comes up to her side, when a pale hand brushes her shoulder. It's the question which throws her.

"What are you thinking?"

And in the tiny little bar bathroom at Seas-knows-what-time, Buggy has a sudden accidental baptism, and Alvida takes her hands through it all.

Buggy comes home to her ship, her crew, with knowledge, with a new awareness, a new fear, a new joy.

Her crew are nothing if not welcoming, and when she tells them, faux-casual and already edging into defensive aggression, they are simply delighted. They are ecstatic. They don't even question it, just beam and offer hugs and ask if they should still call her Buggy and Captain and Ringmaster, because she is theirs and they are hers they will be as good for her as she is for them, by the Seas as their witness.

And Buggy is happy, is safe, is emotional, is loved.

• coming out publicly is an ordeal, especially with the media storm already occurring elsewhere. She doesn't even think to do it. It's her crew that bristle when someone misunderstood her, the first two times a passable correction, then a point of disrespect. People do not disrespect their captain lightly.

• An article is written about her, and the contents are.... unkind at best. Interestingly enough, another article is never published by that journalist, and there is now no trace of their existence beyond that point. It was not Buggy and her gang who did it, though.

• Crocodile and Mihawk are both bisexual, and they do not initially know of Buggy's gender identity until well into the Guild's existence, after that article full of heresay and guessing. Not many want to correct such powerful men, after all.

When it DOES come out, they don't even really treat Buggy any differently. Just nod, verify name, ask for pronouns, and it's back to business. It's refreshingly normal and bittersweet.

• when they eventually being courting Buggy asks if her gender is.... going to be a problem. Crocodile just sneers. "It'd be hypocritical of me to not date someone transgender. I may pass as cis, but I made myself into the man I am today. Who cares?"

Mihawk just kind of laces his fingers with hers and states that "your body is but a vessel, and I care only for the wielder. The forms of your body matter not to me beyond your own joys in it."

• they also go on to be rather protective of their girlfriend. Business transactions have, and will, be dropped if a group is not respectful of her or has a history of it. Money is money, certainly, but business is a gamble and the deck is stacked against them with such animosity. After all, would you trust someone visibly aggressive with you over an ambivalent stranger when both hold a gun?

• just for shits and giggles, open relationships, and Shanks being fucking FERAL for Buggy and it's an absolute hot mess because he loves his clown wife so much-

• extra funnies, many others ALSO love his clown wife. Including, to his dramatic betrayal and theatric tears, many in his own crew.

• Rayleigh shows up at Karai Bari without warning to give Buggy a piece of his mind - not about her being a woman, no, that's fine, he loves her regardless, but about how she hasn't called him even ONCE just to give him the news that he has a DAUGHTER, she KNOWS he wanted a little girl, Buglet, why have you hurt him so-?

"You never gave me your number???"

"I didn't??"

"NO?????"

"Oh."

"Yeah, OH, you senile old fart!!!"

"Hey, missy, no need for that kind of disrespect-"

• Luffy, Zoro, and Ussop bond over "my dad/dad-figure has done it with the clown lady" and Sanji is just laughing at their misery while Jimbei is trying so hard not to make eye contact lest they see his own clown fucking history ((it was one time but he wouldn't be against a repeat-))

I'm eepy so that's all I have now but ily nini ♡♡♡♡

HELLO SWEETIE HOW I'VE MISSED YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!! 💖💖💖🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻 I am so glad you're back for more ideas and headcanons of our wonderful Buggy 💖💖

Toki and Buggy bonding my beloved but I absolutely adore what you said about Buggy blaming her nose at first instead of like, actually thinking why her image bothers her so much,,, She doesn't want to think further about it so she just guesses it had to be the nose because it's the one thing that's wrong with her,, But then she has the whole "I wish I were a girl because it would be easier" mindset still after claiming the clown aesthetic,,, My girl,,,

And the way she finds out I am,,, Gonna cry,,, The way it starts as a bet and Alvida is genuinely mad at her at first for her commentary about women but then she sees Buggy visibly upset because she's having the realization™ in the middle of a crowd. And I can't stop thinking about how it'd be sweet and comforting and,, You know. It'd feel like a family, something they don't really seem a lot of times because of their catastrophic dynamic. But Buggy would feel seen and loved and she knows Alvida will be there for her through it all no matter what. It's kind of weird to be comforted by a younger woman and I think Buggy would feel a bit ashamed for that?? But Al would tell her that there is no age to support each other, especially in womanhood.

I love how protective her crew is but mostly how little Crocodile and Mihawk care about this 😭 They really said "well if this doesn't affect us I don't care what you are but at least we are going to refer to you properly because we are not monsters, thank you". And also Crocodile is trans so it just makes sense. And what the hell with Mihawk's words??? This man is so romantic when he wants to--

My favorite thing about this is everybody being extremely protective of Buggy. She deserves it. She's a queen. An icon. And everybody is in love with her. And Rayleigh is soooo father and I adore him,, He'd go there solely to see his girl.

And never forget Zoro and Luffy bonding over this, but the funniest part of all is how I am 100% sure that after transitioning Buggy is wayyy hotter and way more confident and Sanji would be head over heels for her like everybody else. So yeah, he laughs all he wants but he wishes he could pull Buggy like that-

And I hope you slept well!!! Mwah mwah mwah!!! Loved to see you here again sweetie 💖💖💖💖💖

[adarkrainbow]

How did Perrault and Madame d'Aulnoy portray fairies? Were they any different from each other? If so, how?

Oh yes there are major differences between the two (even though they are both supposed to be from the same universe, according to madame d'Aulnoy).

Now, they have a lot in common. All women knowing powerful magic. All equiped with magic wands. All experts at transformations, on themselves or others. All mistresses of occult art and with a gift of prescience. Stuff like that.

However the main difference between Perrault's fairies and madame d'Aulnoy's fairies would be... I'll say moral alignment?

There is no "wicked" or "evil" fairy in Perrault's fairytales. All of his fairies are good or neutral. As opposed to madame d'Aulnoy's fairytales where fairies are clearly and neatly divided into good fairies and evil fairies. It is especially spectacular because madame d'Aulnoy was the first one to do what I would call the "Glinda vs Witch of the West" dichotomy - all of her good fairies being these beautiful, tall, young ladies covered in riches and somptuous dress (or beautiful weapons when they are more soldier-like), while all of her evil fairies are these deformed, monstrous, ugly and frightening things - dressed in rags or in animal skin, too tall or too small, collecting difformities or so thin you can literaly see through their skin... (Though one has to be careful, as good fairies can turn evil due to conflict of interest, evil fairies can also turn good if turns out a higher power is not on their side, and these ugly wicked fairies can disguise themselves as beautiful nymphs, the same way the pretty good fairies can disguise themselves as repulsive animals or ugly hags, but the point stays that there's a neat divide of "good versus evil")

That's not the case with Perrault, where all the fairies seem to be on a "good neutrality" as I'll call, where they all pretty much just put curses on people if they are offended or someone failed a ceremony, but the rest of the time try to help people around.

The most jarring example would be how the episode of the "fairy baptism" are treated.

In Perrault's Sleeping Beauty, the fairy who puts the curse is not particularly evil. She is just offended and angry at having been left out and ignored, and she thus places her curse more as a retaliation towards the parents for not showing her the honor required, not out of any evil intention (it is similar to the fairy in Diamons and Toads who curses those that insult her, like the wicked sister). Meanwhile when you look at babies that receive curses in madame d'Aulnoy's stories, the cursing fairy usually is very clearly a wicked and evil person. In "Princess Mayblossom" or "The Green Snake", the cursing fairies are the evil Carabosse or Magotine, a far cry from the elder neutral force that is the old fairy of Perrault's Sleeping Beauty. The closest equivalent there is to her is the Crayfish Fairy from "The Hind in the Woods", who is actually a fairy that just got offended and insulted by not being invited but otherwise is not an evil person per se.

In fact the Crayfish Fairy is this one example of a "good fairy turned evil" I evoked before, as she starts out helping the queen, but then turns on her the minute she is not properly rewarded. Opposed to her would be the unnamed fairy of "Gracieuse and Percinet", who works for the antagonist the entire time, until she discovers that Gracieuse became the favorite of the queen of fairies (and is the girlfrend of the queen's son) and quickly makes sure to "repair" her mistake by straight up murdering her former boss. And if you want an example of one of those ugly fairies disguising herself as beautful - the Fairy of the Desert, from The Yellow Dwarf.

In summary; madame d'Aulnoy was the one who actually created this common fairytale idea of wicked fairies versus good fairies (it isn't much surprising when you remember she literaly invented the name "Carabosse" which became the most famous name of any evil fairy), whereas Perrault stayed by a more "benevolent but still neutral" idea of fairies.

Also, that's something I think Tony Gheeraert highlighted - in madame d'Aulnoy's stories fairies are explicitely immortals. In Perrault's stories it is vaguely implied they can die - simply because of how the old fairy from Sleeping Beauty was thought to have maybe died due to how long she didn't come out of her tower.

Outside of that both types wield wands, both types have tons of awesome powers, and both types have a thing for otherwordly chariots pulled by the strangest beasts - dragons being a huge favorite among fairy steeds.

[cinnamon-stixs]

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

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

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

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

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

-Making wishes

-Believing in 'luck'

-wearing black

-Keeping gemstones that aren't approved by the church

-Being a hybrid species

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[desolationblvd]

MY GRANDMOTHER AND I WATCH THE BAD SEED

It's that awful place and that evil woman. My mother.

My sisters are beautiful and I am plain. Where did you get that one? Where did you get that one? Où as-tu trouvé celui-là? The nuns don’t like me they force things down my throat, words and flies, they strike me. Here comes the Mother Superior that’s what she thinks of herself and I hate her I hate her I hate her. You stole that-, and when she goes to strike me I throw up my hands I do not let her touch me I tell her the Pope is a criminal. She is furious she hates me but I hate her more. I have one friend we go to California I become a nurse she smokes every evening and I smoke like a chimney. I meet men I meet millionaires they want to marry me they slip through my fingers. I meet a man I get married we move across the ocean we have a daughter we move back. We have a son we have a daughter we have two more daughters we have five children and all of them are Catholic. I do not let them lift a hand I do not let them clean I do not let them cook I do not speak to them in my language they are my all-American darlings. I quit smoking. I think that I hate Catholics. My oldest daughter wants to do laundry and I cannot explain to her why she is not allowed my son is a boy just like all boys are my second daughter is quiet and shy and I cannot figure out why: I go upstairs in the night I drown her in cold water like a murder like a baptism. My third daughter is too smart for her own good and my fourth is a demon. My children are marionettes they spit on her when I say so and tears stream down their faces I know what I need to do or they won’t turn out right. Lucifer my youngest hates me wants to kill me I cannot throw her out. I watch them on the patio they skate circles around the little radio they dance they fall they scrape their knees. I wonder if I’ve done good.

I can hear my mother's voice…calling to me from the distance, and I don't answer her because I'm afraid.

I meet a man I’m wearing my glasses and my plaid skirt I ask him for a cigarette we get married. I’m late to our wedding it’s raining I’m beautiful I know I’m beautiful he’s happy I’m laughing someone takes a picture of me laughing. We have a daughter we go to my mother’s house we live in my sister’s old bedroom. We get an apartment my father lived there years ago we don’t know about that until later maybe it’s fate we have a son and we give him his father’s name his grandfather’s name his great-grandfather’s name. My daughter is shy it makes sense I was shy she doesn’t talk to people her own age she lives in her own world. She asks about death I say there’s nothing I say we don’t know I say nobody has come back to tell us about it yet I say people who kill themselves will not get into Heaven. She doesn’t like change. Mom I want to live with you for ever and ever.

Oh, I've got the prettiest mother. I've got the nicest mother. That's what I tell everybody. I say I've got the sweetest mother in the world. My son is sickly my son has stomachaches like my daughter did neither of them are athletic my daughter is shy and my son is sickly I worry it came from me. My daughter won’t sing but I hear her singing in her room I tell her it sounds nice and after that I don’t hear her sing anymore. Her friends make her hate me I ask what her problem is she thinks that I’ve wronged her resents me. She doesn’t want to be like me I ask her questions I say why don’t you shave your legs why do you dress like that I worry that she’s a dyke. She wants to die I wonder if I should let her die I think she’s secretly a cutter I make her take off her shirt she never forgives me. She’s stubborn she won’t talk to me I find pills in her room I find alcohol I wonder if I should let her die I remember people who kill themselves don’t go to heaven my husband yells at me because I’ve hurt him. My son is dyslexic he’s antisocial he’s picked up all my daughter’s bad habits there’s hope for him but I don’t know where to find it. It’s worse than I thought my daughter’s a dyke she wants to cut off her tits fuck my entire life I don’t know what I did to make her like this she’s moving too far away for me to reach her I don’t know what I ever did to deserve this.

So sleep well…and dream well, my only child and the one I love. I shall sleep too.

[eolewyn1010]

Downton Abbey Fashion 29 - festive occasions in the 1920s

There are times when the Crawleys wear a sort of outfit that I tentatively want to call “semi-formal”? They leave the house in these, so it’s not exactly an indoor look, and it’s day wear, not evening, but it’s often more lightweight than a coat or walking suit, and the optics go more in the direction of their garden fashions – light, mostly pastel colors, flowered hats, loosely falling robes… The occasions in question are 1st, Mary’s wedding, 2nd, a family picnic at Eryholme which at that time might become their new home, 3rd, Edith’s little disaster of a wedding, and finally, the baptism of Sybil junior.

The only occasion for which Violet bothers to get a new outfit is Mary’s wedding; for the others, she repeats a few of her already-established coats. This is stylistically familiar though, and in fact she combines it with a tulle-wrapped hat she’s worn before. I do love the cream coat; can’t quite tell the material, but it’s something softly shiny. And then she goes all extra on the cuffs and hem – this trim is easily five or six inches of piping flowers and ferns.

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Remember when I said that Martha doesn’t really cross the line into tasteless? Well. I’ll admit it: This one is kind of tacky. Lady, tone down the fur and velvet; this is not a winter wedding. Admittedly, the turban-like head wrap is something I would have enjoyed a great deal more in an evening setting. Martha loves her some quirky 1920s headdresses. But for the day, the plumage seem a little much.

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For her son’s wedding to Mary, Isobel got a lovely light blue walking coat that she repeats later for the Eryholme picnic, if with a less frothy hat. What I find funny during the wedding is that the cream collar with the darling birds-and-flowers embroidery makes Isobel look like she coordinated with the random extra next to her, a nameless lady in cream with a similar embroidery motif on the lapels.

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Cora wears this long lavender coat for Mary’s wedding and for Sybbie’s baptism, a pretty rose-patterned damask with a long plain collar. I think this is supposed to be a matching set with the dress she wears under it, a lilac number with a velvet sash. The main variation between the wedding and the baptism is that for the former, she wears a ton of white fabric flowers on her hat and another huge one pinned to her lapel, whereas for the baptism she’s way more toned down, nothing on her lapel and the flowers on her hat much smaller and darker. Granted, that baptism has an overlap with mourning time.

Despite financial hardships, Cora can afford new hats all the time. What do you know. I kind of like the pleated design of the crown here, but not the overall shape if that makes sense. The sandy walking suit with the giant folded lapels will transition into her everyday wardrobe in season 4, although by then she picks a rather less flattering hat to go with it. I don’t know what these buttons are doing down there; they sure aren’t shutting the coat in any meaningful way. They just look nice, I guess.

This is Cora’s get-up for Edith’s wedding, and it has to be the first time I am aware of that the hatband was actually made to fit the cardigan. See? That’s the exact same flower embroidery. And back with a ton of white flowers on her hat. I like the jacket, but the outfit overall is a bit unspectacular, as is to be expected from a wedding guest who’s not to outshine the bride. Would probably pop more if she wore that over a red blouse.

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We’ll get to what Mary wears to her wedding in a separate post, but for Edith’s wedding, she shows up in light blue chiffon and what I think is a layer of white lace. The drop waist sash, the sleeves and the hatband are all the same material, all pastel on pastel plus pearls; it’s all very rich boring white people. But at least it’s flattering. Edith gets fucked over by her outfits for these occasions.

Granted, Mary’s baptism look is really dowdy. Why is she dressed like her mother-in-law? This dress tries to do something with lavender and purple piping, but the placement of it doesn’t do much to enhance the outfit. I think she stole her mother’s jewelry again though; this is the exact necklace Cora was wearing with her beige picnic coat above.

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Why. Why did they put Edith in this for Mary’s wedding? At this point, her sense of fashion has developed so much that this stupid, unflattering granny dress looks dissonant. She’s wearing a sack with a big flower on it. And what’s with the plump pin tucks in the skirt? They throw this so off balance. Ugh, anyway. The hat is quite lovely.

I found the last dress so ugly that this one, which she wears for the baptism, is already an upgrade. The color is not for Edith imo, but the drop waist has a patterned sash that is kind of nice, and while the sleeves look baggy, it at least has a pretty neckline.

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Sybil got a rather nice look for Mary’s wedding. Why couldn’t Edith wear something like this? The color and weight is similar, blue chiffon, but the scarf matching the dress looks way more elegant than that strange embroidery. Any additional color is banned to the hat embroidery, which looks cute but less grand than those of her relatives because Sybil isn’t about that life anymore.

Her hat for Edith’s wedding has pretty much the same shape, the brim widening to the front and curving a bit up to form something akin to a bonnet, but it’s white with a lilac ribbon to match her dress. This dress is quite similar to Mary’s for the same event, chiffon with floral white lace, but it has some additional trim with an under layer in a darker purple, and the skirt has a little gathering on the side.

[saras-devotionals]

Quiet Time 9/25 + 9/26

What am I feeling today?

A little nervous, I have my first mental health exam this morning and although I think I’ll be fine, I still always have a little nerves. Also feeling challenged, I have a new discipler in my life and I know she’s really going to push me. Which is good! But I know I can be stubborn and disobedient so I pray my heart is soft and open to whatever she challenges me to do in regards to my walk with God.

So still pretty nervous, I have my final lab check off today and I really wish I got to practice more. I’ll pray through it because nothing is impossible when I have God! I also have a deposition today that I’m also feeling nervous but again, we’re meant to give all anxiety to God.

ACTS 1 NIV

‭‭Acts‬ ‭1‬:‭3‬-‭5‬ ‭NIV‬‬

“After his suffering, he presented himself to them and gave many convincing proofs that he was alive. He appeared to them over a period of forty days and spoke about the kingdom of God. On one occasion, while he was eating with them, he gave them this command: “Do not leave Jerusalem, but wait for the gift my Father promised, which you have heard me speak about. For John baptized with water, but in a few days you will be baptized with the Holy Spirit.””

Jesus stayed with them for forty days and continually gave proof that he was alive during that time, that he genuinely rose from the dead! Also, he kept speaking of the kingdom of God and gave them instruction to wait in Jerusalem so that they may receive the Holy Spirit (which is what we recibe through baptism).

‭‭Acts‬ ‭1‬:‭6‬-‭11‬ ‭NIV‬‬

“Then they gathered around him and asked him, “Lord, are you at this time going to restore the kingdom to Israel?” He said to them: “It is not for you to know the times or dates the Father has set by his own authority. But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes on you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” After he said this, he was taken up before their very eyes, and a cloud hid him from their sight. They were looking intently up into the sky as he was going, when suddenly two men dressed in white stood beside them. “Men of Galilee,” they said, “why do you stand here looking into the sky? This same Jesus, who has been taken from you into heaven, will come back in the same way you have seen him go into heaven.””

We are not meant to know the time and the date which is fine by me, I never enjoyed speculating because it felt fearful to a lot of people and like there’s no point to live now if the world is going to end. Anyways! Our mission here on earth, the great commission, is to go and make disciples! That’s the focus, yes we know that Jesus is coming back but we should not be so caught up in what will happen at a time we don’t even know when we can be doing work for Him right now.

‭‭Acts‬ ‭1‬:‭21‬-‭26‬ ‭NIV‬‬

“Therefore it is necessary to choose one of the men who have been with us the whole time the Lord Jesus was living among us, beginning from John’s baptism to the time when Jesus was taken up from us. For one of these must become a witness with us of his resurrection.” So they nominated two men: Joseph called Barsabbas (also known as Justus) and Matthias. Then they prayed, “Lord, you know everyone’s heart. Show us which of these two you have chosen to take over this apostolic ministry, which Judas left to go where he belongs.” Then they cast lots, and the lot fell to Matthias; so he was added to the eleven apostles.”

I like the way they prayed here and how they prayed before making a decision! Saying that God knows everyone’s heart and to show them which one He has chosen🙂‍↕️

I think the practical here is to pray through each decision but to be specific with it, present your requests in a way that you could have an answer from God.

JAMES 1:5-8 NIV

“If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you. But when you ask, you must believe and not doubt, because the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind. That person should not expect to receive anything from the Lord. Such a person is double-minded and unstable in all they do.”

This will be me this morning! I must pray over everything! Like I said, I have my lab check off and I will absolutely be prayer for God to give me the strength, wisdom, confidence, and skill to complete it all to the best of my ability. I trust Him because He has never let me down before!

[under-the-eye]

It’s now been five months. The grief is still as strong as ever, gnawing away at my heart, and I’ve never wished more for my mother’s wisdom than now. But two things have happened that make me believe that the Watcher is calling me from my alcove.

Firstly, Genesis has become a teenager. Since Baptism Day I’ve felt like time has stood still, but one day I looked up and realized that she was as tall as me now, and I realized that it hasn’t. Time is still moving on. She’s become a beautiful young lady, always helping out, especially in the kitchen– she loves to cook. 

Secondly, Eli came to me while I sat with Maggie. He brought a notebook with him, where he’s been writing down the things the Watcher says in his dreams with the three angels.

Eli: I really do think that the Watcher is punishing us for our sins. Think about it, first Luke loses his hearing, then Grandma died, now Maggie. What else could it be? We know the Watcher has punished the disobedient in the past and will in the future, according to Prophet Lens, so why couldn’t it be doing it now?

Mariah: If that’s true, what specifically is the Watcher angry about? Besides not going to the Baptism Center– I’ve already decided we won’t be going in the canal again. 

Eli: Well, you still talk to your sister, who’s an apostate. Gennie and Beka didn’t dress modestly. Dad let Maggie cut her hair and helps with the babies, which is a woman’s work according to the book. 

Mariah:... you have a point. I’ll pray about it.

After a night of prayer, I realized that Eli was right about all the things we’d done wrong, and one that he didn’t know about– the fact that Javi and I had broken our covenant to follow Mother Iris’ example. We stopped welcoming the Watcher’s blessings, so he took one of them away from us. It makes perfect sense. 

So, when I got yet another text from Max this afternoon…

Max: Hey Mariah, how are you doing? We haven’t talked in a while.

Mariah: I’m fine. I don’t think we should talk anymore. The Watcher has made Itself clear about fraternizing with apostates. 

*Block*.